The West End and The Texas Special

This is an oral history by my grandfather Lloyd Winburn.

My grand kids are after me to tell them something of “the old days.”  They see me as an aging mound of flesh that is a living history book. I do tell them some things and help them to understand the Great Depression, Prohibition and the entertainment of my youth. The later was radio, outside games, chores and school.

I went to Golden Rule School and that is a story! Maybe I will get to that. There were many kids I remember today: Dale Stillwell, Cecil Smith, Jr Bell, the Haskins, Jesse Leo Simpson (a perfect to cast as Li’l Abner) Louise Gregg, Hazel Nagel (or Nagle) , Jim Hickey, Garland Fitzgerald, among others.  Our life, our games, our families make good memories.

In high school I was frustrated by all the hormonal rumblings in my body and I lusted no end. I was very distracted. My name was published in the Denison Herald along with others who carried a 4.0 or something classified as an exceptionally high average in their studies. It was easy. I loved Spanish and took Spanish and was good at it.  Ms. Edith Austin who lived down on Myrick Avenue was a great Spanish teacher. She also taught Junior Business Administration and that was good for me. I loved geometry and had a swelled head because the teacher, who was a coach and seldom in the class, had me lead the practice of the rote of the axioms. Algebra? No!

As I approached my 18th birthday, the war was raging in the Pacific and with the Nazis in retreat in Europe, I decided to go into the Navy. That, I thought would let me enjoy some adventure and settle my hormones a bit.

I went off to Dallas on the Texas Electric Railroad (something else to write about).  Reporting in at the recruiting station, I was interviewed, preliminarily examined for mental and physical fitness and sent off to get my parents consent.  With three sons already in the military, it was not that easy to get my Dad to sign. He did sign… in total silence and with a shrug.  My Mom signed with tears.

Returning to Dallas, I was put through a ringer of many medical tests along with countless others as we paraded around in our birthday suits.

We were sworn in at a colorless ceremony on my 18th birthday. Like that, I was in the Navy.

We all carried little by way of personal belongings and were sent off to the railroad yards where we took a seat in chair cars that had a coat of drab paint on them inside and out. There was no air conditioning and the windows were open even in the cold of late January. We stayed in the train for a day while recruits from back east, NY, Tenn, KY, NC, WV, NJ joined us. Finally, in the middle of the night with car bulging with men, we took off. We knew not where but soon were to find out by deduction that we were on our way to California, (BOOT CAMP).

I digress.

These ramblings are an effort to get some things down for you to add to, correct or enjoy.  Life was good even with our deep poverty.  God has a way of helping the poor enjoy life without all the fluff that accompanies wealth. We laughed and worked; we went to bed early and got up early.  Never in my life can I remember staying bed past 10 a.m.; certainly, I never was in bed at noon.

Today, among other things, I want to write about a branch of the family I do not want to forget.

Aunt Lee was my mother’s sister. She and my uncle Robert (Bob) Winegar lived in the West End at Denison, Texas.  The West End is a part of Denison sitting on Highway 91 that ran off out of Denison to the West and North up into Oklahoma. The highway was cut off when the Eisenhower Dam was built and Lake Texoma was created. The West End community was centered on a major street where it crossed the MK&T railroad track.

My Uncle Bob worked at the Missouri Kansas & Texas (Katy) Railroad creosote plant whose presence was made evident by the strong, ever- present odor of hot creosote. At the plant, the Katy Railroad Company treated cross ties and telegraph poles.  He made good money for the day and had a steady job, a prize in those days of the early 1930s

The West End has a history, part of which I remember because of tragedy that occurred there.  On a hot summer day, a truck tanker filled with LNG (or LPG, Butane?) met its fate with a freight train.  The sparks from the coal-burning engine ignited the escaping gas which hugged the ground and crept all over the place for blocks.  The flames of the burning gas, a horrendous hot flash, burned the paint off the houses blocks away. About a dozen people died when they were burned when the gas they breathed scorched their lungs.  A few structures suffered total destruction.  I have remembered the incident for many years now as I  took to heart the lesson: Do not run to the scene of an accident or commotion heedlessly.  I am reminded of this when I read how the combatants in the Middle East set off explosions. Invariably, they set off two, the second timed to catch the people who come in to help or to gawk.

Uncle Bob had a green thumb which was made evident by his great orchard and vineyard. They must have had about 5 acres with grapes plums, apples, prunes, peaches and apricots.  They were the target of the kids playing and feasting in the orchards. The vines were loaded with the tasty grapes that hang in great clusters. We could sit in the aisles between the rows and fill our stomachs with the purple juice ultimately covering our face and clothes.

Their house had a great porch with a swing where one could sit in the heat of the afternoon to enjoy the shade and quiet.

Aunt Lee was, like my grandmother Glass, a large woman, not fat but of Germanic girth… stately. Her hair was gray and she wore it up in a bun in the back as many women of the time were apt to do.  Aunt Lee cooked. Her biscuits and gravy; pork from their own production was tasty beyond belief. There were always potatoes and beans on her table.  They, as we did at home, had a couple of cows that fed on tall Johnson grass and other grasses around, some hay and a mixture of grains.  The milk and butter were heavenly.  Pies were sweet and always chuck lumpy full of fruit off the trees.

They had six kids: Robert, who was a Jewel-T salesman; he was a tall handsome specimen and very industrious and busy. Vernon was the oldest. All I remember about him is that he wore overalls and worked.  I think he worked on the railroad, but cannot remember the details.  Then there was Frank, a good looking teen who was always busy. I seem to remember that there was a daughter, younger or older than Vernon.  Their youngest was a daughter, Sara Jane, who was about the age of my sister, Willie Lee. Did, we called my sister, was just a year or so older than i.  I remember Sara Jan was pursued by several boys and there was a great deal of giggling.

Then there was Wiggles. I never knew him by any other name. He was large when he was born and was so big as a sub-teen they had to make his clothes for him. He wiggled.  He took a lot of gaff about his size, but I think he grew up to excel in something. At least, that is how I remember it.

Except for the fruit, the swing, the food and some games with their kids, visiting was not much fun. Uncle Bob was distant and I felt he resented his “poor relatives,” and that was what I was.

My dad was a blacksmith. We suffered a lot of economic deprivation during the Great Depression and my Dad did not work for the railroad or the cotton mill. He refused to take any of that “Roosevelt” hand out of lard, flour and other surplus food stuff they were passing around at Relief Centers. He was good with fruit trees, gardens and raising pigs, cows and chickens… Thank God.

We lived in the Cotton Mill district just south of Denison.  The place was distinguished by a tall and massive cotton spinning mill. There were many company houses around, a couple of grocery stores that extended credit to mill workers who were paid twice a month.  Everyone knew everyone else and my Dad was one of the few in the area who did not work at the mill.

My mother was always busy with the Golden Rule PTA. At least three years she was president and gave of her time when God alone knew where she got the energy.

We had a water well that was 60 feet deep and we drew the water up with a chain that had a 1 ½ gallon bucket (An old Oaken Bucket. There has been a song written about it.) The bucket with water had to weigh near 40 pounds. The chain was heavy and the pulley was about 18 inches in diameter. It was a chore to draw the water. That was one of my duties. The water was refreshing in the summer but in the winter when the chain stuck to our hands from the frost, the task was daunting.  With two or three cows and the other animals, there had to be a 50 gallon barrel of water filled every day… twice.

When I was not doing that, I took the cows out to graze on the grass along the Frisco railroad tracks or along the country roads that were nearby our place. (The Saint Louis and San Francisco Railway Company “FRISCO” shared tracks with the Texas & Pacific line about a mile from where we lived. They ran a “Streamliner” passenger train about three days a week and we kids would all get to the track to see the big sleek engine.  What a thrill!)  Along the Frisco, the firemen would throw coal out along the way where poor people living beside the track could have fuel for their cook stoves.

There is so much detail of life in my youth that it is hard to start one thing and finish with it. All the other things seem to rush in as the details of one item are put on paper.

While the cows grazed, we played on the step embankment or picked wild berries that grew there. We listened to the wind humming in the telegraph wires and thought at times we could hear the voices of people. The wires carried the massive amount of Western Union Telegraph.

I came to know a lot of this system when in High School I took a job as a messenger as the WD office of Western Union down at the Denison, Texas, depot.  Wires stretching from St Louis down through the WD office and on to Houston, NY…. everyplace… carried the code in to be “relayed” in a complex system of connections.  The WD office had about 20 operators handling messages all along the route and was a relay office.   The room operated 24 hours a day, every day.

The room resounded with the clicking of the Morse Code messages coming in and going out. Operators sat at little desks with their ears up against the box covering there telegraph sets. (Some were deaf and got the vibrations.)  They had before them the old type Underwood typewriter that added to the cacophony of the clicking in the room. You can imagine.

Besides delivering the messages that came for the operations offices at the depot, I carried copies to the round house, the shops and the dinning room, ice service and others who were involved with supplying the trains and handling the schedules.

I would have to put together thin onion-skin paper and layers of carbon paper for the operators to use. They were usually ½ sheets of 8 ½ x 11 inch paper. The operators, without looking or missing a click could reach out and pick up the exact number of sheets they needed. They were fast in feeding it into their typewriters and to keep listening and sending. (Many operators were deaf and caught the vibrations with their bodies and never missed a word.)

Being around the depot was an experience. I loved the trains. The Texas Special was the premier passenger train of the Katy line. It ran from San Antonio, up though Dallas and through  Denison to St Louis. Denison was  a major hub for the line. At Denison the line branched out to Wichita Falls and points west.  When passenger trains were “made up” in Denison, there was a practice of turning the cars around.  Which means, a switch engine would take the cars down the main line to the edge of the yard, then back into the bypass that led into lines to the West End and out to Wichita Falls.  I would take that little ride all alone in the passenger cars. My mind played games. The Smell, the cleanliness, the quietness and the clickety-clack of the sound of the metal wheels on the rails was beautiful.

Once I got a pass that was available to all employees on a limited basis and went down to Dallas. That was a treat. I went into the dining car with its tables at windows with a view of the country side all draped in white linen. The utensils were silver (or seemed to be) and china dishes.  The meal was scrumptious. It was prepared by handsome slight black men who were efficient, courteous and helpful.  They prepared the meals in a narrow hot section over open coal fires.  It was fascinating and magical.  I was about 15 years old and felt the bubble in my bones that were to haunt me for my whole life: to travel; to go places, to see people and thing, places and customs was my deep desire.

In High School I was already taking Spanish; and reading everything I could about Mexico, the people, the culture and the music.  Wonder Lust is a disease just like shingles: it hangs around in your system until there is occasion, then breaks out.  My direction finder was set; I was on my way.

C.C. Baker was a senior railroad engineer. He was big in the Union and high upon the seniority list of those who could chose their job.  He chose to be The Engineer of the Texas Special on the leg from Denison to Muskogee, Oklahoma.  He was the equivalent of the Captain of the Queen Mary.  He was driven to work in his spanking new Chevrolet (he got a new one every year.)  That was big time then. The price was somewhere between $999 and $1,200! (That may be a more like $600 to $700). He had a chauffeur who drove him to the depot along with his wife, Mrs. Baker.

At the depot he got out of his car, bid his wife goodbye and strolled, majestically carrying his little black bag for his overnight stay in Muskogee.  He was dressed in starched and ironed blue striped overalls, a blue bandanna around his neck, a large red handkerchief showing out of one of his back pockets. It was not decoration. He wore it as if it were, but it was for men who sweat on the job. He never used it.  He wore a matching (almost) railroaders cap that was freshly starched and ironed.  Everything spick and span. His black work shoes were polished bright and shinny.  He had a pair of gloves in the other hand, those railroad gloves with cuffs that flared out and covered the cuffs of the starched solid blue shirt he wore.

He walked up to the dispatcher’s office to get his “orders.” This was a one or two-sheet set of  papers that told him the condition of the track, where the rail, bridge or crossing repair jobs or construction were, where he could expect another passenger train or freight train on a siding waiting for that sleek Texas Special to whistle shrilly and whiz by: The hour and the minute.

Every thing was precise.  He would fold the papers and put then in the pocket over his heart, bow slightly to the clerk and go out to await the train’s arrival. He knew just exactly when it would stop and where the engine would stop in front of the platform. It was precision, dictated by the number of cars the engine pulled.

The train was made up of the engine, the coal tender that carried the fuel, the baggage care, a freight car (the Railway Express Car) and a number of seating cars.  This was followed by a dining car and a number of Pullman cars where people had luxurious seats that made up into sleeping facilities at night.

Each engine had a Fireman, the man who saw that the fire was kept going, the water was fed into the system as needed, the pressures were kept up and was all round flunky for the Engineer. He was co-pilot in today’s parlance.

Way off in the distance, as the incoming Texas Special from the north approached the bridge at the Red River, one could hear the whistle and everything began to move. It would be only moments until the train pulled in.  Tonight, Mr. Baker was taking the Texas Special South. That was his prerogative with the seniority he had.

The Fireman was standing just about the place where the engine would stop and the steps up into the engine would be before him.  The train arrived, the engine stopped and Mr. Baker stepped forward.  He little more than nodded to the engineer who brought the train in, leaving it to his fireman to brief the on-coming crew on the engine, the crew and other details.

The Fireman handed Mr. Baker an oil can, a can of about 1 quart with a long thin spout with a downward crook at the end. Taking the can, Mr. Baker, with his gloves on now, took the can and a wad of “waste” which was a wad of twine that was used to wipe grease off things, and slowly, deliberately, walked along the side of the engine. Later on I would compare the scene to the captain of an airliner checking his plane out. At the box of each axle, Mr. Baker pulled up the lid and made sure there was no fire. At times he would squirt oil into the box, but not tonight.  Everything was in good shape.

The fireman was in the cabin stoking the fire and came down to allow the Engineer to enter.  Without looking left or right, the Engineer climbed into the cabin and took his seat him up near the window. He reached up and felt the throttle, then the air brake handle, put his elbow up on the window sill, stuck his head out a little and took in the view the train of cars behind him, then forward to see that the way was clear.

He reached up deliberately and pulled the cord to the whistle, a steam whistle that in two short sounds notified everyone that the Engineer and the engine were ready.

Down by the dining car, the conductor, who had been greeting passengers looked up, took his watch out of its special place in a vest with a chain across his chest, looked at it, looked up and put the watch away.  (Railroad watches were a premium, all on time, the same time, and coveted by the owner.) He was ready and his train was ready.  He picked up the stool at the bottom of the steps and handed it to a porter up in the vestibule of the passenger car.  Then, in a loud distinct voice he shouted A—–BOARD!.  One foot went upon the bottom step. He grasped the guide rail that ran up to the vestibule and waved to the Engineer. The signal was followed by long blasts of the engine’s whistle and the engineer pulled back the throttle.

The throttle opened the steam valves to allow the pressure to move the engine… the train. The power was brute, the sounds were magnificent, the very sense of power. At times the wheels would spin a short time before taking perch and beginning to move forward.  An engineer did not like the spinning. In general it indicated that the engineer opened the throttle to far too fast or not fast enough, or whatever.  Tonight, there was no spinning. Mr. Baker was in his form: perfect.

I would stand there feeling the ground move below my feet. The vibrations emitted from the power package I was witnessing made  my skin crawl!  Oh, the beauty of it all.

What we have lost!  Technology has killed the joy.  How I wish that we should all see that just one more time.

Lloyd Winburn

DOB January 20, 1927