Choo Choo
by Robert J. Marton
Every morning, Ted Whitney donned a gray and white engineer’s cap, powered up the locomotive, and started the day’s schedule. The train made stops at various towns along its usual route, always on time.
Ted’s railroad always ran on time.
Ted maneuvered the train over the rolling countryside for hours at a stretch, not even slowing down for lunch, which he ate as he worked — a baloney sandwich he carried with him in a brown bag and a bottle of ginger ale. He ate the same lunch every day.
This guy is a moron, thought Thomas Carroll, as he watched Ted’s seriousness and intensity operating the complex series of switches and routes – in his basement, for God’s sake.
This story was the not the highlight of Thomas’ journalism career. As a reporter for the Mayefield Messenger weekly newspaper, Thomas had to cover many dull and mundane stories, but some –such as this one about the retired railroad employee who tried to recreate his old work life in retirement—were more boring than others. The guy had a basement full of trains that ran on multiple tracks; he built elaborate scenery and villages with stores and streets and cars and people. Everything was crafted in intricate detail. He did this all day, every day.
Thomas composed a story lead in his mind as he pretended to be interested in Ted’s detailed description of the design and operation of his railroad:
How does a retired, senile idiot with absolutely nothing to do or anything positive happening in his life spend his day? He plays with his dumb ass trains, what else? God knows his wife doesn’t want to spend any time with him, so she’s happy to have him devote most of his waking hours to a fantasy world of plastic, metal, and wood. Ted’s world has everything in it, except any semblance of reality or human contact.
Of course, the story that eventually appeared in the newspaper will be very different. Thomas will find a way to make this nonsense at least somewhat interesting and compelling.
He spent about an hour with Ted, barely asking any questions as the old guy rambled on about his love of railroads, his lifetime collection of model trains, and elaborate details about the technical aspects of railroads in general and model trains in particular. Thomas took a few pictures with his Polaroid camera (which the Messenger staff used whenever possible to create quick and cheap photos and save the cost of paying its freelance photographers; it was the 1970’s, decades before the digital age).
Leaving Ted’s house felt like a release. Even in the windy, cold February air, Thomas’ breathing felt freer and less constricted.
Back at the office, Thomas looked over his notes –it was surprising how many he came away with—and tried to figure out how this story would be of interest to Messenger readers.
Having been a local reporter for almost five years, Thomas was very much aware that the Messenger often ran feature stories on subscribers for no other reason than that they were subscribers. His Uncle Hyatt, publisher of the Messenger, believed in “rewarding” people who paid for the paper weekly by giving them whatever recognition he had space for (the paper’s “news hole” was determined totally by the amount of advertising sold, so the size of the paper varied widely depending on ad sales). Hyatt, who Thomas believed was a dangerous combination of being mean spirited and insane, was arbitrary in who he featured in “his” newspaper. If he disliked you (which was a constantly growing number of people), your chances of getting in the paper were slim, unless you bought a substantial amount of advertising. Hyatt loved money more than he hated people.
As Thomas struggled to write a compelling article about Ted and his trains, it occurred to him that the story was not really about the trains — they were just the backdrop to a story about a man who had great pride in lifetime work and did not want to let go of a vanishing way of life. Sure, Ted may have gone overboard in building his railroad and he may exist largely in a fantasy world, but it all came from love and pride. Looking at it as a lifetime love, rather than an obsession, it seemed more of a human drama than just a story about silly toys.
Here is the story that ran in the Mayefield Messenger the next week:
Railroader’s Love of Trains is No Mere Seasonal Affair
by Thomas Carroll
Christmas scenes in many families have Dad trudging up to the attic in the middle of December, digging out and dusting off the model trains. He sets them up under the Christmas tree, and the kids watch with fascination as the trains chug slowly around the track.
Not long after Christmas, the fascination is gone, replaced by new toys and new interests. Down comes the platform and the trains are returned to storage for another year.
For Ted Whitney, the fascination never disappears. The trains never come down. They are a permanent part of his life, not a seasonal plaything.
Whitney is a retired Baltimore and Ohio Railroad passenger representative. He left the railroad a few years ago after 45 years of service, but he didn’t leave railroading. In the basement of his Mayefield home is a complete railroad system, as well as an extensive library on the subject, framed pictures of trains, and other memorabilia he has collected over the years.
His railroad, which he calls the Maryland Central, runs on a platform five feet wide and 22 feet long. There are two main tracks, divided into “blocks” – use of the standard railroad “blocking system” – which allows two or three trains to run on the same track at the same time.
The Maryland Central, like all railroads, is a highly organized, efficient system. From his large control panel on the side, Whitney directs the trains’ travel along the line from Mayefield to Washington, with three stops along the way.
The scenery is much more interesting than the real trip from Mayefield to Washington, with figures and buildings the Whitneys have collected in their travels. Included are circus wagons and animals from the Ringling Brothers Circus Museum in Florida, a miniature Eiffel Tower, and even a Goodyear blimp, which he will soon have hanging from the ceiling. Comfort stops, in the form of outhouses, dot the landscape along the entire route.
At the Washington end of the tracks is a complete railroad yard, featuring caboose tracks, shops for repair, a wrecking train and a depot.
Whitney enthusiastically points out every interesting aspect of his railroad to visitors. The fascination of the trains’ movement and the intricate pattern of tracks never ceases for him. He can’t really explain his love of trains, but says it has always been a part of his life, ever since he received his first model train at the age of five.
As an adult, he began to collect more and more model railroading equipment. “I went to work for the B&O in 1922,” he says. “When I got my first paycheck, I went down to the department store and put a deposit on a Lionel standard gauge. It’s been growing since.”
The model trains on the Maryland Central line are just a few of which Whitney owns. Many more are displayed on shelves, or in his workroom, awaiting repairs. Some are recent acquisitions, but many are remainders from his early days of collecting. His oldest is a 1900 Keywinder model.
The Maryland Central trains are the Gilbert American Flyer “s” gauge model. Gilbert stopped manufacturing them about 15 years ago, Whitney says, but some are now made by Lionel. Many of his trains are no longer on the market.
Whitney’s favorite trains are steam engines. “I’m a steam man,” he says. “When the steam engine disappeared, the glory of the railroad went with it. Any old railroad man will tell you that.”
And like the retired railroad man his is, Whitney believes strongly in railroad and train travel.
“Train travel is coming back,” he says. “It’s the movement of trains that people like. You can see the country, and if you have the time, it’s a great way to travel.”
Whether it’s traveling on real trains or operating his Maryland Central line at home, Ted Whitney’s life is filled with railroads, their history, lore and magic. For “an old railroad man,” it’s a love affair that knows no season.
(Robert J. Marton)