The Trains of Christmas
The party would be in full swing before we got out of town
By FREDERIC SMITH
One of my most
vivid memories is of coming
back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who
went farther than
When we pulled out
into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us
and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations
moved by, a sharp wild brace carne suddenly into the air. We drew in deep
breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules,
unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour,
before we melted indistinguishably into it again.
That's my Middle
West--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling
returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the
frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the
snow. *
*Reprinted
by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons from THE
GREAT GATSBY by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Copyright 1925 Charles
Scribner's Sons.
This passage,
written by Fitzgerald in
the mid-Twenties, is perhaps the most famous evocation of what was, until
recently, a nearly universal American experience. For college students before
and after, the approach of Christmas meant identical happy throngs down at the
depot, and a train ride home that differed very little in its essential
features from one generation to the next.
As a student
in the years 1960-65, I reversed the direction of Fitzgerald's migration, my
school being in
The RI was, even in those late
days, still very much in the passenger business. Streamliners plied twelve of
its fourteen states;
Your hero
and his friends, more rail-wise, sit in a dumpy bar across the street drinking
3.2 beer. Our unchecked baggage consists of a half-dozen brown paper sacks. The
talk is literary--we were all writers in those days--and very much for the
benefit of our female companions, whose seductions either have already been
accomplished or await resolution in the New Year.
(Vanished
with the varnish are those long locks and languorous limbs! O, where are the
girls of yesterday?)
Traintime... the sun reddening and
lowering over the tree-dense valley of the
Make way for
the
Tolling, magnificent, No. 10 brakes into station with an x-ing sound,
leaking oil and steam, its maroon-nosed engine trailing a string of silver cars
with names like Grinnell, Mesa Verde and
No wonder
the trainmen look apprehensive.
The party would be in full swing before we ever got out of town. Or parties, I should
say--a half-dozen clusters of good fellowship in each coach. If you could not
find a seat where you wanted, you just pulled up a suitcase; after a while,
there seemed to be as many people in the aisles as in the seats. Beer-drinking
was general, and cries of "Have you got a church key?" were heard as
often as the engine singing for th.e crossings.
The train crew, not having much choice in the matter, were
tolerant if not cloyingly friendly. Their forbearance said that this, too,
would pass: come January, they
would be back at their real job of moving empty cars over the road.
No. 10 ran
off the fifty-four miles to the
For the
railfan, there was the westbound Rocky Mountain Rocket parked on an
adjoining track, its gay yellow windows as crowded with faces and life as our
own. Side by side, the two trains were like a couple of oldsters who succeed, by
mutual encouragement, in evoking an earlier and more prosperous day.
For the
hungry, there was the dining car even then being switched into the consist. Plenty of time for even this crowd to eat
before
And last,
for the thirsty, a little brightly-lit tavern just down the street from the
depot where supplies could be replenished during the 15-minute layover...
After
Bureau . . .
Just as
many would consider
Never was
this more true than at Christmas time with its great
crowds. "Like wartime," a stationmaster told me once, an impression
strengthened by the ubiquitous uniforms--Navy blues, especially, from
There was a
tree, of course, and usually a choir singing from the red-carpeted risers set up in front of the windows. Much
of the audience was made up of LaSalle's permanent population, the derelicts who never seemed so pathetic as at this time of year. What
must have been their thoughts as they watched the holiday thousands entraining
for far firesides and families!
On my own
now, and with a couple of hours to kill, I would wander around looking at the
people and catching up on the train-off notices. (One year, I remember, the
I cannot
imagine anyone caring, but I found Grand Central a depressing cathedral, from
its grime-blackened battlements to an interior where, in daytime, the
stained-glass window arches admitted a holy light. (The blue neon B&O sign
on the tower was, however, neat.) Even at Christmas time, it seemed more suited
to the interment of saint than railway carriage--a place from which all
commerce had departed. Indeed, a look at the skimpy board showed this to be
very nearly the case. Even the bums had withdrawn their patronage.
From the
outside, dilapidated
One year, with the snow drifting
gently down, I finally hoofed it over to Canal and ,
Of course,
this was not really the
I love the
architecture of the Twenties, of which
I wandered
around for an hour or so, trying out the place from its many angles, stairways
and balustrades--always, somehow, looking up. Then I slipped through the
gates for my first on-the-spot inspection of the likes of a Milwaukee Road
Skytop observation lounge. and the magnificent
maroon-and-red of the GM&O. The Limited
was just unloading, I remember, and this was a thrill for one who had
always admired from afar the road that named its other trains, too, with such heroic simplicity: the Mail, the Abraham Lincoln, and the Midnight Special.
By now
the hour would be getting
late, and it was time to hustle
Why Nickel
Plate, with the New York Central loading on the next track.'?
Part of the
answer lay in one traveller's emotional preference for something small done
exceedingly well. For, if the
(I never met
a rude conductor on the NKP, or was banished from a vestibule. Whether this
stemmed from innate goodness, company policy, or the employees' knowledge that
they were only a train-off or two from riding in a caboose, I cannot say.)
I liked the
intimacy of the partitioned coaches--restrooms were located in the middle of
the car--which gave you the feeling of going down the pike in your living room.
And it would have taken a hardhearted man to resist the Bluebirds that rode on
the point until 1962.
Charm aside,
there were good practical reasons for choosing the NKP overnight between
Chicago and Cleveland.
Most
important was the club diner-lounge that welcomed you aboard for drinks at
A final
argument for the NKP eastbound was that one always rode the Central back. Even
before the former dropped its daylight run in '63, the Central's No. 59, the Chicagoan,
was so fast and excellent as to be obligatory.
Picture me, then (as I like to
picture myself, these trainless Christmases since), taking an easy chair in
the lounge of No. 6. We are still standing in station. The sober Filipino waiter
advances and, when I order a beer, asks to see some identification.
This is a
moment fraught with peril. All Fall I have been drinking on the draft card of
an ex-GI buddy whose physical attributes do not exactly tally with my own. That
is, he is tall, heavy and dark, whereas I am short, slight and fair. In
He keeps me
waiting for a long time before returning the card with a wink and a smile.
Quietly, he says, "My congratulations--you are very-well preserved. Was
that a Schlitz?"
What did I tell you about those
NKP crews?
At
It is a
different crowd than on the
I do not
mind the difference. There is, in every journey, a point at which one's
thoughts turn from where he has been to where he is going. For me, that point
has always been
There is the
obligatory stop at
I had a
friend who used to give, as one of his reasons for preferring rail travel, the
opportunity it affords to spin elaborate, outrageous lies about oneself. No doubt we have all consumed our share of these in
our lounge car miles; but there are moments, too, of unmistakably truthful
self-revelation . . .
I have made
the acquaintance of a sleeping car passenger, a handsome man of middle years
who is, he says, a professor of English. There is no reason to doubt this, as
his conversation on literary topics is lively, informed, and frequently funny.
We find, to our pleasure, that we share a number of enthusiasms, including
classical Greek drama. Impossible to imagine two more
compatible spirits thrown together by chance on a train.
Then, as the
drinks keep coming, the talk of my friend begins to veer from the works to the
authors themselves--many of whom, it seems, have never been presented in a
truthful light. Shakespeare was a secret bumskuttler, his sonnets addressed in
truth to a young man. Have I noticed, in the plays, his penchant for dressing
up his heroines in men's clothing: Byron--that great lover of women--had a
homosexual fling or two, and there were whispers about Words worth.
Then, of course, there was the obvious example of Oscar Wilde.
On and on he
goes, until nearly all of our heroes, past and present, have been implicated.
It is piffle, of course, and eventually even I divine the thrust of all this
scatology. The point is, I am too young--too polite, too inexperienced, too embarrassed--to do anything to check its course. So that
my friend is encouraged to make the final confidence:
"Actually,
I'm more of a switch-hitter, myself--if you know what I mean."
I do, and
excuse myself a few minutes later to return to my coach. There, sweating and
unhappy, I sit in the dark and look out the window until the fields of
Christmas have restored my holiday to me. It is slightly soiled, perhaps, but
still intact.
Some time
after the steel furnaces of
For me, a
wonderful wakeful night lay ahead, of vestibule-creeping and long conversations
with the brakeman or conductor. I was a fanatic in those days, make no mistake.
And thank God I was--for the sights and sounds of that Christmas time
railroading, now impossible of duplication, will be with me forever.
I remember
fondly the little gray frame depots of the NKP, and the small towns whose
crossings we blocked for a few minutes of a frosty night.
Riding the
vestibule, great sport on any line, was a special treat on the NKP. The road
was unabashed about putting us in the hole for its "million-dollar
freights"; the schedule was already padded to provide for it. One leaned
out into the stationary night to watch the charge of those black Alco hoods, then flinched from their thundering passage and the
concussions of frigid air. You could read the road names and slogans on the
cars in the thin yellow light from the vestibule. Then, when the caboose had
cleared, there was the excitement of hearing the Bluebirds winding up as we got
underway again.
The rural
landscape at speed was lovely, especially on the couple of occasions when there
was moonlight on the snow and dark woods. I would linger in the vestibule until
I was almost frozen, then repair to my coach seat for
a snort of dark Bacardi rum.
The drink
had become traditional--I bought the same pint at the same liquor store on
(The
Bluebirds' were the sweetest whistles I ever heard--like chords struck on an
organ. Steam could not have been any better.)
Blue dawn
met us a couple of hours later at
My station
was
Though
in spring and fall I might experiment with different
trains and lines, my sentimental interest at Christmas was in recapturing, as
nearly as possible, the sensations, sights and sounds of other years. (An unadventuresome attitude, no doubt, but not out of keeping with
the season, when you think about it.) Such an approach never would have
occurred to my boomer friend from those days, Bob M.
Bob was a
collector of railroads--and oddball trains--when there was
still an amazing number of them around. Nevertheless, we all felt he outdid
himself the Christmas he routed himself home to
This plan,
involving changes at
"I know
it," he said. "But it's my money, and I want you to write the ticket
the way I say."
The agent
stalled; he had not gained his position by short-hauling his road by more than
700 miles between
"It's
nothing but a milk run," he snorted of CGW's No. 5 out of the capital.
"It stops at every farmer's barn between
But it was
when he opened his Guide and looked at the connection out of
"I
wasn't planning to ride that one," Bob said. "There's another train
leaving a couple of hours later."
The agent
looked and nearly howled. "That's a mixed train! It takes eighteen
hours! You'll have to hold a pig in your lap and help with the switching!"
There would
be no explaining to him the railfan's credo--that a slower trip means more for
your transportation dollar--and my friend did not try. There were a couple of
people in line behind us now, and Bob simply outwaited him.
The ticket
was written with much grumbling and leafing of unfamiliar tariffs. There was
only one more explosion--when the agent discovered that Bob's exotic route
saved him ten cents over the
"That embarrassed me," Bob
admitted later.
I was next.
"How about you?" the agent demanded. "I suppose you want a
ticket to
"No,"
I said. "I only want to go to
"The
Nickel Plate!" he sighed, throwing up his hands. "How much do you
save: Fifty cents? A quarter?"
The actual
savings over a ticket on the New York Central was one dollar and fifty cents.