FlanaryRon-WillardAyers-PenningtonVA depot-1974
“Bouquet de Railroad”
This image has been shared before, but it was never one to be considered “good.” I shot it in the summer of 1974 in the L&N Railroad Cumberland Valley Division depot in Pennington Gap, Va. (the L&N referred to the place simply as “Pennington”). The fellow in the photo was Willard Ayers, who was then the agent/operator. It was July 1974 (specific date not recorded) when I stopped by to see Willard and “visit” for a few minutes. I had my Yashica 35mm with me, and it was loaded with K64 color film. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a tripod or a cable release.
I was quizzing Willard on the uptick of coal traffic on the CV’s “south end,” and how there was some discussion of adding a second and third shift at Pennington to handle the increasing need for the dispatcher to issue orders to more trains. At the time, the “rights of trains” operating system prevailed here, which meant timetable and train orders. The double three-position semaphore signals above the station were getting a more frequent workout as the Corbin dispatcher rang up Willard to copy orders for either northbound or southbound trains.
Just then the “DS” rang up Pennington, and Willard pulled the scissors phone close to his mouth and put on the headset. “Pennington….copy four 19 south…” At that moment he got up and grabbed the long steel handle of the Saxby and Farmer signal controller and pulled it back. A pipe that connected the lever through two fulcrums and long pipes with the heavy signal high atop the mast above the operator’s bay moved the signal for southbound trains to a 45-degree angle. When the midway notch was reached, the spring-loaded pistol grip lock snapped into the void. This act immediately advised any approaching southward train that it could not pass the depot without checking for orders or messages. Retaking his seat and pulling the phone close again, Willard began copying the order.
I had already put myself in place to get an image, although the lighting conditions (particularly for very slow slide film) were terrible. I needed a slow shutter speed (maybe 1/8th of second) and a wide aperture—which would mean a shallow depth of field. The worst photo is the one you don’t try, so I framed Willard on the phone with the pistol-grip signal lever in the foreground. The lever wouldn’t be in focus at such a wide-open aperture setting, but without a tripod, and more time to set up a better shot, I had no choice but to immediately choose my exposure settings, frame the shot, hold my breath, and slowly press the shutter release. He who hesitates loses.
I was looking for some old shots earlier today and this one came up in a folder. It was a raw high-resolution scan of the original color slide, so it hadn’t been “messed with” using Photoshop or any of the other more recent digital post-processing gizmo programs. I thought it was time to try to salvage something more presentable, and this time in color. Some new Topaz software, plus dodging and burning here and there yielded a far better image. It still suffers from the limitations of the era (and my lack of photographic expertise), but there’s no denying it takes us back to another time in US railroading.
A very small black and white version of this shot appeared in my Trains Magazine story, “Is Anything Close?” in the November 2020 issue. My goal in that anecdotal piece was to illustrate, through words and images, the experiences of visiting an operating depot or tower back in the days when these outposts were essential components of operating trains. Although the story and all the photos (except this one) happened in May 1968, the shot of Willard was a good fit as a “filler” shot. Here’s a short excerpt of that story to explain just why these places were so special to many of all of us “of a certain age” who followed the railroad industry. The photo at Pennington in 1974 was the inspiration for this general description of such places:
“…When you walked into the depot or tower door almost anywhere in America, it was instantly familiar. It seemed most every such structure in America had the same scent—a mixture of slowly molding wood, mildewed paper and cloth, tobacco smoke, and a blend of cleaning concoctions and mysterious bacteriological matter. This was all incubated by a coal stove in winter or the natural heat of summer in subdued light for decades. It produced a singularly unique olfactory signature: “Bouquet de Railroad.”
The floor was well worn by the foot traffic of many thousands of railroad employees, passengers, and freight customers. What tobacco tar remnants that hadn’t built up on the ceiling and walls remained as poorly aimed expectoration stains on the floor around where spittoons were once located. The walls were plastered with calendars, notices, and bulletin orders. Writing instruments, string for the train order forks, rubber bands and paper clips littered the operator’s desk. Pigeonholes were crammed full of blank train order pads, timetables, carbons, switch lists, waybills, and reports of all kinds. The man-made light came from shaded bulbs hanging from drop cords. The windows all had pull-down shades, yellowed from age, to minimize the invasion of the sun’s rays. Natural light was a stranger here. Presiding over everything was the incessant ticking of a Seth-Thomas Standard Clock, its pendulum swinging left and right, seemingly for as long as the railroad company had existed. A manual typewriter was always ready, awaiting the dispatcher’s dial-up….”
FlanaryRon-WillardAyers-PenningtonVA depot-1974
“Bouquet de Railroad”
This image has been shared before, but it was never one to be considered “good.” I shot it in the summer of 1974 in the L&N Railroad Cumberland Valley Division depot in Pennington Gap, Va. (the L&N referred to the place simply as “Pennington”). The fellow in the photo was Willard Ayers, who was then the agent/operator. It was July 1974 (specific date not recorded) when I stopped by to see Willard and “visit” for a few minutes. I had my Yashica 35mm with me, and it was loaded with K64 color film. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a tripod or a cable release.
I was quizzing Willard on the uptick of coal traffic on the CV’s “south end,” and how there was some discussion of adding a second and third shift at Pennington to handle the increasing need for the dispatcher to issue orders to more trains. At the time, the “rights of trains” operating system prevailed here, which meant timetable and train orders. The double three-position semaphore signals above the station were getting a more frequent workout as the Corbin dispatcher rang up Willard to copy orders for either northbound or southbound trains.
Just then the “DS” rang up Pennington, and Willard pulled the scissors phone close to his mouth and put on the headset. “Pennington….copy four 19 south…” At that moment he got up and grabbed the long steel handle of the Saxby and Farmer signal controller and pulled it back. A pipe that connected the lever through two fulcrums and long pipes with the heavy signal high atop the mast above the operator’s bay moved the signal for southbound trains to a 45-degree angle. When the midway notch was reached, the spring-loaded pistol grip lock snapped into the void. This act immediately advised any approaching southward train that it could not pass the depot without checking for orders or messages. Retaking his seat and pulling the phone close again, Willard began copying the order.
I had already put myself in place to get an image, although the lighting conditions (particularly for very slow slide film) were terrible. I needed a slow shutter speed (maybe 1/8th of second) and a wide aperture—which would mean a shallow depth of field. The worst photo is the one you don’t try, so I framed Willard on the phone with the pistol-grip signal lever in the foreground. The lever wouldn’t be in focus at such a wide-open aperture setting, but without a tripod, and more time to set up a better shot, I had no choice but to immediately choose my exposure settings, frame the shot, hold my breath, and slowly press the shutter release. He who hesitates loses.
I was looking for some old shots earlier today and this one came up in a folder. It was a raw high-resolution scan of the original color slide, so it hadn’t been “messed with” using Photoshop or any of the other more recent digital post-processing gizmo programs. I thought it was time to try to salvage something more presentable, and this time in color. Some new Topaz software, plus dodging and burning here and there yielded a far better image. It still suffers from the limitations of the era (and my lack of photographic expertise), but there’s no denying it takes us back to another time in US railroading.
A very small black and white version of this shot appeared in my Trains Magazine story, “Is Anything Close?” in the November 2020 issue. My goal in that anecdotal piece was to illustrate, through words and images, the experiences of visiting an operating depot or tower back in the days when these outposts were essential components of operating trains. Although the story and all the photos (except this one) happened in May 1968, the shot of Willard was a good fit as a “filler” shot. Here’s a short excerpt of that story to explain just why these places were so special to many of all of us “of a certain age” who followed the railroad industry. The photo at Pennington in 1974 was the inspiration for this general description of such places:
“…When you walked into the depot or tower door almost anywhere in America, it was instantly familiar. It seemed most every such structure in America had the same scent—a mixture of slowly molding wood, mildewed paper and cloth, tobacco smoke, and a blend of cleaning concoctions and mysterious bacteriological matter. This was all incubated by a coal stove in winter or the natural heat of summer in subdued light for decades. It produced a singularly unique olfactory signature: “Bouquet de Railroad.”
The floor was well worn by the foot traffic of many thousands of railroad employees, passengers, and freight customers. What tobacco tar remnants that hadn’t built up on the ceiling and walls remained as poorly aimed expectoration stains on the floor around where spittoons were once located. The walls were plastered with calendars, notices, and bulletin orders. Writing instruments, string for the train order forks, rubber bands and paper clips littered the operator’s desk. Pigeonholes were crammed full of blank train order pads, timetables, carbons, switch lists, waybills, and reports of all kinds. The man-made light came from shaded bulbs hanging from drop cords. The windows all had pull-down shades, yellowed from age, to minimize the invasion of the sun’s rays. Natural light was a stranger here. Presiding over everything was the incessant ticking of a Seth-Thomas Standard Clock, its pendulum swinging left and right, seemingly for as long as the railroad company had existed. A manual typewriter was always ready, awaiting the dispatcher’s dial-up….”