This is the fourth piece Tracy has sent me for inclusion in "GuestRants."
Tracy Baker has spent nearly 25 years helping people converse with one another; whether a salesperson of any ilk to a potential client, a customer service representative to a customer, or a manager to an employee. A student of human nature and a curmudgeon-in-training, he has been writing essays under the moniker "The Milkman's Son" for the last 5 years.
You can reach Tracy directly at TCBFAST@aol.com
Trains and Tracks and
Memories
As I've mentioned before, I read rather slowly, thus many books are stacked
awaiting my perusal. I've just finished one of these, Stephen Ambrose's
(and others) "Nothing Like It In The World." This book recounts the
building of the Transcontinental Railroad from 1863-1869. A fine read, and
I was very interested in the rich and powerful men who funded this
endeavor. It was quite ironic how many of the same business practices they
used to enrich themselves (while the bonds they issued nearly became
worthless) are still in use by what seems to be an endless stream of
companies today.
I've always had a bit of a fascination with railroads…whether riding on the trains, or crawling all over an old locomotive, or even just walking down the tracks. I'm not a junkie. I don't have striped overalls, or an engineer's cap, nor do I still play with my Lionel train set; in fact I don't even have it anymore (although, seeing what they are now fetching on the Antiques Roadshow, I wish I did!).
I'm pretty sure this love of the rails comes from my childhood. You see I
grew up within a stones throw of the Southern Pacific line, which ran
through the western edge of our neighborhood. The sound of the train
whistle was like a lullaby and I can honestly say I don't remember being
woken up once by the rumble a freight train going by in the night, then or
now.
Stories
While I'm riding the rails of memory lane, allow me to partake in a little nostalgic side trip down one of my mind's spur lines. As children, we often used the tracks and the right-of-way as a playground. I know, I know, "what were we thinking?" Mother would warn us. Father would scold us, but that just made us want to even more. There isn't anything quite like the forbidden!
I can remember sneaking behind my brothers through a friend's backyard onto the right-of-way, and what was for me a whole new world. My brother Steve, having caught me following them, would taunt me, saying that the trains had cameras on the back that would take a picture of you and then they would tell your parents. Thus, for nearly a year when a train would come by and I was near the tracks, I would run and hide until it passed. I don't know what happened to dispel that myth…perhaps someone set me straight, more likely I put two and two together, finally understanding that a picture of me wouldn't mean they had my name, so how could they find my parents? I never quite trusted my newfound common sense and still got against a fence when a train came by…which, in hindsight, was probably pretty smart safety-wise.
One favorite pastime came in the spring. We would get our cardboard sleds ready, head for the grassy slopes of the Highway 238 overpass, and on a nice dewy morning, slide until the grass would dry out from the friction. Our mothers would scream at the sight of our green-stained clothes, but the season was a short one as the grass would soon turn brown and the highway workers would come and cut it down. Then it was on to smashing pennies on the tracks…but not too often. Pennies still had some value other than for tax back then. Double Bubble bubble gum comes to mind. So we would switch to various and asunder other small items like bottle caps or plastic army men…really cool!
The railroad tracks were also a wonderful place to catch wildlife;
blue-belly and alligator lizards, garter and gopher snakes…all wonderful
things for young boy and something you don't see much of anymore. What ever
happened to all the blue-belly lizards? Or the garter snakes for that
matter?
Fortification
One spring, as the end of the school year approached, we (that ol' gang of mine) decided to build a multi-use structure out by the tracks that we deemed a fort. After some discussion, a plan gelled in our minds' eyes to dig a hole as deep as we could, cover it with something to make a roof, camouflage it with the dug out dirt and displaced foliage, and hide ourselves from our "enemies." The ground was still nice and soft from the rains so one Saturday in May we hauled our shovels and other digging implements and set ourselves off to find the perfect spot.
After much huddling, grumbling, and general hubbub, a location was selected about 5 feet off the grade where a natural dip in the land was located. This, we concluded, would save some digging. The spot thus chosen, the digging began in earnest. We dug, and dug, and dug until we were covered in dirt. Aside from a little lunch and the occasional water hose break, we dug nearly 6 hours that day. We stood back and looked proudly at our accomplishment. One of us ran home and returned with his father's tape measure. We measured…11 inches. Not bad for a bunch of little kids, but then we were kids and we wanted it done now!
About half of our gang being Catholic, we reconvened after mass the
following day and dug some more. The next weekend we did the same. As the
weather warmed and the sun lit up the evening skies, we would even do some
work after school. In mid-June, when school recessed for the summer, we
threw ourselves into our task. By the end of June, we had (by mutual
agreement and exhaustion) reached our goal of 4 ½ feet deep by about 8 feet
wide and began to look for a roof.
Bless The Clumsy
A short ways down the track, on either side of Hesperian Boulevard stood two lumberyards. Both received shipments of wood via trains that would back up the loaded flatcars onto a siding, and leave them there for the lumberyards' forklift drivers to unload.
Many little boys are fascinated by the use of construction or other heavy equipment and we were no different. We loved to watch the lumber being unloaded with the big forklifts grabbing hold of the huge stacks of 2x4s or plywood sheets. Once we watched as one of the forklift operators had not backed up far enough and when he swung around, his load of plywood caught the corner of the flatcar. CRACK came the sound of the load supports breaking. SCREECH, CRASH! The whole load spilled onto the ground. "Coool" we all said in unison. We saw many more of these accidents and noted that the ruined lumber was left at the side of the tracks for quite some time afterward. This gave us an idea…
We gathered as much scrap wood as we could from our own homes, enough to make roof supports and crossbeams, as well as a sidewall to help keep the dirt from crumbling back in on us. We then bided our time and sure enough, two weeks later, another load of plywood became partially damaged during the unloading and transfer process. And to form, the men left the damaged pieces sitting by the tracks. The next day, conveniently enough, was a Sunday, thus no workmen would be watching as we removed two sheets and carried them back to our hole. It wasn't stealing; we were simply recycling before its time!
We placed the plywood sheets on top…perfect fit. We then attached the supports and crossbeams as best we could with our fathers' borrowed hammers and nails. We laid out an old bedspread on the floor and one of us brought several candles for light. We dug out candleholders in the dirt sections of the wall and placed the candles in tin cans so we wouldn't set our beloved fort on fire (many of us were Cub Scouts or Webelos so we knew of fire safety). We covered the roof with the displaced dirt and shrubs, adding a few more for better camouflage. And just like that, we were done! We had completed our fort in record time and had a month and a half left (minus family vacations) of summer to enjoy it.
Enjoy it we did. We would meet there daily at varying times. Our
membership grew by several more local kids who provided candy for all of us
to share as a membership fee. However, kids will be kids, and our attention
drifted to other things. Vacations also took their toll and the last time I
used the fort, only two others of our little gang showed up.
Endings
Summer ended as summers tend to do, and we were back in school, the fort forgotten and abandoned. New weeds and shrubs took root on the roof with the first rains, further obscuring its presence. If I hadn't known to look for a neighbor's work shed and walk in a line from it, I wouldn't have been able to find it anymore.
It was in late September or early October, I honestly can't remember, when my friend came running over to my house calling for me to come out. I quickly threw on my shoes and went to meet him.
"We've got to get over to the railroad tracks, quick!" he said, out of breath.
"Why, did a train crash?" I asked hopefully.
"No, it's the fort." he said.
The fort? What could be so exciting about that?
When we had gotten ourselves through the fence we found a small crowd of people looking, chattering, and pointing. What they were pointing at was a small tractor with a mower attachment…fully interned in what was our fort. Seems he had been mowing down the weeds and, when he reached the fort, the roof couldn't support the weight of the tractor…CRUNCH.
I decided that since the entire neighborhood knew who made the fort, where we were standing was not a good place to be, especially as the tractor operator was letting loose a string of obscenities that would make a sailor blush. We retreated back to my house and hid in the backyard awhile, awaiting the inevitable trouble that was sure to come…but never did.
As I gathered from my friends over the next few days, a tow truck pulled the
tractor out of the hole and workers filled it back in. None of us, not one,
got in trouble for it. To this day I do not know why. I could speculate
that, at least in my case, my father found the whole thing rather amusing.
He was of a strange sense of humor on occasion. Or perhaps the workers
decided (after a cooling off period) that there was no real harm done and
they wouldn't pursue the culprits. Whatever it was, we, both individually
and as a whole, were eternally grateful to the God of little boys.
Fini
Tracy
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07/24/05