I started to say “forgive my writing about the 611 once more,” but the 611 doesn’t express apology (anthropomorphism again) for every time it makes itself visible, so neither will I make apology for writing of it again.

My mental “Wikkipedia” section marked “611” seems to be increasingly “under construction” from my added experiences of it, as is the case with some topics in the online version.

My brother Joe told me about the April 23 611 excursion a while back, but I had forgotten.

Many of the same “611 worshipers” as before started showing up at the Danville train station/natural history museum, like parishioners of (daring blasphemy) “the first church of the 611!”

A work friend was telling his very young, diesel-horn-frightened son that the 611’s whistle is lower in pitch. I thought that he could have also told him the steam whistle sounds more “natural” than the diesel’s air horn, but then again, air is pretty natural, too.

I decided to call Joe and let him hear the moment-by-moment “audio” of the event.

The steam “chugs” started to slow (by this time, Joe was listening) and became more drawn out, almost as if the crowd were using telekinesis to prolong its passing by, like the leisurely savoring of a tasty meal; but it turned out a brief stop was in the plan. Joe said the whistle sounded “funny” over the cellphone.

The engine light of the 611 was bright, but something else, 93 million miles away, outshone it: the sun’s reflected image on the 611’s shiny black metallic face.

Such a glow, surrounded by blackness, reminded me of those NASA images of an ocean with the sun’s bright image reflected on blackish-looking water.

I looked southward and saw that in addition to the 50 or so people assembled at the Danville train station, there were about 20 at the next crossing.

This brought to mind an image from history books of the groups of the people in cities and towns along the route of FDR’s funeral train. I expressed this thought to the people around me; but they had the look as if I were from another planet (like Michael Rennie in “The Day the Earth Stood Still”).

I always associate FDR’s funeral train to the old spiritual “Going Home,” and was on the verge of singing it (as I am sometimes wont to sing things in public). But I resigned myself to the thought that perhaps for some time now, history may not be as rigorously taught, or maybe napping in class has been on the rise. Anyway, there is no excuse, for we have the “click” of the internet and the History Channel to learn that which we may have missed.

I saw the different coaches and reported them to Joe, but at this moment the only name which I remember is “Powahtan,” since there were several of them.

The train stopped, with the 611 itself being at the next southern crossing, so I started walking toward it in hopes of being there when the steam, chugging and smoke began again.

These “teeny” little phones which we carry around in our pockets nowadays sometimes have surprising sensitivity. While I walked across the railroad gravel roadbed (ballast), making a “crunching” sort of sound, Joe said, “Are you walking on ballast?”

Alas, the 611 resumed its journey when I was about six cars from the engine, but I also enjoyed this more distant view of it within the greater “context” of its surroundings.

As the coaches passed, I saw a man near a window of the dining car having his meal. I thought about the “old days” when people said they were excited to see a passenger train passing by, knowing there were others going to visit relatives or possibly begin new lives with a new job in a new city.

It’s different for present riders of the 611 compared to the “old days.” The current passengers are “just along for the ride” (but for Amtrak riders, the prior “romance” still applies).

So, for the sake of that earlier “611 romance,” I guess I’ll just have to make do with how things are now.

But still, it is a most marvelous “making-do.”