“Now listen to the jingle, the rumble and the roar”
(from Roy Acuff’s signature song: “Wabash Cannon Ball”)
Early Recollections Of Railroads ---By Glenn C. Peck
My first awareness of long distance traveling was riding on a train. I can still recall my infatuation with the water coolers and the white, cone-shaped paper cups. For years, even in high school, we had a water bucket with water from a hand-pumped well and a common use dipper. My father never owned an automobile until I was six years old. My mother never learned to drive. Further, it was 1965 before my parents had plumbing and bathroom facilities installed in their house. I had lots of fun telling my Air Force friends, “Got a letter from home today. Mom said they had a fire in the bathroom but thank goodness it never spread to the house!”
My mother’s parents lived several years in a small, rural Lincoln County, Kentucky house that was less than 100 yards from a major railroad track. When the passenger trains, first steam engines and later the diesel powered engines, would rumble by at window rattling speed I would often wonder where did the lucky travelers come from and where are they going? The passenger trains were so frequent and reliable the locals used them as an unofficial time standard.
No matter how many nights I slept there I would always be awakened in terror when coal-carrying freight trains from Eastern Kentucky mines would violently announce their presence and would fly by with Doppler producing efficiency.
On very rare occasions, my cousins and I would venture out and walk the ties that supported the rails that were always eye lid- narrowing bright. Yes, we tried the penny on the tracks routine. We never could find our penny after the train passed. Not a speck of green was to be found on the constantly maintained road bed. The road bed gravel was of the same size and never seemed to attract dirt or lubricants from the trains that daily traveled on their solid foundation. Over fifty plus years later, I can still smell the unmistakable odor of the creosote-soaked ties and hear the moan of the engines and the shrill whistle of coal trains crossing the South Fork trestle.
Freight trains carried more than just coal. Some freight trains were seemingly a random mixture of box cars, flat cars, tank cars, grain cars, mail cars, work gang cars that were a depressing light grey color, and an occasional Pullman Sleeper. On other freight trains there would be a single product on look-a-like cars that seemed to stretch for a mile and pulled, and sometimes pushed, by several engines. I recall the endless parade of flat cars carrying newly minted tanks, jeeps, and heavy artillery pieces. Other freight trains looked like a segmented snake of nothing but tank cars carrying unknown liquid products. Freight trains pulled the freight cars and the mandatory caboose. The caboose had a separate, stand alone heating stove and a Christmas tree mosaic of brightly colored lights. I cannot recall the name of the rail line that had green colored tail enders rather than the traditional bright red. I thought to myself, this is not right.
Empty freight train cars carried those restless souls that belonged to a rare bred of men known as “Kings of the Road.” I never saw the cartoon depiction of a hobo carrying his meager belongings wrapped in a red handkerchief and tied to a stick resting on his shoulder. I did see old suitcases, feed sacks, and paper boxes that safely stored the precious few earthly goods needed to sustain life for one more day and night. Most hobos travelled in groups. Sometimes a couple of men could be spotted leaning on either side of an open box car door and smoking a cigarette. I once saw a quartet of “mobile gentlemen” sitting on the floor of an open box car door and swinging their legs like carefree school kids. Most hobos wore rumpled and dirty hats. I never saw a hobo with a beard, but most showed they had been AWOL from many shaves.
My most poignant memory of these Knights of the open road was a lone boy, about twelve, clutching a rope tied to the neck of his frightened collie; both were standing on a fast moving flat car. I wondered if his parents knew where he was and whether he had any idea where he was going. Where would he sleep tonight? Was he hungry? Would the police pick him up? I counted myself very lucky to have a safe and loving home.
It seems fitting that one of the tenant farms my family lived on in Southern Indiana, after we moved from Kentucky, was bordered by a railroad about two hundred yards from our house. In comparison, the trains were infrequent and few. The busiest time of the year was on the first Saturday in May, Derby Day in Louisville, KY. Many additional special passenger trains were added to transport horse racing fans to see the Run for the Roses. The road bed was so elevated, and the gravel road crossing was so steep, it was impossible to see oncoming cars or trucks. Fortunately, no head on crashes happened during our stay. Long after we moved, the owners moved back to their house and small farm. Their teenage son reported to me he saw a car get hit by a train at that crossing, killing the elderly couple. With a morbid curiosity, I asked if he heard any screams. He replied no, but there was a large amount of dust and debris resulting from the impact.
Although we moved several times while I was in school, we never moved outside of Jennings County, Indiana. North Vernon was the largest town in the county and once had five different rail lines that transited the town. North Vernon was appropriately called “The City of Railroads.” When my parents went “to town” I would often go to the train depot and watch the trains. I loved the sound and smell of these laser-focused transportation power houses. I never saw a freight train stop at the depot but I did see many of the passenger trains either off load mail/passengers or load mail/passengers. The high wheeled station carts were just at the right height to receive or load mail, luggage and occasional steel clad milk cans.
Sitting at rest, the steam engines spewed steam and a modest amount of nearly white smoke that was produced by coal that most likely had been mined in the hills and mountains in Kentucky or West Virginia. The steam engines always gave me the impression of a long distance race horse that only stopped because they were ordered to do so. However, this man-made, living creature was anxious to get going. Their legs seemed to be moving even when no progress was noted. The constant hissing sound gave ample testimony of the steam engines’ impatience and desire to get rolling. When the train started to leave the station, the color of the smoke almost instantly changed to black as the fireman added more coal to produce the inertia busting power needed to set this huge metal body in motion.
Diesel engines, when stopped at the North Vernon Station, seemed to possess a hypnotic, low frequency, humming sound. Occasionally, the pitch of the humming would change for a while and then switch back to the original pitch and tone. The cab crew seldom left the comfort of their clean, mobile office. On those rare on the ground sightings many of the cab crew wore work pants that would get you into any church and a short sleeve shirt, with a collar. I sometimes thought that diesel cab crews had life too easy!
Inside the depot there was an official staleness of the air. There was too much smoke and very little evidence of cleaning. The waiting room contained a couple of long, high-backed-wooden benches that had been worn slick and shiny by years of use. There was a single narrow ticket window that housed a lone occupant who was usually dressed in a white shirt, sometimes with a bow tie. The white shirt seemed to always need to be washed and ironed. As a youngster, I wondered why a passenger needed a string of tickets that appeared to be as long as your arm. Adjacent to this magical portal into places unknown there was a large blackboard with arrival/departure times written in chalk.
All of the passengers had on their “Sunday-go-to meeting” best clothes. A majority of the men and many of the women wore hats. Some of the men wore their, usually grey, felt hats at a rakish angle which seemed to say “don’t mess with me.” The ladies hats were a mixture of small head covering hats that looked like small hub caps and other hats were so large they could provide shade for several people. The conductors had uniforms that seemed perfectly matched to signal their no none sense attitude. I recall they looked at their pocket watches often. I thought to myself how long do you have to practice to confidently and authoritatively shout “ALL ABOARD!” A wave of a lantern, even in the daytime, put the mass of tempered metal, and equally tough train crew, in motion as the train started slowly to exit the North Vernon Station.
But it was the engineers and firemen of the steam engines who seemed like soldiers dress for combat. The black striped grey overalls with a matching billed cap that seemed to rest several inches above the wearer’s head, work shoes that never saw polish on a Saturday night, and a mandatory red handkerchief that was either worn as a loose fitting bandana or positioned in the wearer’s back pocket with the major portion hanging free. When the cab crew disembarked from their magic carpet they carried oil cans with two-foot narrow spouts and they would walk around the engine, oiling vital parts, and they never said much to each other or anybody watching. A knowing nod of the head transmitted a cryptic message that seemed to always be understood by the other cab member.
A young fellow’s mind can make simple, sometimes wishful, often incorrect deductions. I thought anyone can drive a car, drive a truck, or drive a tractor but a steam engine cab crew was at the pinnacle of the occupational food chain. At least three of my relatives achieved this Everest-like dream job. Interestingly, one was a female.
The epicenter and Mother Church of my train memories is the Union Station at Cincinnati, OH. Although, not yet in school, I can remember the high domed ceiling and the many murals (I called them pictures then) which seemed to be everywhere. (Later in life I learned the dome is 106 feet high and measures 180 feet in diameter. The overall concourse is 450 feet long and the station could accommodate up to 216 passenger trains per day! In addition, the Union Station today is home to several Cincinnati museums.)
My memories of the station include seeing a number of shoe shine stands being operated by African-American men—mostly grey-haired men who could produce a load pop when they snapped the shoe shine cloth; a news and magazine store with the ubitquous assortment of tobacco products; a barber shop; and hoard of “newsies” hawking the latest edition of a newspaper that contained the latest war news. Maybe I’ve seen too many black and white movies, but I have a vague recollection of young women walking about selling cigarettes and cigars. My overall memory is of a crowded station with many people walking very fast or running and the nearly continuous public address announcements of arriving and departing trains.
If those art deco walls could talk they might tell of new draftees giving their sobbing wives or girl friends a passionate kiss. Mothers, aunts and girl siblings merited a hug and peck on the cheek; Fathers, uncles, and boy siblings were limited to receiving a firm two-handed handshake before going to boot camp and then on to Europe or the Pacific Theaters of Operation. Children of the newest member of “The Greatest Generation” would huddle around Dad and hear for the umpteenth time the “mind your mother and I’ll be fine” speech. A fast walk, a final look back before boarding, a weak wave, a very deep breath and a hard swallow as this ordinary guy, and millions like him, would soon be called upon to do extraordinary things, he now steps into an unknown future and onto the already slowly departing train.
Glenn <><
Just West of Yesterday
Glenn <><
Just West of Yesterday
