Tag: memoir

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Readings from September (along with a personal memory from 1968)

Title Blog with photos of covers of books reviewed

Erik Larson, The Demon of Unrest: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War 

Cover for "The Demon of Unrest"

(New York: Crown, 2024), 565 pages with bibliography, notes, and index.

Larson is a gifted storyteller historian and has once again brought a story of a pivotal time to life. His latest book looks at the months between Lincoln’s election as President in 1860 and the attack on Fort Sumter in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. 

As Larson has done so well in other books, he tells the story from several viewpoints. We have Major Robert Anderson, commander of the Fort Sumter garrison. He’s own slaves and has southern sympathies but is also loyal to the Union. There are those in Washington trying to avoid a war and refusing Anderson’s call for more supplies and troops in the fear such actions will incite a war and encourage other Southern states to leave the Union. 

Larson follows radical southern secessionists, such as Edmund Ruffin, who worked hard to encourage states to leave the Union. He even got to fire the first cannon at the fort. There’s Mary Boykin Chesnut, the wife of a planter who was a part of South Carolina’s succession convention. Her diary provides a first-hand view of much of what happened from behind the scenes. And then there’s Sir William Howard Russell, a special correspondent from the Times of London. A famed war correspondent (having reported on the Crimean War), he had access to key politicians in Washington DC, including William Stewart and Abraham Lincoln. But he was late to arrive in Charleston.

During the waiting, the South built more batteries so the fort could be attacked from three sides. Lincoln finally authorized a fleet to sail with additional supplies and the ability to support the fort, but confusion still reigned. The main ship with the necessary firepower had been mistakenly sent to a fort in Florida, leaving the smaller flotilla unable to intervene. It arrived off Charleston the evening before the attack.  Confederate guns and sandbars at the harbor entry kept the ships from supporting the fort. 

The attack on Fort Sumter, led by Confederate General Beauregard, began in the predawn hours of Saturday, April 14th. Throughout the dark hours, the fort’s guns remained silent. During the bombardment, the men in the fort even gathered for breakfast. Anderson wouldn’t return fire until after daylight, when they’d have better views of the Confederate positions. During this waiting time, Edmund Ruffin worried that the fort wouldn’t fight back, making the Confederates look bad. But he received his wish as light appeared and the fort’s guns began to strike back. 

Despite all the shells and gunpowder expended on both sides, no one died. The fort, which had been built to protect the harbor from enemy shipping, had a difficult time to train its guns on land targets. Furthermore, the best guns for such an attack were on the top parapet, which made them more open to Confederate shelling. Anderson kept his men safely inside the fort itself. The fort, which was almost out of food, had plenty of powder, but as fire burned, a larger concern came from explosions. Quick thinking by Anderson kept this from happening. 

The Confederate forces spent much of the morning attempting to take down the American flag. When the pole was finally broken and the flag fell, Captain Doubleday (from whom legend has it created baseball), ordered guns to aim for a holiday hotel, The Moultrie, where many of the Confederate officers stayed. The guns blew holes in the hotel and sent men running for safety, but again, no one died. A makeshift flag was eventually raised during the battle. 

Upon surrender, Anderson was allowed to give a 100-gun salute as he struck the colors and marched this troops out of the fort where they were to be transported to Union ships offshore. The salute was cut to 50 when one of the cannoneers was seriously wounded when gunpower in the cannon prematurely explode.  He would die later in a Charleston hospital. 

This is a good read and help me understand more about how the terrible war began. Larson begins each section with a quotation from The Code Duello. The 1858 manual laid out rules to be followed in duels. These rules provided a civility to such disputes, trying to maintain gentlemanlike behavior in conflict. Such behavior appears to have been honored by both sides at Sumter. Later in the war, things became uglier.

While I don’t think the book is as good as several other Larson’s books I’ve read (especially The Devil in the White City, In the Garden of the Beast, and Thunderstuck), it’s better than most books I read. This is the sixth book by Larson I’ve read. In addition to this book and the three above, I have also read Dead Wake, and Issac’s Storm. 

Kevin DeYoung, The Nicene Creed: What You Need to Know about the Most Important Creed Ever Written 

Cover for "The Nicene Creed"

(Weaton, Illinois: Crossway, 2025), 93 pages including a general and scriptural index.

This year marks the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea, from which came the beginnings of the Nicene Creed. The Nicene Creed would be finalized, adding a longer section about the Holy Spirit at Constantinople in 381 AD. For the Western Church, the creed was finalized in 589 with the addition of the filioque statement which says the Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. This last edition has not been accepted by the Eastern Orthodox Churches. But with this small difference, the Nicene Creed is the most accepted creed in Christendom, and used by Protestants, Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and Coptic Churches. 

In this short book, DeYoung introduces the readers to the various heresies facing the church (mainly Arianism and Apollinarianism) which led to the writing of the creed. Arianism held to the idea that the Son was created by the Father, not co-eternal. Apollinarism attempted to discredit Arianism, by going too far in the other direction and essentially denying the humanity of Christ.  The creed holds the concept of the Trinity together by maintaining a mystery.

DeYoung also fairly lays out both sides of the “filioque” debate. While he accepts the Western version of the Creed, he rightly sees the issue not as important as how the creed sought to maintain Christ’s unity and co-existence with the father. The filioque clause wasn’t added till the 6th Century with the Council of Toledo.   

This is an easy book to read for anyone wanting to understand the importance of the Nicene Creed.  

Taylor Branch, At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68 

Cover for "At Canaan's Edge"

(New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006), 1039 pages with bibliography, notes, and index, plus 18 plates of b&w photos. Audible, narrated by Leo Nixon and Janina Edwards, (2023) 34 hours and 37 minutes.

I have now finished all three volumes of Branch’s “America During the King Years.” The last volume had more meaning for me, as I remember much of what happened. I would have been between the 3rd and 5th grade in elementary school during this time.  I was in the 5th grade when Martin Luther King was assassinated and share below a memoir of that time. Like the second volume of the work, this one read more like snippets from the news media for each day.  I mostly listened to the book on Audible but also read some of the interesting sections. Here are links to my reviews of the first two volumes:

Parting the Waters (1954-63)

Pillar of Fire (1963-65)

At Canaan’s Edge shows the tension felt by Martin Luther King. Strains existed between King and President Johnson. Other strains were between King and those within the movement chanting Black Power and calling for violence. Ironically, this call to violence even came from the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, which had left behind many of its founders such as John Lewis. And even those who were committed to his non-violent movement resisted King’s visions of expanding the movement to include all poor people and to work against America’s war in Vietnam.  Branch helps the reader understand King’s troubles during the last three years of his life. 

The book ends abruptly, with an assassin’s bullet striking King on the balcony of Lorraine Hotel in Memphis on April 4, 1968. King had just asked that “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” be played that evening as they dressed and prepared for the event. Then he fatefully stepped out on the balcony. 

By providing a “play-by-play” history of what happens up until the shot was fired, Branch provides the reader with the complexity of the world. The beatings of civil rights workers on the Pettus Bridge in Alabama came at the same time as American’s first big engagement in Vietnam in the Ia Drang Valley.  The miracle” of Israel’s 6-day war in 1967 occurred during the rising opposition to Americans in Vietnam and the Supreme Court’s decision to end laws against interracial marriage. And finally, King’s desire for a “Poor People’s March” on Washington plays out against the backdrop of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam.  And as King’s life came to an end, President Johnson had just decided not to run again for the Presidency.

There was also much tension within the Civil Rights movement as some wanted to advocated violence (especially within the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee) who leaned into the Black Power movement. The tension also increased as King began to take his movement north, spending significant amount of time in Chicago, a move which caused his movement funds as donors, who supported the work in the south, began to withdraw their support.  

Also, in the background of all that happened was the FBI, who hounded King. Even in the last month of his life, they sent anonymous letters to King supporters in the north saying that he had plenty of money. At the same time, they sent other letters to Black churches in the south saying that he was broke. This discouraged those interested in the poor people’s march to Washington (which was being planned), suggesting they’d find themselves stranded. 

In these three volumes, Taylor Branch provides a wonderfully in-depth history of the Civil Rights movements. Some of this history is hard to recall, but it must not be forgotten.  

Memories of ’68

(this is part 2 of a 4 part series I wrote 20 years ago and edited for this post)

I turned eleven barely two weeks into 1968. It was a big deal. I was finally eligible to join the Boy Scouts and go camping with someone other than my family. I wasted no time. Thursday, two days after my birthday, I attended the troop meeting. It’s amazing I stayed with scouting. I experienced more hazing in those first two meetings than the rest of my life. Brian and I were both new to Troop 206 and they put us in the Rattlesnake Patrol. The patrol consisted of a bunch of older guys (probably all of 13 or 14 years old). When the adult leaders weren’t nearby, they arrange things like beltlines for us to run. But it didn’t last. I’m not sure what went on behind the scenes, but by the third week, the Scoutmaster placed us in a new patrol. Gerald, an older scout, but new to the troop, became our patrol leader. We named ourselves the Cobra Patrol, consciously picking a snake more deadly than a rattlesnake. Gerald put an end to the hazing. In a way, he became a mentor. When I became a patrol leader, I always pondered what Gerald would do in a situation before I acted. 

A week or two after being placed in Cobra Patrol, I made my first campout as a Boy Scout. We headed up to Holly Shelter Swamp and camped along the bank of the Northeast Cape Fear River. Gerald had us put our tents in a line. Brian and I ended in a slight depression. I argued that we should move our tent, having done enough camping prior to scouting to know we were in the best location. But Gerald was all for neatness. We stayed in a neat line and when the rains came that night, out tent flooded. I now had a second reason to quit scouting. Thinking back on my experiences, I can’t recall a camping trip that I’ve gotten soaked at night except for when I was a scout. However, Gerald made everything better, offering us his semi-dry tent. We assumed Gerald was going to sleep in our pool but found him in the morning asleep in the back of the equipment trailer, the only totally dry place around. The storm cleared and we dried out our bags and had a grand time in the woods, even though we kept having run-ins with our nemeses in the Rattlesnake Patrol.

We’ve come a long way since 1968. There were no I-pods, laptops, game-boys or other forms of amusements in our packs. All I had for fun was a nine-volt transistor radio and we listened to it that first night, as we tried to ignore or forget the moisture seeping into our sleeping bags. I could get the powerful 50-kilowatt station out of Cincinnati and a few local stations. And that night, laying in a sleeping bag on a bluff overlooking the slow waters of the Northeast Cape Fear River, between the music of the Beatles, Stones and Supremes, we heard news reports about the Chinese New Year and the Tet Offensive. For the first time Vietnam seemed real.

Our second night included a game of capture the flag, played pitting the Cobras against the Rattlesnakes. We didn’t win, but we went down honorably, and it would only be a matter of time before we did win. After the game, we had a big campfire, which concluded when our scoutmaster, Johnny R. told us the story of “the Hand.” He made it come alive. I’d hear this story a dozen times over the next couple of years, as he added new twist so that you were never sure when you’d nearly jump into the fire. That night we didn’t listen to the radio; we wanted things to be quiet so that we’d hear “the Hand,” in case it was about doing its dastardly deeds.

Our second camping trip with the scouts was at a camporee on the grounds around Sunny Point, on the Brunswick County side of the Cape Fear River. This gathering involved troops from all over the council and the theme was getting along with one another, with a special emphasis on racial harmony. All the scouts who participated in the event received a badge showing a handshake. One hand was light colored and the other darker, symbolizing getting along between the races. It was a lesson we’d all need to hear for soon all hell broke loose. But that weekend, we didn’t know that. Instead, we worked hard, and Cobra Patrol earned a red ribbon (next to the highest) while the Rattlesnake Patrol only received a yellow (participation) ribbon. I became a hero during the camporee in the signaling event. Few of the patrols had anyone who could read semaphore, and I shocked everyone with my newly acquired skill.

My self-instruction in semaphore came because of what was happening in Mr. Briggs classroom. My mother told me a few years ago about how she heard me talking about these things we were doing in his class and assumed I had a wild imagination until one night, Mr. Briggs called. And did my mother reward me for my honesty? NO! Instead, I was doubly grounded. Not only could I not leave our yard, but I was also stuck in my room except to go to the bathroom or to eat dinner. This sentence was to last a few years, but she relented after I brought my citizenship grade up a notch. In such tight confinement (and there were no TVs in my room back then, it really was a solitary confinement cell), I was stuck with reading. And my choices were meager. I could read schoolbooks, but I had a natural allergy to them. I could read the Bible but figured that if Mom saw me reading the good book, she might keep me grounded for my own edification. The only book of interest was the Boy Scout handbook, and I quickly set down to the task of learning semaphore (which I long since forgotten) and the constellations (which I still remember).

My third Scout camping trip was back to Holly Shelter Swamp. It was early April. We left home Friday afternoon, knowing of Martin Luther King assassination the night before in Memphis. Things went along well during the camping trip, but my nine-volt transistor radio brought in the news that violence was erupting across our nation. Somehow (along before cell phones), our Scoutmaster Johnny Rogina, a detective with the Sheriff’s Dept., got word to report for duty. But there were enough other men along that we camped two nights. Sunday morning, we packed up and headed back into town. Since our troop met in a church, we’d always come back from camping trips in the early afternoon, so as not to disturb the worshippers. But this Sunday, things were eerie. There were no cars on the road. All you saw were police and a few military jeeps. Rioting erupted in Wilmington, as it had in many cities, and the city was under a 24-hour curfew.

Since we lived out of town, far from where the rioting occurred, we weren’t really affected. Instead, we enjoyed a vacation from school, playing sandlot baseball and roaming the woods. With everyone being forced to stay at home, my parents cooked out that Sunday afternoon and invited our next-door neighbors. This was a rarity as I knew my parents didn’t like the man (I later learned that he was very abusive, but as an 11-year-old, I just thought he was a jerk). His wife was nice, and they had a younger daughter. She was several years younger than my sister but occasionally would be in the house early in the morning having slept in my sister’s room. I was an adult when my mother shared that these sleepovers was to protect the girl, as her father had gone on a drunken rampage. But even before learning this, when I first heard of sleeveless t-shirts called “wife beaters,” I envisioned that man in his backyard with wearing such a shirt. 

This Sunday evening, after the Holly Shelter’s campout, I remember l sitting in a lounge chair in the yard as the neighbor told my dad (along with my brother and I) about the Wilmington Race Riots of 1898. “The Cape Fear River ran red with n—– blood” he said, suggesting a similar situation out of the problem Wilmington was currently facing. My parents, who didn’t allow us to use the “N” word, weren’t too happy with this conversation and this was the only cookout we ever had with them. Shortly afterwards, they moved. Interestingly, this was the first and only time as a kid that I heard about the 1898 riots. Later I’d learn the event was a massacre. The whites had a Gatlin gun just back from the Spanish American War, while the African American community attempted to defended themselves with hunting guns. I’d also learn later that the guy whose park we played little league ball in, Hugh McCrae, was the one who acquired the Gatlin gun. He, along with several other well-known names in town, were responsible for the “riot.” 


I am not sure just how they restored calm to the city in 1968, as we lived far outside its boundaries. After a week holiday, we returned to Bradley Creek Elementary School where everything appeared normal.

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Nevada 375 and Rachel, Nevada

Title slide with photo of dry rain along Nevada 375
One house we worked on was located near here, where the road is still washed out.

I’ve been away this week, working on a Helene rebuild mission out of Burnsville, North Carolina, so I don’t have time to write anything new. I wrote this piece many years ago and some of you may have read it in another blog. I tried to update and clean up the language a bit before reposting it. Recently, I learned another friend had spent time working around Tonopah, Rachel, Caliente, Nevada on a government contract. He, too, was surprised that not only did I know of these places but had been there many times. Thinking of him, I thought I’d republish it.

The last time I was in Rachel was in 2010, as I drove across Central Nevada, heading from Death Valley to my old stomping ground in Cedar City, Utah.

Rachel, NV during daylight. Photo from the internet


I see the lights of Rachel a good ten miles away, soon after crossing Queen City Summit. “The bar will be open,” I say to myself, “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and stretch my legs and take in some of the night air.”

It’s after ten, early September 1995. I still have two hundred miles to drive to get home, having spent the past two weeks backpacking along the John Muir Trail in the Sierras. When I got off the trail, I learned my parents were driving in the next day, which meant an all-night drive. In the hundred miles since Tonopah, I’ve only passed a couple of vehicles. I roll my windows down and stick my head outside, trying to stay awake and alert. I pop cassette tapes in and out, playing them loudly and trying to find something to keep me awake. Nothing comes in on the radio, except some distant AM talk station from Los Angeles. 

I try to stay awake for nobody’s likely to see if you run off the road in this country. Making it more dangerous, this is open range. I share the road with cows. They’re hard to see at night and often seek the blacktop for warmth. If I run into one of these beasts and die, my estate will get to pay for the cow. 

“Thank God for Rachel,” I mumble, thinking about how this is one of two stops in the next two hundred miles where I can get coffee. I topped off my tank in Tonopah. Experience taught me the few gas stations along this stretch will close before I drive through.

Entering town, I pull off at the “Little A”le’Inn,” the center of Rachel’s night life. I’m shocked to see so many cars and people mulling around. Normally, there might be a car and a pickup or two out front. Tonight, I must search to find a parking place. The line to the bar starts at the front door.

What’s going on?” I ask the guy in front of me. 

“It’s Labor Day weekend,” he says, “people come from all over on Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends to check out the UFOs.” I’d noticed just outside the front door, mounted on a tripod, a parabolic listening device. These people are serious. Many of them have cameras and binoculars dangling from their necks. At the booth closest to me a guy cleans the lens for their cameras I consider telling him not to bother, as I’ve yet to see picture of a UFO taken through a clean lens. But I hold my tongue. 

“Do you think they’re really UFOs out here?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“I’m not sure, but you see some strange things,” he says, adding that he mostly comes up from Vegas to enjoy the party.

I look around at the eclectic crowd. There are dudes with pencil protectors in their shirt pockets talking to guys with tie-died t-shirts. Some look college-aged. Others probably have great-grandchildren. Many appear to have been strung out on drugs since the 60s. A few may have come straight from a desk job at IBM. It looks like a lot of fun, and I imagine myself as a reporter for the Rolling Stones, getting to know these people and writing about their shindig. Unfortunately, I must get back home.

 It takes me a while to get up to the bar and then I must wait for the bartender to make another pot of coffee. Then he fills my Maverick[1] insulated cup. I head outside, climb into the car and drive eastward into the darkness, over Coyote Summit and across Tikaboo Valley. It’s sad to leave the lights behind, for even if they don’t see a UFO, they’ll going to have a good time.

In my travels between California and Utah, I stopped at Rachel a dozen or more times. In the late 90s and early 2000s, there were only two businesses in town. The gas station sat on the east end. It includes a store which would make a 7-11 appear to be a supermarket. I’ve never seen it open after dark and their hours seemed to be irregular, another reason why I topped off my tank before heading this direction.

The Little A’Le’Inn sat on the west end of town. A combo restaurant, bar, casino, and motel, it reminds me of a scaled down version of Bruno’s Country Club in Gerlack, Nevada. The Inn seemed thrown together and wouldn’t make the Triple A Guidebook. But people come here because Rachel is the closest town to the supersecret Area 51, where some believe our government holds intergalactic aliens as POWs. Others think the government made a secret pack with some space race to dominate the world. I don’t believe it, but there are strange things seen in the skies along this highway. 

Driving along this stretch of highway, I’ve been scared out of my pants when a jet, flying what seemed to be 50 feet above my car came up behind me. I first noticed the. shadow. Because of his speed, I didn’t hear him until he’s gone.

Once, while checking out the mining sites in the Timpahute Range northeast of Rachel with Ralph, we watched several jets in apparent dogfight. I’ve never seen such aerial maneuvers, as they turned and swirled back and forth. One jet climbed almost straight up like a rocket, only to turn and come back to earth at supersonic speeds. When the jet disappeared behind the mountain, we looked for a fireball. We assumed it crashed. Then, to our surprise, the plane pulled back up and climb again as two jets made the same maneuver. Neither of us could believe that a plane could perform like that. 

Sun setting amongst Joshua Trees in Central Nevada



This is barren country. The government controls all the land land south of Rachel. This is a training ground and bombing range for Nellis Air Force Base. They tested stealth fighters and bombers here. The vast area also contains the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons used to be regularly tested.

Rachel is a relatively new town. In the 1860s, the town of Tempiute grew up around a vein of silver to the northeast. That petered out. Later, a tungsten deposit was discovered. Until the 1980s, Union Carbide ran a mine there. Most of the miners lived in Rachel. A few ranches dot the countryside along 375, but it takes a lot of this poor arid soil to produce enough grass to feed a cow.

Every time I stopped at the “Little A’Le’Inn” I meet interesting people. Once there was a family from Germany who came to see UFOs. Another time there were several young adults from the Netherlands. One evening, there was a couple at the bar who had driven up from Las Vegas. They were nearly out of gas. The gas station had already closed for the day (and the owners had headed to Vegas for dinner), so the couple rented a room at the motel and made the best of the evening by drinking heavily. They probably saw some good sights that night as well as some bugs on the wall in the morning.

The bartender is always willing to offer advice as to the best places to supposedly see UFOs. And the walls of the place have pictures and clippings about UFOs and even a signed photograph of Spock from Star Trek. In the mid-1990s, Nevada 375 became known as the “The Extraterrestrial Highway,” a move which helped draw in the curious to support Rachel’s businesses. 

I’m sure most people who drive across Nevada 375 think it’s the worst road to travel, but I find comfort in the desolation. US 50 crosses Nevada way to the north. In the 1960s, Life Magazine dubbed US 50 the loneliness road in America. Compared to Nevada 375, Highway 50 is a crowded freeway. 

Each end of Nevada 375 is located at a hot spring. The road begins at the site of Warm Springs along US 6. A gas station with a swimming pool sat at the junction, but by the 90s had closed. You can still stop and soak your feet in the warm sulfur smelling water as it runs through a ditch. Crystal Springs is at the other end of the 98-mile highway, at the junction with US 93, which leads south to Vegas and north to Ely. The springs are huge, with deep pools of warm water creating a large wetland and bird sanctuary which never freezes.

For those interested, there are other hot springs in the area. Just south on US 93 are the communities of Ash and Alamo, both of which have hot springs. Further to the east is Caliente, another town with hot springs located in cement pools at one of the towns 1950ish hotels. 

trains passing through Caliente, Nevada

If you travel this road, be prepared. It’s a long way to help. Limited services can be found in Tonopah (108 miles west of Rachel) and Caliente (98 miles to the east of Rachel). The nearest city is Las Vegas, 140 miles south of Rachel, on the other side of the government’s testing area which is closed off to the public.

[1] Maverik is the name of a chain of gas stations and convenient stores.

Other Nevada Adventures:

Great Basin Mining Adventure

Reno to Pittsburgh (April 1989)

Sunday drive to Gerlach

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867) 

Eddie Larson, a good shepherd (he ran his sheep on BLM land in Eastern Nevada during the winter).

Riding in the cab of a steam locomotive

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More good and bad stories from the bakery


Looking back over the five of posts I wrote about my experiences in the bakery, it seems a lot of bad things that happen. That’s not true, but the challenging days do stick in my memory more than the regular “good” days. That goes for most of our lives. 

A few weeks ago, I told you about the challenges which happened at night. But sometimes bad things even happened during the day, as was the case one hot afternoon. I was over at the oven talking to John Z, when things started going crazy. All a sudden, the oven, proof box and cooler stopped. But the conveyors kept running. The de-panner was also running, but there was no vacuum and the bread wasn’t being pulled out of the pan. As John started pulling pans off the conveyor, I hit the horn and a mechanic came running. Both of us agreed it appeared we had lost air. 

We headed down to the compressor room. Sure enough, none of the compressors were running. By this time, there were calls coming over the intercom throughout the bakery with other people having problems. Not finding the problem, we ran back up into the plant and were shocked to see several conveyor motors with flames coming out of them. I started shutting down everything (as soon as the power to the conveyors were killed, the motors stopped burning) as the mechanic went to find the maintenance engineer. Coming out of the shop, the engineer realized immediately that we no longer had three phase electricity and pulled the main circuit breaker coming into the building. 

Everything went dark. A call was placed to Carolina Power and Light. It took them about thirty minutes to have the problem fixed and we had a mess to clean up. While production stopped, the bread waiting in pans in the proof box and along conveyors continued to grow. The bread in the oven continued to bake. We had a long night of cleaning up the proof box and getting the dough off the racks with steam cleaning before we could began making bread. If the dough remained on the racks, it could easily fall into a loaf of bread, creating a discolored hard lump within a loaf. We didn’t finish our work and return to production until the first shift crew returned, meaning that most of us worked 16 hours. 

But our mess wasn’t nearly as big as the one in the front office. They drew power off the same circuit. This was around 1980, and they had one large computer. When the engineer pulled the power switch into the bakery, they also lost power and data. It took them several days to get everything restored. 

Not long after this, the company forked over big bucks to the power company and had them to feed the plant from two directions so if we lost power from one substation, another station would take over. This ended the problems with blimps in power which created havoc with the ovens as I wrote about before. Not being an electrician, I’m not sure if it also protected us from “single phasing,” but we never had that problem again. The compressors and the ovens and equipment with big motors stopped because those motors had protection which shut them down if there was an issue. But there were too many small motors which pulled conveyors. Since it was a lot easier (and cheaper) to replace a ¾ horsepower motor than a 20 or 60 horsepower one, they didn’t have such protection. 

Another problem we had to deal with at the bakery was bad yeast. One summer, we changed from Fleischmann’s to a new brand, Dixie yeast. Supposedly the family owning the bakery had a stake in Dixie Yeast, so we were expected to use this product. At first, things went along smoothly, but after a few weeks, we started having problems primarily with the dough-maker bread. And the problems became worse in the afternoons, when the temperatures soared inside the plant. The bread wouldn’t brown nicely and would have large holes in it, appearing as if it had been over-mixed. Most of us suspected the yeast, but the owners were reluctant to agree. They brought experts who were unable to pinpoint the problem. Finally, someone convinced management to go back to the old yeast and things cleared up. When the “experts” checked the processing at the yeast plant, they learned they used fiberglass tanks which couldn’t be cleaned like stainless steel. Over time, they built up some kind of growth which affected the yeast. For a while, we went back to the yeast we had been using while Dixie Yeast worked out these kinks.

But life at the bakery wasn’t always one problem after another. There were also good times. Although we came from a lot of different backgrounds, we were a family. I enjoyed listening to the old timers tell stories about their career at the bakery or their lives growing up. I don’t remember his name, but the oven operator on the roll line talked about working on an old kerosene oven when he was young, which blew up. He also had a hearing aid and when management came around yelling, he’d turn it off. Several of the people who worked on the roll line had spent a lifetime in the bakery. Harvey, whom I wrote about earlier, had managed a dairy, which had closed when he came over to the bakery.

Scotty, who worked in sanitation, lost an arm in an accident in the Wilmington shipyard during World War II. I asked him if he knew my grandfather who also worked in the shipyard, having left the tobacco farm of North Carolina behind during the war. He said he did,but I think he tried to be nice. When I pressed for information about him, as my grandfather died in 1967, he could recall no real memories. I’d later learn that the shipyard at its peak employed 21,000 people. While Scotty was always nice to me, he had one of the most vulgar minds in the bakery and often said the nastiest things to women. Thankfully, he retired a year or two after I started working at the plant and before I had a chance to supervise him. However, I still called him on his comments, and he agreed it was inappropriate. But it didn’t stop him. 

At break, we’d crowd into the air-conditioned lounge for cold drinks. The air would soon become stale from cigarette smoke. I was one of the few who didn’t smoke, but that was okay for everyone knew I was different. I was the “college boy.” 

Sometimes our friendship extended outside the plant. There were at least half a dozen parties during the years I worked at the bakery (like Linda’s, which I wrote about earlier). Looking back on these, it’s interesting that the parties (at least the ones I attended) had only white folks. Another shock was the number of supervisors who were ten or twenty years older than me who would smoke joints during these parties. As one who eschewed drugs, I found this odd. But in the late 70s and early 80s, smoking pot was common. I expected it at school and with the younger employees, but not among older ones. 

Racial lines were crossed at the annual company picnic and some of us did get together to play basketball in the projects across the street from the plant. While working there, I hunted deer, rabbits and squirrels with Bobby, an African American who ran the bread slicing and wrapping area on first shift. 

Often, we’d have to work on holidays and at Thanksgiving and Christmas. On these days, the company would supply turkeys which were roasted in the back of the roll oven. They also provided the other parts of the meal included mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables, and brown and serve rolls which we’d be making for weeks before the holiday. On these days, everyone got to pig out on their lunch breaks. 

One of my favorite treats of working night shift occurred shortly after the first bread left the oven. We’d split up a loaf of freshly baked bread, slather it with hot butter (which we had available for the butter-top loaves) and then add honey or molasses. Of course, we worked hard and in heat, so we didn’t have to worry as much about the extra calories.

Upcoming: I have one more post planned I which I will discuss leaving the bakery and it’s demise several years later. 

MORE BAKERY STORIES

More Bakery Stories: Bad Things Happen at Night

Coming of Age in a Bakery: Linda and the Summer of ’76

A College Boy in the Bakery

Harvey and Ernest

Frank and Roosevelt

The Perils of Working on the Christian Sabbath

Remembering Charlie

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Bakery Stories: Bad Things Happen at Night

title slide with loaf of Holsum bread

The Horrific

During my five years at the bakery, it seems bad things often happened at night. Shortly after I started, a woman working the night shift on the roll line was raped in the women’s locker room. I never knew her, don’t even know if I ever saw her, but she never came back to work. The rapist slipped into the plant and hid in the women’s locker room. I don’t even know if they ever caught the man. 

This incident forced the company to develop more stringent security around the plant, including a card reader at the entrance. It was probably long overdue.

A Neighborhood Shooting

A year or so later, on a hot sticky night when I was working night shift during my summer break from classes, I drove up to a surreal scene. Police and ambulances with their lights flashing were parked in front of the plant. The chalk outline of two bodies could be seen on the sidewalk. Yellow police tape ran from the corner by the entry door and across the front of the plant along 13th Street. They were loading two body bags into the waiting ambulance as I arrived. 

I wondered if I should even go to work that evening. It was eerie entering the plant as I no idea what had just happened. Obliviously, people died. As soon as I got inside, co-workers told me about the few exciting seconds. Several versions of stories spread around the plant. The only thing anyone could be sure of was that no one from the bakery had been involved in the shooting. 

It turned out, as we learned the next day in the newspaper, the shooter was a jealous husband who lived in a housing project across the street from the bakery. He hid in shrubbery out in front the bakery waiting for his wayward wife and her lover to walk by. When they did, he stepped out and shot her. He then took aim at her lover but missed. As the man ran for his life, the husband turned the gun on himself.

Riding a bicycle to work

I often rode my bicycle to work, especially when I lived in an apartment on Greenfield Lake, about five miles from the bakery. During my first year out of college when I worked the night shift as a supervisor, I had a small office, just large enough to store my bike. I got into the habit of only driving a car when the weather was inclement or on Saturday night. With the housing projects across from the plant, I felt it too risky as a white guy to ride a bike through the neighborhood at midnight on Saturday night.

During the warmer months, I would often leave the bakery in the morning and ride out to Wrightsville Beach and sleep on the beach and do a little swimming before riding home. Then, I’d stay up for a while, going back to bed around 6 PM to catch a few more hours of sleep before returning to work.

Almost burning the bakery down

During the year I worked as a supervisor on the night shift, I was nervous going to work at night, but had only one small disaster. This happened on a rainy night. Harvey, my oven operator, was on vacation. John, who had taken over the second shift oven operator job from me when I was promoted to supervisor, worked Harvey’s shift. This night, I was short staffed in the mixing area and was pitching in when I got a desperate call over the loudspeaker from John telling me that he was having problems raising the temperature on the oven to the proper setting. I checked my watch. It was still 30 minutes before the bread would begin leaving the proof box for the oven. 

As soon as I could, I headed back to the oven with a mechanic. About the time we got to the oven, one of the truck drivers who hauled bread to the warehouses around eastern North and South Carolina, came running back yelling that the roof was on fire. Something clicked. I knew immediately the problem. The dampers on the oven had not been closed. As the mechanic headed to the roof with a fire extinguisher, I told the driver to call the fire department as I ran back to the oven. 

Fixing the problem

Sure enough, the dampers were the problem. Lighting the oven, which was about the size of a house, required that one first open the dampers and purge the oven with air. This made sure there was no gas present and reduced the risk of an explosion. Only after purging could you open the gas valves and begin to light the burners. There were around 70 burners, and each had to be lighted individually, but with an electrical ignition. As soon as all the burners blazed, you closed the dampers. John forgot that part. 

What happened is that thermostats kept calling for more heat. The flames grew larger and drawn into the dampers. Obviously, as we discovered the hard way, the dampers hadn’t been cleaned in some time. Grease built up in one of the dampers, catching fire. As soon as John and I shut the dampers, I grabbed another fire extinguisher and headed to the roof where the mechanic had already extinguished the fire. The rain kept the fire from spreading, but there was a small section of the roof which needed repair. The fire department arrived and checked things out, and the night returned to normal. Thankfully, the rain help prevent a disaster. 

Dealing with mechanics

As the night shift mechanics often found places to hid and sleep, I resorted to walking around with a pair of channel locks, an adjustable wrench, and a screwdriver in my back pocket. I quickly gained the skill necessary to do minor adjustments to keep things running. Inexperience became another problem with night mechanics. Most would spend a week or two on day shift, where they worked with an engineer before being moved to night shift. I often knew more about the equipment. 

Of course, there could be worse things than an inexperience mechanic sleeping on a job. We began to use a lot more granulated sugar than we should have as most of our sweetener came in liquid form. We received corn sweeter from tank trucks. Honey and molasses came in 55-gallon barrels. We even used more brown sugar than granulated, both of which came in 50-pound bags. Our inventory showed we were using almost twice the amount of granulated sugar than we should have been consuming. It turned out one of the night mechanics would park his truck by the loading dock. When no one was around, he would place a few bags in the back and cover it up with a tarp. We assumed he stole the sugar to supply a liquor still. Of course, he lost his source of free sugar when he was fired. 

Replacement workers

Working the night shift, especially as a supervisor, had its challenges. It was always difficult to find a replacement when someone called in sick. There weren’t too many qualified replacements and even fewer available at 2 A.M. All new hires had to go through the Personnel Department, which kept 9 to 5 business hours. I’d be given a name and number when a new hire was coming in. 

You’ve already met Frank, one of my problem employees. A month after I had tried to fire him and personnel overruled my decision; he was fired after an “expensive joke.” The next night, a new employee showed up.

The new hire was an attractive young woman just out of high school. That evening, while attempting to teach her how to do the job, I had to shoo away guys from other parts of the plant. Everyone wanted to flirt with her, and she enjoyed the attention. Being new, she hadn’t been issued a uniform. The next night, she came dressed like Daisy Duke, of the Dukes of Hazard, which was a popular show at this time. The girl wore short-shorts and a halter top. I sent her home to get more appropriate clothes, which made her mad. She never returned. The next night, I started to train a guy who I knew from high school, and he worked out.

Mostly monotonous

Despite the stories above, the night shift was mostly monotonous. I became good at anticipating sunrise and a few minutes before, when not cloudy, I’d grab a cup of coffee and head out to the loading dock. Standing on the side of the platform, caressing my cup in my hands, I could look back toward the east and watch for the sun to rise between the plant and the flour silo across the street. I knew my time was almost up and soon my worries would be over, and I’d be in my bed sleeping.

Other Bakery Stories:

Coming of Age in a Bakery: Linda and the Summer of ’76

A College Boy in the Bakery

Harvey and Ernest

Frank and Roosevelt

The Perils of Working on the Christian Sabbath

Remembering Charlie

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1957: The Year of My Birth

title slide with photos of the author and his family from 1957 and 58

I arrived at the Moore County Hospital, just outside of Pinehurst, on a Wednesday morning in the middle of January 1957. The highways through the Sandhills of North Carolina were paved by then, but many of the county roads were still dirt. Longleaf pines surrounded the golf courses around Pinehurst and small farms dotted the rest of the county. Bright-leaf tobacco, cured in barns heated by wood, was the cash crop. It was a simpler time. 

The national average family income had doubled since World War II, rising to just above six thousand dollars a year. Of course, per capita income was lower in the South. But on paper Moore County appeared prosperous thanks to its numbers being inflated by rich Yankee golfers. Six thousand went a long way as the average house cost $12,000. However, furnishing it with a pair of Rembrandt portraits remained out of reach for most. A pair of his portraits sold for an even half a million dollars later in the year. 

For non-golfers in the Sandhills, such as my relatives from the Highlands of Scotland, tobacco remained king. People considered the leaf safe and when the markets opened in late summer, it sold for 59 cents a pound. North Carolina raised nearly a half million acres of the crop, producing over 1700 pounds an acre. You can do the math.  

The year began with a meeting of African American pastors who formed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. We’d hear more about them in the next decade, but integration moved into the forefront. A year after the last veteran from the war which ended slavery died and three years after Brown verses Board of Education ruled segregated schools unconstitutional, it took the military to desegregate Little Rock Central High School in Arkansas. Things appeared to move slowly in the right direction, but I’d be in the 9th Grade before schools were completely integrated. In Congress, the Senate under the leadership of Lyndon Johnson passed the first (mostly benign) civil rights legislation since the Reconstruction. We’d be hearing more about civil rights and Johnson in the years ahead.  

Two days after my arrival, three B-52s made the first non-stop around-the-world flights. General Curtis LeMay bragged we could drop a hydrogen bomb anywhere in the world. New Mexico became the one place we did drop one that year, accidentally. Thankfully, it didn’t detonate which is why no one knew about it.  The military exploded bombs in Nevada but said everything was safe. No one knew differently except for the sheepherders whose flocks lost their wool and began to die off. There were other nuclear accidents in ’57 in the US and UK, but no one talked about them. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right? And we all knew our government would never do anything to harm us. That myth died before I graduated high school.

Although there were no major wars going on, the world remained tense. The Suez Crisis and the threat of a Soviet nuclear attack loomed. Our government, working with the Canadians, established the DEW line in the arctic to provide us a six-hour warning before the first Soviet bomb could be dropped on an American city. Canadian cities would have a little less time to prepare. By the time the Dew Line became operational, they reduced the margin to three hours as Soviet jets had doubled their speed. In a few months it all became extraneous as the Soviets launched the first intercontinental ballistic missile.

Later in the same year, the Soviets launch Sputnik, and we’d spend the next decade in a space race. Amidst the space race, some yo-yo created the first plastic pink flamingo. The end was near as prophesied by Nevil Shute in On the Beach, his post-nuclear war novel, published in 1957. I’d read it in high school.

To save us from calamity, we placed our faith in Ike, the President. Many thought I resembled as I, too, had a bald head. Ike wasn’t Herod and didn’t see himself as a king. Nor did he waste any time worrying about a newborn impostor as he perfected his golf swing while supposedly preparing himself for a second term as the leader of the free world. 

Jack Kerouac published On the Road in 1957. People headed out on the road sporting a new line of fancy cars with high fins and excessive chrome. The ’57 Chevy would become an icon of the era as Ike announced the building of interstates to connect the cities of our nation. Off the radar was a little-known Japanese company, Toyota. They loaded a ship with their first vehicles for the US market.

People began flying more and taking the train less. New York City abandoned its trolley cars in 1957. Shortly afterwards the Brooklyn Dodgers (originally the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers) announced their move to Los Angeles. They took the last of Las Angeles trolleys out of service six years later as I started the first grade. Now people think the Dodgers must either be named from their ability at dodging wild pitches or an obscure reference to an artful Charles Dickens character. 

In other sporting news, the University of North Carolina beat Kansas in the NCAA basketball finals.  These teams have remained at the top throughout my life. The Milwaukee Braves led by a young Hank Aaron beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. As a junior in high school, I watched TV as Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth’s home run record. The Milwaukee Braves faded over the next decade and high-tailed it to Atlanta. The Detroit Lions, a team whose demise parallels the city, won their last NFL championship.

Ayn Rand published Atlas Shrugged in 1957.  Almost seven decades later, “Who is John Galt?” bumper stickers are occasionally spotted on American highways. In the theaters, The Ten Commandments became the top box office success. For a country which seems so religious, the last commandment about not coveting appears overlooked. Rand launched a frontal assault on this commandment with her godless “look out for me” philosophy. Other commandments were also being broken as the movie “Peyton Place, which debuted in theaters, reminded us.      

Radios in ‘57 played the music of Elvis, Buddy Holly, Debbie Reynolds, the Everly Brothers, Pat Boone and Sam Cooke. In Philadelphia, love-stuck teenagers danced for the first time on American Bandstand as more homes acquired televisions. And in England, two chaps named Lennon and McCarthy met and would go on change music as we know it. Humphrey Bogart died just two days before my arrival, but it was still a good year for Hollywood. Not only was Moses selling, but so were dogs. Children everywhere cried watching Old Yeller. Hollywood also released The Bridge over the River Kwai. It inspired whistlers with its catchy theme music (an old British army tune). That tune would later be used in a commercial for a household cleanser which inspired one of the great ditties of my childhood: 

Comet – it makes your teeth turn green.
Comet – it tastes like gasoline.
Comet – it makes you vomit.
So, buy some Comet, and vomit, today!


Even today, I have a can of Comet stashed under my kitchen sink. Some things change, and some don’t. 

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Charlie Wallace: A Man with a Positive Disposition

Title slide with a photo of train tracks and a picture of a loaf of Holsum Bread

“We’ve lost a good friend, Jeff,” Terry said. It was late in the spring of 2010. I stopped by to see my Uncle Frank on his farm just north of Carthage. Terry, Frank’s oldest son, heard I was around and dropped by to see me.

I’d forgotten my cousin knew Charlie. Terry runs a company which rakes and ships straw from longleaf pines over the East Coast. Charlie’s wife had inherited a track of land, and my cousin harvested the straw off it. Terry told me about the old homestead near Cowpen Landing on the Northeast Cape Fear. Although I’d heard about the place, I’d never been there. My cousin told me the old house had fallen in, but the chimney still stood upright. Charlie had pointed out an indention in the brick where his mother-in-law sharpened the blade of her butcher knife. She ran the blade along the course brick till the blade was sharp. Then she would walk out to the smokehouse to cut off a slap of meat for dinner. Over the years, the metal of the knives carved into the brick.

I met Charlie at the Holsum Bakery. I hired on the summer I was nineteen, between my freshman and sophomore years of college. Charlie would have been almost sixty then. He spent most of life working for the bakery. You could always count on him to lighten things up with a good joke and you knew that any joke he told would be clean. Charlie worked hard but laughed even harder.

One afternoon, there wasn’t much to do as we’d run out of flour and the railcar, which was scheduled to be delivered that morning, had been delayed. We sat out near the loading dock where we could look down the tracks. Charlie came by and told us of growing up next to the railroad tracks, out north of the Green Swamp, east of Wilmington.

His daddy had been a section foreman for the Atlantic Coastline, maintaining the rails and water tower along a section of the mainline between Delco and Bolton. It may not look like much to those who speed by these days on the four-lane highway, US 74-76, but it’s a magical place. The land is as flat as a pancake and grows some of the most interesting plants on earth including the Venus flytrap. In some high sandy areas, higher by only inches, stately longleaf pines, and huge live oaks grow. In wetter areas, tupelo or black gum grow, often capped with mistletoe. And on the edge of swamps, often standing in water, are cypress, their sparse limbs dangled in Spanish moss. On cleared land in these parts, farmers raised tobacco and grew peanuts, along with strawberries and blueberries. 

This is black-water country, water darkened by the tannic acid produced by the tupelo and cypress. Often, in the evenings when the air cools, fog develops over the waters, making it even more mysterious.

“Charlie,” I asked, “have you seen the lights?” 

Just down the tracks from where Charlie grew up had been Maco Station. There, just a couple years after the Civil War, at a time the line was known as the Wilmington and Manchester Railroad, a brakeman named Joe Baldwin rode in a caboose. His car decoupled from the rest of the train and started to slow down. When Joe realized what happened, he grabbed a lantern and ran out on the back deck of the car. There, he swung his lantern back and forth, a universal sign on the railroad for trains to stop. He knew the schedule. Another train followed them.

Joe hoped to signal the engineer in time. But in the foggy swampland, the engineer didn’t see the signal until it was too late. The engine collided into Joe’s caboose, destroying it. Joe died; his head severed from his body. As they cleaned up from the accident, they never found the head and Joe’s body was buried without it. Most just assumed the head had rolled down the embankment and into the black waters filled with cottonmouths and an occasional alligator.

Shortly after Joe’s death, people started reporting a strange light moving in the swamps near the Maco sidings. Some suggested it was Joe’s lantern swinging along the tracks. A legend developed that Old Joe still looked for his head. People often went to these parts to walk the tracks to see the lights, but the tracks were removed in the late 1970s and not long afterwards, the highway expanded, and the lights fades away. 

Charlie had seen the light, but he didn’t believe it to be Joe’s lantern.  If I remember correctly, he brought into one popular theory that the lights were caused by swamp gas.

photo of old railroad tracks
I don’t have any photos of the line near Charlie’s house. This is the Aberdeen, Carolina and Western Railroad in northern Moore County, North Carolina

Living by the railroad tracks, hearing that lonesome cry from the engine pierce through the night as freight rolled toward the port in Wilmington must have been sealed in Charlie’s memory. But that lonesome wail can also bring sadness, as Charlie shared with us.

A year into the Great Depression, when Charlie was still just a boy, finishing up grade school, the lonesome wail wasn’t heard as much. There was so little freight moving that the railroad laid off every other section foreman. Charlie’s dad lost his job. The next day, Charlie went with his dad into Wilmington to look for work. But there were none to be found. Coming back home, late in the day, discouraged, they noticed smoke over the distant pines. As they got closer, they realized their house was totally engulfed in flames. The family lost everything. 

Charlie’s life was forever changed. He went to live with family in Wilmington, where he worked hard and earned a little until the war came and he joined the Navy.

You’d think that after such hardships, Charlie would have been bitter. But there wasn’t a bitter bone in his body. He was one of the most joyous and positive individuals I’ve known. He wasn’t a bellyacher. Even when he had good reason to complain, he just shrugged it off. 

About a year before I left the bakery, I was called into the General Manager’s office. I wasn’t sure what was up. When I entered, Charlie was there, along with the general manager, plant manager, and the president, who owned the bakery with his brother. It was obvious, they had been talking for some time to Charlie. At this point, Charlie’s responsibility included sanitation, receiving, and building maintenance. I was a production supervisor.

In the past six months, we had several problems in sanitation and receiving. When I entered, they informed me changes were being made. They assigned me Charlie’s responsibilities. Thankfully, they kept Charlie employed. He would continue to handle building maintenance but even there would report to me. It seemed strange for Charlie was nearly three times my age. I felt sorry for him, but he never showed any bitterness toward me. 

Thinking about Charlie, I’m left to wonder why some people endure tragedy and disappointment and yet can still be joyful. He continued to maintain a positive attitude. In Charlie’s case, this partly had to do with his faith. Charlie knew he was loved by God. He found joy in creation, in life, in laughter, and in good friends.

My cousin met Charlie long after I had left the bakery “Charlie thought a lot of you,” Terry said. “He was always asking about you.” 

Two weeks before Easter, 2010, and a month before Terry and I talked, Charlie died at the age 91. Hearing of his death, it seemed as if a part of my past died with him. Charlie was the one person from my time at the bakery whom I would occasionally see. After he retired, Charlie found a home in the church in which I grew up. Whenever I visited my parents, I would attend church on Sunday. Afterwards, Charlie and I would talk about old times. 

Oh, how I wish I could talk to him again.

I haven’t yet been able to find any photos of Charlie. I wrote this in 2010, but edited and significantly expanded it for this post.

More Bakery Stories:

Coming of Age in a Bakery: Linda and the Summer of ’76

A College Boy in the Bakery

Harvey and Ernest

Frank and Roosevelt

The Perils of Working on the Christian Sabbath

Baking Memories and a review of a book on “White Bread”

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A Week on Iona

Photo of author on the isle of Sraffa

To read about my journey from Edinburgh to Iona, click here. The trip involved two trains and two ferries!

Iona Abbey from the water
The abbey from the ferry (on the day we left)

Grasping the rail to hold steady, I stand on the starboard catwalk looking out across the waters. I pull up the hood on my rain jacket.  I could go below, but I want to face the angry sea.  The engines roar and black smoke puffs from the stack as the ferry pulls away from the Flonnphort’s dock.  Moments later, we are in open water.  The north wind whistles through the channel separating Mull from Iona. The pilot steers the boat into the wind, but the waves and tide push us southward.  He increases speed as I spread my legs apart in order to remain upright. The boat rolls back and forth in the waves. 

North end of Iona looking toward Mull
North end of Iona, looking toward Mull

In a few minutes, we’re well out into the channel. The Abbey is clearly visible, standing tall in the shadow of Dun I, the high point on the island.  We’re just the latest travelers, joining a hoard of pilgrims reaching back to the sixth century.  I have no idea what the week will bring, but the roughness of the channel reminds me of the island’s isolation.  The ferry pushes harder as we approach the landing. The pilot steers the boat up into the wind then lands on the ramp.  There is no natural harbor in Iona.  The pilot keeps the engines engaged, keeping the boat in position as the crew lowers the bow ramp.  The two cars onboard are allowed to drive off first, then the two dozen or so of us passengers follow.  The first off the boat get wet when a wave breaks and crashes over the ramp.  The rest of us learn to time our departure, waiting till a lull to move out on the ramp and to quickly make our way to shore.  We’re on Iona.   

The Abbey on Iona with a large Celtic cross

On Pentecost, 563, an Irish abbot named Columba and a group of twelve disciples landed on a pebble covered cove on the south end of Iona. They found on this small island what they were looking for and established a religious community.  At this time, sea travel was easier than traveling overland on non-existent roads. The small island became a center of faith and learning that extended throughout the mainland of Britain and Ireland and surrounding islands.  Some scholars believe the Book of Kells was originally produced here.  Others think the large standing Celtic crosses, so common in Scotland and Ireland, were first carved on this island. 

looking toward Mull
Looking across toward Mull

The religious community thrived on Iona for the next couple hundred years.  People would travel by sea, making a pilgrimage to the island of the saint known as Columba. Scottish Kings sought out the island for burial.  Legend has it that even MacBeth, of Shakespeare’s fame, is buried here.  

Around the tenth century, hostile visitors from the north, the Vikings, arrived.  With their art and wealth, churches and monasteries were attractive targets.  After several raids and the deaths of scores of monks, Iona was abandoned as a center of learning.  Most of the monks moved back to Ireland. 

Augustine nunnery
Augustine nunnery

By the twelfth century, the Viking threat had faded.  The Benedictine Order reestablished the monastery on Iona, building the current Abbey.  They were joined by an Augustine nunnery, whose ruins are just south of the Abbey.  These two continued to thrive till the Scottish Reformation in 1560. Afterwards, the site began to crumble.  But pilgrims and visitors continued to come.

In 1829, Felix Mendelssohn visited and although the seas were rough and he suffered from sea sickness, he was inspired to compose the Hebridean Overture on the nearby island of Staffa.   A “Who’s Who” of British authors also made the trip including John Keats, Robert Lewis Stevenson, naturalist Joseph Banks, Dr. Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Sir Walter Scott and William Wordsworth

After the abandonment of the monastery, the property came under the control of the Duke of Argyll.  Over time, with the harsh wet climate of Iona, the trusses rotted and the roof caved in. In the 19th Century, George Douglas Campbell, the eighth Duke of Argyll, began restoring the Abbey. Although a devout member of the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian), he allowed a number of different denominations (Presbyterians, Scottish Episcopal and Roman Catholic) to use the site for worship.  Before his death, he deeded the grounds to the Iona Trust which has responsibility today for maintaining the site.  The site is open to all denominations.  Since the 1930s, the site has been operated by the Iona Community which uses it to hold ecumenical worship and to train people to work with the poor around the world.   

puffins
Puffins on Staffa

Those who wish to participate with the community today are expected to spend a minimum of a week on the island.  Guests live as a part of the community, staying in dormitory rooms (six or eight people of the same sex per room). The guests help with the cooking and the cleaning, and participating in morning worship and evening prayers.  The community strives to bring people together from all over the world as a way to foster a better understanding of one another.  Groups meet together for Bible Study as well as to discuss other topics, with plenty of free time to explore the island or to take boat trips around the island or to other islands.  Staffa, a small island with unique geology, known for puffins that nest there in the summer and “Fingal’s Cave” is a popular destination.

Straffa
Straffa landscape

I spend my week on Iona meeting with a group led by two professors of British Universities.  Both are poets.  One teaches English while the other teaches in a seminary.  As for my chores, I am in the kitchen, mostly chopping vegetables.  Although the food is not exclusively vegetarian (we had meat three times during the week), we ate lots of wonderful vegetarian dishes that included roasted root vegetables and thick soups, all prepared from scratch.  

With my spare time I hike around the island.  Daily, generally around sunset (10:30 PM), I hike to the top of Dun I, the high point of the island.  The sunsets are incredible. At night, I can see distant lighthouses. One of the lighthouses was built by Robert Lewis Stevenson’s father in the early nineteenth century to warn boaters of Torran Rocks. This is also the site Stevenson’s chose for the shipwreck in. his book, “Kidnapped.’  I also gaze out on other islands in both the Inner and Outer Hebrides chain.  Twilight seems to go on forever and provides some of the most beautiful light on the island and sea.

Sunset from Dun I, on Iona

Friday is my last day and I, along with many other pilgrims, are leaving on the 8:15 AM ferry.  Its drizzling rain, but calmer than the day I’d arrived. The Iona staff gather at the dock to wish us a safe trip.  Once the ferry lands in Fionnphort, there’s no time to waste.  A bus waits. We load up and ride across the Ross of Mull and Glen More, to Craignure, where we meet another ferry.  It’s nearly an hour over to the mainland, to Oban, where we board a waiting train.

Worship in the Abbey
Worship in the Abbey

Most of those whom I’d spent time with on Iona continue on to Glasgow and home.  But not me.  At Crainlarich, where the Oban branch merges onto the Northwest Highlands mainline, I say my goodbyes to friends and step off the train. Thirty minutes later, I board a northbound train, taking me through Fort Williams and over the Glenfinnan trestle (made famous in the Harry Potter movies), and on to Mallaig where I catch the ferry to the Isle of Skye.  

Magazine cover of Skinnie Magazine in which this story first appeared.

This story originally appeared in The Skinnie, a magazine for Skidaway Island, on September 22 , 2017.

ScotRail

Cl

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Pittsburgh to North Carolina, Leg 2 of my Transcontinental Trip

title slide with photo of the author boarding a train

Click here for Part 1 of this trip (Reno to Pittsburgh).

I’d arrived early in Pittsburgh on Friday, March 31. I dropped my stuff off at Bill and Mike’s apartment. Bill and I had shared the apartment the year before I took a year off for my western adventures. I spent much of the day around campus. I checked in with teachers, especially Ron Stone as I was doing an independent study with him on Reinhold Niebuhr. That afternoon, I met Linda, whom I had met the previous spring when I preached at First Presbyterian in Cumberland, Maryland. We had written back and forth a few times. She had invited me to her family’s cabin in the Laurel Highlands. It was a nice place, and she brought dinner that evening. We enjoyed a fire and spent Saturday hiking. 

On Sunday, she drove me to Butler, where I preached at Covenant Presbyterian Church. I had worked as a student assistant at Covenant for my first two years at seminary. It was good to see Steve Hamilton, the pastor who’d been my mentor for two years, and many of the people who had become close during my time there.

Photo of the steeple on Covenant Presbyterian in Butler, PA and Steve Hamilton
Covenant’s steeple and Steve

Linda dropped me off at the seminary that afternoon. While there wasn’t any romance in our time together, I had a nice weekend. But the pleasant weekend became tainted when I realized Carolyn had tried to call me at Bill’s apartment several times. While I was honest and we had discussed our relationship evening when I left Nevada in August, I recognized she was hurt, and we were more serious than I realized. 

I had come to the seminary for Jane Dempsey Douglas’ lecture series on the changing views of the imago deo (image of God). She drew heavily on her book, Women, Calvin, and Freedom, which I purchased and would read on my way back to Nevada. During my time there, I had lunch with Sue Nelson, my advisor at school. She’d just published Beyond Servanthood: Christianity and the Liberation of Women. I purchased her book and had her sign it. It’d also read it on the return trip, a trip in which my reading was every bit as deep as it was on my first leg.

As I was enjoying lunch with Sue and other classmates, Barry Jackson, another professor, hunted me down with an urgent message to call Ken Hall at Hill Presbyterian Church in Butler. Somehow, Ken heard I was in town and wanted to meet. As this was in the days before cell phones, Ken knew Barry and thought he might be able to find me. Ken was the moderator of the Presbyterian Church USA. In the two years I worked in Butler, I had only meet him one time, but I had worked with his youth minister on a few activities between our two churches. 

Ken was elected as moderator at the 200th General Assembly held the previous June in St. Louis. As a seminary student, I was there working for the Office of the General Assembly. The moderator was elected on Saturday. On Sunday, everyone attended different churches in the area. Then we came back together Sunday night for the moderator’s reception. There, with a group of seminary students from around the country, I waited in line to meet him.  When I approached, I stuck out my hand to shake his as I started to introduce myself again. But before I could, he yelled, “Jeff, I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Then he pulled me close for a hug. I was shocked that he remembered me with the 1000s of people who were present. The other seminary students were impressed. 

I excused myself and went back with Barry to his office where we called Ken. He wanted to know if I could come up and visit, but he was only free that afternoon. I borrowed Bill’s car and drove to Butler for the second time in two days. We spent an hour and a half talking. He asked me to get him a resume. His associate had left, and they were interviewing for another. But he suggested if they didn’t hire one, he would be interested in hiring me during my senior year to fill in the gap. While they would hire someone that summer, it was good to contact Ken again.

Ken and my path would cross several times at General Assemblies over the years. Afew years later, he went to work for the Presbyterian Foundation. Nine years after our meeting, I was a pastor in Cedar City, Utah. Having just built a church, I looked for someone to preach a dedication sermon. I invited Ken. He did a wonderful job. 

On Tuesday night, I played basketball with a group from seminary whom I’d played with for the previous two years. Afterwards, I went out with a group of friends to one of our favorite watering holes in Shadyside, “The Elbow Room.” 

As that party broke up, three of us who were visiting Pittsburgh decided we should visit a real Steel City place. John White, who had moved to Princeton, had been the director of admission who recruited me, and Karen, another former student, whom I barely knew, but who’d come back from the lectures, and I headed out to the “O” for hot dogs and more beer!. 

The “O” stood for “The Original Hot Dog Shop” or “The Dirty O”. The was a long-established hot dog place in Oakland section of Pittsburgh, on Forbes Avenue. When they started, they were across the street from Forbes Field. They witnessed the Pirates World Series win in 1960. By the time we arrived, the Pirates had long moved to Three River Stadium. Across the street from “the O” stood the University of Pittsburgh’s massive library was across the street. 

 John dropped me off at Bill and Mike’s apartment at 1 AM. I had just long enough to shower and catch a few hours of sleep. Bill took me to the train station at 5 AM the next morning. 

It was dark when I boarded the train for Washington. I took my seat at the back of partly filled car. Soon, I fell asleep as we pulled out of Pittsburgh in the dark and ran up the Monongahela River. An hour and a half later, I woke as the train worked its way over the Allegheny Mountains. 

The author boarding the train

The morning was gray. I headed to the lounge car for coffee. When I came back, others were stirring in the car. I grabbed some food from my bag. Then, two blonde hair and blue eye kids popped up from the seat ahead of me. Aaron, the boy was seven and Ashely, the girl, four. Sleeping in the seat across from them was their mother, Karen. As I drank my coffee and ate fruit and a cinnamon bun for breakfast, they played peak-a-boo from behind the seats. Soon, they were drawing pictures for me. When their mother woke, she told them not to bother me. I assured her it was no bother. We spent much of trip to Washington, playing and talking to the three of them. 

Karen, a single mother, was taking her kids to see the capitol. I learned she’d been divorced for a few years and worked in the layout department for the Grand Rapids, Michigan newspaper. 

At this time, the Capitol Limited which ran from Chicago to Washington, DC, was a single deck train. Today, it’s a double decked train, like the trains in the American West. With everything on one level, the lounge car had a dome section where you could have a better view of the mountains. The four of us experienced that for a while that morning, before giving up our seats for others to enjoy.  When we arrived in Washington, we went our separate ways. 

Early that afternoon, April 5, 1989, I left D.C. on the Silver Star, heading south. That night, my parents picked me up in Fayetteville, North Carolina. We spent the night at my grandmother in Pinehurst, before driving to Wilmington the next day. It was a short trip.  I spent time with my parents and saw my grandmother, my brother and his two kids, as well as a few friends. I even went for out to Wrightsville Beach Friday night.  Then, late Saturday night, April 8th, we drove back to Fayetteville. The agent looked at my tickets and commented, “you’re going the long way home.” At 12:50 AM on Sunday, I boarded the train for Philadelphia, the first stop on a long roundabout trip back to Reno. 

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Other train trips

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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Randsburg and a 94 year old redhead

Photo of old cabins in the Mojave

This is a second post on a trip I took with Ralph to the northern Mojave in California. Click here to read about the morning at Goler Gulch.

Olga’s the first 94-year-old redhead I’ve met. I’m sure she has some artificial help; even so, her hair shows spunk. She gets around well and lives by herself. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she confesses. She still runs “The Joint,” pulling a regular shift, tending bar. When things are not busy, she steps out front and pull weeds from the flower bed. That’s where we first saw her. Ralph and I along with Bill and his friend had stopped in Randsburg for a late lunch after our tour of Goler Gulch. As we headed to a restaurant, Ralph mumbled something about it can’t Olga pulling flowers. He recognized the woman who none of us had seen. 

Ralph and Olga in "The Joint" in Randsburg, CA

After lunch, Ralph and I walked down to “The Joint,” a bar in Randsburg. Olga’s washing glasses as we enter. She stops and turns to take our order. Olga doesn’t recognize Ralph, so he introduces himself. She looks at him for a minute, then smiles and comments about how much she misses his brother. He lived in the area and died a couple of years earlier. The two chat for a minute about Olga’s son, who was Ralph’s age. The two of them went off to war together in 1944. Ralph asked how long she’s been tending bar at “The Joint.” We learn she and her late-husband brought the establishment in 1955. “I’ve had honest work ever since,” she tells us. I was curious about what kind of work she’d done before but decide not to interrupt their reunion. 

Selling booze in a mining town was lucrative business. Selling anything liquid use to be lucrative business as water in these parts was expensive, even as late as the ‘40s. Today, there is little mining and its mostly tourists who stop in want something alcoholic. The establishment is open from Wednesday through Sunday and they close in the evening when they are no longer busy. “The Joint” is in the heart of Randsburg’s business district and one of the original structures in town. The building was first a bakery. In the 30s, it was converted to a bar and a pool hall.

Ralph and I both order a couple of Mojave Greens, a local beer made in Inyokern and named for the famous rattlesnake of the Mojave. Ralph, who grew up in this area, said he’d only seen two of these snakes in his life. She pulls us two bottles out of the cooler, opens them, and ask if we want a glass. Ralph, always the civilized one, takes a glass and slowly pours his beer into it. I shake my head, grab the bottle and tip it up to drink. Ralph and Olga continue talking until Olga pauses to fix another drink for the woman sitting at the other end of the bar.

Its then I notice Faye, who’s sitting a few stools away and looking for a refill. I’m not sure why I hadn’t noticed her earlier as she wears a barely ample halter displaying more than ample breasts. She’s attractive or certainly could be. With her tight mini-skirt and heels which must be five inches high, I wonder what kind of business she’s in. We chat for a few minutes and learn she’s the proprietor of the Silver Dollar Saloon in Red Mountain. This is her day off. 

The day before, when we drove through Red Mountain, Ralph had told me earlier about the red-light district there. It was a hoping place when he was a schoolboy before the war. The saloons in Red Mountain lined the west side of the street and featured backroom gambling. Gambling was illegal in California, but this wasn’t exactly on the main highway and most people looked the other way. On the east side of the street were “cribs,” where prostitutes who free-lanced in the bars and around the gambling dens, led their clients. It was a cozy arrangement, and local authorities did little to discourage business. 

But then World War 2 came along. The Navy built a base on China Lake. Since there’s not enough water in China Lake to float a canoe most years, they used the base to train pilots. Naval authorities found that after a night of drinking, gambling and whoring, the drive over the mountain was too difficult to negotiate. They lost many pilots before they had a chance to sight in on a Japanese Zero. The Navy called in the FBI, who shut down the gaming establishments and ran the women off.

A few minutes later, Faye’s partner at the Silver Dollar joined us at the bar. While I’d enjoyed glancing over at Faye as we talked, I now divert my eyes. This guy is scary. His bare skinny legs end within fancy black leather cowboy boots, with pointed toes, and scroll threading. Personally, I think wearing cowboy boots without long pants should be a misdemeanor. Wearing cowboy boots with super tight short shorts, the kind which hadn’t been seen since the 80s, should be a felony! This guy’s pants are shorter than his partner’s mini skirt.

I’m glad I’m not alone in the bar with him. Had it just been me drinking and he came in, I think I’d wallowed over to the Methodist Church and take the temperance pledge. But he joins the conversation and seems to be an okay. However, he and Faye, to say the least, are one unique couple.

Ralph and I finish our beers and head out. The darkness in the bar forces our eyes to squint as we adjust to the bright desert sky. We take the long way back to Ridgecrest, through Inyokern. I tell Ralph about my one other trip to Inyokern. It was approaching midnight. I was with Eric, another friend of mine who Ralph knows. We’d been looking for a place to stop for the night. We were on our way to do a week hike from New Army Pass, to the Pacific Crest Trail and then up the backside of Mt. Whitney, and then north along the John Muir Trail to Onion Valley. And we wanted to get an early start the next morning so we kept driving late into the night. 

Eric sighted a spotlight for an airport. As a pilot, he suggested we head there and camp, telling me about camping under his plane at such places. There was no one to stop us. I slept on one side of the car and Eric on the other. The night was warm. I laid out my pad and sleeping bag and slept on top. I must have been exhausted for I don’t remember anything else until 5:00 AM, when a loudspeaker rudely awaken me as it called out for those boarding the 5:30 AM flight to LAX. Shortly afterwards, we were on the road.

Ralph, who always had a way with words, quipped something about how Eric and I must not of been living right. Ralph and I had camped out when in the wilderness. But he felt if we’re going to stay in civilization, we should, at least, find a motel. 

We drive back into Ridgecrest as the light softens. The shadows of the barren peaks provide definition to the distant hills in the low warm light. It’s nearly dark when we arrive. Unlike Randsburg, Ridgecrest is a new town, built during World War II. The purpose of the town is to serve the China Lake Naval base. We drive around, looking for a place for dinner. In our search, as we navigate ubiquitous four-way stop signs, But what amazed me of the town was to see not only had a dollar store, but also a 99-cent store and, for those who that’s even too much, a 98-cent store. Every place needs to be known for something. 

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From Reno to Pittsburgh, 1989, the first leg of a transcontinental journey

title slide with Amtrak post card of the California Zephyr in Colorado

This piece is from my journals, memory, and the train guide for the California Zephyr. Sadly, I must not have taken as many photos as I do now, but then this was long before digital photography. 

A three week break from Nevada

I left my car at Carolyn’s house in the Washoe Valley on the southside of Reno. We had an early dinner, then she drove me to the Reno Amtrak Station where we waited for the eastbound California Zephyr. It was the Tuesday after Easter, March 28, 1988. I checked my suitcases through to Pittsburgh, keeping with me only a small duffle bag which contained a pillow, blanket, toiletries, a few clothes, books, and snacks. The train pulled up to the station. It’s a short stop, just long enough for passengers to debark or step aboard. Carolyn and I hugged; I threw my duffle over my shoulders, grabbed the handrail and stepped up. 

As I was finding my way up to the second floor of the double decked train, we pulled away. A few minutes later, we stopped in Sparks, for a longer stop so they could service the train. I looked out the window and saw Carolyn by the tracks waving. Knowing there was going to be this stop, she followed the train over. I waved back but couldn’t leave the train as I was waiting on the conductor to process my ticket. By the time he reached me, the train was running east alongside the Truckee River and passing the infamous Mustang Ranch. The train guide described the gaudy brothel only as “one of Nevada’s unique institutions.”  

At this time, Amtrak had a promotional which allowed you to name your destination. You were allowed one additional stop each direction. The nation was divided into three zones. For 150 dollars, you could travel in one zone. For 300, you could cross all three zones. Looking to make the best of the offer, my destination was Fayetteville, North Carolina, three zones away. Going out, I would make a stop in Pittsburgh, where I would attend a lecture series and catch up with old friends. In North Carolina, I’d have a short visit with my parents, grandmother, and siblings. Coming back, I planned to stop in Seattle, cause I had never been there. I was a little scared but also excited about riding over 7,000 miles on the train over a three-week period. 

I tried to do a little reading as I got use to my seat. While I brought several books with me, the reading was all heavy, mostly on theology and Biblical Studies. I had a commentary on the book of Revelation, a collection of Reinhold Niebuhr’s shorter writings, and Doris Lessings, The Summer before Dark.  With daylight fading fast, I found myself unable to concentrate. I went to the restroom to brush my teeth and long before we stopped in Winnemucca, the rocking of the car and the occasional sound of the whistle blowing in the night had me asleep.

The previous week had been brutal

The past week had been brutal. The Wednesday before, I had officiated at my first funeral. It was for Lois Bowen, a longtime member of the church whom I had not met. Shortly after learning she had cancer, she left Virginia City and moved to Las Vegas to be near to family. They brought her back to the funeral, which I was to conduct. I don’t know how it all came together, but those who knew her shared with me pieces of her life and I somehow managed to work it into a homily.

The small sanctuary was packed for the funeral. Rudi, a former opera singer and a church member, sang a solo while Red, a local banjo picker in his 90s, played a wonderful rendition of “Amazing Grace.” When it was over, Pat Hardy, who served as my supervisor as I was only a student pastor, complimented me on having given one of the best funeral homilies he’d heard. 

Then Holy Week kicked in. Thankfully, Pat came up to Virginia City again on Thursday to lead the Maundy Thursday service since I was not yet ordained and not allowed to officiate at the Lord’s Table. On Friday, I preached the ecumenical Good Friday service at St. Mary’s in the Mountains on John 19:17-20. The service went well except for the confusion which came in leading the Lord’s Prayer the “Presbyterian way” in a Catholic Church. (Presbyterians say debts instead of trespasses and the Catholics don’t have the doxological ending to the prayer). Also, on this day, I learned I had passed all four of the ordination exams I taken in February.  A major hurdle toward ordination had been completed, but with two Easter Services, I had little time to reflect. 

Then on Easter Sunday, two days before I stepped on the train, I held my first Sunrise Service at the cemetery on the north end of town. It was a cold morning. The temperature was in the 20s and a cold wind blew off Mount Davidson. We hurried through the service with me giving a short homily on Luke 24:1-12. Afterwards, we rushed back to the church on South C Street where Norm had coffee and pastries waiting for us. A few hours later, I conducted my first Easter Service, preaching on 1 Corinthians 15:19-26. 

On the train

By the time I boarded the train two days later, I was exhausted. I don’t remember much after the Mustang Ranch and slept soundly to the rocking of the train.

In the dark, we passed Lovelock, Winnemucca, and Elko, towns I recalled from my drive the past Septemberfrom the Sawtooth Mountains to Virginia City.  I woke at 4:30 AM. The train no longer rocked as we had stopped in Salt Lake City. I got off and walked around the platform in the cold. As we waited for another train, the Desert Wind from Los Angeles, I headed into the station and out onto the streets seeing if I could find a diner. It’d been a long time since dinner at Carolyn’s the evening before.

The streets were dark. Having only been to Salt Lake City once before, the previous summer as I drove west, I didn’t know where we were in relations to anything.  When I came back to the station, I was ready to board the train and snooze again but was held on the platform as they hooked up the cars from Los Angeles. Once the cars clanged together, it was safe to board. Soon we pulled out from the station, heading south toward Provo. As we passed Geneva Steel, dawn was just breaking. The steel plant, with its furnaces glowing, made me feel as if I was already in Pittsburgh. I quickly fell back asleep. 

I slept through the stop in Provo. When I woke, the engines up front rumbled and the wheels squeaked as the train labored over the steep and tight curves heading up to up to Soldier’s Summit. I head to the laboratory to brush my teeth and wash my face, then back to the lounge car, where I picked up a cup of coffee.  I would spend much of the day alternating between the lounge car and my seat in coach, and between looking at the scenery across the Utah desert and reading. Late morning, after the stop in Green River, and just before leaving Utah, the tracks began to parallel the Colorado River. We followed the river for the next 282 miles of stunning scenery, with stops at cute ski towns. 

Somewhere in Utah

Leaving the Colorado River, we made a steep climb over the Rockies. Shortly after a stop at Winter Park, the train entered into darkness as we ran through the 6.2 mile long Moffat Tunnel. Coming back into daylight on the other side, we began our slow descend toward Denver as we ran through many tunnels. 

inside the lounge car

Denver was another long stop on the train. I got to talking to an African American passenger on the platform, who was heading from his home in California to Cleveland, where he had family. We decided to see if we could find a place to get dinner and a drink. Not far from the station was a brew pub. This was still a new concept in 1989, with the only other one I knew of being back in Virginia City. We each ordered a sandwich and one of their brews. We consumed our food and drink quickly, making sure we didn’t miss the train when it headed out across the plains. 

Day 2: Leaving Denver

Darkness was falling as the train left the station. I went to the lounge car where they were showing a movie, but it was crowded and I wasn’t interested, so I went back to my seat, got out my blanket and pillow, and quickly fell asleep. 

Early to bed meant that I also woke early as we were rolling through eastern Nebraska. Knowing the lounge car didn’t open until 6 AM, I headed to the lavatory to clean up and brush my teeth. I got off the car for a few minutes when we stopped in Omaha and walked around in the platform. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and I could make out a few of the buildings. When the conductor called “All Aboard,” I went back to my seat and waited. 

It wasn’t long before I saw the lounge car attendant heading from the crew quarters for the lounge, I followed him with my book, with the hope of getting some early coffee. When he entered the car, with me on his heels, he had a fit. 

The lounge car attendant was an older African American gentleman who had spent his adult life working on the railroad. He was friendly, took pride in his work, and saw the lounge car as his kingdom. What he saw once he opened the door was a dozen or so dozen college students passed out on the floor and in the seats. Empty beer cans rolled from one side of the car to the other whenever the train went around a curve. He cussed and began nudging them with his shoe, telling them to get out of his lounge car. They slowly got up, rubbing their heads, and heading back to their seats. I helped him pick up the empty beer cans and clean up the tables as he gave me a lecture about what’s wrong with today’s youth. 

The college students had been skiing over spring break and had boarded the train the day before in Steamboat Springs. He had been willing to sell them one beer each when he closed the car the night before, but it obvious they had a supply of their own as many of the cans were of brands not sold on the train. 

That morning speed by. We stopped for a few minutes in Ottumwa, Iowa. It was a smoking stop, and all the smokers got off, lighting cigarettes as soon as they were on the platform. I got off to look around at Radar’s hometown. Radar, if you remember, was the loveable corporal on the TV series, “Mash.”  At Burlington, Iowa, we crossed the Mississippi. The California Zephyr pulled into Chicago early in the afternoon. 

Crossing the Mississippi

A stop in Chicago, then onward to Pittsburgh

I had over five hours before catching the train to Pittsburgh, so I checked my duffle and walked across the Chicago River, down West Adams Street a few blocks, to the Chicago Institute of Art. There, I spent a couple of hours looking at paintings. To this day, I remember turning down a hall within the museum and looking at Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.” This was the first time I had seen the frequently parodied painting of a farmer with a pitchfork and his stern looking daughter standing in front of a gothic style house Wood’s had seen in Iowa. I was shocked by the small and unassuming size of the original. I’d always expected a much larger painting.

I left the museum around 5 PM, stopping at a bar and grill for dinner, before heading back to Union Station. Around 7, I boarded the Capital Limited for Pittsburgh. As we made our way around the south shore of Lake Michigan, through the steel mills of Gary, Indiana, it felt as if Pittsburgh was getting closer. Soon, I was asleep in my seat as we rushed through the upper Midwest. At 6 AM, we arrived in Pittsburgh. I gathered up my stuff and stepped off the train. Bill, a friend from the seminary, was there to meet me. 

Ticket jacket, route guide, and post card of the California Zephyr

Other train trips of mine: 

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

Other Virginia City Stories

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867)