(rshsdepot) Planes, TRAINS and automobiles

["Jim Dent" <james.dent_@_itochu.com>]

-From the St. Petersburg  (FL) Times comes another not-quite depot related
article, I hope no one minds these extra bits...

Planes, TRAINS and automobiles

By BILL MAXWELL

A couple of Mondays ago, I came a bit closer to reviving my love of train
travel: I bought the new Amtrak Florida Rail Pass. The regular price of the
pass is $249, but if bought before Aug. 10, it costs $199.

I spend a lot of time driving Florida's highways. As dotage approaches, I
dislike driving more and more. And flying short distances between cities is
more trouble than not.

Rail travel is ideal for me. For $199, the pass gives me 12 months of
unlimited coach-class travel to 33 cities throughout the state, and I can
ride any time I want and stay as long as I want. I can get off at any stop,
explore and take the next train.

When I was growing up, no matter the town, we always lived near a railroad.
In Mascotte, the track was about 150 yards from our front door. I would lie
in bed at night listening to the rumble of the wheels on the track and the
whistle crying in the night like a forlorn lover. I dreamed of distant
cities, of staring down into green valleys and of following the undulating
outlines of mountain peaks.

Exotic cocktails . . . and crisp uniforms

During the day, I would run to the track. Over time, I recognized the
engineer, the brakeman, the fireman and other men waving from the caboose.
Whenever crewmen repaired the track, we would watch and bring them lemonade.
My cousins and I would put pennies on the track to be flattened.

In Crescent City, the track was within easy walking distance. I would go out
early in the morning, dig worms and walk to the trestle to fish. When the
streamliner approached, I would scramble down the rocky embankment. Through
the windows, I could see passengers in the colorful lounge car and diner.
Men smoked cigars and drank whiskey, and beautiful women chatted and sipped
exotic cocktails.

What intrigued me, though, were the slim Negro men in crisp uniforms. My
grandfather, who had been a railroad worker as a young man, explained that
these men were porters for the Pullman sleeping cars.

When I said I wanted to be a porter, my grandfather warned that the work was
tough and often humiliating. He told me about A. Phillip Randolph, who
helped found the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters in 1925. Before the
union was formed, Pullman porters worked 100 hours a week, making beds,
polishing shoes, cleaning clothes and serving meals. They were paid $15 per
week, the lowest pay in the industry. They even had to buy their own
uniforms. Worse still, the cost of their meals was deducted from their
wages.

My grandfather told me that Randolph - a Negro who met and dined with
presidents of the United States - was born in Crescent City, less than a
mile from our house. Sure enough, the home of this great man stood abandoned
beneath a stand of Live oaks. I would jump over the barbed wire fence and
walk around the house. Fear of poisonous snakes kept me from going inside.
Still, the thought of Randolph's being born here fired my youthful
imagination and my love of trains.

The summer I discovered the house, I took my first solo train trip. I
voyaged from Crescent City to New York's Penn Station, where my father
picked me up. From there, we drove in a pickup to a tomato farm in New
Jersey. After that summer, my folks could not keep me off trains. When I
went to college in Texas, the train was central to my life. I looked forward
to Christmas and summer break, when hundreds of black college students, I
among them, partied from Texas to Florida. I made lifelong friends during
those rowdy road shows.

An adventure worth a whipping

My greatest train adventure occurred in 1961 when I accompanied my
grandfather, a pastor, to church in Palatka. During night service, he let me
visit friends in town. We walked to the switching station to watch the
activity. Fulfilling a wish, I suggested that we hop on a car and ride a few
blocks before the engine picked up speed. We jumped into an empty boxcar,
but, almost immediately, the engine sped away like a bat out of hell. The
rocky bed of the track zoomed past in the semi-darkness. Panic struck. We
would not jump off.

The next morning, we five adventurers found ourselves in Savannah, Ga., more
than 200 miles away. Authorities took us into custody and telephoned our
homes. Needless to say, our folks were more relieved than angry. The good
part was that we received free passage and a delicious free meal, served by
a fatherly porter. We did not enjoy the trip, however, for we knew that the
worst whippings of our lives awaited us.

Perhaps my Amtrak pass will bring some new rail adventures into the life of
a graying baby boomer who has spent too many miles behind the wheel and in
the air.

Bill Maxwell is an editorial writer and columnist for the St. Petersburg
Times, P.O. Box 1211, St. Petersburg, FL 33731. E-mail, maxwell_@_sptimes.com.

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End of RSHSDepot Digest V1 #123
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