Tag: Trains

The C&O

Depending on when you read this, “C&O” may not signify any meaning whatever. Here it is: C&O designates the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, one of America’s great railways which originally ran from Cincinnati to Norfolk. And West Virginia was squarely in its pathway — the C&O entered the state (from Ohio) close to Huntington, then through the Kanawha Valley — Charleston, etc., and eastward up the Kanawha and New Rivers, then following the Greenbrier and tunneling through a mountain eastward into Virginia. There is a concrete marker just east of Alderson, on the Greenbrier River, marking the halfway point between Cincinnati and Norfolk.

I’ll state my disclaimer here: I am not, nor have I ever been, really knowledgeable about railroads. That is a huge subject unto itself, embodying many chapters in our nation’s history. The science, math, engineering, politics, geography, societal and economic impact of railroads in America compose a huge slice of who we are as a nation, and the story will continue to build upon itself. But I feel a special personal kinship with the C&O Railroad, and so I’ll share a few personal experiences.

The South Charleston Railroad Yard was a busy place, and a source of constant interest to me, a four-year-old boy caught up in the view of the railroad yard from the front window of our little house on Franklin Terrace. Cars: coal cars — “hoppers,”- flat cars, boxcars, and tank cars — were moved from track to track, pulled or pushed by small locomotives designed for that specific purpose. Those small engines were known as “dinkies.” In fact, our next door neighbor on Franklin Terrace, Mr. Midkiff, was a dinky engineer. It was an operation to watch, putting cars together to “make up” a train for its destination. Later, as a youngster I spent time on and around the railroad, walking the cross ties to school, hanging around the South Charleston freight yard where coal, chemicals and other natural products were loaded, unloaded and/or shifted to other cars as part of the around-the-clock operation of a busy train yard.

My first on-train experience was a trip from Charleston to Alderson to visit my grandparents. Dad put Alice and me on the train, talked with the conductor about our destination. The conductor put a tag on a string around each of our necks, sat us side by side, and off we went. I remember absolutely nothing about three-hour the ride itself, just arriving at the Alderson station where we were greeted by Granddad Farley.

To take that trip alone was a big deal for us; we were six. In the mid-1930s train travel was very, very safe, and it was not uncommon for kids, looked after by conductors and porters, to ride alone on passenger trains. But still, I’m sure Alice and I rolled our eyes at each other more than once. A couple of years later I rode that same train to Alderson with Paul, Dad’s brother.

My only memory of that trip was that the conductor gave me a small glass container in the shape of a train and full of candy. Those containers, which were made in many shapes: Santas, telephones, airplanes, etc., have been collectors’ items for many years.

At some point, after we had moved from Franklin Terrace to Sycamore Street, I think at about age ten, I started to walk to the South Charleston “yard” and watch the action. The yard workers had a very small shack between sets of tracks, out of which they would carry out their various tasks. One day, I carefully walked across the tracks to the work shack, with a workman waving me to go back out of the yard. I just kept going till I got to where he was standing. Kindly but gruffly, he took me into that magic place and gave me a direct lecture about the dangers of the yard, and what to watch for when walking the tracks. Well, that started it. From there I made friends with two or three other workers, and they would watch out for me as I made my way to the shack — my shack now; my personal castle. I graduated from that special time after one summer’s reign. But I learned about noise, and the smell of steam, and the clanging of cars banging against each other, the cinders and coal dust, and the unique sound of steam emitting from the boiler. Of course, I didn’t really learn about those things — I just got the sense of them.

During the seventh and eighth grades, a group of us — all boys — walked the cross ties to school two or three times a week — about a mile. Sometimes, when we would hear an oncoming train, someone would put a penny on the track and the train would flatten it into a shining disc. If you could find it among the limestone rocks that formed the track’s ballast, you could give it to the girl of your dreams as a special trinket. If we had a newcomer with us on a really cold day, we’d try talk him into putting his tongue on the track. How dumb. But one guy named Dewey did, and his tongue momentarily stuck to the track — at which we howled. Such were the types of entertainment in those days.

Our house on Sycamore street was about a quarter mile from the railroad, so the sound of steam whistles pierced the night air on regular schedules, and in summertime, with the bedroom window open, those passing trains gave me a sense of pleasure and comfort. Many nights, reading by flashlight, the late train would be my signal to put the Zane Grey book away and go to sleep.

I won’t go into it here — read the section called “Sleeping Out,” and you’ll get the story of how we would watch the Fast Flying Virginian go by at 5:30 in the morning.

One of my favorite railroad memories.

So that’s how it started for me with the C&O. There were other train trips later in my life, but it was the early fascination that got me going. And that was soon to be reinforced when I introduced myself to country music on our radio. Living in West Virginia, there were many country music broadcasts on our AM radio (at that time FM didn’t exist), and I found them all. Of course, the Grand Ole Opry, broadcast on Saturday nights, was the king of them all. And train songs were immensely popular. I was about twelve when this phase began, and songs like “The Wreck of The Old 97,” “Wabash Cannonball,” “Freight Train Blues,” and “Streamline Cannonball” were featured weekly, which continued to whet my appetite for train music. You’ll note references to my own train songs elsewhere in these short pieces, and somewhere, perhaps in the family “archives,” there is a recording of them, written and performed by yours truly.

It naturally followed that when I began camping on New River and elsewhere, the freight trains — hauling coal, mostly — kept our gang company. Since sound travels so well across water, especially at night, we could hear an approaching train from a great distance, and the great steel wheels clacking on the track could be heard long after the train was out of sight. Daytime trains were also special, because you could hear them coming, see the smoke and then come into vision. Usually, if I was standing in knee-deep water with fishing rod in hand, I’d just reel in and watch, and listen.

Waterways made natural locations for railroads, for they cut through mountains and typically would provide for a good grade or slope. So as I camped on many streams over the years, it was common to find a railroad following the waterway, usually across the river from camp. Made for good fishing. Or if the fish weren’t hitting, didn’t matter. Either way, I win.

Others: Granddad Hale, Don Hale, Pat Hale, Dave Farley, Kenny Pulliam, Lloyd Parsell, and many others shared that feeling for the railroads and trains. After Granddad died in 1966, there were just a few of us who were loyal to the steam locomotive, steam whistle, and all that, because it was all replaced by diesel engines beginning in the early ‘sixties. With that went the steam whistle, the other noises and odors and eccentricities of the steam locomotive. And none of us liked it — at all. Call us reactionary, we don’t care.

The greatest of the train song writers was the immortal Jimmie Rogers. The Singing Brakeman. Read about him. Briefly, he was a Mississippi guy who, in his mid-twenties, was working on the railroads. Played guitar. Began writing and recording many songs, among them his famous train songs. He really captured the romance of the railroad, and though his career lasted only six years, his train songs survive to this day. Check it out . . . you’ll get a true impression of what it was like in the 1920s and 30s, with hobos, the Depression, life in the south. Wonderful stuff. His “Waiting for A Train” hit the charts in the early thirties, and he was an overnight star. Of course, his railroads were in the south, so you won’t find the C&O mentioned in his lyrics. But the stuff of trains is there, so soak it up. Jimmie Rogers died of tuberculosis in 1932.

A couple of notes:

I had the pleasure of sitting in the Dining Car with Carol as we rode the FFV — the C&O’s famous passenger train, called “The Fast Flying Virginian,” from Charleston to Williamsburg in 1960, to visit her classmate Sherry McCormick and her newly-wed husband, Bob Harrison, who was also Carol’s high school classmate. Carol and I boarded the train in St. Albans very early in the morning. As we passed Sandstone Falls on New River (see “Camping and Fishing”) I practically thrashed her arms to get her to look at those magnificent falls, just west of Hinton, WV. The train trip was just idyllic. We had breakfast in the dining car, which — in accordance with historical precedence — was managed and served with the greatest of professional elegance. What a trip.

In about 1995, Carol, Amy (who at that time was employed in Washington, DC by the CSX Corporation, formerly — yes — C&O Railroad) and I went on a steam engine tour of the C&O trail from St. Albans to Hinton and back. We were with Roscoe Peters, a true C&O buff and family friend from the Kanawha Valley. Roscoe’s father was a professor at WV State College, and Roscoe was a lifetime friend / “blood brother” of Carol’s brother Keith Hopkins. Roscoe’s family had grown up on the C&O sidetracks at Hampton, VA, and Roscoe had later met Carol’s brother Keith in the WV Air National Guard at Charleston. During the ‘80s and ‘90s, Roscoe and Amy became fast friends, mostly due to Amy’s employment with CSX, for whom Roscoe had a deep emotional attachment. With the steam locomotive performing beautifully, that excursion was truly exciting for me — hearing the engine up ahead, seeing the smoke puffing out of the stack, looking out at the scenery — New River!, riding past Sandstone Falls. A memorable day.

I don’t know how to wind this little piece down, but as with other entries in these writings, I’ll stay true to my intent to give you an insight, not a treatise — although I could fill several more pages with stuff about “a long steel rail, a short cross tie,” as the song “Streamline Cannonball” goes. The C&O was later to become part of CSX, an international corporation specializing in transportation and container shipping. But even now, in 2013, one can occasionally spot an older train car with the blurred “C&O” in faded paint on its side.

Dickie Cole

The Coles. The Coles were a large family who lived close to Sycamore Street. The senior Mr. Cole, whose first name I never knew, had come — from Canada, I think — to work at the “Carbide” chemical plant. He was half-Canadian Indian, half Caucasian, perhaps French. His wife was either full Indian or half French; her speech was heavily accented. They lived in a large, farm-like house on Kanawha Terrace. The children were “Hummy,” the eldest, then Bob, then a sister Patsy, then Bill, Don and Dick. Hummy was killed in WWII action, I think. Bob was 6’8”, a giant at the time and obviously a legend. The younger three were in my age bracket, more or less. Back then, most all boys had an ‘ie’ or ‘y’ at the end of their names. Thus, Hummy, Bobby, Billy, Donnie, and Dickie. The Cole Boys.

As a family, they lived in virtual isolation from other families. However, the boys, Billy, Donnie and Dickie, were involved in all the neighborhood and school stuff. Billy — whom I later knew as just Bill — was quiet, studious, and went on to become a well-known commercial artist with Ringling Brothers. Donnie — Don — went on to become a valued Carbide expert in facilities management. Dickie — Dick — was the youngest, and that’s who this tale is all about.

Dickie was a year or so older than I. We kinda linked up. He was tall, angular, dark-skinned, dark-haired and had an infectious grin. He was kind of a loner, would hang around the neighborhood without ever being anyone’s “best bud.” He had this quiet, stealthy way about him, and my Grandmother Farley, who lived with us, called him — derisively — “that Indian.” He would have grinned at that.

I remember with laughter one summer night when I was upstairs in bed, reading — Zane Grey, probably — when I looked up at the dormer window, and there he was. Dickie, with that grin. I grinned back, and he disappeared, down the roof into a tree and to the ground. I thought “Dickie, why and how did you do that. ” But it was funny. Afterward, it never came up. Done and gone. That was Dickie. We always just grinned at each other; no “best buddy” stuff: sharing innermost thoughts, etc. Dickie and I were an unspoken pair; there was never a need for us to do all that talking stuff.

Here’s the story.

One day, when we were about 11 and 10, we decided, without parental knowledge, to go down to the railroad yard and climb around some cars that were idle on “the side.” The side was about four rails where railroad cars of various us were sent to await future destinies. Mostly, they were coal cars — hoppers — and tank cars, which in our area were mostly used to transport chemical products.

Dickie and I were having fun. Climbing around the wooden walkways on tank cars, climbing up to look down in coal hoppers, etc. As we rounded the front of a tank car it happened. Dickie fell, and his leg caught on a metal abutment. He went to the ground and grunted. Then he said, “I’m hurt.”

Dickie was larger than I. But I went to him and saw blood pouring from his upper leg, which had been torn open, with raw flesh hanging by the skin. He was in great pain, but, being Dickie, was not in panic.

My distinct, never-to-end memory is that at first, I was terrified. I stood there, stunned. The sight of the wound, with all the blood, had me in a state of fear: not knowing what to do or how to do it. His face, now pale with shock, the blood. Then it hit me. He was badly hurt and there was no one but me to help. Somehow, I got him up and, with him leaning on my shoulder, we walked — stumbled — about a hundred yards to the nearest house and onto the porch. He laid down on the porch floor and I pounded on the door, yelling and crying. A woman came to the door and I screamed at her to call an ambulance. She did, and the ambulance arrived. They laid him back and applied what I later learned was a compress and took him to the hospital. The guy who was in charge looked at me and said, “Son, you may have saved this boy’s life.”

I never saw it that way. What I did was get Dickie to help; they did the rest. It didn’t even click with me immediately when he said that. I was just happy that it turned out OK. I went home, told Mom the short version: “It wasn’t a bad thing, mom,” and that was that. Mom, of course, never told Dad.

The event was on my mind constantly the next few days. I was worried about Dickie, and I went to the Cole’s house and knocked on the door. No one came. No surprise; they weren’t very responsive. A couple of days later I went back, knocked on the back door. Mrs. Cole came, small, direct, said “Come.” She led me upstairs to a bedroom where Dickie lay. He grinned, said he had to stay in bed another two or more weeks. We talked for a minute or so, and I left. Mama showed me out. It was only later that I learned that I was perhaps the only person outside the family to ever be allowed in that house. When I learned that, I felt honored. The Coles — the parent Coles — were not an inviting neighbor, but they were extraordinarily good people.

It took about three weeks for the wound to heal enough that Dickie could get around. I saw him as always before: now and then, we’d play mumbly peg with the gang, and all the rest. 

Dickie didn’t need to say “Thanks, Farley.” I didn’t need to hear it. We were just two kids, doing what we did, but we had a bond that was different from all the other bonds I’ve known. Dickie Cole. He went on to serve in the Air Force, got a job at Carbide, raised a large family, bought and ran a nice farm. I didn’t see him after high school.

His older brother Don passed away about ten years ago. I heard about the service, and drove to Richmond to attend, with the hope that Dick might be there. He was, and after all that time he hadn’t really changed. We spotted each other at the same time, and there was that infectious smile. And in both our eyes was the fleeting shared memory of that day. We talked for a few moments and then the service began. Driving home I reflected on all of it, and how really good it was to see Dick. About four years ago Dick passed away. Dickie, I’ll never forget that day, and I’ll never forget the night you looked at me through my upstairs window with your silly grin. Funny how hilarious times and serious times are paired in one’s mind.

Mumbly Peg and Sleeping Out

During my early teen years, the summers were a time of laziness (except for the jobs, which took only part of the day) and being useless. I’d help around the house, which wasn’t a big deal, but for the most part I just engaged in a number of activities, none of which got in the way of doing just nothing. Beginning at about 12, I started to read in earnest. I’d read any novel I could get my hands on — in my house there were, among many standard works, a lot of westerns, mostly Zane Grey. I immediately fell in love with each of Grey’s heroines, and read with great envy of riding horses, drawing down on the bad guys, falling in love, fighting Indians: the standard stuff of western novels of the day.

The real fun was hanging around with my neighbor buddies and finding stuff to do. We played a lot of mumbly peg, or “root the peg.” This was a game played with a two-bladed pocket knife in which one had to flip the knife and get it to stick in the ground. There was a pre-set sequence of hand tosses and finger flips you had to achieve without a miss — about 15 tosses in all. We’d play until only one player was left without finishing the sequence. That player had to “root the peg,” which meant digging a short stick — about three inches long and a quarter inch in diameter — out of the ground with his teeth. The non-losers of the game got to use their knives to drive the peg deeply into the soil, usually about an inch deep, so getting it out with your teeth wasn’t easy. How well I remember being the loser my share of the time. Dirt in my mouth and up my nose while the other players hooted and made fun of me. But if you lost enough you’d get good at digging dirt with your teeth, spitting it out and going back for more until you reached the peg and pulled it out. You can imagine that several games with six or so players could last through half a day.

Actually, the smell and taste of dirt — earth, that is — is okay. If you’ve never tried it, you wouldn’t know. There’s something about the feel, taste, smell of earth that is elemental. Anyway, after rooting the peg I’d go rinse out and take a big drink from the garden hose and go back for more. But you need to understand that I only lost part of the time; in fact, I was better than most. Such was entertainment in those days. No TV, electronic games, computers, skateboards, stuff that today’s kids have for amusement. Just knives, slingshots, apple trees, wrestling, going to Joplin Hollow, and the rest. 

We would roam the neighborhood, climbing trees in the local apple orchard when the apples were not quite ripe, running foot races, sometimes playing touch football . . . you get it: we did a lot of nothing and that was huge fun. But the real deal — I mean The Real Deal — was sleeping out on someone’s front porch on a warm night, laughing with your buddies. Most often, it was my front porch. Four or five of us, sometimes more, would get parental permission to “sleep out.” Everyone would bring a quilt or blanket from home sometime shortly after it was too dark to continue our game of Capture the Flag, we’d pile in side by side, think up games to play and ornery stuff to say, until we’d fall off to sleep with an adventure yet to be had: going to the railroad. At about 3:30, we’d get up and quietly, with the sultry night laden with airborne reminders that we lived in the “chemical city,” walk about a mile to a low cliff that overlooked the C&O Railroad at the South Charleston freight yard. From there we would watch the trains below, chuffing back and forth, until the time — I think it was 5:20 — that the famous Fast Flying Virginian passenger train came roaring through, going westbound toward Cincinnati. Oh Boy. That train was like a rocket. Big engine with thirteen or fifteen streamlined passenger cars, each emblazoned with the words “Fast Flying Virginian.” And each car with its own special name. Easy to understand: it was a thrill to imagine oneself riding on that train to some distant city. On some nights, we would wait a little longer and watch the George Washington flyer going eastbound. Then we’d sneak back to the porch and sleep till someone woke us — often my Dad coming home off of midnight shift. And he always frowned. Imagine that! After his summers as a kid on the Greenbrier river? C’mon.

We never really tired of that adventure — sleeping out, capped off by the magic of the railroad and the steam locomotives — stinky, noisy, powerful, fast, mysterious, as they pulled their streamlined passenger cars through the night to exotic destinations. 

Actually, the sleeping out wasn’t so much about sleeping out as about the railroad and the trains that provided us with dreams and excitement. But just sleeping out was good in itself, and we didn’t always go to the railroad. Railroad or no, it was a great way to spend a summer night, totally oblivious to all but the immediacy of the moment itself: young boys being just that.

When we became 15 or so, believing ourselves wholly adult and mature, we were disdainful of such juvenile stuff as sleeping out and watching nighttime trains. New fish to fry. Too bad, that; I’d do it tonight if my body would permit and I had a boyhood companion. And if there were still steam locomotives. It was just that good. I’ve slept out time and again — and yet again, since those days, beside whispering streams and roaring rivers, in warm weather and cold. And often at night, lying on the ground or cot, I’d think about those warm nights on someone’s neighborhood front porch, and smile.