I have been an ardent lover of railroads since I was a kid in knee pants, although I am not sure that I ever was in knee pants, whatever they are. Of course, then railroads were powered by steam and made an ear-splitting racket and gave off rich viscous, noxious fumes that cloud the brain, fog the vision and raise the spirits of those who encounter it. I think that it was the sound and smell of these engines that endeared them to me. Whatever the reasons I loved them and still do.

So great was my enthusiasm that, according to my mother, I skipped kindergarten one morning to visit my friend’s home in order to look at his mew set of trains. I must admit that I have no recollection of this wonderful event but I will take her word for it if, indeed, I did miss my kindergarten class on that occasion, it must have been the day when that teacher taught us how to draw and color. I never have learned how to do either. And, of course, I have no idea what else I missed that day. Maybe, that was the day they taught us to be smart.

At some point in my childhood our family had purchased a set of Lionel trains. These were brought out and set up only during the Christmas holidays and taken down a few days after Christmas. Needless to say, I, along with my brother and two sisters were delighted, with my delight being the most intense, although if you asked any of my siblings, they might tell you a different story. If they do, don’t believe them.

I would chuckle madly upon hearing a steam whistle and listening to a chugging engine puling a long freight up an incline. Its wheels would slip and the engineer would release sand onto the tracks frantically. It didn’t help but they would do it anyway. At night I would dream about trains although as I got older my dreams would be about less innocent things. However, in spit of my wicked but stimulating dreams, I continue to love railroads into my maturing years. I know you would be more interested in my enticing dreams than you are in my railroad adventures, but I am going to lave that topic and get back to railroads.

During my college years, I met a young man who became one of my best friends and who was a real railroad nut. These were the days when there were still trains powered by steam and soft coal. The engines were beautiful masterpieces of power and simplicity. For the most part they consisted of a huge tank of water on wheels. Their driving mechanism was a pair of great pistons that powered a pair of drive shafts connected to several drive wheels. The water in the tanks was heated until it turned to steam under enormous pressure to escape from its confined quarters. Its only avenue of escape was through the aforementioned drive pistons. And the only hidden part was the boiling water itself. The driving apparatus was all located on the outside of the engine in full view of the admiring public. And the admiring public included us.

Among the places that supported a diminishing supply of steam engines in those days were the yards near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Often, on weekends, we would drive to enjoy watching the trains crossing the Susquehanna River Bridge that connected Harrisburg to its servicing rail-yards. The rail yards were cast, cluttered with trains and busy with activity. Here the loaded and empty boxcars were sorted and attached to locomotives that will take them to their destinations or their original homes. One of these empty cars will be our transportation to its next stop, wherever that may be. If we are lucky and are not caught we will go even farther. We hopped onboard with a modest supply of beer and sat in comfort for a ride to wherever the train took us and however long it took us to get there. We weren’t really hobos of course but liked to think of ourselves as such. When we got caught, which we usually did, we tried to convince the railroad men that we were really “men of the road,” but they never believed us. They were always good-natured about our venture and wished us well on our return. They never gave us a lecture.

Even through we never had an exact destination in mind, we considered getting anywhere that was different from our starting place to be a success. In this we were always successful. After a while, our “fropping” (meaning “freight hopping”) became known to out associates on campus and some of our friends began to accompany us. It was not long before they began to organize such adventures among their own friends and several local freight trains began to be populated with students who were seeking adventures like ours. We began to take some pride in our tutoring and training skills. It’s amazing how word spreads.

As we graduated from college our fropping days sadly came to an end. We figured that it would not look good on out teaching records if we were caught stealing rides on freight cars.

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