The Grand Train Trip

First of all , I am not concerned with getting anywhere. The whole idea is the trip. This was the consideration from the beginning. It also was one last time to really get a dose of riding the train, as the train for me is magical and has always been. The idea of traveling this way has been ingrained in me from the beginning. Before I was aware of the idea of the train. I suspect that when I was taken to Michigan for the first time , it might have been on the train. ( There is no record of how my parents got me to Pontiac back then.) But if it was not by car then it was by train. So from the very beginning I was involved with riding the trains and as I grew older my facination with trains, especially passenger trains would remain with me.

Even to the difference in the two types of trains that I would take to get from Pontiac to Moline. In Pontiac, the city was served by the Grand Trunk Railroad, which was a totally owned part of the Canadian National Rail System. It was all steam. Great Baldwin engines of the 2-8-4 variety, massive machines that seemed to be alive, panting at the end of track, steam pouring from hidden ports, the engineer worrying over joints of great rocker arms of the wheels with his long snout nosed oil can.

Then through the great sliding glass doors of Dearborn Street Station with its grand several story ceiling and Florentine tower, down into the bowels of the station to the taxi stand to catch the long low vehicles known as “Jitneys” for a hair raising trip to the other station, at La Salle Street. Then up the grand stair case to the main floor of the depot with its rush and bustle of people all going every which way to catch a train, buy a news paper, grab a meal, or just plop down in one of the massive brown benches and wait for their train. Unlike the old green coaches of the Grand Trunk, the Rock Island Rocket’s cars were gleaming aluminum and stainless steel, new shining ,with big windows and Diesel engines pulling them. Out side each cars entrance was a conductor or porter waiting to help passengers find the right car and to board the train.

The train shed was always noisy, with trains moving in and out, various train men shouting to each other, the sound of people’s feet shuffling to and from the long lines of rail cars and most unusually, birds singing up in the steel rafters of the shed. It was filled with smells too, diesel exhaust, creosote from the “sleepers” and other unidentifiable smells pouring into the shed from the outside. Once on the train you would scramble to find your seat. Usually they were reserved and noted on the ticket.