January 14, 2003

By Monte Noelke

     During the holidays the doctor who had looked after all eight of my children asked me to come by his new clinic.  We are old friends and have ridden out many a case of fevered strep throat, high pressure wind colic and a side scope of exotic second and third grade illnesses in boys that struck only on school days and ended sharply at 3 in the afternoon.

     A sense of danger filled the stair well of his building.  Shrill juvenile cries and raspy hoarse adult voices commanded the air.  At floor level my first instinct was to dial 911 and ask for a squad of National Guardsmen.  The second consideration was to grab a wooden coat hanger off the hat rack, straighten out the hook, and back up the stairs before the pack spotted me as a straggler.

     All memories had slipped away of post-holiday epidemics in the pediatric clinics.  Forgotten at the time were the humid station wagon rides into San Angelo from the ranch, crowded into seats and resting on slippery floor boards covered in diaper bags and extra coveralls and wet cotton balls and wads of Kleenex and a big wash pan for emergencies.

     Our first child was a girl followed by seven boys.  She sat up front by her mother.  From then on, once a boy outgrew the baby basket, the pecking order for cabin room was settled by bare knuckles, scissor locks and body slams.

     However, enough did come back to remind me not to let this bunch corner me.  The size of the gang was impossible to tell.  The best counter to ever walk down an auction barn alley could have dropped 10 head in any direction unless he'd had special training doing a sweep on the ladders and gym stuff.

     The parents had such desperate cases of waiting room stupor they needed to be evacuated instead of kept on the front lines.  Small bodies rolled in and out from under the seats; mammas clutched their purses up high on their chests and the dads slumped over and nodded against near shoulders.

     By chance, the closest exit turned out to be the one to the doctor's office.  Tailored like a Brooks Brothers ad, he launched a critique on a historical novel he'd received as a Christmas gift.  Seated in the midst of an infantile rebellion, with white caps and paramedics swirling past his door, he wanted to know who knew to author of the new book.

     About that moment a lady in a white coat came in carrying seven or eight charts and scowling like the prosecutors used to do in the t.v. show of "Fool the Jury," or Deceive the Judge," or whatever those silly dramas were called.

     She must have been an actress herself to have such good lines.  "Mr. Noelke," she said, "I am always glad to see you come and cheer up the doctor, but I am even happier to see you leave."

     These modern day waiting rooms full of toys and swings incite wild behavior.  I've thought of suggesting a space be added like the St. Louis zoo has to resemble a jungle.  As rough as that crowd was, they'd fit well in treetops and on swinging vines.

January 7, 1993

By Monte Noelke

On the second run of the Southern Orient Railroad, which was formed to buy out the Santa Fe’s tracks, our work had moved within earshot of the engine’s horns and the clatter of the boxcars. Alone, on horseback, nostalgia brought back how my maternal grandfather and grandmother said they rejoiced when the first train delivered their mail and brought supplies that had been on the docks in Fort Worth nine hours before.

Also of grand impact were the cattle markets, the far away summer pasturage for lanky Texas steers in the bluegrass part of Kansas, and the change in the drayage of wool to the Gulf Coast. Not to be left out in the change was the passenger service carrying kids to college in the East and brining grandmas back west who’d grown to feeble to ride the hacks and stage coaches.

Railroading today resembles that of other times about as much as present day interstate truck stops are like the genteel atmospheres of the hotel lobbies and busy Dobbs Houses of those days. Big booms in sulfur markets, or complex contracts to move oil, or unexpected freight to or from Mexico determine the fate of the new Southern Orient line.

Every time I cross the tracks going to the ranch, I stop, hoping to hear the train coming. Weeks ago, a freight came by made up of a green-and-black rusty engine and five tank cars all bearing a chipped sign, "The Burlington Northern Railroad Company."

It didn’t take long for the assemblage to pass, due to the short length of the train. But speed-wise, has our famous train robber Black Tom Ketchum still been around, he’d probably have offered them his horse to go ahead to flag the crossings at Barnhart and Big Lake.

No doubt the train was authentic. Over on the downwind side of ht tracks a locked wheel brake showered a barrage of sparks as sure to set fire to the grown-up right-of-ways as lightning strikes are connected to thunderstorms.

If the train had stopped at our crossing I could have told the engineer he was too late to scare this outfit. In 1956 a coal car derailed 40 feet from the southeast corner of the horse trap at the old Ranch. Fifty tons of coal poured out on the ground and over the fence.

On the day in March when the Atcheson Topeka and Santa Fe Company reserves to set fire to all their mountains of spilled coal, I fell down on my knees in front of a section foreman and offered to pledge one pint of blood a week in his account in San Angelo for the rest of my days.

The plea reached such dramatic heights his tears soaked he red bandanna. We were standing on the tracks, braced against a roaring west wind, overlooking the coal dump. He had within his power to keep coal soot floating into our headquarters for 50 years and create a fire hazard that would last twice that long. Wailing like an Irish actor, I told the foreman that everyone of my little ole kids would grow up with black lung disease from coal smoke.

Fate or luck or high drama saved the day. Months later a gang unloaded a crane and swept the right-of-way clear down to the last chunk of coal.

Hopes are high that the small new railroad can survive and keep the route open to the Pacific Coast of Mexico. It’s lucky the Southern Orient hasn’t read how much land the state gave to the oldtime railroads, or they’d be up to tricks a lot worse than starting grass fires.