Just Around The Corner
By Bertrande Snell
There are many abandoned depots along the old Hojack that seem to gaze forlornly at the casual passer-by. Most of ‘em don’t even stare - their windows are boarded up and their doors tightly closed. But there they stand; weather-beaten and dilapidated monuments to an era that has nearly vanished.
Too, there are a number of hamlets along the line where the depots have been torn down and tall grass grows where once the semaphore reared its proud head, and dandelions bloom beneath the spot once occupied by the telegraph desk.
Take Hastings, for instance… I stood by the tracks the other day and surveyed the little, deserted depot, which once looks so big and bustling to a teenage rookie like me.
As I looked at the shabby owl building, the years rolled back - some two score of ‘em - and I seemed to see John Benedict standing in the doorway clad in his smart blue uniform with the gold buttons, smoking one of the Jake Schumacher’s best Parish-made cigars.
Just back of the depot stood the big white house where John and his good wife lived for many years and raised their family of children. There was no other dwelling in the immediate vicinity; Hasting station being about a mile off the main highway. It was reached by a narrow country road which crossed the tracks at the depot and meandered off in a north-easterly direction to “Never-Ever-Land.”
Brother Benedict used to come over to Parish occasionally on No. 3, which hesitated at Hastings about 6:50 p.m. He would then have an hour and a half in which to take in the bright lights before returning home on No.8, the last passing train of the day, which was due at 8:30 p.m. These excursions were, of course, strictly off-the record, since the agents at one-man stations like Hastings were required to be on duty at all times, until “G.N." (good night) by the train dispatcher.
Act this time I was a telegraph student at Parish depot under the tutelage of genial Bill Shaver, and I had gotten to the point where I was allowed to sit in on the dispatchers wire occasionally.
John and I had it all fixed up that when he made one of his evening excursions to Parish, he’d give me the proper wire hint and when the train pulled in at Parish I would report it to the train dispatcher as having just left Hastings - three miles west.
This worked fine and dandy for some little time until one night: John notified me that he’d be on the train - and I prepared to do the usual. Just as No. 3 pulled up in front of the station, I opened the key and sent the code report to the train dispatcher in Oswego:
“Os. Os. - HG - No. 3 A & D 6:51 p.m.” This being translate meant “On sheet on sheet Hastings - No. 3 arrived and departed 6:51.
When I closed the key, the sounder began to chatter again. The dispatch was making some sort of reply! I was unprepared for this, being still pretty slow on the receiving end of a wire, and not expecting any reply, anyway. I was alone in the office at the moment, the agent having gone out to meet the baggage car, I immediately realized that I wasn’t getting a thing the sounder was saying. Panic-stricken, I rushed from the office and intercepted John just as he was alighting.
“Come in see quick,” I gasped, “the dispatcher’s trying to tell me something and I can’t read a word of it!”
John ran to the instrument just as i fell silent, the sender having evidently finished whatever he was saying. Benedict shook his head in disgust, opened the key and asked for a repeat. After a moment, he smiled and turned to me.
“Did you get it, this time? he asked.
I was forced to admit: “Not a word John; that man Nixon sends too fast for me.”
“Well, Bert,” replied my friend, “you can stop your trembling and wipe that sweat off you noble brow. All the dispatcher wanted was to let me know that I could close the joint for the night. No. 8 is ‘way late’ out of Watertown and he says I needn’t wait. I’ll betcha someday you’ll get to be a two-way operator, even if you are a little one-sided at present. There are probably worse operators than you, somewhere - but I’ll be danged if can recall any, at the moment.”
And he grinned widely as he patted my shrinking shoulder and went his way.
This trifling episode happened nearly a half-century ago - in 1901, to be exact - and I’m glad to note that Mr. Benedict is still extant. He lives in Syracuse at 206 Slocum Ave., having been retired for a number of years.
—And long may he flutter!
__
GHOST STATION
On the old Hojack when the twilight falls
And the moon comes over the hill,
When the plaintive note of the nightbird calls
Thru the mystic evening chill;
There, ’soft ‘neath the glow of of the brooding sky,
The lonely depots stand
And as boxcars thunder by,
The shuddering rails demand:
“Click, click-click clack;
Oh, take us back
To the days of long ago,
When the sun was brighter
And the loads were lighter
And the hearts of men aglow!
But the weeds have grown on the
old door sill
And the ghosts that lurk inside
Slink thru the gloom of the silent
room;
And the echoes, far and wide,
Moan, softly moan, in their grief,
alone
From the freight house rafters
high,
Where the dust and grime of the
olden time
Show black to the watcher’s eye.
“Click-clack, click-clack,” sing the
rusty rails
As they span the right-o-way,
And the drive-wheels spin as the
train rolls in
From the mists of yesterday!
