30 years ago this month, I began volunteering in railway preservation. I date my direct involvement to November 1986 because it was the first time that I had been around trains when I wasn’t trying to ride them or take pictures. I was going to scrape rust or flaking paint, mark trucks with chalk stone, or tighten bolts. The work was nothing spectacular, and I’m sure neither were my efforts: I do not profess to be a mechanic of trains, cars, or anything else. But if shown how, I can do a few things and not injure myself, others, or destroy equipment.
To that end, my forte to this day is the simple task of needlescaling. For those of you who don’t know the joy of this pneumatic tool, it is a giant vibrating tube the length of a Roman candle and the width of the end of a baseball bat with dozens of metallic tines protruding from one end. The tines exert force, chipping away at a quarter-sized area, dislodging rust, mud, grease, and anything else that might have attached itself to a metal object. It is a toothbrush for steel. It emits a sound that is something like a stuck Uzi with an endless clip. Your arm vibrates as you hold it, and, in fact, so does your whole body. It will wear you out. But it is good honest work: At the end of the day, you can see what you’ve accomplished. And it is essential: If you’re going to fix an old locomotive, whether it is a tiny tank engine or a massive Mallet, a needlescaler is the first order of business, inside and out. I am proud to know this tool and to call it my friend.
30 years in railway preservation has taught me a lot, but probably not what you expect. Yes, I’ve learned about pistons, cylinders, valves, and sorts of other matters that are necessary to keep old stuff around and pretty or operational for tomorrow and the generations yet to come. But what I’ve learned mostly is about being human and fascinated by these big toys. I’ve learned that old trains make us do strange, unpredictable things. Like arising before dawn on a weekend to do physical work that won’t get up the leaves at my house or plant new grass in the yard. Like working in a hot, sweaty, dirty environment for 10- and 12-hours and then driving home for an hour in order to ruin the shower and the clothes washer. Like climbing in and around big rusted hunks of metal with seemingly little or no chance to make them like new again except the hope that lies within.
Many are the times when I’ve uttered these words: “You couldn’t pay me to work this hard.” I mean it. I do this as volunteer work. But I’d starve if I had to this for a living. My hat is off to my brothers and sisters who do.
30 years in railway preservation has taught me much about getting to know those around me. This obsession with trains has forged long, lasting friendships with people I have no business being friends with. People who I would have never met if it hadn’t been for our common interest. I’ve also seen it tear friendships apart. In general, I think this work, whether paid or volunteer, makes better those who set aside their egos, who cooperate instead of compete, and who realize that in Train World, as historian John P. Hankey calls it, the rules of real life are not suspended: Concerns about time, money, and politics enter into decisions, and nobody will get everything he or she wants (The late Walter Gray of the California State Railroad Museum’s annual spring pep talk for volunteers entitled “Life is not fair” comes to mind.). Sometimes we get none of it. As someone taught me early on, remember, you can love institutions – museums, railroads, whatever – but they don’t necessarily have to love you back.
30 years in railway preservation has given me more good friends across the continent and around the world than I can believe. There is a brother and sisterhood for those of us who like to work around old trains and whose bonds are deep. To step across the boundary from observer, train rider, or photographer and to get your hands dirty lapping valves, coupling air hoses, or wielding a coal scoop is to enter into a fraternity of fellowship. I recommend it.
30 years in railway preservation has made me more curious than ever about the next 30 years. I cannot wait to see what I will get into and what my friends will tackle. It is one of the things that keeps my interest, and I see no reason to quit now. Or ever.
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