Another train ride
Spring of sixty five, end of my junior year in high school we traveled cross country by train again. Justin had been living with the Savannah folks for a few months, so Annah and I, along with mom and dad climbed aboard the Great Northern Empire Builder at King Street station in Seattle for a spectacular train ride.
Starts in a long tunnel under the streets of Seattle, north along Puget Sound to Everett, then winds its way through two mountain ranges, high desert and prairie country, into down town Chicago.
Pulled a few screen shots from a nineteen fifties railway promotional video that give a feel for the interior spaces in classic railway cars. We had four seats toward the front on the right. Mom had a hamper with snacks, Annah remembers that Velveeta style cheese that came in little metal cans, oozed out under pressure.
Changed trains in Chicago. In '54 we took a cab and stopped off at a museum. This trip we just had time to schlep our luggage from one train to the next. Not completely certain whether we took a shuttle bus between stations, or hoofed it from one side of Union Station to the other.
Its fun hurrying along the train standing in a station looking for the right car. Passed the lounge and sleeper cars for the first class passengers, quick glimpse into the dining car kitchen, starched white jacket porters standing century at each open vestibule stairway. Conductor fiddling with his gold chain railway watch.
Remember seeing an all stainless steel train similar to the Nebraska Zephyr standing at one of the platforms we passed. To my eye, a vision of grace and beauty.
Speaking of grace and beauty, I ended up with a girlfriend for the afternoon and evening. Couple years older, heading home to Georgia after visiting her people in the Seattle area. She fell in company with our family on the way between trains. Helped with her luggage, took the window seat next to her, and had fun conversation. Shared the seat overnight. Hog heaven for me. Practical traveling strategy for her. Not a good idea for a girl on her own to have an empty seat next to her over night on the train.
Reminds me of the homely old joke about two teenage cousins, boy and girl who had to share a double bed at family reunion. Grandpa lashed a two by twelve down the middle of the bed to keep the kids apart in the quiet small hours. Next day the pair are out walking and come to a stream. He says shall we jump or go around. "I'm going to jump," the girl replies. "You better go around. If you couldn't get over that damned board last night, you sure as hell can't jump this stream."
Grandad picked us up at the train station in Atlanta in his four door Plymouth. Safety equipment in those days consisted of a memorized prayer asking for 'traveling mercies' and clicking the door locks down. Always felt saver felt safer on the highway with locked doors.
No interstate. Two lane high speed travel. Move in close behind slower cars, swerve out into the oncoming lane for a quick glance ahead. Looks clear, flash lights and honk the horn to to signal the other driver that you are pulling around. Press the peddle to the metal and make your move.
Faster cars come up behind and repeat the process. If one is feeling aggressive, give her a little gas, just to make it interesting. Sometimes have to slam on the breaks to let a car back into the lane an instant before disaster.
Twice that day I saw big rigs with dullies locked and smoking at poorly marked wide spots where country roads opened into the highway. Back woods crackers playing chicken with city folks speeding through their county. Scary.
Annah reminded me the other day that dad had month long vacations in those days, so we must have stayed in Savannah the better part of three weeks. Grand parents fiftieth wedding anniversary and family reunion. Remember my mother arguing with her mother a lot over party arrangements. Pound cake or decorated white cake, almost seemed as if the old lady deliberately provoked the bickering, and my mother never backed down from an argument either. Only realized the level of animosity between those two as my mother got into her mid nineties and began talking about the strained relationship with her mother.
The railway theme of this story did have some carryover in our stay in Savannah. Uncle John, grandmother's youngest sister's husband worked as an engineer in those days. Riding around town in his car, Justin and I noted that the old boy drove the car like he ran his trains. Slow easy starts, gliding along as if nothing would dare get in his way, long gradual slowdown to a stop.
Cousin Buddy also worked in the trains, brakeman on freights. His fifty seven Chev had breaks that roughly matched the stopping range of a hundred car freight. Remember blasting along the highway to Tybee beach with him, doing sixty or more with one of those unmarked intersections coming up fast. First pump the peddle goes to the floor with no detectible breaking action applied to the wheels. Second pump of the peddle one could feel a hint of friction from the paper thin break shoes. At the fourth pump he got a little bit of resistance to the peddle and the car began to slow. "Done worry, I got her down now," he announced, using the railway term, "getting her down" to refer to having the breaks applied on the train, two miles or so from town.
Couple days later Buddy showed up and Granddad's place with a brand new Chevelle. Along with relief that he got out of the fifty seven before killing himself, we all got a laugh at his gushing over the beauty of his new car. "Now that car is truly pleasing to the eye."
Only thing I remember about the golden wedding anniversary party is a bunch of men standing around outside, admiring uncle Idas' new Cadillac. The rich uncle. Bought a patent for a can opener design from some guy back in the thirties. War contracts made it possible for him to get into full production and do well. Swing-A-Way. Married to my grandmother's second youngest sister.
One or two of the boys allowed as how they kept a bill folded in front of the license in their wallet. As often as not, the officer would palm the bill, hand the wallet back with a "have a nice day sir."
Uncle Idas had a different approach. Demonstrating as he talked, he kept a complete line of his companies products in the trunk of the car. As he chatted with the cop, he casually popped the trunk. Usually the cop went home with a nice gift for the little woman, Idas proceeded on his eighty mile an hour cruse through the Georgia flat woods.
In those days a white man, especially if he drive a Cadillac, could get out of the car and greet the cop face to face without getting shot dead.
Temperature sign on a bank reads eighty two, eight in the morning the day we left Savannah for home. Humid heat. Felt fine settling into the air conditioned rail car and feel the miles rolling away under foot.
Grandmother had to be carried out of the house moaning and crying at three in the morning a day or two after the anniversary party. Mother decided, or more likely felt emotional manipulation to stay on a few weeks to help nurse her mother back to health, dad, Annah, Justin, and I traveling back to Seattle on our own.
Annah cried and cried, "you are taking my mother away from me."
Justin had been in Savannah since the previous Thanksgiving. After a couple false starts at employment the summer following graduation he took a notion to ride the Greyhound cross country and stay at the grandparents for a while. I felt envious seeing him climb aboard the bus, hand stitched Naugahyde Banjo case slung over a shoulder like a young Woody Guthry out to see some of the world, me shuffling back into eleventh grade language arts class with old lady Sebesta droning on about Shakespeare the next morning.
Don't know if it had been the plan from the start, or if he decided to use mother's ticket at the last minute to come back home to go to school in the fall.
That morning, rattling north out of Georgia in the train, Justin and I got to ride in the vestibule with the top half of the door open. Annah remembers going between cars with dad and hanging out for a while looking out the open window, but large signs stenciled onto the walls forbid passengers from riding in that room hurried them along their way.
A little later Justin came back to our seats saying he met a northern liberal who didn't worry about the signs, invited me to join them for a while in the vestibule. Lot more fun than the quiet of the day coach.
When the cars are coupled together the wide flange attaches to a similar structure on the next car. Flexible material allows for the movement of the cars on the track, little section of diamond plate flooring that one has to step over. Annah says she remembers being able to look through cracks between the coupling and see track speeding past under foot. The small room that lets into this passage has stairs that fold out in the station, flat steel floor when the train is moving. With the top half of the door open we could ride along with a much better feel for the movement of the train and the countryside unfolding as we rattled along at sixty miles an hour.
Turns out our traveling friend got tacit permission to ride in the vestibule by calling the porter 'sir', thus the descriptive term 'liberal.' Only an east coast intellectual would use a term of respect when talking to a black man. Seems to me that we talked about folk music and trains, topics of prime importance to us in those days. Five or six years later when the song "City of New Orleans" came out I wondered if our traveling friend hadn't been Steve Goodman . Probably not.
Empire Builder from Chicago to Seattle still ran strong and proud, but one definitely got the sad feel of the disappearing railway blues in the trains running into the south-land. Glad for having the opportunity to make those rides when we did. Train travel was orders of magnitude more pleasant that today's frantic airports and sardine can airliners.
Starts in a long tunnel under the streets of Seattle, north along Puget Sound to Everett, then winds its way through two mountain ranges, high desert and prairie country, into down town Chicago.
Pulled a few screen shots from a nineteen fifties railway promotional video that give a feel for the interior spaces in classic railway cars. We had four seats toward the front on the right. Mom had a hamper with snacks, Annah remembers that Velveeta style cheese that came in little metal cans, oozed out under pressure.
 | |
| We had seats on the right side, up toward the stairway to the observation dome. |
Changed trains in Chicago. In '54 we took a cab and stopped off at a museum. This trip we just had time to schlep our luggage from one train to the next. Not completely certain whether we took a shuttle bus between stations, or hoofed it from one side of Union Station to the other.
Its fun hurrying along the train standing in a station looking for the right car. Passed the lounge and sleeper cars for the first class passengers, quick glimpse into the dining car kitchen, starched white jacket porters standing century at each open vestibule stairway. Conductor fiddling with his gold chain railway watch.
 | |||
| Nebraska Zephyr in Union Station Chicago |
Speaking of grace and beauty, I ended up with a girlfriend for the afternoon and evening. Couple years older, heading home to Georgia after visiting her people in the Seattle area. She fell in company with our family on the way between trains. Helped with her luggage, took the window seat next to her, and had fun conversation. Shared the seat overnight. Hog heaven for me. Practical traveling strategy for her. Not a good idea for a girl on her own to have an empty seat next to her over night on the train.
Reminds me of the homely old joke about two teenage cousins, boy and girl who had to share a double bed at family reunion. Grandpa lashed a two by twelve down the middle of the bed to keep the kids apart in the quiet small hours. Next day the pair are out walking and come to a stream. He says shall we jump or go around. "I'm going to jump," the girl replies. "You better go around. If you couldn't get over that damned board last night, you sure as hell can't jump this stream."
Grandad picked us up at the train station in Atlanta in his four door Plymouth. Safety equipment in those days consisted of a memorized prayer asking for 'traveling mercies' and clicking the door locks down. Always felt saver felt safer on the highway with locked doors.
No interstate. Two lane high speed travel. Move in close behind slower cars, swerve out into the oncoming lane for a quick glance ahead. Looks clear, flash lights and honk the horn to to signal the other driver that you are pulling around. Press the peddle to the metal and make your move.
Faster cars come up behind and repeat the process. If one is feeling aggressive, give her a little gas, just to make it interesting. Sometimes have to slam on the breaks to let a car back into the lane an instant before disaster.
Twice that day I saw big rigs with dullies locked and smoking at poorly marked wide spots where country roads opened into the highway. Back woods crackers playing chicken with city folks speeding through their county. Scary.
Annah reminded me the other day that dad had month long vacations in those days, so we must have stayed in Savannah the better part of three weeks. Grand parents fiftieth wedding anniversary and family reunion. Remember my mother arguing with her mother a lot over party arrangements. Pound cake or decorated white cake, almost seemed as if the old lady deliberately provoked the bickering, and my mother never backed down from an argument either. Only realized the level of animosity between those two as my mother got into her mid nineties and began talking about the strained relationship with her mother.
The railway theme of this story did have some carryover in our stay in Savannah. Uncle John, grandmother's youngest sister's husband worked as an engineer in those days. Riding around town in his car, Justin and I noted that the old boy drove the car like he ran his trains. Slow easy starts, gliding along as if nothing would dare get in his way, long gradual slowdown to a stop.
Cousin Buddy also worked in the trains, brakeman on freights. His fifty seven Chev had breaks that roughly matched the stopping range of a hundred car freight. Remember blasting along the highway to Tybee beach with him, doing sixty or more with one of those unmarked intersections coming up fast. First pump the peddle goes to the floor with no detectible breaking action applied to the wheels. Second pump of the peddle one could feel a hint of friction from the paper thin break shoes. At the fourth pump he got a little bit of resistance to the peddle and the car began to slow. "Done worry, I got her down now," he announced, using the railway term, "getting her down" to refer to having the breaks applied on the train, two miles or so from town.
Couple days later Buddy showed up and Granddad's place with a brand new Chevelle. Along with relief that he got out of the fifty seven before killing himself, we all got a laugh at his gushing over the beauty of his new car. "Now that car is truly pleasing to the eye."
Only thing I remember about the golden wedding anniversary party is a bunch of men standing around outside, admiring uncle Idas' new Cadillac. The rich uncle. Bought a patent for a can opener design from some guy back in the thirties. War contracts made it possible for him to get into full production and do well. Swing-A-Way. Married to my grandmother's second youngest sister.
One or two of the boys allowed as how they kept a bill folded in front of the license in their wallet. As often as not, the officer would palm the bill, hand the wallet back with a "have a nice day sir."
Uncle Idas had a different approach. Demonstrating as he talked, he kept a complete line of his companies products in the trunk of the car. As he chatted with the cop, he casually popped the trunk. Usually the cop went home with a nice gift for the little woman, Idas proceeded on his eighty mile an hour cruse through the Georgia flat woods.
In those days a white man, especially if he drive a Cadillac, could get out of the car and greet the cop face to face without getting shot dead.
Temperature sign on a bank reads eighty two, eight in the morning the day we left Savannah for home. Humid heat. Felt fine settling into the air conditioned rail car and feel the miles rolling away under foot.
Grandmother had to be carried out of the house moaning and crying at three in the morning a day or two after the anniversary party. Mother decided, or more likely felt emotional manipulation to stay on a few weeks to help nurse her mother back to health, dad, Annah, Justin, and I traveling back to Seattle on our own.
Annah cried and cried, "you are taking my mother away from me."
Justin had been in Savannah since the previous Thanksgiving. After a couple false starts at employment the summer following graduation he took a notion to ride the Greyhound cross country and stay at the grandparents for a while. I felt envious seeing him climb aboard the bus, hand stitched Naugahyde Banjo case slung over a shoulder like a young Woody Guthry out to see some of the world, me shuffling back into eleventh grade language arts class with old lady Sebesta droning on about Shakespeare the next morning.
Don't know if it had been the plan from the start, or if he decided to use mother's ticket at the last minute to come back home to go to school in the fall.
That morning, rattling north out of Georgia in the train, Justin and I got to ride in the vestibule with the top half of the door open. Annah remembers going between cars with dad and hanging out for a while looking out the open window, but large signs stenciled onto the walls forbid passengers from riding in that room hurried them along their way.
A little later Justin came back to our seats saying he met a northern liberal who didn't worry about the signs, invited me to join them for a while in the vestibule. Lot more fun than the quiet of the day coach.
Turns out our traveling friend got tacit permission to ride in the vestibule by calling the porter 'sir', thus the descriptive term 'liberal.' Only an east coast intellectual would use a term of respect when talking to a black man. Seems to me that we talked about folk music and trains, topics of prime importance to us in those days. Five or six years later when the song "City of New Orleans" came out I wondered if our traveling friend hadn't been Steve Goodman . Probably not.
Empire Builder from Chicago to Seattle still ran strong and proud, but one definitely got the sad feel of the disappearing railway blues in the trains running into the south-land. Glad for having the opportunity to make those rides when we did. Train travel was orders of magnitude more pleasant that today's frantic airports and sardine can airliners.
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