Sally Breslin: My Life: NO HOME IS COMPLETE WITHOUT TINY NUDISTS

I was down in the basement putting away the Christmas decorations the other day (finally) and happened to find a box that contained some model-train items that belonged to my late husband.

Ever since the first year we were married, he’d had this fantasy to one day own a house with a great big basement so he could build a miniature city, “Breslinville,” down there and have at least a dozen model trains clickety-clacking through it.

At the time, however, we were living in 12’x60’ mobile home, but that didn’t bother him. He decided to go ahead and buy all of the trains and accessories he’d need to build “Breslinville” anyway.

“That way, when we get a house in the future,” he said, “I’ll already have everything ready so I can set up my model-train city.”

Thus began years of going to model-train shows, model-train stores and flea markets from Maine to New Jersey…any place where there were people who were selling model-train stuff. Home computers, cell phones and online shopping were unheard of back then. There was no GPS either, so I became the navigator during our model-train collecting excursions.

This, of course, explains why we ended up getting lost so often.

For example, I’ll never forget the first time we headed to a train store in Methuen, Massachusetts. Once we found Methuen, we rode up and down street after street for over 20 minutes until finally, completely by accident, we came upon a sign that said Lowell Street, which was where the train store was supposed to be located.

When we found the block that had the street number we were looking for, we were puzzled. Not only was there no train store, the guys who were hanging around on the corner definitely did not look like model-train enthusiasts.

“I don’t understand it,” my husband said, shaking his head. “The store should be right here. I even called the guy to ask what hours he was open. How on earth could he have just disappeared overnight?”

I eyed the gang of guys on the corner, one of whom had a dagger with blood on it tattooed on his arm, and said, “I can think of a few ways someone might suddenly disappear around here.”

My husband, desperate to find the train store, yet never the type who'd ever stop to ask anyone for directions, even if he were having a heart attack and searching for a hospital, decided to drive up and down the street one more time, despite the fact it would throw him off his carefully planned schedule to visit three more train stores in Massachusetts that day.

As we drove past the city’s post office for the fifth time in an hour, something finally compelled me to actually read the name on the front of it. “We’re not in Methuen!” I cried. “We’re in Lawrence! We must have overshot Methuen!”

So we backtracked to Methuen and, after figuring out how to detour around a bridge that was closed for repairs, finally found the train shop. The minute my husband set foot inside, he was like a kid in a candy shop.

“Ooh!” he gasped, grabbing a small plastic case. “Look at this! It’s a whole group of tiny naked people! I’m going to buy it!”

I just stared at him. “What on earth are you going to do with tiny naked people?”

“My city is going to have a nudist colony!” Before I could comment, he rushed over to another section of the store and grabbed a box of miniature German police officers and a Wisconsin State Police car. “I want these, too!"

I frowned. “Your city is going to have German police officers riding around in a Wisconsin police cruiser?”

Tiny figures for train layout

He nodded. “I like their uniforms, and this cruiser is much sharper looking than the others.”

In a flash, he was off again, this time searching frantically through a display of miniature animals. “I need a buffalo and a cowboy,” he said. “Oh! And some giraffes!”

I didn’t bother to ask. Breslinville, I concluded, was destined to be a very weird place.

As I watched my husband carrying an armload of stuff up to the checkout counter, I couldn’t help but think back to the night before when I’d told him I wanted to buy our rottweiler a studded leather collar I’d seen in a pet shop. “It’s only $19.95, and it would look great on Sabre! It’ll make her look really tough,” I said.

“What a waste of money,” he’d muttered. “The dog doesn’t need a new collar, especially for $20!”

His total at the train store came to $169.

Over the years, he amassed so many trains, miniature buildings, scenes, vehicles and more, he had to rent two storage units to keep all of it in. Everything remained unopened and neatly stacked, awaiting the day when Breslinville finally would be constructed.

One Sunday, an event my husband eagerly had been anticipating for months, came to the Everett Arena in Concord: a huge train-collectors’ show. We arrived bright and early, and visited every (and I DO mean every) table and exhibit. My husband, however, was disappointed. His favorite manufacturer of mini figures and vehicles, Preiser, was conspicuously scarce at the show. The only item he ended up buying was the new Walther’s train catalog, which was the official bible of train collectors.

He tried to make himself feel better during the drive home. “Well, at least I got a good deal on the catalog,” he said. “I mean, it usually costs $22 and I got it for only $17.95, so the trip wasn’t a total waste.”

Sympathetic soul that I was, I couldn’t resist pointing out, “Yeah, but we had to pay $6 admission each just to get into the show.”

Sabre really looked great in her new $19.95 collar.

# # #

Sally Breslin is an award-winning humor columnist and the author of “There’s a Tick in my Underwear!” “Heed the Predictor,” “The Common-Sense Approach to Dream Interpretation” and “Christmas, a Cabin and a Stranger.” Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.