Aberdeen, South Dakota
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I found the following at http://www.workingpsychology.com/ger-folder/ger-poetry-a.html "Ordeal by M. and St. L." was a poem written by Gayle's father, James H. Rhoads, about the Minneapolis & St. Louis Railroad. It was inspired by a westward journey from Watertown to Aberdeen SD in the late 1930s (the RR line had been added in '06). I suppose the railroad stations of yesteryear were not so different from today's bus stations. Gayle typed the poem from memory in February 1997. He indicated several missing lines. Gayle's brother Don sent me the published poem and I amended Gayle's recollection with the lines in brackets. Ordeal By M. and St. L. by James H. Rhoads as recalled by his son, Gayle E. Rhoads. There are many modes of travel in this scientific age, You may take a trip by airplane if you earn a handsome wage. [If time is not a factor, and you choose to go awheel You may ride a speedy diesel in a coach of stainless steel.] If your revenue is smaller, and you have to live on less, You can make a pleasant journey by The Mail or Fast Express. [Now, if you're independent and your budget's up to par There's no better means of travel than a swanky streamlined car.] But there is another method, list' ye moderns, while I tell, Of some ninety miles I covered on the quaint old M St. L. I had risen rather early, my appointment couldn't wait. I called the station agent. He said the train was late. Then with stolid resignation, a light breakfast I did eat, And I loitered as I sauntered down the walk with heavy feet. ['Twas with more or less reluctance that I climbed abord the hack] It was just an old red way-car standing mutely by the track, But I knew that once she started, she would creak and groan and roll. Then I cast my gaze about me. There was not another soul Had the courage or the folly to start out on such a trip Save the bug-faced old conductor, with his squatty little grip. First he pulled his red bandana, and he gave his nose a swipe, Then he dumped some fresh Bull Durham in his putrid corn-cob pipe, And as the smoke arising made a halo 'round his head, I wished I hadn't started, but had stayed at home instead. When he hopped off the rear platform, gave the highball to the cab, They must have pulled the throttle 'cause the brakes began to grab. The wreck began to shudder, up and down and to and fro, As if she couldn't quite decide which way she ought to go. Then suddenly she made a lunge, as if to take the air, I almost didn't find myself still sitting in my chair. If a table hadn't stopped me, I'd have landed on the floor. If she'd jerked a second time, I'd have been out the back door. [It's a mighty queer sensation when your chair begins to dance, And you know if it continues you'll be busting out your pants. So to minimize vibration and to check the wear and tear, I locked my legs securely 'round a steel pole anchored there. But soon I had to loose my hold--it wasn't any joke-- You see I had to close the stove--it, too, began to smoke. The noxious gasses I inhaled; for oxygen I gasped. With eyes aflame and throat athirst, my handkerchief I grasped. No water there to quench my thirst, no soap to loose the dirt! No towel to wipe my hands, except a piece of Aunt Dade's skirt!] A feather duster lies quite near, motheaten, gray, and patched, I'm told the birds who bore those plumes, were in the 6[0]'s hatched. [And can it be these wheels that squeak beneath this old caboose Were rolling o'er these praries wild before the slaves were loose?] These many holes weren't made by nails, they're bullet holes instead, Inflicted by some redskins gun, in vengeance for his dead. [What stories might this old bench tell upon which now I sit-- Of hoary travelers long ago who coughed and chewed and spit!] The dirt upon the walls is thick, still thicker on the floor, They say the boy who cleaned it last, died in the Civil War. [And in the air hangs aged smoke exhaled from Granddad's lungs;] And on the floor lie horse shoe quids, expelled by ancient tongues Old wads of gum, well decomposed, beneath these benches stuck, Remembrances of yesterdays when gold was brave man's luck. Here microbes live in luxury, and germs play fast and loose, And eat their fill each livelong day, of stale tobacco juice. [Here dwell small creatures tame and wild, a rendezvous for mice; A habitat for roaches sleek, for bugs and slugs and lice! O, what is wrong with all my thoughts? My mind begins to reel! A sickening sensation in my abdomen I feel!] My breakfast! It is coming up! Or can I keep it down? Oh when will this old loathsome crate blow whistle for my town? [My nausea is growing worse! When will this old hearse stop? Why don't the owners give this junk to some old curio shop? Ah, joy unbounded! Can it be?] my station is in view! A breath of air! I'm rallying, my journey's nearly through. [You talk about your prisons and the concentration camps,] And all the other methods for detaining thugs and scamps, But methinks that when the devil, plans to take his gang to hell, He'll ask to sign a charter for the miserable St. L. |
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