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If you were lucky the conductor would, after awhile, end up sitting in the end of your car. Where, with hat off, vest unbuttoned, he would be doing “his train business.” Sorting the tickets, writing out the “car orders.” And later once his work was finished you might talk with him about “train stuff.”One thing for sure, it was his train, he was in charge and nothing escaped him. It was amazing how he knew where he was on the route just by the sound to the train. When it came time for the next stop he would stand up, button his vest, put on his cap and announce,”Blue Island, next stop Blue Island, this way out!” On his way out of the car he would pull his “railroad watch” from his vest pocket and check on the timeliness of the transit of his train.

When I was a boy , I knew a conductor, “Uncle Bill” Leonard, his division was from Chicago to Rock Island. He was a big man, or was to me. His deep blue suit, massive hands and omni present cigar made a lasting impression. When we visited with him at his big White House on 15th Street and 19th Avenue, we would sit on his wrap-around porch. In the white wicker furniture he would rock back and forth and tell stories of the rail road, the people he’d met, the adventures he had and laugh heartily. When the stories got too outrageous, his wife, “Aunt Annie,” would say, “Bill, quiet it down, don’t want to give the boy ( me) a bad impression, now , do you ?”And he would restrain himself for awhile, then he’d take another swig of lemonade and begin another story, only half as wild as the one before.

The tickets were amazing things all by themselves, made up of many segments and colors. Each had a purpose, as to the train, car, seat, transfer, luggage. When they were purchased at a the depot, the station master or ticket seller  would pull them from a multi chambered pigeon hole behind the counter, stamp and configure them for the trip and present them to you in a small envelope. What was interesting was that the tickets  were pre-printed but were dated and configured with stamps and  punches. Depending on how rigorous your trip was the tickets would be large and small and of different colors.

Then when you were on the train and the conductor came down the aisle and said “Tickets, please”, then the second part of the business took place. He would punch them with is punch.( Although I was never aware of it, the punch he used was unique to him. Each conductor had his own punch.) Once he picked up the ticket then he placed a little colored flag over your seat that indicated where you were going. So he could look down the length of the car and identify  where each passenger needed get off the train. 

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.