Flag Shed
As with most Midwestern towns, train tracks ran through my hometown of Wheaton, Illinois. They belonged to a small interurban and the mighty Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. Until 1957 the CNW still ran a few steam trains to and from Chicago.
We were strictly forbidden to go anywhere near those tracks, but the pull was irresistible. Just the smell of the creosoted railroad ties was alluring, but there were also treasures such as whiskey flasks, the played out ends of Swisher Sweet cigars, and half-burnt railway flares—all worldly, forbidden stuff. When the pinging of the rails signaled an oncoming train, we’d jump into bushes along the right of way and revel in the blast of noise and heat as thousands of tons of steel tore past.
I loved anything to do with trains and thought the flagmen who lowered crossing gates near the College Avenue station had the best job in the world. Not only did he get to stand just a few feet from trains roaring through town, he had his own little house, the flag shed. In winter, the shed looked the very heart of coziness with its own potbellied stove, a chair, and calendars on the wall. Coming home from church on a Sunday night, we often met this scene. It’s hard to believe that a human being would be employed fulltime for such a job, but like so many things it likely took awhile for a mechanical alternative to be invented, even longer for it to be trusted. The flagman never looked as happy as I thought he should. I suppose his job was actually pretty miserable, a combination of mind-numbing tedium and crushing responsibility.