A cautionary tale of how a teddy bear killed my grandfather...and eventually led to my existence.

A teddy bear killed my grandfather...at least that's the story I was told.

The truth is a little more complicated.

It was an unseasonably cold evening in early October, 1918 when Emmett McDonough (my grandfather) stood before his orchestra at a Wallingford, Connecticut dance hall for his clarinet solo. He was well known in the area as a musical virtuoso and everyone was eager to hear him play. The crowd was in especially good spirits that night, since newspaper headlines shouted that World War I would soon be at an end.

A group of teen-aged girls began to foxtrot in front of the bandstand and one girl (I'll call her Mary) began tossing a teddy bear to her friends. Teddy bears were all the rage in 1918, so it was no surprise that she'd bring one to a dance. After several tosses, Mary lost her grip and the bear tumbled airborne toward the bandstand. Emmett, now finishing his solo, was hit square in the face. He picked up the teddy bear and handed it back to young Mary.

Just two days after the dance Emmett began to cough and felt a general malaise. By mid-week he was bedridden. Jimmy, his three year old son, was sent to stay with relatives. Emmett's wife Nellie (my grandmother) could do little more than drape him with cold compresses and put Vick's VapoRub on his chest (yes, it was around then). By week's end he'd taken a turn for the worse.

The flu was now wide spread and people were dropping left and right. Young Mary, the teen-aged teddy bear owner, was one such victim. Speculation says that Mary must have sneezed into her teddy bear's fur, leaving droplets of live virus that my grandfather inhaled.

*The Spanish Influenza started as an avian virus which spread from bird to man, then horribly mutated and spread from human to human. It was an especially virulent strain. The dead included not only the elderly and infants but also robust adults in the prime of life. It's estimated that this pandemic killed 675,000 in the United States and as many as 100 million world-wide.

The country was now in panic mode, and all of the area hospitals were full. Sister Winifred, my grandmother's sister, was a nurse/nun at St. Francis Hospital in Hartford and was able to pull some strings to get Emmett admitted. It was too late though, by now his lungs had filled with fluid and he was essentially drowning. He died from pneumonia on October 10th 1918. He had just celebrated his 29th birthday.

Nellie never remarried, which left their son Jimmy (my father) an only child. Without any substantial means of support, they shuffled from house to house living with a series of Nellie's sisters and family in Wallingford. My father would later say that it was a lonely existence and that he hated being an only child. That, in part, is why he had nine children. The youngest being me.

So when you think about it, I guess I owe my existence to...a teddy bear.

*New York Times -04/28/09

Paris Hilton

As all my fellow conductors know, my alter ego is "The Conductor to the Stars"; A near legendary railroad phenom, with an uncanny knack for spotting rail- riding celebrities. Because of this, coworkers are eager to share anecdotal stories of their brushes with fame with me. Mark and Bob, two Danbury Branch conductors, told me a whopper of a story in Grand Central last night:

"Hey Conductor to the Stars" Bob yelled from the platform on track 16. "You're not going to believe who we had on train Friday night."

I've been in a big celebrity sighting drought lately, and I felt an immediate pang of jealousy.

"I assume it was a celebrity?"

"A BIG celebrity," Mark said.

I didn't have time to play 20 questions, so I cut to the chase.

"Okay...Who was it?"

Mark and Bob shouted in unison:

"Paris Hilton!"

"NO WAY!" I yelled back. Now I was really jealous.

"Not only that," Mark said. "But she didn't have any money and I had to bill her,"(now he paused for dramatic effect,) "and then I had the cops take her off the train in Stamford."

"Get out of here," I said incredulously.

"No really," Bob said.

Bob then had Mark show me the "pink slip"(a billing form used when passengers have neither ticket or money). Sure enough, there on the form was written:

Name: Paris Hilton

Address: 200 Main St.

City: Hyannis, Ma 02530

Paris's signature was emblazoned across the bottom in big girlish loops. She'd even placed hearts over the "i" in Paris and Hilton.

"That's HOT!" I said, doing my best Paris Hilton impression.

'Not really," Mark said. He then 'fessed up' saying the story was only partially true. As it turns out, truth was much sadder than fiction:

"I was collecting tickets on my train, when I came across an old white haired lady, who was about 70 years old. I asked for her ticket, but she said she didn't have time to buy one, and that she didn't have any money."

"No problem," Mark said while handing her a pink slip, "Do you have any form of identification?"

The woman reached into her over sized purse and pulled out a clear laminated ID pouch. In the lower right hand corner was a photo of Paris Hilton lounging in a skin tight dress. In the middle of the pouch was an aluminum lid from a Jello pudding container. This lid was in place of an official seal or hologram.

"The woman looked clean," Mark said. "I thought she was putting me on."

When the woman finished filling out the pink slip, she handed it to Mark.

"M'am," Mark questioned patiently. "You're telling me that your name is
Paris Hilton?"

"Yes!" The old woman answered matter of factly.

"THE Paris Hilton?"

"Yes!"

(surrounding passengers began to roll their eyes.)

"And this is your picture on the ID?"

"Yes!" She was starting to get annoyed. "I used to be a model."

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence then, and Mark and Paris stared at each other down.

"Okay Paris," Mark finally said. "I'm going to have the police talk to you in Stamford."(Mark was concerned about the woman's mental stability and thought that maybe she was suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia.)

"Is it because I'm Jewish?" The woman asked. "Is that what this is all about?"

Mark said that he called the rail traffic controller and asked for police assistance. He explained that he had an old woman on board who claimed to be Paris Hilton and unless the hard partying had finally caught up with her...the last he knew, Paris Hilton didn't look like a 70 year old woman.

When the train arrived in Stamford, two MTA police officers were waiting.

"Is there a problem officers?" Paris asked.

"We'd just like to speak with you m'am. Maybe get your name and address."

"I already told the conductor...My name is Paris....Paris Hilton."

"Okay m'am...Can you please come with us?"

The officers each grabbed an arm and escorted Paris off the train.

Before stepping on the platform, Paris turned around and addressed the
entire car:

"See ya later...bitches!"

(Okay, I made that last part up...but wouldn't that have been a great exit line?)

Centraal Station-Antwerp, Belgium

Found this video on Sandi Kahn Shelton's blog (which I highly recommend).

How long before this breaks out in Grand Central?

What we have here...Is a failure to communicate

"Conductor," said the woman in a thick southern drawl, "Could ya' please tell me when we get to Grand Central? I can't make heads nor tails of that man on the loud speaker."

"That Man!" I said indignantly. THAT MAN...happens to be ME."

The woman and her four friends burst out laughing. "No it ain't" one of the women said (I guess she thought I was teasing).

"No, really." I said.

I was a little hurt since I pride myself on my clear and concise announcements. Passengers compliment me all the time.

"Sorry Darlin," another said, "But we're visitin' from Alabama and we can't understand a lick of what you was sayin'."

"Would it help if I slowed my speech?" I asked.

They nodded their heads in agreement.

"Maybe make the announcements in a s-l-o-w southern drawl?"

"Go fer it!" They said.

The next station stop was rapidly approaching. I quickly raced to the cab and made this announcement:

"This here," I drawled, trying to sound like the prison warden in Cool Hand Luke. "This here...is Mt. V-e-r-n-o-n East."

I heard a loud cheer come from the other end of the car. Looking down the aisle, I could see my new friends giving me the thumbs up sign.

"The next station stop," I took a pregnant pause here..."The next stash-i-u-n is fixin' to be Fordham."

The cheers were even louder now and they were interspersed with guffaws of laughter.

They were egging me on now. After Fordham :

" I a-reckon that Harlem 125th Street is gonna be next."

They were actually clapping now... wavin' and a hootin' and a hollerin'.

One of the woman waved me over. "Darlin, where'd ya learn to talk like that? I mean ....Fixin'?"

"We watch a lot of 'Reba' reruns in my house." I said matter of factly.

"Reba!" That's our favorite show. (no surprise there)

We were almost to Grand Central when one of the ladies thanked me for giving them a good laugh. Another said I made their night. I thanked them as well, saying they were good sports. They could have just as easily been offended.

"So. You think we Yankees speak too fast?" I asked.

They all nodded their heads in agreement.

"Then you should be happy that you didn't have a New York conductor. I'm from Connecticut, and even I can't understand them."

Biohazards Please!

"Sorry dude!" Said the passenger, now showing me his thumb which was dripping with blood. "I sliced it at work today and it won't stop bleeding." I looked down at the ticket he'd just handed me, still not comprehending his apology. There, between my index finger and thumb, lay a crimson colored piece of paper. It was the size and shape of a powder blue Metro North ticket, but streaks of plasma had left it unrecognizable.

"Where are you going today?" I asked curtly, not trying to mask my annoyance.

"New Rochelle." He answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Ugggh!" I grumbled in disgust.

-

I ran for the bottle of Purell hand sanitizer that I keep in my railroad bag and squirted several droplets into my palms. While vigorously rubbing my hands together, I thought about Bill, a germaphobic coworker who collects tickets in latex gloves, a practice I once thought of as eccentric, but now think of as ingenious.

I wish I could say that this disgusting episode was unique, but I can't. For example; I frequently catch passengers holding tickets in their mouths. Sometimes they'll go as far as using them as dental floss, spending the better part of the ride mining molars for forgotten bits of a $200 business lunch and then handing me a ticket covered in spit and shreds of steak tartar.

Frequently, I spy someone coughing or sneezing into their ticket. They act as if nothing untoward has happened and try to pass their mucus covered ticket to me. I'll usually hold up my hand and say something like: "Today's your lucky day...you get to keep that ticket as a souvenir."

A passenger on my morning train passes his time by picking his nose and then eating it. Every morning it's the same thing, picking...eating, eating...picking, picking...eating. Luckily, he has a monthly commutation ticket and there's no hand to ticket contact between us. If he ever forgets his pass...he gets a free ride.

A few years back, on a hot August afternoon, a young man boarded my train in his high school basketball uniform. "Tickets please!" I asked, as I watched droplets of sweat pour down his face. "One minute" he said. He then reached down for his size 13 Air Jordans. I waited as he slowly untied his shoe, took it off and reached inside for his ticket. Once retrieved he proudly displayed a sweat soaked ticket. It drooped in his fingers, looking as soggy and limp as a cornflake left in day old milk. "You can't be serious" I said. "Sorry man," he said with a smile, "Ain't got no pockets."

There is an upside to this story. Because of all this bacterial exposure, I believe I've built up immunity and I rarely get sick. I guess that's what happens when you work in a Petri dish.

A pictorial week in review

I thought I'd share some images from the "My pictures" page of my cell phone. Most of these shots were taken in the past week:

This is Noah (at least I think that's what his name is) and he's a real rail aficionado. Each week his mother brings him to Grand Central to see the choo choos. The jar in his hand is filled with seat checks that he collects from all the conductors. He knows that each conductor has their own punch design and he likes to see all the different shapes they create.


This was the scene outside Grand Central on Tuesday as high school bands and The Orange County Ancient Order of Hibernians lined up on Vanderbilt Avenue, getting ready to march down 5th Avenue.

This is a video I shot of the Westchester County Fire Department's Emerald Society bagpipe band. Sorry for the poor quality, but they were standing outside Grand Central in what used to be the taxi stand. There wasn't much natural light there.

Fairfield, CT- (AP)March 17, 2009

Tragically, "Lucky" the Lucky Charm's leprechaun mascot, was struck and killed by a Metro North train today. MTA police pieced a suicide note together from multi-colored marhsmallow bits found at the scene. Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers, were strewn across the tracks. According to General Mills, Lucky had been despondent and suffering from paranoia. He was recently overheard complaining: "They're always after me Lucky Charms...ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS!"

An MTA police sergeant claimed the suicide note was "magically delicious."

I found this fedora in the luggage rack on one of my trains yesterday. I noticed it was my size, so I thought I'd try it on before turning it in to Lost&Found. I'm bald, so there's no chance of cootie transferal. A name was embossed on the leather head band, so if it's yours...and you can prove it, you can pick it up in Grand Central.

Mea Culpa

Sorry folks...It seems that I owe my loyal readers an apology for neglecting this blog. You see, a few months back I decided to switch my work schedule from late nights (think drunk...yet entertaining passengers) to early mornings (think sober, curmudgeony passengers). This was quite a difficult transition for me, especially since my body was more accustomed to climbing into bed at 5AM, not climbing out. Add to this that I'm now working 11 hour days-5 days a week, and then usually one (sometimes two) 8 hour shifts on the weekend...

Oh! and the gym...did I mention the gym? My New Year's resolution was to drop 20lbs, so January 1st I joined the New York Sports Club gym in the MetLife building in Manhattan. Every morning I spend the entirety of my swing time on a treadmill or an elliptical machine, headphones plugged in, whilst I pretend that I'm on The Biggest Loser and that Jillian is screaming in my face and telling me to pick up the pace. It must be working, cause I'm down 16 lbs so far. Two weeks ago, I pulled a muscle in my back and I'm beginning to to backslide...maybe I should switch to Bob's team.

At any rate, by the time I get home from work... I'm exhausted. There have been times when I've sat down at the computer, wanting to share a story with you, but inevitably, one or both of my daughters ask for a ride to one of their many high school activities. I've spent so much time chauffeuring these two around, that I now know all the words to latest Taylor Swift CD.

No wonder I'm exhausted.

In early April, we conductors pick new schedule assignments. I'm hoping to go back to the night trains, where the passengers really know how to put on a show. When they do...I'll be sure to write about it.

In the market place

Lately Grand Central has become a marketing Mecca...not that I'm complaining. Just before Christmas, elves were passing out free samples of "Bag O' Coal Popcorn" (chocolate covered popcorn). I got two bags.

Yesterday I picked up a free t-shirt from a women dressed as a big red ball. She was promoting a new ABC television show called "Wipeout" (Super Bowl Edition).

Today I was walking through Grand Central when eight blonde-wigged models slowly marched in formation through the terminal's main concourse. They circled the floor and then each of them struck a pose:

Okay...I get that they're pushing small laptop computers... but which brand? It's still a mystery to me. There were no signs, no t-shirts, no pamphlets, nothing to signify the brand. What a big waste of money! But I guess it's better than paying 3 million dollars for 30 seconds of Super Bowl commercial time.

Say it loud...I'm 47 and I'm proud.

Here is a transcript of the conversation my daughter and I had as I drove she and her sister to school yesterday. It was my birthday.

Daughter: So...Dad...How does it feel to be 47?

Me: Huh?


Daughter: I said...How does it feel to be 47?


Me: Eh???


Daughter: I SAID...HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE 47?


Me: Oh! Well...aside from the whole hearing thing...it's pretty much the same as being 46.

Look to the Cheesecake!

A

Can we celebrate this historic presidential inauguration with our favorite fatty baked good? YES WE CAN!!! (for 29.95). I was buying a coffee at Junior's in Grand Central today when I spotted these cheesecakes.

You would think that Junior's would also make an "Obama" Black and White cookie:

A black man on a white cheesecake...look to the cheesecake!

The Curious Case of John Ruggiero

Good Evening, I'm your host Rod Serling.

Submitted for your approval:

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Case in point: A Mr. John Ruggiero, a middle aged railroad conductor from Connecticut, takes his wife on a Sunday afternoon date to the movies. They have purchased two tickets to see the latest Brad Pitt blockbuster, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"...little do they know...they have two aisle seats in... "The Twilight Zone."

First some background:

"The Curious Case of Bejamin Button" is based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, in which a man ( Benjamin) ages in reverse. He is born old, but for some reason his internal clock runs backward, so the more he ages... the younger he gets.

At times, the movie detours from the main narrative and tells a parallel story of a blind clockmaker, who has lost his son in World War I. The clockmaker's great masterpiece is the newly unveiled clock tower at The New Orlean's Train Station. The clock in the tower runs backward and serves as a memorial to the war dead, whose lives have ended much too soon.


Okay, this is when the story gets weird:

Conductor John really enjoyed the movie and when the lights came up in the theater, he checked his watch to see how long the movie had been. This is what he saw (this video is of John's actual watch):





If you missed it, the second hand is running counter clockwise.

John was understandably freaked out at what he saw. He's had this watch for 10 years and it has never given him a lick of trouble. He plans on bringing it to a watch repair shop for answers.

Serling:

"Einstein said that time is relative and it could never be totally understood. The same can be said for John Ruggiero and the time he spent in ...The Twilight Zone."

Plugged In

What the modern conductor's countertop looks like.

L to R: Cellphone, radio, Ticket Issuing Machine, Printer,Keurig coffee maker.

The 1/2 week in review

Monday, December 29:

It's a frigid morning as I back the 6:47 AM train out of the yard and onto the platform on track #8 in New Haven Station. The platform is usually packed with commuters, but this morning everyone is standing over on track # 14 platform...that's three tracks away. I toot the horn and glance over at the trembling, huddled masses, yearning to commute. They stare back at me, throw their hands up, mouth four letter words and begin racing for the stairwell. A minute later they file onto my train, most give me dirty looks, others grumble, a few ask:"What happened to the 6:40 train?" I try to look concerned, pull a schedule out of my jacket pocket and read:

1527
------
AM
6:40
------
WILL
NOT
OPERATE AND
12/30
12/29


I get on the PA and announce: "Folks, this is the 6:47 local train to Grand Central...those of you looking for the 6:40 express... search no more. According to the schedule...the 6:40 will not run today or tomorrow."

"UGGHHH!!!" The huddled masses let out a collective groan.

After leaving New Haven, Kathy, my assistant conductor, walks back to me and says:

"Bob, I need you to talk to a passenger in the head car. He insists that we're really the 6:40 train, and that we're lying about being the 6:47. He says we're running late and we're just trying to cover our tracks...I need you to talk to him."

I hand Kathy a schedule and say: "Give this to him and tell him to read the small print....the devil's in the details."

Tuesday, December 30:

Train 1531:

We pull into Riverside Station and "The Greenwich Country Club Member", stumbles onto the train. He's wearing a stained pair of sweat pants, Top Siders (no laces) and no socks. He's grossly overweight, disheveled and looks not unlike the homeless people who wander through the halls of Grand Central.

The New Haven Line has a regular cast of ne'er do well passengers, and one of them is this guy. I call him "The Greenwich Country Club Member," (hereafter called the TGCCM.) He is a tall, heavy, white haired man in his 60's. He regularly rides the Stamford local trains where he drunkenly pesters and verbally assaults other passengers. He rarely has the fare, and when a conductor challenges him, he'll say: "My good man...I'll have you know that I'm a proud member of The Greenwich Country Club." I guess he thinks we'll be impressed and let him ride for free. We don't.

About two years ago, the TGCCM took the cure (got sober) or possibly started taking anti-psychotic medication. Suddenly he was a model citizen. He began appearing on my trains in tweed jackets with ascots. He was polite, unassuming and quiet as a church mouse. He'd meekly board the train, sit in a corner and read the newspaper for the duration of the trip. It was a refreshing change.

But that was then, this is now. I don't know what happened, maybe he invested with Madoff, at any rate TGCCM has fallen off the wagon. After boarding the train today, he immediately starts fighting with Kathy, the assistant conductor. He has a canceled Senior Citizen ticket and he insists that it has never been punched. Kathy wants me to throw him off, but I don't want to delay a rush hour train and offer to bill him instead. He reluctantly fills out the form, then dismisses me with a wave of a bloated hand.

Everyone files off the train in Grand Central, and I notice TGCCM milling through the cars and picking up newspapers. I momentarily think of asking him to get off the train. A relief crew will soon be here to yard the train and I want to close the doors. But then I figure that this will start a fight and I decide to let him be....big mistake.... (to be continued.)

Wednesday, December 30:

Train 1531

When my train reaches Grand Central, a group of passengers run up to me. "Conductor," one says, "A guy in the rear car just fainted. He stood up, then dropped like a ton of bricks." I run to the last car and find a seated 47 year- old man whose skin is pale white and he's staring out into space. His pupils are dilated and he's sweating profusely. "Sir," I pull on his arm, "Are you alright?" No response. I begin to panic and run to the radio to call for medical assistance. The only problem is....I suddenly can't remember my train number or who I'm supposed to be calling:

Me: Train 1529 to District U...uh, I mean train 1571 to District L...I'm here on track 109 and I have a medical emergency."

District L dispatcher: Track 109? You must be train 1531.

Me: Uh, yeah. Train 1531 has a medical emergency. I have a guy here and I think he's having a seizure or something.

District L: We'll send somebody right over.

I run back and find that the stricken man has gotten off the train and is staggering down the platform. I chase after him..."Sir...Sir...are you alright?"

"I think so," he says.

"I have medical personnel on the way. Why don't you take a seat?"

The man takes my advice and sits back down on the train. The paramedics arrive a few minutes later. The paramedics ask if he has eaten breakfast and he says that he only ate a banana. He says he was feeling weak and when he stood up he must have fallen back down and hit his back on his chair's armrest. He says it knocked the wind out of him.

I give the paramedics all the train's pertinent information and I'm released. While walking down the platform I run into Paul, a fellow conductor who yards my equipment. Paul seems annoyed with me. He is from Queens and he peppers his language with colorful expletives.

Paul: Did you leave that fat gray haired F--K on the train yesterday?

Me: You mean "The Greenwich Country Club Member?"

Paul: You know what that F--K did? Huh?

Me: No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me.

Paul: That fat F--K put newspapers on one of the seats and took a big sh-t.

Me: Oooohhh!!!

Paul: That's right. The fat F--k took newspapers, put them on the seat, took a dump, and left a big pile of steaming sh-t right there...he stunk up the whole car. I gagged...I actually gagged.

Me: I guess those Greenwich people are wrong. Their sh-t does stink.

Paul: That disgusting fat F--k-piece-a-sh-t. I shoulda had him arrested.

Me: Well....sorry about that..... Um...Happy New Year?

Paul: The disgutin' fat F--k-piece-a-sh-t.

Train 1538

Susan, one of our regular passengers, meets the train in Stratford and hands David (my assistant) two small wrapped packages. One is marked "David" the other is marked "Bob." I open the package and find a beautiful hand painted egg ornament. This is the first time I've been given a Christmas gift by a passenger and I'm genuinely touched. I'm reminded that there are still nice people in the world and I forget all about the TGCCM.

Happy New Year!

The Archer

Today marks the 12th anniversary of my mother's death. Not a day goes by when I don't think of her and miss her...especially during the holidays. I dedicate today's post to her memory. Merry Christmas!

Like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story," I begged my mother for a BB gun at Christmastime. But like Ralphie's mom...and every other mom for that matter, she'd always counter my pleas with the standard answer from the mother's handbook... "No, you'll shoot your eye out." I considered my mother's opinion to be knee jerk and reactionary and her argument weak. "No," I'd say, "I 'm not like other boys...I'm going to be extra careful."

"No," she'd say again, "you'll shoot your eye out."

Frankly, my mother's firmness surprised me, she was usually such a pushover. I mean, just that summer I'd called her up at work and asked if I could buy two rabbits from Mr. Chickla, a rabbit breeder who lived down the street.


"No," she said, "They'll mate and multiply and before you know it, we'll be up to our eyes in bunnies."


"But Ma," I said innocently, " I'll make sure I get brother and sister rabbits."

I could tell from the guffaws of laughter on the other end of the line that Rabbits must be incestuous critters. Who knew? My mother got such a chuckle from my naivete, that she let me get the rabbits and then told this story for the rest of her life .

Back to the BB gun...When I turned thirteen. I went on a scorched earth campaign to get that "holy grail of Kiddom," and when Christmas rolled around, I thought I'd finally received it. There, under our tree, was a slim, wrapped cardboard box...just the right size for a BB gun. Finally, I thought, my mother had come to her senses. I could take the suspense no longer, and ripped open the package and found...a bow and arrow set???

In the box was a green fiberglass bow, with three steel tipped arrows. It wasn't a professional grade set, but it wasn't exactly kid's stuff either. I didn't understand my mother's logic.."Oh yeah" I said sarcastically as I inspected the arrow's steel tips, "This is much safer than a BB gun." This sarcasm proved prophetic...here's what became of the three arrows:

Arrow 1: Went though the 2nd floor window of a house one block over-


I began my archery career by shooting arrows into our wooden garage door. After putting a few dozen holes in door and breaking a square window or two, I began shooting for distance. When I reached 50 ft or so , I drew back the bow string as far as it would go. The bow bent from the strain and my hands began to shake. I released the string and watched as the arrow flew high in the air...it flew over the garage, over our backyard fence, over the treetops and then SMASH!!! It shattered the glass on a second story window of the house behind us. When I saw what I had done, I high tailed it back inside the house and ran straight into my brother Brian (8 years older than me). "You could have killed somebody," he said. "you better go over there and apologize and offer to pay for the window." But I was way too chicken to own up to my mistake and I never did retrieve the arrow.


Arrow 2: Narrowly missed impaling an old woman-

I don't know what my friends and I were thinking, but one day we took the bow and the two remaining arrows over to my friend David's backyard. For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to shoot arrows straight up into the air, and then run for cover before anyone us got skewered in the head by a falling arrow. David,the youngest of our group, didn't want to be shown up by the older boys, so he really pulled back hard on the bow string, and his arrow took off like an Apollo rocket.

When we came out of hiding, we couldn't find the arrow, but after searching for five minutes or so, we spotted it sticking straight out of the tilled dirt of Mrs. Rinaldi's garden... and only about a foot away from the bent-over Mrs. Rinaldi. The old woman had been so intent on tending to her tomato plants, she didn't notice or hear the descending missile whizz by her ear. OOPS!!!

Arrow 3: Flooded my mother's basement-


After what we later called the "Rinaldi incident", I thought it best to retire my bow and the last remaining arrow. Then one winter day, I grew bored and found the hidden bow and arrow atop a rafter in our basement. I took a piece of abandoned wood paneling and drew a target on it, then propped it up against one of our radon-laden cellar walls. The very first arrow I shot went wide right and missed the target completely. Instead it pierced a copper pipe that lead out of our water meter... PSSSTTTT! It was a geyser. The water shot out of the pipe and spat across the length of the basement. Like the fabled dutch boy who put his finger in the dike, I grabbed a piece of duct tape and wrapped it around the pipe. The water pressure proved too great and the water sprang forward which in turn made the tape shoot across the basement. There was about an inch of water on the floor before I finally found the water main and shut the valve off. I vaguely remember hearing complaints about how expensive the plumbing bill was.

My mother was ticked off by the holes in her garage door and the flooded basement. I told her that a BB gun would have been a much safer gift. Cheaper too!

Thanksgiving

Lest I forget to be thankful that I have a good job...or any job for that matter (especially in this economy) here are a few reminders:



I took these photos a few weeks back, when Metro North was holding a "Career Fair" in Grand Central. The line of prospective employees ended here in Vanderbilt Hall:

But it was a long...

long....

long...
...line.

These resume bearing applicants were literally wrapped around the block and the building. The head of the line was in Vanderbilt Hall (42nd Stand Park Ave.), but its tail ended somewhere around 45th Street and Vanderbilt Ave.

I was once told, that at any given time, Metro North has 2500 applicants for each of their open conductor positions. After seeing this crowd...I believe it.

The next time I hear one of my ungrateful coworkers say "This job sucks," I'll show them these pictures and say... be thankful...be thankful.

Cute joke

I usually ignore jokes sent to my email box, but I must admit...this one is cute:)


Two Red Indians and an Irishman were walking through the woods.
All of a sudden one of the Red Indians ran up a hill to the mouth of a small cave. 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' he called into the cave and listened closely until he heard an answering, 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Woooooo!
He then tore off his clothes and ran into the cave.

The Irishman was puzzled and asked the remaining Indian what it was all about. 'Was the other Indian crazy or what?’ The Indian replied 'No, It is our custom during mating season when Indian men see cave, they holler 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' into the opening. If they get an answer back, it means there's a beautiful squaw in there waiting for us.

Just then they came upon another cave.
The second Indian ran up to the cave, stopped, and hollered, 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' Immediately, there was the answer. 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' from deep inside.

He also tore off his clothes and ran into the opening. The Irishman wandered around in the woods alone for a while, and then spied a third large cave. As he looked in amazement at the size of the huge opening, he was thinking, 'Hoo, man! Look at the size of this cave! It is bigger than those the Indians found.

There must be some really big, fine women in this cave!' He stood in front of the opening and hollered with all his might 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' Like the others, he then heard an answering call, 'WOOOOOOOOO, WOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOOOOO!' With a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, he raced into the cave,tearing off his clothes as he ran.

The following day, the headline of the local newspaper read...............

You'll like this




NAKED IRISHMAN RUN OVER BY TRAIN!!!

Love Train

If I had a dime for every time I've seen this happen on my late night trains...I'd be a rich man.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1084723/Couple-arrested-having-sex-crowded-train.html

A gift from Hunter, age 8

Click to enlarge

It's against Metro North policy to accept gratuities or gifts from our passengers, but yesterday, while working a Stamford local train, a young artist named Hunter, age 8, presented me with this drawing. Of course I bent the rules a bit and accepted his wonderful gift.

Hunter is a 3rd grader and a big railroading fan. He said he recently visited The Danbury Railroad Museum, and a month ago went to Metro North's Open House at the diesel shops in Croton-Harmon, NY. There he inspectied all of our rolling stock and told me all about the inner workings of the Genesis engine (pictured above). He then went into great detail, explaining the engineer's stand, the train throttle and independent braking system.

Maybe he'll be my engineer someday.

A note to Hunter and other rail aficionados, tomorrow night (Tuesday November 11th, 10PM) The History Channel starts an eight-part series called "Extreme Trains." It's described as *"a series that tracks amazing locomotives that have helped shape America and continue to deliver today."

*Frazier Moore, AP Television Writer

Letters...I get letters...I get lots and lots of letters

I'm amazed by how many strangers read this blog and then email me. I'm honestly thrilled and touched that readers take the time to write comments and questions. Here's a sampling of one recent correspondence I received:


Bobby,

I love your blog, it's awesome to get the perspective of an insider on the MetroNorth trains. Next time I see someone puke on one of the late night weekend trains, I'll email you a picture.

You should start a feature on your blog called "ask the conductor". Here's the first questions to start you off:

When did the conductor announcing the stops start using the words 'platform' and 'express' as verbs. For example, instead of saying, "the train will run express to Stamford. The rear car will not reach the platform, please walk forward," the conductor will say, "the train will express to Stamford, the rear car will not platform, please walk forward."

In my book, the words express can be used as a noun or adjective, and the word platform can only be used as a noun. I guess using fewer words and insider lingo shortens the announcements and lets you get your job done faster, but as a nitpicky anal retentive rider, it drives me nuts.
thanks and a keep the war stories coming!
-Peter D.

Peter,

I think you answered your own question in the last paragraph.
Yes, fewer words do shorten the announcements and let us get our jobs done faster. Though, it's true that some conductors like the sound of their own voice (I've been accused of this) and their announcements go on like Shakespeare soliloquies, most like to keep their speeches short and sweet and to the point. Hence the "rail speak."

I recently heard this announcement: "This is Grand Central Station. Our last and final stop." This really got under my skin, because it's both redundant (last and final) and incorrect. Grand Central is a "Terminal" not a station, a qualified conductor should know that.

I'm hesitant to start an "Ask the conductor" feature, mostly for fear that rail buffs will start asking technical questions. I'd rather they visit sites like railfan.net or railroad.net

P.S. Keep the late night train puke pictures. I've seen enough to last a life time.

Continental Drift

Train 6550:

Yesterday afternoon, I collected a ticket from an old woman who was on an outbound New Haven train. She had grey hair and was dressed all in black. She reminded me of my friend's old Italian grandmother.

"Conductor," she yelled as she flagged me down, "Why is New Haven so far today?"

"New Haven is no further than it usually is," I said, "and we're on schedule."

"Oh, but the rides so long."

"Maybe it's because this train makes all the stops between Stamford and New Haven. You must normally take an express train, and skip a lot of the stations that we're making today."

"No," she shook her head. "New Haven is definitely farther today."

"Do you normally ride the train with family or friends?" I countered. "Good conversation can make the ride go by faster, you know."

"No" she said." "I always ride alone."

"Hmm" I tried to look pensive. "As far as I know, New Haven is still 72 miles away from Grand Central. Nothing has changed"

"Then why is the ride so much longer today?"

I briefly thought of saying something sarcastic like:

This morning a giant fissure opened up in the Harlem River, and due to plate tectonics and continental drift, New Haven has moved 20 miles to the east. This makes the commute 25 minutes longer. We just haven't had time to change the schedule yet.

But she seemed like a sweet old woman, I didn't want to be mean.
I finally gave up and said,"I don't know."

Why didn't I think of this answer in the first place?