CELEBRATE LACONIA - Pat Tierney – When I was eight, I was a trainman for a summer

Pat Tierney, shown here with his father, said his parents encouraged him to explore the world around him, so long as he was respectful and learned from his experiences. (Courtesy photo)

At eight years old I believed I was a champion bicyclist. Superior riding skills afforded me speedy tours of 1961 Laconia as a curious and naive little boy. How far in any direction could I travel yet be home within the hour? Which of my classmates could I recruit to join me? Where do the brooks begin? Why was this railroad here? What do the sections of abandoned track suggest? I knew the railroad station had something to do with it, but where did the semi overgrown rails go to and why? I only lived a few blocks from the nearby Public Library, so it made sense to search for answers so close to home. Interesting mysteries I'd never come across before. My imagination ran wild. Questions mounted.

These investigations merited extensive looking into on my part, and once the school year ended in June, I could spend even more time checking out the train traffic. Although family relatives explained that the level of rail activity had decreased from previous years, engines and freight continued to pull up to the Laconia station platform on a fairly regular basis. I'll never forget the thrill of my little bike and I standing awestruck as the mid day Minuteman Switcher Engine of the Boston and Maine Railroad (brown in color) idled at the station. Typically that June and July, three, four, and sometimes a crew of five (long train) would leave one individual with his lunch at the Minuteman while the others took their hour break at Bill's Diner on Hanover Street. As they walked to that lunch counter I'd follow them on my bike. They always seemed to get the fish special. One time they fed me.

I remember Leon and Eddie Burke up front in the engine. I recall they were probably in their 40s or 50s. A couple of strong younger men, nice guys who laughed a lot, held down the caboose assignment as either brakemen, flagmen, couple car duty, firemen, special crossing safety, etc. To me these gentlemen of the crew were the true adventurers of the day, somewhat like astronauts winding their way through town on a daily basis with a tonnage and noise unsurpassed in the history of mankind.

One day it happened. I was invited up to the cab by the crew. They showed me the throttle, the whistle, the brakes, and a bunch of gauges. I was dumbfounded, thanked them and left.

After a number of early hot summer days which included my bike and I staring endlessly at the comings and goings of the crew, I explored an open and empty boxcar on the siding. I planned a trip inside this boxcar. It happened. After carefully hiding my bike in a nearby bush, I pulled myself up and in. I trembled with fright at being inside the thing as it was moved to another location down the track. The sudden halting with a screeching stop will never be forgotten. Looking back on this event, the particulars of this journey seemed to extend out of state, but the reality of that day was that I certainly never left town. There were loud voices. I was found out and subsequently warned of the danger my actions involved. I was told to no longer climb into trains without permission. I was ordered to get a note from my parents if I ever intended to do it again. I returned with the note in short order recalling the time to be within 24 hrs.

From early July until the middle of August I never missed a ride on the Minuteman. Regularly and enthusiastically I participated with every north run they made to Lakeport, The Weirs, Meredith, and the occasional Saturday morning special train to the paper mill in Lincoln. I recall a lot of smoking and fresh air. Frequently tires were left on the tracks and one of my jobs was to go down and throw those tires off to the sides. One time I tripped up a bee's nest while running to my train ride and the crew grabbed some baking soda from the caboose to apply to my swollen back as I cried. Passing over water on bridges made me wonder as to the strength of inside hand hold devices from which I would hang. People at various stops would yell up asking if I was the engineer. Permission was granted to occasionally sound the whistle. The guys gave me candy. Every day my mother fixed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the trip. Life was good.

I'll never forget that day in mid-August. My personal southbound train stopped to let me out while holding up traffic on Pleasant Street. Our good neighbor Dorothy Eckles happened to be in the front of that line of waiting vehicles. As I descended from Minuteman and landed on the ground to head home, Mrs. Eckles called out to me asking what I thought I was doing. My reply that I was heading home was not sufficient. To this day I believe her intervention resulted in the end of my railroad exploits that August. Starting the next day, my warm and friendly crew of train people became formal and uninviting. They knew who I was, that I had been well behaved and helpful, we all liked each other, but the rides were over. No more. After all, school was back in session within a few days. Time to get serious. Forget all this train stuff and focus on mowing lawns and delivering newspapers. A fantastic door had been closed. Enough. I'm sure there was a good reason but I felt deprived and sad.

My passenger station memories include frequent journeys to Boston by train with family for flower or ice skating shows. After 1961 it represented my own private pyramid of wondrous memories and fabulous experience. As a high school student in 1968, I had the privilege to serve as one of several authorized conductors for the week long rail rides offered at the 75th City Anniversary. This building endures as a very special monument.

So let the train whistles blow and the "all aboard!" shouting ensue. Toys don't measure up. The railroad and our station remain vivid reminders of our regional and national history. The local stewards of industry, faith, hope, and dreams affirmed a better world with their 1892 railroad station opening. I reaffirm that and thank my 1961 Minuteman crew for asking me to join them in remarkable adventure and delight.

I'm often asked where my parents were during all this. My folks were good people who asked me to be respectful and learn from the experience. With that in mind over the years, every experience with tires seem to take me back to clearing the rails as an 8 year old.

Tickets please!

Pat Tierney grew up near the Laconia Passenger Station, and when he heard the train approaching, he would race to the station to watch the crew at work. (Adam Drapcho/Laconia Daily Sun)