That eye was definitely twinkling one day, a few weeks before summer vacation, when I arrived at Dad’s shop for work. He told me to keep my school clothes on and go see the section foreman and ask for a job. Believing my poor father had lost his mind, but an obedient son to the end, I made my way toward the nearby tracks and the section shed. Along the way, I met a group of my buddies who were also after section-crew jobs. As we approached the shed, a motorcar came down the track carrying the crew home. The boldest member of our group asked for, and was directed to, the gang foreman, who fixed us with a cold stare. As the smallest and youngest, I was, of course well to the rear. The foreman, obviously a man of few words, said he wasn’t in the market for any would-be gandy dancers that day, and we all turned and made our retreat. As we left, the foreman softly called me back and asked if I was perhaps Johnny Allsen’s boy. I owned up to this, then he told me I should report the morning after school was out and be ready for work with gloves and dinner bucket. I arrived back at the machine shop a while later still in shock, and informed Daddy of my news. No explanation was forthcoming, and as I watched my father out of the corner of my eye, he whistled happily at his work.
When I reported for work my first day, the foreman took me to the timekeeper’s office to be officially hired by the NYC and entered on the books as a track laborer. When I was asked if I was at least 16, to my surprise the section foreman himself spoke up and attested to that fact. I then moved on to what would be the first of three summers working between the rails.
The fact that I even survived those first few weeks was due only to the tolerance and benign neglect shown by not only the foreman but also by the other members of the gang. I was, however, a willing worker in spite of my size, and, having worked around grown men since I was 12, I knew when to keep my mouth shut and not ask too many dumb questions.
For the first few days I was assigned the “tend the larry,” the cart bearing spikes, ties, and other items. I pushed this along as the gang advanced and also made sure the water keg was kept filled from nearby farms and houses. After a short time, some other fellows near my own age joined the gang, and I was no longer the only youngster. By the time we returned to school, I had learned to pull my own weight and could remove, place, and tamp a crosstie, and heave on a lining bar with the rest of the crew.
Next summer, I again worked on the local section gang. Owing to a tremendous growth spurt, I now was a full foot taller and starting to fill out the resulting frame. I remember carrying two full dinner buckets that summer, plus a large Thermos of milk just to get me through a day of work. In this summer, I was able to take a bit more interest in what was going on around me and was accepted by the old-timers as a part of the team. However, that acceptance did not extend to trusting me alone with their lunches!
After graduation in 1956, I spent my final summer on the NYC as part of the “extry gang” working across the Toledo/Elkhart Division, a far cry from the local section’s work. We replaced and repaired track, switches, signals, and trestles along a 100-mile stretch of the four-track main line. As part of the tamping crew, I followed a large ballast machine while bucking an air-powered tamping gun that weighed almost as much as I had two summers before. The work was hard but exhilarating and, for one who loved the trains as I did, romantic and exciting.
As the summer of ’56 wore down, a steel strike forced layoffs of many track workers and I was caught with too little seniority to survive. I could have gone back to the local section but that would involve “bumping” someone else, which did not really appeal to me. So, I moved on to other things and never worked between the rails again.
My three summers as a gandy dancer left many memories: Watching the last of the great steam locomotives as they finally succumbed to diesels; seeing a Hudson pick up water on the fly from the “pan” at full speed; and the sheer excitement of feeling the earth shake as the giants thundered by on the main line. Even the lowliest track laborer like me felt a thrill of corporate pride when the 20th Century Limited roared by!
Years later, I asked my father how he knew I would get hired on that fateful day back in 1954. The answer didn’t surprise me, knowing Dad as I did. A significant debt has arisen in a poker game, with the section foreman on the short end. Dad wrote it off in return for me getting any chance. I don’t know what he saw in me that year that gave him to understand that it was time I left the comfortable job in his shop and move on to something else, but I’m glad he did. Even today, just a whiff of creosote on a summer day evokes memories of three great summers between the rails.
