viewing when we would go down the Jersey Shore and see the great Atlantic Ocean for the first time. The windows had always been kept polished by my dad with a chamois cloth, and the nickel-plated side rods along the engine gleamed like silver.
Of course Mr. Pettishanks had replaced Dad’s handmade layout with the official, expensive tunnels, mountains, and stations provided by Lionel trains and other makers. In the east stood Grand Central Terminal, New York. If you looked in the arched Plexiglas windows, you could see the tiny lights of the zodiac illuminating the vaulted ceilings. Dozens of tin people headed this way and that. Ten tracks went into Grand Central. Ten more led into and out of Dearborn Station, Chicago. Near it ran a Mississippi River of dimpled sapphire-blue glass with winking lights that rippled on a circuit beneath. To the west, the Rocky Mountains rose above everything, peaks covered with sparkling mica-flake snow. Nested in the mountains, Denver’s Union Station shone like a treetop star above the rest of the country. The Rockies loomed a good five feet high above the base layout.
Beyond all the mountains and plains lay the country of my heart, California. Mr. Pettishanks’s California layout contained tiny orange orchards made of seafoam dipped in flocking powder and expertly sculpted into trees. They were set on hills and in valleys surrounding the final terminus of the whole layout, the Los Angeles station, reproduced in tiny detail. I had never seen the terminal at Los Angeles in the Lionel Catalog. This one must have been invented by some expert in miniature buildings, probably costing an arm and a leg.
The sidewalk surrounding the station was crisscross yellow bricks, scored perfectly and scuffed to a real bricky surface. On the sidewalk near the front steps blinked a tiny red sign saying TAXIS . Three miniature checker cabs were gathered there. Each cab sported a Chiclet-size ON-OFF DUTY top light wired to its roof. When Mr. Applegate illuminated the station lights, the cabs waited for passengers with headlights and ON DUTY lights ablaze.
“Old man Pettishanks owns just about the entire stock of the Lionel catalog now,” said Mr. Applegate. “He loves ’em. He comes in here every morning before the bank opens and runs ’em for an hour while he drinks his coffee and smokes his cigars. I don’t know what he’ll do when the Christmas season is over and the display has to come down.”
“But I thought the trains were for his son, Cyril,” I said in astonishment.
“Cyril!” said Mr. Applegate. He laughed heartily. “The old man swears he wouldn’t let Cyril in the same room with these trains! Not on a bet! Cyril would try to have a train crash in five minutes. Cyril’s a big galoot. He’d break the signals and put his foot through the windows in the stations.”
There was snow coming on Christmas Eve afternoon. I took the mail out of the mailbox before I boarded the number 17 bus to the bank. Among the bills was a Christmas card addressed to me. In the corner Dad had put a real return address this time:
O
.
Ogilvie, Indian Grove Ranch, Reseda, California
. I ripped open the envelope. Good news! Dad had a job at last, even if it was picking oranges. Without comment, he had enclosed a dollar bill. Bad news, too. He had cut out a newspaper column from the
Farmers’ Gazette:
“Deere Shuts Select Offices Nationwide.”
I read on, heart sinking. John Deere had closed all of its California offices due to the recession in farming. Nonetheless, I put the dollar bill to my lips and kissed it because my dad’s hand had earned and touched that dollar, two thousand miles away. I was not about to spend it anytime soon.
I shivered. The lowering gray sky darkened, and I ran out to catch the bus. At the bank, I banged on the door over the howl of the wind.
Mr. Applegate opened up. “Look at that darn snow!” he said. “It’s coming down like the blizzard of ’88. We might never get
Of course Mr. Pettishanks had replaced Dad’s handmade layout with the official, expensive tunnels, mountains, and stations provided by Lionel trains and other makers. In the east stood Grand Central Terminal, New York. If you looked in the arched Plexiglas windows, you could see the tiny lights of the zodiac illuminating the vaulted ceilings. Dozens of tin people headed this way and that. Ten tracks went into Grand Central. Ten more led into and out of Dearborn Station, Chicago. Near it ran a Mississippi River of dimpled sapphire-blue glass with winking lights that rippled on a circuit beneath. To the west, the Rocky Mountains rose above everything, peaks covered with sparkling mica-flake snow. Nested in the mountains, Denver’s Union Station shone like a treetop star above the rest of the country. The Rockies loomed a good five feet high above the base layout.
Beyond all the mountains and plains lay the country of my heart, California. Mr. Pettishanks’s California layout contained tiny orange orchards made of seafoam dipped in flocking powder and expertly sculpted into trees. They were set on hills and in valleys surrounding the final terminus of the whole layout, the Los Angeles station, reproduced in tiny detail. I had never seen the terminal at Los Angeles in the Lionel Catalog. This one must have been invented by some expert in miniature buildings, probably costing an arm and a leg.
The sidewalk surrounding the station was crisscross yellow bricks, scored perfectly and scuffed to a real bricky surface. On the sidewalk near the front steps blinked a tiny red sign saying TAXIS . Three miniature checker cabs were gathered there. Each cab sported a Chiclet-size ON-OFF DUTY top light wired to its roof. When Mr. Applegate illuminated the station lights, the cabs waited for passengers with headlights and ON DUTY lights ablaze.
“Old man Pettishanks owns just about the entire stock of the Lionel catalog now,” said Mr. Applegate. “He loves ’em. He comes in here every morning before the bank opens and runs ’em for an hour while he drinks his coffee and smokes his cigars. I don’t know what he’ll do when the Christmas season is over and the display has to come down.”
“But I thought the trains were for his son, Cyril,” I said in astonishment.
“Cyril!” said Mr. Applegate. He laughed heartily. “The old man swears he wouldn’t let Cyril in the same room with these trains! Not on a bet! Cyril would try to have a train crash in five minutes. Cyril’s a big galoot. He’d break the signals and put his foot through the windows in the stations.”
There was snow coming on Christmas Eve afternoon. I took the mail out of the mailbox before I boarded the number 17 bus to the bank. Among the bills was a Christmas card addressed to me. In the corner Dad had put a real return address this time:
O
.
Ogilvie, Indian Grove Ranch, Reseda, California
. I ripped open the envelope. Good news! Dad had a job at last, even if it was picking oranges. Without comment, he had enclosed a dollar bill. Bad news, too. He had cut out a newspaper column from the
Farmers’ Gazette:
“Deere Shuts Select Offices Nationwide.”
I read on, heart sinking. John Deere had closed all of its California offices due to the recession in farming. Nonetheless, I put the dollar bill to my lips and kissed it because my dad’s hand had earned and touched that dollar, two thousand miles away. I was not about to spend it anytime soon.
I shivered. The lowering gray sky darkened, and I ran out to catch the bus. At the bank, I banged on the door over the howl of the wind.
Mr. Applegate opened up. “Look at that darn snow!” he said. “It’s coming down like the blizzard of ’88. We might never get
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