Hogs, Mules, and Yellow Dogs: Growing Up on a Mississippi Subsistence Farm

Trains

63 Trains Over the dog’s whine, the voice of the nightly freight train spoke forlornly. Its message through the moist evening air above Thad Hill wafted as clearly as that sent by the odor of creosote from the paper mill upriver from the town. Sound plus smell. But the whistle evoked a unique sensation that transported my other senses to worlds other than that of possums, dogs, and the daily drudgery of a Mississippi subsistence farm. Its long, drawn-out mechanical bleat pierced the ether and resonated across the woods as the train approached the main highway in McLain. It sounded a warning not only to people, but to porcine, bovine, equine, or other animal intruders on its tracks, a warning that trailed off as distance and foliage softened the high-pitched mournful wail, issuing from the throat of its aperture. Trains became part of my life rather early when my mother took me with her to her family home in the red hills of northern Georgia. Many freight trains in the rural South during the early twentieth century maintained a passenger car or two to transport people from town to town. Engines had “cowcatchers” out front to prevent large animals from derailing the train. This was before the major growth in the automobile industry and the public road system. Trains that carried only passengers operated between major cities. On local runs the passenger car was attached to the last freight vehicle, just ahead of the caboose. We called these vehicles “doodlebugs.” Many such passenger cars were hand-me-downs from streamlined railroad companies , and were often of a less-than-comfortable accommodation. In early years, the cabin was constructed of wood, as were the seats. By the time of my first ride, the interior had improved, although most riders still brought along a blanket or pillow to sit on. Food also had to be packed, as there were few eating establishments associated with the train depot. Two daily arrivals in McLain, including the “night Beginnings 64 train,” on north-south runs were important events in the life of the community. So it was in May 1925 that my mother, with meticulous care given only to a first-born child, dressed me in a starched shirt, knee pants, little skullcap, and bow tie—very appropriate for traveling by train. She and I then boarded a car on the Rebel in McLain, heading for Mobile, Alabama, sixty miles away, and ultimately for Atlanta after a night’s ride. We arrived in rural northeastern Georgia by local spur coach, where she showed me off to Benjamin and Mary Butler. I was their first grandchild. It was a long trip, but the excitement of it all left an impression, even at two. No doubt, it was the trains that did it. We repeated this routine for the next few years, until a little brother and sister came along, making the price of tickets prohibitive . I remember those trips vividly, until they ceased in my sixth year with the economic crash of 1929. “We won’t be going to see Georgia-mamma this year,” Mother said. For those journeys, the train route was the same: McLain, Mobile, Atlanta, Elberton via Athens, with appropriate stops between. In addition to the awe with which I beheld the giant engine, steam issuing from its frame, two things stand out in my memory as we boarded. Lots of noise and activity, and lots of room on the car to run and romp up and down the aisles—just what a little boy needed. We were soon moving fast; newfound diversions tired me, and Mother as well. There were the long waits at the stations. Our bodies and clothes always got dirty from the soot and grime of the engine that burned wood, coal, or oil. My immaculate dress was pretty soiled by the time we reached Atlanta next morning, well spent. The firemen, engineers, and conductors, the men who wore duckbill caps with a variety of insignia, bib overalls with watch chain and fob across their chests, were fascinating to me. But my heroes were the men in the blue suits and French Foreign Legion-looking caps, who yelled “board!” just before the train pulled away from a stop. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up. I might have thought differently if I had known then that during Reconstruction—about the time the railroad first came through the mountains of northern Georgia—some...