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A Visit to #127

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  • Saul Kalbfeld
    My wife, son and myself visited our own #127 at the Orange Empire museum. Here is the story of my visit. I ll also have some pictures to post. A Visit to #127
    Message 1 of 4 , Apr 3 11:25 PM
    • 0 Attachment
      My wife, son and myself visited our own #127 at the Orange Empire museum. Here is the story of my visit.
      I'll also have some pictures to post.

                              A Visit to #127
           I paid a visit to our old friend #127 at the Orange Empire museum. I found her dozing,
      stuck at the back of one of the barns.
           "Who are you," she said suspiciously.
           "I'm Saul from Gloversville," I said.
           "Get me out of here," she said. " I want to go back to my old tracks and friends. Where
      am I anyway?"
           "You're in Perris, California. At a museum."
           I thought about the life 127 had led after leaving the FJ&G. It wasn't pretty. Being sent to
      Utah and being fitted with an ugly too tall trolley pole and allowed to become shabby and worn
      out. And then the final indignity, being sent somewhere to house migrant workers at a pickle
      farm.
           "Get me out of here," 127 said again. "I have no friends here."
           "That's not true. There are many people here trying to make you whole again. And
      what's more you have new paint job with the original Bamberger emblem."
           "I  didn't like those people."
           "At least you got a new home, more than a lot of your barnmates got."
           "What happened after I left the FJ&G?" she asked. "Do my friends from the barn still
      wait in front of the Trask Cigar Store on the Four Corners while a passenger dashes in to buy a
      paper?
           "It's all changed," I said. "The trolleys are all gone now, and so are the tracks."
           127 thought for a moment. " I miss the boys and girls who waved at me as I dashed to
      Schenectady. Lots of my passengers went to the GE plant, every day. GE is still there, I hope."
           "It's not like it used to be, and the boys and girls are all old folks now, those that are
      left."
           127 looked sad. "One day they said I couldn't cross the Mohawk River bridge anymore.
      And I was sent to the barn and then far away to Utah, of all places."
           The ice in the river had made the bridge piers unsafe I thought, and trolley service ended
      in Scotia because 127 couldn't cross the river and go around the park in Schenectady. I
      mentioned this to 127 and she looked angry now.
           "I wasn't my fault, I'm light, my body is all aluminum," she said.
           I hesitated for a moment and said something 127 didn't want to hear. "But you were built
      to go in only one direction."
           "I know," she said. "My sisters in Philly were built to go backwards and forwards. My
      owners didn't want to spend the extra money to make me go both ways."
           "We'll never know," I said.
           "Get me out of here," 127 said again.
           "But you have lots of friends here," I said pointing to two shiny PCC cars from Los
      Angeles.
            "They're all show and no go," 127 said. "They plodded around the city while I could
      almost fly on my way to Schenectady. And also, they're narrow gauge. What a joke".
           127 didn't realize she had a ways to go before she could almost fly again. She had a set
      of trucks that almost matched the originals. Her seats were back in place but looked pretty
      shabby.
           "You said you're from Gloversville." 127 said. "When you get back home say hello to
      my friends in the barn."
           127 had already forgotten what I said, or didn't want to face the truth. I didn't want to tell
      her what happened to the barn a few years ago. Instead I said I wanted to walk around and visit
      with the other trolleys.
           "What a bunch of creaky old fuddie duddies," she said. "They're all wood and held
      together by hunks of rusty iron, not like me, all aluminum."
           "You should all be grateful, out here in the desert, where it never snows."
           "I don't miss those New York winters," 127 said, "with ice on the wires, and snow hiding
      my tracks, and Mr. Ruggles, the rotary snow plow not quite up to the task."
           I walked away from 127 to visit the line car. "Who are you?" he said gruffly.
           "I'm a friend of 127."
           "What a hayseed," he said. "I hobnobbed with the stars of Hollywood, and without me
      none of them would have gone anywhere."
           I stopped by a snoozing old flaky orange steeplecab."What do you want?" he said.
           "I'm visiting 127."
           "That old babe, she really puts on airs, being better than the rest of us," the steeple cab
      said. "But back then we did the real work, moving freight cars all over."
           "If you say so," I said walking away.
           The PCC cars looked at me with disdain, like they knew I would never be one of their
      passengers who were all stars or movie producers, dressed up and very proper, waiting for a ride
      to the studio entrances for very important meetings.
           I wandered back to 127 stuck at the back of the barn. "You're back," she said. "Had
      enough of those high class Hollywood types."
           I said that their passengers were important too, in entertainment and film.
           "Oh yeah, my passengers made things that were really important, gloves and all sorts of
      leather things in Gloversville and Johnstown, carpets in Amsterdam, and in Schenectady they
      made machines, big ones."
           "I hope I can be one of your passengers some day," I said enthusiastically.
           "Yeah, sure," she said. "We'll go all of a mile in a circle," she sulked.
           I said that I had to get back to my winter place in Glendale.
           "I thought you said you were from Gloversville," 127 said.
           "My real home now is in Michigan," I responded.
           "How can I believe anything you say," 127 said. "Say what year is it anyway? No one
      tells me anything."
           "It's 2012."
           "Wow, a lot of time has passed. I'll bet the new FJ&G trolleys are pretty fancy."
           "They were all replaced by buses and now they're gone too."
           "Buses, ugh, good riddance. How do people get to Schenectady?"
           "They drive automobiles."
           "I hate them, always getting in my way. Once in a while I had to teach them a lesson. See
      the dents on my front."
           "Your dents have all been fixed by your friends in the car shop."
           "Big deal," 127 said. "Without my pole, I'm not going anywhere. Hey what happened to
      those freight train types across town?"
           "They're gone too."
           "Good riddance again, what a low life stinky smelly bunch." 127 dozed off again.
           I gently patted her headlight and said I'd come back.
           "Come back soon," she said quietly.

                                             

      --
      Saul B. Kalbfeld
      Detroit Motion Picture @ Stage Employees Local 38 IATSE
      SMPTE Life Member



    • Gordon Davis
      Another Reverend Audry of Thomas the Tank Engine fame. Very nicely done, how about an illustrated book? Gordon D. ... From: Saul Kalbfeld To: FJGRailroad
      Message 2 of 4 , Apr 4 5:51 AM
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        Another Reverend Audry of Thomas the Tank Engine fame.
        Very nicely done, how about an illustrated book? 
        Gordon D.
        ----- Original Message -----
        Sent: Wednesday, April 04, 2012 2:25 AM
        Subject: [FJGRailroad] A Visit to #127

         

        My wife, son and myself visited our own #127 at the Orange Empire museum. Here is the story of my visit.
        I'll also have some pictures to post.

                                A Visit to #127
             I paid a visit to our old friend #127 at the Orange Empire museum. I found her dozing,
        stuck at the back of one of the barns.
             "Who are you," she said suspiciously.
             "I'm Saul from Gloversville," I said.
             "Get me out of here," she said. " I want to go back to my old tracks and friends. Where
        am I anyway?"
             "You're in Perris, California. At a museum."
             I thought about the life 127 had led after leaving the FJ&G. It wasn't pretty. Being sent to
        Utah and being fitted with an ugly too tall trolley pole and allowed to become shabby and worn
        out. And then the final indignity, being sent somewhere to house migrant workers at a pickle
        farm.
             "Get me out of here," 127 said again. "I have no friends here."
             "That's not true. There are many people here trying to make you whole again. And
        what's more you have new paint job with the original Bamberger emblem."
             "I  didn't like those people."
             "At least you got a new home, more than a lot of your barnmates got."
             "What happened after I left the FJ&G?" she asked. "Do my friends from the barn still
        wait in front of the Trask Cigar Store on the Four Corners while a passenger dashes in to buy a
        paper?
             "It's all changed," I said. "The trolleys are all gone now, and so are the tracks."
             127 thought for a moment. " I miss the boys and girls who waved at me as I dashed to
        Schenectady. Lots of my passengers went to the GE plant, every day. GE is still there, I hope."
             "It's not like it used to be, and the boys and girls are all old folks now, those that are
        left."
             127 looked sad. "One day they said I couldn't cross the Mohawk River bridge anymore.
        And I was sent to the barn and then far away to Utah, of all places."
             The ice in the river had made the bridge piers unsafe I thought, and trolley service ended
        in Scotia because 127 couldn't cross the river and go around the park in Schenectady. I
        mentioned this to 127 and she looked angry now.
             "I wasn't my fault, I'm light, my body is all aluminum," she said.
             I hesitated for a moment and said something 127 didn't want to hear. "But you were built
        to go in only one direction."
             "I know," she said. "My sisters in Philly were built to go backwards and forwards. My
        owners didn't want to spend the extra money to make me go both ways."
             "We'll never know," I said.
             "Get me out of here," 127 said again.
             "But you have lots of friends here," I said pointing to two shiny PCC cars from Los
        Angeles.
              "They're all show and no go," 127 said. "They plodded around the city while I could
        almost fly on my way to Schenectady. And also, they're narrow gauge. What a joke".
             127 didn't realize she had a ways to go before she could almost fly again. She had a set
        of trucks that almost matched the originals. Her seats were back in place but looked pretty
        shabby.
             "You said you're from Gloversville." 127 said. "When you get back home say hello to
        my friends in the barn."
             127 had already forgotten what I said, or didn't want to face the truth. I didn't want to tell
        her what happened to the barn a few years ago. Instead I said I wanted to walk around and visit
        with the other trolleys.
             "What a bunch of creaky old fuddie duddies," she said. "They're all wood and held
        together by hunks of rusty iron, not like me, all aluminum."
             "You should all be grateful, out here in the desert, where it never snows."
             "I don't miss those New York winters," 127 said, "with ice on the wires, and snow hiding
        my tracks, and Mr. Ruggles, the rotary snow plow not quite up to the task."
             I walked away from 127 to visit the line car. "Who are you?" he said gruffly.
             "I'm a friend of 127."
             "What a hayseed," he said. "I hobnobbed with the stars of Hollywood, and without me
        none of them would have gone anywhere."
             I stopped by a snoozing old flaky orange steeplecab."What do you want?" he said.
             "I'm visiting 127."
             "That old babe, she really puts on airs, being better than the rest of us," the steeple cab
        said. "But back then we did the real work, moving freight cars all over."
             "If you say so," I said walking away.
             The PCC cars looked at me with disdain, like they knew I would never be one of their
        passengers who were all stars or movie producers, dressed up and very proper, waiting for a ride
        to the studio entrances for very important meetings.
             I wandered back to 127 stuck at the back of the barn. "You're back," she said. "Had
        enough of those high class Hollywood types."
             I said that their passengers were important too, in entertainment and film.
             "Oh yeah, my passengers made things that were really important, gloves and all sorts of
        leather things in Gloversville and Johnstown, carpets in Amsterdam, and in Schenectady they
        made machines, big ones."
             "I hope I can be one of your passengers some day," I said enthusiastically.
             "Yeah, sure," she said. "We'll go all of a mile in a circle," she sulked.
             I said that I had to get back to my winter place in Glendale.
             "I thought you said you were from Gloversville," 127 said.
             "My real home now is in Michigan," I responded.
             "How can I believe anything you say," 127 said. "Say what year is it anyway? No one
        tells me anything."
             "It's 2012."
             "Wow, a lot of time has passed. I'll bet the new FJ&G trolleys are pretty fancy."
             "They were all replaced by buses and now they're gone too."
             "Buses, ugh, good riddance. How do people get to Schenectady?"
             "They drive automobiles."
             "I hate them, always getting in my way. Once in a while I had to teach them a lesson. See
        the dents on my front."
             "Your dents have all been fixed by your friends in the car shop."
             "Big deal," 127 said. "Without my pole, I'm not going anywhere. Hey what happened to
        those freight train types across town?"
             "They're gone too."
             "Good riddance again, what a low life stinky smelly bunch." 127 dozed off again.
             I gently patted her headlight and said I'd come back.
             "Come back soon," she said quietly.

                                               

        --
        Saul B. Kalbfeld
        Detroit Motion Picture @ Stage Employees Local 38 IATSE
        SMPTE Life Member



      • Paul Larner
        Saul, What a fine bit of creativity. As I read the naration, the #127 characterization reminded me of the entitled (male) kid in the movie Polar Express.
        Message 3 of 4 , Apr 4 10:45 AM
        • 0 Attachment
          Saul,  
           
          What a fine bit of creativity.  
           
          As I read the naration, the #127 characterization reminded me of the "entitled" (male) kid in the movie Polar Express.  Unfortunately with her attitude, #127's "current" friends will not be those around her, but consist only of us who share her inner identity as a thing of beauty and elegance, however we never got to "know" her. 
           
          I conceive a kinder, wiser anthropomorphism, grateful for her rescue, preservation and restoration.  One who shares in a common hope for a future with those around her, yet admitting to the indignity which they had all been subjected following their golden years.  Blame it on my social upbringing and liberal education. 
           
          What is the #29 thinking as it rests in triage behind the Montgomery county sheriff's department?  Great style, have we not often wondered what stories our collectibles could tell if only they could.
           
          Thank you,
           
          PKL 

          To: FJGRailroad@yahoogroups.com; joelgoldb@...; jonathan.kalbfeld@...; Felicia_K@...; cork@...
          From: fjgbus@...
          Date: Tue, 3 Apr 2012 23:25:44 -0700
          Subject: [FJGRailroad] A Visit to #127

           
          My wife, son and myself visited our own #127 at the Orange Empire museum. Here is the story of my visit.
          I'll also have some pictures to post.

                                  A Visit to #127
               I paid a visit to our old friend #127 at the Orange Empire museum. I found her dozing,
          stuck at the back of one of the barns.
               "Who are you," she said suspiciously.
               "I'm Saul from Gloversville," I said.
               "Get me out of here," she said. " I want to go back to my old tracks and friends. Where
          am I anyway?"
               "You're in Perris, California. At a museum."
               I thought about the life 127 had led after leaving the FJ&G. It wasn't pretty. Being sent to
          Utah and being fitted with an ugly too tall trolley pole and allowed to become shabby and worn
          out. And then the final indignity, being sent somewhere to house migrant workers at a pickle
          farm.
               "Get me out of here," 127 said again. "I have no friends here."
               "That's not true. There are many people here trying to make you whole again. And
          what's more you have new paint job with the original Bamberger emblem."
               "I  didn't like those people."
               "At least you got a new home, more than a lot of your barnmates got."
               "What happened after I left the FJ&G?" she asked. "Do my friends from the barn still
          wait in front of the Trask Cigar Store on the Four Corners while a passenger dashes in to buy a
          paper?
               "It's all changed," I said. "The trolleys are all gone now, and so are the tracks."
               127 thought for a moment. " I miss the boys and girls who waved at me as I dashed to
          Schenectady. Lots of my passengers went to the GE plant, every day. GE is still there, I hope."
               "It's not like it used to be, and the boys and girls are all old folks now, those that are
          left."
               127 looked sad. "One day they said I couldn't cross the Mohawk River bridge anymore.
          And I was sent to the barn and then far away to Utah, of all places."
               The ice in the river had made the bridge piers unsafe I thought, and trolley service ended
          in Scotia because 127 couldn't cross the river and go around the park in Schenectady. I
          mentioned this to 127 and she looked angry now.
               "I wasn't my fault, I'm light, my body is all aluminum," she said.
               I hesitated for a moment and said something 127 didn't want to hear. "But you were built
          to go in only one direction."
               "I know," she said. "My sisters in Philly were built to go backwards and forwards. My
          owners didn't want to spend the extra money to make me go both ways."
               "We'll never know," I said.
               "Get me out of here," 127 said again.
               "But you have lots of friends here," I said pointing to two shiny PCC cars from Los
          Angeles.
                "They're all show and no go," 127 said. "They plodded around the city while I could
          almost fly on my way to Schenectady. And also, they're narrow gauge. What a joke".
               127 didn't realize she had a ways to go before she could almost fly again. She had a set
          of trucks that almost matched the originals. Her seats were back in place but looked pretty
          shabby.
               "You said you're from Gloversville." 127 said. "When you get back home say hello to
          my friends in the barn."
               127 had already forgotten what I said, or didn't want to face the truth. I didn't want to tell
          her what happened to the barn a few years ago. Instead I said I wanted to walk around and visit
          with the other trolleys.
               "What a bunch of creaky old fuddie duddies," she said. "They're all wood and held
          together by hunks of rusty iron, not like me, all aluminum."
               "You should all be grateful, out here in the desert, where it never snows."
               "I don't miss those New York winters," 127 said, "with ice on the wires, and snow hiding
          my tracks, and Mr. Ruggles, the rotary snow plow not quite up to the task."
               I walked away from 127 to visit the line car. "Who are you?" he said gruffly.
               "I'm a friend of 127."
               "What a hayseed," he said. "I hobnobbed with the stars of Hollywood, and without me
          none of them would have gone anywhere."
               I stopped by a snoozing old flaky orange steeplecab."What do you want?" he said.
               "I'm visiting 127."
               "That old babe, she really puts on airs, being better than the rest of us," the steeple cab
          said. "But back then we did the real work, moving freight cars all over."
               "If you say so," I said walking away.
               The PCC cars looked at me with disdain, like they knew I would never be one of their
          passengers who were all stars or movie producers, dressed up and very proper, waiting for a ride
          to the studio entrances for very important meetings.
               I wandered back to 127 stuck at the back of the barn. "You're back," she said. "Had
          enough of those high class Hollywood types."
               I said that their passengers were important too, in entertainment and film.
               "Oh yeah, my passengers made things that were really important, gloves and all sorts of
          leather things in Gloversville and Johnstown, carpets in Amsterdam, and in Schenectady they
          made machines, big ones."
               "I hope I can be one of your passengers some day," I said enthusiastically.
               "Yeah, sure," she said. "We'll go all of a mile in a circle," she sulked.
               I said that I had to get back to my winter place in Glendale.
               "I thought you said you were from Gloversville," 127 said.
               "My real home now is in Michigan," I responded.
               "How can I believe anything you say," 127 said. "Say what year is it anyway? No one
          tells me anything."
               "It's 2012."
               "Wow, a lot of time has passed. I'll bet the new FJ&G trolleys are pretty fancy."
               "They were all replaced by buses and now they're gone too."
               "Buses, ugh, good riddance. How do people get to Schenectady?"
               "They drive automobiles."
               "I hate them, always getting in my way. Once in a while I had to teach them a lesson. See
          the dents on my front."
               "Your dents have all been fixed by your friends in the car shop."
               "Big deal," 127 said. "Without my pole, I'm not going anywhere. Hey what happened to
          those freight train types across town?"
               "They're gone too."
               "Good riddance again, what a low life stinky smelly bunch." 127 dozed off again.
               I gently patted her headlight and said I'd come back.
               "Come back soon," she said quietly.

                                                 

          --
          Saul B. Kalbfeld
          Detroit Motion Picture @ Stage Employees Local 38 IATSE
          SMPTE Life Member




        • Gino's Railpage
          Thanks for the photos Saul! Glad you got to meet the 127! Gino ... -- http://fjgrr.org http://ginosrailpage.com http://ginostrolleypage.com
          Message 4 of 4 , Apr 4 5:21 PM
          • 0 Attachment
            Thanks for the photos Saul!  Glad you got to meet the 127!

            Gino

            On Wed, Apr 4, 2012 at 2:25 AM, Saul Kalbfeld <fjgbus@...> wrote:
             

            My wife, son and myself visited our own #127 at the Orange Empire museum. Here is the story of my visit.
            I'll also have some pictures to post.

                                    A Visit to #127
                 I paid a visit to our old friend #127 at the Orange Empire museum. I found her dozing,
            stuck at the back of one of the barns.
                 "Who are you," she said suspiciously.
                 "I'm Saul from Gloversville," I said.
                 "Get me out of here," she said. " I want to go back to my old tracks and friends. Where
            am I anyway?"
                 "You're in Perris, California. At a museum."
                 I thought about the life 127 had led after leaving the FJ&G. It wasn't pretty. Being sent to
            Utah and being fitted with an ugly too tall trolley pole and allowed to become shabby and worn
            out. And then the final indignity, being sent somewhere to house migrant workers at a pickle
            farm.
                 "Get me out of here," 127 said again. "I have no friends here."
                 "That's not true. There are many people here trying to make you whole again. And
            what's more you have new paint job with the original Bamberger emblem."
                 "I  didn't like those people."
                 "At least you got a new home, more than a lot of your barnmates got."
                 "What happened after I left the FJ&G?" she asked. "Do my friends from the barn still
            wait in front of the Trask Cigar Store on the Four Corners while a passenger dashes in to buy a
            paper?
                 "It's all changed," I said. "The trolleys are all gone now, and so are the tracks."
                 127 thought for a moment. " I miss the boys and girls who waved at me as I dashed to
            Schenectady. Lots of my passengers went to the GE plant, every day. GE is still there, I hope."
                 "It's not like it used to be, and the boys and girls are all old folks now, those that are
            left."
                 127 looked sad. "One day they said I couldn't cross the Mohawk River bridge anymore.
            And I was sent to the barn and then far away to Utah, of all places."
                 The ice in the river had made the bridge piers unsafe I thought, and trolley service ended
            in Scotia because 127 couldn't cross the river and go around the park in Schenectady. I
            mentioned this to 127 and she looked angry now.
                 "I wasn't my fault, I'm light, my body is all aluminum," she said.
                 I hesitated for a moment and said something 127 didn't want to hear. "But you were built
            to go in only one direction."
                 "I know," she said. "My sisters in Philly were built to go backwards and forwards. My
            owners didn't want to spend the extra money to make me go both ways."
                 "We'll never know," I said.
                 "Get me out of here," 127 said again.
                 "But you have lots of friends here," I said pointing to two shiny PCC cars from Los
            Angeles.
                  "They're all show and no go," 127 said. "They plodded around the city while I could
            almost fly on my way to Schenectady. And also, they're narrow gauge. What a joke".
                 127 didn't realize she had a ways to go before she could almost fly again. She had a set
            of trucks that almost matched the originals. Her seats were back in place but looked pretty
            shabby.
                 "You said you're from Gloversville." 127 said. "When you get back home say hello to
            my friends in the barn."
                 127 had already forgotten what I said, or didn't want to face the truth. I didn't want to tell
            her what happened to the barn a few years ago. Instead I said I wanted to walk around and visit
            with the other trolleys.
                 "What a bunch of creaky old fuddie duddies," she said. "They're all wood and held
            together by hunks of rusty iron, not like me, all aluminum."
                 "You should all be grateful, out here in the desert, where it never snows."
                 "I don't miss those New York winters," 127 said, "with ice on the wires, and snow hiding
            my tracks, and Mr. Ruggles, the rotary snow plow not quite up to the task."
                 I walked away from 127 to visit the line car. "Who are you?" he said gruffly.
                 "I'm a friend of 127."
                 "What a hayseed," he said. "I hobnobbed with the stars of Hollywood, and without me
            none of them would have gone anywhere."
                 I stopped by a snoozing old flaky orange steeplecab."What do you want?" he said.
                 "I'm visiting 127."
                 "That old babe, she really puts on airs, being better than the rest of us," the steeple cab
            said. "But back then we did the real work, moving freight cars all over."
                 "If you say so," I said walking away.
                 The PCC cars looked at me with disdain, like they knew I would never be one of their
            passengers who were all stars or movie producers, dressed up and very proper, waiting for a ride
            to the studio entrances for very important meetings.
                 I wandered back to 127 stuck at the back of the barn. "You're back," she said. "Had
            enough of those high class Hollywood types."
                 I said that their passengers were important too, in entertainment and film.
                 "Oh yeah, my passengers made things that were really important, gloves and all sorts of
            leather things in Gloversville and Johnstown, carpets in Amsterdam, and in Schenectady they
            made machines, big ones."
                 "I hope I can be one of your passengers some day," I said enthusiastically.
                 "Yeah, sure," she said. "We'll go all of a mile in a circle," she sulked.
                 I said that I had to get back to my winter place in Glendale.
                 "I thought you said you were from Gloversville," 127 said.
                 "My real home now is in Michigan," I responded.
                 "How can I believe anything you say," 127 said. "Say what year is it anyway? No one
            tells me anything."
                 "It's 2012."
                 "Wow, a lot of time has passed. I'll bet the new FJ&G trolleys are pretty fancy."
                 "They were all replaced by buses and now they're gone too."
                 "Buses, ugh, good riddance. How do people get to Schenectady?"
                 "They drive automobiles."
                 "I hate them, always getting in my way. Once in a while I had to teach them a lesson. See
            the dents on my front."
                 "Your dents have all been fixed by your friends in the car shop."
                 "Big deal," 127 said. "Without my pole, I'm not going anywhere. Hey what happened to
            those freight train types across town?"
                 "They're gone too."
                 "Good riddance again, what a low life stinky smelly bunch." 127 dozed off again.
                 I gently patted her headlight and said I'd come back.
                 "Come back soon," she said quietly.

                                                   

            --
            Saul B. Kalbfeld
            Detroit Motion Picture @ Stage Employees Local 38 IATSE
            SMPTE Life Member






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