I belong to a group of hobbyists whose ranks have been shrinking for several decades, a fact that saddens me greatly because it was the source of the strongest bond between my Dad and I. As a loose aggregate, we are known as railfans, and a shared love of railroading builds links within families and across generations.
We’re really talking about two hobbies with a common theme, model railroading and rail fanning. The latter involves locating real locomotives.
My Dad took me to grand railroad stations and other good train spotting locations to see the real thing, mostly the giant Pennsylvania and New York Central Railroads, which merged to form the ill-fated Penn Central, which in turn vanished into Conrail with five other bankrupt eastern railroads. Those trackside adventures, and the time we spent recreating such scenes on the HO scale layout in our basement, remain among the strongest and happiest memories of my very early childhood. We forged new railroading memories throughout my youth and into my teens.
My Dad and I didn’t connect on many other things, making our “railroad ties” that much more important. I still get a kick out of the fact that, after retiring, my Dad took over my former part-time job at Branchville Hobbies. But that’s another story.
My greatest joy as a railfan comes when I discover an old diesel made by Baldwin, Fairbanks-Morse, Lima or Alco, all of which ceased manufacturing locomotives in the 1950s and 60s. It doesn’t matter whether it’s running or not — simply finding one of these things still in existence is thrill enough. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a female who has the same kind of passion for what most people see as a rusty old pile of junk.
For that reason, and because I feel a strong need to replace myself in the ranks of railfans and model railroaders, I was elated to learn my wife and I were having a son. It’s an unfortunate fact that females are a distinct minority among model railroaders and railroad photographers. Perhaps it is because they are wise enough not to get emotional about a machine, which is inevitably doomed to be cut to pieces after as little as a decade or two of service. I think it’s a male thing having to do with machinery. There are enthusiasts for cars, trucks, tractors, airplanes, buses, ocean liners, military vehicles, antique farming equipment, you name it. If it’s a type of machine, there are probably fans for it. And most of them seem to be male.
My wife has been a faithful companion on my forays into the seediest industrial sections of big cities, and the most desolate and remote locations for scenic railroad mainline action. She has become more of a railfan than I even had a right to dream. But after a decade, she still would be hard pressed to identify the manufacturer of any particular engine we might happen to see, let alone its model number. Conversely, I fully expect my son to eventually know more about diesel engines than I ever did, and to experience the same thrill of discovery that I do upon finding a rare locomotive unexpectedly. It may not work out that way, but it won’t be for a lack of trying, LOL. As my newly-delivered son was moved from the delivery table, I moved into position alongside the cleanup station. The nurse wiped the goop from his eyes and held him aloft to behold the first thing he would ever see, the outstretched arms of his smiling Daddy - and the image of an oversized Pennsylvania Railroad Keystone logo and three locomotives emblazoned on my T-shirt.
So, if it could ever be said that someone was “born” to do something, one could say he was born to be a railfan. Three years down the track, Nathan has “met” and ridden behind Thomas the Tank Engine three times, gone on a couple of Christmas Expresses, ridden tourist trains through scenic wonders and even ridden in the cab of a 1942-vintage SW-1 diesel. When he sees the Pennsy Keystone, he says, “Look! That’s a Keystone, the first thing I ever saw!” And you can imagine how that makes me feel.
For you, it may be a Yankees baseball, fishing or a vast knowledge of NASCAR, the specifics don’t matter. It’s the joy of sharing a passion for something that binds father and son (or parent and child) and creates memories that will be cherished for life.
We’re really talking about two hobbies with a common theme, model railroading and rail fanning. The latter involves locating real locomotives.
My Dad took me to grand railroad stations and other good train spotting locations to see the real thing, mostly the giant Pennsylvania and New York Central Railroads, which merged to form the ill-fated Penn Central, which in turn vanished into Conrail with five other bankrupt eastern railroads. Those trackside adventures, and the time we spent recreating such scenes on the HO scale layout in our basement, remain among the strongest and happiest memories of my very early childhood. We forged new railroading memories throughout my youth and into my teens.
My Dad and I didn’t connect on many other things, making our “railroad ties” that much more important. I still get a kick out of the fact that, after retiring, my Dad took over my former part-time job at Branchville Hobbies. But that’s another story.
My greatest joy as a railfan comes when I discover an old diesel made by Baldwin, Fairbanks-Morse, Lima or Alco, all of which ceased manufacturing locomotives in the 1950s and 60s. It doesn’t matter whether it’s running or not — simply finding one of these things still in existence is thrill enough. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a female who has the same kind of passion for what most people see as a rusty old pile of junk.
For that reason, and because I feel a strong need to replace myself in the ranks of railfans and model railroaders, I was elated to learn my wife and I were having a son. It’s an unfortunate fact that females are a distinct minority among model railroaders and railroad photographers. Perhaps it is because they are wise enough not to get emotional about a machine, which is inevitably doomed to be cut to pieces after as little as a decade or two of service. I think it’s a male thing having to do with machinery. There are enthusiasts for cars, trucks, tractors, airplanes, buses, ocean liners, military vehicles, antique farming equipment, you name it. If it’s a type of machine, there are probably fans for it. And most of them seem to be male.
My wife has been a faithful companion on my forays into the seediest industrial sections of big cities, and the most desolate and remote locations for scenic railroad mainline action. She has become more of a railfan than I even had a right to dream. But after a decade, she still would be hard pressed to identify the manufacturer of any particular engine we might happen to see, let alone its model number. Conversely, I fully expect my son to eventually know more about diesel engines than I ever did, and to experience the same thrill of discovery that I do upon finding a rare locomotive unexpectedly. It may not work out that way, but it won’t be for a lack of trying, LOL. As my newly-delivered son was moved from the delivery table, I moved into position alongside the cleanup station. The nurse wiped the goop from his eyes and held him aloft to behold the first thing he would ever see, the outstretched arms of his smiling Daddy - and the image of an oversized Pennsylvania Railroad Keystone logo and three locomotives emblazoned on my T-shirt.
So, if it could ever be said that someone was “born” to do something, one could say he was born to be a railfan. Three years down the track, Nathan has “met” and ridden behind Thomas the Tank Engine three times, gone on a couple of Christmas Expresses, ridden tourist trains through scenic wonders and even ridden in the cab of a 1942-vintage SW-1 diesel. When he sees the Pennsy Keystone, he says, “Look! That’s a Keystone, the first thing I ever saw!” And you can imagine how that makes me feel.
For you, it may be a Yankees baseball, fishing or a vast knowledge of NASCAR, the specifics don’t matter. It’s the joy of sharing a passion for something that binds father and son (or parent and child) and creates memories that will be cherished for life.
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