The man in the caboose

Original Milwaukee Road Caboose that ran through Westby in the 1950s
Now located at Logan Mill Lodge downtown Westby

by Gloria Lunde Burke 

In 1946 my family moved to our farm home just west of Westby. I was only three at the time and can’t remember the move, but I wasn’t very old before I would have a special memory most children would never have.

The Milwaukee Road Railroad passed between the house and barn, within at least fifty feet of the house. My first memories were the warnings from Mom and Dad to stay away from the tracks and not linger while crossing over them. This wasn’t to do during the summer because snakes would like laying at the edge of the rails in the sun and they’d scare the daylights out of me. If my folks would hear a screaming kid, chances are it would be nothing but me scaring the slither out of the snake. This didn’t happen too often, but I sure can remember when it did.

The train would run only twice a week if I remember right or maybe even less. There was section crew with their little cart, which I called the “hunting car” in Norwegian, which was almost all I spoke then. Once in awhile you’d see a regular car with well dressed men travel the rails. They must have been very important because they never waved to me.

Our house had a large open porch, which I would stand on and wave to the engineer and his crew. They always whistled for the crossing by our house which I thought for years was a personal signal for me that they were coming. As far back as I can remember I could hardly wait for the end of the train which must not have been a long wait, since I never consisted of more than a handful of cars. In the caboose rode the kindest man I have never met. George Kiefer, the conductor, gave me more gifts than I can recall. Candy, gum, toys and even soap. Every week he’d wave and throw me a package all bundled in newspaper and tied with string. I’d wave and wait until the train passed, then jump off the porch to get my package. For several years at the beginning I was a little afraid of the big black chug-chug with its shrill whistle and squealing wheels on the rails; this always kept me a safe distance away, but as quick as it passed, I was off the porch, retrieving my package, ripping it open, wondering what my friend had thought to give me that day. Usually it was candy, cracker-jacks or something of the like, but I did get some of the most unique toys. I never knew where he bought them, but they were small models of a tricycle, lawn mower (the real type) and a motorcycle. The parts moved and they were a colorful plastic. I treasured them then and still do today. I’ve got them tucked away, still hidden from children who wouldn’t appreciate the sentimental value they hold for me. He also gave me soap in the shape of an Indian and a cowboy on a horse. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since and I’ve still got it and the box it came in.

Dad and Mom thought maybe he’d like a picture of me as a token of appreciation and friendship. She wrapped a picture and tied it on the end of an old cane fist pole and as the train came by one day we held it out to George. He grabbed it and threw his usual package to me. It was a real thrill for me to give him something. The next week he gave me a picture of his granddaughters.

The old steam locomotive sometimes didn’t have the power to make the grade by our farm on its return trip to Westby from Coon Valley and Chaseburg. We’d hear it it slowing way down and having to back up, leave some cars and come back for them later. When they’d come by the house, the black coal smoke would roll out the stack. I don’t think Mom always appreciated it, as she had a sparkling white kitchen.

The day came when the chugging and whistle were no more. That day a bright orange and black diesel engine took its place. Times were changing and little did we know how much; they would never be the same again.

One day the train as coming and I was in my usual spot on the porch, watching for the friendly smile and the package. I was very surprised when the engineer threw the package. George wasn’t in the caboose and that seemed strange, because he was always there. I ran and got the package, quickly opened it and found a note with the sad news. George had died of a heart attack while doing his usual nightly check of the cars for his next days run. I didn’t want to believe it, but, of course, I knew it was true. To a kid my age, with the strangeness of our friendship, it seemed as if Santa Claus had died, but this Santa Clause came twice a week by rail I knew I’d really miss him, although I’d never spoken a word to him. He was a dear and loving human being that gave from his heart to children along the tracks of the life he loved.

The engineers kept throwing packages for awhile to carry on the tradition, but somehow it never seemed the same. I’m sure they must have sensed it in the children’s looks and lack of enthusiasm and it ended after awhile.

I’ll always have a fond memory for the old slow trains and the kind of loving conductor I never met.

When I was older, the warming “Stay away from the tracks,” wasn’t needed and my cousins and friends and I would balance walk on the rails and see how many bridges we could cross. The rails were fascinating to the other kids.

We moved away from that farm in 1956 and since I’ve been away there are no trains, smoke, or rails there anymore. Only in my memory can I hear the old whistle and squealing of the wheels, but best of all, see the smiling, loving face of the man in the caboose.