When I first began railroading in 1990, I was a brakeman with the
Burlington Northern Railroad out of Dilworth, Minnesota. There were
still cabooses in use then. I hadn’t been on the job very long and was
still meeting new people and working with new crews all the time. One
day the Crew Caller notified me by phone that I would be working a train
that night at 10:00. The day was beautiful and warm. Yet here it was
late October in northern Minnesota. This was the transition time of year
from fall into winter. Summer into fall had already passed. And winter
to northern Minnesota comes with a vengeance. By late October, all the
leaves have already fallen. And maybe a few snow flurries are not
Our October began as typical. The trees were dormant, the days
getting shorter and colder, and gone were the pillow like white clouds
of summer in lieu of solid, dark, overcasts of cloud. But that day was
very surreal – completely out of place. The day was bright, sunny, and
even inspirational. The Weatherman on TV said it was due to a blast of
high pressure that had been squeezed north from the country’s
mid-section. At 10:00 pm, I arrived at the railroad yard office for
work. The yard office is more than just an office. It is a very large
building, with offices of course, but it also houses several
communication centers, both radio and telephone. There are showers and
lockers for Trainmen, and a large open room where trainmen assemble
before each trip as well as where they report to after “tying up” at the
end of their day.
In the yard office I found the crew I’d be working with. I was
still new to the job and didn’t yet know any of these guys. The
Conductor was a great big man with a great big laugh named Jeff. He had a
full beard and wore blue jean bib overalls. Jeff was always smiling and
seemed to be a very happy sort. He obviously already knew all the other
guys in the room. He was apparently very popular. Trainmen would give
him a comment along with a pat on the back as they walked by. And in a
very loud and unmistakable voice, Jeff would yell comments at others
across the room. It made everyone chuckle.
We had our pre-train job briefing. The train was going to Wilmar,
only a few hours away. This train was the only train that Jeff and this
crew worked. I was called to fill in for a regular Brakeman who had
called in sick. The train on
this night was overweight and over length. This meant we’d be under a
slow speed restriction. Jeff decided who would be where. The Engineer
would have the other Brakeman up with him and I would be in the caboose
with Jeff. By the time everyone boarded the train it was close to 11:00.
And it was still very warm outside. Quite unbelievable. Once in the
caboose we turned on a
couple less than adequate lights. I was the new guy
then so I never offered a lot of talk. “Keep my ears and eyes open and
my mouth shut” was my policy. But Jeff carried the conversation no
matter where he was, and was doing so that night as well.
In a short while, the Engineer’s voice came over the radio, “Lie
down and hang on to something boys. We’re pulling now”. He was only
kidding about the warning for a rough ride of course. Jeff filled out
some papers on a very worn desk top
under one of the dim lights, talking nearly the whole time. I sat in a
seat looking out a window. Included in the conversation was the
unbelievable warm weather we were experiencing and how it carried over
into the night. And then with a physical reaction as if struck by
inspiration, Jeff suddenly looked up and said, “Hey, let’s sit outside!
Up on the roof!” I was shocked, and I’m sure I looked shocked. One of
the things I knew from the
two weeks of class time we had as a new hire is that no one, no one, is
ever to be on top of any part of any train while it is moving. But as a
new guy, I didn’t want to be disagreeable with the Conductor either.
Anyway, Jeff was already out the door on the end vestibule and climbing
up the ladder. So I followed.
There we sat on the roof, leaning back against the cupola for
support. The warm night air was blowing in our faces. Jeff was one heck
of a happy and friendly man. I could sense that one thing that carried
him to be so happy and likeable was his extraordinary degree of
self-confidence, which was more than merely apparent. We sat on the roof
and talked about many things. With nothing much left to do at that
point, I could relax a little and turn my attention to conversation.
Jeff talked about his collection of Harley motorcycles, and the one particular 1938 model he kept in his living room.
“It’s not for
riding”. He said. “It’s just to look at”. He was also a military
veteran, and when time permitted he raised money for disabled veterans
in the state of Minnesota. Besides railroading, community service was a
big part of Jeff’s life.
The dark of the night was broken two times by the lights of small
towns as we passed through. The grandest sight though, was watching the
full moon rising over the horizon. To witness the rising of a Harvest
Moon on a nearly tropical night was something I never experienced
before. And I’m sure I never will again. The train slowed down to 10
miles per hour. This was the clue that the head end was entering the
Wilmar rail yard. It was nearly 3:00 am. We climbed down off the roof
and went inside the caboose. Jeff outlined my duties in the rail yard.
Where we would need to back up, the switches I would be responsible for,
which cars would be left on what tracks, and the like.
We yarded the train, and when it was all done I could see the lighted windows
of the Wilmar yard office about an eighth of a mile away. In the dark,
Jeff and I stepped over the rails of many tracks to get to the office. A
building I’ve never been before. The engineer and the other brakeman
were still out
taking the locomotives over to the barn to be put away. The Wilmar yard
office was like the one at my home terminal. It too was a busy place
with many trainmen coming and going. We walked inside and for the first
time in hours we stood in bright light. The conversations inside
suddenly stopped. This got my
attention immediately. I became self-conscious instantly and wondered
about my appearance. Everyone
was looking at us. Jeff was oblivious to the sudden change in atmosphere
inside the building. He was too focused on looking for familiar faces
and yelling greetings to the men he recognized. I spotted a restroom
close by and made my way towards the door.
In the mirror of the
restroom, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The front half of me was
covered in a fine white powder. I slapped my torso to break through the
disbelief. Sure enough, clouds of fine white dust rose from my clothing.
The color of my clothes was evident through the powder, but just
barely. Around my eyes were large areas of regular skin color. I had
been rubbing my eyes quite a bit during the trip because they felt
irritated, and now I understood why. Just then I heard a big laugh come
from Jeff out in the main room. I had guessed he looked like me and had
just been told so. A minute later he walked into the restroom, all
white like me, looked at himself in the mirror, and a big burst of laughter erupted again.
The rail car just ahead of the caboose was a covered hopper loaded
with flour. The top of the car is covered and sealed with hatch type
doors. To load the car, the flour mill workers open the round hatch
doors on the roof and fill the car compartments through a spout
extending from the mill. Obviously, flour was
spilling from the spout whenever the car was repositioned for loading
the adjacent compartments. A loose layer of flour was on top of the car
after it had been loaded and sealed. Then the car was put into our train
and we never saw what was on top in the dark. Throughout the trip,
wisps of flour had been blowing back over the caboose roof, and us.
I never saw Jeff much after that night. He soon transferred to
another district terminal, and I work for a different railroad now. I
still have to smile when I think of that night. I sometimes tell it to
guys I work with. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeff tells the story too
sometimes. And I’m sure he tells it much louder than I do.
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