Author: fcflrailway

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Abide With Me

crossAt a somber Good Friday service twenty-five or thirty years ago, the congregation sang “Abide With Me” and I looked up in the dim light to see tears in my mother’s eyes. I was eight or ten or twelve – too young to understand her anguish. She was grieving, as though someone had died. Someone close to her. Someone she knew well, and loved.

 

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide

When other helpers fail and comforts flee

Help of the helpless, Lord abide with me

Age has brought me bits of understanding, and I now grasp the immense faith on display in Mom’s tears. Someone had died. Someone close to her. Someone she knew well, and loved. Jesus Christ, her friend and Savior, died on the cross to redeem her and give her eternal life. It wasn’t a tradition she observed out of habit, not just something she believed. She was certain of His suffering and death, and mourned it.

Swift to it’s close ebbs out life’s little day

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away

Change and decay in all around I see

O Thou who changest not, abide with me

It’s been nearly a year since Mom died, suddenly and unexpectedly – a thief in the night on a Wednesday afternoon. We sang “Abide With Me” at the funeral and I cried, but I haven’t since then. I’ve been waiting for the heavy hand of grief to fall on my shoulder but it hasn’t. I miss her, but I can’t be sad for Mom. She loved the Lord she served so deeply that His suffering brought her to tears, and now she’s risen to eternal life with Him. Who can cry over that?

I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless

Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness

Death where’s thy sting, oh grave thy victory?

I triumph still if Thou abide with me

I rejoice for a faith that made Mom’s Savior real and alive and present for her. I pray for that kind of faith. For myself. For my wife and children. For my father and sister and nephews, for my in-laws, for my friends. For you. The glory of Easter outshines the sorrow of the grave for all who believe. Christ has Risen, He has Risen indeed.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes

Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies

Heaven’s morning breaks and Earth’s vain shadows flee

In life, in death oh Lord abide with me

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Weekend Hopper Rebuild

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It’s a grim sequence all model railroaders eventually face: The tick-tick-tick of a derailed wheel, the clumsy search for the throttle, the sickening crash, one or three or five models in gruesome postures on the ground.

The pieces are collected and added to the pile of wounded, and someday maybe…

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Someday finally arrived for this Micro-Trains cylindrical covered hopper, and with a few simple steps it returned to revenue service in a weekend, with materials I had on hand so it was cheap. And, truth be told, I like the car more now than I did before I wrecked it.

The damage: Smashed end railings, dislodged roofwalk and brake gear, totaled trucks. I disassembled the model and cut away the bent and broken beams from the end structures. The roofwalk is photo-etched metal and thankfully it wasn’t too badly kinked – once I cut it loose of the model it pretty much returned to straight and flat.

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The only hard part was rebuilding the smashed railing structure with some strip styrene I had on hand. I glued long strips against the remaining structure with CA. When they were dry I used a sharp scissors to trim them to length.

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I glued the horizontal bars in place with CA, using a spring-loaded tweezers as a clamp to keep everything straight and square while the superglue dried. Again, I glued longer strips in place and trimmed them to size when the glue set.

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With the structure rebuilt, I gently washed the car in soapy water and let it dry thoroughly. Then I sprayed it an oxide red. The brake gear got a coat of primer gray. Everything was set aside for 24 hours while the paint dried.

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The Red Earth Co-Op in Herbst Junction operates a hodgepodge fleet of second-hand grain hoppers, and this resurrected unit is a perfect fit. Decals were scavenged from my odds-and-ends collection. I ran out of Xs for the RECX reporting marks, so I had to use a different font. Not perfect but so what? I imagine the outfit is a low-budget affair and good enough is good enough for them.

The car was fitted with new Micro-Trains 100-ton roller bearing trucks (I keep a 10-pack on hand) and Fox Valley Models 36-inch metal wheels (also an important staple). The roofwalk was glued back in place with CA. Finally, I did some light weathering with weathering powders.

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When your models crash, save the pieces! Such unfortunate events can become fun, inexpensive weekend projects.

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Good Sense, Even at the Very Noisy Circus

The monster truck show came to town last week, leaving us much to ponder about not-quite-sports and the people who live in the not-quite-mainstream.

???????????????????????????????Nevermind the monster trucks doing their wheeled two-step over the corpses of some late-90s Dodge Neons.

Nevermind the scripted minibike race between the Home Team and a villainous opponent from a neighboring state.

Nevermind the lawnmower races, nevermind the ceaseless sales pitch for monster truck merchandise.

For all that, I could not take my eyes off the MC.

He was an old-school ringmaster straight from the Big Top, updated with crisp white shirt and wireless headset.

A traveling showman bringing us spectacles wondrous and bizarre, he only barely hid his shame at so shamelessly efforting to separate us from our money.

What’s the deal with this guy, do you think? Is that a “real job”? Where does he fit in the hierarchy of teachers, lawyers, truck drivers and bean counters?

I don’t think he cares. Isn’t that the beauty of it?

See, I was raised by prudent, mainstream achievers to achieve mainstream, prudent things. My upbringing tells me look down my nose at him and say something about how he needs to grow up, be “productive.”

But I don’t want him to.

I never wanted to grow up and do anything productive myself. Frankly I’m not sure I have. But life happens and one day you realize you’ve surrendered to good sense and prudence. You’re part of the hive, doing what you’re told. Jobwise at least, careerily speaking, you’re on the path of least resistance.

The straight and narrow.

Turns out it’s … straight and narrow. Passionless, safe, sensible, indoor, daytime work in exchange for just enough to keep you coming back.

I want the monster truck guy to be the antidote to that. I want to believe he’s run away with the circus, told prudence and good sense to pound sand, and hasn’t given it a second thought.

Don’t you wonder?

What did he set out to do for a living, and what crooked path landed him here?

Does he feel like something went wrong or does he feel quite the opposite?

How long does he plan to do this, and what is he shooting for next?

For heaven’s sake, what do his parents think?

We may never know. The media contact at the company that produces the monster truck show (yes, they do circuses, too) did not respond to repeated requests to interview the monster truck MC.

Anyway, I doubt the answers would be as liberating as I imagine. If it seems to good to be true, it probably is.

He was probably raised by showfolk and there was no great leap, no wandering in the desert, no breaking of shackles to pursue this dream. He probably grew up in a monster truck world and is doing exactly what’s expected.

And don’t let the big tires and wicked names fool you. Monster truck people are as sensible as they come:

During the “freestyle competition,” each truck is allotted sixty seconds to romp around the arena in search of the most extreme, crowd pleasing stunts. Each time one roared full throttle toward the heap of crumpled Neons, I hoped for it to launch a dozen stories into the air and land with a devastating crash and a great cloud of dirt and parts, maybe fire.

Instead they each braked at the last and rolled over the cars with a banal crunch.

Prudence and good sense, even at the monster truck show.

What a bummer.

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ModelStory: Lucky 13

There’s a long wait for a table at Janibelle’s tonight but the older couple sitting outside doesn’t seem to mind. The word is out it’s their 55th wedding anniversary, and they’re passing the time taking congratulations.

IMG_2610My wife and I offered our wishes and were thanked with kind smiles and a hearty handshake – a firm grip for a man in his eighties – but there was no effort on their part to rise. No pretense of it, either, to which we would have said, “Oh, don’t get up.”

They sat, comfortably past the point in their lives where they need to worry about such decorum.

In the time it takes to drain an Old Fashioned, we heard their story:

He was forty-something years in whatever industry. The work came and went so there were lean years and lots of uncertainty. She had a career, too, but it was in segments – when she wasn’t working, she was working as a stay-at-home parent.

They raised five kids, and lost one to a war – a pain I cannot imagine. Some of them did well and some of them struggled. They’re all settled now but you never stop worrying about your children.

There was the time she found the lump, his heart attack, their first grandchild born to their daughter who was not yet out of high school.

Great, crashing waves, all now far astern.

They are veterans.

My own marriage turned thirteen this week, a pleasing accomplishment that doesn’t happen on its own. It takes patience and hard work and an awful lot of forgiveness, and that’s just her part.

After thirteen years, we feel like veterans, too.

She gets this way sometimes, or maybe it’s me, but I don’t panic anymore. I just listen if she wants to talk but I don’t make her. Be patient. Maybe get some flowers – a good move for rookies and veterans the same.

Mothers are beautiful and children are beautiful but childbirth is a medical procedure and there are parts of it that can’t be unseen. When we were younger the mark of an established relationship was the ability to fart in front of each other without it being a big deal. Now we’ve given birth together – twice – and still want to hang out.

We’ve figured a few things out about each other, ridden our little boat over our own formidable waves, so we feel like veterans.

Only we’re not really veterans. Not yet. There’s still a long row to hoe.

“The length of our days is seventy years – or eighty if we have the strength; yet their span is but trouble and sorrow,” says the Psalmist. “They quickly pass, and we fly away.”

But if you’re lucky – and I am – the Lord places in your life a remarkable partner.

Mine is faithful and ferociously loyal. She works tirelessly keeping our little family moving forward. Her blue eyes and beguiling smile still brighten the room. She reads interesting books and thinks interesting thoughts and though I’ve known her more than half my life, she still surprises me. She supports me in my darkest moments. She makes me laugh. She is my best friend.

It doesn’t matter if the road before us is long and steep. Together we are equal to it.

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Henry Rail gets space with FCFL

Henry Rail was planned a space on the new addition on the FCFL layout in the back room. The area is about 1 and a

half feet long. It holds a small locomotive and 4 small cars at the most. It has a nail at the end to keep the cars from

falling off the layout. It is at the end of the layout. Henry Rail also shares the rest of the layout with FCFL. Henry

Rail also has their own property and rolling stock it is very small but they only have one active locomotive the

rest need servicing .They use their own rolling stock on the FCFL layout accept they borrow the FCFL 1586

locomotive.

THE END.

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The Flagstaff Sub Hits a Home Run

photoTrains are cool until they’re not, and when you’re six or eight years old the start of spring training seems to be the tipping point.

My help is gone, so the work of bringing the Flagstaff Subdivision to life has been solitary. Sure, The Conductor and The Superintendent swoop in between innings to make sure Dad is on task, but when they see wire and plywood instead of trees and locomotives, they’re off again.

No matter. It’s a little project in a little hallway and we’d be crawling over each other anyway. I’m content that The Conductor stuck with me long enough to learn some soldering, and The Superintendent tried his hand at the power drill.

Model railroaders aren’t built in a day.

Neither is an 11-foot-by-six-inch switching district, especially when your priority is to be Dad, and Dad is needed to Pitch.

Flagstaff is taking shape in fits of 30 or 40 minutes: the track plan in paper and pencil, the benchwork, the sub-roadbed, the frustrating search for Code 55 track. Then suddenly, last Saturday, a train rolled into town.

IMG_2663[1]I called upstairs that I had an important moment to share with the family and would they please join me by the layout.

“After this at-bat,” they said.

The first train to arrive on the Flagstaff Sub was a short maintenance-of-way consist. To my delight it was greeted with applause (The Train Man’s Wife is a generous booster) and before it got underway The Conductor wanted to make sure it included a piece of rolling stock from his collection. A nice touch that assured me he still regards the FCFL with some admiration.

Nobody seemed to notice that, in order to give the long, skinny track plan some interest I built in grade separation between the mainline and the passing siding. (The main drops about 5/16-inch between the turnouts, while the siding is level.)

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Nobody seemed to notice that to give the shallow scene some depth, I curved the mainline and angled most of the industrial spurs so there would be minimal track parallel to the fascia.IMG_2640

Nobody seemed to notice the powered turnout frogs, the hidden feeder wires every three feet, the Z-scale roadbed under the spurs to drop their grade a tiny bit and allow the ties to hang over the edges so when the track is ballasted it looks washed out and in need of maintenance.

Nobody noticed any of that, but it’s okay. They were there, and I think it was a hit.

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