Train Stories

I was talking with Sister today and she reminded me of one of our great family stories. In fact, its the only memorable story that my grandfather tells about his railroad days.

My grandfather was a train engineer on the Illinois Central railroad. He was based out of Memphis and transported goods all over the midwest and southeast. He retired when in the mid seventies after decades on the line. But not before my mom took me to visit him on the engine. I was only about four. My memories of the incident are vague, but I do recall distinctly is the overwhelming wave of noise that vibrated my little body- loud bells and whistles. I was hiding in my mother’s shoulder, occasionally peeking out at Granddaddy in his overalls and cap. Yes, that’s really what engineers wore back in those days.

The years of noise, in conjunction with a family infirmity, most assuredly contributed to my grandfather’s substantial hearing loss. But still, he reflects fondly on his train days. It was a grand old profession, even if his years were spent on steam and then deisel engines- loud, dirty, and no air conditioning. Funny that Sister and I recall only this one story.

Granddaddy was in a train yard in Tupelo, Mississippi. Or at least I think it was Tupelo. In any case, it was a very poor, predominately black town. He had just boarded a train and was slowly moving it out of the yard, and onto the track.

It was a hot summer day, before the advent of computerized controls. Grandaddy leaned out the window to survey the track ahead. As he rang the bell and moved the train forward, he happened to see a little black boy in the tall grasses by the side of the tracks. (Over the years, as this story has been told and retold, the protagonist has changed from a colored boy, to a negro boy, to a black boy, charting my family's own progression through the civil rights era).

The little boy waved to my grandfather. My grandfather waved back. The little boy waved more frantically, so Grandaddy waved again and blew the whistle. This time the little boy stopped waving and raised his leg up out of the weeds. His foot dangled, nearly severed from the leg.

Granddaddy frantically stopped the train (not the easiest of feats even when thousands of tons are moving even at a snail's pace). He radioed for help, even though communication was nearly impossible over the din of the train engine. Finally, he was able to reach the boy along with some other railroad workers. By that point the little boy was in shock. They put a tourniquet on his leg, and he was taken to the hospital. I think he lived, but he lost his foot.

Evidently the little boy had been playing on the tracks, and was climbing between cars when Granddaddy started the engine. The initial lurch tightened the coupling between the cars, and caught the little boys foot. Granddaddy always tells this story, his voice filled with regret, as if he could have known what was happening. Decades as an engineer, and the memory will always be tinged with these moments of despair.