For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved the train in Colbert, Georgia.

My Papa, Clark, used to tell me that this particular train, which runs from South Georgia through Athens, and all the way up to the North, is one of the oldest railroads in not only the State of Georgia, but the entire South. His father, my great-grandfather, owned a general store just outside the railroad crossing in the 1940s and 50s. Clint’s Place was a central hub and one-stop shop for the citizens of Colbert, a hole-in-the-wall, quaint little town in Madison County.When I was a kid, we’d occasionally venture to Colbert to visit the family cemetery, only about a mile from the train tracks, where my Papa’s entire family is buried for generations back. Standing by the graves, you can hear the train whistle as it passes Main Street. Papa would regale me with stories about the train, his family, and the history of the town and I always listened, enraptured. Years later, I would move to Madison County. Visiting the depot and museum with my family became a regular occurrence; I loved the feeling of warm, cozy nostalgia it gave me.My debut novel, Monarchs Under the Sassafras Tree, takes place in Colbert, GA, and while I didn’t focus on the train, I made sure it got a mention. It’s part of the lifeblood of the town, after all. My husband walked on the tracks, throwing caution to the wind with headphones in his ears, as a teenager. My son has played on the old boxcar with his friends. Years later, driving him to middle school, we’d pass the train almost every single day. “There’s my train,” I’d exclaim, and he’d groan. That train is a part of us, a part of our history. I wanted to document that.My next historical fiction novel, So Long, Bobby, which will publish next year, also takes place partially in Colbert. This novel, which is my favorite of all my books so far, is rich with train symbolism, my own beloved Colbert train roaring through more than one scene. Rather than pepper the narrative with a mention here and there, I decided to make the train a silent witness to the lives of the people; their lifeblood. The same way it has always been the lifeblood of my family.My beloved Papa died about a month ago, and while he told me stories my whole life, it haunts me to think of all the ones I never got to hear. A few days after his death, my cousin and I met at the family cemetery in Colbert to talk and grieve. As I drove in, I was stopped at the railroad crossing – my beloved train was passing by. It honked as it passed, and I waved a hand in salute.

Papa sent me that train, and nobody can convince me otherwise.