Railroader's Daughter

My father had a series of mild heart attacks this summer and since I had time off work, I spent some time with him. We had talked about writing the story of his life and this seemed the perfect opportunity. So I spent hours at his bedside in the hospital and taking care of him at home listening and writing.

We started - you might say - in the middle - with World War II. I can recall sitting beside him in the hospital as he recounted a story about Patton and a bridge on the Rhine River. My father was a motorized courier attached to General Omar Bradley's Headquarters. The bridge over the Rhine River had been blown up, Dad picked up mail going to Hiedleberg, Germany and was assured before he left Bradley's Headquarter's that a temporary pontoon bridge would be completed across the river by the time he arrived. They were still working on it when he arrived. He parked his jeep and waited. Patton arrived by jeep with a voice - according to my Dad - that could be heard for blocks. Patton jumped out of his jeep and walked over to the bank of the river.

"What happened then?" I asked.

With a twinkle in his eye, my Dad looked at me for a moment before speaking. "You can't write it." He said.

"What do you mean, 'I can't write it'?" I asked again, watching his facial expressions. That smile, that expression of mischief.

"You just can't!" He replied.

"Well! What happened, Dad, that I can't write?" I asked again.

Dad laughed softly and began hesitantly in order to find the right words. "Well, Patton turned to look at the troops and said loudly, "Just what I've always wanted to do!" P--- in the Rhine River!" And with that he turned back to the river, unzipped his pants and did just that. Then he turned back to holler, "Now lets get these #@*#@ tanks across the Rhine!"

I looked at my father and the expression on his face. I had already heard about his landing on Omaha Beach. Now I watched him closely. "But remembering how you came off the barge on Omaha Beach, you were already waiting and gunning your jeep motor, weren't you Dad?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Yup." He said softly and slowly. I knew before he spoke the words, what he was going to tell me and I had to laugh.

When we finished the story of World War II, we went on to his return to civilian life, his marriage, his struggles as a rancher and then the opportunity to work on the railroad. I had the opportunity to go back to my childhood days growing up along side the railroad tracks of Eastern Montana as I listened to my father recount his days working on the old Great Northern Railroad. I have sat for hours writing his memories of those days while he recovers from heart problems. His first day of work on the Great Northern was my sixth birthday.

I don't remember moving in - I was only about 6 1/2 years old when we did - but just like it was yesterday, I can see the two houses our family lived in. The railroad crew houses were two room buildings - not quite big enough to accommodate a family with two adults and five children, so we moved into two of them. One building had a long front room which served as kitchen, dining and living room. The small room in back was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Next door, the long front room was the boys bedroom while my older sister and I shared the small bedroom. There were no indoor facilities - that little building was out back - on the bank of the irrigation ditch which ran behind the railroad houses.

A roadway separated the houses from the railroad track, so we learned safety first early. The station master's house was next to the 'bedroom building' and across the drive from that was the depot. I loved going into the depot and listening to the sound of the telegraph keys. On cold winter days, a big pot bellied stove in the center of the room was warm and welcoming. The depot had a unique aroma that to me smelled like the railroad.

Across the tracks was a stock yard, an old beet dump and a grain elevator. The stock yards was a good place to play Cowboys and Indians and hide and seek when it wasn't full of cattle or sheep waiting to be shipped out. During the winter, the beet dump ramps became a sledding hill. I was never in the grain elevator, but I can recall the sounds it made when it was operating.

The school and the general store were on the hill above. Whenever we children crossed the tracks, we took the opportunity to walk the siding rail as far as we could. We stayed off the main line, that was no place to play.

The work locomotives came through often. An engine and caboose and a few cars. The engineers knew the children along the track. We watched for them eagerly because often the engineer would throw a handful of candy as they passed by slowly. When the train had passed, we ran to collect the goodies.

I remember one Christmas, Mom and Dad bought a set of yellow play phones - one for the main house and one for our bedrooms. Dad strung the line between the houses. When they wanted lights out or quiet, the phone was put to good use. They didn't have to bundle up and go out in the cold winter weather.

I can still remember lying in bed on cold winter nights and listening to the wailing of a distant train whistle. It was a lonely sound that hung in the air long before the rumble of wheels could be heard and then the house shook as the train rushed past.

There was an empty lot between the main house and the section foreman's house. How I envied them that big house. A huge rambling two story building with large rooms and a big fenced yard with trees. When I grew up, I was going to have a house just like that.

We lived along the tracks for about five years before Dad bought property up on the hill, bought the two houses from the rail road and moved them to sit side by side on a foundation. The space between the buildings was closed in and became a long room - combined dining and living room. But still no indoor facilities - we didn't get that luxury for a few more years and no real phone until I was in high school. The family grew to include eight children and we certainly needed a bigger house.

Dad's story goes far beyond that small area - he worked on the section gang there and later was often gone most of the summers working on steel gangs or tie gangs all over Eastern Montana. He went on to become a track inspector working into North Dakota and the was promoted to road master and transferred to Washington state where he eventually retired after 30+ years of service.

Listening to and writing his stories down gave me a unique opportunity to relive my early years growing up as a railroader's daughter. It also gave me an insight to a side of my father's life I would otherwise never have known. The time I have spent with him in this task is a treasure of immeasurable value.