Whenever a train falls off the tracks, there's always plenty of blame.
The trainman always blames the track, and the trackman blames the train.
"There's a broken rail, plain as day." the Trainman will observe.
"It's that broken wheel caused this mess." says the Trackman with a curse.
Every train wreck has broken rails and broken wheels as well.
So it's hard to prove which came first and who should catch the hell.
But in the end there is only one, train and track combined,
and they both work for the same team, at least until next time.
In the winter of 1988 I was working out of Fields Oregon for the Southern Pacific Railroad. We were flagging for the Surfacing Gang doing the final cleanup of the mess the other gangs had left after coming through our McCredie Springs section of the Oakridge district between Eugene and Klamath Falls. The Surface Gang follows the Tie Gang which in turn follows the Steel Gang in our annual maintenance cycle before the snow falls in the Central Oregon Cascades. The dispatcher called to make us get in the clear early to let the Amtrak passenger train meet a freight train so we hurried the big machines back to the spur track off the siding at Frazier between the remote stations of Abernethy and Wicopee. We were enjoying our lunch time meal of sandwiches and tacos when the train Conductor climbed off his caboose to join us at our warming fire.
Our conversation soon turned to the Company’s obvious lack of concern for the employees and even though we eagerly agreed with his overall premise we inadvertently made remarks to the effect that we were happy just to have our jobs. At this the old man was clearly disturbed and was dead set against letting us get away without a little schooling regarding the misuse we were receiving at the hands of our oppressive employer. At last, in exasperation over our lack of reason he blurted out, “Boys, this Company don’t care about you any more than they care for that boxcar right there.” At this he pointed out the nearest boxcar in his manifest and looked back at us for a change in our countenance but finding none he added even louder: “And they don’t care much for that boxcar!”
Apparently we gave the impression of being perfectly pleased to be held in the same high regard as a boxcar so he went on with an even graver tone of voice for a final dose of convincing. “Why don’t you know that if that boxcar derails the company would just as soon bulldoze it over the side of the bank as keep it just to save a damn dime.” At this he stopped in an air of triumph sure he had swayed even the strongest willed among us. It was true enough, we all agreed that such mistreatment of boxcars had taken place in front of our very eyes and often with our assistance but none of that could reduce his displeasure with our overall response and he soon turned away in disgust to return to his train.
As he was leaving we tried in vain to convince him with tales of our many injuries at the hand of our common enemy and how we shared a mutual bond but it was clear that he had given up on us. All our claims fell on deaf ears and his expression clearly showed his disappointment that we had missed the point. Soon enough the passenger train went by, everyone went back to work and we never met again. I often think back on that old Conductor and wonder what ever may have happened with him, but never with as much fondness as I look back on that old boxcar.
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