Temporal Paradox

29 SEPTEMBER 2010

When asked for my preferred railroading era, my answer—matching the majority of us older-generation modelers, according to polls—is "transition," that fascinating period when steam and diesel locomotives plied the rails together. Still, while I do like many of the charming old first-generation diesels, I find the hulking monsters of steam's sunset years quite irresistible—the bigger and uglier, the better.

The irony is that I'm not a child of the thirties, forties or fifties, so I wasn't around to see these beasts myself. Alas, I'm a GenJonser, having grown up in the sixties (yeah, baby), and my early experiences of railroads were confined to the perspective afforded by a sleepy little central-Jersey town along the dying Reading, well-removed from any (former) hub of railroad activity.

My first direct exposure to steam was courtesy of the Black River and Western in Ringoes, New Jersey, not long after they began operating. No matter that it was just a hokey, bedraggled little tourist line; the BR&W, and in particular Number 60, became objects of my affection, and remain so today.

It was only through books that I became smitten by the twilight era of steam. Images of enormous, filthy engine facilities and the behemoths that dwelt there filled my senses, and I'd experience a vicarious thrill, tinged with regret for not being able to witness such scenes firsthand.

One might think I'd model some big, grimy railroad during its heyday, but I've never convinced myself to try. The reason is that I question my ability to successfully capture the essence of a time and place I never knew, one that lives only in my mind—in black and white, no less. I'd even toyed with the idea of modeling in monochrome, but doubted it would be taken seriously. Not to mention that it would be a rather costly endeavor, in terms of both the time and financial investments required: think of all those big steamers to build and/or buy, just for starters.

So I tend to model the railroading era I know and remember best: the seventies and eighties—itself a transition period of sorts, the railroad equivalent of the dot com bust. Why not present day? Well, frankly, I find modern railroading to be utterly boring and bereft of character. Railroads today tend to maintain a scorched earth policy with respect to their properties, leaving precious little behind from earlier, more interesting times.

Back in the seventies and eighties, I'd regularly roam the countryside in search of the last vestiges of steam's swan song. You'd find me standing at the edge of a vast expanse of weeds, tracing the faint ridges in the growth that marked the rails of a yard, gazing at the crumbling remains of a coaling tower, perhaps, and lost in a vivid reverie. The ghosts of the last steam giants were there; I could hear and smell them. It gave me goose bumps.

Increasingly my modeling is characterized by rust, dust and dereliction, and the more intense the emotional response I have to a model scene, the more successful I deem it to be. Yet why would someone choose to evoke such melancholy sentiments? Why not model more positive, active scenes? Oh, I do some of that, too. But I find that paying homage to an era I never knew, but wish I had, is more rewarding; it may be a bit depressing, but it's a far deeper experience.

My last White River and Northern—with its enormous abandoned manufacturing plant and disused track—was just starting to move in this direction. If I should ever have an opportunity to build another layout, I now know much better where it will be headed, and why.

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