I don’t set myself up as an expert on the railroads or even the Ringling train itself. Each car was equipped with a large and mysterious assortment of wires, pipes, lines, ratchets, gizmos, and levers on the side and underneath. Some of them dripped and some of them steamed and some of them buzzed, and all of them were covered in grease. The urge to pull a switch or turn a knob was almost irresistible to me at times. But I refrained from playing gremlin with that magnificent chaos of mechanical engineering; my vivid imagination showed me cars uncoupling and boilers exploding if I did happen to meddle with any of those contraptions.
But when it comes to the vestibule on the Ringling train, that was a place I felt confident and affectionate about. It was a refuge and haven for me when the ‘Iron Lung’ filled with second hand smoke during long runs, and provided a gritty, vibrating view of America’s sights, smells, and sounds as we crept along. For usually we did creep; the Ringling train was not a high priority transit venue, and we often traveled on tracks that were deemed unsafe for other passenger and freight trains. We frequently pulled over onto rickety rusted sidings to let express trains thunder past. And sometimes we went through small towns at such a snail’s pace that schools abuting the tracks were let out to watch us pass and cheer us on.
My anecdotal memory recalls crisscrossing West Virginia at least a dozen times when we played the East Coast. I’m only guessing, but I think because of all the coal mines in those hills there was also an abundance of handy rail lines that intersected with tracks going in all directions of the compass. The lush greenery and sullen slag tipples made for an alluring contrast out my roomette window. Unfortunately, all the windows were sealed shut.
On one such trip across the Kissing Cousins state we came to a complete and abrupt halt next to a large red brick building that had the forbidding mien of a state institution. Our stop was so precipitous that half the books on my bookshelf were dislodged, raining volumes of P.G. Wodehouse and Mark Twain onto my naked noggin. Going out on the vestibule to investigate, I saw the trainmaster loping by, looking like he had just been extracted from a bottle of Gedney dills.
“Watsa matter?” I asked him.
“Damn rails come unbolted a mile down; gotta get someone out to fix ‘em. We’ll be here for hours” was his sour reply.
That was okay by me. The weather was pleasant, no need for a jacket; birds shot by on rising notes of mindless joy; and soon the red brick building began disgorging jabbering children by the dozens. They made a beeline to the train. Most of them were being pushed in wheelchairs or were on crutches. Some were being led by hand. Feeling a bit wary about the gathering throng, I was about to go back inside when Tim Holst and Roofus T. Goofus came out for some air.
“Lots of handicapped kids coming over to see us. Train’s gonna be here until midnight” I informed them tersely.
The chattering died down as the children were lined up in neat rows by their teachers/handlers. Many and many of them were not able to keep their heads up, lolling from side to side while they drooled continuously. So this was a home for handicapped kids, I figured to myself. Suddenly the sunlight started to curdle.
One of the boys on crutches painfully came up the gravel incline to just below our vestibule.
“Hello mister” he said. “You with the circus or something’?”
“Or something. We’re clowns” I replied, having trouble looking him in the eye. It was my day off so I didn’t want to get involved with a bunch of needy kids.
“So where you goin’ to, anyway?” he asked wistfully.
Before I could give a noncommittal answer Holst had unlatched the vestibule door and lowered the corrugated steps. He jumped down to shake hands with the little boy on crutches.
“We’re on our way out to Timbuktu” he said, giving the boy a warm grin. “Wanna come along? We can use your help to water the elephants!”
The boy grinned back sheepishly, saying “Aw, you don’t want me around. I can’t do nothin’.”
Now it was Roofus who jumped down.
“Don’t say that, kid. Y’never know what can happen to ya in the future.”
More children were being pushed and led up to the vestibule. A gray haired old matron, complete with pinze nez, bustled up to ask if we couldn’t take the time to shake all the children’s hands before the train started up again.
“Sorry lady” I said from the lofty heights of the vestibule, “but the train is ready to pull out any minute.”
“You said not until midnight” Roofus pointed out, rather unhelpfully.
“Jump down, Tork; don’t be such a mugwump!” Holst yelled at me. “They won’t bite!”
So down I jumped. When Holst was in high humor there was no gainsaying him.
Reluctantly at first, and then with gathering enthusiasm, I took their little hands, most of ‘em grubby as coal dust, and gave each one a gentle wringing.
There were nearly a hundred of them. Holst took his time, stopping to say something to each child whether they could respond or not:
“That’s a pretty dress you have on.”
“Who gave you those bright blue eyes?”
“Did we already miss lunch? I bet it was good!”
A little girl in a wheelchair, unseeing and crumpled up like a discarded piece of paper, took hold of my hand and refused to let go. I knelt down beside her and let her stroke my arm for as long as she wanted.
Roofus T. Goofus was doing his Mark Anthony imitation.
“My oh, Ohio!” he called out cheerfully, pulling out a red bandana and juggling it with two pieces of railroad riprap. He pretended to trip and slide down the gravel incline on his keister in a shower of dust. Then he picked milkweed plants to hand to the kids.
“These poesies sure ain’t rosies” he chortled, just like Mark Anthony would have done. Roofus idolized Mark, like every other First of May that season.
“You’re silly” said a small girl missing her right arm. “Do it again!”
Roofus complied. This time he added a 108 -- a backflip. He missed hitting his head on a metal train switch by about an inch.
And then the train gave a shudder and slowly started to move.
I was in a panic.
“C’mon guys, we gotta get back on!” I said urgently.
There were still dozens of kids who hadn’t shaken hands with one of us.
Roofus looked worried, too. But not Holst. He set his jaw in a way I knew meant he was digging in for a challenge.
“We’ll catch the train in the next town -- they’re going so slow we can probably walk there before them” he said to me and Roofus.
I was in a cold sweat. Letting the train get away from us was big trouble -- we might miss a show and get our salary docked.
I started back up the incline to snag the vestibule and haul myself up. But Holst and Roofus kept on shaking hands and making small talk with the kids.
“Oh shoot” I said to myself. “If they’re not worried, neither am I!” So back I came. It took about another half hour to finish up the impromptu meet and greet. The train was long gone by then. Probably halfway to Indiana, I said to myself.
“Okay, you two honyockers” said Holst cheerfully. “Let’s go see if we can catch a bus into Wheeling.” That’s where the train was due to stop for watering the livestock.
Absolutely not, proclaimed the matron stoutly. She would drive the school’s bus herself and drop us off wherever we needed. A shrewd navigator, she surmised the train would be delayed in the next town due to an ancient trestle bridge that wasn’t long for this world. And she was right. We got off the bus next to our own vestibule, with her stentorian thanks ringing in our ears, and banged on the side until Chico came out to lower the steps for us.
“Where you guys been?” he asked, completely flummoxed by our unexpected appearance outside the train.
“We were shipwrecked” said Holst mischievously.
“Storm came up, swept us off the vestibule” joined in Roofus.
“And we had to ship hike” I added, stealing a line from an old Laurel and Hardy movie.
Chico threw up his hands and said “You guys are nuttier than fruit bats!” He went back inside the train car, but the three of us stayed out for a good long while. Not saying anything, just contentedly watching the sluggish scenery roll by.
