A TRAIN WHISTLE THROUGH THE MISSISSIPPI DARKNESS

Ever ridden on a train pulled by a steam locomotive?? I'm not talking about those replica "choo-choo's" you see in amusement parks, that are made to look like steam locomotives; I mean a real, honest-to-goodness IRON HORSE, chugging away through the countryside, belching cinders and black smoke, white steam hissing from beneath!

Have you ever heard a steam locomotive's whistle blow? Maybe on a recording, but how about up close, when the sound is so loud it reverberates in your chest, and puffs of searing, hot steam shoot skyward?

I always wanted to, even as a kid, but didn't get the chance. By the mid-1950's, nearly all steam-powered engines had been shipped to museums or parks for static display, or consigned to the scrap heap: their boilers rendered lifeless, their huge steel wheels stilled, and their whistles forever silent.

My first train ride was on the Southern Railways Pelican, which ran from New York City to New Orleans.

I took it from New Orleans' newly-built Union Passenger Terminal to Union Station in Washington, D.C. in summer, 1957.

Back then, everything was modern, from the new station in New Orleans to the gleaming streamlined passenger train, pulled by a sleek, new Diesel locomotive.

It was an adventure for a five-year-old boy!! I loved looking out of the train's huge picture windows at the passing landscape. Dozens of greenish copper wires hung from green glass insulators atop telegraph poles that stretched unbroken all the way alongside us as we went.

I didn't know it at the time, but my love of trains and steel wheels was to become a lifelong thing.

In my house hung a print of a painting with a boy and his dog, the boy sitting on a fence, watching a steam train pass in the distance. Boyhood Dreams by Norman Rockwell is among my favorite pieces of art, because it depicts how I felt as a boy. Many a day I wished that, if only for a day, I could be that young lad in the painting.

Recalling what has passed with a longing fondness is called nostalgia. What is it called when you long for something from a bygone era, but it's something you've never seen before?

It was now 1970. Over a decade passed since my first train ride. I met a number of people who, like me, liked railroading. We learned that there were actually still in existence a few real steam locomotives which could be rented out for excursions.

After much work, we were able to charter an entire train, pulled by Southern Railways steam engine #722! I finally got my wish: I got to ride a train behind a real steam engine a few times, enjoying every minute. Thousands participated in the event, either by riding, wprking, or following alongside the train as it chugged down the tracks. 

#722 BETWEEN EXCURSIONS AT UPT, NEW ORLEANS

SOUTHERN RAILWAYS #722 ARRIVES IN SLIDELL, LA. 

All along the route for all of the excursions, throngs of people of all ages gathered along the right-of-way, taking pictures and just watching as that mighty locomotive roared past. I guess there must have been many, many more people who like trains than I thought: Our group sponsored two round-trip excursions, and they were both sold out.  A good time was had by all. Then it was time to depart for Atlanta, where #722 was based.

I bought a ticket on this portion, too, and rode it as far as Hattiesburg, Mississippi. As I walked around old #722 to get a farewell glimpse of a dream-come-true, someone shouted my name. I looked around but couldn't see who was calling me, until I heard my name again. I looked up, and was surprised to see a guy I had gotten to know during the weekend of the steam train excursions.

This time, though, he was not on the train… he was atop the COAL PILE on the locomotive's tender!

"What in the WORLD are you doing up there?" I asked.

"I rode the coal pile from New Orleans!" he boasted. "We're going on to Meridian, where the train will spend the night, then it's on to Atlanta the next day."

I stared at the huge engine, steam issuing forth and almost alive with power, as it sat on the rails at the station, ready to depart.

"HEY! Come on up!" he invited.

"Oh, I can't do that," I protested, "I'll get in trouble!"

"No you won't!" he replied, "My dad's the Vice-President of the railroad! If I say you can come, you can come!"

That was all I needed. I grabbed the railing and climbed aboard, settling like a bird on its nest amid a hopper full of coal.

It wasn't very long after that, just as the sun was setting, that we pulled out of Hattiesburg. Steam came out in a hiss, the whistle let out a loud blast, and we chugged out of the station.

Like another adventure of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, the two of us set off, not aboard a raft, but aboard a train.

From my perch high atop the anthracite, I got a commanding view, not only of the passing scenery all around, but also of the sooty, black-faced fireman, and most especially of the engineer - an old-timer - Mr. Walter Dove. That man piloted steam locomotives all his life. This was one of his last trips.

It was now nightfall. We were barreling down the tracks at full steam. Smoke poured thick and black from the smokestack.

The air was sweetly scented with the aroma of southern pine, mixed with the sulfury smell from the smoke. Hot, live cinders sparked through the air above us as we rocked along, occasionally stinging our faces.

We didn't mind at all!

Then suddenly came a bright yellow glow from the engine's cab: the fireman had opened the boiler door. I watch transfixed as he shoveled coal into the fiery furnace. The cool night air was warmed by the burning coal!

Then Mr. Dove blew that mighty steam whistle, and he did so like nobody else could. You could hear it moan, you could almost hear it cry, lamenting an era whose time has come and gone.

That old man handled the engine's throttle with the familiarity of an old friend - the kind of friendship between man and machine that comes from decades of working together.

Their time was fast coming to an end, and I believe both engine and engineer knew it. There below me, for a few times yet, a master played his instrument.

Not every time the whistle blew was for a grade crossing. Sometimes, when we were far removed from towns or houses, he'd open up a blast on that whistle, and it echoed through the tall pine trees in the pitch black of night, as if shouting: "I AM COMING!!"

The sights, the sounds, the smells, the feel of the coals beneath me and grit of the soot on my face, and even the bitter taste of the coal dust on my tongue - these many senses came together for me late one night, on a once in a lifetime ride atop a coal car behind a real, honest steam engine, through the pine woods and the Mississippi darkness.

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For further reading on Southern Railway #722 - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Railway_722

Numerous copyrighted photos exist of this engine during this time period. Please do google search for Southern Railway 722 to see this beautiful engine