My hometown memories come alive when I am at peace with myself.
I am particularly fond of recollections of the early 1950s in Iaeger, down in McDowell County, back when my uncle Hubert and I ambled past the old railway depot, not far from the town theater where Hube (as we called him) was manager.
Back in those days, Iaeger was a busy little railroad town with an engine repair shop and a rotation device called a “roundhouse” for turning monstrous steam-powered mechanisms around and sending them off in opposite directions.
My grandfather, the late Sidney Stanton Rice was a retired railroader with years of service to his credit.
Uncle Hubert, meanwhile, was a former U.S. Marine who returned home after World War II to pick up his job at the local theater. He was only a projectionist while in high school, but upon his return he was offered the managerial duties. He loved everything about the theater environment, and the people of the community seemed to appreciate him and the job he did.
The real attraction of the settlement, though, was the huge steam locomotives that cruised through town every hour or so. Those enormous smoke-belching engines never failed to scare the daylights out of me—but I loved every minute of it.
One memorable day in 1954, during the last gasps of steam railroading, I got my chance to see one of those monsters up close.
Uncle Hubert and I were examining a big freight locomotive parked across the street at the depot.
As we strolled up to the engine, the engineer leaned out the window and asked us if we’d like to join him in the cab.
As an 8-year-old, I was too excited to speak, but Uncle Hubert must have interpreted my jumping up and down as an enthusiastic “Yes!” and I was hoisted up into the locomotive engine room.
It was hot in there. It was awfully dark and crowded for the inside of such a large iron contraption, that engine, and there were gauges, handles and levers everywhere.
Sitting on the engineer’s lap, I could see the tracks ahead, though levers and hand wheels partially obstructed the view from that vantage point.
The engineer assured me that he could lean out of the window when he really wanted to see farther down the tracks.
I remember asking the railroader what made the traingo, so the engineer grabbed a lever and swung it to the right, saying, “First, we release the brakes.” Then a big whoosh of air from somewhere around the wheels startled the dickens out of me.
“Now,” he said, pointing at a big lever, “just pull back hard on that one.”
I must have strained until I turned blue. Meanwhile, Uncle Hubert and the engineer tried not to laugh. “Let me help, partner,” the engineer said, taking hold with me. The lever easily gave way.
That was a nice demonstration, I thought. But then the engine seemed to take a deep breath, emitted a big CHUG, and made a minor but undeniable lurch forward.
It never occurred to me that this huge locomotive was going to move.
Panic seemed like a good idea until the engineer reassured me that we were only going to park in front of the depot so that a railway clerk could hand up the orders.
We inched our way toward the loading and storage area of the depot.
By then my fears had melted and turned to pure delight.
“Okay, bub,” said the engineer, “let’s shut off the steam and coast to a stop.”
I eagerly grabbed the big lever again, and with the engineer’s help, stopped the train.
I was just about ready to holler down to my grandfather who suddenly appeared in front of the station house when the engineer asked if we wanted to see how they made coal into steam.
Uncle Hubert and I nodded, and the engineer said to the fireman, “All right, Frank, show ‘em.”
“Stand aside, boys,” Frank warned as he stepped on a large pedal. “Watch them doors.”
The doors of the firebox swung open, revealing the molten center of the earth! Waves of searing heat poured through the opening, and I felt like leaping out of the cab window.
“Okay, Frank,” the engineer said at last. “They got the point.”
The doors clanged shut; then it was time to disembark. After handshakes all around, we climbed down. The crew gave us a final wave and headed toward a waiting string of boxcars.
Grandpa greeted us with a grin that seemed like he was about to burst. Puzzled, Uncle Hubert and I looked at each other and soon discovered the reason.
Earlier that day, Grandma Daisy had dressed me in a clean white T-shirt and a new pair of white shorts.
Now, unfortunately, Uncle Hubert and I looked like a couple of railroad hands just getting off from the afternoon shift.
We were covered head to toe in soot and coal dust.
“You guys are in big trouble,” Grandpa threatened good-naturedly, knowing what a ruckus my mother would raise when she saw us.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” laughed my uncle, winking at me. “We’d both better change clothes before we get to the theater.”
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Top o’ the morning!