Poems and Thoughts    by Frank Maurer

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Railroads in My Life. My father (Frank) was a railroad brat. His father (Albert) was a B and O conductor on the trains (the one in charge), And he often pulled up his son into the caboose, As they slowed for a crossing in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. As a child, I lived with American Flyer model trains. The Boston and Maine railroad with steamers passed my house daily. While passing through the city of Newton, Massachusetts, I don't ever remember a whistle blown. However, at my grandparents' farm it was so different. The New York Central crossed the farm a few miles to the west. Each night as I lay in bed, the longing whistle would sound from the distance. I loved that sound and longed for its repetition. There were many other influences over my lifetime. As a child, another thought, concerning my grandfather, When the old railroader took us to the now demolished roundhouse, Climbing into the cab of one of the huge Malleys And watching the turntable redirecting one of these huge work horses. The last truly dynamic instance of whistles was in New Mexico. I was in plateau land near Mountainair And far below the astoundingly long trains, Would blow long, haunting calls across the valley. This has all changed now, as I live far from a railroad. Nonetheless, the incredible mournful whistle-calls are entrenched deeply in my mind. Frank Maurer 12 October 2025 1400 Hours.