Station at Parish, New York
“Just Around the Corner”
Bertrande H. Snell commenced his column in the Syracuse Post-Standard on Jan. 13, 1945 and continued it until shortly before his death on June 26, 1949. For years his column was expanded from four to six days a week. The weekly columns were of a light-hearted nature, making note of birthdays, anniversaries, etc. His Sunday columns were primarily of a reminiscent or historical nature, which included railroad stories.
His writing days ended on the morning of June 25, 1949 when he suffered a stroke at his home at 326 S. Crouse Ave. in Syracuse. At the time he was striken he was working on his column and a partially typed page was still in his typewriter when he was taken to the hospital. Also beside the typewriter were his notes he had written with a soft pencil on news copy paper. He died on June 27, 1949 at the age of 67.
Mr. Snell was survived by his wife, who he always referred to as "Milady Helene;" two sons, Harold of Syracuse and Gerald of New Brunswick, N.J.; a daughter, Mrs. George Booth of New Hartford, N.Y.; three step sons, J.H. Huff of Toledo, Ohio, Elmer Huff of Syracuse and Dorman Huff of Holland, Ohio; seven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Following funeral services Mr. Snell was interred in Pleasant Lawn Cemetery, in his home town of Parish.
Clay station
Snell, author of the following articles, a native of Parish, Oswego County, N.Y., was a telegrapher all his working life. For a short time he was employed by the New York Central Railroad, and for 33 years was a telegrapher for Western Union in Syracuse. One of his columns, dated Jan. 30, 1949, outlines his career in a way only he could write it:
“The first person singular pronoun, is going to come in right handy during today's blast, because I am minded to discourse to you a little on a very uninteresting and pallid theme - myself. You see, something happened to me last week which changes the complexion of many familiar things around and about me.
“A few days ago my Western Union boss called me into his office and recited a few salient facts of which I was already aware. 'The old Morse code,' he remarked, ' is all shot to hell. In almost no time at all, we're not going to have any. Our modern system of telegraphy has given Mister Morse the final coupe de grace; he is now defunct, obsolete, and completely knocked for a loop. So, arrives now the moment when some of you oldtimers who have stuck so closely to your key and sounder will have to go way back and sit down.'
“Then, in a few (but not few enough) well chosen phrases he offered me a voluntary retirement from the vanishing field of dot-and-dash.
"As the solemn tones of John's voice fell upon somewhat deafened ears, the walls around me seemed to fall away, the speaker's voice faded, the rushing years tumbled backward - and I stood, once more, a teen-age youth in the office of the railroad depot at Parish.
"It was in the late winter of 1899. I had graduated from Parish high the year before; and now I had come to the depot to see genial Bill Shaver, the station agent, in regard to matriculating as a telegraph student. Bill grinned widely at my request and freely admitted that he could find room for one more.
"At the time, he already had three students - Roy Nutting, Burnell Miller and Loyal McNeal - but he was the kind of man who dearly loved to lead the helping hand. So the next day I started on my careen (I mean career) as a telegrapher - and now, 50 years later, almost to the day, I have come to the end of it.
"After graduation from Bill Shaver's ‘School,’ I worked on the Hojack for a few years; but a certain irrepressible restlessness, combined with the fact that Trainmaster Jimmy Halleran tied a can on me, set me to wandering from one railroad to another, looking for "something new." From the east to the west, so far as Wisconsin, and south to the Texas borderline I traveled, working on no less than 14 different railroads in a span of two years.
"It was a great life, my friends, a wonderful life, but you gotta be young to fully appreciate it. That's why I'm free to tell you that I'll do it all over again the very next time Mister Morse and I come back! "In 1905 I kinda 'settled down' on the Pennsylvania division of the New York Central, where I spent 12 happy and carefree - if not profitable - years in and around Williamsport, Pa., and the adjacent county of Lycoming. Coming to Syracuse in 1917, I threw in with Western Union and here I have been ever since.
"I have learned to love Syracuse and its people. The passing years have only served to increase that feeling to the point where it is hard for me to imagine a better community in which to spend one's days (and nights).
"Thus I sat and dreamed as the Boss finished the details of his gentle heave-o; and behold! I awoke to find myself a pensioner. Or, as Bill of Avon puts it, "A lean and slipper pantaloon." Come to think of it, my good, old dad had a phrase which carries the idea to its ultimate. He used to say:
“Generally speakin', a man don't know much until he's 60 - and by that time, it's too darn late."
But let's not dwell upon that just now; because if the good Lord and you readers spare me for another two years or so, i intend to come up with a diatribe on "How It Fells to Be an Unrepentant Failure." So stick around, folks - the worst is yet to come!
"To say that I am leaving my old organization without regret would be untrue, but this same regret is thickly studded with the jewels of happy remembrance. I have tried to make as few enemies as possible; and as for myself, I hope no slightest thought of enmity or envy toward anyone in Western Union (Or anywhere else, for that matter.). They're a fine bunch of boys and girls, all the way from superintendent to caretakers. May they all live long and happy and flourishing as the evergreen tree in the vale of happiness."
Woodard station near Liverpool.
Sept. 23, 1945
Not so many years ago, the village depot was a kind of general meeting place, where citizens in all walks of life were prone to meet informally and often to discuss the pros and cons of this and that, while waiting for the evening train from the city.
There was always a continuous flow of light, or heavy, sarcasm thrown in the general direction of the station agent, who, generally, richly deserved it and always had more or less an adequate answer.
Yes, sir, it was always a jovial and carefree crowd that watched No. 3 come in, each evening. After the train's departure, the agent always hied himself homeward, leaving the premises to the tender care of the night operator. All he had to do was hang around from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. - or whatever time the usually fat and always blowsy agent considered near enough - sweep the floor, trim the lamps, copy train
orders and telegrams off the Morse wires, and, hardest of all, keep away - at which last-task he was seldom successful.
It was, of course, one of these night men who first saw and reported the "White Flyer" - a legend on the old RW&O railroad- which more or less serves the village north of Syracuse to Watertown and points north and east.
This branch of the NYC has from time immemorial, been known as the "Hojack." The origin of this title seems to be lost in the mists of antiquity, which mists will be in some future article, endeavored to pierce - but that will be another story.
To return to the "White Flyer."
In the lonely watches of the night, as the presumably wide awake telegrapher kept his lonely vigil at the key, he would, betimes, hear a sound like the rush of a mighty wind, and peering fearfully through the window, he would see the White Flyer - ghostly engineer at the throttle and fireman with his hand on the bellrope - tearing swiftly through the night. It was never my good, or ill, fortune to see this phantasmagorum, but I have the (almost)unimpeachable evidence of many old-time Hojackers who did.
There was George Murphy, now retired and dwelling in Phoenix, who counted the caches on the ghost train, as it swept through Parish. He made the number six, but Frank Hayner at Mallory claimed there were but five that night.
You don't suppose, do you, that they might have stopped at Hastings and switched one? George Rowe relates that he saw the White Flyer pulling in to Central Square about 3 a.m. one dark, misty night.
He grabbed a red lantern and ran out on the tracks to flag it. George says he caught his foot on the outside rail and fell flat, directly in the path of the on-rushing train, which passed over his prostrate body, doing him not the slightest harm. He admits, however, that he was considerably peeved!
Many old railroaders, readers of The Post-Standard, will recall trainmaster Jimmy Halleran, located at Oswego for many years. Noted for many things other than just railroad, was Jimmy.
How many will remember the circular of instructions which emanated from Jimmy's office on the completion of the double track line between Pulaski and Richland?
Some office wag had inserted the following paragraph:
Trains - approaching each other on double track, will come to a full stop and will not proceed until each has passed the other.
Another time, during a terrific storm, the bridge at Red Creek went out and all traffic was at a standstill beyond that point.
Jimmy hurried to the scene, with his master mechanic and crew. From division headquarters at Watertown, came a bevy of engineers and
craftsmen to speed to speed the work of construction. Anon, comes a message from the superintendent's office:
J.G.H.
Red Creek, N.Y.
Advise if engineers have completed drawings and when construction will start.
D.C.M.
And back, over the vibrant wires, goes this immediate reply:
D.C.M.
Watertown.
Don't know, if the pictures are done, but the bridge is up and the trains
running.
J.G.H.
One time, a few of "us boys" got together and drew up a set of "rules" for the government and railroad telegraphers. Time has proven to most of
us that we might have been better employed, but I venture to give you a discreet number of these rules, as first authorized by a committee,
consisting of such old timers as Roy Nutting, Loyal McNeill, Earle Benson, this chronicler, and many others:
The Rum, Waterburg & Ogdenstown R.R.
Rules Governing Telegraph Operators
I - J.H. G. is the Whole Push.
II - Train Detainers report to the Chief Train Detainer and will also, be governed by the rules of the Bartenders' Union.
III - Telegraph Operators report to the Chief Train Detainer, and will also receive instructions from anyone who thinks he has any authority,
including the Section boss.
IV - Operators will receive sufficient salary to enable them to purchase uniforms and chewing tobacco. If they have families - "The Lord will provide."
V - The Operators' summer uniform shall consist of a dirty shirt and a straw hat. The winter uniform will be the same as above, with the addition of a rawhide cord, wound nine times around the body and terminating in a leather badge, bearing the inscription, "I AM IT." This must never be removed, except at the wearer's funeral.
VI - Any operator who is observed on duty under the influence of intoxicants will be asked to explain why he did not whack up with the boss.
If no satisfactory explanation be forthcoming, enough money will be deducted from his salary to treat the crowd.
VII - Any operator who has been dismissed from the service will not be again dismissed unless, and until, he has been re-employed.
VIII - If you faithfully observe the above rules, you will deserve all you get.
Just a fleeting memory of an old-time Syracusan who also was prominent along the Hojack 40 years ago:
Louis Windholtz owned and operated a canning factory at Parish for many years. He was a kindly man, with a keen sense of humor as the subjoined trifle will show.
I was a "student: at the Parish station, learning (I hoped) to be a telegrapher. I was alone in the office one day, Agent Shaver having gone to the village for a short time. Mr. Windholtz came in and inquired about something, the details of which I do not recall. Blown up with pride at being in charge of the office for even so brief a period, I gave him the kind of answer which was known, in those times, as 'fresh."
Louis eyed me for a long moment; his eyes twinkled and he said:
"Ach so! Venn ve sveep der floor, ve run der railroadt, 'nicht wahr."
The Days of Old, the days of Gold,
When skies were blue and fair;
Ah, knew not I that these would die,
Or, if I knew, would care.
But Memory is a living thing,
Or gay, or sad it be -
And, so I say to you today,
"Thank God for Memory!"
November 4, 1945
Genevieve Gardner Gillette, buxom and good natured station agent at Jewell, bade father and me fond farewell as we boarded the O&W train one morning at 8:30; for were we not starting on a long and perhaps a dangerous journey?
We changed cars at Sylvan Beach and again at Cortland and pulled into East Ithaca over the Elmira, Cortland & Northern about 5 p.m., with our box of sandwiches completely exhausted and ourselves nearly so.
This is to say that we had traveled a distance of 65 miles in a little under nine hours. Of course we had waited two hours at Sylvan Junction and nearly three hours at Cortland - but it seems to me no one was in much of a hurry in 1892.
November 18, 1945
Engineer Cotter eased open old 2165's throttle and No. 21, the northbound local slid slowly out of Salina yards. Barney Fiddler was fireman; hop, Loren Look, the conductor, and the flagman was Denny Haley. Fred Mug was the head "shack" and Dick Jones rode the cubicle.
Here was a sextet of hard-bitten railroaders ready for any emergency, and fearful, neither of "Hell, or high water." They drifted into Liverpool about 6:45 a.m. and unloaded a bit of merchandise on agent Jimmy Dial's platform; then whizzed through Woodard on operator Richardson's "highball," and jolted into Clay Station.
Here the agent, Charlie Zoller, had some switching for them, and they worked at this for some 30 minutes. The previous night had ben bitterly cold, the thermometer falling to 25 below zero in this section, but when the the local left Clay, about 8 a.m., the weather had moderated, and snow was falling steadily. there was a stiff wind from the northwest and the snow was beginning to drift.
There was a halt at Brewerton, where engineman Cotter gave his steed a "drink" from the water tower. "We'll never make Richland if she don't let up," he said, as he stamped into the station, where telegrapher Coon Rogers was getting train orders from Oswego.
"Hell," said Conductor Look, "we won't never make it anyway, if that double diagnosed dispatcher don't get his nit-wits together an' get us out o' here - what's he say, Coon?'
"Here y'are," said the operator at last, "meet No. 4 at Mallory, an' don't waste no time at Central Square - get out o'here, now an' step on it."
They dug out of Brewerton through the blinding storm, which grew worse by the minute. Sherman Coville at Central Square had his instructions to highball them over the O&W intersection without delay, and the train limped into Mallory and onto the siding, as Courbat's noon whistle sounded.
--And there the train of 13 cars remained for two weeks; for this was the beginning of the Big Storm of March 5, 1904, and Oswego county's greatest blizzard was in full swing.
After No. 4, due in Syracuse at 12:50 p.m. arrived seven hours late that evening, not a wheel turned on the Hojack between Salina and Richland for five days. In some of the "cuts" the snow was drifted to the tops of the telegraph poles, after the storm had blown itself out - which did not happen until snow had fallen violently and continuously for more than 72 hours.
The crew of the local waited in the Mallory depot until No. 4 struggled in from the north, with a rotary snow-plow trying to keep the rails clear ahead of it. Then, they all came back to Syracuse, with the exception of fireman Barney Fiddler, whose mother resided at Mallory, a short distance from the depot.
Next morning, when I came down from Jim Jackson's where i was boarding, to open the depot, the snow was piled to the top of the waiting room door, and all the windows on the west side were completely drifted in. The train dispatcher at Oswego issued instructions for all telegraphers to remain on continuous duty in readiness for emergencies. So there we were, with nothing to do - and 50 miles of rails covered with seven feet of snow on the level!
We recall that this was a halcyon period for Jerome Fiddler, the old track walker, who lived just across from the station. He, too, was happily idle for more than a week, while, as he confided in me:
"Me pay keeps travelin' right along, glory be!"
Well, after a couple of days it stopped snowing and some of the boys from the mile-distant village tramped out a single-file foot path through the drifts and came over to see what was doing. There were Lyman Hoyt, Tobe Robinson, Len Snow, George Courbat, Lester Fiddler and others, who formed a sort of parade as they plodded along the cavernous path to the depot, where I had been alone in my lack of glory for all too long.
Fireman Fiddler hit upon a happy expedient to add to the jollity of nations. He discovered some barrels of beer in the freight house, which had arrived just before the storm made all deliveries impossible. This beverage had frozen solidly in the kegs, so Barney heated a poker in the stove, knocked in a bung, inserted the red-hot poker and pushed mightily toward the center of the keg.
The amber liquid which oozed forth as a result of this operation was of sweetish taste, not at all unpleasant, nd its potency was of that variety known as HIGH. Then we all gathered around the crimson-bellied stove in the waiting room, played a little poker; drank a little (?)
nectar, told a little list of stories - and had, in general, a heck of a good time!
Finally, five days after the storm had started, a big snow-plow, pushed by two locomotives, left Salina and made the 21-mile trip to Mallory in a little over two days. Another plow left Richland at about the same time, and they finally met near Parish. Thus, the line was cleared for passenger traffic, and soon, matters began to shape normally.
In a section noted for its violent storms, this was easily the fiercest and longest continued of any within the memories of the oldest citizens at that time - and it has had no serious competitors since. Of that salty and valiant train crew, which left Salina on that stormy morning in 1904; of all the agents and telegraphers I have mentioned here; of all the others who have appeared - there remain to survive, only Denny Haley of Syracuse, and this narrator; I to reminisce in my wandering way; and he, perhaps, to verify the tale, or point out its inaccuracies.
So, Denny, let's give each other three rousing cheers - and I'll say:
"Give 'er the gun, hoghead, the Big Roundhouse is Just Around the Corner!"
January 27, 1946
The Pennsylvania Division of the old New York Central, known to old-timers as "The Fall Brook," connects with the main line at Lyons and winds south through Corning to Clearfield, Pa. It crosses the Pennsylvania state line at Lawrenceville and, from there on, it runs through the Alleghenies. It is in reality a true "Scenic Route," although, alas, there are no longer any passenger trains scheduled on the line south of Corning.
In 1912, there was a little way station known as Beeman between Lawrenceville and Presho. Here vegetated, at this time, a telegrapher by the name of Honnis. he had little to do, save report the passing of the numerous coal trains and ponder on the vicissitudes of human life. These activities he interspersed at too frequent intervals with a satisfactory flow of the famed Tioga county triple-elixir.
As he sat thus, day by day, his grievances, real or fancied, grew space, until he became a man obsessed. One day his muddled brain gave birth to the Great Idea, and he acted thereon with promptness and despatch. The very next morning, he hied himself to Corning, where were located the division offices. He made directly for division superintendent, D.W. Dinan's office . He swung open the office door and
discovered Mr. Dinan seated behind his desk, facing the door.
Without preliminary, Honnis dove into his hip pocket, with quick if trembling hand; fished out a snub-nosed revolver and fired three shots in the general direction of the official. At the sound of the shots, assistant superintendent L. P. Van Woert rushed from his adjacent office; but halted abruptly, at sight of the armed figure in the doorway.
Before Van could do anything about making himself scarce - which he, afterward admitted was his primary intention - Telegrapher Honnis reversed his weapon and shot himself in the head, dying as he slumped to the floor. Having thus satisfactorily provided for his own future, the gentleman exits from this narrative.
Superintendent Dinan, it was found, had suffered but one hurt - a slight flesh wound in the right shoulder. Another of the bullets had sliced off a coat button, and the third went wild.
This tragedy, not unnaturally, caused considerable furor in railroad circles throughout the country, and one result was that railroad officials were not nearly so easy of access for a considerable period thereafter.
The big boys didn't exactly lock their doors; but they took precautions!
Which precautions form the groundwork, for the following anecdote, which has a slightly different finale from the preceding one.
A few months after the event recorded above, a young telegrapher on the Hojack - we will call him Fred, principally because that's not his real name - was the victim of a series of events, which eventually led to his dismissal. He was working on the west end, between Oswego and Rochester, at the time; and he decided to go to Watertown and try to induce Superintendent F.E. McCormack to reconsider.
Resplendent in his "Sunday suit" of navy blue, and with a purposeful glinting his somewhat less-than-eagle-eye, he descended upon the division office and sought out the chief dispatcher, George Henry Williamson, his immediate superior.
"Sorry, Fred," counseled George Henry. "I can't do anything for you, the Old Man has the goods on you and he won't budge."
"Well, " replied Freddy, "I'm gonna see him, anyway. I'll sure give him a line. Gee! I don't want to get fired just now - I ain't got time for it!"
"Won't do you any good, I'm afraid," counseled the chief dispatcher, "but it's your funeral, suit yourself."
With which comforting assurance, George Henry turned away and applied himself to his own worries.
So, Fred hung his overcoat on a nail, buttoned his tight-fitting suit-coat about his manly torso, and stepped into the hall, declaiming as he do so:
"I'll fix old F.E.M. plenty!"
Well, the chief clerk finally let him into the superintendent's sanctum, but he had hardly begun his plea to the boss when the door opened and in walked a "harness bull," a man in plain clothes. The cop waltzed directly to our wondering hero and asked:
"Your name is Fred Ennis?"
And without waiting for an answer, he continued:
"Just step out into the hall a minute, we want to talk to you!"
Fred glanced at the boss, but got no encouragement there. F.E.M.'s face showed nothing but a look of blank bewilderment, so Freddy accompanied the two men to the door.
Outside, the two ranged themselves on either side of the luckless brass-pounder and the man in civvies spoke for the first time:
"You come up from Wallington this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes," replied Freddie, "that's right."
"Boss fired you a couple days ago, didn't he?"
Fred nodded, miserably, still uncomprehending.
"Frisk him," said the questioner to the uniformed man.
The cop slid practiced hands around Freddie's middle. One hand halted in the vicinity of his right hip pocket, where his tightly buttoned coat revealed a bulge.
"Huh!, here it is. I guess," he grunted. He dove into the pocket and with a flourish drew forth - Freddie's big curved meerschaum pipe in its shagreen care!
"Hell!" snorted the detective, "That ain't no gun. Excuse us, young feller - and - and - keep your mouth shut about this." And the two marched away, much disgruntled.
It developed that, when Fred had left the dispatcher's office, his loud assertion that he'd "fix" F.E.M., was overheard by a passing caretaker.
Noting the bulge on Freddy's hip, he immediately recalled the Corning affair, and with visions of manslaughter in his mind, he hurried to the street, where he fortunately (?) found a policeman chatting with a force detective, and hurriedly spilled his beans.
Still eschewing any fiction in this veracious narrative, it is nice to be able to record that Mr. McCormack called Fred back into his office and, after learning the details, indulged himself in a hearty laugh - and reinstated him on the payroll.
February 17, 1946
Jim Jackson gazed from his kitchen window, early one February morning in 1903. and remarked:
'She's comin' from the northwest an' I'll bet we're goin't to have an old ripsnorter. When you see the snow comin' down slantwise that way, you can get ready fer a storm."
The wind howled around the big white house on the hill, across the tracks from Mallory depot, and the soft flakes were falling faster and faster. And, as I struggled down to the depot for the morning passenger train, it was getting worse by the minute. No passengers emerged from, or boarded No. 7 that morning - and that was the last train we saw for some time. Clayt Fellows, section boss, showed up for a brief survey of the situation and then he and his men holed up in the section house to await developments.
All morning and afternoon the storm increased in fury and the uproar of its mighty travail was almost deafening. My telegraph wires had been unworkable since late morning, and on the road between Richland and Salina, I had no means of knowing their position, or condition.
About 4 p.m. I got my switch lamps ready and started south with two of them. One was to be placed at the junction of Corbett's spur, and the other on the sidetrack switch stand. The wind was blowing ferociously, the snow was swirling in such compact clouds that it was impossible to see a single foot in any direction, except at intervals, when the storm lulled for a few brief moments.
I was walking down the center of the main track, when suddenly from out of nowhere came a mental urge, intuition, "hunch," or whatever you care to call it, that I should step across to the adjacent side track. Almost involuntarily I did so - and I had taken not one step from my new location, when a snow plow, pushed by two engines whizzed by on the track I had just left! All I got was a slight addition to the storm's
mighty roar, a ghostly flash, a shadowy, fast-moving mass - and the show was over!
Must I admit I was a bit weak at the knees for the next few minutes? Sam Hollingsworth, one of the engineers on the plow, said afterward that he got just one glimpse of me as I stepped over to the siding. He claimed he could sense, by my leisurely manner that I had no idea there
was anything behind me. And he swore mightily and oft it was so close, that had I been two inches larger at the waste, the snow plow flange would have hit me!
Jim Jackson was sitting in his big chair by an east window, and during a break in the storm he saw the plow bearing down and apparently running right over me. Grabbing his coat and cap, he ran down the hill "faster," as he said, "than any 72-year-oldster ought to travel." Plodding down the side track, he finally glimpsed a form ahead of him and yelled lustily, but I didn't hear him. I went on and set my lamps, and
returning, met him.
We went back to the depot, and my day's work being done, we went up the hill for supper. As we left the station, however, Jim's wife, "Car'line"
came plowing through the snow in eager search for us. After supper we sat rather quietly in the big cheery living room, discussing my near-adventure and listening to the wild hullabaloo outside. Finally, Jim looked at me with a speculative eye, and remarked: "Y'know, I don't hold, generally, to the use of liquor, but it seems to me, Bert, that in memory of a dumb out-an' -out miracle, we could do worse than to celebrate your good luck with a nice hot toddy - that is, providin' of course that we had anything to make it with!"
The old rascal knew that I had a bottle of Tucker's rye up in my room. I used to get a reasonable supply of that famous brand at Garlock's liquor store, across from the old New York Central depot, whenever I came to Syracuse. Perhaps the reason my supply was a bit low at that time, was due to the fact that I hadn't been in town for some time!
Anyway, we had our hot toddies - one apiece - and, although Car'line sipped hers in very small portions nd with a most deprecatory manner, as if she did it under protest, she left no final dregs in her glass. Jim related again, in full detail, the story of his one and only extended journey beyond the confines of Hastings- a two weeks sojourn in Oswego on jury duty, 'way back in the '70s. It had been a great adventure for him and he seldom failed to recount it, exhaustively, whenever he could induce any listeners to stay within hearing distance, long enough for the telling.
One of his favorite episodes of the occasion was about the waitress at the old Adams House in Oswego, who, at the end of each dinner, came to the tables and chanted: "Apple, mince, cherry, raspberry, custard an' punkin," to which outburst, Jim claimed he always replied, "I'll take a small hunk of each!"
"And," he used to chuckle, "I always got 'em, too!" Then, when the yawns became alarmingly manifest, Jim arose from his big morris chair, knelt beside it; and, while we reverently bowed out heads, he offered thanks in his own sturdy and unflowered tones - thanks for the preserving hand of the Father, which had been held over me that day...And, folks, when he had finished, I felt myself nearer to the Throne of God than I had ever been before!
So - a mighty storm howled and raged outside; the force of nature seemed to be at war; but here, within, was peace and comfort and thankfulness and good fellowship. Perhaps just a tiny preview of heavy - who may know?
Jim and his Car'line have slept for, now, these many years; but I never journey by the big white house on the hill without thinking of that day, long ago, when death passed so closely by me, that I could feel the brush of his ebony wing.
March 10, 1946
I went over to Oswego one night in August, 1901. I was on my way to Newfane, Niagara County, where I was going to work as telegrapher on the Hojack. As you know, the west end of the Hojack runs from Oswego to Suspension Bridge, following pretty closely the shore of Lake Ontario all the way.
Here at Oswego, was the dispatcher's office, the division offices being situated in Watertown. A new superintendent had just come to Watertown.
He was from down New York City way and not widely known in these parts at the time. He barged into the Oswego dispatcher's office one evening for the first time. He walked over to Roy Nutting, the message operator, and asked:
"Anything there for me, young man?"
Roy looked up from his sounder and seeing a perfect stranger before him, promptly remarked:
"I can't say - would they have your picture on 'em?"
Mr. Hustis, being a man with a sense of humor, recovered almost immediately from the shock, introduced himself and was accorded proper service. Yes, Roy was always that way, he had a snappy pick up, and he could let you down easily, or otherwise, as his mood might dictate - a prince of a good fellow! I stayed with Roy that night, and next morning started on my westward way.
It was a long tedious grind from Oswego to Newfane. We rolled and rattled through Hannibal, Red Creek, Wolcott, Ontario, Webster, and various other assorted villages, finally reaching Charlotte, which was near the half-way mark in my journey. From Charlotte, we fared on, ever westward, with the lake at our right and the flat, fertile countryside stretching out at our left. Hilton, Morton, Lyndonville, Ransomville -
and then in Niagara county we came to my destination.
"Here you are, oppy," said friendly Fred Hurlburt, the conductor, as we came to a stop., "you ain't been up here before, have you?"
I confessed that this was my first railroad job, and he added, "Well, you'll be okay. Art Dakin, the agent, is a fine fellow - he'll take care of you. So long; see you tomorrow."
At this period, I was considerably on the verdant side; being just past 18, and never having been very far from the parental roof before.
However, in a day or two, I was "all set," having made Agent Dakin my friend for life, by offering to help him out on the day job.
You see, the yearly peach season was just opening. Niagara county peaches are known the country over for their exquisite flavor and beauty and these shipping days were strenuous ones on the railroad. I worked from 7 p.m. to 8 a.m.; then, after breakfast I turned to and assist the agent - sometimes, until late afternoon.
So, you wonder when I slept, eh? Why my dear people, it was a sad night for me, when I couldn't get in at least six hours of "shut-eye" on the job! There were few trains at night and Newfane was a relatively unimportant station. The principal reason for assigning a night man there was so he could run the pump and keep the huge water tank opposite the station full of water for the use of locomotives.
The village consisted of the depot, a small store, a blacksmith shop and less than a dozen dwellings within a small radius. Westward, some few rods down the track, was a high trestle over Burt Creek. Here one descended 86 steps to the bank of the stream, where nestled the little pump house which supplied water for the big tank.
There were a couple of youths, about my own age, who habitually hung around the depot; and I soon conceived the idea of using some of their spare time (they had, apparently, no other kind). I intrigued Pink Niles with the idea that he should learn to run that pump. He took up with it at once.
"Sure thing," says Pink, "that'll be fun. An' when you've learned me, I'll learn Pete, here; an' in between the three of us, we'll have a hell of a time."
Which is just what we had!
Now the bald fact is, that what I knew about running a steam engine was so little as to be something less than negligible. Even that little was on the negative side. I knew about a few things I was supposed NOT to do with the blamed thing, but the whys and the wherefores of its workings were as a sealed book to me.
Well sir, by reason of the most astounding good luck, we three - Pink and Pete Travis and I -got along famously with the pumping business for a few days. Then disaster began to loom. We had boiler trouble; every day we had it. Nobody knew the cause, nobody had any advice to offer - we probably wouldn't have taken it anyway.
At last, a brilliant light, smoke me right between the eyes, as I was billing a car of peaches. I hurried down to the pump house where Pink
and Pete were industriously doing the wrong thing in the wrong manner.
"Shut 'er off!" I yelled. " I gotta idea."
"What, another one?" razzed Pink, "the last one you had wasn't good."
Anyway, we shut her off, pulled fire, and then I set Pete to watch, while I went back to work.
"Soon's you can put your hand on the inside of the firebox, without burnin' it; let me know quick," I instructed.
In a couple of hours Pete came up to the station and said the cooling process was complete. I ran down, grabbed a monkey wrench, shoved railroad lantern in the firebox, followed with head and shoulders, and performed an operation. Then I hustled over to Tom Caine's blacksmith shop and had another operation performed. Then I reversed all of the above processes, built a new fire, and got up steam.
And it worked! The pump started functioning and the recovery was complete.
For several weeks there was no trouble of any kind at the pump house; but finally serious things happened to the pump itself, and here there was nothing I could do, so Agent Dakin wired Master Mechanic Lonergan at Oswego.
Next day came Pete Chetney, trouble shooter, to fix the pump. With master hand and eye, he quickly located and repaired the piston trouble.
Then, as a matter of inspection, he aimed his flashlight into the cavernous depths of the cold boiler and peered. He started. He peered again. He sputtered. He cursed. He grabbed a wrench and this time HE operated.
With the damning gadget in his hand, he turned, fixed me with his pale, blue eyes, and - then the explosion!
Pete Chetney was known from Ogdensburg to Suspension Bridge, from Watertown to Salina, as an unrivaled master of vituperation, and he knew no superiors. In the field, he was absolutely unique, and I verily believe that on this occasion he delivered himself of every "cuss" word in his huge repertoire. Pleas, O please, don't ask me to repeat any of it - I could never do it justice...After nearly half a century, I
sometimes awake in a cold sweat from dreaming that Pete Chetney is telling me off again!
You see our boiler trouble had been that the soft plug in the top of the firebox kept melting our, extinguishing the fire, and I had been refilling it with melted lead seals. Of course the real trouble was a faulty injector keeping the water at the danger point and melting the plug.
But I had fixed that! When I went to the blacksmith shop that time, I had Tom Caine weld a piece of iron spike into that pesky plug! Mister, she never leaked after that.
But, why the boiler never blew up is more than I can tell you. Surely Providence holds her saving hand over some mighty dumb people, doesn't she?
March 17, 1946
I went over to Oswego one night in August, 1901. I was on my way to Newfane, Niagara County, where I was going to work as telegrapher on the Hojack. As you know, the west end of the Hojack runs from Oswego to Suspension Bridge, following pretty closely the shore of Lake Ontario all the way.
Here at Oswego, was the dispatcher's office, the division offices being situated in Watertown. A new superintendent had just come to Watertown.
He was from down New York City way and not widely known in these parts at the time. He barged into the Oswego dispatcher's office one evening for the first time. He walked over to Roy Nutting, the message operator, and asked:
"Anything there for me, young man?"
Roy looked up from his sounder and seeing a perfect stranger before him, promptly remarked:
"I can't say - would they have your picture on 'em?"
Mr. Hustis, being a man with a sense of humor, recovered almost immediately from the shock, introduced himself and was accorded proper service. Yes, Roy was always that way, he had a snappy pick up, and he could let you down easily, or otherwise, as his mood might dictate - a prince of a good fellow! I stayed with Roy that night, and next morning started on my westward way.
It was a long tedious grind from Oswego to Newfane. We rolled and rattled through Hannibal, Red Creek, Wolcott, Ontario, Webster, and various other assorted villages, finally reaching Charlotte, which was near the half-way mark in my journey. From Charlotte, we fared on, ever westward, with the lake at our right and the flat, fertile countryside stretching out at our left. Hilton, Morton, Lyndonville, Ransomville -
and then in Niagara county we came to my destination.
"Here you are, oppy," said friendly Fred Hurlburt, the conductor, as we came to a stop., "you ain't been up here before, have you?"
I confessed that this was my first railroad job, and he added, "Well, you'll be okay. Art Dakin, the agent, is a fine fellow - he'll take care of you. So long; see you tomorrow."
At this period, I was considerably on the verdant side; being just past 18, and never having been very far from the parental roof before.
However, in a day or two, I was "all set," having made Agent Dakin my friend for life, by offering to help him out on the day job.
You see, the yearly peach season was just opening. Niagara county peaches are known the country over for their exquisite flavor and beauty and these shipping days were strenuous ones on the railroad. I worked from 7 p.m. to 8 a.m.; then, after breakfast I turned to and assist the agent - sometimes, until late afternoon.
So, you wonder when I slept, eh? Why my dear people, it was a sad night for me, when I couldn't get in at least six hours of "shut-eye" on the job! There were few trains at night and Newfane was a relatively unimportant station. The principal reason for assigning a night man there was so he could run the pump and keep the huge water tank opposite the station full of water for the use of locomotives.
The village consisted of the depot, a small store, a blacksmith shop and less than a dozen dwellings within a small radius. Westward, some few rods down the track, was a high trestle over Burt Creek. Here one descended 86 steps to the bank of the stream, where nestled the little pump house which supplied water for the big tank.
There were a couple of youths, about my own age, who habitually hung around the depot; and I soon conceived the idea of using some of their spare time (they had, apparently, no other kind). I intrigued Pink Niles with the idea that he should learn to run that pump. He took up with it at once.
"Sure thing," says Pink, "that'll be fun. An' when you've learned me, I'll learn Pete, here; an' in between the three of us, we'll have a hell of a time."
Which is just what we had!
Now the bald fact is, that what I knew about running a steam engine was so little as to be something less than negligible. Even that little was on the negative side. I knew about a few things I was supposed NOT to do with the blamed thing, but the whys and the wherefores of its workings were as a sealed book to me.
Well sir, by reason of the most astounding good luck, we three - Pink and Pete Travis and I -got along famously with the pumping business for a few days. Then disaster began to loom. We had boiler trouble; every day we had it. Nobody knew the cause, nobody had any advice to offer - we probably wouldn't have taken it anyway.
At last, a brilliant light, smoke me right between the eyes, as I was billing a car of peaches. I hurried down to the pump house where Pink and Pete were industriously doing the wrong thing in the wrong manner.
"Shut 'er off!" I yelled. " I gotta idea."
"What, another one?" razzed Pink, "the last one you had wasn't good."
Anyway, we shut her off, pulled fire, and then I set Pete to watch, while I went back to work.
"Soon's you can put your hand on the inside of the firebox, without burnin' it; let me know quick," I instructed.
In a couple of hours Pete came up to the station and said the cooling process was complete. I ran down, grabbed a monkey wrench, shoved railroad lantern in the firebox, followed with head and shoulders, and performed an operation. Then I hustled over to Tom Caine's blacksmith shop and had another operation performed. Then I reversed all of the above processes, built a new fire, and got up steam.
And it worked! The pump started functioning and the recovery was complete.
For several weeks there was no trouble of any kind at the pump house; but finally serious things happened to the pump itself, and here there was nothing I could do, so Agent Dakin wired Master Mechanic Lonergan at Oswego.
Next day came Pete Chetney, trouble shooter, to fix the pump. With master hand and eye, he quickly located and repaired the piston trouble.
Then, as a matter of inspection, he aimed his flashlight into the cavernous depths of the cold boiler and peered. He started. He peered again. He sputtered. He cursed. He grabbed a wrench and this time HE operated.
With the damning gadget in his hand, he turned, fixed me with his pale, blue eyes, and - then the explosion!
Pete Chetney was known from Ogdensburg to Suspension Bridge, from Watertown to Salina, as an unrivaled master of vituperation, and he knew no superiors. In the field, he was absolutely unique, and I verily believe that on this occasion he delivered himself of every "cuss" word in his huge repertoire. Pleas, O please, don't ask me to repeat any of it - I could never do it justice...After nearly half a century, I sometimes awake in a cold sweat from dreaming that Pete Chetney is telling me off again!
You see our boiler trouble had been that the soft plug in the top of the firebox kept melting our, extinguishing the fire, and I had been refilling it with melted lead seals. Of course the real trouble was a faulty injector keeping the water at the danger point and melting the plug.
But I had fixed that! When I went to the blacksmith shop that time, I had Tom Caine weld a piece of iron spike into that pesky plug! Mister, she never leaked after that.
But, why the boiler never blew up is more than I can tell you. Surely Providence holds her saving hand over some mighty dumb people, doesn't she?
May 19, 1946
|
One sultry day in the summer of 1903, No. 11, the Hojack flyer, came surging along at 60 miles an hour, and at a point approximately 300 yards west of Red Mill bridge, she collided head on with a light engine and caboose which was running extra from Richland to Salina. Fortunately, there was no loss of life and only a few serious injuries, but, as the surrounding terrain cluttered with falling debris; above the hiss of escaping steam and the shrieks of terrified and injured passengers, could be heard the stentorian voice of farmer John Quinn, issuing from his back door as he apostrophized to the world: "Now ain't that a hell of a way to run a railroad?" ______________ Forty-five years ago the Hojack was manned and operated by as sturdy and salty a bunch of men as could be found anywhere in the states - and in those days, the percentage of "hard" boys among railroaders was high. This don't mean that they were either disreputable, or inefficient; they became tough, originally because they had to be and, finally, because this toughness had become a habit and a joy. Number 21, the local freight, pulled into Mallory one morning in 1904 and sidetracked to let No. 9 pass. However, the passenger train got orders from Train Dispatcher Nutting to stay at Mallory until No. 9 had passed. As a matter of fact, they remained some three of four hours. During this interim, Hop Look, the conductor, browsed around in the Watertown way-car and sorted out an "eighth" of beer, which he lugged into the station waiting room, where he and Dick Jones, the flagman, dumped its contents into the tin water cooler, which was an adjunct to every wayside railroad station in those days. this receptacle stood empty - as usual - and Hop's donation filled it to the brim. Somebody went back to the caboose and got an empty quart fruit jar to serve as a goblet. At this point Hop announced solemnly and with appropriate adjectives, that any lily-livered so-and-so who couldn't empty the quart jar with on quaff, would not be allowed to do any more quaffing. And he appointed an able and willing committee to enforce this by-law. This ultimatum automatically eliminated me from any wassail, after the consumption of my first quart. I became almost at once, just an interested spectator. It is possible hat such rigidly enforce abstinence caused me to remember the episode with greater clarity than I could have done, otherwise. It would have done your heart good - or otherwise, according to your predilections - to have seen that four gallons of brew disappear! I went across the road and got a couple of Mary Jerome Fidler's famous mince pies to add more flourish to the fiesta and more solidity to the menu. Everybody solemnly asservates that he never told anybody else about this episode, but it wasn't more than four days before every Hojacker from Salina to Watertown knew all about it. inasmuch as every narrator added some touches of his own invention, the story soon got beyond any bounds of reality and was finally relegated to the limbo of railroad fiction - which was probably just as well for the future standings of hop Look, Dick Jones, Denny Haley, Sam Cotter, Barney Fidler and this narrator. _______ The old-time railroad telegrapher was a romantic soul, although he would have been the first to deny it. You see, there was always something impressive, something vast, something "out of this world," in his ability to sit at a desk in some shabby cabin of a railroad depot and converse with people hundreds of miles away! And what a great bunch of brass-pounders used to infest the Hojack in the early 1900s! There was Jimmy Duell at Liverpool, Ed Richardson at Woodard, and Charlie Zoller at Clay. At Brewerton you would meet Charlie rogers or his son, Coon, and, faring on to Central Square, you visited with Ed Sprague and Sherm Coville. Hastings depot boasted the presence of Johnny Benedict, while, at Parish you found George Murphy and Frank Hayner, a betted by Louie Church. Union Square and Fernwood were represented by Fred Nicholson and Bert Shear, respectively. Pulaski had a coterie of telegraphers, among whom one recalls H.H. Franklin, Win. Pond and Sam Sweet. I could tell you a rollicking story about each and every one of the above gents; but lack of space and prudence combine to limit me to an occasional outburst of reminiscence, as we go along from week to week. Nowadays, they run the trains by telephone instead of Morse code and luck; so the present personnel is naturally of a different timber, but I dare say no less efficient than that of old. (I wouldn't dare say anything else, anyway!) They sent Jim Hustis up to Watertown in 1903, as division superintendent. Jim was from the New York City general offices, with plenty of theoretical knowledge by not little practical experience. Hard-boiled Trainmaster Frank McCormick was the real boss while Hustis was at Watertown. Frank knew all the ropes and when he ran of rope, he would use twine or anything else to keep 'em rollin'. One day, Jim Hustis was standing in the Syracuse train shed, waiting for No. 3 to take him to Watertown. Juke Bodine, veteran car inspector, was taking a look at the journals with lantern in one hand and dope-pail in the other. "How long have you worked here?" asked him, more to make conversation from a any real desire to know. "Forty-six years," replied Juke, "and always on this here one job, by crummy. Considerable of a stretch, ain't it?" "That's right," agreed Jim, "and just what is it that you're always looking for in those car wheels?" "Damned if I know," replied Juke, cheerfully, as he reached for his Mail Pouch!
July 7, 1946 |
Back in the first years of this century, they used to run a special monthly train on the Hojack, between Salina and Watertown. This was known to all and sundry as "The Whiskey Special" and its function was to link the liquor jobbers with their North Country trade.
Every 30 days, there would be a number of cars loaded with varied assortments of embalming fluid then in vogue, for the delectation of the denizens of Watertown and points to the north.
One warm, foggy night in 1891, Engineer Sam Hollingsworth pulled out of Salina yards at 1:30 a.m. with a train of 23 cars, loaded to the gills - the cars, of course - with liquor. His conductor was Matt Shephard, the flagman was Ted Mudge, and the head brakeman, "Silent" Jones - so named by reason of his unceasing flow of verbiage.
They were running extra and had right of way to Mallory, where they were to take the siding and meet the west bound fast freight. Sam eased through Liverpool and by Woodard Junction; then he gave her the gun and they surged eastward like a rocket. (Well - not quite that fast, maybe).*
The drag pulled into Mallory siding with 15 minutes to spare on 42's time - and all hands in the caboose promptly went to sleep. As the fast freight swept by on the main track, Engineer Hollingsworth seemed to sense an extra amount of vibration for a few seconds, but a cursory examination revealing nothing amiss, he promptly forgot it.
The extra pulled out onto the main track and high-tailed it for Watertown. Without incident, they arrived as their destination just as the grey dawn was breaking, pulled their load into the yard and signed off.
At 10 a.m. the call-boy routed Matt from slumber with the terse words:
"The Beetler wants to see you, quick - and boy is he tearin' mad!" Sam yawned, dressed, unhurriedly and slowly propelled his lanky form towards the super's office. As he entered the room, he perceived that the rest of his crew had preceded him and were listening with no slight attention to the blistering remarks of senior trainmaster, Frank E. McCormick.
"You're a hell of a fine bunch of railroaders," spluttered Frank, "you leave Salina with 23 loads and you pull in here with 22 - and not a damn mark on your switchin' list. Matt, where did you switch that car?"
"I didn't switch no car," replied Shephard. "The only stops I made was at Mallory for No. 42, an' at Parish for water."
"What's your story, Sam?" yelled F.E.M., turning to the engineer.
"Matt's got it right, Frank; we didn't do no switchin' an' we didn't
have no delays - an' what the hell are you talkin' about, anyway?"
The rest of the crew, corroborating these statements, old F.E.M. blew up entirely, his flow of invective became almost unintelligible and his naturally ruddy countenance assumed a hue of crimson which was no less than a joy and a benison to his highly appreciative listeners.
Investigation followed investigation. The right-of-way was minutely examined. Every section-boss from Salina to Watertown was on the lookout for clues. But nothing developed. (I might, at this point, inject the statement that I have in mind one section-boss, one station agent and one train dispatcher who had cause to congratulate themselves on the fact that they were not sleep-talkers).
The matter eventually became one of the mysteries of railroad lore. Engine cabs, yard offices and cabooses have been the scenes of a half-million so-called explanations of this affair - but no one of them really explained the uncanny disappearance of boxcar A.T.& S.F. 18633.
So now, on this quiet Sunday morning; hear, O reader, the true and unvarnished solution of the great mystery of the Hojack highjack.
Brilliant indeed, was the mind that had conceived and brought to full fruition this wondrous scheme to temper any siege of drouth, which might have been in the offing.
It is, indeed, regrettable that, as far as I am concerned, this mighty thinker and his no less doughty fellow-workers, must fare down through the dim corridors of time, "unwept, unhonored and unsung." Were I minded, however, to do any divulging, it would be much the easier task to make a list of those denizens of the area who were not involved, than of the participants. I can at least tell you how they did it.
On the bank, just the Mallory sidetrack, stood two pine trees, about 25 feet apart. Their huge branches entwined and interlocked at a point not more than 30 feet from the ground. Here, our adventurers constructed a heavy, solid platform of two-by-fours. This staging at its completion was artfully hidden by the thick foliage; its very existence known only to those who constructed it. (And one other).
Just in front of these twin trees stood a local contractor's big portable steam engine, placed there to operate a buzz-saw, which cut cordwood and dropped it down a chute into cars placed on the siding below.
Above the tree platform, the boys installed a huge block-and-tackle, with boom and grappling hooks; which machinery they were at some pains to obtain surreptitiously at pregnant intervals.
When the "Booze Flyer" sidetracked that night, as usual; the sawmill engine was under a full head of steam; the conspirators were waiting with bated breath - yeah, they'd all had a few - and the stage was set.
As the west-bound freight rumbled by on the main track, two sturdy youths from - never mind where they were from - two youths fastened a swivel hook at either end of the car on the siding, directly in front of the trees, while two others yanked the "pins" from the coupling blocks.
The steam throttle opened wide, the winch groaned a little, and the box car rose from the rails. A couple of experts steadied its ascent with ropes, and before the long drag of empties had passed, car A.T.& S.F. 18633 was resting easily and securely on its everygreen-camouflaged platform, 30 feet above the surface of the shuddering earth.
At this period in the era railroading, it wasn't considered necessary to have all cars equipped with air brakes - only the 10 front cars of this train having been so provided. As the box car rose into the air, the siding being on an appreciable grade, the rear of the train gently slid forward and closed the gap made by the removal. As contact was again made, one of the boys shot the pin home and the train was intact!
An observer, whose utter veracity has never been impeached, once assured me that the whole matter was consummated in less than three minutes by his Waterbury watch - once again establishing the truth of the old axiom that preparedness is nine-tenths of the battle!
Well, sir: they never did find hide, nor hair of that car until 'way along in 1913, when the big wind blew over one of the trees - and down tumbled the ancient tracks and running gear. That's all there was left. As a matter of fact, there were a good many red-boarded smoke houses, hen houses and other-houses for some years after in that section. The precious contents of the car were, during the course of time, so widely
distributed and so carefully disposed as to create little comment - although they certainly satisfied a good many thirsts, and super-induced, no doubt, an appreciable number of headaches, other than the one suffered by the railroad company.
Anyone who is minded to read this tale with a modicum of distrust, is here asked to remember that freight cars were much smaller 45 years ago than they are today - however, I will not deny that tall-tale-tellers were just as rampant then, as now.
*Note: Although this railroad physically ran north and south, the timetable direction was east and west.
July 21, 1946
There's a vast difference of opinion as to what constitutes true greatness. I dare say a multitude of great men have lived and died without anyone ever having suspected that they possessed this attribute. You who read this have probably known your quota of great, near - great and better-than average people but, perhaps you never heard of the great Jimmy Halleran, trainmaster on the Hojack for a good many years during the late '90s and the early days of this century.
Jimmy had his office in Oswego and he spread out from that point like a a fungus, his tendrils reaching to Suspension Bridge on the west, to Watertown on the north, and to Rome and Syracuse on the east. Before he came into our midst he had been a train dispatcher on the West Shore, east of Syracuse. Tradition has it he left those parts under some kind of cloud. It is at least a matter of record that he came to Oswego,
enveloped in an aura of mystery and accompanied by a fragrance (not too unfamiliar in those days) bearing a close resemblance to that of ‘Tucker's. ‘
He was a well setup man, with broad shoulders, Irish blue eyes and a dignified swagger. he wore, habitually, a long frock coat, a black string tie and a frown. Also, being a first grade railroad man, he came to be cordially disliked by one and all who labored under him. I don't suppose he ever realized his own greatness. Certainly, none of his underlings ever would admit he had any - but, as a fair example of it, let me recite a little tale:
Harry Burt, the night operator at Parish, was fired. Halleran had tied a can on him that very day, with the announcement he would be relieved from duty as soon as an available man could be found. The occasion for the dismissal has nothing to do with this story - but i can assure you it was p-l-e-n-t-y.
Harry sat in the bay window of the depot, listening, unhappily, to the staccato cadence of the sounder. He heard the train dispatcher call "PD" Pulaski and give him the "31" signal to stand by for train orders. Then, he gave the same to Brewerton and transmitted an order making "meet" for 2d No. 10 and No. 3 at Hastings.
Now, 10 was an overflow Thousand Island tourist train, traveling to Syracuse, and 3 was the regular evening mail to Richland. Both trains were badly delayed and the train order was issued to minimize the wait which the regular passing point would have caused. No. 3, of course, was to take the siding at Hastings and allow the club train to whiz by without halt.
As the disgruntled Harry sat, listening to the telegraphers at Brewerton and Pulaski as they repeated the order back to the dispatcher, he came suddenly to his feet. He listened again for a brief moment - and the sweat began to bead his forehead. He had heard the operator at Brewerton repeat the meeting point as Parish instead of Hastings. And the dispatcher had not corrected him.
This meant that 3 would not take siding at Hastings, but would run 3 miles further east while the flyer, expecting to find 3 on Hastings siding, would undoubtedly crash her, somewhere between the two stations.
Harry prodded the key, calling Brewerton. "B," "B," "B," "I," "I," "B," came the answer, at last. "Hold 3," he clicked.
-"She's gone, what's wrong?"
There was no time to tell him - there was no time to tell anybody - there was only one thing to do, if it could be done. He grabbed a red lantern, shot out of the door and scurried eastward like a scared rabbit. Running over the bumpy ties, he stopped briefly to throw the
switch at the end of the side track, then scampered madly on, hoping he could get far enough down the track to flag 10 down to a speed that would allow her to negotiate the open switch without piling up.
A banshee wail came from far in front of him and he knew that it was now just a matter of seconds - but he kept on, stumbling now, and gasping, but still plunging eastward.
And there she was! A headlight flashed around the curve at Red Mill bridge, and Harry stopped, spread his legs apart between the rails and waved that lantern like a madman.
Even as he tumbled aside at the very last moment, he heard the hiss of the air-brake and saw the engineer's white face through the steam as he
struggled with his levers. Then as the train lost speed, Harry grabbed the hand rails of an unvestibuled coach and swung himself aboard. The train took the siding safely and came to a stop in front of the station.
The engineer leaped from his cab and ran to the station, meeting Harry just as he arrived.
"What's goin' on here?" yelled Ed Cullen. "Who in hell threw that switch? Who flagged me down at Red Mill? Who -?"
"Never mind, Ed," soothed the telegrapher. "Take a good look up the west track there - did you ever see a bigger full moon in your life?
Looks to me, though, like it's kinda in the wrong place tonight."
Ed looked and gasped - it was 3's headlight that stared him in the face!
Well, that's all the story - except that Jimmy Halleran happened to be riding on 10 that night and you can bet he congratulated Harry, no end.
He slapped him on the back and vociferated gratitude, until poor Burt began to feel very much embarrassed. Then, the trainmaster added, as an after thought:
"Don't forget, Mr. Burt, that you are still fired - that can I tied on you is as tight as ever."
Next day, Jim called him on the wire and told him to go to Buffalo, where he had made arrangements with Chief Signalman Charlie Olp for a
job on that division. "He'll take care of you," said J.G.H., "and after he's ironed out the kinks, let me know - I'll have something good for you."
I hope that proves to you that old Jim Halleran was one of the great.
Some of those who knew him only in his latter years thought differently - but a man has to be great only once to win the credit.
September 15, 1946
On a spring day in 1901, I got a telegram from Trainmaster Jimmy Halleran, of Oswego, to go to Woodard and work he day trick for a short time, while Agent Dixon was off duty.
You know where Woodard is, of course. It’s three miles north of Liverpool on the Hojack; and it is here that the road branches - one leg going to Oswego via Phoenix and Fulton, and the other continuing on to Richland and the north.
At that time, as now, it wasn’t much of a place - hardly aspiring to even the name of a settlement. The tiny depot was and is situated right at the apex of the triangle formed by the divergence of the two branches.
North of the depot, a few hundred feet, a county road crosses the tracks and wanders off toward Euclid snd Hosshide Holler. Right at the junction of this highway and the railroad was a small general store - and that was all. There were no dwellings directly adjacent to the station, and the wilderness camped closed to tracks.
At this time, I had just started in the business of telegraphy, having “graduated” as a student at Parish. My teacher, Agent George Murphy, now residing in Phoenix, had reluctantly, (I hope) certified my fitness for work and I had been duly commissioned as an “extra” operator on the division. I was very green at the time, and my telegraph “ability” was something which I would rather not discuss too much frankly - if it’s all the same to you.
So - I went over to Woodard on No. 8, the late evening train intending to bunk in the waiting room until 7 next morning, earn my tour of labor would begin.
In those days, you know, a telegraph office which was open 24 hours needed but two men, since each did a 12-hour stint for a day’s work. This arrangement was ideal; since it made unnecessary any idle speculation as to what you’d better do with your spare time.
Arriving at Woodard about 9:30 p.m., I found the the night operate was also a “new hand” - a young fellow named Foster. He was a stranger to me, but I found him a likable fellow, always somewhat scared; since he admitted that this was his very first night on duty along, as a telegrapher.
When he learned that I intended staying all night with him, his joy was almost pathetic - and we became fast friends in nothing flat.
Telegraphy is, I must ell you, a curious profession. It is, primarily 10 percent code, 20 percent intelligence and the rest adaptability and experience. Its is one of the very few trades, whee one good man, alone, is of little use - he must also have a good man at the other end of the line.
Since there was never yet in the annals of the business, a telegrapher who would admit that he was anything less than one of the best, you can see how complications could easily arise. It was always a peculiar profession and a large share of its professionals were peculiar, too.
Well, Foster and I decided we would both stay right there on the job until we were relieve. We would sleeping the little waiting room which was seldom occupied by passengers, and we would do a little fancy cooking on the big stove which sat in a grilled niche between the waiting room and the office.
I walked down to the little store and bought a chunk of bacon, a dozen eggs, a package of cocoa, a bag of crackers and a hunk of cheese. On my return I noticed a young fellow of about 16 in the waiting room. I was about to inquire of Foster if he knew him; when I became aware that Foster was busy - very busy. He was trying to copy his first train order, “on his own.”
It seems they were running an “extra” from Salina to Oswego, via Woodard and it was necessary to get them to Woodard against any and all traffic coming west on the mainline. A copy of this order had to be placed at Woodard to notify all westbound trains that the track between Salina and Woodard was occupied until the extra arrived there.
It was with this order that Brother Foster was struggling. You will understand that the order was being sent from the dispatcher’s office in Oswego and had to be repeated back by the operators at Salina and Oswego, before the train could leave the yard.
Mr. Foster perspired; Mr. Foster reached for the key at 20-second intervals and “broke,” Mr. Foster groaned; but still the staccato click of the devilish sounder became more and more confusing to him - to both of us, for that matter.
The wrinkled train order blank in front of him bore a series of pencil scratches and re-scratches which revealed nothing to anyone, and Foster was sinking every moment deeper into the mire of his own hopelessness.
At this moment, from the corner of an eye, he saw me enter the office and he reached for the key and spelled out, awkwardly:
“Minute-here-comes-the-day-operator. I’ll-ask-him-to-copy-this.”
“Who-is-he?” asked Dispatcher Nixon at the Oswego key.
“I’s-Snell,” responded Foster.”
“Hell!” exploded the sounder, He ain’t any better than you are - ok, let him try it.”
Then it was my turn to sweat, my turn to squirm, my turn to accomplish absolutely nothing. It was at impasse.
At this moment, a rumbling voice came from the open ticket window.
“Lookit!”said the voice. Here’s your train order. That feller has sent it 10 times an’ I got it all written down, nice. You repeat it back an’ copy it on your blank - take it easy.”
And the lad I had noticed in the waiting room thrust a plainly written copy of the order into Foster’s outstretched hand and went back and sat down.
So the train finally got started on its way toward us and we regained some measure of composure, while we waited for our next test.
It developed that the lad who saved our lives was Charlie Kretchman of Liverpool, who had been studying telegraphy for some few months with Dixon, the regular agent here. There was nothing miraculous about his having been on hand at the crucial moment. He was on his way nome after having been over to the store to see his girl who was a daughter of the proprietor.
Charlie still lives in Liverpool and still telegraphs. You ask him about that time when he copied his first train-order and saved the day for two would-be telegraphers.
January 26, 1947
Rufe Potter sat at his desk in the freight house. It was 3:30 p.m. and he had just completed the consists for next morning’s Cape Vincent local and turned them over to the yardmaster. He wiped his favorite pen carefully on the sleeve of his once-white linen duster which he always wore in the office, filled his pipe with shag, lit it and leaned back puffing, contently. . . Not that his day’s work was all done - but why start on another piece of work until you had to?
The freight agent, Clyde Allen, sat opposite and idle flipped through a stack of car-cards as he remarked:
“Rufe, you seen Frank Wilson this afternoon? He ain’t been in the office since mornin.’”
“Aw,” responded Rufe, as he yawned tremendously. “He’s over at the Woodruff, takin’ on a few with Jimmy Halleran an’ Pete Lonergan - they blew in from Oswego this noon on 294.”
“How come you know so much about what they’re doin’?” queried Clyde with a glint in his eye.
“Why I just thought -“
“Yeah, you just thought I didn’t know where you was on that dang long lunch-hour you took today -you ain’t foolin’ me nun, mister. Well, so long, Rufe, I got be gettin.”
The scene was the Hojack freight office at Watertown, the season was early autumn and the year was 1904. Jimmy Heustis was division superintendent, Frank McCormack was senior trainmaster and Frank Wilson was division freight agent. McCormack was the real boss of the division and he knew practically all he answers, having learned his routine under such able teachers as Pay Crowley and Dan Dinan.
At this period Pat Crowley was superintendent of the N.Y.C.’s Fall Brook division with headquarters at Corning. Hw was “on the way up” - a way which was finally to land him in New York City as president of the entire New York Central System.
Pat’s initials are P. E. C. and his strenuous and successful efforts to get more tonnage behind the locomotives of the old Fall Brook became widely known that all the engineers flatly declared that “PEC” meant nothing less than “Pull Empty Cars.” Later on when Frank McCormack took over the Fall Brook job at Corning we continued to insist that his “FEM” stood for “Fetch Eight More” - And we were right about that, too.
But to get back to our hero, Rufus Potter, the billing clerk.
After Agent Allen departed, that afternoon, Rufe started in on some transfer sheets, but was soon interrupted by Chief Clerk Clerk Harry (John Bull) Howard, who dispatched him up the yard to get a list of car numbers from a “symbol” train which had just pulled in from the north. This was little to Rufe’s liking: it was react not part of his job and, besides, he didn’t like Howard a little bit and he was aware that the feeling was mutual.
Reflecting, however, that it would be pleasant ti get into the open after a day spent at his desk, he demurred but little and went his appointed way. Completing his list, he decided that instead of returning directly to the office the would slip across the yards and drift into the Woodruff, just to see how many of the boys really were there.
Well, sir, when I got there, he found, as he expected, quite a delegation on hand: Passenger Conductor Fred Cole, “the best-dressed man on the division"; Hank Lester, yardmaster; Bill Jewell, clerk; Agent Allen, Pete Lonergan and Jimmy Halleran of Oswego, Frank Wilson, George Griffith, a couple of brakemen from Syracuse - and one lone telegrapher from Parish.
“What you doin’ here?” cried “John Bull” Howard, as Rufe ducked in. “I thought I sent you up on track 11 to get them numbers from O-M3.”
“Well, here they be,” responded Rufe, “you want ‘em?”
“No, hustle back to the office with ‘em - have a beer?”
“Not on you, midget,” retorted Mr. Potter - “I’ll buy my own.”
Which he accordingly did. As he gazed down the length of the bar he took in all the familiar faces there, and asked:
“Where’s McCormack? I thought he came over here a while ago.”
“He was here,” somebody said, “He just left a few minutes ago.”
“That’s good,” chuckled our hero, “I ain’t got no used for him, even if he is the Big Boss. Het gets on my nerves, he does, an’ the less I see of him, the better off I’ll be.”
- An now, Rufus really warmed to his subject and discoursed with fluency and abandon as to the lack of merit in his boss. His highly spiced verbiage heaped anathema upon then name of McCormack, and his adjectives of invected sparked and sputtered like a wet celonoid.
“Why, dang it all, if I ever get a good chance I’m gonna tell that guy just what he is - and why I ain’t gonna pull no punches. I’m going to let him have both barrels and when the smoke’s cleared away, I’ll soak him with some more. I tell you boys, that man is gonna take it from me and like it. He’s the most un-“
At this point in his harangue Rufe suddenly noticed that a deep hushed silence had fallen over the assemblage. The gent who stood at his elbow seemed to be gazing beyond some distant object which horrified him - and Rufus caught from the corner of his eye a fleeting, but clear-cut picture of the cause. There in the open doorway within easy hearing distance stood the red-faced subject of his discourse - Superintendent Frank E. McCormack.
Rufus never blinked an eyelash his posture changed not a hair, and his discourse continued from the exact point where it had ceased for the space of a fleeting heart-beat. “ -But, right there I stopped him. You can’t stand thee, said I, and talk about Frank McCormack that way. He’s a first-class guy and a bang-up railroad man and he gets my vote every time and I can lick the man that says no.
“You know, fellers, that shut him up like a clam - not another word outa the dang idiot - well, so-long feels, I gotta get back to the office - why, good afternoon, Mr. McCormack, I didn’t see you.”
“Mr. Potter,” said Frank, “I am about to pour a libation, will you join me?
- And as they blew away the collars, Frank continued, “By the way who was that enemy one mine you squelched so efficiently?”
“Sorry sir,” vibrated his companion, as he edged toward the exit, “I don’t know his name - he was a perfect stranger to me!”
March 9, 1947
The old time telegrapher always claimed he was in a class by himself and that he refused to be bound by the ordinary rules that his less gifted fellow men had laid down for the benefit of society.
He wasn't so wrong at that. He led a strenuous life; he worked long and tedious hours; he drew pitifully small pay and he was by choice a wanderer upon the face of the earth.
In speaking of this fraternity, I use the past tense, since their activities have now almost ceased. The train dispatcher now controls his trains by telephone, commercial telegraphy is 95 percent automatic, and it will be a matter of but a few years when a Morse telegrapher will have become a museum piece.
As I have remarked before in these columns, the mere ability to transmit and receive the Morse dots and dashes is but a small part of that intricate business which distinguished a really "good" operator from his host of inferiors.
You see, it's like this: A telegrapher must be able to function in three separate and distinct ways as he puts down each word that the clicks spell out to him. First, he must recognize the Morse signal for what it really is, then he must set it down on paper, either with a pen or a typewriter. All of this within the space of a split second, while he is already mentally reaching for the next signal. A first-class operator, writing down 40 words or more a minute for any length of time, is most certainly keeping the old brain cells shuttling, even when he doesn't realize it.
On the other hand, all of this concentration and ability would be of small avail if the "sender" at the other end were not doing his full share by transmitting the signals clearly, speedily and in the proper rhythm.
As a matter of fact, it always has been a dangerous thing to tell a telegrapher that he's not a good sender. Even though it's probably true enough, he'll never believe it and will most certainly be your enemy for life.
Just to illustrate how easily the telegrapher's trained ear can miss a bet; let me relate a little incident in my own experience. In my Hojack days I once labored for a few months at Newfane, which is in Niagara county, near Lockport. One night the train dispatcher sent me a message for the conductor of the pickup, reading:
"Pick up 3 cars peaches at Appleton, 2 at Lyndonville - all via Charlotte."
But the copy I handed up to the caboose as it rolled by the station read like this:
"Pick up 3 cars peaches at Appleton, 2 at Lyndonville - 4 at Charlotte."
The substitution of "4 at" for "via" - the two sounding very similar in Morse code - caused Conductor Grogan to hunt all over the Charlotte yards for four non-existent cars of peaches. And did he tell me off on his next trip?
Lance Corrigan used to work the Hojack dispatcher's office at Oswego. This was back in 1904, when any good telegrapher could get a job on any good railroad in the good old U.S.A. Lance was a crack-a-jack telegrapher and a fast, fluent and witty talker. In the practice of his profession; he had traveled from east to west, from north to south - but he always claimed, "There's a lot more of 'em left."
Lance was a snappy dresser, but his elbows were always shiny from leaning too long and too often on polished bars, and he was always broke for the same reason. He was holding a job as day message man, and I held the night trick in the same capacity; so we naturally became well acquainted - and if I may say so with pardonable pride - the best of friends.
In spite of Larry's widely known addiction to the old throat gargle, he was such a friendly fellow and so fine a workman that he quickly won favor of the "higher-ups" - Chief Dispatcher, Ashe, and Trainmaster Halleran. In those days, if the boss was on your side and you humped yourself a bit, you could generally manage to wangle a little salary raise out of him from time to time, and if you refrained from bragging
about it, nobody would be the wiser. Such goings-on were probably very nefarious and reprehensible; but that's the way it was - and we were stuck with it, or on it, according to the way modern regimented labor would look at it.
Anyway, the boss, liking Lance's work and not frowning too severely on his elbow-bending propensities, cooked up a little scheme, whereby he could grant a salary increase. "You have," said J.G.H., "considerable spare time during the day, which you could use to advantage doing some of my office work. I'll run the message wire to a desk in my office and you'll be all set."
This idea immediately appealed to Lance and he said so. He worked on his new job in seeming content until pay-day rolled around. Fifty years
ago, this event transpired but once a month- and two or three days later we were already looking forward, breathlessly (and penniless) to the next one.
Lance ducked out to the paycar and got his money, coming back, he sat at his desk figuring furiously. At the culmination of his arithmetical labors, he arose, grabbed his hat barged over to the beetler's desk. "Jim," he announced without preliminary, "I'm through; gimme my time. I'm off for the west this afternoon."
"Why, what's the trouble?" exclaimed the astounded trainmaster. "I thought you like your new job. You've been doing it might well, and I'm paying you well for it, too. You can't quit me like that."
"Sure I can, feller," responded itch-foot Corrigan, "and I'll tell you what the trouble is, too. Your job is all right; but me, I don't want it. It's too much of an expensive job. Why, it costs me more money every day to every day to keep drunk enough to work this job than what the danged thing is worth! So long - I'm I'm on my way.
And that was the last I ever saw of Lance Corrigan - boomer deluxe and careful appraiser of comparative values.
March 23, 1947
On a warm evening of the early summer of 1905, Wilfred Passmore and I arrived in Buffalo from the west. We had been telegraphing in the southwest for the M. K. & T. and were on our way home, each with about $300 in bills tucked away in one of our shoes, nestling comfortably between skin and sock. Unfortunately we got into Buffalo father late in the evening and decided goto stay there overnight. We got a roomie a small hotel off Ellicott Square, deposited our suitcases and started out to “look around” a little.
Just 36 hours late we sat in our hotel room and took sad inventory of our assets. These consisted of two brand-new suits of clothes, two Ingersoll watches, a varied assortment of pawn tickets and about $12 in cash. So we decided to go home. Passy lived in Gillette, Pa., and I lived in Parish, so it immediately occurred to me to me that I could easily get over to suspension Bridge, where I was more-or-less known, and bum a ride on the Hojack to Oswego and thence home, with little, or no outlay.
My partner’s case was different, since he was practically unknown as a railroader outside of Pennsylvania. In spite of his strong reluctance I forced all out remaining cash for “emergencies” upon him - that is, all except a dollar in change for “emergencies” - and we went our separate ways, promising to take up where we left off, later. (As to what had become of our joint $600 fund - that’s something not to be divulged in this particular story, so don’t be looking for it.)
I trolleyed over to Suspension Bridge and hung around the signal tower until 3 a.m., when I boarded the caboose of the east-bound fruit train captained by Conductor Bill Cronin, whom I knew well. Bill and his crew greeted me, not too effusively perhaps, but made me free of the caboose accommodations, which in those days always included plenty to eat and a place to sleep.
We arrived in Oswego about 10:30 that night and I promptly hied me to the train dispatcher’s office, where my good friend, Ray Nutting held down the “third trick.” I stayed with him until morning and easily negotiated a loan of $10. I rode the barge car of 201 to Pulaski. Here I waited for the Salina-bound freight, No. 22, which left there about 1 p.m. While waiting I had contacted George Murphy, Parish station agent, by wire and he had informed me that my folks were out of town for a day or two, so I rode clear into Salina yards, In those days this freight boasted as salty and efficient crew as you’d find in a month’s hunt. Sam Hollingsworth was engiineman, Barney Fidler the fireman, and Bill Mudge, head brakeman. Conductor Loren (Hop) Look, Flagman Jones and Brakeman Denny Haley. As we rattled over the frogs into Salina yards, large in the afternoon, Conductor Look fixed me with speculative eye, stroke his handle-bar mustache and marked:
“What you doin’ tonight Doug?” When I assured him that my schedule was blank, he continued:
“You hang around till I sign off an’ get washed up. I’m goin’ over to the transfer dock for a minute, you come along and I’ll show you something pretty dang classy.”
So, a little later, Hop and I crossed the yard and visited the R.W. & O. transfer house, just above the point where the overhead now crosses N. Salina street. Here was a scene of great activity. Merchandise of every description was being carted about the floors and shifted from one car to another to the length of the long warehouse At the point where we entered, four or five freight handlers were loading a car of cheese. This cheese was packed in wood “half-boxes,” weighing about 18 pounds each. I dare say many of you will recall these cheese containers - flat, round thin-sided boxes with supposedly tight fitting covers. Two loaded planks were placed across the interstice between the car door and that of the warehouse, and the boys rolled these little boxes merrily up the incline, while one man in the car piled them in neat tiers as they arrived. It wasn’t uncommon for a box to fall from the planks as it rolled, and in such cases the container was frequently broken. For such emergency, there were always near the transfer door, two or three tall piles of empty boxes to be used as replacements.
It was toward these boxes that Hop made his way.
“Hey, Rick!” he explained to Foreman Althaus, “Me an’ Doug wants a couple of these here empty boxes to take along. We’re a-goin’ to make some whatnots for the women and these will be just the thing for the tops.”
Rick waved a careless hand toward the empties. “Sure thing, Hop,” he agreed, “help yourself - they don’t belong to me, nohow.”
Hop winked violently at the cheese-loaders and as he engaged them in loud and rapid conversation, they diverted two of the rolling boxes of cheese off the planks, and in his direction. As one came to his hands, he deftly placed it on top of a pile of the empty boxes, and in a short moment repeated the performance with the other.
After a not-too-long exchange of persiflage with everybody in sight, Hop turned to me and remarked:
“Well, come on, Doug, here’s your cheese box - let’s go.”
With no apparent effort he reached up and plucked the full boxes from off the pile of empties, handed one to me and started for the door. “So long, Rick,” he shouted to the foreman, “be seein’ you.”
And now you may visualize this narrator walking sturdily up North Salina street, bearing 35 pounds of the best North Country cheddar that was ever pilfered. We proceeded, forthwith, too Gaffney’s Onondaga Hotel bar-room, where the savory stuff was deposited right on the bar and the barley’s kitchen knife brought into play.
The north side sure had a cheese fiesta that night. Indeed, it is my fondest hope that this narrative may meet the eye of some old-timer who was actually at the feat.
Well sir, as we all stood around, eating cheese and otherwise keeping the bartender busy, the swing doors parted with a mighty “swish” - and there, immaculate and debonaire in his 6 feet 2 of viral manhood, stood my partner, Wilfred Passmore, whom I had parted in Buffalo only the day before.
After introductions all around, I forced a huge triangle of cheese into the not unready hand of my friend and demanded to be enlightened. “Nothing to it,” the averred, “I made it to Gillette and explained everything to dad, especially how you were broke on account of us using all the homey for my car fare. So. like I’ve always told you, he’s a good guy and an understanding guy; an d he handed me a sake and told me to hunt you up and here I am. This time we’ll try the far east. I wired the New Haven chief at Willimantic and he’s got jobs waiting for both of us - come on, let’s go.”
“Sure,” I grumbled, “you’ve got a stake, but me - I’m broke and I’m not going to trot around on your money, feller, you can depend on that.
“My feathered-friend,” bantered Passy, “I just told you my old dad is an understanding man - and he thought about that, too. When he handed me this hundred, he gave me another for you; here she is.”
And he tucked $20 bills into my coat pocket.
There was nothing further to be said in the matter - so we went east. And do you now, down thee on the N. Y. N. H. & H., Passy and I got ourselves into the darnedest mess you ever heard of. You see, int was like this - but shucks! That’s another story, entirely. Let’s save it.
Thus we cavorted and vaccinated while the glamor was on the sunrise.
April 13, 1947
Stories of the old railroad days are heartwarming and serve well as a rainbow bridge to fond memories travel - but here's a little tale which is so new that it hardly can be called history, since it happened only last month - March 26, 1847, to be exact.
Ed Dayton has been station agent at Mexico for many years. In fact, his total of continuous service on the Hojack adds up to 39 years. At present, there is no night man at the Mexico station, and Ed's tour of duty is supposed to end at 5 p.m. after which time the station is unattended until 8 a.m.
On the night of March 26, Ed tapped out "good night" as usual at 5 p.m., but it was storming furiously and the big rotary snowplow was on the way east from Oswego, ahead of 483, the night passenger train to Richland, so the train dispatcher asked Ed to come back at 6 p.m. to clear the passenger train which was due there about that hour.
The snowplow arrived at Pulaski, leaving a clear track for 483, which arrived at Mexico at 5:20. Engineer George Lamb and Conductor Andrews came to the office and asked for clearance cards so they could proceed. "She's bad," said Engineer Lamb, "bad as any I've seen this winter - and that's going some. Them cuts'll be fillin' up fast behind the plow and if we don't get outa here quick, mebbe we won't be goin' anywhere tonight."
"That's right," agreed Conductor Andrews. "Come on, Ed, ain't that plow cleared Pulaski yet?"
A this moment Ed got the "clear" signal from the Pulaski operator, so he handed the trainmen their clearance cards which gave them a "highball" to Pulaski. As they started for the station door, the local telephone rang insistently and Ed answered. It was his mother, at home,
who had received a call from Mrs. Wood, living near the North Street railroad crossing at the east end of the village.
"There's an auto on the crossing," she announced breathlessly, "it's been stalled there quite a while and they can't move it - you better do something, quick."
Well, the first thing Ed did was to leg it out of the station and catch Engineman Lamb just s he was climbing into his cab. Then they notified the conductor and all went back into the station.
Ed called the train dispatcher at Oswego and explained the situation. After a little delay, the dispatcher issued orders to the train crew to ease the train down through the cut, stop at the crossing and see if they couldn't help get the auto off the track.
The crossing is about a half-mile east of the station and when they got there they found the vehicle directly across the track and by this time, so completely snowed in as to render any shoveling futile. The driver, Harry Nicholson, had sent to a neighboring farm for a team to endeavor to pull the car from its precarious position; so, leaving a flagman at the spot, the train backed to the station and waited.
In the meantime, Station Agent Dayton was making frantic phone calls to the homes of section men, village officials and others, but nobody answered the calls. "I don't blame them," says Ed, "for it was a terrible night out; the snow was driving down in a heavy white blanket and the wind was howling like 40 banshees."
As hey sat in the office, waiting for word from the flagman, Engineman Lamb remarked:
"Here it is spring an' the storm's about as bad as any we've had since '04, the time everything was tied up tight from Salina to Watertown. I was brakin' on the Watertown local at that time an' we got to Mallory about 3 a.m. an' we stayed right there for a week. For three days o' that time, there wasn't no telegraph wires either."
"Wind blowed 'em down, eh?" suggested Dayton. "Nope: the cut just west o' Mallory was plugged so full of snow that it
was piled up three feet above the tops o' the poles an' grounded th' danged wires."
'Why, you star-spangled, nickel plated liar," exploded Conductor Andrews, "why you oughta be -"
But at this point, the flagman trudged in from the cut and reported the crossing clear. The delayed train went its way and Ed went home. As he plodded through the fierce storm his mind was busy recapitulating the events of the evening. He was forced to the conclusion that the strenuous days of railroading are not all in the past, as some of our latter-day romancers would have us believe.
"If," ruminated Ed. "that phone call had been two minutes later, the train would have been on its way east and the way the snow is blowing through that cut, they never would have seen the car on the track and would have run right into it. What might have happened then is anybody's guess; but the rails were in such a condition that a derailment would have been most probable - and lives might have been lost."
Ed has little to say about his own quick thinking in this episode; but he is loud in praise of "Grandma" Dayton, Mrs. Wood and telephone operator, Bessie Cross.
Anyway, he claims last winter was the worst he has ever seen since the blizzard of 1888, during which convulsion of nature he was born at New Milford, Conn.
May 25, 1947
As one looks back from a distance at the happenings of other days, there are always certain characters and certain incidents that stand out against the background of the past. In recalling my earlier years as a telegrapher on many different railroads from Oklahoma to the Atlantic
Ocean, I never fail to think of one outstanding personality in the bygone parade. His name was (or is) Harry L. Schneider, and he was, indeed, a character.
When I first knew him he might have been in his late 20s, a rather stocky man, dark-haired, pleasant-featured, always well-dressed and seemingly as carefree as a dust-particle in the sunlight. The thing you first noticed about him was the fact that his left arm had been amputated close to the shoulder, and a second glance showed that his right hand had been badly mangled, leaving him possessed of only one
thumb and the first two fingers.
However, Harry could do more and better with his thumb and two fingers than the average man could ever hope to accomplish with a full digital equipment. He was an expert telegrapher, he knew the railroad game inside and out, he was familiar with the routine of commercial telegraphy, having "sat in" on some of the fastest wires east of Chicago,and he professed no modesty in the narration and fulfillment of those capabilities.
He was a consistent lover of good company, good food and good liquor, the last of which he consumed in vast quantities, with no apparent ill effect. His spirit was seemingly unconquerable. Quips and "wisecracks" showered from him like sparks from a red-hot horseshoe; he was the personification of good humor and the apostle of good fellowship.
I recall with a grin the cards he was always passing out:
Harry L. Schneider
The Ragtime Millionaire
The World's Only Two-Fingered
Telegrapher
Today a Plutocrat, Tomorrow, a
Bustocrat
Always An Aristocrat
Have One on
ME!
During the course of the last half-century, I have met railroad telegraphers of all sorts and conditions; I've seen them come, and I’ve seen them go. And it has been a rare and wonderful experience à almost worth the penalty of growing old to have viewed such a panorama. I have met lowly "hams" who later became high officials; vice presidents who ended up as bums; and a vast army of the ordinary boys who just stayed
as they were and drifted along with the tide.
If I ever make good on my 20-year-old threat to write a book titled, "Tales of the Telegraph," there will be more snickers than sighs among its few readers; for I shall recount but little of the obvious insincerity and blatant incompetency of the great and near-great; concentrating rather on the whimsical situations that 43 years of laughter and tears cannot have failed to evolve.
For instance, reverting to our deluxe boomer, Harry Schneider, let me spin you a little yarn about him. The first time I laid eyes on Harry was in the fall of 1911. He blew in to the New York Central train dispatcher's office in Corning, immaculate of attire, clean-shaven and reasonably sober. He was after a job, and Chief Dispatcher Lynahan was, as always in those days, desperately in need of telegraphers. Explaining with evident success that his handicap would in no way interfere with performance of duty, he was duly hired and sent into the message room for a telegraph test.
At that time, I was trying to hold down the division message job, with not too great success. We had a couple of "fast" wires, one to New York City and another to Buffalo and the men at the other ends of these circuits were first-class telegraphers, speedy and accurate.
Well, "Uncle" John, as we all called Chief Lynahan, brought Harry in and introduced us. At the moment I was working the New York wire. The sender was a man named Relyea, a very speedy and competent man, but personally a "grouch." HeÇ' just informed me that he had a "file" of some 50 telegrams and we had just started on them.
I opened my key, jumped up and greeted Harry and was about to resume when Uncle John said:
"Let Mr. Schneider sit in for a few minutes, Bert, and tell me how he makes out." And he ambled back to his office.
At my invitation, Harry tipped me a slow wink, dropped into the chair, took a swift look around, saw that we were alone in the little room, and pulled up his left trouser-leg halfway to his knee. Nestled neatly there, between his skin and his Paris-gartered long sock was a full half-pint of the genuine old telegraphers’s oil.
He grasped the bottle and removed the cork by the simple expedient of pulling it out with his teeth. He passed the full flask to me with a flourish of invitation. In the sacred spirit of brotherhood, I took a vigorous swallow and returned it. I fancied I saw a fleeting shade of contempt on his features as he noted the negligible amount I had consumed, but without comment he tilted the container and the contents
ran down his throat without let or hindrance until the last drop disappeared.
Burying the dead soldier in the depths of the big wastebasket, he turned to the business in hand. Lighting a cigarette with one simple motion, he leaned over, tapped "GA" (go ahead) and closed the key. By this time, Bro. Relyea in New York was fit to be tied. The wire had stood open, of course, ever since I had stopped him, some six or seven minutes before, and when he started, he really opened up.
Schneider listened a second or two, smiled and pulled the ancient Remington nearly into his lap. His thumb and two fingers hovered over the keys for an instant à and he went to it!
He flashed those completed telegrams from the typewriter to the message-hook in a continuous and blurring stream of paper without halt or hesitation, as his three flashing digits banged the old "mill" like the roll of a snare drum. As I stood, awestruck, he turned to me with a smile and spoke low-toned, without altering his stride.
"That guy's good, but I know where there's a better one and he's sittin' right in his chair," And I believed him!
I soft-footed over to Uncle John’s office and beckoned to him. He entered silently, observed the scene with appreciation, and as the sender finally came to a halt, with the signal "NM" (no more), he said quietly:
"Young man, you are a telegrapher." - Than which no higher praise could be asked or given.
It later developed that Harry had, by actual count copied 27 messages in 21 minutes and that’s going some, even for a guy with a full complement of fingers.
Morse telegraphy is dead - pushed aside and strangled by the cold hand of mechanized communication. The day of the boomer, with his battered
"bug," his threadbare suit, his gin-flaunting breath, and his eager, questing soul, is gone forever. But the drudgery and the romance, the despair and the exuberance, the woe and the happiness that were the traveling companions of the old-time telegrapher, still swell in the hearts of the few who survived the awesome ordeal. And may heaven bless us, because that's all we need, now!
[Mexico Independent, June 12, 1947
C of C Protests Removal of Train
In Letter to PSC
____
The Mexico Chamber of Commerce, Inc., is joining forces with the Oswego Chamber in removal of the passenger train through Mexico, to take effect Monday, June 16.
The following motion was passed unanimously act the regular June meeting: “The secretary of this Chamber shall be instructed to direct a letter to the Public Service Commission protesting the removal of trains 47-472 and 483-48 of the New York Central Railroad operating daily between Oswego and Utica through Mexico.”
The railroad has announced its intention of removing the passenger service effective June 16. However, the action cannot be taken without consent of the P. S. C. as long as a protest has been lodged with the Commission.
It is expected that a hearing will be scheduled in the near future in Oswego in order that the affected persons may have an opportunity to express their opinions.
Mexico Independent, September 11, 1947
Train Discontinued to Utica September 26.
____
Discontinuance by the New York Central of its train service between Oswego and Utica, authorized by a ruling of the Public Service Commission, will become effective on Sunday, Sept. 28, it was announced Thursday by W. A. Hamler of the St. Lawrence & Adirondack division of the railroad. Mr. Hamler said that officials of the road had decided suspend the train on that date, which marks the end of daylight saving for the year and concedes with the issuance of new timetables by the road.
Suspension of operations will mark the severance of Mexico’s last rail line with Northern New York and Utica. For several years the New York Central has endeavored to eliminate the Oswego-Utica passenger service, which the road contends is a losing proposition.
Action of the Public Service Commission in granting the New York Central’s petition for discontinuance of service followed s public hearing held in Oswego on July 1, at which a number of witnesses appeared, most of them protesting the removal of service. A later hearing took place in Utica on July 24. The local Chamber of Commerce was represented in opposition by John Mowry, president.]
August 17, 1947
(Excerpt from an article essentially about the intensity of the heat wave at the time).
"Whatdaddye mean - hot?" snorted Denny Haley, the erstwhile, politically-minded Hojacker. "boy, when I was alderman, I could make the north side (of Syracuse) hotter'n this right in the middle of a blizzard. Why, look, son; when I was railroadin' on the Hojack - that was when they used to have the hot days - and I don't mean of course.
"Why, I remember one day in latest August of 1904, i was flaggin' on the local freight from Salina to Richland; and when I hopped the caboose at 6 a.m. it was already so hot you couldn't put your hand on the grab iron without raisn' a blister. By the time we got to Central Square that mornin', Barney Fidler, the fireman, didn't have much to do after he banked the fire.
"He took on a full tanko' water at Brewerton and the sun beat down on the engine on the engine tank so fierce that by the time we got through Hungry Lane cut, she was bilin' like all get out. All Barney had to do was set there an' work his injector, lettin' the water run from the tank into the boiler. Yep, that sure was a hot day.
"Why, wen we got to Richland, old man Butts an' his clerk, Schwartz had organized a picnic. There they set, in the shade of th' ash pit, stuffin' themselves with grilled frog-legs, by Judas!"
'Where'd they get'em, Denny?" I foolishly asked.
"Well, I just been tellin' you how hot it was, and in them days there was considerable of a yard at Richland, with a lot o' switches to throw; an' I'll be teetotally swizzled if the sun hadn't roasted every frog on every switch in th' yard...Yep, that was a hot day, son - so long call me again."
-And I softly and reverently laid the receiver in its cradle and walked away on tip-toe.
October 12, 1947
November 16, 1947
Fifty years ago, the lowest-paid railroad traffic employee was the telegrapher. The section hands, unshaven and unshorn, were just a notch ahead of the professional brass-pounder in point of salary. On most eastern railroads, a half century back, the average telegrapher's pay was $30 a month - and, in those days, a month's work meant 30 or 31 days of 12 hours each. Did I say 12 hours? That, friends, was the minimum.
At one-man stations, your agent-telegrapher was lucky if he ever got away from his job with less than 14 or 15 hours behind him. Let's take the Syracuse - Watertown division of the old Hojack as a pertinent example. The agent at Mallory was required to be on duty there at 6:30 a.m. - a half hour prior to the arrival of the first passenger train. He was then supposed to be constantly on duty until the departure of
westbound No. 8, which was due there at 8:40 p.m. (and was generally from two to three hours late).
It is a fact that the regulations permitted our hero - that's what he was - time off for lunch or dinner, but this period. Its time and its duration, was strictly up to the Oswego train dispatcher, who allowed him to eat "whenever it might be most convenient for the company's interest." And right here was another catch - if it happened that the dispatcher had miscalculated and really needed the services of the agent during the time he was absent, said official, in his explanation of whatever delays may have been caused, always solemnly averred that he had granted no absence permission to the agent.
Now, please don't assume that this diligent employee's troubles were all over for the day when he locked up and went home about 10 p.m. Not so - the rule book, under "Duties of Station Agents," contained the following paragraph:
"On closing the station at night, the agent in charge will post a card in the office window where it will be plainly visible from without. This card shall give complete information as to where the agent may be located during the night, in cases of emergency."
And such occasions, Mister, were by no means uncommon. During the whole of a 12-to-14-hour day, the gentleman I am describing had been more or less actively engaged in a whole galaxy of jobs - agent, telegrapher, baggageman, express agent, Western Union manager,
ticket agent, accountant, bookkeeper, cashier, janitor, and roustabout - to mention a few.
He was required to wear his pretty, blue uniform, with the brass buttons at all times, while on duty, and the "tailor car: cam through twice a year to take his order for a new suit. As these outfits set him back 419.75 apiece, there were always two monthly pay days during the year when he walked into the paycar and drew the princely sum of $10.25 for 30 days of toil.
Yes, friends, we had to have a sense of humor in those days. However, it was well to keep most of this strictly under tour hat - as witness my own experience in 1904. For my own amusement, I concocted a set of "Rules," and distributed them rather widely among my associates. I will bore you with a few fragments of this masterpiece, just as illustrations:
Rule XII - Telegraphers and Station Agents report to and receive their instructions from the superintendent, the chief dispatcher, the section boss; or any one else who pretends to have any authority.
Rule XVIII - Telegraphers will receive sufficient remuneration to purchase uniforms and chewing tobacco. If they have families, they must remember that the Lord will provide.
Rule XXI - The Company as such, has no conscience and cannot, therefore, be responsible for that of any employee.
Some of the boys got a big laugh from this bit of persiflage - but me - I stopped laughing when trainmaster Jimmie Halleran came down from Oswego and fired me for "insubordination."
Why, then, you may well ask, did anyone ever become a railroad telegrapher? The reasons varied, I suppose, according to the characteristics of each individual; but there's a certain fascination about the business that gets you, even before you start. The great majority of the old-time telegraphers were graduate students of certain veteran station agents who knew a good thing when they saw it.
Take, for instance, Bill Shaver of Parish. He was Hojack station agent there for some 12 years prior to 1900. Bill was a great fellow - a pleasant, jolly man with a great fund of humor and a ready, infectious laugh. He always managed to have three students at the office in the following order:
No. 1 - pretty well trained in office work and a fair telegrapher; No. 2 - intermediate in these subjects and supposed to be under the tutelage of No. 1; No. 3 - a "freshman" just starting in, who was also the janitor and errand boy. No. 1 was never certified to the Superintendent as ready for work, until Bill had a prospect ready to take No. 3's place. You see, No. 1 was the man who took over the job when Bill wanted to go uptown for an hour, or so - which happened not infrequently.
Shaver kept this up for many years, and turned out a large number of telegraphers, among them I might mention: Loyal McNeal, at present a Hojack train dispatcher in Watertown; the late Earle Benson of Pulaski; Frank Alsever, now with the N.Y.N.H.& H. at Worcester, Mass.; Roy Nutting and Burnell Miller, both now deceased; and a host of others, including this scribbler.
Bill was just one of a great many who made use of this plan to render life a bit easier for themselves, while at the same time offering the youth of the community an opportunity to learn a profession. Yes - a profession that exerted a strange, not always beneficent influence on its followers. A profession that wound its magnetic tentacles around the very hearts of the old-time brass-pounders. You will note that I
here use the past tense; since the key and sounder of the Morse code are now in the very last process of becoming museum pieces.
It is related that, after a long life spent amidst the clickety-clack of the busy sounder old Hermann Veeder died, and his soul was wafted through the ether in ever-widening concentric circles of light, which finally dumped him gently at the Pearly Gates. As he gazed upward where the shining towers gleamed in the supernal glory of Heaven's eternal light, his courage almost failed him and he felt a bit sick. But at last
he made shift to knock gently, Oh! So gently, on the gold-and-nacre panel of the closed door.
At his second or third timid attempt, the might gate opened a mere crack to reveal the severe features of St. Peter, who gruffly demanded:
"Who are you; and why come ye here?"
"I'd like to come in, please, if you don't mind," quavered Hermann, "I just died, you know."
"Your name," snapped the Guardian. Hermann gave the required information and another question followed instantly:
"Occupation?"
"I was a telegrapher, your honor, and I've come up here for my overtime - you see, I -"
With a mighty heave of his sturdy shoulders, the good saint opened wide the massive twin-gates so swiftly that their gem-studded surfaces shimmered like flying rainbows in the ineffable radiance of the sun of Paradise.
"Enter, my good man, enter," he invited as a broad smile illimunatedhis features, "long have we waited for one of your tribe to seek admittance here - and, verily, you are the first of them all. Come, friend, you'll enjoy it here - for it is written that, on earth, you surely led one hell of a life."
January 25, 1948
In 1905 I was telegraphing for the New York Central in Northern Pennsylvania. This division runs from Lyons down through Corning and enters Pennsylvania at Lawrenceville. At Jersey Shore it branches off to Clearfield on one hand and Willamsport on the other. The section between Wellsboro and Jersey Shore, a distance of some 60 miles, is sparsely settled, a mountainous, rugged and teeming with the virgin ‘wildness’ of nature.
I was stationed for some years at a little 14 by 16 telegraph office called Ulceter, about midway between Slate Run and Cammal - both of them lumber towns at the turn of the century. The little office sat on the bank of the river (Pine Creek) and on either side rose the steep mountains. At this point the valley was just wide enough for the river, the railroad, and the narrow, little-used highway. The only dwelling within a half-mile was that of the Callahans, some 300 yards south of the office. Here ‘Uncle’ Dan Callahan owned a few acres of river-flat, and did wisely well with their considerable fertility. Of the four sturdy sons he and ‘Aunt Car’ had raised only one, the youngest, remained at home.
This one, Matt, you would be unlikely to forget, had you known him for any length of time, as I did. He was about 19 when I first met him; broad shouldered, strong, active - and, I really believe, as absolutely fearless as any man I have ever known. He was a rather handsome, good-natured fellow, with but little education; but as quick-witted as they come. His whole idea of life seemed to be centered in ‘having a good time.’ He was a heavy drinker, would fight anyone, anyway where, on the slightest provocation, and withal had a most charming personality which made him highly popular among women and children.
He was one of the first acquaintances I made when I came - and we were friends for many years.
It was some little time after midnight in the late autumn of 1905. A gentle wind whispered down the mountain-side and rustled the dead leaves to eerie song. The lanterns on the distant switch targets loomed dimly through the black darkness as I gazed out upon the tracks from the telegraph desk.
A northbound coal train had just rumbled by and I was waiting for the clearance from Slate Run, three miles to the north.
In the little patch of light that shone on the rails from the kerosene lamp over my desk, I saw a sudden movement, there was a quick, furtive step on the little wooden platform outside - and as the door swung open with a push, there stood a big bearded man pointing a revolver at me! I was about 20 years old at the time and I was still unused to this wilderness, having been here only three or four weeks; so don’t blame me too much when I tell you that I was literally scared stiff. The round hole in the end of that gun-barrel appeared to be the approximate size of a length of stovepipe and it didn’t waver in the slightest.
The husky brute wasted no time in introduction or explanation; he advanced steadily into the little room and toward my shrinking form. “I’d as soon shoot you as not,” he growled, “pull that chair over into the corner and an’ set down.”
Still holding the menacing gun, the intruder grabbed a fishing rod from the wall, tore off the reel and proceeded to tie me like a cocoon with innumerable loops of the stout line. Now, I was helpless in two ways - from abject fright, and from the constriction of the tight cord.
Then the big man turned his attention to my well-filled lunch pail which I had not touched during the evening. He wolfed the food like a man who was obsessed by hunger - which he undoubtedly was, but he continued to keep a wary eye on my helpless form. In a remarkably short time he had devoured the entire contents of the pail - cold coffee and all.
“Okay, chief, that’s better,“ he grunted, “you got any money?” And he advance upon me, gun in hand. I couldn’t move either legs or arms, tightly-bound as they were, but I managed to nod miserably and quaver, “some in my hip pocket.”
In those days we got paid only once a month, and it had been just the previous day that the pay car had visited us. (O sorrow and alas!) As my unwelcome guest came closer, there was a loud crash as a piece of rock ballast came through the glass of the side window and landed with a heavy thud on the telegraph desk.
My captor wheeled toward the sound, firing a shot as he turned, and in that same split-second the door burst open and through the opening surged Matt Callahan, yelling like a fiend. His rush carried him clear across the shanty and his left shoulder hit my visitor with a stunning force, driving him to the wall, before he had a chance to turn. Matt backed off as his victim hit the wall; he flexed his mighty right arm; his rock-hard fist came up almost from the floor and landed flush on the point of his opponent’s jaw.
I am prepared to make positive declaration that Matt’s haymaker lifted the gent’s feet a full 15 inches from the ground, before he pitched forward - definitely down and out. In the fully approved method of backwoods warfare, Matt kicked his fallen foe three times in token of victory, at the same time emitting a yell which could have easily been heard for three miles. Quickly he unwound me, laughing heartily at my grotesque appearance and all-too-evident terror.
“Cheer up, pal,” he cried, “it’s all over now. We’ll tie up this damned so-in-so with this here same line, an’ if he comes to before I get him ready, I’ll wrap this blankety-blank poker around his neck an’ choke him to death. “Now, you get on the wire an’ tell Slate Run to get Constable Jake Tomb down here quicker ¹n hell.”
My trembling fingers finally managed to tick off the news to telegrapher Ivan Campbell at the Run, while Matt tied his prisoner securely and rolled him onto the cushioned bunk at the rear of the room.
“I see somebody in here with you when I came round the curve,” explained my friend, “an’ I injuned up, soft, to see what it was. Seein’ you all tied up an’ this jasper domineerin’ at you with his cannon, I knowed somethin’ has to be did, so I done it.
“I sneaked up, fired that rock through the winder an’ busted through th’ dam door. An’ frum now on, tell everybody to lay off you, ’cause you’re a friend o’ Matt Callahan’s - an’ I can lick any man in Lycoming county - an’ dang well they know it!”
Finally, Constable Tomb had rounded up half the able-bodied citizens of Slate Run, the posse arrived and the still partly unconscious prisoner was removed. Next day they took him to Jersey Shore and there he was quickly identified as an escaped prisoner from Bellefonte, for whom there already had been a three-day hue-and-cry.
Poor Matt! The last time I saw him was in the summer of 1923, when I returned to the Pine Creek Valley for a visit. He had been overseas in World War I and had been slightly “gassed.” He was a physical wreck, but still tried to carry on with his ready smile and his unconquerable spirit.
Just a few years later he died in a veterans’ hospital near Philadelphia, and they brought him back and buried him in the little private cemetery across the tracks from his old home. He was a ‘tough nut’ - but he was all MAN.
Note: The following was sent to the typist along with the above Snell article. It is not evident who penned these comments:
Misspelled the name. It should be Utceter. It was 1.8 miles south of Slate Run and 2.8 miles from Ross. It was only a manual block station with no passing siding. The stations were about five miles a part. By a 1913 employees timetable, it was no longer a signal station nor was Ross, but both show train times but not stopping.
The timetable has a speed schedule with the fastest being 36 seconds, which would be 100 mph. What is interesting is the size of the building and what was in it. Snell evidently lived in it and was on duty 12 hours a day with the other 12 hours having no one. This would indicate the freights ran unevenly around the clock.
Matt Callahan was born in 1888 and died in 1932. The Callahans settled in this valley in the early 1800s.
February15, 1948
Your old time railroader was a rugged individual. He had a tough job to do; and when he worked, he worked hard; and when he relaxed he relaxed. For all I know the present breed conforms to these specifications, but it is inevitable that they must have changed in many ways.
For instance, I wonder how many modern “hog-heads,” “shacks” and “brass-pounders” are willing to admit that they believe in ghost trains?
In the early years of this century you could always start a caboose conversation by a casual reference to the “White Flyer” of the Hojack or the “Midnight Drag” of the D&H.
I am sorry to admit that, during my more than 30 years of telegraphing from the Connecticut coast to the sage-brush of Oklahoma, I was never privileged to behold this phantasmagoria - but I recall one night when I came close to it.
In 1901 I was green night telegrapher at the Hojack depot in Parish, In those days thee was a big water-tank thee and it was one of the night-man’s duties to run the steam pump and keep the water supply adequate at all times. Generally, however, we did our pumping in the daytime, so we could get some “shut-eye” at night.
The night man worked from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. After midnight the rail traffic became rathe thin; quiet settled down on everything and the low hum of the outside wires was conducive to a longing for officially-forbidden sleep. And, sometimes, when a fellow really got into the depths of slumberland, even a passing train would fail to awaken him.
However, Frank Hayner who had preceded me on this particular job, was a man of attainments and visio
. He had perfected a device - an ides, rather - which guaranteed to produce results; and he passed this invention on to me when he left.
Frank had bored a small hole in the casing of the bay window, facing the tracks. Through this hole he ran a length of fishline out to the main track. Then, he fastened one end to a wooden peg about six inches long, which he drove into the ballast on the inside of the rail. Within the office, the coal hod, half filled with anthracite and rounded out with a half dozen empty cans were tied to the other end of the string and balanced on the edge of the telegraph desk by the tautness of the line.
With this arrangement, the weary telegrapher could relax in slumber on a bench in the adjacent waiting-room, secure in the knowledge that any passing train was bound to break the string and send the loaded coal hod bouncing to the office floor with appropriate sound effects.
Late one August night min1901, I ascertained that the line was clear of trains from Pulaski to Salina Tower, and prepared to snatch some slumber. I rigged up the contraption described above, turned out the kerosene lamp in the waiting room laid me down to dream. It was a rather warm, cloudy night, The air was still and a heavy mist hung like a curtain beneath the stars.
As I found later by checking back on the time, I slept for nearly two hours, when I suddenly found myself awake. I ran through the office door and found my alarm machine still intact - the hod balanced delicately on the edge of the desk and the tight string passing through the shoe to the outside. There was no sound from outside and the telegraph was silent as a grave.
Rushing to the outside door, I took a quick look up the track, eastward, no sound, nothing to see. Then I gazed west through the mist and I glimpsed twin flickers of red far beyond, the limits of the switch-target. In a moment the faint gleam was swallowed by the mist or was carried around the curve as it sped toward Hastings depot… But as sure as death and taxes - the two red lights I saw that night were the rear markers of a caboose!
Lantern in hand, I stepped to the main track and closely examined the rails. The little stick attached to my fishline was still in place - but on the instant, I saw something else.
As I have told you, the night was misty, and the roadbed was saturated with dampness - but, there in front me me, the twin rails were absolutely dry! Even as I gazed, the iron began to gather dampness again - and it was then, brother, that I realized I was scared!
I returned to the lighted office and called Central Square, the next open office, west. Frantically, I clicked out - “CQ, CQ, CQ;” and after an agonized century of delay I got an answer - “I-I-CQ.” Before my fumbling fingers could begin to spell out the question, veteran telegrapher Sherm Coville’s clear, deliberate Morse code informed me:
“Yes, she wen t by - high-tallin for Brewerton - ain’t she a beaut?”
“What was it?” I asked, “I didn’t hear see or hear a thing.”
“Why, you dummy, that was the White Flyer, making her yearly run tonight - first time I’ve seen her since ’87 and I wouldn’t have missed it for a month’s pay!”
Later reports showed that the four other night offices between Richland and Salina had watched the phantom train go by - nobody had missed it but me!
Roxy Dunham at SX Tower (Salina) reported that he saw the blamed thing vanish into nothingness just as it was crossing the West Shore intersection in front of his office. The report which he forwarded to the division office in Oswego mentioned that the train was made up of engine, tender, two flatcars and a caboose - all glaring white through the misty gloom. The engine got so close to him before it disappeared that he noted the brass bell swinging on the dome and the steam shooting from the safety valve - but there was no sound!
Forty years ago, I could have found you a hundred Hojackers who would swear to having seen the famous White Flyer wheeling its ghostly, soundless way over the silent rails. But all my own memory has to cherish is that one, fleeting glanced of two red markers shining dimly through the mists of the years.
As Trainmaster Jimmy Halleran remarked, when I told him about it:
“Bertrande, my experience with you leads me to believe that you’re always a little too early, or a little too late. By the way, do they make any rectified cider around Parish, these days?”
February 29, 1948
I’ll bet you’d get a kick out of seeing a locomotive fireman carefully polish his coal scoop with a piece of clean waste, put a few strips of back on the shining steel, break two eggs atop the meat and carefully hold the shovel at just the proper position in the firebox to fry them neatly.
I don’t suppose they do it that way, any more - but many’s the old-time I’ve seem preparing his breakfast in that manner. Bacon and eggs cooked that way by an expert seem to taste better, too.
Then, there was the matter of the coffee-experts. Every caboose had at least one man in the crew who considered himself the best coffee maker on the division - and he was always prepared to prove it to you.
Forty-five years ago, on the Hojack, there were a great number of these specialists who would brew you a cup of coffee on the slightest provocation, just to prove their skill. Each individual boasted a different method - and I mean boast - al of which seemed to produce perfect results. Many artists depended more on their skill in blending their coffee than on the mere brewing of it, while others contended that even a poor brand of coffee could be tickled into a tasteful drink by using the proper method - meaning of course his own.
In those days, one could go to a grocery and select his own type of coffee in the bulk - Mocha, Java, Syrian, Turkish - and have it mixed according to his own specifications. This naturally led to a wide divergence of opinion as to the proper proportions of the different growths. And, that was where the fun came in.
The first requisite of the railroad man’s cup of coffee was, of course, that it must be strong, rugged and hard-boiled - like himself. He seldom cared to dilute it with any such liquid as milk or cream, and among the aristocrats of the caboose sugar, too, was frowned upon as being too much on the effeminte side.
The railroad man’s dinner-pail used be a very essential part of his equipment. He would sign the book at the terminal and be on his way in the early hour of the dawn, and his day’s work was not over until his train arrived at its destination, where it was 8, 12, 16, of 20 hours later. The old bucket had to be well packed with food, because he never knew how long he’d be away , or how far from a restaurant he’d be marooned. Hot coffee, glorified stale sandwiches and took the curse off soggy pie!
Local freight, No. 21, pulled into Mallory from the west (note: Many railroad directions were east and west on the timetable) one early afternoon of a cool, cloudy day in October, 1903. The quiet countryside was beginning to show the effects of autumn’s advance and there was a potential chill in the air. I had but little for them to do; and, after unloading a few pieces of merchandise they prepared to depart. Conductor Hop Look, flagman Haley, and rear-shack Jones clambered aboard the caboose and gave the engiineman the “high-sign.” But Engineer Cotter had left his engine, and with his head brakeman, was strolling toward the rear of the short train. As he approached he remarked:
“We’ve only got 22 minutes to make Parish for No. 10. We better not try it.I’ll pull into the siding here and wait for them.”
This was accordingly done - they pulled east to the end of the long side-track and backed in just far enough to clear the main line.”
At this moment the Oswego train dispatcher called me and ticket out a train order to the effect that No. 10 would home the main track at Parish, while No. 21 should proceed to that point. This move was made because No. 10, the crack Thousand Island flyer had been delayed near Pulaski by a burned-out journal box, and would be some 30 minutes late.
So I ran down the track some 400 feet to the caboose and gave the order to Conductor Look.
Around the caboose stove were gathered all the members of the train crew, with the exception of Barney Fiddler, the fireman. They were watching intently the activities of head-brakeman Fred Mudge. On the broad top of the low-bellied caboose stone sat a squat, tin basin of large dimensions about half full of gently simmering water.
In one had Mudge held a round metal sieve with a very fine mesh, which fitted the top of the coffee-pot. The sieve was filed with ground coffee which gave forth a most fascinating aroma. In his other hand, Mudge was dipping hot water from the basin with a big tablespoon and pouring it gently on the coffee in the sieve. He was doing this with the most meticulous care, watching as the water seeped through and fell, drop why drop, into the pot.
Conductor Look approached the group and handed a copy of the train order to the engiineman.
“How long will it take to make the coffee?” he demanded.
“She’s a ticklish business,” responded Mudge. “And I just got started - take mobbed, 30 minutes more.
“Well, we’re on our warm” said the conductor, “orders to me the Flyer at Parish.”
“Jest a holy minuet,” gasped the horrified coffee expert, “This here’s a delicate operation, this is - requires a delicate touch - an’ I can’t no wise do it right when the train’s rollin’, you gotta gimme time.”
“All right then; you do yer stuff and do it right. We’ll wait -mebbe yo’ve got something’ there, at that. “
- And Hop calmly seated himself to watch the proceedings, while the expert continued to “spoon” his coffee with utmost care and deliberation.
“Well, I gotta get back,” I announced as I started for the door, envisioning the face of the raving train dispatcher in Oswego, when he became cognizant of this delay. But Mr. Look detained me with a huge, hairy and determined hand.
“You stay right where you danged well are, until Mudge gets through,” he commanded, “you ain’t goin’ back to th’ office an’ put no dod-blasted ideas into h’head o’ that dumb dispatcher.”
“But,” I quavered, “they’ll fire me for this, I’ll—“
“Prob’ly will,” agreed the conductor calmly, “an’ mebbe th’ rest of us, too - butI’ll do a dang sight wuss’n that if you start out o’ that door.”
—So I stayed.
After what seemed to me like a couple of centuries, expert Mudge finally got his coffee brewed - and then proceeded to serve it.
At the back the stove was a small, copper teapot which had been warming there since the operation started. Into each cup he poured about 3 ounces of warm brandy from the little teapot and then filled the cups with his coffee-brew.
—And, don’t ask me how good it was! It was out of this or any other world!
Shortly after this, the train pulled out of the siding and proceeded its leisurely way toward Parish, while I fan back to the depot to face the music.
Well, everything turned out allright. The passenger train was delayed only 30 minutes at Parish, and I got only a 10-day suspension and a reprimand. The train crew came through with flying colors. There report of serious engine trouble while on the Mallory siding was finally accepted as gospel by the officials and the matter was closed. The fact that this “engine trouble”was superinduced by the resourceful engineer with a few well-directed blows of a pipe wrench was not dwelt upon.
Nobody was seriously inconvenienced in this episode except the 200 passengers on the Flyer. But then - what the heck? They had already paid their fares!
April 11, 1948
O harken, now, to my saga of the Hojack - a song of the days, long gone, a song that I sing from the heart and a tale that I tell from the soul.
And, listen too, ye modern Hojackers; for you, also. O fledglings, when twilight comes, will have a tale to tell and a song to sing of these, your days. And the gist of it and the swing of it will be even as this of mine.
For as long as a man shall live, Age will sing of Youth and Youth will dream of the future.
Hope for the young; memory for the old - what a blessed thing of life!
___
Ballad of the Hojack
Come, all ye old-time railroad hams,
And listen now to me;
I'll sing you a song of the Hojack days
In nineteen-two or three -
Before the rails got rusty;
When the safety-valves were tight -
And a "day's work" meant you worked all day
And most of the blasted night!
When you pounded brass for thirty-a-month
And your uniform of blue
Made you pals of the village gals,
Who always fell for you!
You took your rest in the waiting-room
When the morning hours were small
And you slumbered away till the break of day;
Nor heeded the frantic call
Of the sounder, there on the office desk
As the train dispatcher tried
To make a meet for twenty-one
Ere her running time had died.
You carried your lunch in a big tin pail
Whose top was a coffee can;
And you raided the freighthouse for beer and gin
Like a regular railroad man!
The clickety-clack of the sounding brass
Was music to your ears
And you laughed aloud in the joy of youth
Not rocked of the fleeting years.
Now, these were the boys in the days of old
Who gave us their Morse-code skill
From West Shore crossing, just out of the yard
To Richland, over the hill
There was Jimmy Duell at Liverpool
At Woodard were Foster and Maine.
And every day you'd see at Clay
Charlie Zoller and Billy McCane.
At Brewerton station, all the Rogers' relation
Could handle the telegraph key -
Old Charlie was agent, and "Coon" was the clerk,
With others in close harmony.
From there you would fare to old Central Square,
Where Covell and Sprague did their stunts;
Then came this old-timer, the "Mallory rhymer,"
(Who wasn't an old-timer, once!)
At Hastings, John Benedict labored
And as onward to Parish we flit,
We greet George Murphy and Frank Haynor, too -
Both men of good humer and wit.
Fred Nicholson next, at old Union Square;
And at Fernwood we noted Bert Shear;
While Pulaski had Austin and handsome Will Pond
To keep all the business clear.
Too many, too many of whom I rhyme
Have gone where there's no overtime;
Where clicking sounders don't intrude,
But we who wait the Super's call
(Which comes to one, which comes to all).
Forget them not - for they were men
We fondly hope to see again!
No more the singing wires sing,
No more the "bugs" their message fling.
Thru all the world's expanse
They killed the Morse code and they trod
Upon the corpse, all prone.
"For now, you see," they yelled in glee
"We run the trains by phone!"
As o'er the Hojack's rusty rails
The few sad drags still go,
The roadbed cries in agony
Beneath the weight of woe.
And from the churchyarda, near and wide
We hear a low, sad moan:
"They're runnin' the trains by phone, me lad.
"They're runnin' the trains by phone."
___
Now this is my song of the Hojack,
And this is my bid or fame -
That, among the old-time Hojack hams,
You'll find my written name:
That I knew these men and loved them
And that I'm proud to say,
"I too, worked on the Hojack,
When the Hojack had its day!"
October 3, 1948
How many of you folks ever went hop-picking down in Madison county, 50 years ago? The hop picking season used to be considered by a good many people as a kind of, a yearly relaxation and a good chance to pick up a little extra money. Shortly after Sept. 1, back there in the wane of the
19th century, there'd be 35 or 40 of us taking the Hojack train for Central Square. Here, we'd wait around the Ontario & Western depot for the "hop train" which usually lagged in about 3 p.m.
This contraption was, to tell the truth, but little above the grade of a cattle train. It had a half dozen decrepit and moldy passenger coaches, and it also boasted a caboose and a couple of freight cars with merchandise to be unloaded at stations along the way. Only during the hop-picking season was it known as the "hop train"'; all the rest of the year we called it the "freight and accommodation."
We all piled into the ancient coaches, which were already well occupied by people from Pennellville, Fulton and Oswego - all bound for the hop fields. We chugged and snorted and rattled along the north shore of Oneida Lake, across Fish Creek, through State Bridge, Durhamville, Oneida Castle, and on to Munnsville, arriving there in the dusk of the evening. Awaiting us were a couple of big hayracks drawn by John Davis' teams and manned by his hired hands. We jumped, helter-skelter, and every which-way into the big wagons and rode the three miles to Davis' hop farm.
The farm home was a big, white house of rambling design, with many wings and additions. When we pulled into the wide yard, the kitchen was lighted with a galaxy of oil lamps, and we could see the two cooks and their helpers loading the long tables with food. The spicy tang of the hop fields was in he air; you breathed it deep and it smelled good - and also it made you hungry! And when we all filed into the dining room, we were glad that we were hungry.
Big platters of tender ham, all along the center of the tables; mountains of fried potatoes; oceans of ham-gravy; huge pots of tea, vast hillocks of hot corn bread, scuttles of country butter - that was just part of the spread. John Davis had the reputation of 'feedin' his pickers good.
The men's bunk room was directly above the kitchen and dining room, with an outside stairway leading to it. here were some 40 or 50 cot beds, complete with blankets and pillows. The cots were wide enough for a fellow and his buddy to bunk together, if they so desired; and there were enough of them to allow certain of the 'aristocrats' to sleep alone.
Roy Nutting and I picked out a bed beside a large window; others of the early-commers made their choice, and the laggards as ever, took what was left.
Old John Coger from Palermo, who boasted that he hadn't missed a hop pickin' in 40 years, always pre-empted the cot just at the side of the front door. he was always the first man out of bed in the morning when the big bell in the yard clanged. That would be at just 5 o'clock; and John would bounce out to the floor, yawn prodigiously, stretch his arms heaven-ward, and yell, 'Two suppers in one night - hooray fer hell.'
Then we'd run down to the long benches in the yard where the rows of tin wash basins stood waiting. We performed our morning ablutions in cold water, piped from the adjacent hillside springs, and we used yellow laundry soap to aid the process. The idea was to was up, eat breakfast, and be in the hop field by 5 sharp.
There, we'd gather at or hop-boxes and hell for the pole-pullers to bring on the hops. A hop box, my friends, was supposed to be an eight-bushel receptacle, and when you had filled it up to the brim with the oft, yielding buds, you yelled again, and the yard boss or one of
his aides came and sacked the contents, then punched your ticket - and you were 25 cents richer.
The poll-pullers were a busy clan. One of these was supposed to keep 16 pickers supplied with the vine-covered poles -ad there was little time for lagging. Each puller wore across his shoulders a canvas belt at the end of which dangled a contraption like a toothed steel trap. With a
sharp knife, he'd cut the tough vines at the bottom of the pole; he'd stoop a little, clamp his steel-toothed gadget around the pole - and yank. the pole would come out of the ground, and he would bear it away, all hop-loaded, and put it, slantwise, on the cross-beam of your box. Then you picked off the fragrant fruit and prayed you'd be able to get it filled, sometime. A hop in its native haunts is an innocent-looking vegetable; soft and spring and delicate do the touch. But, after you'd picked a bushel or so with your bare hands, you began to notice that their looks deceived.
They had what it took to make you fingers might raw and sore. All experienced pickers wore light canvas gloves, which would wear right through to the flesh in a day or two. the hop grower always had them for sale in the dining room - and he had a big turn-over.
I've seen experts pick seven or eight box of hops for a day's work, but the average was about four; so you see were hardly in the higher labor
brackets, even for those days . But what the heck. We had three good meals a day, a hop kiln dance most every night - and some days it rained! Then we just lay around and exulted about the business of being alive. It was a hop picker who coined the phrase, 'More rain - more rest.'
In the evening, we'd loll on the big front lawn - boys and girls together. We'd sing a little and we'd joke a little; we'd watch the big harvest moon come up from behind the Madison county hills - and with her came romance and a vague yearning, and the glory of he coming was a trumpet to our spirits and a golden harp unto our souls.
The hop fields have vanished, the kilns and the storehouse have long fallen to ruin; the hop pickers of my time have, for the most part,
vanished around the turn in the road - and only memory stays to tell the tales of an all-forgotten day.
But tonight, that same shimmering moon will look into the Devil's Punch Bowl, out there just beyond old John Davis' hop farm; and as she look she will recall the picture of the boy and girl who sat there on the rim of the Bowl, so long, so long ago, and made love and gave promises with their kisses which they knew they'd never, never keep.
Ah, well, old moon, I guess it was all my fault, anyway - but you - Or, maybe she, has forgotten - old folks get that way, I've heard!
November 14, 1948
The old-time train dispatcher was a man who deserved no one's envy. Nevertheless, he was looked upon by station telegraphers as a favored individual, lolling in the lap of luxury, working "short" hours, and blessed as the friend and companion of countless bartenders.
On a single-track railroad, before the introduction of the telephone as a means of running trains, the dispatcher had need to be a man of many qualities. He must be a first-class telegrapher, a strategist, a diplomat, a man of quick and accurate decisions, and a past master in the science of railroading. He must be able to hold his liquor with little visible effect, and his patience and understanding must be almost boundless. In the days of which I write - the early years of the century - the train dispatcher on a single-track division held the train movements in the palm of his hand and the reflexes of his brain. There were no manual or automatic block signals to protect rail movements; no intricate system of safety devices; and no means of communication except the Morse code. Memory reaches back and brings to showy view a sturdy band of Hojack dispatchers at Oswego, around 1903.
Here you would find the veterans of that era - Charlie Brown, Johnny Ashe, McClosky, Snyder and Hartney. And back of these stalwarts stood the "younger set" - Walrath, Nixon, Nutting, McNeal and a number of other bright young men whose names escape me at the moment. Of the above mentioned, only two now survive - Matt Sampson, retired and living in Oswego; and Loval McNeal, who is still "in the harness" at Watertown and still going strong. May his shadow never grow thin.
In those days there were two sets of dispatchers at the Oswego office; one for the Syracuse-Watertown-Rome area, and the other for the "west end" - from Pulaski to Oswego and on to Suspension Bridge along the shore of Lake Ontario.
The dispatchers office was always in a state of feverish activity, and an uninitiated observer would be prone to wonder how order would ever emerge from such chaos. Here were a dozen clicking telegraph sounders, each speaking in a different tone and each carrying a different message to the listening ear beside it. Here sat the dispatcher, clutching at his eye-shade as he studied the train sheet before him.
Across from him sat the "copier," a telegrapher whose function it was to copy all train orders as the dispatcher clicked them off. These orders must be repeated from both stations to which they were sent, and each word and figure carefully checked by the copier as the repeat came in. This was the job, next to that of dispatcher, most coveted by every telegrapher on the division.
In one corner, by a window, sat the chief dispatcher at his desk, busy with voluminous reports of delays, accidents and train tonnage. At his right was the door of the Grand Beetler's office. In my time, the division trainmaster was always known by his title - and the incumbent who figures in this story always and ever lived up to his title.
This was James G. Halleran, an imposing gent with a red face, a hoarse voice, and a piercing eye. Every inch a superb railroad man, he ran he division with an iron hand and an unfailing perspicuity which sometimes approached the miraculous. Honored and respected by his superiors, he was, of course, cordially disliked by his inferiors - who were greatly in the majority! I can readily vouch for his discernment, since he fire me thrice within a space of two years!
About 7:30 of a stormy evening in December, 1901, I sat at the telegraph desk in Parish depot and copied some instructions ticked off by dispatcher Nixon. "Extra 2321 just leaving Pulaski - coming west - a double-header snowplow - there's a big drift on tracks between Union Square and Parish - must be cleared before No. 8 can leave Pulaski - I'll hold 8 there until plow reports clear at Parish - watch it, now, and report him clear just as soon as you can - No. 8 will be delayed, but they couldn't get thru that drift until it's plowed. The extra has orders to take siding at Parish to let No. 8 by - give me a quick clearance, now."
I gave him my "ok" and waited. If the plow met with no bad obstacles, she should clear the drift and get into my siding in about an hour; but Dispatcher Nixon was a nervous guy and he kept asking me every 10 minutes if there were any signs of 'em.
After the full hour had elapsed, he became still more impatient and kept the sounder clicking at still shorter intervals. I went outside and listened. I found the snowfall had started again, but then I heard the faint snort of a locomotive and saw the west end switch-light turn red. The plow entered the siding and puffed toward the office. As the switch-light turned back to white - (that was before they had begun to use green as a safety signal), I ran into the office and reported the train "in the clear." Nixon immediately called Pulaski and gave the waiting passenger train the signal to go ahead.
In a few moments, the brakeman burst into my office and shouted: "Hold No. 8 at Pulaski; our pusher engine broke a flange an' she's back there by Red Mill bridge with two trucks on the ground!"
I reached for my key and gave Nixon the bad news - but the passenger train was already on her way. She was nearly a half hour late and would be trying to make up some of the lost time. There were no scheduled stops for her between Pulaski and Parish, since the two intermediate stations, Fernwood and Union Square, were closed at night with no one on duty. A crash seemed imminent, for at this very moment there was not more than seven or eight miles intervening between the rushing passenger train and the stalled engine.
Suddenly, I remembered something! The agent at Union Square had an office student, who was becoming fairly proficient as a telegrapher; and this man just loved to hang around the close office at night and practice. Agent Fred Nicholson had given him a door-key so he could get in any time he wished; and he and I frequently had long talks over the wire.
I ignored the chattering sounder of the dispatcher's wire; cut in on the Western Union circuit and frantically called "N-N-N." After what seemed like countless centuries -actually less than a full minute - the circuit opened and the young squirt at "N" queried:
"What the hell do you want now? I'm just going home!"
My fingers trembled as I spelled out:
"Hold No. 8. Put your red board on 'em. Don't let 'em get by you!"
He didn't get it the first time, nor yet the second; but, finally, he understood...And he later told me that the oncoming train was less than 300 feet from the station when he flipped the red board down! Well, that was that. The passenger train was held up at Union Square for hours until a crane came out of Salina yards and put the crippled engine on the track. Dispatcher Nixon had complimented me on my quick thinking an quicker action - and by morning, my head had become twice its normal size and I basked in a veritable halo of glory - for was I not a hero? The answer to that question was definitely no - as Trainmaster Halleran explained to me in harrowing detail the next day.
"In the first place," declaimed The Beetler, "you shouldn't have reported that plow clear until a member of its crew had so informed you - don't you ever read the rule-book? In the second place, you tried to play it smart by not telling the dispatcher about the student at Union Square. In the third place, you're supposed to know that when a train stops for any reason, on the main track, a flagman must go back with lantern, torpedoes and fusees to stop all trains - remaining there until recalled by the engine whistle." (Holy mackeral! I had never thought of that!)
"In the fourth and last place," resumed J.G.H., "quick thinking is a necessary part of every true railroader's equipment; but he must not only be quick - he must also be right. You guessed wrong, three times last night, in as many minutes, and it's only by the mercy of God that a bad accident was avoided.
"As of now, I am tying a can to you, Bertrande. Go your too-quick-thinking way in peace, and may the good Lord watch over you. I think you'll need a lot of it!"
Thus fell one hero from the shaky heights of his self-built pedestal!
All along the right-of-way on every American railroad, you find these laborers jumping frantically but with well-timed precision from between the rails as the ‘flyer’ thunders by. And they’re back there again with their pinch bars, their mauls and their spike buckets before the rails have ceased to vibrate from the contact of the big drive-wheels. A railway roadbed is always in need of repair; it is constantly under
the impact of terrific shocks of oncoming trains and it must be, at all times, in a state of almost perfect alignment...And who but the faithful and long-suffering section-hand keeps it that way?
Maintenance of a railroad’s trackage is, of itself, a science which calls for a high degree of specialized engineering skill and a vast amount of intricate planning and careful execution. The unsung and mostly unnoticed section boss must be a man who knows his business and has the knack of imparting his knowledge to those who labor in his gang.
Time was, half a century ago, when a large percentage of section bosses were Irishmen. They labored mightily, and they swore roundly, and they dearly loved their authority - an authority which enabled them to direct the every movement of their 6-to-8 men gangs. Themselves, they took no orders from any one, save the maintenance superintendent - had woe to any other official who attempted to ‘give ‘em the lip!’
I n the Parish section gang, during the late 90s, there labored a gent whom we will call Mike Mulcahey (because that was not his name). Mike was a good section hand, an excellent example of that sturdy breed of men who keep the melody in the ‘singing rails.’ In not too long a time his excellent work attracted the attention of his superiors; and, on a day, he was called to the Super’s office to undergo an examination as to his fitness for the job of section boss. Mike passed the test with flying colors; his natural ability and his experience being in no wise allowed to stay in the background when his native wit and intelligence urged them to the fore.
Soon a vacancy developed along the Hojack and Mike was notified that he was, as of that date, in charge of section 16. Next morning, Mike appeared at the section house far ahead of his men and surveyed the scene with a smile of utter satisfaction and content. As his men approached, he gave them a flowing hand-salute and announced:
‘Mornin‘, byes, Oi hov a word for ya. As ye well know, Oi’m now yer new boss, an’ we’ll get along fine - but remember, me lads, Oi want nothin’ out o’ ye but silence, and damn little o’ that!’
He waved majestically toward the sliding doors of the section house and commanded:
‘Shake a leg, now, an’ get out th’ hand car.’
So the boys took out the car and set it more or less gently upon the rails. Then they waited for the next ukase from the stern limps of boss Mike.
‘An’ now,’ he added, ³‘put ‘Eer back into the house, n’ we’ll knock off fer th’ rest o’ th’ forenoon in honor o’ this grand occasion...Oi’ll show ye who’s boss around here from now awn.’
At the age of 18, I took a turn at this section hand business for a few months. That’s how come I know so much about it’s being real, honest-to-goodness work!
In those times, we bent our backs in the sun for 10 hours a day. And, mister, when you drag ties, set fish plates, and hammer home a slew of those big spikes to fill one of those big days, you don’t know anybody to accuse you of being a ‘sissy.’ Although you might be too tired to resent it, at that.
Of course, I got a little time off on the first day, because I was made victim of the legendary ‘initiation’ monkey-shines that had to be undergone by every rookie. We started work that morning near the east switch stand and one of the men soon approached me with an empty oil can, requesting I run down to the section house, about a half mile distant, and ask the boss for some red oil for the switch light. After I had been sent back empty-handed, but bowed beneath the load of sarcasm the boss had unloaded upon me, I started to swing my pick in disgust. It wasn’t long before the boss, himself, strolled up with a well-feigned look of worry on his face.
‘Dang it all,’ he growled, ‘Joe Scanlon, over to Central Square, ain¹t never brung back that rail-bender I lent him last week. Now we gotta use it today, fixin’ that Red Mill curve. Here, Burt, you scoot over to the Square an’ get that bender. It’s a might heavy to carry, so take yer time comin’ back.’
So off I went - not exactly ‘scooting,’ either, for it’s nine miles from Parish to Central Square. When I finally arrived and informed boss Scanlon of my errand, I caught a fleeting look on his face, which by the mercy of Providence penetrated my skull to the extent that I realized on the instant that I had been made the butt of another practical joke.
Joe quickly recovered his poise, telling me he’d loaned the fabled instrument to Ed Greene at Brewerton, and that I’d better go there and ask -
But his words came too late - I had caught on. So, to even up matters a little, I spent nearly the whole afternoon getting back to Parish, where I faced the uncouth laughter of my associates as well as I was able.
All of which brings me, apropos of nothing at all, to the case of Swen Gustafsen, trackwalker of the old Slate Run section gang, down in the wilds of Lycoming county, Pa.
Swen was tramping the rails between Slate Run and Cedar Run on his daily tour of inspection, when he spied at the side of the track a dismembered human arm. He stopped, gazed briefly, shook his head soberly, and proceeded on his tour. A bit further along, he came upon a leg, which brought him to another short pause. A few yards more and he beheld a man’s torso in the rank grass. Then he began to hurry a little and in a minute or so he came upon a man’s head!
--My good gosh! it was the head and features of Ole Ekstrom, a friend and fellow worker!
Swen stood for a long moment, scratching his blond head and mustering his thoughts.
‘Ay tank,’ he murmured slowly, ‘mebbe something she is happened to Ole!’
--A great life, this railroading, even if you do weaken!
February 27, 1949
Among the many and various things that were indelibly impressed upon the bidding mind of the old-time student of railroad telegraphy there was one that stood out in relief … When two trains, traveling in opposite directions attempted to pass each other on a single track; a considerable amount of confusion was bound to ensue.
(Those two opening sentences may have been a bit long - but I have known railroaders who served longer ones in the same connection).
No teller of railroad tales should fail to have his repertoire a decent number of harrowing wreck stories, wherewith to beguile or disgust his readers, as their various moods might dictate - so I venture to bring you one which is, perhaps, unique in that no one was injured, no damaged resulted and nobody was even excited except this narrator.
In the fall of 1908, I came to the Hojack to see how they fared in the effort to overcome the handicap of my prolonged absence. This natural urge of mine was aided and abetted by the fact that the Fall Brook officials had given me a broad hint that my departure would be not only condoned, but deeply appreciated.
So, I induced chief dispatcher George Henry Williamson to give me a job at Richland under the watchful eye of agent Orley Sprague - and by the mercy of Providence, I lasted one whole day, that time!
But to my story - My first and last day at Richland passed uneventfully, although the job called for a lot of work in those days. Trains to and from Watertown, Rome, Syracuse and Oswego converged here and the telegraphers were kept busy handling the schedules.
I was relieved at 7 p.m by night-telegrapher Schwartz and immediately boarded an engine which was to “run light” to Syracuse. Sam Hollingsworth was the engineer, and he readily agreed to let me off at Parish where I was staying at the time.
I said on the left side of the cab, behind Fireman Barney Fidler - and away we went toward Pulaski.
There’s a great fascination in riding the cab of a locomotive - especially an unattached one. You go bouncing and swaying over the rails; the wind takes away your breath, brings tears to your eyes and blows cinders into your open mouth. You clutch for support as you pound down the straight-away with your head, neck and shoulders protruding from the cab window in defiance of the stiff breeze. Mister, it’s grand!
Suddenly, as we cleared the yard and flew downgrade toward Pulaski, a chill premonition came to me: I bethought of something - and my heart stood still! Number 3, the eastbound passenger train from Syracuse, was due to leave Pulaski in our direction at that very moment…And here we were , rushing toward her at 60 miles an hour, with no possibility of escaping a trash! I clutched the arm of Fireman Fidler and yelled in his ear:
“Hey, Barney! Ain’t we run-in’ on number 3’s time? She’s due outa Pulaski right now!”
Barney turned his head and made a staccato reply:
“So what? Nobody gives a damn for her. We’re on -“
The rest of his reply was lost on me; frothier just ahead a big locomotive headlight suddenly rounded a curve and rushed down upon us with appalling speed!
I let out a frantic shriek and leaped for the opposite cab entrance. Grasping the hand rails, I swung my body out into the darkness and prepared to let go. Engineer detached his hand from the throttle, reached a long arm and grasp me firmly by the coat collar. He yanked me back into the cab with such force that I fell flat among the cinders in front of the fire door.
- And before Barney could lift me to my feet, the passenger train went thundering by!
“What the heck is the matter with you, anyway,” chided Hoillingworth. “If I’d knowed you was a’ entire damn fool, I wouldn’t have let you ride, anyway. Why did you try and jump for?”
Stunned and bewildered, I tried to explain - although at the moment I couldn’t figure out why I was alive.
“H-how did number 3 get by?” I chattered. “Why ain’t we all dead, right now?”
“Why, you idjit,” laughed Fireman Fidler, “she went by on the other track, o’course.”
— Great gimd! Then I remember! During my absence in Pennsylvania, they had installed a double track between Richland and Pulaski and I had forgotten about it!
Folks, I went back to my Pennsylvania job the next day and I didn’t show up along the Hojack for a long, long time. I just couldn’t take it - that’s all.
There are still a few old-timers who haven’t forgotten about this episode and they never fail to elaborate on it when they meet me.
In fact, no long time since, one of these Hojack ancients sent me a typewritten sheet, purporting to be a verbatim copy of a circular issued by the Oswego trainmaster’s office in 1908. It reads like this:
“All trains approaching each other from opposite directions on the new double-track between Pulaski and Richland will come to a full stop and will not proceed until each has passed the other.
J. G. H.”
And still my face is red!
March 27, 1949
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 looked so big and bustling to a teenage rookie like me.
As I looked at the shabby old 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 o 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!
Syracuse Post-Standard, June 28, 1949
Bertrande Will Be Missed
To the Editor of The Post-Standard:
Bertrande is dead. He left us on rather short notice, which was quite unlike him. Barely a week ago I met him on the street where we chatted for a few minutes, and he wanted me to go to lunch with him. I was headed for home for that, so we went into the editorial department at
the Post-Standard, and visited a few minutes longer.
Probably but few of his readers knew his real name. It was Bertrand Harry Snell. We always called him Bert. Like my own, his early ancestors probably were among the Palatines who came to this country in 1710. This name is found in the lists of these people; and I understand that several Snells, who probably were descendants, have their names inscribed on the honor roll of the Oriskany monument.
I shall have to confess that although those of my own forebears are also said to be there. I have never seen this battlefield memorial except in pictures. I mentioned his apparent ancestry and the Revolutionary War service to Bert one day some years ago. His gravity
and response were characteristically humorous: "Yes, sir, and they were where the bullets were the thickest! - biding under the ammunition wagons." But to all accounts there was no hiding.
Bert and I, still having some difficulty believing that our own independence had been achieved, carried on the conflict through many long years of service with the Western Union in this city; fighting life's battles shoulder to shoulder, and sometimes, in a friendly way, with each other.
But Bert was always my staunch friend, despite some unimportant points of philosophic disagreement now and then. He always eventually conceded that I was right - probably because my superlative obstinacy offered no alternative!
When I retired from the telegraph service in 1936 it was Bert who saw to it that I was presented with a beautiful gold watch suitably inscribed: and he, himself, made the presentation.
He and I were country boys learning telegraphy about the same time on the old "Hojack," he at Parish, I believe, and I at Cigarville, now Clay. I didn't know him then, nor of that fact until I met him some years later. He had some newspaper experience before coming to Syracuse. He wrote good verse. Among his poetical compositions, "Ingetrude of Helsingfors," stands out as a vibrant, heart-throbbing tale of Viking love. The man who could read it and not want to discover a continent - or another Ingetrude! - is completely immune to the lure of adventure:
"So deep of chest, so round of thigh,
So flaxen haired, so blue her eye,
She looked - and cravens turned to Thors
For Ingetrude of Helsingfors."
I shall miss him and his writings; his reminiscences of his railroad days, his "Uncle Noel," and such tales as The Battle of Clapsaddle Pond."
Some of these are in my scrap-books. But I find that I am about five years older than Bert, and soon.
I too, shall rest with none - and persecuted Dalatine.
Syracuse EDWIN H. YOUNG.
(Editorial) Post-Standard, June 28, 1949
Bertrande H. Snell
Bertrande was a man worth knowing. Quiet and unassuming, with a rare sense of humor and a deep understanding of human nature, good and bad, he was a fine companion.
We'll miss him here at The Post-Standard, with which he was associated for many years indirectly as a Western Union telegrapher and directly as a columnist. His work was a columnist began in 1945 and became popular immediately. But it is a characteristic of him that his work was improving constantly. His writings had reached a high degree of excellence, but even so he would never have been satisfied.
Bertrande had built up a wide circle of readers even before he started his column, "Just Around the Corner," however. He earlier wrote many poems for the Morning's Mail; they attracted attention because of their rolling rhythm and pungent expression of thought.
He had a gift not only for expressing his thoughts with poetic and epigrammatic feeling, but also possessed a keen eye for the unusual, quaint or bizarre. His columns benefited from these gifts.
He was happy in his field and it is too bad that he was stricken at a time when he was so firmly established in his field. His death is a serious loss to us and to those who enjoyed his epigrams, observations and poems so much.
