(Any ideas where I can publish this story?
Memories of riding the Great Northern Skidoo
By Skidoo Kid
Tires and gasoline became rationed during WWII and the local Great Northern train affectionately called the “Skidoo” was a convenient and inexpensive way of travel, especially for my family who lived within walking distance of the railroad track in northeastern Montana.
At age12 my sister became too old to ride the train for half fare, so being three years younger I stepped into her job of going eleven miles from Coburg to Dodson for the mail or any grocery item that my parents might need.
After walking northwest about a mile from our farm home on Milk River I stood on the wooden platform of the Great Northern Railway depot at the nearly deserted town of Coburg. Looking south I saw the Widow Gamble’s house and big barn, on the northwest the Kubitzas’ home, and on the hill to the northeast the imposing three-story school building. The school, built when residents had high hopes of the town growing, stood unfinished except for one classroom where children of two or three families in grades one to eight were taught. There were never more than seven pupils during the four years I attended. The teacher camped in the same room, partitioned off by a piano piled high with boxes to give a little privacy. Since many of the boxes were Hershey candy boxes we imagined all that candy nearby though we never saw any.
Closer to the railroad tracks the deserted store building and cement vault marking the remainder of what was once the Coburg Bank stood testimony to the unfulfilled optimism of the city fathers before the Great Depression hit and the highway to Glacier Park had been routed through the Fort Belknap Indian reservation for economic reasons, bypassing the towns between Dodson and Harlem.
On this day when I was 9 years old I knelt on the railroad track and put my ear to the rail. The distant sound of the steam locomotive echoed down the track. When I saw the engine emerge from around the bend to the west I stood in the middle of the track, waving my arms up and down until the “toot, toot” assured me that I had been seen.
As the steam locomotive pulling two cars came to a grinding stop, the conductor, stepped down and placed a stool for me. As I stepped up he gave his usual greeting, “How in the world are you?” and helped me into the train car. Holding out his hand he took my eleven cents... a penny a mile…and I was on my way to Dodson..
Getting off at the Dodson depot only minutes later, I crossed the railroad track and went south a block to the post office for the mail. I had two hours to make my purchases and even window shop at each of the three grocery and general merchandise stores in town before buying my homeward bound ticket from Mrs. Swatek, the depot agent. Getting aboard I asked the conductor to let me off at the crossing west of the Coburg depot so I could walk across our alfalfa field to our farm home…and save a little walking time. He contacted the engineer and they obligingly stopped.
On one of those memorable trips I forgot my purse inside the deserted depot. Upon telling the conductor, he responded in fun, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to throw you off the train then!” I didn’t see any humor in it and tears came to my eyes as I thought of the consequences of my forgetfulness. Seeing my distress he smiled and said he guessed they’d let me ride anyway, but not to let it happen again!
Having no money with me to purchase the few items of groceries was no problem because my parents had a charge account at McLeod’s Market. But two hours later when I entered the Dodson depot where ordinarily I would buy my return ticket, I had to tell the depot agent what had happened. She told the conductor on the westbound Skidoo and they let me on the train, but this time I couldn’t be let off at the crossing. Instead I detrained at the Coburg depot. While the train waited the conductor accompanied me into the deserted depot as I retrieved my little red purse--just where I had left it…and dug out 22 cents for the round trip.
I kept track of when the different conductors would be on duty because one would “forget” to take my 11 cents. I called him The Goody Conductor and was happy when a trip coincided with his being on board. On another occasion I paid my eleven cents for the trip to Dodson, but when the return trip was near I entered the depot and took a seat. Mrs. Swatek finally saw me and said, “Eva, are you going to buy a ticket?”
“No,” I answered without explanation.
“Aren’t you going to ride the train?” she asked.
“Um hmmm,” I nodded.
“Well Eva,” she said, “you need a ticket to ride the train.”
“Oh, but the Goody Conductor will be on board and he doesn’t make me pay,” I innocently reported. Needless to say, any freeloading came to an end after that! I don’t know if the Goody Conductor got in trouble or not.
Memories of those days 65 years ago remain fresh in mind whenever I ride Burlington Northern’s Amtrak to Seattle over those same rails. I eagerly look through the train window as the train speeds through that almost deserted town of Dodson, then westward past the farm where I grew up. But now there is no depot, no store building, not even a sign designating Coburg, only the ramshackled Kubitza house near the tracks. And if I don’t blink as we speed through, I am fortunate to spot the cement foundation of what used to be the school on the hill. It was there I received my first four years of schooling, often playing on the alkali hills that I named “Cloudland.”
Can you imagine an Amtrak train stopping long enough for a little girl to go into a depot to get her fare of a penny a mile! How times have changed! But memories are sweet.
Memories of riding the Great Northern Skidoo
By Skidoo Kid
Tires and gasoline became rationed during WWII and the local Great Northern train affectionately called the “Skidoo” was a convenient and inexpensive way of travel, especially for my family who lived within walking distance of the railroad track in northeastern Montana.
At age12 my sister became too old to ride the train for half fare, so being three years younger I stepped into her job of going eleven miles from Coburg to Dodson for the mail or any grocery item that my parents might need.
After walking northwest about a mile from our farm home on Milk River I stood on the wooden platform of the Great Northern Railway depot at the nearly deserted town of Coburg. Looking south I saw the Widow Gamble’s house and big barn, on the northwest the Kubitzas’ home, and on the hill to the northeast the imposing three-story school building. The school, built when residents had high hopes of the town growing, stood unfinished except for one classroom where children of two or three families in grades one to eight were taught. There were never more than seven pupils during the four years I attended. The teacher camped in the same room, partitioned off by a piano piled high with boxes to give a little privacy. Since many of the boxes were Hershey candy boxes we imagined all that candy nearby though we never saw any.
Closer to the railroad tracks the deserted store building and cement vault marking the remainder of what was once the Coburg Bank stood testimony to the unfulfilled optimism of the city fathers before the Great Depression hit and the highway to Glacier Park had been routed through the Fort Belknap Indian reservation for economic reasons, bypassing the towns between Dodson and Harlem.
On this day when I was 9 years old I knelt on the railroad track and put my ear to the rail. The distant sound of the steam locomotive echoed down the track. When I saw the engine emerge from around the bend to the west I stood in the middle of the track, waving my arms up and down until the “toot, toot” assured me that I had been seen.
As the steam locomotive pulling two cars came to a grinding stop, the conductor, stepped down and placed a stool for me. As I stepped up he gave his usual greeting, “How in the world are you?” and helped me into the train car. Holding out his hand he took my eleven cents... a penny a mile…and I was on my way to Dodson..
Getting off at the Dodson depot only minutes later, I crossed the railroad track and went south a block to the post office for the mail. I had two hours to make my purchases and even window shop at each of the three grocery and general merchandise stores in town before buying my homeward bound ticket from Mrs. Swatek, the depot agent. Getting aboard I asked the conductor to let me off at the crossing west of the Coburg depot so I could walk across our alfalfa field to our farm home…and save a little walking time. He contacted the engineer and they obligingly stopped.
On one of those memorable trips I forgot my purse inside the deserted depot. Upon telling the conductor, he responded in fun, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to throw you off the train then!” I didn’t see any humor in it and tears came to my eyes as I thought of the consequences of my forgetfulness. Seeing my distress he smiled and said he guessed they’d let me ride anyway, but not to let it happen again!
Having no money with me to purchase the few items of groceries was no problem because my parents had a charge account at McLeod’s Market. But two hours later when I entered the Dodson depot where ordinarily I would buy my return ticket, I had to tell the depot agent what had happened. She told the conductor on the westbound Skidoo and they let me on the train, but this time I couldn’t be let off at the crossing. Instead I detrained at the Coburg depot. While the train waited the conductor accompanied me into the deserted depot as I retrieved my little red purse--just where I had left it…and dug out 22 cents for the round trip.
I kept track of when the different conductors would be on duty because one would “forget” to take my 11 cents. I called him The Goody Conductor and was happy when a trip coincided with his being on board. On another occasion I paid my eleven cents for the trip to Dodson, but when the return trip was near I entered the depot and took a seat. Mrs. Swatek finally saw me and said, “Eva, are you going to buy a ticket?”
“No,” I answered without explanation.
“Aren’t you going to ride the train?” she asked.
“Um hmmm,” I nodded.
“Well Eva,” she said, “you need a ticket to ride the train.”
“Oh, but the Goody Conductor will be on board and he doesn’t make me pay,” I innocently reported. Needless to say, any freeloading came to an end after that! I don’t know if the Goody Conductor got in trouble or not.
Memories of those days 65 years ago remain fresh in mind whenever I ride Burlington Northern’s Amtrak to Seattle over those same rails. I eagerly look through the train window as the train speeds through that almost deserted town of Dodson, then westward past the farm where I grew up. But now there is no depot, no store building, not even a sign designating Coburg, only the ramshackled Kubitza house near the tracks. And if I don’t blink as we speed through, I am fortunate to spot the cement foundation of what used to be the school on the hill. It was there I received my first four years of schooling, often playing on the alkali hills that I named “Cloudland.”
Can you imagine an Amtrak train stopping long enough for a little girl to go into a depot to get her fare of a penny a mile! How times have changed! But memories are sweet.
