The Call of the Iron Horse - Memoirs of Edwin H. Young
[Edwin H.. Young was born in Cigarville (now Clay) in 1877 and died about 1962. Some of the memoirs recount his early days in Cigarville and his later adventures as a telegrapher with the West Shore Railroad. The following story aptly describes the fascination of a young boy in the days of steam].
The farm where we lived was a mile or more from the station by way of the road, but the railroad track was less than half that distance across the fields, and we could see the trains as they rumbled past.
Just when the railroading microbe began to gnaw me would be hard to say. The general atmosphere, as related to the trains, their crews, and the goings on around the old R. W. & O. depot at Cigarville, --now Clay-- was evidently intriguing to me at a very early age; and the recollection of getting "a tanning" for tagging down to the depot and staying late.one night, seems now to mark the beginning of it.
I must. have been pretty young; probably 7 or 8. What I saw and heard there was something apart from the general humdrumness of farm life, and, in spite of parental worries, its interest grew apace as the days went by.
My mind's eye readily followed the iron horse with its trailing coaches into the north country, and, with still greater interest, into "the city" on the south. But to see it passing in the distance was never enough; I must have a closer view. Consequently with popeyed wonder, I was frequently on hand to watch those fuming monstrosities roll grandly up to a hissing, grinding stop at the station.
When the passengers were finally safely on and off, and the baggage and ‘express all cared for, the conductor would -then as now- look gravely at his watch, call "All aboard!" and wave his hand to the engineer, who, in turn, pulled open "the throttle thing," and the preposterous iron contrivance of heat and smells and smoke and steam, struggling and protesting, nevertheless got down to business again, and resumed its rushing, roaring, clattering journey, with a small boy running it-in spirit! Aw, anybody could do that!
But I was not to do that. Maybe I came to realize that being an engineer was quite as inseparable from grease and dirt and danger as the idea was, in other ways, alluring. Maybe Ma didn't want me to!
Anyway, other things interested me. More subtle was the call of the clicking telegraph instruments that I heard within the sacred precincts of the ticket office. Those brass relays, sounders and keys on the heavy walnut shelf, under the window on the-right, always claimed my attention."
Due to its North-South direction, deep cuts, and the prevailing west winds, the old "Hojack", as the R.W. & O. was called, was at the mercy of the elements in the winter-time.
In those early days of railroading, the-old-fashioned type of snow-plow seems to have been rather inadequate in those cuts, if snow had accumulated to any unusual depth. Their effective use seemed to depend largely on their being driven at sufficient speed to throw the snow clear of the mould-board
and to keep from stalling; but if deep drifts of packed snow were hit at too great a speed there apparently was danger that the plow would suddenly stall, hop up behind, and be derailed. It was neighborhood talk that this happened one winter in what was called "Lynn's Cut,” between Cigarville (now Clay)
and Woodard, when I was a boy.
It seems that, as usual, the boys and some of the men, were enjoying a usurped privilege by riding inside of the plow. I am not sure who any of them were. Whether heavy snow caused the plow to nose too deeply in this instance I do not know, but it was said that it caught under the planking
between the rails at the highway crossing, and was thrown athwart the track with the engine partly under it. Apparently the only flimsy excuse the men and boys could have mustered for being in it was quite invalidated by their failure to hold it down. As far as I know, no one was hurt beyond a shaking
up and a few minor scratches.
Apparently a feeling of amity existed between the country folk and the railroaders, and service and privilege seem to have gone hand in hand. We youngsters clambered around, and over, stalled trains -- and some that were stalled! -- with a freedom not unrelated to a feeling of personal interest and responsibility.
My folks lived perhaps a third of a mile across the fields from “Lynn's Cut"; so, whenever trains were snowed in there I had visual evidence of it , and was soon "among those present." If my memory serves me correctly, trains were sometimes tied up there for two or three days. I recall at least one instance of this kind, when all that could be seen from our house was the extreme top of a locomotive's smokestack and the smoke that issued from it.
This was probably in '88. A freight train had stalled there, and then became hopelessly snowed in by continued heavy snow and wind. When this had finally abated the cut was full to the top of the train. In some places we could actually walk from the snow banks onto the tops of the cars. As usual, men and boys were recruited to shovel snow. In order to dig the train out it was necessary, in the worst places, to shovel the snow from the roadbed level to the top of the banks by means of two or three relays of men stationed at different levels. Like a bucket brigade, it was thrown from one to another until it cleared the top.
At such times as these I was apt to oscillate between stalled trains and the station, in order to be in on everything. Usually there was another train or two on the siding, waiting the chance to get through. Even before I had taken any real interest in telegraphy I suspect that it was all eyes and ears, and more or less "wise" to everything that was going on, or even contemplated. We youngsters naturally absorbed a lot of railroading details.
With ears, eyes and mouth wide open, we listened with rapt attention to the "shop talk" and good-natured banter among our heroes in greasy caps and overalls. And when their trains pulled out we rode as far down the track as we could, and still expect to get off without a spill.
My First Job
With some indifference I thought of teaching school. It did not appeal to me very strongly. I preferred telegraphy and the railroad. I was then barely 17, but I applied for a job on the R. W. & O., and it was not long before I was requested to come to their division offices at Oswego.
I went to Oswego and took the telegraph test. Everything went allright until I was asked my age and I told them 17. I was informed immediately that they could not hire me, and for a minute or two it looked as if they did not intend to give me a pass back home. But they relented, and I got it.
So I learned my lesson too. Telegraph-helpers positions were few and far between. I had some time before, applied for a position with the Western Union in Syracuse-but had heard nothing from them. I applied for a job with the West Shore.
I did not have to wait long. I was called to Syracuse. Their division offices were in the old brick depot, in the southeast angle of the tracks, where that road was crossed by the R. W. & O. - right where the Herald-Journal building now stands. As at Oswego, I was given a telegraph test, and I was directed to go in and see the Chief Dispatcher, Mr. W.K.McCoy.
Mr. McCoy was a rather small man; perhaps a trifle below the average in height, and somewhat slight. But he gave one an impression of energy and reeourcefulness. I was to learn that he was keen and witty.
"They tell me you are a pretty good operator," he remarked glancing at the messages I had copied.
I probably admitted it and figuratively took my bow.
Suddenly without warning, he queried, "How old are you?" "21," I lied. Neither of us batted an eye. Disregarding my answer he countered, "When were you born?" I was ready. "May 26th" What year?" He persisted. Without hesitation, “1874.”
Billy, as he was familiarly known to the West Shore people, had a shrewd little leer that was all his own. He turned it on me. "You don't look to be 21!" he relentlessly asserted.
I retained a poker face and replied with great composure, “Can't help that -- how old do I look to be?"
"W.K.M." was beaten. However, my statement was probably all that was required. A wise little grin showed itself for a moment and then disappeared.
Well, we are going to send you to Macedon for a few nights. Better get up there and find a place to get some sleep. Think you can keep awake tonight?”
I guessed so; and he directed me to fill out a formal application, and handed me a pass.
And that is how I started working on my first million.
Charles Quackenbush, an older cousin by marriage, had been at our house that morning as I left for Syracuse. He didn't think much of my ability to stick. I went away with his parting shot: “I'll give you just two weeks!”
It was to be 41 years: six on the West Shore, and between 35 and 36 with the Western Union, here in Syracuse.
