A Good Day on the Gravy Train
The following lines will be about an engineer and his crew. Their piece in the railroading puzzle was every bit as important as the Goulds of the industry. Imagine not standing as a child on the side of the rails and waving to the train, but being a child in the cab, waving to those along the way. That was my guest book contributor's perspective.
This is from Mike's guest book entry. Gratefully, he would continue adding.
"The Lewisburg /Church Point railroad ran from Bunkie through Eola, Tate Cove, Ville Platte, Opelousas and then to Church Point. My dad worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad for 42 years, and actually started with them building the depots and section houses along the "Church Point Branch". He was the engineer on the run from Alexandria to Bunkie to Church Point and back (same day) for the last 21 years of his career. They used to stop and buy fresh eggs, vegetables, etc. from the farmers along the route. One time, he brought a calf home. They had locked it in a box car, and they stopped at our home in LeCompte and my brother and I got him off. He had the same crew for 16 years, because it literally was a gravy train. They usually left Alexandria about 6AM, and were back home for 5 PM. Lunch was always "The Palace Cafe" in Opelousas. When I was a kid, I was allowed to make the trip with them".
I asked him what he meant by "Gravy Train", where the Palace Cafe was and more. Here are his answers and comments:
" Gravy train was a good description...Once they left the T & P main line at Bunkie, they had no other trains to worry about, since the 'branch' was a dead end at Church Point. The conductor would have his 'pick up' and 'set out' orders. That would let them know how much work there was for the day. Some days (not many) they would have to hustle, but most days they ran 15-20 miles an hour, waved to kids, flirted with the women hanging clothes, and generally had a good ride. Major switch points were Tate Cove (the Canal Oil refinery, and the carbon black plant), Opelousas (Lou-Ana Products, American Cotton Compress, and several wholesale warehouses), and Church Point (Church Point Wholesale Grocery). They used to bring tank cars full of wine from California to Church Point Wholesale for re-bottling. 'Gravy train' meant stopping in the little towns to buy smoked meats, vegetables, syrup and honey, etc., something you could never do on the busy main line!
The Palace Cafe is on US 190 in Opelousas, right across from the courthouse. It's about 3 blocks east of the old train line. Food isn't as good now as I remember as a kid, but it is full of Imperial St. Landry history. My mother was born and raised at LeMoyen, on US 71, and my grandfather was a prominent cattle rancher in northern St. Landry parish. I used to go with him to Opelousas for business, and we'd always eat at the Palace. Sometimes, I'd be in the next week with the train crew, and the waitresses would fuss over me.
My dad started on the railroad in 1929 as a carpenter building ticket counters and cabinets in the buildings the railroad owned. He had been apprenticed as a cabinetmaker back in Georgia as a young boy, and came to La. looking for work. He was laid off in 1932, and managed to hire on as a locomotive fireman on steam engines with the T & P. He worked steam engines until they were phased out in the early '50's for diesels. He hated diesels, because he said they had no 'heart'. He was promoted to engineer in 1950, after 18 years as a fireman (nothing moved fast back then but the trains themselves). He retired June 1, 1971, and never looked back. He loved the railroad, and especially steam engines, but said he had worked all his life, and now he wanted to do what he wanted. He lived another 18 years, and was killed in a tractor accident at the age of 82. His retirement was all he wanted it to be, and for that I'm grateful. He infected me with a love of the rails that I have passed down to my sons and grandsons. I cannot hear a steam engine whistle without tearing up, thinking how proud he was to be in that right seat, one hand on the throttle, and the other on the whistle cord. It was a pretty good job for a mountain boy from Georgia with a 3rd grade education. I have all of his railroad stuff, and wear his Hamilton 992B pocket watch on special occasions.
A typical crew consisted of an engineer, fireman, conductor, and 2 brakemen. As I said, Dad's crew was mostly older hands who appreciated the easy pace of branch line work. They could have made more money on the main line, but the work and stress was so much more demanding. His crew for the last 16 years of his career was: Mr. T A, fireman; Mr.'Red', conductor; Mr. Harold and Mr. Tom , brakemen. Only Mr TA is still alive, and I make it a point to talk to or see him at least once a month. They were dear friends to my father, and super guys to a kid. I have some photos I'll get together for you".
I'm making that last statement public. You are my witnesses.
I've also asked Mike for more stories from the rails. I bet Mr.TA has some.
The Railroader: Time
Mike has graciously bestowed upon us another memory of his father, The Railroader. Here's his latest:
Technology and Tradition on the Church Point Branch
To the men who used them, they were more than just timepieces. No king ever held an orb that made them feel as important as the train crews that carried the biscuit sized Railroad Pocket Watches. Timekeeping on the nations railroads had become standardized in the late 1880’s, after multiple high casualty collisions between trains. Any man who worked on the road had a railroad time service approved pocket watch.
There were classes of pocket watches, just as there were classes of automobiles, or tools. Storekeepers, clerical folks, and shop mechanic typically carried B W Raymond, Illinois, or occasionally an Elgin. But the cream of the crop, and the ONLY pocket watch carried by main line train crews was the Hamilton 992B. 21 jewels, gold filled case, lever time setting, and a fancy chain were the mark of somebody important on the twin ribbons of steel. It was the mark of a brakeman, fireman, conductor, or engineer who had weathered the seniority system and had arrived at that top level of railroad hierarchy.
My fathers’ 992B was strictly off limits to my inquisitive hands as a small child. I can still remember the night he was getting ready to go to work, and told me to go get his watch. My feet never touched the floor as I went to his bedroom and with trembling hands, picked up the Holy Grail of railroading (at least to a 10 year old kid!). If I would’ve had 4 hands, they all would have been holding the watch that signified that my Dad was really somebody special. I sure didn’t want to drop his most prized possession.
In October of 1963, my Dad was coming off a year of convalescent leave for a combination of heart attacks, and depression caused by a crossing accident that took the lives of an entire family. My brother and I wanted his return to duty to be a happy occasion. Bulova had just come out with the “Accutron” wrist watch. It was the first wrist watch approved for railroad use. Operated by a battery, and timed by a miniature tuning fork, it was something special to two modern age young men. To Dad, it was the spawn of the Devil!
When we presented the watch to him, he seemed to be at a loss for words. We thought he was just emotional. But as he turned the wrist watch over in his hands, he finally mustered the words he really didn’t want to say. “It’s a wrist watch!”, as if it was a rattlesnake he had in his hands. We had to show him the ‘Railroad Approved” legend on the dial, and the instruction manual that told all about this latest marvel of the Space Age. It didn’t make too much difference; he just couldn’t trust something that didn’t even resemble his beloved Hamilton, and ran on a battery, of all things. What was the world coming to?
He wore the Accutron for about 3 months, but always had the Hamilton in his pocket for backup. His crew would tell us about him looking at the wrist watch, and then looking around before he pulled the Hamilton out to see the real time.
In his later years, he gave me the Accutron. He bragged on it, and told about how much he had liked it, but it was all words spoken to ease the feelings of a son. The battery was dead, and there were no scratches on the crystal, so I knew it hadn’t been worn much.
I have both watches now. Sometimes I wear the Hamilton 992B, even using the leather belt holster he had made because pants quit coming with watch pockets.
It’s hefty feel, heavy ticking, and antique look assure me that all is well with the world. The Accutron gets out some too, and when they were little, my grandchildren would marvel at the high pitched hum that came from the watch. My oldest grandson, who is legally blind, asked why the Accutron didn’t tick like the Hamilton. I gave him some bull story about it being a space age marvel He promptly deflated me by saying; “Real watches tick”. I’m sure his grandfather was laughing as he looked down on us, two train lovers, holding two watches, one ticking, and one humming, both with my fathers love engraved on them.
THE RAILROADER: LOVING AND LOSING ON THE AVOYELLES BRANCH
My preface:
For those who might not be familiar with the "Railroader" series here on History Hunts, let me bring you up to speed. Mike left a few lines in the guest book a while back reflecting that his dad had worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad in more than a few capacities, including being a fireman on steam engines and an engineer on the diesels. I recognized Mike as a treasure chest of memories from a "golden age" of railroading, one of my keen interest. We corresponded. Then, Mike, feeling pressure from several sides, finally got down to putting some of those memoirs on "paper". His sharing of those stories with us is a gift. As I have said before, this level of historical reporting is rare. The personal angle applied to these stories is rarer. Thank you, sir.
This one is a grinner:
LOVING AND LOSING ON THE AVOYELLES BRANCH
Boy, was she a beauty...a petite dark haired, dark eyed French lass of Avoyelles Parish, who just happened to be in the back yard every time the T&P local passed behind her house near Mansura.
It didn’t take long for the crew to start noticing her, especially since she made it a point to wave to them as they trundled down the line between Bunkie, Marksville, Port Allen and points in between. As on most branch lines, the condition of the Avoyelles branch necessitated a slower pace. Usually those tracks only received a lick and a promise of mainline level maintenance.
The young lady got bolder and bolder, finally venturing up to the fence separating her yard from the right of way. The closer she got to the track, the prettier she was. Young Gerald Gaspard, the junior brakeman, and only single guy on the crew, fell deeply in love with the lady. He started buying her small gifts, and talked the engineer into slowing down so he could toss them to her.
Things started heating up in the trackside romance, and while against all railroad rules, young Gerald talked the engineer, Mr. Waller, into stopping so he could do a little face to face courting. He got her name, and a phone number, and fell even more deeply in love when she pecked him on the cheek as he turned to get back on the caboose.
This went on for several weeks, with Gerald throwing off presents, and Yvonne blowing kisses all the while. One day, Gerald got Mr.Waller to stop the train and went to the fence to see ‘his’ girl. While he was kissing her, the back door to the little frame house flew open, and out came a huge man, calling and cussing in French, packing a double barreled shotgun. Yvonne promptly made a run towards the neighbor’s house. Gerald could speak French, so he was the first to realize that the man was cussing him for kissing his wife, and intended to render Gerald incapable of kissing his wife, or any other man’s wife, for that matter.
The locomotive was about 10 car lengths up the track. Dad and Mr. Waller were not watching the happenings to the rear. Cabooses had whistles on the back to provide warning when a train had to back up. While Gerald was running for the track, Mr.Holsomback, the conductor, was blowing the whistle for all he’s worth. This happened in the days before two-way radios on trains. On a steam engine, even at rest, there’s a lot of noise, so the head end crew was not aware of the situation developing to their rear.
As Gerald made it to the rear platform of the caboose, the angry husband brought the shotgun up and let a round loose towards the caboose. It broke the glass in the cupola, and the engine crew heard the shot. When Dad looked out the fireman’s side of the steam locomotive, he saw two men running for all they were worth towards the engine. Mr. Waller shouted out: “Fred, I think that SOB just shot my train!”. About that time, another round hit the side of the caboose. Mr. Waller dumped the brakes, opened the big throttle valve, and tried to get traction in a hurry. All the while, the two caboose dwellers were coming up the fireman’s ladder, as the angry husband was running down the side of the track, reloading as he ran.
The engine finally got traction and the little train slowly pulled away from the angry husband. Needless to say, there was a hurried up conference further down the track to fabricate a cover story to explain away the shotgun damage to the caboose. On the next run into Mansura, Gerald and Mr. Holsomback made the run past Yvonne’s house lying on the floor of the caboose. Alas, there was no Yvonne there to wave hello, or blow kisses. And, Gerald damned sure wasn’t going to throw her anything, anyway. He was teased unmercifully for years about coming so close to getting shot over a few kisses on the Avoyelles branch. When Bob Waller retired a few years later, Mr. Holsumback made him a wooden plaque that named him as “The best getaway train engineer on the T & P Railroad”
The Railroader: Reflections on a Dark Day
Mike has shared a few stories about his father, the railroader.
The first one was posted this morning.
The second one I'm placing here and on Back Road Riding because there are those that would like to keep you around, even you Fred. I received this one earlier today and have tried to decide how to present it. It's a tough one. It is emotionally draining and I will rate it "R" for that category. It you don't want to get bummed out, stop here, turn around and leave. If you want to sharpen your intelligence regarding railroad crossings, read on. The first story Mike sent telling of his father's career created a picture of him and his crew blissfully swaying to and fro down a peaceful branch line with no other traffic on the rails. The second story is one which enforces the fact that bliss can turn into tragedy on a dime. I hope that you will stop, look and listen whenever you are about to cross a rail line. If you die, it is your fault and your loss is not the end of it. That horror can scar many for generations. A few minutes reading this could save your life. Here's Mike's note.
Steve,
I've shared the good, and hope to share plenty more about the extraordinary times I was able to live in as the son of a railroader. I've given you some insight into my dad that was positive. Now comes the saddest part of his career. In October of 1962, during cane season, the Church Point local was running back to Alexandria after a Saturday trip to Church Point. Cane was high, like it should be that time of the year, and visibility at crossings was limited. Dad was running about 35 MPH, and the three men in the cab were bantering back and forth about the World Series. Dad hated the Yankees, and T A Richey was a die hard Yankees fan.
Standard crossing horn signal was 2 long, a short, and then another long held until the engine entered the crossing. Engineer and fireman always called out to each other if the crossing was clear, or if cars were stopped, so that they could relax a little. At the LA 106 crossing at St. Landry, cars were stopped. Dad open the throttle another notch, and leaned back into his seat, his hand still on the horn cable, blowing that looooong last note before entering the crossing.
>From around the stopped cars came a car, obviously oblivious of the horn, the 200 ton locomotive, and all the danger coming down upon it. Dad immediately appilied the emergency brakes and dumped the throttle, but it was too late. The coupler on the engine centered the passengers door of the car, and the shriek of grinding metal filled the cab. Trains do not stop on a dime, or for that matter, on a silver dollar. Investigation revealed that the car was carried 275 feet down the track. Inside was a family of 5. Father, mother, and 3 small children never realized what had hit them. When the train stopped, the crew scrambled down to front of the locomotive . The car was wrapped around the nose of the locomotive. Inside were the mangled bodies of the parents and 2 of the children.
Dad heard a noise from under the front of the locomotive, and crawled on the rock ballast to find the source. He came out with a little 2 year boy, and sat down on the side of the track holding him. He held him until the boy died, stood up, and suffered a heart attack.
He didn't work for 1 full year, my senior year in high school. He suffered another heart attack at the hospital in Ville Platte, and was a long time recovering. But the physical healed easy. Until the day he died, he said he saw that little boy's face looking at him. The family was on their way to a wedding at the Catholic church in St. Landry, within rock throwing distance of the crossing, and were late. The little boy was to be the ring bearer in the wedding.
It was a lot of gravy on that little branch line, but sometimes it was a huge dose of pain. I know, because I saw it every day he was alive after that child died in his arms. I saw him tense up at crossings when I rode with him in later years, and I saw it in his eyes when he held his grandchildren...where would that little boy be if he'd been a little more vigilant, blew the horn a little bit louder, been running a few miles slower or faster.
He and his crew was absolved of all blame. People stopped at the crossing testified he'd done everything right, that the driver had run around them, and that the horn and bell were operating.
It never mattered. The little boy haunted him the rest of his life. He'd killed at other crossings, but he didn't hold a baby while it died. I hope that when he finally died, the little boy met him on the other side, hugged him, and told him everything was alright. He deserved that.
Mike
The Railroad Track Gang
Mike has offered up another excellent railroading memory. As the son of a railroader, he was privileged to have these insights, and we are privileged that he has shared them. Thanks again Mike. For more of Mike's recollections, check the listings toward the bottom of the main page.
The Railroader’s Track Gang
By Mike Wilson
Forget John Henry! He was a myth. Forget the steam hammer he battled in the old folk tale. They were both figments of fertile imaginations. I know. I saw real track men at work as a child, and John Henry and the steam hammer had nothing on them.
Lean and lanky from years of swinging pick and maul, they worked from can ‘til can’t, and made it look easy in the process. As a child, I grew up next to the Texas and Pacific Railroad in the small community of LaMourie, in south Rapides Parish. I would watch the track gangs work in both heat and cold, in sunshine and storms, and through it all, not a machine was used to help them. It was all muscle, timing, and some laughter.
All the glory and glamour may have been lavished on the crews that herded freight and passengers to far away destinations, but they traveled on the rails and ballast maintained by the track gangs. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, each railroad divided its trackage into sections. A section was usually about 10 miles in length, depending on the number of switches, sidings, and other factors. A section gang was responsible for the day to day maintenance of their section. A gang consisted of a foreman, a straw boss (usually the senior member of the gang), and about 8 laborers. In the South of the 1950’s, all the laborers and the straw boss were black. The foreman, straw boss, and a couple of the senior laborers lived in railroad provided housing on their section, so they could respond to emergencies quickly.
The foreman had some autonomy over his section, but also worked under the direction of the Maintenance of Way district supervisor for larger operations. Every day, his gang would trundle their Fairmont motor car and its trailers out to the edge of the main line, and wait for clearance to proceed to their work area for the day. The foreman was given a set of orders that detailed the trains running that section that day, and he was responsible for insuring that he could get his work done in between trains. Train crews would be given orders that detailed the mileposts where work would be going on, and their orders, know as ‘slow orders’ would always include the phrase “Proceed, prepared to stop upon signal”. The track crew always had a man out trained in flagging the trains approaching the work area, and in addition, yellow Slow Order signs would be put out on the track well before the actual work area.
Upon arriving at the area to be repaired, the crew would unload their tools and equipment, and then go through their routines. First, and foremost their clothes had to be right. The foreman usually wore khakis, and a wide brimmed hat. The laborers would wear overalls, and a heavy denim jumper, winter or summer. In summer, the jumper would be doused with ice water, to cool the wearer. Ice water was not for drinking in the dead of summer. The experienced men brought their water in gallon wine jugs, and would cover them in the grass along the track. They would take small drinks of the ambient temperature water, and never have a problem. It was always good sport to watch the summer hires show up on the track gang. Usually football players from a local college, they’d peel off their shirts and then later start hitting the ice water. After about an hour, they’d be laid out on the ballast, with stomach cramps, and developing sunburns for tomorrow. The old hands knew how to play the heat game. For them, meal time was usually some soda crackers and cold meat of some kind. Football players always brought enough food for 3 normal men, and sure enough, after lunch, they would be laid out again with stomach cramps. Most of them were quick learners.
One of the straw boss’s jobs was to call cadence for the men using mauls or picks. He would have a singsong pattern to his call, one that kept the men in rhythm on their swings. When lifting rail, his calls would tell the men when to set their tongs, when to lift, and then the call to step the rail into position. No military drill team matched them, because a man out of step meant that someone could be hurt. Rail size is listed by weight, with a weight given to a 3 foot section. All rail used is 33 feet long, so a section of 100 pound rail weighed 11X100, or 1100 pounds. Moving something of that weight and length required everyone to be in step, and moving to a set pattern. When aligning track, everyone had to push at the same time, so the boss called that move too. Tamping and shoveling ballast required coordination, so he called that also. The section foreman cast an overall eye on the work, and used his track gauge and level to insure that the track met specs.
To a youngster watching, it was all magic. Men calling out to each other in that special music, watching the picks and shovels moving in rhythm, and the good natured teasing common to men used to working together. The section gangs are gone now. Mechanization has replaced those men. Entire sections of track have the ties replaced, ballast resettled, and height and alignment done by computer controlled machines. Today’s track gangs are mostly Hispanic, and move all over the system in work trains, carrying their equipment from one division to the other. There’s not much pleasure in listening to the roar of diesel engines powering tie pullers, tampers, and ballast regulators. There’s just no magic in a diesel, as my steam engine railroader father said many times.
When you cross over a railroad track, look closely at the precisely set rails, the orderly ballast, and the straight cross ties. At one time, all that work was done by proud men, making good livings for their families, and respected by the men who ran their trains over their handiwork. Maintenance today may be faster and more efficient with the machines, but we’ve lost something with the passing of the section gangs, just like the loss we suffered with the demise of the steam engine.
Those were proud days on the rails, for all concerned. I miss them terribly.
===========================================================================
My wife just read it and shares my opinion. She came in grinning exclaiming that his descriptions were so vivid. I have yet to attain that status, thus all my pictures. For those with less than vivid imaginations, I've copied a few pictures and writes by others. In this day of disappearing websites, I'm going to carry their flag whether they like it or not. These are too valuable. Links to the originals are supplied.
Reiterating: Below this point are additions I found to enable a tangible vision of the track workers, sometimes called "gandy dancers" or as Mike mentioned, "section gangs". I've thrown in a little more explanation. That's all below.
Picture from Here
Below is from Here.
A gandy dancer is someone who works on the maintenance crew of a railroad. Track crews are critical for a working railroad, as these men and women ensure that the tracks are in good working order, and they address situations on the tracks before they turn into problems. Work in this field can be backbreaking, and the hours are often very long, as people are sometimes required to travel great distances to check on and repair tracks.
The origins of the term “gandy dancer” to refer to a track worker are rather obscure. The term appears to have emerged at the end of the nineteenth century, and it was often used specifically in reference to black track workers. Many track workers in the Eastern part of the United States were of black heritage, while workers in the West tended to be Chinese and later Latin American, after Chinese immigrants were excluded from most work as well as property ownership, marriage, and citizenship. Latin American gandy dancers had their own term for themselves: traqueros.
There are a variety of theories about why track workers came to be known as gandy dancers. The “dance” part is actually rather easy, as most track crews sang songs while they worked to keep rhythm. Singing also helped to dispel fatigue, and on a well-coordinated crew, the singing and carefully timed movements could be reminiscent of dancing.
As for the “gandy,” things are a bit more complicated. Some people have suggested that it is a reference to special tools known as gandies which were use for lifting the rails while ties were replaced. However, this could easily be a backformation from “gandy dancer.” Others have said that it is a nod to the Gandy Manufacturing Company of Chicago, which made lots of tools for track maintenance. This would be plausible, except that no record of this company's existence can be found.
In another theory about the origins of "gandy dancer," people point to the way in which the rails used to lie track were handled. These rails were very heavy, and typically a large crew of men would move the rail together, shuffling carefully in time to the music and supposedly looking like a flock of waddling geese. This apparently led people to call track workers “gander dancers,” which was corrupted into “gandy dancers,” though why ganders specifically instead of geese in general would be singled out is unknown. Perhaps it is a reference to the all-male nature of historic train crews.
Whatever the origins of the term, gandy dancers routinely ride the rails to inspect them. Every time a train passes, the vibration loosens the fixtures of the track, so it is important to tighten tracks, check for rotting or damaged ties, and clear hazards on the tracks such as downed trees. Gandy dancer crews historically used specially built lightweight track cars, which could be self-powered or powered by a small engine, to travel the sections of the track they maintained. Many modern crews use custom-fitted cars and trucks which are capable of driving on train tracks.
Gandy Dancer Work Song Tradition
From Here
"Gandy dancers" was a nickname for railroad section gangs in the days before modern mechanized track upkeep. The men were called dancers for their synchronized movements when repairing track under the direction of a lead workman known as the "caller" or "call man." The name "gandy" supposedly arose from a belief that their hand tools once came from the Gandy tool company in Chicago (though no researcher has ever turned up such a company that made railroad tools). The name may also have derived from "gander" because the flat-footed steps of the workmen when lining track resembled the way that geese walk. There is, however, no consensus on the origin of the name.
Each group of railroad workers, known as section gangs, typically maintained 10 to 15 miles of track. The men refilled the ballast (gravel) between the railroad ties, replaced rotted crossties, and either turned or replaced worn rails, driving spikes to lock them to the crossties. Spike driving required no group coordination, but the heavy rails had to be carried by teams of men with large clamps called "rail dogs." A lead singer coordinated the effort with so-called "dogging" calls. A good half of a typical workday was spent on the constant chore of straightening out the track (known as lining), and it was from this activity that "gandy dancers" earned their name. When leveling the track, workmen jacked up the track at its low spots and pushed ballast under the raised ties with square-ended picks, often leaning shoulder-to-shoulder in pairs while the caller marked time with a four-beat "tamping" song.
In the South in general and Alabama specifically, at least through the 1950s, the foreman of a section gang was invariably white and the members of the gang itself almost exclusively African American. The foreman typically positioned himself 50 yards or more from the section gang, squatted down, and examined the length of track for problems. He used visual signals to tell the caller where the track was out of alignment and when it was "lined" properly. At the time, rails typically came in 13-yard (12-meter) lengths. The section gang systematically aligned the rails at the joints and at specified points along its length in a well-defined order.
Section gangs were made up of as few as four men but might include as many as 30 men, depending on the workload. Each workman carried a lining bar, a straight pry bar with a sharp end. The thicker bottom end was square-shafted (to fit against the rail) and shaped to a chisel point (to dig down into the gravel underneath the rail); the lighter top end was rounded (for better gripping). When lining track, each man would face one of the rails and work the chisel end of his lining bar down at an angle into the ballast under it. Then all would take a step toward their rail and pull up and forward on their pry bars to lever the track—rails, crossties and all—over and through the ballast.
Lining track was difficult, tedious work, and the timing or coordination of the pull was more important than the brute force put forth by any single man. It was the job of the caller to maintain this coordination. He simultaneously motivated and entertained the men and set the timing through work songs that derived distantly from sea chanteys and more recently from cotton-chopping songs, blues, and African-American church music. Typical songs featured a two-line, four-beat couplet to which members of the gang would tap their lining bars against the rails, as in this example:
In a ceremony at the Smithsonian in 1996, John Henry Mealing (who had worked on the Western and then the Frisco lines) and Cornelius Wright (who had worked on U.S. Steel's 1,100 miles of track), two former callers of this kind of work song in central Alabama, received National Heritage Fellowship Awards as "Master Folk and Traditional Artists" for their demonstrations of this form of African-American folk art.
Additional Resources
Courlander, Harold. Negro Songs from Alabama. Rev. & enl. 2nd ed. New York: Oak Publications, 1963.
Corn Bread Crumbled in Gravy: Historical Alabama Field Recordings from the Byron Arnold Collection of Traditional Tunes. Audiocassette. Produced by Joy D. Baklanoff and John Bealle. Montgomery: Alabama Folklife Association, 1992.
Gandy Dancers. VHS. Directed by Maggie Holtzberg-Call and Barry Dornfield. New York: Cinema Guild, 1994.
Lomax, Alan. The Folk Songs of North America in the English Language. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1960.
Traditional Musics of Alabama: A Compilation. Compact disc. Produced by Steve Grauberger. Montgomery: Alabama Center for Traditional Culture, Alabama State Council on the Arts, 2002.
An Early Version
Construction Crew Version
Folk Version
Prison and Chain Gang Version
Other Versions
Guy Johnson's research indicated that the earliest John Henry ballads originated in the oral tradition of hammer songs in the 1870s and evolved over time into the ballads with which we are familiar today. One of the earliest written copies of the ballad, prepared by a W. T. Blankenship and published about 1900 or slightly earlier, was obtained by Johnson. Johnson believed this version represented portions of several earlier versions.
"John Henry, Steel Drivin' Man"
Coosa Tunnel, Columbus & Western Railroad - 15 miles east of Birmingham, Alabama
(Stovall & Havens, 1895)
Contact information for the Alabama Folklife Association:
The Alabama Folklife Association
The Photo AlbumThe origins of the term “gandy dancer” to refer to a track worker are rather obscure. The term appears to have emerged at the end of the nineteenth century, and it was often used specifically in reference to black track workers. Many track workers in the Eastern part of the United States were of black heritage, while workers in the West tended to be Chinese and later Latin American, after Chinese immigrants were excluded from most work as well as property ownership, marriage, and citizenship. Latin American gandy dancers had their own term for themselves: traqueros.
There are a variety of theories about why track workers came to be known as gandy dancers. The “dance” part is actually rather easy, as most track crews sang songs while they worked to keep rhythm. Singing also helped to dispel fatigue, and on a well-coordinated crew, the singing and carefully timed movements could be reminiscent of dancing.
As for the “gandy,” things are a bit more complicated. Some people have suggested that it is a reference to special tools known as gandies which were use for lifting the rails while ties were replaced. However, this could easily be a backformation from “gandy dancer.” Others have said that it is a nod to the Gandy Manufacturing Company of Chicago, which made lots of tools for track maintenance. This would be plausible, except that no record of this company's existence can be found.
In another theory about the origins of "gandy dancer," people point to the way in which the rails used to lie track were handled. These rails were very heavy, and typically a large crew of men would move the rail together, shuffling carefully in time to the music and supposedly looking like a flock of waddling geese. This apparently led people to call track workers “gander dancers,” which was corrupted into “gandy dancers,” though why ganders specifically instead of geese in general would be singled out is unknown. Perhaps it is a reference to the all-male nature of historic train crews.
Whatever the origins of the term, gandy dancers routinely ride the rails to inspect them. Every time a train passes, the vibration loosens the fixtures of the track, so it is important to tighten tracks, check for rotting or damaged ties, and clear hazards on the tracks such as downed trees. Gandy dancer crews historically used specially built lightweight track cars, which could be self-powered or powered by a small engine, to travel the sections of the track they maintained. Many modern crews use custom-fitted cars and trucks which are capable of driving on train tracks.
Gandy Dancer Work Song Tradition
From Here
"Gandy dancers" was a nickname for railroad section gangs in the days before modern mechanized track upkeep. The men were called dancers for their synchronized movements when repairing track under the direction of a lead workman known as the "caller" or "call man." The name "gandy" supposedly arose from a belief that their hand tools once came from the Gandy tool company in Chicago (though no researcher has ever turned up such a company that made railroad tools). The name may also have derived from "gander" because the flat-footed steps of the workmen when lining track resembled the way that geese walk. There is, however, no consensus on the origin of the name.
Each group of railroad workers, known as section gangs, typically maintained 10 to 15 miles of track. The men refilled the ballast (gravel) between the railroad ties, replaced rotted crossties, and either turned or replaced worn rails, driving spikes to lock them to the crossties. Spike driving required no group coordination, but the heavy rails had to be carried by teams of men with large clamps called "rail dogs." A lead singer coordinated the effort with so-called "dogging" calls. A good half of a typical workday was spent on the constant chore of straightening out the track (known as lining), and it was from this activity that "gandy dancers" earned their name. When leveling the track, workmen jacked up the track at its low spots and pushed ballast under the raised ties with square-ended picks, often leaning shoulder-to-shoulder in pairs while the caller marked time with a four-beat "tamping" song.
In the South in general and Alabama specifically, at least through the 1950s, the foreman of a section gang was invariably white and the members of the gang itself almost exclusively African American. The foreman typically positioned himself 50 yards or more from the section gang, squatted down, and examined the length of track for problems. He used visual signals to tell the caller where the track was out of alignment and when it was "lined" properly. At the time, rails typically came in 13-yard (12-meter) lengths. The section gang systematically aligned the rails at the joints and at specified points along its length in a well-defined order.
Section gangs were made up of as few as four men but might include as many as 30 men, depending on the workload. Each workman carried a lining bar, a straight pry bar with a sharp end. The thicker bottom end was square-shafted (to fit against the rail) and shaped to a chisel point (to dig down into the gravel underneath the rail); the lighter top end was rounded (for better gripping). When lining track, each man would face one of the rails and work the chisel end of his lining bar down at an angle into the ballast under it. Then all would take a step toward their rail and pull up and forward on their pry bars to lever the track—rails, crossties and all—over and through the ballast.
Lining track was difficult, tedious work, and the timing or coordination of the pull was more important than the brute force put forth by any single man. It was the job of the caller to maintain this coordination. He simultaneously motivated and entertained the men and set the timing through work songs that derived distantly from sea chanteys and more recently from cotton-chopping songs, blues, and African-American church music. Typical songs featured a two-line, four-beat couplet to which members of the gang would tap their lining bars against the rails, as in this example:
1 2 3 4 "O joint ahead and quarter back"
1 2 3 4 "That's the way we line this track"When the liners were tapping in perfect time, he would call for a hearty pull on the third beat of a four-beat refrain:
1 2 3 4 "Come on, move it! Huhn! (pause)"
1 2 3 4 "Boys, can you move it! Uhmm! (pause)"and so on until the foreman signaled that the track was properly aligned. A good caller could call all day and never repeat the same phrase twice. Veteran section gangs lining track, especially with an audience, often embellished their work with a one-handed flourish and with one foot stepping out and back on beats four, one, and two, between the two-armed pulls on the lining bars on beat three.
In a ceremony at the Smithsonian in 1996, John Henry Mealing (who had worked on the Western and then the Frisco lines) and Cornelius Wright (who had worked on U.S. Steel's 1,100 miles of track), two former callers of this kind of work song in central Alabama, received National Heritage Fellowship Awards as "Master Folk and Traditional Artists" for their demonstrations of this form of African-American folk art.
Additional Resources
Courlander, Harold. Negro Songs from Alabama. Rev. & enl. 2nd ed. New York: Oak Publications, 1963.
Corn Bread Crumbled in Gravy: Historical Alabama Field Recordings from the Byron Arnold Collection of Traditional Tunes. Audiocassette. Produced by Joy D. Baklanoff and John Bealle. Montgomery: Alabama Folklife Association, 1992.
Gandy Dancers. VHS. Directed by Maggie Holtzberg-Call and Barry Dornfield. New York: Cinema Guild, 1994.
Lomax, Alan. The Folk Songs of North America in the English Language. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1960.
Traditional Musics of Alabama: A Compilation. Compact disc. Produced by Steve Grauberger. Montgomery: Alabama Center for Traditional Culture, Alabama State Council on the Arts, 2002.
Jim Brown
Samford University
Samford University
Published July 13, 2007
Last updated May 18, 2009
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More about "John Henry" :
Click Here for this Website. Further links are below.
An Early Version An Early Version
Construction Crew Version
Folk Version
Prison and Chain Gang Version
Other Versions
Guy Johnson's research indicated that the earliest John Henry ballads originated in the oral tradition of hammer songs in the 1870s and evolved over time into the ballads with which we are familiar today. One of the earliest written copies of the ballad, prepared by a W. T. Blankenship and published about 1900 or slightly earlier, was obtained by Johnson. Johnson believed this version represented portions of several earlier versions.
"John Henry, Steel Drivin' Man"
- John Henry was a railroad man, He worked from six 'till five,
- John Henry said to his captain: "You are nothing but a common man,
- John Henry said to the Shakers: "You must listen to my call,
- John Henry's captain said to him: "I believe these mountains are caving in."
- John Henry he said to his captain: "Your money is getting mighty slim,
- John Henry's captain came to him With fifty dollars in his hand,
- John Henry was hammering on the right side, The big steam drill on the left,
- They carried John Henry to the mountains, From his shoulder his hammer would ring,
- John Henry was lying on his death bed, He turned over on his side,
- John Henry had a little woman, Her name was Pollie Ann,
- John Henry's woman heard he was dead, She could not rest on her bed,
- They carried John Henry to that new burying ground His wife all dressed in blue,
"Raise 'em up bullies and let 'em drop down,
I'll beat you to the bottom or die."
Before that steam drill shall beat me down,
I'll die with my hammer in my hand."
Before that steam drill shall beat me down,
I'll jar these mountains till they fall."
John Henry said to his captain: "Oh, Lord!"
"That's my hammer you hear in the wind."
When I hammer through this old mountain,
Oh Captain will you walk in?"
He laid his hand on his shoulder and said:
"This belongs to a steel driving man."
Before that steam drill could beat him down,
He hammered his fool self to death.
She caught on fire by a little blue blaze
I believe these old mountains are caving in.
And these were the last words John Henry said
"Bring me a cool drink of water before I die."
He hugged and kissed her just before he died,
Saying, "Pollie, do the very best you can."
She got up at midnight, caught that No. 4 train,
"I am going where John Henry fell dead."
She laid her hand on John Henry's cold face,
"John Henry I've been true to you."
======================================================
And finally, I drug this from HERE
Coosa Tunnel, Columbus & Western Railroad - 15 miles east of Birmingham, Alabama
(Stovall & Havens, 1895)
Garst, John.
Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi: A Personal Memoir of Work in Progress
Tributaries: Journal of the Alabama Folklife Association
Issue No. 5 2002 pp 92-129
Synopsis
In my opinion, the data gathered by Guy Johnson and Louis Chappell,
and published in their books of 1929 and 1933, respectively, make it
very unlikely that John Henry raced a steam drill at Big Bend Tunnel.
These workers made a massive effort, focused on Big Bend, and failed
to find anything definitive, despite the fact that they were able to
interview about a dozen men who had worked on the construction of
that tunnel. Only one of these men claimed to have seen the race and
his testimony was very weak. Others testified that it could not have
happened at Big Bend - they would have known about it if it had.
Johnson received letters from C. C. Spencer, F. P. Barker, and
Glendora Cannon Cummings, all of whom placed John Henry and his race
with a steam drill in Alabama during the 1880s. Cummings stated that
John Henry beat the steam drill and died at Oak Mountain in 1887, an
event that her uncle witnessed. Barker said that John Henry was at
"Cursey Mountain" while he, Barker, was driving steel on Red Mountain
(which lies along the southeastern edge of Birmingham, Alabama).
Spencer's letter was especially rich in detail, but Johnson was
frustrated by the failures of his attempts to verify some of
Spencer's facts. Spencer mentioned "Cruzee" Mountain, similar to
Barker's "Cursey," which Johnson could never find, in Alabama or
anywhere else. Spencer also named the railroad under construction as
the Alabama Great Southern, which exists but does not go over or
through a mountain with a name similar to "Cruzee" or "Cursey."
These failures caused Johnson to abandon Alabama, in favor of Big
Bend, in his unsuccessful pursuit of John Henry.
Spencer said that he personally witnessed John Henry's death. He
described how John Henry fell into a faint near the end of the
all-day contest on September 20, regained consciousness, said that he
was blind and dying, and asked that his wife be summoned. His wife
came and cradled his head in her lap. He asked, "Have I beat that
old steam drill?" Measurements gave John Henry 27 1/2 feet and the
steam drill 21.
Further, he said that John Henry was an ex-slave from Holly
Springs, Mississippi; that he took his former master's surname,
Dabner; and that he was working for contractors Shea and Dabner when
he died. Cummings gave the contractors' names as Shay and Dabney,
and a "Jamaica" informant, C. S. Farquharson, gave them as Shea and
Dabner.
In fact, Captain Frederick Yeamans Dabney was Chief Engineer for
the Columbus & Western Railway Company during the construction of
their line between Goodwater, Alabama, and Birmingham in 1887-88. He
was a Rensellear-educated civil engineer who made a career of
railroad design and construction. Captain was his Confederate army
rank. He was born in Virginia in 1834/35; raised in Raymond,
Mississippi, from about age one; and settled his family in nearby
Crystal Springs, Mississippi, after the Civil War.
Between Raymond and Crystal Springs lay Burleigh Plantation, which
was owned by Captain Dabney's uncle, Thomas Smith Gregory Dabney. In
1860 T. S. G. Dabney owned 154 slaves, while Philip Augustine Lee
Dabney, Captain Dabney's father, owned eight. (Note: Since the
publication of the article I have learned that one of P. A. L.
Dabney's slaves was Henry, born in 1844. If this is John Henry, he
would have been 43 years old in 1887. I'm told that this is a
reasonable age for a champion steel driver. - JG)
About 15 miles east of Birmingham the C & W line (later Central of
Georgia and now Norfolk Southern) passes through Coosa and Oak
Mountain Tunnels, which are two miles apart, portal to portal.
Obviously, "Coosa" was intended by "Cruzee" and "Cursey" in Spencer's
and Barker's letters. "Coosa" is locally pronounced "Koo'see" and is
even spelled that way in some old documents.
The discoveries that Coosa and Oak Tunnels exist, that they have
railroad tunnels through them, that these were built in 1887-88, that
a Dabney was the engineer in charge of construction, that he was from
Mississippi, and that his family owned slaves near Crystal Springs
lend credence to the testimonies of Spencer, Barker, and Cummings.
Evidently Spencer simply got his Mississippi "Springs" towns confused
when he mentioned Holly Springs, which, being near Memphis, is not
very close to Crystal Springs, south of Jackson.
In addition, there is a strong local tradition among Central of
Georgia employees and around Leeds, Alabama, that John Henry raced a
steam drill and died just outside the east portal of Oak Mountain
Tunnel, between Oak and Coosa Mountain Tunnels. This tradition is as
old and strong as that for Big Bend.
Finally, in about a dozen versions of "John Henry," there are lines
that are more consistent with the Alabama location than with "Big
Bend Tunnel on the C & O Road." At least two pre-1930 versions of
"John Henry" place him on "the Georgia line" or "the Central o'
Georgia Rail Road."
Thus, the evidence favors a site near Oak and Coosa Mountains,
Alabama, and 1887 as the place and time of John Henry's race with a
steam drill.
- John Garst
Department of Chemistry
University of Georgia
Athens, GA 30602
garst@chem.uga.edu
Stovall, Pleasant A., and O. Pierre Havens. 1895.Fruits of Industry: Points and Pictures
along the Central Railroad of Georgia. Savannah: Passenger Department of the
Central Railroad of Georgia System. "Text by Pleasant A. Stovall. Photographs by
O. Pierre Havens...Souvenir of Cotton States and International Exposition,
Atlanta, Ga., September 18 to December 31, 1895...On and after November 1,
1895, this system will be known as the Central Railway Company."
To read the full article, "Chasing John Henry in Alabama and Mississippi," contact the Alabama Folklife Association and order a copy of Tributaries: Journal of the Alabama Folklife Association, Vol. V (2002).Contact information for the Alabama Folklife Association:
The Alabama Folklife Association
Mike Wilson, the young fella looking out of the door window, just sent his latest addition to the "The Railroader" Series. Mike's articles are based on the life and times of his father, the other fella in the picture.
I truly appreciate all the maps and history others have supplied, but nothing beats Mike's stories. They have soul, to borrow a term from my youth. Mike, through his father, and along with his father, as pictured, has walked the walk and talked the talk. In a conversation with him today, I suggested that he write some fiction when he runs out of factual accounts. He assured me there would be no need for that as he had an endless supply of memories. I hope that made you smile, it does me. Stay tuned. I know for a fact there are two more done. Just a teaser.
Here's:
The Railroader’s Grip
Just like pocket watches, every railroad man who worked the rails carried a grip. For yard crews, it was usually a small canvas bag. For road crews, it was usually a large leather valise. Yard crew grips carried the tools of their trade such as lantern and spare batteries, a slicker suit for bad weather, some flares and torpedoes, maybe a spare pair of socks, and in cold weather, watch caps and gloves.
Road crews carried all the same things, but went a step further. Their grips also carried groceries, including those staples of railroad men: potted meat or Vienna sausages, sardines, some crackers, maybe a making of coffee, something sweet, and two or three changes of clothes. Road crews never were guaranteed to get from Point ‘A’ to Point ‘B’ in a timely manner, unless they were working a passenger run. Many times the time laws caught a crew and they had to put into a siding and wait for someone to come and get them. 24 hour convenience store weren’t around then, so a fellow had to carry something to eat.
My father’s grip was like a magician’s hat. All kinds of surprises and goodies resided there, to be pulled out on his arrival home. When he was working main line freight or passenger runs, there were exotic candies from the French Quarter, and sometimes fresh beignets, with the powered sugar still on them. Momma would heat them up in the oven, and I’d have café’ au lait with the warm pastries.
If he was working a local run, then the treat would be simpler; maybe a sweet potato pie from Church Point, or pralines from the old black lady in Thibodeau.
My mother shared in the bounty also. She collected unusual salt and pepper shaker sets, and he was always finding new ones for her to add to her collection.
As I aged, the gifts aged with me. Maybe a gyroscope you could spin and balance on the back of a chair, or a handy compass for my Scout adventures. My first AM transistor radio came out of that grip, and I still have it today. It was a marvel of engineering in 1957, and sometimes I listen to it for sentimental reasons.
I was 26 when my Dad retired, and on his way home from his next to last day at work, he came by the house. He walked in with his grip, and proceeded to pull out candy bars for my children. The magic had come full circle, and I watched as they eagerly awaited the goodies he carried, unaware of the long time ritual being acted out.
The Railroader's Photo Album
Mike W., son of the Railroader, has sent me a few of his priceless pictures from his and his father's past. I'm just going to transfer his note here and let him explain them.
The first shot is from our backyard in Lamourie, January of 1948. The dog is Butch, and the train is #24 passenger, with Daddy firing. The snow was about 8" deep.
ME: Lamourie sits on US 71, or close. It is above LeCompte and below Alexandria. It gets the award for the most French sounding town name in Louisiana. And, "firing" refers to his father being the fireman on this steam locomotive.
The second is Daddy after his first run as a full fledged engineer, rather than a lowly "promoted fireman" (more on the railroad hierarchy later). The engine is a EMD GP-9, a workhorse combo road unit and also set up for yard switching. Date was October 1952
Third is Daddy and me, on EMD F-7 #201, heading out of the depot at Alexandria, pulling T&P passenger #27. Date is 1955. I was 10 years old, and king of the world!
Fourth is my dad.......in Georgia, circa 1981. I included this one to show the pocket watch on his belt, in the spiffy little holster he had made because of pants with no watch pockets. ...that was almost as bad as a watch that ran on batteries!
The Railroader: High Water Heroes
This is Mike's latest write reflecting the life and times of his father who
worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad. His is an insight few have a chance to envision. I do appreciate, as I'm sure you do, the fact he has taken the time to write them out for us, and the fact that I have to constantly prod him to move along.
Mike has timed his latest addition perfectly. Dave and I were in that area Saturday and saw the bridge supports that were a part of the T&P. That story is forth coming and can be eventually accessed FROM HERE.
Below is Mike's recollection of his father's story. If you can't imagine the feel, or hear the rumbling of a failing barrier to natural mayhem, or know the terror of the Mississippi gone wild, read it again. So many owe so much to the effort of these railroaders:
High Water Heroes on the T & P
"Everyone remembered 1927. There wasn’t anyone over the age of 20 in central Louisiana who didn’t remember the endless water unleashed by the levee failures on the Mississippi, Atchafalaya, and Red Rivers. Loved ones had been lost, homes destroyed, and the fabric of life along the rivers forever torn and tattered.
The Old River Control Structure had been built after the Great Flood, designed to control the diversion of water from the Mississippi into the Atchafalaya. Without it, the Mississippi would bolt down the shorter Atchafalaya, and even in low water, flood downriver towns like Morgan City. The structure was built along the lower arm of Old River, just southeast of Simmesport. Old River was an ancient loop of the Mississippi that had been left when the river changed course. It had never been tested by a serious flood.
In the spring of 1945, the Mississippi went on another rampage. Levee building all along its course by the Army Corps of Engineers had kept it within the banks, but the weak spot was Old River. As the engineers watched stunned, the river started eating under the wings of the control structure. They estimated it would be only days before the structure collapsed into the swirling waters.
The Texas and Pacific Railway crossed Old River on top of the control structure, connecting on the north with the tracks going to Vidalia, La. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and the engineers knew they had to plug Old River, and fast. Bringing fill material by truck would be too slow, and there were no side dump gondolas anywhere near. Mr. R. H. Blassingame, Superintendent of the T & P in Louisiana offered a plan.
He wanted to fill gondolas with large rock, move the tracks from on top of the control structure, and align them to run up to the edge of Old River, and shove entire cuts of cars and rock alike into Old River. His plan was accepted by the engineers, and track crews worked 24 hours a day to move the track to the edge of the water. The first time, only six cars were readied, and an all volunteer crew shoved them toward the swirling water. When the time was right, the brakeman opened the coupler on the speeding locomotive. The brakes were applied on the engine, the reverse lever pulled back, and the engine stopped short of the water. The loaded cars sailed out over the water and landed almost upright.
Once the plan proved feasible, a coordinated effort brought loaded gondolas up from Baton Rouge, and down from Alexandria. They were made up into cuts of 12-15 cars, and then shoved into Old River. Crews worked with the danger of a coupler sticking and pulling them into the water, but they still made the dangerous run towards the water.
After 2 days and nights, there was an unbroken web of steel gondolas and limestone boulders sitting on the bottom of Old River. Water on the other side of the makeshift barrier had slowed to a trickle. If Old River’s concrete failed, there was now a back up in place. The track crews, engine crews, brakemen, and all the support personnel had done the impossible. They had kept Old Man River from rampaging again. After the water receded, the railroad brought in cranes and retrieved most of the gondolas. Some they never found…
My father was a young fireman on one of the crews that accomplished this feat. He was proud of his part, and kept a certificate from the U S Army Corps of Engineers thanking him for his service. Almost all those heroes are gone now, but I’m told that every now and then a commercial fisherman will snag his net and bring up a piece of metal that can be traced to a gondola car. It’s a souvenir from a time when heroes were common, and went about their life afterward believing that they had just done their job".
The Railroader's Shanty
Here's another insight into the life of a Railroader from Mike Wilson:
The Railroader’s Shanty
Dingy would be a polite word, maybe even kind, to describe railroad shanties. You’d find them anywhere railroaders congregated, especially rail yards and terminal points. They had uniqueness as far as buildings went. They were sometimes put together by the professional Bridges and Buildings crews, and sometimes by the crews themselves. It wasn’t hard to tell which one was which.
They all smelled the same, a combination of journal oil, chewing tobacco, cigarette smoke, kerosene, and something being cooked. The men that took shelter in them were yard crews, car men, hostlers, train crews awaiting their trains to be made up, and believe it or not, the random hobo.
Benches lined the walls, both for sitting, and sometimes for sleeping. In the middle sat a pot bellied stove, working overtime trying to keep the winter cold at bay. There might be a pot of stew, gumbo, or soup bubbling on the flat top, inviting all who came in to warm their outsides and insides at the same time. In summer, it might be in use as a smudge pot, trying to control the hordes of mosquitoes found in Louisiana. Always present was the railroader’s hot black coffee. It was guaranteed to wake you up, and keep you up. Nails were ringed around the inside walls, put there to hold wet slicker suits, heavy winter coats, and always, the hats.
Windows fought a hard battle to let light in, but usually lost the battle to heavy grime and brake shoe dust. Cleaning windows was not in a railroader’s job description, so over the years, the light just got dimmer. Kerosene lanterns were used in the early years, adding their glimmer and smell to the shanty. Electrical lights were single bulb affairs, giving the place the look of a sleazy pool hall.
Railroader shanties were great equalizers of race, ethnic origin, and politics. When all you want is someplace out of the cold, or rain, or maybe both, you learn to keep your personal attitudes to yourself.
Men tolerated each other because there weren’t many other places to find a dry, warm shelter, and maybe a good hot meal. A hobo would usually find a meal and a warm place to sleep, if he behaved.
As hard as they acted, railroaders were softies at heart. Maybe some of them saw themselves in the fellow down on his luck.
The shanties are gone now, replaced by sterile portable buildings with railroad motivational posters stuck everywhere and harsh fluorescent lighting. The stove has been replaced by a microwave oven, and a combo heater and air conditioner. No benches for a man to catch a 20 minute nap. Aqua fiberglass chairs are the norm now.
I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Yard crews used to consist of 5 men, as did road crews. Now there are only 2 men to switch a yard, and 2 men to haul 200 cars 200 miles. The old shanties would get lonely now. They were used to lots of lively banter, joking, and the sharing of life that happens when men of a commonality are put together.
I still can hear the men joking and laughing, and then lapse into silence as my Dad and I walked in. Someone would say softly; ‘Watch your language, Fred’s boy is with him’. Then the conversation would resume, with cleaner language. How I wish I could sit again and listen to the stories, proud to be with my father, and prouder still to be a railroader’s son
The Railroader’s Christmas Story
My dad was a locomotive engineer, and during World War II, was working a branch line local run. The line ran from Melville, Louisiana, southwest to Opelousas, through the Swayze Lake swamps.
The swamp was crossed by numerous bayous, and along these bayous lived trappers and fishermen, eking out a living from the land and water. One such trapper lived right by a trestle, and his children came out to wave at the steam engine as it chuffed through the swamp. The family was very poor, and over time, the railroaders started throwing off bags of hard candy for the little ones.
Christmas was approaching, and over lunch, the train crew hatched a plan to provide a Christmas present for each child. For the little girls, dolls and doll clothes were bought, and for the boys, toy trucks and slingshots. Even Momma and Daddy got a present.
As the engine approached the trestle, the engineer started blowing the whistle long and hard. As the train squealed to a stop, the crew got off and distributed the presents to the stunned family. Hugs were shared all around, and the crew got back on the train to continue their journey.
Over the next few trips, the children ran to greet the men, and waved their presents to show their appreciation. Two days before Christmas, the crew was slowly making their way home when they saw the father standing on the track, waving a red neckerchief to stop the train.
When they got stopped they noticed that everyone in the family was dressed in their best clothes, with washed faces, and hair combed back.
As the men got down, each child approached them, and shyly held out something. One of the boys had a hand carved raccoon, another a whistle made from bamboo for each man. The girls handed each of the men a star made from palmetto fronds, and a cradle with a hand carved Baby Jesus, both also made from palmetto. The children had taken what was available to them in the swamp, and created gifts of the heart.
My father said that his whistle was one of the nicest gifts he had ever received, and the palmetto star occupied a place of honor on our Christmas tree for years as I grew up. My daughter now has it, and when I see it on her tree, it brings back the memory of people poor in material things, but rich in the meaning of the season, and a rail crew that brought Christmas to the swamp.
The Railroader's Boss
The Texas and Pacific Railway, better known as the T & P, was started in Texas in 1881, and became a Jay Gould line in 1900. Gould owned 50.1% of the T & P all the way up to 1928, when his bigger line, the Missouri Pacific, assumed control of the smaller line. Among the 49.9% minority shareholders, the Vollmer family of Fort Worth held the most shares. When I was a child, Mr. W. G. Vollmer was the president of the T & P.
He was impressive if for no other reason than his size. He was 6’6’, weighed about 265, and had been an All American football player at SMU in the 20’s. He came from money, had money, but never ever let his wealth color his relationship with his employees. He laughed easily, and a lot. His family used their wealth to help the less fortunate, and W. G. Vollmer treated every employee as an important cog in the workings of the railroad.
The Alexandria yards had a dead end spur that ended just behind the big two story yard office. When Mr. Vollmer came down from Fort Worth, Business Car No. 1 was spotted on this dead end track, right by the parking lot, and men passed by his car going to and from work. He roamed the yard during the day and night, stopping by the roundhouse and car shops, drinking coffee in the shanties, and riding the switch engines. He wanted to know about each mans family, if all was well with his job, and if the railroad was treating him right.
In the evenings, Mr. Vollmer would sit on the rear deck of his private car, in slacks and an undershirt. Anyone could come and sit with him, and Tom, the porter/cook, always had something cool to drink, and ice cream for the kids. A man could sit and talk to Mr. Vollmer about anything related to his job, with absolutely no fear of any type of retribution. He listened to everyone, from the Superintendent all the way down to the lowest laborer, and when you were on the back of Car No. !, you were treated as an equal in the running of the railroad.
I learned a lot about employee relations sitting with my Dad and Mr. Vollmer, listening to them discuss different things. My dad always brought Mr. Vollmer produce from his garden and sometimes fresh fish for Tom to prepare for him.
I grew up thinking that all CEO’s treated their employees the same as Mr. Vollmer did. Sadly, when I got older, I found that he was the exception rather than the rule.
The T & P had an extensive network of employee recreation clubs, know as Red Diamond Clubs. They had monthly meetings, with the food provided by the railroad. In summer, boxcars of sweet green Arkansas watermelons came along the main line, and each terminal got their share. Alexandria had a huge icehouse, and the melons were iced down and then a big party was held, with burgers, ice cream, and watermelon. In the winter, Christmas parties were held, complete with Santa Claus and gifts for everyone. Each employee got a hand signed Christmas Card from Mr. And Mrs. Vollmer, mailed from Postal Car #1. When an employee’s child graduated from high school, a $25.00 savings bond was Mr. Vollmer’s gift, along with an admonition to do well in life so that the workers on the T & P would be proud!
By the time Mopac took over complete control of the T & P in 1966, Mr. Vollmer had died. My dad often said that his heart would have been broken by the ruthless way that his beloved T & P was ripped apart, and sold to the highest bidders. MoPac kept only the most lucrative parts for itself, and let the rest either rust, or ruin, or pass into history.
I could write a small book on how well the T & P treated its employees, but in this day and age of corporate greed, it would sound like a fantasy. W. G. Vollmer was the exception rather than the norm, and sometimes I wish I could go back to the 1950’s, when a tall man with sparkling eyes, a true sense of humor, and an endless supply of ice cream sandwiches made a young kid think that his Dad was someone very important. Why else would he be sitting on the back of a fancy business car dressed in his work khakis, talking to the president of the finest railroad in the world? He had to be important to rate that honor!
More Rail Tales from Mike
A contributor to this rag was doing research last night and ran into a brick wall. She wrote to ask if I could help with some railroad information. She knows I have resources. I sent her request to Mike Wilson, Fred's son, who does the very popular Railroader Series about his father and what his father taught him. By the way, prepare yourself for Mike's Christmas story. Mike responded with the answer to her question plus his always added lagniappe. (can you believe my spell check had that!) Donella had requested clarity on a few job descriptions. Here's his return note.
Steve,
Usually the station porter did the odd jobs around the depot/station. He swept up, kept wood/coal for the stoves supplied, helped with Railway Express or baggage as needed. Usually they were older men who could no longer work on the track gangs. Some even had a place to sleep at the depot, as they had no family. Palmetto had Smokey Joe, a gray headed old black man, who was a favorite of the railroaders because he always waved to them as they passed by. His funeral in the late '50's was attended by many who had had contact with him over the years. He lived in a room off the freight shed, and folks helped him fix it up nice.
A section foreman was the supervisor of a track gang, and had responsibility for a defined 'section' of track, and all maintenance thereon. This was in the days before $5 million dollar track maintenance machines. All work was done by hand, from pulling spikes and ties, to laying new rail and ties. They did not do any work on bridges however. The section foreman was a fairly good job, and came with a nice house, and free coal oil for lanterns and coal for heat and cooking. Mr. L.Golmon was the section foreman for the stretch of T & P track from the south Alex yard limits to the LaMourie briidge. Mr H. Gremillion had the section from Lamourie to the east end of the Meeker siding, just past the Meeker mill. Both were super men, and treated their hands well.
Backups to match to above.
A Good Day on the Gravy Train
History Hunts is not a railroad site. Railroads are included here because they were a big part of our past. Their routes were the skeleton upon which the body of our country grew. The railroads' pasts have been popular playgrounds for professional and amateur historians. Rail historians are creatures of countless multiple interest. Some are technically prone. Others simply like looking at the old trains. Some investigate the industries associated with the railroads. As an amateur, what I have found hard to find are actual insights into the day to day life of the railroad man and his family. Explanations of the communities that have resided near the rails and accounts of their daily lives are not that rare. What has been missing is the view from the cab. What was it like being an engineer or other member of the crew? What was it like being a child of a railroad man? Mike's recollections and the tone of his story enlighten more than its length would seem capable .
This week, I figured I must be living right. First, Everett, a "somewhat connected" member of the Southern Forest Heritage Museum sent me a document he has just written telling "the rest of the story" regarding the motive power of the Red River and Gulf Railroad at Long Leaf and beyond. And, this morning, I was shocked to see someone had signed my guest book. Then the signer laid out a long letter telling of his father's careers an engineer and fireman on a branch line railroad during both the steam and diesel eras. It so happened, I'm familiar and have photographed most of the places of which he spoke. I felt I'd passed through a time machine, suddenly understanding more than one was capable to assimilate in a day.
Seriously, I feel like I've just walked out of the King Tut exhibit, but more fulfilled as old trains blow my whistle more than old Egyptians. My investigations have always centered on drilling down to local life, investigating the obscure and illuminating it to star status. I won't have to do much of that here.
The following lines will be about an engineer and his crew. Their piece in the railroading puzzle was every bit as important as the Goulds of the industry. This write is short and you may think the intro overblown. I hope not. Imagine not standing as a child on the side of the rails and waving to the train, but being a child in the cab, waving to those along the way. That was my guest book contributor's perspective. An epiphany?
I'm sorry, I guess that was a little saccharin, I must admit. It was the best I could do dealing with my curdling jealousy.
This is from Mike's guest book entry. Gratefully, he would continue adding.
"The Lewisburg /Church Point railroad ran from Bunkie through Eola, Tate Cove, Ville Platte, Opelousas and then to Church Point. My dad worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad for 42 years, and actually started with them building the depots and section houses along the "Church Point Branch". He was the engineer on the run from Alexandria to Bunkie to Church Point and back (same day) for the last 21 years of his career. They used to stop and buy fresh eggs, vegetables, etc. from the farmers along the route. One time, he brought a calf home. They had locked it in a box car, and they stopped at our home in LeCompte and my brother and I got him off. He had the same crew for 16 years, because it literally was a gravy train. They usually left Alexandria about 6AM, and were back home for 5 PM. Lunch was always "The Palace Cafe" in Opelousas. When I was a kid, I was allowed to make the trip with them".
I asked him what he meant by "Gravy Train", where the Palace Cafe was and more. Here are his answers and comments:
" Gravy train was a good description...Once they left the T & P main line at Bunkie, they had no other trains to worry about, since the 'branch' was a dead end at Church Point. The conductor would have his 'pick up' and 'set out' orders. That would let them know how much work there was for the day. Some days (not many) they would have to hustle, but most days they ran 15-20 miles an hour, waved to kids, flirted with the women hanging clothes, and generally had a good ride. Major switch points were Tate Cove (the Canal Oil refinery, and the carbon black plant), Opelousas (Lou-Ana Products, American Cotton Compress, and several wholesale warehouses), and Church Point (Church Point Wholesale Grocery). They used to bring tank cars full of wine from California to Church Point Wholesale for re-bottling. 'Gravy train' meant stopping in the little towns to buy smoked meats, vegetables, syrup and honey, etc., something you could never do on the busy main line!
The Palace Cafe is on US 190 in Opelousas, right across from the courthouse. It's about 3 blocks east of the old train line. Food isn't as good now as I remember as a kid, but it is full of Imperial St. Landry history. My mother was born and raised at LeMoyen, on US 71, and my grandfather was a prominent cattle rancher in northern St. Landry parish. I used to go with him to Opelousas for business, and we'd always eat at the Palace. Sometimes, I'd be in the next week with the train crew, and the waitresses would fuss over me.
My dad started on the railroad in 1929 as a carpenter building ticket counters and cabinets in the buildings the railroad owned. He had been apprenticed as a cabinetmaker back in Georgia as a young boy, and came to La. looking for work. He was laid off in 1932, and managed to hire on as a locomotive fireman on steam engines with the T & P. He worked steam engines until they were phased out in the early '50's for diesels. He hated diesels, because he said they had no 'heart'. He was promoted to engineer in 1950, after 18 years as a fireman (nothing moved fast back then but the trains themselves). He retired June 1, 1971, and never looked back. He loved the railroad, and especially steam engines, but said he had worked all his life, and now he wanted to do what he wanted. He lived another 18 years, and was killed in a tractor accident at the age of 82. His retirement was all he wanted it to be, and for that I'm grateful. He infected me with a love of the rails that I have passed down to my sons and grandsons. I cannot hear a steam engine whistle without tearing up, thinking how proud he was to be in that right seat, one hand on the throttle, and the other on the whistle cord. It was a pretty good job for a mountain boy from Georgia with a 3rd grade education. I have all of his railroad stuff, and wear his Hamilton 992B pocket watch on special occasions.
A typical crew consisted of an engineer, fireman, conductor, and 2 brakemen. As I said, Dad's crew was mostly older hands who appreciated the easy pace of branch line work. They could have made more money on the main line, but the work and stress was so much more demanding. His crew for the last 16 years of his career was: Mr. T A, fireman; Mr.'Red', conductor; Mr. Harold and Mr. Tom , brakemen. Only Mr TA is still alive, and I make it a point to talk to or see him at least once a month. They were dear friends to my father, and super guys to a kid. I have some photos I'll get together for you".
I'm making that last statement public. You are my witnesses.
I've also asked Mike for more stories from the rails. I bet Mr.TA has some.
Stay tuned. WooooooooooooooooWooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Technology and Tradition on the Church Point Branch
To the men who used them, they were more than just timepieces. No king ever held an orb that made them feel as important as the train crews that carried the biscuit sized Railroad Pocket Watches. Timekeeping on the nations railroads had become standardized in the late 1880’s, after multiple high casualty collisions between trains. Any man who worked on the road had a railroad time service approved pocket watch.
There were classes of pocket watches, just as there were classes of automobiles, or tools. Storekeepers, clerical folks, and shop mechanic typically carried B W Raymond, Illinois, or occasionally an Elgin. But the cream of the crop, and the ONLY pocket watch carried by main line train crews was the Hamilton 992B. 21 jewels, gold filled case, lever time setting, and a fancy chain were the mark of somebody important on the twin ribbons of steel. It was the mark of a brakeman, fireman, conductor, or engineer who had weathered the seniority system and had arrived at that top level of railroad hierarchy.
My fathers’ 992B was strictly off limits to my inquisitive hands as a small child. I can still remember the night he was getting ready to go to work, and told me to go get his watch. My feet never touched the floor as I went to his bedroom and with trembling hands, picked up the Holy Grail of railroading (at least to a 10 year old kid!). If I would’ve had 4 hands, they all would have been holding the watch that signified that my Dad was really somebody special. I sure didn’t want to drop his most prized possession.
In October of 1963, my Dad was coming off a year of convalescent leave for a combination of heart attacks, and depression caused by a crossing accident that took the lives of an entire family. My brother and I wanted his return to duty to be a happy occasion. Bulova had just come out with the “Accutron” wrist watch. It was the first wrist watch approved for railroad use. Operated by a battery, and timed by a miniature tuning fork, it was something special to two modern age young men. To Dad, it was the spawn of the Devil!
When we presented the watch to him, he seemed to be at a loss for words. We thought he was just emotional. But as he turned the wrist watch over in his hands, he finally mustered the words he really didn’t want to say. “It’s a wrist watch!”, as if it was a rattlesnake he had in his hands. We had to show him the ‘Railroad Approved” legend on the dial, and the instruction manual that told all about this latest marvel of the Space Age. It didn’t make too much difference; he just couldn’t trust something that didn’t even resemble his beloved Hamilton, and ran on a battery, of all things. What was the world coming to?
He wore the Accutron for about 3 months, but always had the Hamilton in his pocket for backup. His crew would tell us about him looking at the wrist watch, and then looking around before he pulled the Hamilton out to see the real time.
In his later years, he gave me the Accutron. He bragged on it, and told about how much he had liked it, but it was all words spoken to ease the feelings of a son. The battery was dead, and there were no scratches on the crystal, so I knew it hadn’t been worn much.
I have both watches now. Sometimes I wear the Hamilton 992B, even using the leather belt holster he had made because pants quit coming with watch pockets.
It’s hefty feel, heavy ticking, and antique look assure me that all is well with the world. The Accutron gets out some too, and when they were little, my grandchildren would marvel at the high pitched hum that came from the watch. My oldest grandson, who is legally blind, asked why the Accutron didn’t tick like the Hamilton. I gave him some bull story about it being a space age marvel He promptly deflated me by saying; “Real watches tick”. I’m sure his grandfather was laughing as he looked down on us, two train lovers, holding two watches, one ticking, and one humming, both with my fathers love engraved on them.
Mike W., son of the Railroader, has sent me a few of his priceless pictures from his and his father's past. I'm just going to transfer his note here and let him explain them.
The first shot is from our backyard in Lamourie, January of 1948. The dog is Butch, and the train is #24 passenger, with Daddy firing. The snow was about 8" deep.
ME: Lamourie sits on US 71, or close. It is above LeCompte and below Alexandria. It gets the award for the most French sounding town name in Louisiana. And, "firing" refers to his father being the fireman on this steam locomotive.
The second is Daddy after his first run as a full fledged engineer, rather than a lowly "promoted fireman" (more on the railroad hierarchy later). The engine is a EMD GP-9, a workhorse combo road unit and also set up for yard switching. Date was October 1952
Third is Daddy and me, on EMD F-7 #201, heading out of the depot at Alexandria, pulling T&P passenger #27. Date is 1955. I was 10 years old, and king of the world!
Fourth is my dad.......in Georgia, circa 1981. I included this one to show the pocket watch on his belt, in the spiffy little holster he had made because of pants with no watch pockets. ...that was almost as bad as a watch that ran on batteries!
Loving and Living on the Avoyelles Branch
My preface:
For those who might not be familiar with the "Railroader" series here on History Hunts, let me bring you up to speed. Mike left a few lines in the guest book a while back reflecting that his dad had worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad in more than a few capacities, including being a fireman on steam engines and an engineer on the diesels. I recognized Mike as a treasure chest of memories from a "golden age" of railroading, one of my keen interest. We corresponded. Then, Mike, feeling pressure from several sides, finally got down to putting some of those memoirs on "paper". His sharing of those stories with us is a gift. As I have said before, this level of historical reporting is rare. The personal angle applied to these stories is rarer. Thank you, sir.
This one is a grinner:
LOVING AND LOSING ON THE AVOYELLES BRANCH
Boy, was she a beauty...a petite dark haired, dark eyed French lass of Avoyelles Parish, who just happened to be in the back yard every time the T&P local passed behind her house near Mansura.
It didn’t take long for the crew to start noticing her, especially since she made it a point to wave to them as they trundled down the line between Bunkie, Marksville, Port Allen and points in between. As on most branch lines, the condition of the Avoyelles branch necessitated a slower pace. Usually those tracks only received a lick and a promise of mainline level maintenance.
The young lady got bolder and bolder, finally venturing up to the fence separating her yard from the right of way. The closer she got to the track, the prettier she was. Young Gerald Gaspard, the junior brakeman, and only single guy on the crew, fell deeply in love with the lady. He started buying her small gifts, and talked the engineer into slowing down so he could toss them to her.
Things started heating up in the trackside romance, and while against all railroad rules, young Gerald talked the engineer, Mr. Waller, into stopping so he could do a little face to face courting. He got her name, and a phone number, and fell even more deeply in love when she pecked him on the cheek as he turned to get back on the caboose.
This went on for several weeks, with Gerald throwing off presents, and Yvonne blowing kisses all the while. One day, Gerald got Mr.Waller to stop the train and went to the fence to see ‘his’ girl. While he was kissing her, the back door to the little frame house flew open, and out came a huge man, calling and cussing in French, packing a double barreled shotgun. Yvonne promptly made a run towards the neighbor’s house. Gerald could speak French, so he was the first to realize that the man was cussing him for kissing his wife, and intended to render Gerald incapable of kissing his wife, or any other man’s wife, for that matter.
The locomotive was about 10 car lengths up the track. Dad and Mr. Waller were not watching the happenings to the rear. Cabooses had whistles on the back to provide warning when a train had to back up. While Gerald was running for the track, Mr.Holsomback, the conductor, was blowing the whistle for all he’s worth. This happened in the days before two-way radios on trains. On a steam engine, even at rest, there’s a lot of noise, so the head end crew was not aware of the situation developing to their rear.
As Gerald made it to the rear platform of the caboose, the angry husband brought the shotgun up and let a round loose towards the caboose. It broke the glass in the cupola, and the engine crew heard the shot. When Dad looked out the fireman’s side of the steam locomotive, he saw two men running for all they were worth towards the engine. Mr. Waller shouted out: “Fred, I think that SOB just shot my train!”. About that time, another round hit the side of the caboose. Mr. Waller dumped the brakes, opened the big throttle valve, and tried to get traction in a hurry. All the while, the two caboose dwellers were coming up the fireman’s ladder, as the angry husband was running down the side of the track, reloading as he ran.
The engine finally got traction and the little train slowly pulled away from the angry husband. Needless to say, there was a hurried up conference further down the track to fabricate a cover story to explain away the shotgun damage to the caboose. On the next run into Mansura, Gerald and Mr. Holsomback made the run past Yvonne’s house lying on the floor of the caboose. Alas, there was no Yvonne there to wave hello, or blow kisses. And, Gerald damned sure wasn’t going to throw her anything, anyway. He was teased unmercifully for years about coming so close to getting shot over a few kisses on the Avoyelles branch. When Bob Waller retired a few years later, Mr. Holsumback made him a wooden plaque that named him as “The best getaway train engineer on the T & P Railroad”
This is Mike's latest write reflecting the life and times of his father who
worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad. His is an insight few have a chance to envision. I do appreciate, as I'm sure you do, the fact he has taken the time to write them out for us, and the fact that I have to constantly prod him to move along.
Mike has timed his latest addition perfectly. Dave and I were in that area Saturday and saw the bridge supports that were a part of the T&P. That story is forth coming and can be eventually accessed FROM HERE.
Below is Mike's recollection of his father's story. If you can't imagine the feel, or hear the rumbling of a failing barrier to natural mayhem, or know the terror of the Mississippi gone wild, read it again. So many owe so much to the effort of these railroaders:
High Water Heroes on the T & P
"Everyone remembered 1927. There wasn’t anyone over the age of 20 in central Louisiana who didn’t remember the endless water unleashed by the levee failures on the Mississippi, Atchafalaya, and Red Rivers. Loved ones had been lost, homes destroyed, and the fabric of life along the rivers forever torn and tattered.
The Old River Control Structure had been built after the Great Flood, designed to control the diversion of water from the Mississippi into the Atchafalaya. Without it, the Mississippi would bolt down the shorter Atchafalaya, and even in low water, flood downriver towns like Morgan City. The structure was built along the lower arm of Old River, just southeast of Simmesport. Old River was an ancient loop of the Mississippi that had been left when the river changed course. It had never been tested by a serious flood.
In the spring of 1945, the Mississippi went on another rampage. Levee building all along its course by the Army Corps of Engineers had kept it within the banks, but the weak spot was Old River. As the engineers watched stunned, the river started eating under the wings of the control structure. They estimated it would be only days before the structure collapsed into the swirling waters.
The Texas and Pacific Railway crossed Old River on top of the control structure, connecting on the north with the tracks going to Vidalia, La. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and the engineers knew they had to plug Old River, and fast. Bringing fill material by truck would be too slow, and there were no side dump gondolas anywhere near. Mr. R. H. Blassingame, Superintendent of the T & P in Louisiana offered a plan.
He wanted to fill gondolas with large rock, move the tracks from on top of the control structure, and align them to run up to the edge of Old River, and shove entire cuts of cars and rock alike into Old River. His plan was accepted by the engineers, and track crews worked 24 hours a day to move the track to the edge of the water. The first time, only six cars were readied, and an all volunteer crew shoved them toward the swirling water. When the time was right, the brakeman opened the coupler on the speeding locomotive. The brakes were applied on the engine, the reverse lever pulled back, and the engine stopped short of the water. The loaded cars sailed out over the water and landed almost upright.
Once the plan proved feasible, a coordinated effort brought loaded gondolas up from Baton Rouge, and down from Alexandria. They were made up into cuts of 12-15 cars, and then shoved into Old River. Crews worked with the danger of a coupler sticking and pulling them into the water, but they still made the dangerous run towards the water.
After 2 days and nights, there was an unbroken web of steel gondolas and limestone boulders sitting on the bottom of Old River. Water on the other side of the makeshift barrier had slowed to a trickle. If Old River’s concrete failed, there was now a back up in place. The track crews, engine crews, brakemen, and all the support personnel had done the impossible. They had kept Old Man River from rampaging again. After the water receded, the railroad brought in cranes and retrieved most of the gondolas. Some they never found…
My father was a young fireman on one of the crews that accomplished this feat. He was proud of his part, and kept a certificate from the U S Army Corps of Engineers thanking him for his service. Almost all those heroes are gone now, but I’m told that every now and then a commercial fisherman will snag his net and bring up a piece of metal that can be traced to a gondola car. It’s a souvenir from a time when heroes were common, and went about their life afterward believing that they had just done their job".
Reflections on a Dark Day
Mike has shared a few stories about his father, the railroader.
The first one was posted this morning.
The second one I'm placing here and on Back Road Riding because there are those that would like to keep you around, even you Fred. I received this one earlier today and have tried to decide how to present it. It's a tough one. It is emotionally draining and I will rate it "R" for that category. It you don't want to get bummed out, stop here, turn around and leave. If you want to sharpen your intelligence regarding railroad crossings, read on. The first story Mike sent telling of his father's career created a picture of him and his crew blissfully swaying to and fro down a peaceful branch line with no other traffic on the rails. The second story is one which enforces the fact that bliss can turn into tragedy on a dime. I hope that you will stop, look and listen whenever you are about to cross a rail line. If you die, it is your fault and your loss is not the end of it. That horror can scar many for generations. A few minutes reading this could save your life. Here's Mike's note.
Steve,
I've shared the good, and hope to share plenty more about the extraordinary times I was able to live in as the son of a railroader. I've given you some insight into my dad that was positive. Now comes the saddest part of his career. In October of 1962, during cane season, the Church Point local was running back to Alexandria after a Saturday trip to Church Point. Cane was high, like it should be that time of the year, and visibility at crossings was limited. Dad was running about 35 MPH, and the three men in the cab were bantering back and forth about the World Series. Dad hated the Yankees, and T A Richey was a die hard Yankees fan.
Standard crossing horn signal was 2 long, a short, and then another long held until the engine entered the crossing. Engineer and fireman always called out to each other if the crossing was clear, or if cars were stopped, so that they could relax a little. At the LA 106 crossing at St. Landry, cars were stopped. Dad open the throttle another notch, and leaned back into his seat, his hand still on the horn cable, blowing that looooong last note before entering the crossing.
>From around the stopped cars came a car, obviously oblivious of the horn, the 200 ton locomotive, and all the danger coming down upon it. Dad immediately appilied the emergency brakes and dumped the throttle, but it was too late. The coupler on the engine centered the passengers door of the car, and the shriek of grinding metal filled the cab. Trains do not stop on a dime, or for that matter, on a silver dollar. Investigation revealed that the car was carried 275 feet down the track. Inside was a family of 5. Father, mother, and 3 small children never realized what had hit them. When the train stopped, the crew scrambled down to front of the locomotive . The car was wrapped around the nose of the locomotive. Inside were the mangled bodies of the parents and 2 of the children.
Dad heard a noise from under the front of the locomotive, and crawled on the rock ballast to find the source. He came out with a little 2 year boy, and sat down on the side of the track holding him. He held him until the boy died, stood up, and suffered a heart attack.
He didn't work for 1 full year, my senior year in high school. He suffered another heart attack at the hospital in Ville Platte, and was a long time recovering. But the physical healed easy. Until the day he died, he said he saw that little boy's face looking at him. The family was on their way to a wedding at the Catholic church in St. Landry, within rock throwing distance of the crossing, and were late. The little boy was to be the ring bearer in the wedding.
It was a lot of gravy on that little branch line, but sometimes it was a huge dose of pain. I know, because I saw it every day he was alive after that child died in his arms. I saw him tense up at crossings when I rode with him in later years, and I saw it in his eyes when he held his grandchildren...where would that little boy be if he'd been a little more vigilant, blew the horn a little bit louder, been running a few miles slower or faster.
He and his crew was absolved of all blame. People stopped at the crossing testified he'd done everything right, that the driver had run around them, and that the horn and bell were operating.
It never mattered. The little boy haunted him the rest of his life. He'd killed at other crossings, but he didn't hold a baby while it died. I hope that when he finally died, the little boy met him on the other side, hugged him, and told him everything was alright. He deserved that.
Mike
More Backup
The Railroader's Boss
The Texas and Pacific Railway, better known as the T & P, was started in Texas in 1881, and became a Jay Gould line in 1900. Gould owned 50.1% of the T & P all the way up to 1928, when his bigger line, the Missouri Pacific, assumed control of the smaller line. Among the 49.9% minority shareholders, the Vollmer family of Fort Worth held the most shares. When I was a child, Mr. W. G. Vollmer was the president of the T & P.
He was impressive if for no other reason than his size. He was 6’6’, weighed about 265, and had been an All American football player at SMU in the 20’s. He came from money, had money, but never ever let his wealth color his relationship with his employees. He laughed easily, and a lot. His family used their wealth to help the less fortunate, and W. G. Vollmer treated every employee as an important cog in the workings of the railroad.
The Alexandria yards had a dead end spur that ended just behind the big two story yard office. When Mr. Vollmer came down from Fort Worth, Business Car No. 1 was spotted on this dead end track, right by the parking lot, and men passed by his car going to and from work. He roamed the yard during the day and night, stopping by the roundhouse and car shops, drinking coffee in the shanties, and riding the switch engines. He wanted to know about each mans family, if all was well with his job, and if the railroad was treating him right.
In the evenings, Mr. Vollmer would sit on the rear deck of his private car, in slacks and an undershirt. Anyone could come and sit with him, and Tom, the porter/cook, always had something cool to drink, and ice cream for the kids. A man could sit and talk to Mr. Vollmer about anything related to his job, with absolutely no fear of any type of retribution. He listened to everyone, from the Superintendent all the way down to the lowest laborer, and when you were on the back of Car No. !, you were treated as an equal in the running of the railroad.
I learned a lot about employee relations sitting with my Dad and Mr. Vollmer, listening to them discuss different things. My dad always brought Mr. Vollmer produce from his garden and sometimes fresh fish for Tom to prepare for him.
I grew up thinking that all CEO’s treated their employees the same as Mr. Vollmer did. Sadly, when I got older, I found that he was the exception rather than the rule.
The T & P had an extensive network of employee recreation clubs, know as Red Diamond Clubs. They had monthly meetings, with the food provided by the railroad. In summer, boxcars of sweet green Arkansas watermelons came along the main line, and each terminal got their share. Alexandria had a huge icehouse, and the melons were iced down and then a big party was held, with burgers, ice cream, and watermelon. In the winter, Christmas parties were held, complete with Santa Claus and gifts for everyone. Each employee got a hand signed Christmas Card from Mr. And Mrs. Vollmer, mailed from Postal Car #1. When an employee’s child graduated from high school, a $25.00 savings bond was Mr. Vollmer’s gift, along with an admonition to do well in life so that the workers on the T & P would be proud!
By the time Mopac took over complete control of the T & P in 1966, Mr. Vollmer had died. My dad often said that his heart would have been broken by the ruthless way that his beloved T & P was ripped apart, and sold to the highest bidders. MoPac kept only the most lucrative parts for itself, and let the rest either rust, or ruin, or pass into history.
I could write a small book on how well the T & P treated its employees, but in this day and age of corporate greed, it would sound like a fantasy. W. G. Vollmer was the exception rather than the norm, and sometimes I wish I could go back to the 1950’s, when a tall man with sparkling eyes, a true sense of humor, and an endless supply of ice cream sandwiches made a young kid think that his Dad was someone very important. Why else would he be sitting on the back of a fancy business car dressed in his work khakis, talking to the president of the finest railroad in the world? He had to be important to rate that honor!
He was impressive if for no other reason than his size. He was 6’6’, weighed about 265, and had been an All American football player at SMU in the 20’s. He came from money, had money, but never ever let his wealth color his relationship with his employees. He laughed easily, and a lot. His family used their wealth to help the less fortunate, and W. G. Vollmer treated every employee as an important cog in the workings of the railroad.
The Alexandria yards had a dead end spur that ended just behind the big two story yard office. When Mr. Vollmer came down from Fort Worth, Business Car No. 1 was spotted on this dead end track, right by the parking lot, and men passed by his car going to and from work. He roamed the yard during the day and night, stopping by the roundhouse and car shops, drinking coffee in the shanties, and riding the switch engines. He wanted to know about each mans family, if all was well with his job, and if the railroad was treating him right.
In the evenings, Mr. Vollmer would sit on the rear deck of his private car, in slacks and an undershirt. Anyone could come and sit with him, and Tom, the porter/cook, always had something cool to drink, and ice cream for the kids. A man could sit and talk to Mr. Vollmer about anything related to his job, with absolutely no fear of any type of retribution. He listened to everyone, from the Superintendent all the way down to the lowest laborer, and when you were on the back of Car No. !, you were treated as an equal in the running of the railroad.
I learned a lot about employee relations sitting with my Dad and Mr. Vollmer, listening to them discuss different things. My dad always brought Mr. Vollmer produce from his garden and sometimes fresh fish for Tom to prepare for him.
I grew up thinking that all CEO’s treated their employees the same as Mr. Vollmer did. Sadly, when I got older, I found that he was the exception rather than the rule.
The T & P had an extensive network of employee recreation clubs, know as Red Diamond Clubs. They had monthly meetings, with the food provided by the railroad. In summer, boxcars of sweet green Arkansas watermelons came along the main line, and each terminal got their share. Alexandria had a huge icehouse, and the melons were iced down and then a big party was held, with burgers, ice cream, and watermelon. In the winter, Christmas parties were held, complete with Santa Claus and gifts for everyone. Each employee got a hand signed Christmas Card from Mr. And Mrs. Vollmer, mailed from Postal Car #1. When an employee’s child graduated from high school, a $25.00 savings bond was Mr. Vollmer’s gift, along with an admonition to do well in life so that the workers on the T & P would be proud!
By the time Mopac took over complete control of the T & P in 1966, Mr. Vollmer had died. My dad often said that his heart would have been broken by the ruthless way that his beloved T & P was ripped apart, and sold to the highest bidders. MoPac kept only the most lucrative parts for itself, and let the rest either rust, or ruin, or pass into history.
I could write a small book on how well the T & P treated its employees, but in this day and age of corporate greed, it would sound like a fantasy. W. G. Vollmer was the exception rather than the norm, and sometimes I wish I could go back to the 1950’s, when a tall man with sparkling eyes, a true sense of humor, and an endless supply of ice cream sandwiches made a young kid think that his Dad was someone very important. Why else would he be sitting on the back of a fancy business car dressed in his work khakis, talking to the president of the finest railroad in the world? He had to be important to rate that honor!