Riding the Iron Horse
October 3, 2014
Ruth Varner
The trip aboard Southern Railway was free since the conductor was his grandfather.
The steam locomotive’s clanging bell and whistle blast made the young boy smile. Eight-year-old Ronnie had anticipated his trip for weeks. He wore his best Sunday suit, white jacket and trousers, for the ride from Charleston to Union Station in Columbia. An independent young man, he was used to traveling places alone. He often rode the bus downtown to pay bills for his invalid grandmother and delivered buckets of coal to elderly neighbors for heating their homes. The trip aboard Southern Railway was free of charge since the conductor was his grandfather.
The conductor, dressed in a spotless three -piece suit with shiny brass buttons down the front, hollered “All aboard!” The clock read 7:45 a.m. Lifting the passenger’s stool from the platform, he stepped onto the Southern Railway car.
“What are we going to do in Columbia, Papa?” asked Ronnie.
“We got to get there first, son,” answered the conductor as he checked his watch.
The conductor was a member of the Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen and worked 40 years for Southern Railway. He was as punctual as his Elgin pocket watch, which was certified annually for the railroad. In addition to keeping trains on schedule, his responsibilities included the safety of his crew and passengers. He paced the aisles of passenger cars, collected tickets, answered questions, managed repairs and kept precise paperwork.
Ronnie peered from his window, lulled by the rhythmic clicking on the tracks. He saw fields of cotton, corn and collards and a plowing tractor which left behind billowing dust like a smoky finish to a Darlington dirt track race. Egrets trailed the tractor in search of insects from the newly plowed furrows.
The passing train stations brought back memories of his grandfather’s stories: Summerville, Orangeburg, Bamberg, St. George, Branchville. Each station house looked different and bore its name on a rooftop sign. Pressing his nose against the window and fogging part of the glass with his breath, Ronnie watched Papa visit with friendly farmers at the depot who offered him a bag of corn or collard greens from their garden. The earthy scent of farmland was overwhelmed by smoke from the train.
“Ronnie!” called Papa at one of the stops. “Follow me to the locomotive up yonder. You get to ride up front and ring the bell!”
Bursting with excitement, Ronnie scrambled along the station platform and up the steps of the first car where the engineer waved from his window. Behind him, the coal car was being filled to supply fuel for the steam engine. Ronnie rang the bell with gusto and pulled the rope of the whistle. Riding with an unobstructed view to the next station, he was king for the day. But he noticed with dismay his white suit was covered with coal dust and tried to brush it off. Smudges became a souvenier of the trip. At each stop a hiss of steam from the locomotive announced its arrival and departure like an angry dinosaur.
The impressive brick façade of Union Station in Columbia became the end of the line at 11:00 a.m. When Papa’s paperwork was complete, the two Charlestonians headed out for something to eat.
“I smell barbecue, Papa!” said Ronnie. The enticing aroma lead them to an eatery, where a drippy sandwich and a glass of sweet tea added final touches to the formerly white suit.
An overnight stay at a high rise hotel and a change of clothes prepared them for the return trip to Charleston. Ronnie hated to see the trip end so soon and began planning his next ride to New York City.
* * *
Decades later the steam locomotive was retired, its bell donated to a church, its whistle given to a factory and the beloved conductor was laid to rest. The young man traded in his childhood nickname for the adult version of Ron.
On a jasmine-scented spring day, Ron came face- to- face with a structure between Assembly Street and Main which triggered memories that made him smile. The handsome three-story exterior of Union Station was mostly unchanged and beckoned to him again. Its ornate corbels around the roof line and front entrance had escaped his notice as a child. Trains no longer carried passengers to the door, and the spacious interior had been transformed into a charming restaurant. As he dined, ribbons of sunlight filtered through the old panes of glass onto tables below. The walls seemed to embrace the souls of all the travelers who had once sought comfort within.
Somewhere in the distance, he was sure he heard the whistle of a departing train.
Ruth Varner won first place in an amateur writing competition for Lake Murray Magazine in 2007. The award encouraged her focus on writing short stories and poems which have been published online, in newspapers and recently included in The Art of Medicine in Metaphors and A Sense of the Midlands. Her nonfiction aims to preserve and share the best in everyday experiences.
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