Headed to Humphrys by the Bay, Jon.
Love the snow, Dirt.
Hope Hev is recovering well. Happy Thanksgiving.
San
Hobo Jungle
Mama Bear was up early this mornin' peelin' and choppin' celery and onions and cookin' 'em down for the stuffing fixins. She already baked pumpkin pies yesterday. Gets the turkey out of fridge, and starts workin' on it. We didn't buy a turkey 'cause they always give us one at work. Turns out the damn thing is bad. It's all black, gray, and yellow inside, even under the skin. She says she won't even cook it for the dogs. Garbage for that bird! The stuffin' and pies will go good with the kolbassi and hotdogs, though.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL.
If you agree with the Progressives, it's freedom of speech. If you disagree, it's hate speech. There are no alternatives.
San, That looks to be a fine hobo eatery place!!! That fella singing in the background could stand to add a couple of fiddles to his jug band though. You might want to mention that when you get there. 
http://www.humphreysbythebay.com/
http://www.humphreysbythebay.com/
Running that red block Charlie.
Turk:
Looks like a good begining for your RR empire. I am into these too, But not as well as you. Check out the Pennsylvania Live Steamers web site that I belong too.
Jim
http://www.palivesteamers.org/
Looks like a good begining for your RR empire. I am into these too, But not as well as you. Check out the Pennsylvania Live Steamers web site that I belong too.
Jim
http://www.palivesteamers.org/
==========KEEP IT ON THE RIGHT TRACK=======
Jim,
Thanks for the link. That loco calculator looks like it might be just what I needed for my loco building.
The only reason I've been able to accomplish as much as I have the last couple of years is, no wife, no girlfriend, no kids, no family. And,,, I only work 6 months out of the year. It's sometimes amazing what you can accomplish without all those distractions.
Capt Turk
Thanks for the link. That loco calculator looks like it might be just what I needed for my loco building.
The only reason I've been able to accomplish as much as I have the last couple of years is, no wife, no girlfriend, no kids, no family. And,,, I only work 6 months out of the year. It's sometimes amazing what you can accomplish without all those distractions.
Capt Turk
Too (O)ld for (n)scale by (30)years.
http://raspberrygulch.org
http://raspberrygulch.org
It's a working-Thanksgiving for me. The redhead's at the hospital now, and I go in for evening shift. Way she goes, in the nursing business.
This AM, I'm working on putting up a ceiling in the garage so I can heat it with my box-stove and have a place to split my tractor over the winter, in relative comfort.
But still, a toast to the hobos!
This thread now officially 7 years running!!
I have lots for which to be grateful, including friendships, the safety and welfare of the west coast hobo, and the return to health of a great friend.
This AM, I'm working on putting up a ceiling in the garage so I can heat it with my box-stove and have a place to split my tractor over the winter, in relative comfort.
But still, a toast to the hobos!
This thread now officially 7 years running!!
I have lots for which to be grateful, including friendships, the safety and welfare of the west coast hobo, and the return to health of a great friend.
Hobos, lads, etceteras, I wish you all the best possible Thanksgiving. I've got a wicked story for you when I get the time to type her up. Things have been hell around here, and this morning we were blessed. To all hobos, the BEST! Drink up, and then drink up again.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
[Can anyone date the following post?] "It's a cold night in the jungle, but the mood runs high as tomorrow is Thanksgiving. There is a fine, strong bonfire lifting sparks to the heavens, as the darkening heavens send down some big snowflakes. All manner of beverages are being passed around and the poets are clearing their throats. The jungle is just at the edge of the tracks (double mainline) and a Lionel 700E just chuffed past towing its original consist. Any train is possible to see at this jungle.
I thought it might be nice to have a thread where stories and poems having trains at their core might be posted. Where the lost, and the penniless (aren't we all after feeding our train habits), and the usually quiet might have a place to warm their hands and listen to a poem or get a dram of something good. I'll try and make a start."
And we did. We certainly made a start.
11. 22. 2007 Mom's drink tally. (Remember she's just an inch away from 87.)
Huge Scotch (single malt)
1 glass white wine
1 Underberg
3:39
I thought it might be nice to have a thread where stories and poems having trains at their core might be posted. Where the lost, and the penniless (aren't we all after feeding our train habits), and the usually quiet might have a place to warm their hands and listen to a poem or get a dram of something good. I'll try and make a start."
And we did. We certainly made a start.
11. 22. 2007 Mom's drink tally. (Remember she's just an inch away from 87.)
Huge Scotch (single malt)
1 glass white wine
1 Underberg
3:39
Last edited by Tramp on Thu Nov 22, 2007 7:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Tramp, November of 2000?
TRAINS
What these vague memories drawn through
The mind like a restless tremble of fever?
What has informed these blurred images?
This night train halt in a Pullman sleeper,
Sentinel platform lights wreathed by fog,
A face white against the moist glass,
These moving lips are whispering, as
Steam caresses the locomotive's drivers,
A wet cement platform glistening empty,
As a bent black conductor calls, All-laboard,
As a whistle signs to departure's darkness.
More steam now in a vast passenger shed,
Overhead the engineers' crisscross of iron
Like a hallucinogen's etched pattern, the
Soot patina of endless departed consists.
A baggage cart creaks, languidly pushed,
The leather of the stickered trunks and bags,
Eased along the polished baggage car floor.
A small lighted kiosk way down the platform,
"Paper, sir?" and yes, wrapped sandwiches,
magazines, candy, and the always cup of coffee.
And then the pale long legs of a woman as she
Hands herself up through the open Pullman door,
Her red coat for an instant offering precious inches.
The blind wander of the travel weary,
The tossed minute firework of a cigar end,
The crash of a couplers metallic mate,
The violent outbreath of an air-hose release,
Why are these fragments so known?
And now these thin oriental rugs and hardwood floors,
There, metal tracks to carry voltage from room to room,
There the locomotive smoke and the haunt of the whistle
Runs along the wainscoted walls and marble fireplaces.
The passenger cars light the loomed wool and waxed wood,
Move through each darkening room with the certainty of time,
This twilight caressing the mind, till it reaches level, like
A ship rising slowly in a lock.
This is not my childhood!
Whose memories are these?
For they can not be mine.
Tramp
TRAINS
What these vague memories drawn through
The mind like a restless tremble of fever?
What has informed these blurred images?
This night train halt in a Pullman sleeper,
Sentinel platform lights wreathed by fog,
A face white against the moist glass,
These moving lips are whispering, as
Steam caresses the locomotive's drivers,
A wet cement platform glistening empty,
As a bent black conductor calls, All-laboard,
As a whistle signs to departure's darkness.
More steam now in a vast passenger shed,
Overhead the engineers' crisscross of iron
Like a hallucinogen's etched pattern, the
Soot patina of endless departed consists.
A baggage cart creaks, languidly pushed,
The leather of the stickered trunks and bags,
Eased along the polished baggage car floor.
A small lighted kiosk way down the platform,
"Paper, sir?" and yes, wrapped sandwiches,
magazines, candy, and the always cup of coffee.
And then the pale long legs of a woman as she
Hands herself up through the open Pullman door,
Her red coat for an instant offering precious inches.
The blind wander of the travel weary,
The tossed minute firework of a cigar end,
The crash of a couplers metallic mate,
The violent outbreath of an air-hose release,
Why are these fragments so known?
And now these thin oriental rugs and hardwood floors,
There, metal tracks to carry voltage from room to room,
There the locomotive smoke and the haunt of the whistle
Runs along the wainscoted walls and marble fireplaces.
The passenger cars light the loomed wool and waxed wood,
Move through each darkening room with the certainty of time,
This twilight caressing the mind, till it reaches level, like
A ship rising slowly in a lock.
This is not my childhood!
Whose memories are these?
For they can not be mine.
Tramp
Last edited by 2railjon on Thu Nov 22, 2007 8:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Running that red block Charlie.
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