Hear That Lonesome Whistle Blow.

Calgary's Heritage Park is not far from my house. There you can ride a real Steam powered train. There are other places in Canada that have also kept this Canadian Cultural Icon alive for the young and the old to enjoy. Never miss a chance to ride on a Steam Locomotive, they are magic, even on a short ride around a park. During tourist season, I can hear the train's steam whistle blow its lonesome, mournful call on a still evening, when the soft summer wind is from the West. Shivers run up and down my spine.

Lately, the History Channel has been showing the history of Canadian Railways in a well-produced historical documentary. Railways were Canada's lifeblood until relatively recently. The documentary clearly shows this life giving blood and sinew but fails to show the stories of the passengers who were the heart and soul of train travel. For various reasons, I have traveled from sea to sea by rail at least a dozen to 15 times in my life. Train travel allowed one to savor the size and diversity of our wonderful country. Passenger and Dinning cars were mobile boarding houses that also let you savor the lives of other travelers of all classes for five or six days at a stretch. Some of the things I saw as a passenger I hope will bring back your memories, as they did and still do for me when I hear that Lonesome Whistle Blow!

My first train trip was from Toronto to Vancouver in 1943. WW2 was raging. Canada was recruiting thousands of young men and women and, in typical military fashion, the Brass was sending the ones from the Eastto the West and the ones from the West to the East, or so it seems. Many were returning from, or going home on, their two weeks embarkation leave. Every piece of railway rolling stock was being used to its limit, moving military supplies, equipment and personnel across Canada.

My parents somehow got a priority family ticket to work in a Ship Building Yard and Parachute Sewing and Assembly Factory in Vancouver. We left Toronto in an old "Colonist Coach" for the five-day-and-six-night journey to Vancouver. It was ever so exciting for a nine year old boy. The train was packed with young men and women in Army, Navy, and Airforce uniforms. There was every kind of badge and insignia on their sleeves and shoulders. It seemed every one knew every one, every one smiled at every one else. It was like a mobile High School reunion. The air was charged with excitement and coal dust!

At the front of each car was a toilet and small ablution room for women. At the back of the car was a toilet and large ablution room, with bench seats, for the men. There you could smoke and spit, yes it had not one, but three brass cuspidors protecting the floor. The ablution room had only a green curtain across its entrance, allowing those needing to smoke to spill out into the hall when room was at a premium. This room became the social center of the car. It was like the General Store of days gone by. It also became the Concert Hall for those with Guitars, Mouth organs, Spoons or Banjos. There were wonderful songs to be heard from the men and women, who ignored all Peacetime protocols and jammed in to the "Men's" room to sing and play. They all seem to know all the words. There were songs like "The North Atlantic Squadron" and "Roll Me Over In the Clover", "Lay Me Down" and "Do It Again" that had endless verses, which were incomprehensible to a nine year old boy squatting in the corner with eyes as big as dishpans. I was just trying to be a part of this great adventure.

In the evening several jugs of some mysterious liquid would appear that all the men, and a fair bunch of the women, would take a swig of. It was never offered to me so I have no idea what it was. It must have contained some form of vocal cord relaxer because soon every one was shouting and singing at the tops of their lungs. As the evening flowed on, most of the ladies left. The songs from the surviving members of the Men's Choir got louder, rowdier and down right crude. It was time for me to go. As I pushed the swaying curtain aside to return to my seat, a very loud voice from the main car body shouted, "PIPE DOWN BACK THERE WE'RE TRYING TO SLEEP UP HERE!" An equally loud reply came from the songsters' ablution room, TRY HARDER!"

Back at my hard, wooden Colonist seat I rolled up my second hand jacket for a pillow and dozed off to the songsters singing "Kiss Me Goodnight Sgt. Major" and "Tuck me in my Little Wooden Bed". Who ever said, "War is Hell", never rode on a Canadian train in wartime.

Many years later, out of Vancouver heading to Montreal, our sleeping car toilets, male and female, were closed off and the door key-locked. You all know why they had signs in the train toilets, "Passengers will Please Refrain from Flushing Toilets when the Train is Standing in the Station". For those not familiar with train curtessies, operating the foot-flushing pedal opened a trap door that led to a straight pipe dropping off the waste to the ground. CPR had borrowed our sleeping car from the USA Great Northern Railway. USA trains had a "A" and a "B" end to their coaches. The crew that assembled our train unknowingly hooked up the "B" end towards the front of the train. WRONG MOVE. USA trains had a "L" joint waste drop pipe to allow the waste to go down and out into the air stream for better dispersal of the waste. Some where about Chillawack, as we hurtled along lickety-split for Hope, a lady passenger felt the urge to relieve herself. Into the toilet, knickers down, sits, etc., wipes, knickers up, turns to face toilet so she could press foot pedal, down goes pedal and up comes waste all over her, driven by a sixty mile an hour wind scooped by the "L" joint bend in the waste pipe! At Kamloops they turned our car around and unlocked the toilets. As compensation, the very surprised and distraught lady was given a private compartment in the first class section for the rest of the journey at N/C.

Nuns were frequent travelers on the trains, always in pairs. Coming out of Calgary, there was a hawk-faced Sister escorting a Novice to some convent in Quebec. The Novice was a stunner, about 18 or 19. She got into a conversation with a good-looking soldier across the aisle. Being young, she moved over to sit with him and chat. Sister's lips were tightly pursed but said nothing. It turned out the Novice had the top berth and the Sister the bottom berth. The Novice said to the soldier, "I have no idea how I'll get out of this Habit in an upper berth." The soldier replied that she could use his bottom berth. "Oh", said the Novice "that's wonderful, it is so gallant of you to let me have your lower berth!" The soldier said "it's no hardship for me to share it with you." Sister pounced on the Novice and dragged her up the aisle. Shortly thereafter the Conductor, who told him "there was an error in his ticket and his proper seat was in the next car up", visited the soldier. After he moved, the Sister, with a sweet smile returned with the Novice, who now was the occupant of a bottom berth, right across from Sister's. Truly G-d moves soldiers in mysterious ways.

Ottawa heading West. Mediumly inebriated young man climbs aboard and waves good bye to a sweet maiden on the platform. He has lipstick on his neck and face, his clothes are disheveled and it's pretty clear this had been a passionate farewell, to say the least. The Porter starts making up the berths. He is in berth #1. as soon as the bed is made and the curtains hung our Lothario crawls into the berth, undresses and crashes. Having experienced similar farewells over the years, I reconstruct the scenario this way. "Strip to the skin, pile clothing in string clothing hammock above windows, crawl into crisp sheets, pull up blanks, set pillows to required position, sleep like a rock. About five minute's elapse while the rest of us are waiting for our births to be made. Then there is a furious thrashing in berth #1. It seems that, three minutes after falling asleep, our Lothario has to answer a right now call of nature. He roots through the hammock of clothing and pulls on his trousers. There is no time to zip the fly, out of the berth, holding a fist full of cloth to hold the front of his trousers closed, he races for the men's room, which is at the other end of the car. He must have had a big surprise when he got there as he had his trousers on backwards and had run down the aisle mooning every one in the car! Nothing is secret on a train and the word spread rapidly. Whenever he walked down the aisle to the dinning car over the next three days giggles and snickers followed him. When we got to Medicine Hat, what appeared to be his parents met him at the small station. As the train pulled out, every one on the train waved goodbye, including the Engineer. His parents must have been so proud to have such a popular son!

Some years ago, I was stopped at the rail crossing lights on the Glenmore Trail in Calgary. I saw her coming, "the last Canadian". She was majestic and I jumped from my car to salute her in her final moments. Her big drive wheels were pounding. She was spewing smoke like a furious dragon. She was the proud Queen of travel heading for the Rocky Mountains and tidewater on the B.C. Coast. She flashed by, the Baggage car, Coach class, the Sleeping cars, the Observation car then the Dinning car followed by the First class section. She was beautiful beyond words and I had tears in my eyes. When the Engineer saw me standing by my car, he blew her wonderful lonesome whistle just for me for the last time. Even though she is dead and gone now, she is still my sweetheart and there is no grave to lay flowers on.

The train whistle's peculiar sound is caused by the Doppler effect. It's a function of time and speed.

Visit Calgary Heritage Park to see more information on the Steam Engine Trains (Picture and sounds provided by the Calgary Heritage Park).

Signed; the Galloping Geezer

Jack C. Downey CD
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