member hearing our train before I could re- ally see it. In fact, it was the noise that made the most impression on me at the time. “Dad!” I yelled, “This train is really loud!” I covered my ears as the pair of FL9s made their way closer. Rust was bleeding through the faded blue and yellow paint suggested by the MTA. My eyes followed the journal caps on the EMD Flexicoil trucks as they rolled past. The noise of the two locomotives was nearly unbearable. A little steam wisped around the platform as the coaches clunk-clunked over jointed rail. The train groaned to a halt, and an elderly conductor bounced down the stairs to help passengers board.
The inside of the train was spartan and finished in a color I can only call “institu- tional.” Steam heat mixed with old newspa- pers, coffee cups, and stale cigarettes (some trains still carried smoking cars in those days). The Lexan windows were a deep shade of seawater green (to possibly help shade the interior), while others were fogged from exposure to ultraviolet rays. My dad pointed me to an open seat next to a clean window, and for the next hour or so I was glued to the glass as we passed through sub- urbs and cities on our way to Grand Central. It was difficult to find something nice to
say about Grand Central Terminal in those days. It was dark and dank with the only bright spot literally coming from Kodak’s Colorama display over the West Balcony. We hurried though on our way out to the street to catch a bus downtown (in those days my mother strictly forbade my dad to take me on the subway).
After spending the day “helping” my fa- ther restore furniture in his shop, we made our way back uptown for the journey home. Once again we found a window seat, and I was ready for the panorama to unfold. I dis- tinctly remember emerging from the Park Avenue Tunnel and being in awe of the cityscape before me. But not for long. As we clattered over the Harlem River lift bridge, I turned to my dad and said, “I’m thirsty.” “Well then,” he said, “Let’s take a trip to the bar car!” Dad took me by the hand and we made our way through the train to the bar car. In those days, most of the diesel-hauled trains had some sort of lounge car service, a holdover from the old days. This train was no different. The details are hazy, but if you pressed me, I’d have to say it was some sort of tavern or grill car, most likely a second-hand acquisition. Looking around, I was simply amazed that there was a restaurant on the train! We walked up to the bar, and my dad told me to tell the man what I wanted. Soon we were making our way back to our seats with my cup of orange juice on ice. The rest of the trip was uneventful and the Conrail crews got us home safely that night. I must have talked about that train trip an awful lot because it was the first of many I would take with my dad over the years. Going into the first grade, I watched my railroad transform right in front of my eyes. From the school bus I’d catch a glimpse as workers prepared to install third rail and build a new station for the coming of the electric trains. Soon the Conrail name was replaced with the official sounding Metro- North Commuter Railroad, and safety offi- cers were visiting my school to warn us of the dangers of the third rail. Each year I’d look forward to their visit, not so much be- cause I loved their mechanical mascot Metro
Man, but because finally we were talking about something I liked in school. One casualty of the improvements was the old train station in Katonah. The electric trains required the construction of a new high-level platform just north of the station. In order to accommodate this construction, the space between the tracks would have to be widened. The old platform canopy would have to be removed for clearance. I remem- bered hearing the adults say how it was “old” and “rotten” and had to come down anyway. I’ll never forget the sight of seeing a backhoe struggle to try to take down the “old, rotten” canopy as we passed through town. Those workers would eventually give up and use a chain saw to take it down. It took me a while to warm up to the new electric trains when they first began to roll through town. Not only did they cause the final closure of the old station, but they banished the diesels I liked from the Harlem Line. On a subsequent trip to the city on the new trains, my dad took me up to the front of the train where I found my fixture for the next ten years. For you see, the Budd M-1’s and M-3’s had a front door that allowed me to safely have an “engineer’s eye” view from the front of the train. I was hooked. Soon I was off to college, and would not re- turn until a job opportunity brought me back in 2002. So much had changed on my hometown railroad. Only a handful of FL9s remained to handle branch line shuttles. New electric trains from Bombardier were on the way to replace the old Budd m.u. cars. Wayside signals were replaced with cab in- dications. Railroaders I grew up with were retiring. Even a whole new system of train numbers was in place. Though with all of the changes, only one thing had not changed during my visits to Katonah — the excitement of hearing that New York-bound train blow for the Jay Street crossing. —OTTOM. VONDRAK
Heading North Unlike Otto, I didn’t get to know the north- of-New-York railroads until I was out of col- lege and in my early twenties, although (be- ing just a little bit older) we were both discovering Metro-North in the early 1980s. My first encounters would be probably just prior to Metro-North coming into existence. I had discovered the Engine Facilities Lists that were published in Extra 2200 South, and those led me up the Garden State Park- way from southern New Jersey and across the Tappan Zee Bridge to the former New York Central shops at Croton-on-Hudson, N.Y. The Harmon Shops were chock full of ratty FL9s and old multiple unit cars, and more than one trip was made up there. Lat- er, Railpace Newsmagazine would introduce me to the wonders of the Hudson Line, and scenic lineside shots became the norm. A friend that I had met at the Steamtown railfan weekends in Vermont lived in Katon- ah, and thankfully he talked me into making a few trips to the Harlem Line in the final days of diesel operations above North White Plains. Both times I made the trip up there, the weather was awful but I still got some blue and yellow FL9s working through Mount Kisco and other towns on the line. I do remember one friend who was along not wanting to get some of the scenic shots we were after because you couldn’t read the lo- comotive numbers — the front number boards were black and Conrail had put the
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