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Book: Oh, Beautiful: An American Family in the 20th Century by John Paul Godges
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Authors: John Paul Godges
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so much steam before rolling north past the neighborhood. Ralph and the others huddled near the stretch of track between the roundhouse and Lehigh Row, rubbing their hands together to keep warm.
When the train rolled out of the roundhouse, Ralph eyed the oncoming steam locomotive. His wary brown eyes tried to gauge the right moment. As soon as the train curved beyond sight of the workers at the roundhouse, Ralph and the others, adrenaline pumping and hearts pounding, chased the flatbed coal cars, leapt onto their sides, shimmied up the slippery steel ladders, mounted the moving platforms with the huge chunks of black gold, and started shoving them toward the perimeters of the platforms.
Meanwhile, the girls and women from Lehigh Row waited nervously with their wagons in the ditches alongside the tracks near the homes. The six-year-old Ida, her eyes at the same level of the railroad ties, watched the steel wheels of the locomotive churn slowly but menacingly a few feet in front of her nose and circle ominously high over her head. “Now that was scary,” she shuddered just remembering it.
As the locomotive accelerated and the flatbed cars advanced toward Lehigh Row, the brothers and fathers pushed, hurled, or kicked the chunks off the ledges and down to the sisters and mothers waiting below. Then, just before the train sped too quickly beyond sight, Ralph and the others flung themselves from the tops or sides of the cars with enough force to land and roll out of harm’s way.
Some of the men and boys did it because they had to do it, or else they would’ve frozen to death. Others did it because they were capable of doing it. Still others did it because everyone else seemed to be doing it.
But for the 13-year-old Ralph, the motivation went much deeper. He never talked about it. He never would’ve allowed himself to talk about it. He just knew what he had to do. He was, after all, the only son in a family of nine. It was a responsibility that had fallen to him. On the surface, it was as simple as that. Beneath the surface, his motivation was unique and personal in a way that went to the very core of his being.
Up to that point in his life, his unspeakable role in the family had been defined by the accident. There had to be some way for him to live that down—even though it had been just an accident. There had to be some way for him to atone for that horrible day. He could never bring back his oldest sister. But if he could put his own life on the line for the sake of the family, then he would leap at the chance. Gathering coal from a moving train was the most obvious way that the 13-year-old boy alone could contribute something essential to the family. For Ralph, the coal was about much more than coal. It was about redemption.
A couple times, the trains accelerated too quickly for Ralph to jump off safely. When that happened, he rode atop a coal car until its next stop in Lake Mills, 40 miles northwest of Mason City, near the Minnesota border. He either hitched a ride home or just walked.
Nobody on Lehigh Row talked about the coal raids outside of Lehigh Row, but nearly everyone there participated in them. “We all did it,” said Ida, “and we all felt sort of guilty about it. People were afraid of getting thrown in jail or deported or something. We didn’t want anyone outside Lehigh Row to know about it.” Nobody said a word.
Few people from the railroad seemed eager to punish anybody from Lehigh Row. Often, the trains slowed down more than necessary as they crept near the neighborhood, as if to make it easier for people to hop on and to hop off. At those times, the conductors seemed to know full well what was happening but looked the other way.
Community solidarity expressed itself in many forms. For the sake of survival, people relied on each other. As in Farindola, so on Lehigh Row.
Nobody on Lehigh Row had health insurance. People saw doctors only in case of emergency and paid the bills out-of-pocket.
When the train rolled out of the roundhouse, Ralph eyed the oncoming steam locomotive. His wary brown eyes tried to gauge the right moment. As soon as the train curved beyond sight of the workers at the roundhouse, Ralph and the others, adrenaline pumping and hearts pounding, chased the flatbed coal cars, leapt onto their sides, shimmied up the slippery steel ladders, mounted the moving platforms with the huge chunks of black gold, and started shoving them toward the perimeters of the platforms.
Meanwhile, the girls and women from Lehigh Row waited nervously with their wagons in the ditches alongside the tracks near the homes. The six-year-old Ida, her eyes at the same level of the railroad ties, watched the steel wheels of the locomotive churn slowly but menacingly a few feet in front of her nose and circle ominously high over her head. “Now that was scary,” she shuddered just remembering it.
As the locomotive accelerated and the flatbed cars advanced toward Lehigh Row, the brothers and fathers pushed, hurled, or kicked the chunks off the ledges and down to the sisters and mothers waiting below. Then, just before the train sped too quickly beyond sight, Ralph and the others flung themselves from the tops or sides of the cars with enough force to land and roll out of harm’s way.
Some of the men and boys did it because they had to do it, or else they would’ve frozen to death. Others did it because they were capable of doing it. Still others did it because everyone else seemed to be doing it.
But for the 13-year-old Ralph, the motivation went much deeper. He never talked about it. He never would’ve allowed himself to talk about it. He just knew what he had to do. He was, after all, the only son in a family of nine. It was a responsibility that had fallen to him. On the surface, it was as simple as that. Beneath the surface, his motivation was unique and personal in a way that went to the very core of his being.
Up to that point in his life, his unspeakable role in the family had been defined by the accident. There had to be some way for him to live that down—even though it had been just an accident. There had to be some way for him to atone for that horrible day. He could never bring back his oldest sister. But if he could put his own life on the line for the sake of the family, then he would leap at the chance. Gathering coal from a moving train was the most obvious way that the 13-year-old boy alone could contribute something essential to the family. For Ralph, the coal was about much more than coal. It was about redemption.
A couple times, the trains accelerated too quickly for Ralph to jump off safely. When that happened, he rode atop a coal car until its next stop in Lake Mills, 40 miles northwest of Mason City, near the Minnesota border. He either hitched a ride home or just walked.
Nobody on Lehigh Row talked about the coal raids outside of Lehigh Row, but nearly everyone there participated in them. “We all did it,” said Ida, “and we all felt sort of guilty about it. People were afraid of getting thrown in jail or deported or something. We didn’t want anyone outside Lehigh Row to know about it.” Nobody said a word.
Few people from the railroad seemed eager to punish anybody from Lehigh Row. Often, the trains slowed down more than necessary as they crept near the neighborhood, as if to make it easier for people to hop on and to hop off. At those times, the conductors seemed to know full well what was happening but looked the other way.
Community solidarity expressed itself in many forms. For the sake of survival, people relied on each other. As in Farindola, so on Lehigh Row.
Nobody on Lehigh Row had health insurance. People saw doctors only in case of emergency and paid the bills out-of-pocket.
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