te a | Trere is.a certain romance about trains, We've immortalized
. them in legends and songs and pft-told stories. Many adults still remember smiling engineers

~~ cand candy being tossed from the caboose of a passing train. Even now when few of us ride

: 7 the trains anymore, there is still something mesmerizing about the rhythmic clackety-clack
a of.the wheels and the gentle swaying of the cars. © ee ao

_* But trains aren’t sentient creatures whose terrifying power has been leashed ‘by sheer
“force of will on our part. They are tons of cold steel and iron that can maim or kill. They
_ deserve our healthy respect; romance quickly fades to sheer terror when staring into the face
_ of amoncoming train, oe ay aS

OS Tt bothers me that people today still have little regard for the dangers trains pose. Most

- “of my childhood was spent in close proximity to trains. This was back in the "good old days"

when people didn’t give much thought to safety. Trains were simply a fact of life that had
_ to be dealt with. They were quaintly referred to as iron monsters, and were damned for being

_. too slow, too noisy, exceedingly dirty, and for blocking railway crossings. That they might

actually run you down was treated as something of a joke. . Le

_o.  .My first memory of a train is a chilling one. We lived at the top of a steep hill, and in

_. order to get to the town below we had to cross a set of railway tracks. This. was a busy

* “section of track; a tiny. depot for loading passengers and freight, two station houses, and

~- several side rails. Unfortunately, someone hadn’t planned things very well because the road

oe intersected right through the middle of all this, which often resulted in the crossing being
«s+. plocked by a train for long periods of time. —

. The residents coped quite well with this little problem -- they simply crossed by going
under or between the boxcars. I have this memory of scrambling under a train with my
mother. I remember lying flat on my back and looking up at the huge boxcar looming just
‘above me. There was a smell of dirty oil and grease that churned my stomach. Somewhere

ail _ along the line two boxcars collided noisily, sending a violent shudder through the length of

. ‘the train. ;

oe ’ The boxcar above me lurched forward far enough that my mother’s face on the other side
‘of the train was blocked out by one of the wheels. I panicked and tried to stand up but the

“* axle was in the way. That’s where the memory ends. Scooting under trains was a way of life

back then, but I never got used to it.

_.,. “Another hard lesson I learned was that relying on sound to warn you of an oncoming
train is just about the stupidest thing you can do. Trains always sound far away until they’re
_ right on top of you. I remember as a teenager walking down the tracks, totally absorbed in
-\. my own thoughts, when for some reason I looked back over my shoulder. I nearly died of
“fright when I saw an approaching train a few hundred feet behind me. I can still see the
‘frightened face of the engineer as he passed. Not once had I heard his frantic blasts on the
train whistle. —— |
~~" Today I would rather walk into the fires of hell than walk through a train yard, and
walking down the tracks bothers me. A lot. I keep looking over my shoulder. Take some free
"advice and stay away from the railway tracks. There are easier ways to
commit suicide. os

Terrace Review — March 20, 1992