Fran Slayton - When the Whistle Blows

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Table of Contents

TO DAD. AND MOM.
AND THE TOWN OF ROWLESBURG, WEST VIRGINIA.
WITH ALL MY LOVE.

Foreword

I am very fortunate to have a father who told me stories when I was growing up. Dads stories werent make-believe; they were about things that really happened when he was a kid, which made them doubly fascinating. He told me tales of death and glory surrounding the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. And he told me about his fathermy grandfather, whom I never met because he died when my dad was just a teenwho was the foreman of the B&O in Rowlesburg in the 1940s. He told me about how he swam in the Cheat River, about the pranks he and his buddies pulled on each other, and about how the dieselization of the railroad led to the decline of his hometown, which had once been so vibrant with life and work and industry.

All these stories noodled around in my brain as I grew up. And my frequent visits to Rowlesburg as a child gave me the chance also to swim in the Cheat, and to listen to the sound of the engines as they chugged their way through town. But I knew the swimming hole I swam in wasnt quite as deep as it had been for my father, and I was hearing the tinny horns of diesels instead of the deep whistles of the old steam engines. As a result, I developed nostalgia for a time and circumstance Id never known myself, but that I had accessed through my fathers memories. And I loved it.

Although this book is set in 1940s Rowlesburg, the events described are fictional, as are its characters. I have, however, named some of the characters after members of my family, in their honor. And a few of the stories were indeed inspired by some of the tales my father shared with me when I was a child.

Fiction has been described as the lie that tells the truth. Many of the facts and much of the regional history in this bookdieselization, the addition to the M&K Junction, and the shutting down of the Manheim cement plant, for exampleare true events, although I have rearranged them at times to serve story over fact. I have found this necessary not only to maintain the narrative structure Ive chosen, but also to be able to cut through mere fact to arrive, I hope, at a story that points to an even greater truth.

Fran Cannon Slayton
Charlottesville, Virginia

STEAM TRAINS

Every time I go to jump on a steam train as it chugs its way through Rowlesburg

Every time I throw out my hands to grab the rusty metal rungs and haul myself up onto the side of one of them black coal cars, hoisting my knees up over its churning, screeching wheels

Every single time I jump on a trainmy heart thumps even noisier in my ears than the clanking of the old iron horse Im hopping up onto. I love steam trains. I love living in a town thats chock-full of em. I love being on em, being anywhere near em. Theyre as much a part of my life around here as the mountains. Or breathing.

But its a dangerous business, hopping a ride onto a moving train. First off, theres always a right decent chance of getting killed. Second, and about ten thousand times worse, my father might find out.

But Im not like DadI dont mind breaking the rules now and again. So, risky as it is, I hop on a train any time I have the chance. Because once Im on a train, my heartbeat settles down to the steady, pounding rhythm of the tracks, and I know Im right where I belong. And when I close my eyes and let the rush of wind blow back my hair, I know that like my brother Bill, like my father, my grandfather and all my kinfolk going all the way back to when we Cannons first came over from IrelandI am going to be a railroader one day.

No matter what Dad says.

My dads the foreman of the railroad here in Rowlesburg, and he doesnt want me nowhere near the trains. Can you believe that? He says theyre a dying breed. Says theres no future in them. But I think hes the one thats the dying breed. The steam trainsll be around forever. But my dad? Well, probably the best way to describe my dad is to say that his birthday is tomorrow. Halloween. Or as he calls it, All Hallows Eve. The day of the dead. Or really, the day the dead come back and haunt the living. You know, trick us. Confuse us. Scare the crap out of us.

Its a heck of a day to be born on, really. But Ive gotta say that as far as I can tell, it suits Dad pretty durn well. Because you never know what kind of exciting things just might head down the tracks on All Hallows Evebesides the trains, I mean.

A MIDNIGHT MEETING

ALL HALLOWS EVE 1943

The bedroom that me, Mike and Bill share sits only about ten feet back from the railroad tracks that run through Rowlesburg. Every night the trains hit their whistles right outside our window as they crawl through town, shaking every timber in the house and every last one of my ribs right along with them. Its tradition for Baltimore & Ohio Railroad engineers to hit the whistle when they pass by the foremans house. And since Dads the B&O foreman, they always go and hit it right by our window. Thats how come I learned early on to sleep with my pillow over my head.

But its the middle of the night, and Mikes snatching the pillow right off my face. Mikes my middle brother. Mikes a pain in the you-know-what.

Jimmy, get up, he whispers.

I grab at the pillow as he rips the covers off my bed, and Im on my feet ready to punch him. Hes standing there by the door with my quilt in his hand, dressed in his jeans and a coat. I scan the room looking for a little help from our oldest brother, Bill, but his bed is empty. Bills one of the few boys over eighteen thats not away at war on account of his job on the railroad being so important. Still, I know hes not pulling the graveyard shift over at the M&K Junction this week. Where the heck else could he be this time of night?

Stop it, you idiot, whispers Mike. Get yourself dressed. Theres something important happening. Before I can even ask what, he flings the pillow at my head and walks out the bedroom door like he owns the whole house.

I catch the pillow just before it hits my face and stare at the empty door frame. Hes only three-and-a-half years older than me. Who the heck does he think he is, anyway? Dad?

I drag on my clothes and jacket as fast as I can and hop after him, still pulling up my pants as I reach the bottom of the stairs. Hes gotta be bluffing. Nothing important happens this time of night. Nothing in Rowlesburg, at least.

But then I rememberits All Hallows Eve! Dads birthday!

I scramble after Mike through the dark kitchen, making sure to pick up my feet so as not to stumble over Dads boots by the door. But it turns out I dont need to. Dads boots arent there tonight.

I follow Mike outside, rubbing my eyes, trying to get a handle on what the heck could be going on. Its cold out here. The fogs oozing down the sides of the mountains. Typical West Virginia October. But not typical Rowlesburg. I dont think Ive ever been outside so lateor so early?in my whole life. I blink to get my bearings. The towns different this time of nightlike a log all hollowed out with dark rot. There are no bunches of us boys kicking the can in the street. No ladies headed towards the five-and-dime, swatting their kids in line behind them. Just lampposts and pavement and fog. Even the echo of the Mallet engines whistle sounds like a ghost of its daylight self.

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