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Show All Hands I know of one last story of my father's early life, one last story before the bucket and the decision my father will make, one last story handed down with red hair, a temper, and the need to be right. The bodies in this one are human rather than animal, the violence that much closer to home. My parents met at the University of Nebraska, married in 1961, a year before they graduated, and then lived on tuna casseroles toj3ujjriy father through law school. To help pay tuition, he worked summers on the railroad, maybe even on the same rails that his father rode to leave home when he was twelve, a line of track that ferried Sinor men from boyhood to manhood. He could make as much money riding the rails for three months as my mother could garner in a solid year of secretarial work. The work of a train's fireman used to be back breaking. In steam engines, he shoveled coal into the boiler of the engine to create steam, making sure the fire remained strong and hot. It required that he knew the route, could gauge the amount of steam needed, and could generate that fuel by raising or banking the fire. My father worked on diesel engines, so he didn't shovel coal but that didn't make the job any safer, nor did it mean he didn't work with fire. Part of his job was to monitor the left side of the train, watching the wheels on the hot boxes to make sure they didn't catch fire and derail the train. Custom saw the fireman as an apprenticeship to engineer and often my father would take over for the engineer, or hog head, when he wanted to rest. In those moments, he was in charge of the entire train. My father made as much money as he did because he was always on call. He 28 |