Post 24: Love And Unshakable Friendship

GranMag never put on airs or pretended to be anything she wasn’t, but she was transformed when we set foot on the Powhatan Arrow. By this time in each of their histories, both GranMag and the Powhatan Arrow were already grand old ladies. In my five-year-old eyes, they were both wonders.

We were met by the porter, at that time always a black gentleman, always dressed in the sharp N&W maroon and black uniform, complete with a captain’s hat ornamented with a brim of real patent leather. Informed by the tags on our two small pieces of luggage, he welcomed us by name. “Good mornin’, Mrs. Fishburn. And to you, too, Mr. Carter.”

GranMag beamed. She never tired of being addressed as “Mrs. Fishburn,” and it was a treat to hear it as she rarely left her family circle. GranMag gave me a fifty-cent piece to give our porter as a gratuity for carrying our bags. Tipping was a gracious exchange during our adventure, an acknowledgement of services rendered with kindness. After being helped aboard, the ticket master would escort us to our seats.

The Powhatan Arrow was considered a flagship train of the N&W’s passenger fleet. Built in 1946, it was the epitome of post-world-war elegance. The locomotive had a sleek, bullet-like slung-back profile, gilded in shiny black and maroon enamel, with distinctive gold lettering on either side. At GranMag’s request, the porter, if not too busy, would take me out on the platform from our passenger car to the locomotive to say hello to the engineer. In the eyes of a five-year-old who did not yet quite stand even five feet tall, the locomotive steam engine was gargantuan. The first step up into the crew compartment from the platform loomed at my eye level. Everything about this elegant machine telegraphed power.

While I felt comfortable as a charge of the porter, I was intimidated by the engineer. Friendly but no-nonsense, engineers were, in my eyes, enormous men with powerful arms and stern-set eyes who controlled tons of steel, roaring fires, and, ultimately, the smooth success of our journey to Aunt Cam’s. In my mind, they commanded and deserved our awe.

The train ride to Briarwood was short, under three hours one way. On our trips, I assumed that the Arrow’s sole journey and purpose was to transport GranMag and me from our hometown at the southern end of the Shenandoah Valley to Aunt Cam and Uncle Lee’s over the mountain. In fact, the Arrow made an almost 700-mile daily run from Norfolk, Virginia, to Cincinnati, Ohio, and back again the following day. We were a middle stint in a grander scheme.

Our adventure officially began with the initial forward lurch of our car, coupled with fifteen or so other cars, all pulled from a dead stop by the blast-furnace power of the Class J 4-8-4 locomotive engines. As the train left the station at a stately pace, I would hold GranMag’s hand tightly, trying to contain my excitement.

The conductor would move with studied precision through the car as we departed, courteously requesting, “Tickets!” in an almost musical baritone. As the conductor reached our seats, without missing a beat, I handed him our tickets, beaming in my role as escort to the grand lady next to me. The conductor accepted, punched, and returned our tickets to me with a congenial, “Thank you, sir,” as if we had just concluded a contract of extraordinary importance. Almost imperceptibly, GranMag would slip fifty cents into the conductor’s hand, to be acknowledged by a well-choreographed and understated smile and tip of his hat. Every part of this ritual filled me with the excitement of being, if only for a few moments, an important person traveling on important business.

For this particular trip, like many others, Mama had booked the tickets in advance and had them mailed to GranMag, who, in turn, called the station and promptly rebooked us both into First Class. She also made lunch reservations for us in the Shenandoah Dining Car: 11:30 a.m., window seats. Mama never saw the sense of eating on the train when we would arrive at 1:15 p.m. only to be fed again by Aunt Cam. My lovely, practical mother just didn’t get it: lunch in the dining car was the best part. Where else could you sit down to meal comprised of hot peanut soup, a chilled fruit cocktail with real cherries, and a Virginia country ham sandwich with crusts cut off, all while riding backwards?

Never a drinker, save my father’s spiked eggnog at Christmas, GranMag allowed herself a small glass of white wine with her consommé, chilled duck plate, and butter beans in season. “Now, Drew, there’s no need to tell your mama about lunch.” I’d nod solemnly, and she’d acknowledge me with a sly wink. Riding in the dining car of the Powhatan Arrow, with white linen napkins, heavy silver plate place settings, mahogany and mohair seats, and gleaming glassware made me feel like an extra in an old Hollywood movie set.

Outside, the Virginia countryside in spring was coming to life with a thousand shades of green. In fall, it was ablaze with reds and golds from maples and oaks. Inside, no matter the season, it was regal.

  After lunch, we would return to our seats, often with a hard candy left to us as a parting gift from our server. “Sufficiently sufficed,” as Aunt Cam would say, it was inevitable that despite all efforts to stay awake, GranMag would succumb to the hypnotic clack of the rails and fall into a lovely sleep.

I would play games with the passing scenery: “I Spy” and “I’m going to Briarwood and I’m going to take an apple tree, birdhouse, Cadillac, ” and so on down the alphabet. We children had been taught, principally by Mama, Daddy, and GranMag, how to entertain ourselves, especially when grown-ups were talking or sleeping. I often look back in silent gratitude for this and a number of other social skills, which we carried forward into our own adult worlds, worlds that would turn out to be decidedly unsocial at times.

With uncanny timing, GranMag would wake just prior to the final and most exciting part of the trip, with just enough time to touch up her lipstick before we were all plunged into darkness. The Elkhorn Tunnel delivered the Powhatan Arrow thirty-one hundred feet through Flat Top Mountain on its final leg into Briarwood. It was our custom to take a giant gulp of air on the approach, with the intent of holding our breath until we reached daylight on the other side. Aunt Cam would greet us at the station with the inevitable question: “Did you make it?” GranMag would instantly and with an impressive display of nonchalance reply, “Of course.”

Aunt Cam was GranMag’s third daughter and the source of her first grey hair and many that followed. Mama always said that Aunt Cam discovered the secret to having fun early on, and never looked back. It was no wonder that family, friends, colleagues, and strangers were drawn to her. By contrast, Uncle Lee appeared more grounded, measured, and questioning. Our time with them was a front row seat for the Cam and Lee Show, a variety show with the full range of emotions, but mostly grounded in love, respect, and an unshakable friendship.