by Ralph William Hawkins
Usually our machines
simply do what we build them to do.� But
every now and then, they remind us how to live.
Throughout the early 80�s, the New Orleans chapter of the NRHS coordinated with the Southern Railway to operate several steam excursions between New Orleans, Louisiana, and Hattiesburg, Mississippi � a 225 mile roundtrip. ��Like many in the hobby, I owe my deep love of trains to my father, and during my younger years we greatly enjoyed our riding together on these wonderful day-long steam marathons.
While railfans across the southeast during this era benefited
from frequent contact with the steam program�s more robust and modern samplings
� the ubiquitous J class #611 and A class #1218 � southeast
Every trip during these years presented a challenge to its planners. The popularity of the voyage outweighed these locomotive�s more limited drawbar pull.� I can remember arriving at New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal to find a train of coaches that seemed as long as 20 cars � too much for light Pacifics and Mikados in a solo role.� As such, diesel-electric assistants were always called in for backing.� Sometimes this would be as ordinary as a GP38-2 (as in 1984 when #4501 was beset with bad coal), but on several occasions, two of the green �Heritage� FP7�s played the necessary second fiddle to the celebrity steamer.
The tickets my father would purchase for us secured two
seats in one of the old coaches, but we were never found there.� We preferred the tail end of the movement, always
claiming a spot in
Now this is what I remember: The heavy man next to me, weighed down with multiple cameras and smelling of box lunch chicken, happened to have a radio scanner clipped to his generous belt.� Suddenly it crackled to life.� My young ears tuned in with great interest.�
It seemed the head end crew was experiencing a moment of spontaneity.� �How about we let 4501 get us underway?� asked the engineer.� A pregnant silence followed.� The boss of the FP7�s broke in with what seemed like hesitant agreement.� The conductor�s voice came next.� His, the final word.� Apparently he had no opinion on the matter, except that it was time to get underway. ��Highball 4501.�
My mind was electric.� No one had to explain any of this to me.� I knew exactly what all this railroad chatter meant.� The classy little Mikado we all loved was being handed a great challenge: 16 over worn heavyweights, all loaded to the gills with railfan fathers and sons like us, and a few patient wives.� This was to be a superlative moment.
Feeling as though I had just broken the Enigma code, I quickly tugged at my father�s sleeve. �I felt he just had to know this news before any one else.� No sooner had I finished uploading the information when we heard a whistle.� Two breathy blasts from afar signaled the start of the fight.
As the slack ran out and the drawbar tightened, the whole
train lurched. �Everyone was immediately
quiet.� In the absence of Lookout Mountain chatter, what I already
knew now became clear to others: No EMD prime movers could be heard getting
underway!� Only the deep, throaty chug of
a
Inches turned to feet, each one a victory.� Feet became yards, and slowly the city of
My budding railfan imagination was now in full cutoff, working
hard.� Understand: Southern�s 4501 had held
in my callow mind the status of true hero
for some time. To be sure, I was raised a Presbyterian, therefore taught
well the dangers of idolatry.� But this
little
Given this adoration, I understood well that this feat now taking
place before me was perhaps more than her
I had to imagine all of these sights, but I could feel their
results.� For what seemed like many a
slow mile, as the city of
The end of this promethean struggle for acceleration was soon signaled by another crackle on my neighbor�s revelatory speaker.� �Engineer 4501 to engineer 3497, how about some help now?��
At least, that�s what I remember he said.� Two blats from a Nathan 5-chime were quickly followed by the unmistakable resonance of 567 prime movers finally getting dressed for work.� Another lurch�this time a little stronger�and the clickety-clacks soon picked up in rhythm the way a jazz trio gets its thing together.� We were taking on speed, quickly now, making our way back home to New Orleans with a little help from the Electro-Motive Division.� Sheer steam determination had, I suppose by necessity, given way to diesel-electric ease.
�
As a minister now, I find I mostly view this life as a gift of immense grace to be received and responded to, not so much a thing to be conquered through sheer will or dogged grit. �But even a theologian can concede that every now and then gritty determination has its place among the virtues.� And what�s more, sometimes even our machines teach us the dignity of staying in the fight.�
Can staybolts and seams be our heroes?� Does a boiler with brakes posses a will?� I�m not sure.� Is my memory of these moments a bit puffy with time?� The details, distended in hindsight?� Perhaps.� But in my childhood memory there remain a handful of charmed minutes when an outclassed little steamer bravely took on weighty odds � and persevered.
�Slow and steady wins the race,� said the tortoise to the hare.�
Slow and steady indeed.