“Like a dragon!” Lauren said.
After some time, we lined up at Track 15’s gate, the few stops listed on the board. Soon the gateman opened the gate and we walked up the brick platform to the front of the dark red train where the First Class ‘Parlor’ Car would be.
“Right behind the ‘Smoker or Club Car,” I told them.
“Smoker?” Lauren asked.
“It’s a car where people can relax, smoke, play cards, and is usually right behind the engine.”
“This train’s kinda dirty.” Jonathan said as we walked along the dusty, heavy steel cars.
“Well, these are pretty hard-working coaches, and most of the engines are steam and they burn coal, so it gets dirty,” I told him, knowing the Pennsylvania was not noted for its cleanliness.
To my relief, the Parlor Car was clean and we mounted the steps as the proud Afro-American Pullman Porter helped us up the steps and took our suitcases. He glanced at our tickets and wished us a good morning.
“Will you be havin’ breakfast with us sir?” he asked. The car had a small kitchen that would serve light breakfasts to order.
“No thanks, already ate.”
“What’s Pull-man Lito?” Lauren asked.
“It’s like the biggest hotel you ever saw, but on wheels, a company that builds and operates thousands of sleeping cars, train cars with beds and seats, as well as cars like this, all first class, all over the country. You can go most anywhere by a Pullman car,” I explained.
We found our seats in the wood-paneled car, big overstuffed easy chairs that swiveled. The kids jumped into the chairs and started to laugh and spin the chairs around.
“Look at me!!” Jonathan yelled.
“Hey, stop that!” I grabbed each one and stopped the spinning. Jonathan started to sulk. “You want to get us kicked out of here? You have to behave, OK?”
“O-Kay, Lee-toh.” Jonathan said frowning.
Soon a couple of well-dressed men with brief cases got onboard, took their seats and opened their newspapers, ignoring us. Shortly after, a very pretty young lady got on, taking the seat next to me as she checked her seat reservation. She was dressed in the height of fashion: short hair cut in the pageboy style with bangs, lots of eye makeup and bright red lipstick, wearing a classic ‘Little Black Dress’ with shiny white silk stockings rolled below her knees that were barely covered by her skirt. The other passengers kept discreetly looking at her. It was a bit warm in the car and I explained to Jonathan that there was no air conditioning, not even in hotels - only a few movie theaters were ‘refrigerated,’ as they said in those days.
THE SPEED QUEEN
I wanted to see the engine, and asked Lauren if she would like to see it too?
She smiled, and since it was still early, we left Jonathan and strolled up to the engine, just one car ahead.
Our engine turned out to be one of the older, smaller types, a class E-6 ‘Atlantic’(which wouldn’t mean anything to the kids), one of the Speed Queens - short and stocky, like a bulldog. With only two tall driving wheels on each side, she was already outdated compared to the larger, more famous greyhound-like K-4s. Then I saw the number – 460.
“Hey, this is the 460!” I told Lauren, “ The engine that beat the airplane in a race to New York with the films of Lindbergh’s return to Washington after his trans-Atlantic flight. It was the first-ever non-stop flight across the ocean in 1927. You saw his airplane, the Spirit of St. Louis in the Air and Space Museum in Washington last year, remember?”
Lauren nodded. “Faster than an airplane?”
“Yep,” I said. “And in our time she is preserved at the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania near Patty and Gene’s house in Lancaster.”
Steam engines and electric commuter trains were coming and going, the great parade. I remembered the line from native Philadelphian Christopher Morley’s poem about Broad Street: “Such bells, and hells of coming and going…” How true it was.
From the collection of H. Gerald MacDonald
The tall, bulky engine was hissing, the ‘pop valves’ (emergency steam release valves) were ‘singing’ like a pressure cooker indicating a good head of steam, the air pumps thumping like a heartbeat, the fire roaring as the slim, very tall fireman tossed in a shovelful of coal into the big, square-shaped firebox, so typical of the Pennsylvania.
The old, plump, white-haired engineer was chewing a corn-cob pipe, looking amused as I pointed out things to Lauren. He shouted down at us through the noise.
“She’s small and old but she sure can fly!” Knowing it was true, I pretended to doubt him.
“She doesn’t look like much to me!” I shouted through cupped hands.
He looked offended, then said, “Y’ don’t think so? Come and see us when we get to North Philly, I’ll show you what she can do!”
“A ride in the cab?” I shouted back. “I got my two grandkids with me….”
“Bring ’em along!” he shouted back.
“Sure thing!” I said grinning. We walked back to our car, Lauren excited about riding the engine.
Two blasts on the whistle signaled our departure and we chugged slowly out of Broad Street, stopping at the old West Philadelphia station’s maze of tracks passing over and under us, then sprinted past the Philadelphia Zoo and the wooded, rocky Schuylkill River. The Conductor collected and punched our tickets. We arrived at North Philadelphia, where we got out on the station platform and walked up to the engine. The engineer invited us up, and with some difficulty we climbed in.
He motioned for the kids to sit down, one on each side of the big cab, Jonathan behind him and Lauren on the left side, and he said if I didn’t mind standing, to hold onto the tender. ‘Slim’ the fireman opened the firebox door and tossed another shovel of coal carefully onto the glowing fire.
“She’ll run like a scared rabbit now, full pressure at two-oh-five; fire’s perfect!” he said proudly, “if Old Mac don’t open her up too quick and blow it out the stack that is,” teasing the engineer, who glared at him.
Glancing at his watch, Old Mac the engineer said that we were being held for something, should have left already, the signal still at stop. After a few minutes the long train next to us on the platform pulled out in a hurry.
“Ha!” Old Mac said, “That’s the ‘Broadway’ from Chicago runnin’ over an hour late, bet that’s the hold up.”
Moments later the Pennsylvania’s new position-light signal’s three horizontal yellow lights winked to vertical, indicating ‘go!’ Mac gave two deafening blasts on the whistle, the kids holding their ears, and eased the throttle back.
“We’re eight minutes late, have to make up time!” Old Mac said. “Hang on!”
The engine started, the chugging a series of loud blasts, starting slowly as she dug into the rails, getting faster and faster as old Mac pulled out the throttle, and as we started to move, the chugging suddenly slowed. He showed Jonathan the lever he was working in front of him, shouting, “Acts like a gear shift on a car…”
We began to race northward, passing the heavy industry and small towns. I could see that the Pennsylvania’s electrification program was in full swing, with the new tall steel poles being erected to carry the overhead
