My American story started whenI was born on a train near the end of WWII. Mom told me about being on a train a year later. All seats were taken by men discharged from service, but one man gave her his seat. Standing her suitcase on end, she sat/laid me atop it. When I started crying, the conductor brought me a buttered saltine to gnaw on (no teeth). When applying for my drivers license at 16, there was no official record of my birth. School officials and a neighbor avouched for me to get it.In my late 60s, I was golfing adjacent to a train passing on those same tracks. That prompted me to think how far I had come and how much had changed. Caught up in the memories I guess - I duffed the next three golf shots. Some things never change.