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Railroad fiction
ModelStory: Attitude Adjustment
"That was the last day I took pride in my job," Russ Herefeldt says, setting down his coffee. "After that it was just punching a clock."
A bold disclosure to make to the guy who runs the railroad, but the burly man with the salt-and-pepper beard sits across from me and folds his arms, unapologetic.
I'll miss that.
He's retiring after 43 years, and our little breakfast together is a standard parting gift.
("Gift heck," he snorts. "I earned it.")
Russ started with The Five Lakes Railway in 1970, 23 years old and unsure what to do with his bachelor's of fine arts. He started washing rolling stock, learned to weld and torch, and worked his way up to retire as foreman of the Milwaukee car shop.
The day he lost pride in his job was in 2001.
See, Russ is an artist by calling and a repairer of railcars by necessity. He's produced a respectable body of work in oils and plans to split retirement between family and canvas.
Not that he didn't love his job. Russ is the kind of guy who sees the art in a job well done, and can look at something as utilitarian as a boxcar and appreciate it as a thing of beauty.
So it was a big deal for him when, in 2000, management asked him to sit on a committee designing the look of the 80200 series boxcars.
It merged his work with his passion, and should have defined his career.
He worked with the advertising department, produced sketches and life-sized mockups, and even rode the company jet to a meeting with a consultant in Los Angeles. He felt valued and excited to be part of something visible and important for the company.
The pinnacle, he says, was the day the committee presented their recommendation to the board. He wore his only suit and sat in the large, cherry-paneled boardroom.
"We brought beautiful mockups of our design," he recalls as we leave the restaurant and amble across the yard toward the shop. "It was simple and I think elegant, and after all the meeting and consulting and revisions, looked a lot like my initial vision. It was very satisfying."
The design – his design – started with a color he mixed up called "Inland Sea." To the left of the door was the railroad name and tagline, and to the right a blue silhouette of the Great Lakes. A patch of Four Corners blue on the end was a nod to the cooperative arrangement the two roads shared at the time.
"…After all the meeting and consulting and revisions, it looked a lot like my initial vision. It was very satisfying."
Russ even did two paintings to show the board: a portrait of a single unit, and a landscape showing a railyard with rows and rows of Inland Sea equipment.
He says he almost teared up when they approved the project. It meant his color and his design would become the face of the railroad, seen nationwide.
It was a heady day for a kid who started out washing freight cars.
Now Russ stands by one of his boxcars and shakes his woolly head.
"Four," he says, holding up calloused fingers. "We managed to get four of them through the shop before they pulled the plug."
In the shaky times after 9/11, the Four Corners and the Five Lakes decided to solidify their cooperative relationship. Russ admits the merger was the right thing – people kept good jobs, the health insurance was cheaper – but his vision of rows and rows of Inland Sea freight cars was not to be.
"After only the fourth car, they told me to just make them legal," he laments. "Get reporting marks and data on them and move them out. We had a couple dozen cars in primer, waiting for paint and lettering."
Coupled to the gorgeous Inland Sea car is another from the 80200 series, it's drab, mud-colored primer decorated only by those reporting marks and data.
But right of the door, dingy from a decade in the sun, is a silhouette of the Great Lakes.
"In forty-three years, that was my one act of insubordination."
"In forty-three years, that was my one act of insubordination," Russ smirks. "We used up the vinyl graphics we had in the shop. My last thumb in the eye of change."
There are a half-dozen boxcars still out there with Russ' unauthorized artwork on them. He hates seeing them – says they remind him of his powerlessness, of being just another cog in the machine.
Russ always wanted to be recognized as an artist, and that recognition may not be far off. He has some leads on galleries willing to show his paintings. There's talk of some commission work.
But he won't let himself get excited.
"I've heard things like that before," he says.
Posted in ModelStories	| Tagged Model railroad people, Model Railroading, model railroading projects, n-scale rolling stock, Painting rolling stock, Populating a model railroad, Railroad, Railroad Color Schemes, Railroad fiction, railroad history, retirement, work, Working on the railroad | 1 Comment
October 28, 2013 by fcflrailway
ModelStory: The Cell – A True Story
"This building is alive," says Tully. "It talks to you, and it doesn't say nice things."
He was speaking of the imposing concrete structure that serves as tunnel portal and ventilation plant for the Nichols Tunnel, which pierces the canyon wall at Herbst Junction and allows the FCFL to reach Flagstaff.
The building, plus a one-room depot cum Park Ranger office and a wrinkle-tin stand where Navajo artists sell turquoise jewelery, make up the totality of architecture in the tiny junction.
Tully Luiskama is a longtime FCFL conductor and the railroad's resident storyteller and folklorist. Each year around Halloween he leads a tour of the building, touching on the technical specifications while espousing his own, less-verifiable version of its history.
This year's tour was a special treat – it seems one of Tully's trainees recently had a rough night in the place and decided to discontinue his employment. That is to say, the kid disappeared.
The building houses immense blowers that draw out diesel exhaust and flush the five-mile tunnel with clean air, making it livable for train crews and their deep-breathing locomotives. There are also big pumps that continually remove the water that collects in the tunnel. The interior is as you'd expect: Industrial gray machinery stitched in place by safety-yellow railings and catwalks. There is a machine shop, pallets of maintenance supplies on the concrete floor, and walls lined with giant tools.
The place emits constant noise: The hum of electricity, the groan of motors, the creaking of pipes, and always, always – the howl of moving air.
It is almost always deserted.
But, wedged as an afterthought in a corner of the first floor, is a windowless room with several bunks installed decades ago for overnighting train crews. The bunks are still occasionally pressed into service when crews run out of hours here, 42 miles short of the comfortable accommodations at Salvation Point.
I think the building would technically be called a "head house." Railroaders simply call it "The Cell."
Now, about the kid.
I don't know how Tully knows all of this, and it sounds pretty far-fetched to me, but he swears this is true:
Tully was the conductor aboard the Phoenix local one day last week. He knew his crew would die on the clock at Herbst Junction and pass the night in the head house. So he spent the afternoon telling his conductor trainee, Dustin, the catalogue of tall tales that have grown up around The Cell.
"Now this one I know is true," Tully said, leaning close to the kid and giving the engineer, Roy, a playful wink. "Not so long ago – late '90s – guy spends the night in The Cell. Hears all kinds of racket middle of the night – howling, clunking, whatnot."
He paused and took a bite of a sandwich, continued with his mouth full.
"So he thinks it's something going on in the ventilation shafts or whatever. Gets up and goes up on these big catwalks they have there, starts poking around, taking off grates and stuff."
Tully swallowed and shook his head in pity.
"Get's sucked in." He patted Dustin on the shoulder, laughing. "Get's no foolin' sucked into the duct! Big fans in those ducts – BIG fans. So there's meat all over. Whole tunnel was shut down for a week while they cleaned that up. Remember that Roy?"
Roy nodded. He and Tully had refined this act over their two decades sharing locomotive cabs. Roy's job was to lend credence to the tale by nodding somberly when prompted.
"So why does a sane man go leaning half his body into a giant air duct?" Tully mused, chewing another bite. "Cause that building makes people do things, son, that's why. It's dark in there, lonely, and all that machinery and wind and trains comin' through? The building is alive. It talks to you, and it doesn't say nice things."
It was one of his favorite lines, and he always paused a long time after delivering it.
"Truth is," he continued, striking an authoritative tone. "There have been exactly one dozen men who've disappeared from that building since it opened in 1934. Sucked into ventilation shafts and got the food processor treatment I don't know, but the disappearances are historical fact. I've researched it."
He had done no such thing, but he had told his stories enough that he believed many of them to be fact. Besides, spooking the kid was a small vengeance for the headache he had given Tully and Roy all day.
Rolling out from Salvation Point that morning, Dustin boasted incessantly about his exploits with booze and girls, which grew immediately tiresome. When he donned a set of ear buds, produced a pack of cigarettes and stepped out onto the front platform of the locomotive, the veteran railroaders didn't protest. He was breaking half a dozen rules, but they were thankful for the quiet and let him go.
Outside of Phoenix, they were put in the hole for nearly two hours while BNSF trains occupied the interchange. Dustin passed the time hurling ballast at birds, buildings and the locomotive.
It was early afternoon before they finally got to turning the plastics plant, which was always a mess and a puzzle, and Tully knew better than to ask the kid to help keep track of the manifest. Instead he simply told the kid to stay out of the way, which he didn't. Twice Roy was sure he'd killed him as he scampered across the tracks in front of cars the engineer was maneuvering.
When their train was finally assembled and ready to head back north, Dustin was nowhere to be found. It was Tully who came across him at last, standing in the plant office outside the reception window, showing the provocatively dressed office assistant – approximately Dustin's own age and temperament – a spider web tattooed across his skinny belly.
Tully was too angry to speak. He glared at the kid and jerked his thumb toward the door.
So on the way home they started in on the ghost stories, it being nearly Halloween and all, and were enjoying their effect. The kid's tough, defiant veneer was gone and he sat subdued, listening.
"One that gets me," Tully said, "and this one I know is true cause I've seen the marks, is the old guy back in the '50s who spent a night pickaxing away at one of the walls because he thought someone was buried in there, trying to get out."
Roy's eyes remained focused on the track ahead, but he nodded in agreement. With his hands he casually made a motion like the swinging of a pick.
"Crew showed up in the morning and found him swinging away, all bug-eyed and foaming at the mouth," Tully went on. "He refused to leave, wouldn't stop swinging that pick, so they kept on to Salvation Point and sent the sheriff back for him. By the time he got there, the old man was gone. Burrowed a hole right through that wall, left a worn-out pickaxe leaning there, and nobody ever saw him again."
Roy glanced at Dustin for a split second, then stared again out the windshield.
"You can see where they patched the hole if you know where to look." The engineer deadpanned the only line Tully ever let him say.
During the rest of the trip they recited a few more of the well-worn stories: The man who was driven insane by the noises in The Cell and wandered into the canyon and disappeared. The man who was lured into the tunnel by the ghostly, beguiling voice of a young woman, only to be struck by a train. The man who spent a night in the place and emerged like Moses from Mount Horeb, white-haired and dumb with fear.
Each story started the same: "This one is true."
"There's all the predictable theories," Tully mused, thoughtfully shifting his gaze out the window in his well-practiced way. "Ghosts of people who died building it, Indian burial ground, guys sealed alive in the wet concrete."
"What do I think?" He shrugged, looking back at Dustin. "Maybe it's just a noisy building with a darn lot of air moving through it. Plays with people's minds."
The sun was low over the canyon walls when they reached Herbst Junction. A steady breeze moved through the canyon, rustling the tall desert grass and putting an October chill in the air.
They had eleven minutes left in their federally mandated twelve-hour shift when Roy eased the nose of the train to a stop a few feet short of the rugged grade crossing. Parked on the gravel road that terminated there sat a FCFL pickup truck with a replacement crew leaning against the front fender.
"Sweet of you to come for us," said Roy, genuinely surprised. "I was figuring on a night here."
"They wouldn't do that to you," said Bruce. The replacement conductor eyed The Cell with a shiver. "You two get to deadhead home in the truck."
He turned to Dustin.
"You," he suppressed a smile. "You spend the night here, and get trained on the Flagstaff turn tomorrow. That train will be here at oh-seven-thirty to pick you up."
Roy and Tully hid their laughter as they picked up their grips and climbed into the truck.
"So, what, I'm staying here? Alone?" Dustin said.
"You can walk home if you want," said Tully, flopping into the cab next to the driver. "But the Flagstaff crew will be looking for you in the morning. They'll bring you home at night. Code for the cell door is … six … six … SIX."
Roy, Tully and their driver burst into hysterics.
"I'm only kidding," Tully managed between fits of laughter.
He scribbled the code on a pad mounted to the truck's dash and handed it to Dustin. He swung his legs into the cab, then smiled, "nighty-night."
The kid stood for several minutes, angrily watching the truck disappear. The GP40s at the head of the train grumbled, and before long the homebound Phoenix local was clickety-clacking into the growing darkness.
Dustin stood for several more minutes, surveying his surroundings. He was utterly, completely alone.
He swore and kicked at the sand.
It was quickly getting dark and cold, but Dustin was reluctant to retire to The Cell so soon. Instead he slowly approached the building, stopping about five yards away, and paced an arc in front of it, eyeing it from several angles.
"The building is alive." Tully's words echoed in his mind. "It talks to you, and it doesn't say nice things."
It did seem alive. It bellowed and whined and snorted, all noises with a mechanical explanation, but they seemed to grow in intensity with his presence. He felt it – while he studied the building, it studied him.
"Ridiculous," he told himself.
Still, he couldn't summon the courage to go inside.
He wandered up the tracks a quarter mile to where the mainline crossed the river. He watched the black water for a long time and saw a few die-hard kayakers pass, their headlamp beams dancing in the darkness. He sat on the bridge abutment and listened to the night – insects and birds, a frog croaking somewhere on the bank below. It would have been a restful scene, but the head house was over his shoulder, and he still felt like it was watching him.
As he scanned the canyon wall, he noticed distant campfires begin to flicker in the night. Backpackers on the backcountry trails, eating warm suppers, sharing ghost stories and cold beer.
"Stories," he shook his head. "Dang Tully and his stories."
More stories he didn't need. But a fire? Fire was friendly and warm and might be pretty good company right now.
He gathered plenty of dry grass and found a few small sticks, which he piled into a campfire twenty or thirty feet from the head house in a depression in the sand. He pulled out his trusty Zippo lighter, ignited its three-inch flame, then bent to touch it to the grass.
Whoosh.
A sudden gust of wind blew the flame out.
He swore.
He stood, perplexed, feeling the air to be sure it was still. He struck the lighter again and reached toward the unlit fire.
Twice more he attempted to light his little fire, and twice more sudden, short gusts extinguished his flame. They came up as soon as his lighter was close enough to catch the grass, then died as soon as the lighter failed.
He looked up at the building. It groaned.
This building is blowing out my fire.
He pushed the thought from his mind. It was impossible. It was just a building.
"Just a noisy building with a darn lot of air moving through it." Wasn't that what Tully had said?
He was a rookie and the old heads liked to tell the rookies scary stories. Maybe they even arranged it so he would spend the night here alone. They were initiating him. Tomorrow they would give him heck about his little sleepover and that would be it. The harassment would be unbearable if he freaked out – that was what they wanted.
With that thought, a spark of courage warmed his belly, enough for him to walk straight to the personnel door at the base of the concrete monolith. The door was secured by a lockset with a mechanical keycode – the kind with five metal buttons that have to be pressed in order, sometimes two at a time. He keyed in the code Tully had given him, wrenched on the knob, and the door swung open.
He was nearly blinded by the intense, flourescent lights that clicked on, triggered by his motion.
The giant mechanical room was immaculate, with neatly kept machines, bright yellow stairways and catwalks, and a polished concrete floor. The noise was considerable, but Dustin was pleased to not find the black, damp, pulsating heart he had anticipated.
Relief washed over him as he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. This wouldn't be so bad, he decided.
Yellow stripes marked a walkway across the concrete floor, and a laminated sign taped to the wall pointed the way to "road crew accommodations."
He followed.
When he reached the bunk room, he located the industrial light switch, flipped it on, and a half dozen flourescent fixtures buzzed to life.
In the bunk room were six sets of steel bunk beds. At the foot of each mattress was a neatly folded blanket, and atop each blanket a pillow in a powder blue case. The bedding was in good repair and reasonably clean – better than the moldy, rodent-nibbled linens he had expected to find.
On one end of the room was a clean stainless steel toilet and shower, shielded by a blue vinyl curtain. Opposite the bunks was a small writing desk and steel chair. On the desk were two battery-powered lanterns.
He walked into the room, and the heavy steel door swung shut behind him. It slammed with a metallic clang, threatening the brief sense of security he had enjoyed.
Picking up one of the lanterns, he located the bunk in the farthest corner, where he could put his back to the wall and see the entire room. He switched on the lantern, doused the overhead light, and moved over to it.
He dropped his duffel on the lower bunk, untied his boots and kicked them off, then stripped to his shorts. Lantern still glowing in his hand, he swung himself into the upper bunk. He arranged the bedding, rested his head on the pillow, spread the blanket over himself, and lay very still. He held the small lantern in his hands for a long time and then, reluctantly, switched it off.
The darkness that surrounded him was more complete than any he had ever experienced. Through it, the building's noises arose in layers: air moving through huge ductwork, the low vibration of flowing electricity, the howl of straining motors, the muffled splash of water.
He lay in the dark, focusing on the individual noises, giving them names and explanations: Air compressor. Water pump. Loose pipe. Wind. Wind. Wind.
And then clink, clink, clink.
A pickaxe striking concrete.
Clink – breath, clink – breath, clink-clink-clink.
Someone swinging a pickaxe desperately fast.
He fumbled with the lantern, clicked it on, and shone it around the room.
No one. He scanned the walls with the lantern.
His heart skipped.
The orb of light revealed a rough circle in the concrete wall, about eighteen inches wide and three feet from the floor. The wall was worn light gray, the circle slightly darker and smoother.
The patch.
"Okay," he told himself. "This building's been here a long time, there must have been dozens of changes. A patched hole in the wall isn't remarkable at all."
He didn't believe that, and had to spend a long time looking anywhere but at the patch before he was calm enough to attempt sleep again.
Finally he switched the lantern off. The noise did not return, and in time he drifted off to sleep.
Dustin was awakened some time later by the sense of a presence at his back. He realized he was lying on his side, precariously close to the outside edge of the bunk. He also became aware that his head was pounding. It felt like electricity moving through his brain in waves, accompanied by an intense buzzing. The building's noises were more oppressive than ever. It felt like the constant din was crushing his head. He pressed his fingers to his temples and squinted against the pain, orange bursts appearing before his eyes.
Then the bursts began to take form. Despite the total darkness, he could see, very faintly, as though moonlight was coming through a window. He could make out the silhouettes of the bunks, the small table, his hands. But The Cell, he remembered, had no windows.
The fuzzy orange glow continued to solidify until Dustin made out that each bunk held a slumbering, snoring, faintly shimmering form. He choked back a scream, his eyes wide. The forms were snuggled under the blue blankets that had been folded at the foot of each bed, their ghostly heads resting on the pillows, each emitting a faint orange glow.
Trembling, Dustin counted them in pairs.
Tully's words came to him again:
"There have been exactly one dozen men who've disappeared from that building since it opened in 1934."
He carefully craned his neck to spy the bunk below him.
Eleven.
That meant …
He slowly turned his head, looked over his shoulder, and laid eyes on the presence in his own bunk.
When the Flagstaff local arrived at 7:30 the next morning, they found the personnel door to the head house ajar. Inside the bunk room they found eleven bunks neatly arranged, a blanket folded at the foot of each and a pillow in a blue case atop each blanket. The twelfth bunk, the farthest one on top, in the corner, was a shambles. A corner of the blanket was tucked under the mattress, and the rest hung like a curtain to the floor. The sweat-soaked pillow was pressed into the crevice between the bunk and the wall. Dustin's duffel, his boots, and his clothes were scattered on the floor.
The crew took a short look around the little junction, then the sheriff was called, and the park rangers, and the usual search ensued.
Of course it turned up nothing.
Dustin's last paycheck was sent to his mother's address. Someone cashed it.
Tully hasn't decided what to tell the newbies now. Maybe he'll tell them that backpackers still report seeing a skinny man in nothing but boxer shorts, a spider web tattoo on his belly, running wildly down the trails near Herbst Junction. Or perhaps that Dustin hid in the ventilation shafts and is in there today, waiting to be found, perhaps alive. He's also considering the more sinister notion that Dustin was swallowed by The Cell, and the noises it makes are he and the others struggling to be free.
What do I think?
Maybe it's just a noisy building with a darn lot of air moving through it.
(Scratchbuilt styrene structure.)
Posted in ModelStories	| Tagged Arizona, Ghost stories, Halloween, Model railroad scenery, Model railroad scenery details, model railroad structures, Model Railroading, model railroading projects, n-scale structures, National Park Fiction, Outdoors, Populating a model railroad, Railroad, Railroad fiction, railroad history | 4 Comments
October 4, 2013 by fcflrailway
ModelStory: Maybe We Should All Shut Down
The teenaged girl – thirteen, fourteen maybe – is good to her little brother. He's about four and has been sitting on the train for too many hours and all he wants to do is run. She thumbs the screen of her phone with her left hand, squinting to see the display against the sunshine. Her right hand is extended casually to her right side, where the brother grabs the pinky with his fist and runs across in front of her. He lets go when he gets to her left hip and while he runs behind her she absently extends the hand to her right again, where he grabs it and the cycle repeats.
A small kindness, playing this game with him while she texts or posts or tweets. Dad is looking after the bags while Mom is tying the shoe of another brother, six or seven, and Baby is starting to squirm in the holder on Mom's chest.
The platform at the Salvation Point depot is my favorite place to eat a cheese Danish and watch the people. There's trouble today, though – the Federal Government is shut down and with it Many Lost Ways National Park.
Eighteen hours on the train and I bet Mom made Dad promise:
"No electronics," she said. "We are on this trip to be together and I don't want you looking at your phone every three minutes."
He nodded, looked up from his iPad, and sheepishly shut it off.
"Work will be there when you get back you don't need to check your e-mail during our family vacation you know what the doctor said about your stress level." She said it all in one unpunctuated burst.
So he promised, and enjoyed the train ride – they got the sleeping car with the nice accommodations – and now they are here and he doesn't know yet about the shutdown.
The daughter, she knows, there was something Aunt Kate posted on Facebook about liberals or GOPs or something but at thirteen you don't connect that to your family vacation.
And here Dad comes with the bags, grim-faced. He murmurs something to Mom and her shoulders sink, arms go up in surrender.
Salvation Point is a town that supports The Park. It fills little holes of time – a movie theater for when it rains, shops and some nice restaurants, a pool at the hotel – but if The Park is closed indefinitely and you have a large number of what look like demanding children? I'm with you lady. Surrender now.
I don't have a point to make about The Affordable Care Act or right or left wings or whether the Federal Government should shut down or if it's such a bad thing if it does. "A pox on all their houses" as my Dad would say.
I look at this family and I consider everything they had to do to get here – spring the kids from school, use up a good chunk of Mom and Dad's PTO, plan and save and pack – and my heart breaks for them. I can tell by looking that they are Involved. Sports, music, dance, scouts, work, work, work. Not necessarily bad stuff, but these people clearly have forgotten how to take it easy. A week without the Things the Brochures Told Them To Do could kill them. They will have to talk to each other and ad lib and sit on the floor and play matchbox cars and maybe put a couple puzzles together.
Come to think of it, this could be the best trip of their lives. I hope they figure it out.
Posted in ModelStories	| Tagged Dad, National Park Fiction, National Parks, Outdoors, Railroad, Railroad fiction, sentimental hogwash, Vacation | Leave a comment
Welcome Back, Wherever You've Been
"First time in Salvation Point, stranger?" the shuttle driver asks, taking my bag from my hand. I wince a little inside, because now I owe the man a couple of bucks, which I'm happy to pay, but I never carry cash.
"Nope, just been gone a while," I answer, taking the seat opposite the luggage rack so I can get up and grab my bag before he does, avoiding the awkward moment when he hands it to me and I hand him nothing in return.
"What's kept you away?" he asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror and wheeling the bus out of the depot lot.
I chuckle, but don't answer. I let my head fall back against the rattling window and close my eyes.
What's kept me away? What's kept me from writing about an imaginary town on a model railroad in my basement?
Same thing that keeps me from remembering cash to tip shuttle bus drivers – an occasionally chaotic mind and a short attention span.
Mom always said I was creative, a dreamer, seeing in me things only a mother can. (She died in May and I know that kept me away a little bit.) What she saw as dreaming, I experience as mental static. Background popping and buzzing that sometimes distills itself into useful thoughts, but most often distracts me from paying the gas bill on time. I used to blame elementary school, where the torment from a couple of mean kids drove me into a survival mode where I didn't care about getting things done, just getting through – but now that sounds too victim-y for my taste. Lately I've been working on a theory that centers on a bike crash when I was in third or fourth grade. I was alone and skidded on loose gravel and fell, and I know I hit my head and I'm quite sure I lost consciousness, for how long who knows. I imagine there is a lesion somewhere deep in my brain that short-circuits every once in a while, sending an electrical storm through the whole works and instead of clicking "pay gas bill" – a simple task – I zone out and Google pictures of interiors of luxury jets. Fascinating, this notion that you can have this wonderfully appointed space – bedrooms, big TVs, bars, staircases – staircases! – 50,000 feet above our heads moving close to the speed of sound. But there I go again.
Whatever the reason, here I am – loose on the planet without the benefit of a well-ordered mind.
To some people that's a liability. One guy looks down his nose and wonders why some other guy hasn't done more – if only he would work harder, damn it. Well it's not so simple. Some of us get to be astronauts, some of us cast about inside our chaotic minds. "All men are created equal" is a dangerous lie. Engineers and surgeons do critical work and I envy them – I can't keep my head in the game long enough to accomplish anything so important. I'm not sure that's for a lack of effort. Maybe it is.
Anyway, so what? I do pretty good despite my infirmity. I support a really amazing family. I've held down continuous employment since the age of 16. I own a home, have an excellent credit rating, and generally get along with people pretty well. Except shuttle bus drivers.
So let's hear it for the dreamers, the short-attention-spanners. I work with people who sit in cubicles all day and seem perfectly content to do so. The world spins on around them – leaves fall, grass grows, birds chirp, dump trucks rumble and people create and build and make – and they're missing it! I'm thankful to have work that lets me out a lot. I get to see it, absorb it, and in that freedom I find a very productive place.
So I've been away from Salvation Point a while. I've missed it. I like it here. But I can't say for certain how long I'll stay.
Posted in Uncoupled	| Tagged Railroad fiction, sentimental hogwash | 1 Comment
April 3, 2013 by fcflrailway
For My Dad and Dads-In-Law: Have fun, fellas.
Southbound to Salvation Point, if you make it past Milepost 138 without being put in the hole, it means you sleep in your own bed tonight. How many afternoons – early mornings, black midnights – did he roll down this hill toward that sign, fingers crossed, wondering what she'd have on the stove, what homework he'd help with, what might need fixing before he set off again?
Today, no matter what the dispatcher says, he's going home.
Retirement.
People don't hold the same job – hell, people don't work in the same industry their whole career anymore. He started as a conductor on this section in 1969. He got up in the morning, or whenever they called, did what they asked him to do.
Still does.
He remembers all the wonders he wondered, all the worries he worried, rolling past MP 138. There have been answers, but he still has questions.
She married him, thank God, and stuck around.
The railroad taught him to be an engineer.
He rolled past MP 138.
They bought a house, had a couple kids.
The kids got older. Her dad died.
The railroad got new equipment. New rules.
The kids started driving. Her hair showed a little gray. So did his.
The railroad started using e-mail, onboard computers.
The kids moved out, went to college. He paid for it and was thankful he could.
The railroad became FCFL Transportation. Suits from out east started showing up.
She got cancer.
She got better.
Four grandkids. All boys.
He had a TIA – a "ministroke." They said he was OK but it scared him.
A full life, lived between shifts and during a few weeks of vacation, financed by work he liked and got to do alongside good people. Faces and names he'd learned over four decades. Some of them still around, some gone from the railroad now. Some of them just gone.
"It's just a job," he tells his kids. "Do it the best you can but don't worry too much about it."
After today, he won't worry about it at all. Maybe not as sweet as it sounds, but maybe not so bad either. He's not sure.
The signal's green.
Posted in Uncoupled	| Tagged Dad, Railroad, Railroad fiction, retirement, sentimental hogwash, Working on the railroad | Leave a comment
A Find in Lost Ways, Conclusion
"If I don't see your lazy hide in this office in fifteen minutes, you're out of a job!" LaVerne Hinks slammed the receiver onto its cradle and swore under his breath. "Rotten kids."
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers to his temples. The last forty five minutes had been a frustrating gauntlet of demands from management, crew no-shows, and equipment breakdowns. Jake and Aaron – the yard crew for the day – started the melee with back-to-back phone messages announcing illness. LaVerne was disappointed in Aaron – he showed a promising interest in the transportation business – but Jake was a lost cause. Then the regional VP requested the business car the Senator had used be prepped and routed to San Diego for a customer. Jake and Aaron would have handled that, if they weren't hungover in the back of some pickup or wherever they'd passed out.
Two locomotives wouldn't start.
A conductor twisted his ankle dismounting a cut of cars.
The dispatch computers were on the fritz.
The only coffee left was decaf.
But those were minor frustrations, stuff he dealt with every day. What put his stomach in knots today was Annie. Her rushed message said she wouldn't be available for a couple of days, she didn't know when she'd be back, and she'd call when she could. It was a major fly in the scheduling ointment, but more importantly an uncharacteristically flaky move from his most reliable engineer. He was angry, but mostly he was worried.
He leaned forward, rubbed his eyes, and swore again. Then LaVerne Hinks, Superintendent of the Four Corners Division of the FCFL rail network, rose from his chair and walked to a utility closet, retrieved a vacuum cleaner and dust rags, and made his way out to the luxury business car waiting in the yard.
The two-hour trail ride by horse from The Column to Herbst Junction was one of Mayer's favorite things about field work in Many Lost Ways. He loved the change in temperature and vegetation during the descent into the canyon, and the sound of hooves clattering on the rocky trail thrilled him.
Today he would have rather been anywhere else.
Mayer rode second in line behind Lars, and behind them a third man whose name Mayer didn't know. It didn't matter – the man never spoke, just glared straight ahead. A jagged scar started on the middle of the man's left cheek and carved a deep arc upwards until it disappeared behind mirrored sunglasses. They each rode a horse with a pack horse behind, six ponies altogether. They were dressed in casual outdoor gear, but Mayer knew that beneath the billowy Columbia shirts his companions wore, there was serious firepower.
This all looked good on paper, he thought.
"So we're going to put two boxcars worth of stuff on three horses?" he asked. He knew the plan – they would make several trips – but he wanted the men to speak.
They didn't.
"So, two trips today?" He rubbed the reigns with his thumbs. "Maybe three?"
Lars looked over his shoulder, glaring.
They rode on in silence, neither man speaking even when they entered the narrow switchbacks just above Herbst Junction. The horses tiptoed along, sometimes brushing Mayer's legs against the rock face. When the trail widened and the grade eased, they saw through the trees to the railway junction below. Lars pulled to a stop, signaling the others to do the same. For the first time in two hours, he spoke. When he spoke, he cursed.
There was the tiny hamlet of Herbst Junction: the Navajo jewelry stand, the sun-battered pickup with thick grass growing in the wheel wells, the tiny railway depot shared with the park service for a backcountry office. There was a dusty jeep, parked hastily in the employee spot.
There was the siding.
LaVerne took pride in his work, be it making the trains run on time or taking out the trash. He saw no shame in cleaning the business car, and worked at every detail with the gusto he gave to managing the railroad. It was part of his character, deep and firm, that made him a respected leader not only in the railway, but in the community. He was everyman, and he was bourgeois. Few people knew that he and Clark Willoughby were close, the Senator looking to the Superintendent for the mood of the electorate. He wasn't alone.
From his little yard office or his stool at the breakfast counter at Janibelle's, Vern Hinks quietly took meetings with everyone from the mayor of Salvation Point to the Governor of Arizona. When the park service wanted to know how a new wildlife management agenda would go over with ranchers, they'd ask Vern. When the railroad and the highway department clashed over grade crossings, it was Vern who mediated. When business leaders considered locating in Salvation Point, the Chamber of Commerce made sure they met with Vern. When Senator Willoughby sponsored a bill on locomotive emissions and fuel economy standards, it was hailed by rail industry leaders as common sense regulation and by environmentalists as effective climate protection. The Senator had Vern to thank for that.
So it pained him that Sarah Willoughby was missing, under such odd circumstances, and he could do nothing about it. Pained him, but didn't slow him. He learned long ago that worry was best extinguished by hard work, so in thirty minutes he had vacuumed the carpets and upholstery, dusted the woodwork and tabletops, washed the windows and polished the brass. He was reaching behind an overstuffed armchair to replace a wastebasket, his knee on the seat, when he noticed a scrap of paper peeking up from behind the cushion. He snatched it and was about to crumble it up, but the scrawled words made him pause.
It was on FCFL stationary, the courtesy tablets placed on the writing desks before every trip. The top line, scrawled hastily in the soft penmanship of a woman, said "statement for after."
"I am profoundly saddened and angered that the disappearance of my daughter, and the bravery and sacrifice of so many searchers, would be overshadowed, and even used for cover by vandals."
"Vandals?" LaVerne furrowed his brow and read on.
"The Column has long been a symbol of this great park, and of the beauty of the southwest. It's destruction by so ferocious an attack is an assault on our very way of life."
What in the world? Vern thought. There was more.
"Further, this act makes it plain that these wonderful resources, so remote and so vulnerable, are better cared for by commercial enterprise. Development of these lands, careful, thoughtful development, will ultimately be their best protection."
Vern reached for his hip, withdrew his cellphone, and dialed the park office at Herbst Junction.
"Herbst Junction backcountry office, this is Chip."
"Chip, Vern Hinks. How's things down there today?"
"Umm, you lookin' for Annie?"
"As a matter of fact," Vern said. "Also wondering if anything exciting happened lately. Hows that column of yours?"
"I, um, guess it's fine," Chip said. "Haven't been up there in a couple of days. Been busy with the search and all. Annie tore in here a few hours ago, she was in a real hurry. I made her buy a permit, then she practically sprinted up the trail. I couldn't stop her in time to tell her to move her Jeep. Geez Vern, is everything OK?"
"I don't know, Chip," Vern pressed his fingers to his temples again. "Write down everything you see today, OK? And be careful."
Vern sat in the big chair and read the scribbled words again. The Senator had arrived the night before last, when the early stages of the volunteer search effort were underway. It wasn't too odd that he would reference that. But what was this bit about vandalism of The Column? Destruction even? Chip would have known about something like that. He turned the page over in his fingers, puzzling. The line about commercial enterprise and development was baffling, too. Willoughby was a Republican, friendly to business, but surely he undertsood that Many Lost Ways was the biggest money maker for the people of his district. Development around the park was always part of his agenda. But in the park? It was impractical and politically toxic. Then there was that line scratched hastily across the top, "statement for after." After what?
Something was up. Vern didn't want to be involved, but too many questions were gnawing at him. He decided to pay a visit to the man who could answer them.
TJ's head pounded. He stooped by the river and cupped his hands, splashing cold water on his face and scrubbing at the lump on his forehead. His hands came away clean, which told him he wasn't bleeding anymore. He was thirsty, but didn't trust the river water for drinking. He soaked his T-shirt in the water, sat back on his heels, wrapped the cool cloth around his head and closed his eyes.
What day was it?
He remembered calling Annie. He'd known she was working and wouldn't answer her phone, so he'd waited for the beep and talked as fast as he could, wanting to tell her everything about Sarah Willoughby, secret copper mines, his location, his raft being sunk. He's not sure how much he actually got out. Everything went black, and when he came too – minutes later? hours? – his head was ringing and the Senator's daughter was gone. Had she hit him with something? Someone else? It was all a fog.
He'd decided to abandon his pursuit of Sarah Willoughby. First off, he was no longer certain she was alone. Second, his head really hurt and he wanted to try to move closer to potential help. And, he had no idea which way she had gone. So he wandered downhill until he caught sight of the river, and followed it south. He'd been walking for at least an hour, he figured, but he wasn't sure.
He rested another moment, then hefted himself to his feet and continued, unsteadily, along the river. He was dehydrated and weak. The sun beat down, high in the sky and bright white so he could barely open his eyes. He had picked up a walking stick somewhere – he didn't remember doing it – but now he used it as a crutch, picking along the rocky riverbank.
As he walked, his mind wandered back to Annie. He hadn't realized until this ordeal in the wilderness how frequently she invaded his thoughts. For weeks he'd sensed a growing fondness, maybe a crush. But limping along in the heat, his brain throbbing, his fate uncertain, so much to worry about and so much to do, he still dwelt on her. No, it was more than a crush. He was falling for her, he was certain of it.
Or was he delirious? Like those people who have near-death experiences, was his mind shutting down, and placating him with comforting sensations?
Or was that really her voice?
"Clark, how are you holding up?" Vern shook Clark Willoughby's hand, put his other hand on the Senator's shoulder, and looked him square in the eye. "You look tired. How's Grace?"
"I am tired, Vern," Senator Willoughby said. "Grace, poor Gracie. She's gone to stay with her sister for a while. It's too close for her here, she said she needed to not be so close to the search. Me, I can't imagine being anywhere else but, she's more fragile I guess."
Vern nodded and clapped the Senator's back. Willoughby moved behind his desk and sat, Vern took a chair in front.
"Real nice of you to stop by." He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. "Your support means a lot, always has."
Vern nodded again and looked at the floor, taking the scrap of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and held it between his knees, where the Senator couldn't see it. He hoped it wouldn't unravel decades of friendship.
"Clark," he sighed. "I need your help with something."
Chip didn't have a good feeling about the three men dismounting from their horses outside his little office. The taller one stayed outside and seemed to be peering into the windows of Annie's Jeep, while the other two strode in, businesslike, and approached the tiny counter where he sold backcountry permits. There was an edge to them that wasn't tourist, and wasn't search volunteer. He tried not to sound uneasy when he spoke.
"How'd the trails treat you fellas?"
The shorter one started to reply but the taller, meaner one spoke over him.
"Who do we see about rail freight?" His eyes were stone, his voice cold and hard.
"Geez I don't know," Chip said. "Closest office I think is in Salvation Point. I see crews in here once in a while dropping off paperwork but otherwise." He trailed off, shrugged.
"Where do they drop the paperwork?" The man leaned on the counter, eyes locked on Chip.
Chip nodded toward the locked Dutch door across from the counter. There was a mail slot, and a plastic organizer hung from the wall with various forms tucked in the pockets.
"It's all locked up," he said. "I don't have a …"
The man withdrew a large pistol from under his shirt.
"A key," Chip finished weakly.
"Oh," the man said, his eyes following the gleaming barrel to Chip's forehead. "I reckon somebody does. Why don't you give somebody a call. I'm sure they'd be happy to come help some, ah, fellow employees"
"Ya… yeah, sure," Chip stammered. With shaking hands he lifted the receiver and dialed Vern's cell phone.
"Chip?" Vern answered. "You alright?"
Thank God!
"Oh, sure thing Vern," Chip said. "Got a, um, train crew here that say they need to get in to the office. Can you please bring a key? Please?"
"Good," the man said. "Now, outside."
Hiking down the switchbacks over Herbst Junction was tricky enough, but shouldering the weight of a stumbling, barely coherent TJ took all the stamina Annie could find. They were nearly there, though, so she gritted her teeth and pushed the pain and fatigue from her mind.
"Come on, you big lug."
The grade evened out and the trail widened, and she paused in the same spot Lars and the others had to survey the junction below. Her heart sank.
The sight of Chip, kneeling on the ground with a very large pistol pointed at his head, made her sad.
The sight of her Jeep, sitting where she'd parked it – but with four slashed tires – made her angry.
Clark Willoughby had called out the cavalry. He rode with LaVerne Hinks in the second of two National Guard helicopters, and the two men in their late fifties were quite a sight as they tumbled from the craft as it touched down in Herbst Junction. Soldiers and state police led the charge to the parking area behind the backcountry office, but when they got there the fight they had prepped for didn't materialize.
Annie and Chip sat comfortably next to two squirming forms, dusty men with their hands and feet bound by the plastic seals used to secure railcars. Mayer sat nearby, his head in his hands. TJ was propped up in the shade of a tree, a bottle of water in his lap and a peaceful grin on his face. As the group approached, he called out.
"Man, you should have seen her!" He laughed like he was drunk. He felt like it. "The other guy helped, and Chip held his own, but wow. Don't mess with a girl's Jeep, hey?"
Annie rose and met the leading officer.
"There's two bad guys who won't say much," she said. "And a geologist with a bad conscience who has a lot to get off his chest."
The soldiers and officers fanned out, tending to TJ, getting Lars and his partner upright and properly handcuffed, securing the office and nearby bushes while unfurling yards of yellow tape.
When Mayer saw Senator Willoughby, he wept.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm just so sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone! It was her own daughter, you know? They seemed like they were in on it together. I hope she's OK. I just hope she's OK!"
Willoughby looked at him pitifully.
"Arrest him just like the others." He motioned to an officer.
The officer approached Mayer and reached for his wrist, but the geologist squirmed away and made a feeble attempt to flee. He landed face down in the dust a few yards away, and three officers made quick work of shackling him.
Twenty-four hours later, TJ sat comfortably in a hospital bed waiting for the doctor to sign his discharge orders. Vern and Annie waited with him, she for moral support, Vern to give them both a ride.
"So how much of this ridiculous scam was he actually in on?" Annie asked.
"He says not much," Vern said. "I'm inclined to believe him. I've known Grace Willoughby for a lot of years, and she is every bit the politician he is. I have no doubt she could engineer something this massive. She's as well connected, if not better, than he is. Or was – I think he'd be lucky to be elected dog catcher ever again."
"I still don't get how she thought she could mine copper in secret." Annie thoughtfully unpacked a shirt and pants from the bag she had brought from TJ's camper.
"There wasn't ever going to be a copper mine." Vern shook his head. "The idea was to damage the Column, ruin the land so the park service would deaccession it. Then it would be ripe for development. Grace Willoughby's family has an interest in a big construction firm out here, and Clark had arranged for some nice contracts. Like most lawmakers, he didn't read them enough to realize they were for proposed work in the park."
TJ stood and began to slide into his pants while trying to hold his robes closed.
"Any sign of Sarah or Grace Willoughby?" he asked.
"None," Vern said. "It's still tearing Clark apart, but he's relieved that you saw her alive and well."
"So that's Sarah and Grace Willoughby missing, but I think they'll lay low for a while. What concerns me," Vern looked sternly at Annie. "Is the two boxcars of unspecified material, likely dangerous in nature, that have also gone missing."
Annie dodged his gaze and looked out the window. "Happens all the time, Vern."
"Well, I also have two missing yard hands," he said. "Not smart ones. And while they don't know much, I think they know where those boxcars are."
She looked at him, startled. "Oh, no."
"Yeah, well," Vern said. "It's your problem now."
"I know, I screwed up," Annie said. "I'll try to find them."
"Don't try, kid." Vern put his hands on her shoulders. "You just have to get it done. That's what the superintendent does. Congratulations."
"What?" She was incredulous. "Was all this too much for you? Are you quitting?"
"I wish," he chuckled. "I got a call from the Governor. Seems a Senator has resigned and she needs to appoint a replacement."
Annie gave him a hug. "I'll miss you. You think I can handle this? Really?"
"You know you can handle this," he said. "And I won't let you miss me. The FCFL employs half my district. I have a keen interest in seeing that it's run right."
The doctor arrived and handed TJ his paperwork. The three made their way down to Vern's truck and drove to TJ's camper.
Annie got out and walked TJ to the door. He opened it and they lingered a moment.
"You want a ride to your place, Annie?" Vern called from the cab.
She thought a moment, then put her arms around TJ's neck and pulled him close.
"Nah," she said, keeping her eyes on TJ's. "I think I'll stay here a while."
Posted in Uncoupled	| Tagged Arizona, Model Railroading, National Park Fiction, National Parks, Outdoors, Railroad, Railroad fiction | Leave a comment
February 20, 2013 by fcflrailway
A Find in Lost Ways, Part 7
TJ sprinted down the path and aimed himself at Sarah Willoughby. When he was about ten feet away, she saw him and stood. She turned her shoulder to him – the one with the heavy black backpack on it – and braced herself. Unsure of what to do, he pulled up at the last second and instead of bowling her over, he awkwardly stutter stepped into her waiting shoulder, catching the pack square in the chest. The impact was enough to make Sarah fumble the satellite phone, but left her standing over TJ on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.
"Are you an idiot?" She looked down at him scornfully.
He lay motionless, humiliated and in pain. The phone sat face up, inches from his ear, a gruff male voice still streaming from the speaker.
"The supplies are enroute, supposed to be delivered to a place called Herbst Junction," TJ heard it say. "Give us twelve more hours, then we'll get you out. You don't want to hang around there much longer than that."
She snatched up the phone, punched "end call," and stepped over his chest.
He grabbed her boot and she stumbled, landing with a knee and both hands to the ground.
"Let go of me!" she spat.
"Listen," he barely got the word out. His lungs were burning. "Just let me make one phone call. Just to have somebody come get me. I'll pretend I never saw you I swear."
"You are an idiot." She dropped to her elbows and struggled to free her foot, but he held firm.
"Probably," he said. "But if you don't let me use that phone I'm going to follow you for the next twelve hours. I've got nothing better to do."
"The first thing you're going to do is tell them you found me." She pushed herself up and tried kicking him. He bear-hugged her ankle and rolled, pulling her to her elbows again. "Ouch! You IDIOT!"
"I'm tough to get rid of," he said. "Even if I tell somebody, your people will have you out of here before they find you. You'd at least have a chance. If I stick around, you and your … whoever they are will have to deal with me. You don't want that trouble on top of whatever you already have."
She swore. "Fine."
She reached for the phone and flicked it at TJ. He let go of her boot, sat up, and dialed.
At the moment TJ was dialing, Annie was two hours from Salvation Point at the throttle of her northbound train. Her cell phone was exactly where it was supposed to be, powered down in the bottom of her duffel on the floor of the locomotive cab.
When she got to Salvation Point yard, she tied up her train, finished her paperwork, clocked out, and drove home.
She showered, ate a can of soup, and looked through her mail.
She emptied her duffel bag and started a load of laundry.
Then she checked her phone.
TJ's message chilled her. She threw on hiking shorts and a tank top, grabbed a jacket and backpack, stepped into her hiking boots and raced out the door. Ten minutes later her Jeep skidded to a stop outside the yard office.
"Where's Vern?" She didn't wait for the stunned yard grunt to answer.
The two boxcars had been cut from her train and were rolling to a stop in the yard, where they would be put on a local for delivery to Herbst Junction. Forgetting her training for a moment, she sprinted across the mainline and into the yard. She ran up to one of the boxcars and grabbed at the hasps holding the door shut. It was locked and a plastic car seal was looped through the latch, making it impossible to open without the intended recipients knowing. She pounded the door with her fist and ran to the next one, where she found the same thing.
"You alright?" It was Jake, one of the newbie yard hands.
"Jake! It's Jake, right?" She brushed her hair from her face and flashed a flirty grin. It worked.
"Yeah." He smiled and leaned against the box car. "Something I can do for you?"
"These two cars," she nodded toward them. "I screwed up, they're not supposed to be here. If Vern finds out he's going to kill me. Think you can get them out of here? Anywhere other than Herbst Junction?"
"You mean, like, lose them?" he eyed her warily.
"Only for a little while," she said.
"Sure," he shrugged. "Happens all the time."
"You're the best!" She gave him a swift hug, then sprinted back to her Jeep. She cranked the engine and wheeled out of the lot, raising a cloud of dust on the road to Many Lost Ways National Park.
Posted in Uncoupled	| Tagged Arizona, Model Railroading, National Park Fiction, National Parks, Outdoors, Railroad fiction | Leave a comment


text:
Basketball Casts a Spotlight on Cleveland as a Travel Destination
Cleveland hotel searches are up in 2015 according to Hotels.com
DALLAS, June 15, 2015 /PRNewswire/ -- The city of Cleveland has been placed on the international stage as a result of its hometown team's playoff run and travelers are taking more interest in Ohio's second largest city according to Hotels.com®. Searches for Cleveland hotels have increased by nearly 40 percent in the U.S. and globally this year compared to 2014 (January 1 through June 14).
According to Sports Travel Insights from Hotels.com, searches for Cleveland hotels checking in between June 9 and 11 - coinciding with Cleveland's first two home games of the series
According to Sports Travel Insights from Hotels.com, searches for Cleveland hotels checking in between June 9 and 11 – coinciding with Cleveland's first two home games of the series – soared 481 percent after the finals schedule was announced on May 28. Since then, searches for hotel stays during Cleveland's final home game of the playoffs on June 16 have increased 90 percent.
"Cleveland has been long-known as the home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but it's now getting recognized for its growing culinary scene and revitalized downtown, which is epitomized by pedestrian-friendly East Fourth Street," said Taylor L. Cole, APR, Hotels.com travel expert. "With the finals setting TV viewership records and spotlighting the city in front of millions of people, travelers have even more reasons to visit C-Town."
With the national spotlight on Cleveland, Hotels.com is releasing a special coupon for travel to Cleveland through the end of July. Travelers who book by June 19, 2015 will receive $20 off a $200 stay with code CLEVELAND20 or $30 off a $300 stay with code CLEVELAND30*.
Share your best sports travel stories with @hotelsdotcom on social media with #sportstravel.
*Coupons subject to Hotels.com terms and conditions
About Hotels.com (www.hotels.com)
Hotels.com L.P. operates Hotels.com, a leading online accommodation booking website with properties ranging from international chains and all-inclusive resorts to local favorites and bed & breakfasts, together with all the information needed to book the perfect stay. Special apps for mobile phones and tablets can also be downloaded enabling customers to book on the go with access to 20,000 last minute deals.
© 2015 Hotels.com, LP. Hotels.com, The Obvious Choice and the Hotels.com logo are either registered trademarks or trademarks of Hotels.com, LP in the U.S. and/or other countries. All other trademarks are property of their respective owners. CST # 2083949-50
Logo - http://photos.prnewswire.com/prnh/20140226/DA72521LOGO-b
SOURCE Hotels.com
http://www.hotels.com
CELEBRITIES CONFESS THEIR HOTEL HABITS IN NEW DIGITAL CONTENT SERIES FROM HOTELS.COM
HOTELS.COM PREDICTS SEASON-LOW LODGING PRICES THIS WINTER DURING "COLD SHOULDER SEASON"

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Pandemic hits the courts: Clerk's Office lays off 11 in Volusia County
Barb Shepherd
The Volusia County Clerk's office has laid off 11 employees, effective July 20, as a result of significant revenue shortfalls due to the coronavirus pandemic.
The financial impact of the crisis, which hit private businesses immediately when the county and nation began to shut down in March, is now working its way into governmental offices.
Clerk Laura Roth said her organization's revenue — which comes from lawsuit-filing fees, traffic-citation fees and court costs, fines and fees — has plummeted by approximately 42.7 percent this quarter.
"On July 1, our current fiscal-year budget was cut drastically," Roth wrote in a letter emailed this afternoon to the approximately 260 members of "Team Clerk."
The letter continues, "For the first time in my role as the elected Clerk, I have the terrible duty to inform you that today we laid off from employment 11 of your coworkers. As you know, we've all already made sacrifices — with reduced hours or reduced salaries … . Unfortunately, the steps we took together to lower our costs did not get us close enough to the needed reductions."
The Clerk's Office first tried cutting all staff hours by 2.5 hours a week, and reduced everyone's salaries — including Roth's — by 3 percent.
Those cuts, planned earlier this month, also were set to take effect July 20, but more than 45 staff members volunteered to make the reductions immediately after the meeting where they were announced, Roth said.
"It was very touching," she said.
The office of Clerk of the Circuit Court stands out among governmental agencies because its revenue doesn't come from taxes that can be adjusted to meet the need, but from fees that ebb and flow depending on the activities of law enforcement and the courts.
With jury trials, mortgage foreclosures and residential evictions suspended because of the pandemic, the Clerk's Office revenue has been significantly reduced.
Roth said that recently, there were 44 residential evictions pending in the Volusia County court system.
"Usually, we would have thousands," she said.
Traffic-citation revenue, a big part of the Clerk's Office budget, is way down. In the midst of a community crisis, Roth said, with hundreds of people losing their jobs, far fewer tickets for traffic infractions — which can cost the recipients hundreds of dollars — are issued.
"The numbers in how many citations they write has plummeted," she said.
Further, Roth said, during the 2008 recession, the Florida Legislature changed the formula for how much of the Clerk's Office revenue was shared with state government, diverting much of that income to trust funds and other state funds.
"It used to never be a problem that we are revenue-based, because clerk's offices bring in more revenue than they need," Roth said.
She is encouraged by the support of Volusia County government, and by the opportunity being presented by the pandemic for Clerk's Offices statewide to work together to make funding for their services more stable.
Roth said some clerks across the state have laid off a third of their staffs, and others have begun shutting down one day a week to save money. She hopes to not have to do either.
Closing one day a week could mean a critical delay, she said, in getting a domestic-violence injunction, or scheduling a hearing to bring action to protect endangered children, for example.
"How do you close down?" Roth asked.
She plans to keep exploring every angle to keep the Clerk's Office functioning in Volusia County, and to avoid additional layoffs.
"We're really determined to do all we can," Roth said.
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Barb and her husband, Jeff, were both born in Kokomo, Indiana, a factory town surrounded by cornfields about 50 miles north of Indianapolis. In 1979, they set out on a road trip that would define their lives, and would end with their taking up residence in DeLand. After working at the DeLand Sun News and the Orlando Sentinel 1979-92, Barb helped found The Beacon, and was appointed publisher and CEO in 2013. Since late 2004, Barb has also managed Conrad Realty Co.'s historic property in Downtown DeLand, where The Beacon is an anchor tenant.


Wilderswil is a village in the canton of Bern that serves as a small base for the nearby Jungfrau region. It's located just south of Interlaken, at the head of the main valley that leads into the Jungfrau region and splits into two separate valleys, one leading down to Lauterbrunnen, Wengen and Murren, and the other valley leading up to Grindelwald and the Eiger.
Whilst Wilderswil is certainly not a ski resort, it's proximity to the likes of Wengen, Grindelwald and Murren means that you could get the train to each of these resorts and happily have a day on each of their slopes. Given the geographical position of these three resorts, and how hard it is to get from one of the resorts to another, then staying at Wilderswil or Interlaken does actually make it slightly easier if you planned to ski all the slopes of all three ski areas.
Wilderswil is probably best known to visitors for it's railway station - that might sound a bit strange but it's because the village is the starting point of the famous Schynige Platte Railway, a mountain rack-railway that is extremely popular in summer with visitors to the Jungfrau region, not just for the fantastically scenic journey up to the Schynige Platte but also for the beautiful wild-flower alpine gardens and classic hiking trails that await visitors when they reach the top. There are no ski slopes up at Schynige Platte so the railway does not run during the winter months.
Given the geography of the 3 famous Jungfrau ski resorts (Wengen, Murren, Grindelwald), staying somewhere in between, such as Wilderswil, allows you to ski at all 3 resorts.
Less expensive than staying in those 3 famous Jungfrau resorts.
Very small village, so not much choice of accommodation, dining out or bars.
No immediate ski slopes, although there is a small ski area at Beatenberg on the Niederhorn, which is a similar distance to Wilderswil as Wengen, Murren and Grindelwald.
Wilderswil is only a very small village, with the train station being the focal point of its centre. There are a handful of amenities around the train station, with a large ski and sports shop at the northern end of the station road, a Migros mini-market opposite it, and then a splattering of hotels, restaurants, bars and shops. There is a tourist information centre and a bank at the other end of the railway station, where the Kirchgasse street heads off west away from the station.
The table below shows train times from the main cities and transport hubs of Switzerland to Wilderswil.
A link to the tourist information site for Wilderswil and any other useful links about the resort.
Unfortunately, we don't have any active live-streams at the moment for Wilderswil Webcams.
Unfortunately, we don't have any active web cameras at the moment for Wilderswil Webcams.


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About the FTC »
Biographies »
James A. Kohm
Division of Enforcement
Speeches, Articles, and Statements
Letter from James A. Kohm, Associate Director, Division of Enforcement, Bureau of Consumer Protection, to R. Jeffrey Behm, Esq., Sheehey, Furlong & Behm, P.C. – Addressing Representations Made By Green Mountain Power Corporation ("GMP") Regarding Renewable Energy (February 2015)
Prepared Statement of the Federal Trade Commission On H.R. 2480 (the Truth in Fur Labeling Act) and H.R. 4501 (the Guarantee of a Legitimate Deal Act), James A. Kohm – Before the Subcommittee on Commerce, Trade, and Consumer Protection of the Committee On Energy and Commerce, United States House of Representatives (May 2010)
Prepared Statement of the Federal Trade Commission on "It's Too Easy Being Green: Defining Fair Green Marketing Principles" – Before the Subcommittee on Commerce, Trade, and Consumer Protection of the Committee on Energy and Commerce, United States House of Representatives (June 2009)
Prepared Statement of the Federal Trade Commission On Subcommittee on Commerce, Trade and Consumer Protection of the Committee on Energy and Commerce, United States House of Representatives – Prepared Statement of the Federal Trade Commission On The Right To Repair: Industry Discussions and Legislative Options (November 2005)


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DJANGO: Hilarious or Disrespectful
iamtheinfluence8:19 PMENTERTAINMENT No comments
Despite critics or skeptics, Director Quentin Tarantino's film "Django: Unchained" as proved to be a most successful one. After over a month of box office sales the film had brought in nearly $200 million internationally and could potentially top $400 million before the world stops talying. Although it's been a must see flick catching the eye of just about everyone, it has undoubtedly received mixed reactions. While some are calling this one of Tarantino's masterpieces others aren't exactly giving the film 2 thumbs up and a seal of approval. Theatres throughout America were filled with laughter, but scattered in between are many filled with outrage.
The controversial film features actor Jamie Foxx, Christolph Waltz, Leonardo Di Caprio, Kerry Washington, and Samuel L. Jackson. The timeframe is set in the 1850's, when slavery is very much alive. Foxx plays the character Django; a slave who was freed by a bounty hunter (Waltz). Together the two bound in a journey led by Foxx, in a rage fueled with revenge. As the plantation owner enters the scenes (Di Caprio), viewers start to see some touchy racism being tossed around. Many of the critics stand behind Tarantino, and say that those questionable scenes are simply supportive content that add substance to the plot. However some argue it's a bit over the top and suggests the depiction of blacks and slaves collectively is wrong and disrespectful, especially from a director with no ancestral ties. Fellow filmmaker Spike Lee was one of the few celebs who spoke openly and negatively about the film. "American slavery was not a Sergio Leone Spaghetti western. It was a Holocaust, my ancestors are slaves stolen from Africa, I Will Honor Them." said Lee, via Twitter. Jamie Foxx would lash back at the comments by Lee and had this to say "where's Spike Lee coming from?" He didn't like Whoopi Goldberg, he doesn't like Tyler Perry, he doesn't like anybody, I think he's sort of run his course. I mean, I respect Spike, he's a fantastic director. But he gets a little shady when he's taking shots at his colleagues without looking at the work, to me, that's irresponsible."
Quentin Tarantino without question hit another home run with this latest film regardless of how controversial it may seem, but at what expense. The country is not nearly divided on the issue on whether or not he crossed the line; the majority was in a teary laughter but do the few outrage individuals have a point? With a reputation for bloody and gory films, could he have pushed the envelope in other directions or was the controversial racism simply a ploy and pawn to ignite the box offices every weekend? No one knows for sure so I guess we'll just have to say to him for a job well done. Now for the outraged folks, they can only hope that the little uproar of controversy at least leaves a lingering eye opener to directors who want to exploit racism or slavery despite whatever good reasoning there maybe. As the old saying goes "The road to hell was paved with good intentions."
Written by Functuay of iamtheinfluenc.com
Rihanna Rolling Stone Cover
iamtheinfluence12:12 PMRihanna No comments
Chris Brown Lawyer says he is ready to speak on fight
iamtheinfluence11:03 AMChris Brown, Frank Ocean No comments
Yea Yea so Frank Ocean has said what he has to say to the cops and took to twitter lashing out and venting. Now that that is all over with we will finally get to hear what Brown has to say about the incident. According to his Lawyer its the truth and they have proof that it wasn't Brown who started the altercation.
TMZ has reported that Chris Brown lawyer Mark Geragos has reached out to police to let then know that Brown is ready to give his "story". We already know that a witness that seen the whole thing says that Ocean and his crew started the whole thing. Geragos says that the video footage gathered will prove that his client is without a doubt innocent.
Even tho it was said that breezy threw the 1st punch, video footage says otherwise. It actually shows that Brown nor Ocean was involved it was in fact their crews. Police are still trying to gather what happened in the parking lot where the fight began and there was no surveillance.
Brown was quick at thinking and followed his lawyers advice by getting ghost when trouble erupted.
The moral of this story is never give a false account unless you know that you are gonna win.. In this case Frank and his crew didn't, they forgot one simple thing VIDEO CAMERAS and they seen almost everything and what they missed a witness saw.. Looks like Brown has won this one ....
Written by Leon or IAMTHEINFLUENC.COM
Chris Brown vs Frank Ocean: The two were involved in brawl
iamtheinfluence2:44 PMChris Brown, Frank Ocean No comments
Come on now.. does trouble just follow the homie Chris Brown.
TMZ has reported that Brown has been involved with an altercation involving the Odd Future crooner Frank Ocean studio at a Los Angeles studio in Sunday night.
A witness has said that Brown was attempting to leave the studio when Ocean and his crew approached him. Saying " this is my studio, this is my parking spot." Like really Frank Ocean you a parking lot gangsta now hahahahah!!!
Apparently when Brown tries to calm the situation by shaking Oceans hand, a member of oceans crew attacked him. From then on its said to have been a all out brawl. AWEEEE how cute the battle of the R&B stars .. ???? Police were called but no charges were filled.
Afterward Ocean takes to twitter (with what i like to call a twitter therapy venting session) here is what he said
"Got jumped by Chris and a couple guys. Lol. I only wish Everest [his dog] was there. Cut my finger now I can't play w two hands at the Grammys,"
The two have been involved in the whole twitter beef before but never has it become physical.
MORAL OF THIS STORY: DON'T PARK IN FRANK OCEAN SPOT.
It can get dangerous !!!!
Kendrick Lamar Performing "Poetic Justice" on SNL
iamtheinfluence11:31 AMENTERTAINMENT No comments
Tamar Braxton - "Love and War"
iamtheinfluence6:48 PMTamar Braxton, VIDEOS No comments
F**kin' Problems
iamtheinfluence6:46 PMVIDEOS No comments
I Did It For My Dawgz
iamtheinfluence6:45 PMVIDEOS, YMCMB No comments
Rick Ross - Ten Jesus Pieces ft. Stalley
Lakers and Clippers: Unfamiliar Territory
iamtheinfluence3:29 PMKobe Bryant, Lakers, nba, SPORTS No comments
It was not too long ago that the Los Angeles Clippers were mentioned in the conversation as one of the teams who were among the laughing stock of the NBA, while their city mates, Los Angeles Lakers sat atop the western conference. To say the tables have turned is an absurd understatement. Lob city is not only the most exciting team to watch but one of the most complete teams in the league today. Without question, Gary Sacks and the Clipper front office outdid the rest of the league and secured an impressive bench to back up a superb starting 5. Clippers have assembled a 2nd team that could easily start for many other squads. Among that group of possible starters, they acquired Lamar Odom, Grant Hill, and Mr. sixth man, Jamal Crawford all this past summer. Led by arguably the best point guard in the NBA in Chris Paul and the new human highlight reel, Blake Griffin, the Clippers have the 2nd best record in the west, and at one point this season reeled off a punishing win streak that was just recently snapped at 17 games. Needless to say this new age Los Angeles Clippers team started to improve the last few years but this year they've been downright dominating. Meanwhile in the other Los Angeles locker room, where the historic championship aura oozes from, we welcome the Los Angeles Lakers to the laughing stock conversation.
With the exception of the Boston Celtics, when you think winning franchises and championships, you think of the Lakers, it's what their organization embodies. However this year they have not looked championship like in any games this season. At 17-24, they hold a record that isn't exactly the worse in the NBA, but one that is embarrassing for a team of this caliber. Coming into this season the expectations were extremely high and the buzz around the league was that the Lakers now have the new super team. One that is formidable enough to knock off a powerhouse like the Heat, let alone any team in the west. As we creep over the half-way point of the season, the playoffs are nowhere in sight right now for Kobe and the Lakers. Acquiring hall of fame point guard Steve Nash and all-star center Dwight Howard, was the biggest acquisition this summer by any team but it hasn't quite panned out at all. After a 0-4 start the front office dismissed Coach Mike Brown, passed on the legendary Phil Jackson and went with Mike D'Antoni. With an even more dismal record, and signs of a debilitated locker room, the Lakers have plummeted in all aspects. As if there wasn't enough drama in Hollywood, rumors are now swirling about Dwight Howard's future. Howard, who is technically still unsigned, is unhappy and supposedly wants out. Could a possible Howard trade be brewing before the deadline hits? Not to mention Lakers have been shopping forward Pao Gasol since last season. Laker GM Mitch Kupchak, dismissed the talks of a trade by saying that it's too soon to be using the word trade. He and Coach D'Antoni have both stated recently that the Laker woes are not due to personnel but rather lack of effort.
The Lakers have a lot of unanswered questions this season, but what is surely undisputed is that this is not the same winning organization we are accustoming to seeing. Consistently losing games, compiled with coaching changes and trade rumors are the makings of a rough 2-season finale for Laker great Kobe Bryant. Bryant who is currently the NBA's 2nd leading scorer, has been frustrated with the team and let it be known. In a recent loss against Chicago, he said "I've been frustrated before, but this is a different type of frustration and that there is so many things going on". Since the beginning of the season, things have continued to add to the long list of problems for the Lakers and as the season descends to the playoffs it will be interesting to see if they can pull it together and nab a playoff spot. The last team to win a playoff series with their current record of 17-24 was back during the 80-81' season. One thing is for certain; their Hollywood neighbors have solidified themselves as a top seed. Lakers could be a couple winning spurts from being back in the hunt, or a couple losses from scouting draft picks; something o-so-familiar to the Clippers organization.
BEYONCE lip synced , SO WHAT ?
iamtheinfluence3:29 PMBeyonce, ENTERTAINMENT, INAUGURATION No comments
In case you haven't heard, because we're sure you have; Grammy award winning artist Beyonce is rumored to have lip synced the National Anthem at this week's presidential inauguration. The cat was accidentally let out of the bag by…someone of irrelevance, but never the less the media did not spare the chance to pounce on the mishap. After millions of records sold worldwide, and every award imaginable under her belt, I'm assuming this proves Beyonce can't sing a lick! If there is one thing we do in America so well, its attempt to tear down every role model or idol of positive significance. Here you have a woman who exemplifies so much class that she has not even so much as had a "nip slip" photograph or exposed anything to generate any kind of negative contradiction. However this was that one opportunity for the media to say "ah ha", I knew she wasn't perfect. Well contrary to everyone's belief, we've been duped, she has flaws, and such shame it is. After the almost comical uproar brought about around the country, friend and ex-group member Michelle Williams came to the rescue. "I can understand it, "I will say this, it's not the first or the last time that someone has had to lip sync… my greatest singer of all time, Whitney Houston, it came to light that her anthem was in fact lip synced." She would also go on to add that "It's their personal preference. With big crowds and echoes, you know when it's a big historical moment; you don't want any room for any mistakes so I can understand why it was done." Which brings me to my next question, raise your hand if you have never heard the National Anthem…anybody?...
"SNOOP LION" the target of a Rastafarian Lawsuit
iamtheinfluence3:27 PMENTERTAINMENT, MUSIC, SNOOP DOGG No comments
Snoop Lion, (correction the artist formally known as Snoop Dogg) , has another lawsuit on his hands after this past week. He recently changed his name to "Snoop Lion" and transformed into a Rastafarian artist. Many are questioning his sincerity as he indulges into the culture. Former reggae star, Bunny Wailer isn't exactly taking to this new venture by Snoop. Wailer, who was an original of "Bob Marley and the Wailers", believes Snoop is making a mockery of Rastafarian culture. He insists that this is simply an infatuation with the culture led by no real drive to be a part of this movement. Wailer sits on what is known as the Rastafari Millenium Council. Together the members collectively believe that over the years Snoop Dogg the rapper has negatively exploited the culture for financial gain. They seek a name change to be reverted back to Snoop, a public apology, as well as undisclosed amount of money for his exploitation. If these demands are not met, they have promised to take further legal action. After all the backlash it will be interesting to see be interesting to see how the "Lion" responds and what direction he will take his career now.
Kendrick Lamar - Backseat Freestyle
Rick Ross - Pirates
Alicia Keys - Brand New Me
Jonn Hart - Who Booty (Remix) ft. French Montana
2 Chainz - I'm Different
Marsha Ambrosius - Cold War
Tyga - Dope ft. Rick Ross
Big Sean - Guap
Let Me Love You (Until You Learn To Love Yourself) (Remix...
Sevyn Streeter - I Like It [Official Video]
Rockie Fresh - "Nobody" Official Video
Trinidad James - All Gold Everything
Cowboys off field woes Continue
iamtheinfluence12:41 AMSPORTS No comments
After one drinking accident claimed the life of one teammate, another Dallas Cowboy lineman is hit with intoxication charges. Nose tackle and one the Cowboys impact players; Jay Ratliff was arrested on suspicion of DWI. Ratliff crashed his 2011 Ford pickup into an 18 wheeler in Grapevine, Texas. This incident comes less than 2 months after fellow Cowboy Jerry Brown was killed in a car crashed due to his friend and teammate Josh Brent. Brent, who ironically plays the nose tackle position along with Ratliff, was indicted recently on manslaughter do the DUI; he could face 20 years behind bars if convicted. There is no word as to the extent of punishment that could be handed down to Ratliff, but with the perfect example of what not to do still lingering in his own locker room, the NFL and Cowboy organization will more than likely take some type of strict disciplinary action. Months prior to his current legal troubles, Ratliff was in a bit of hot water after a heated exchange with longtime owner Jerry Jones. This could very well be an inadvertent swan song for Ratliff after his off the field unsporstman-like conduct.
Chris Brown Lawyer says he is ready to speak on fi...
Chris Brown vs Frank Ocean: The two were involved ...
Let Me Love You (Until You Learn To Love Yourself)...


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RSR151 – Michael Cronin – Designing World Class Recording Studios
Michael talked about building recording studios around the world from Mutt Lange to Blackbird Studios to your home studio wherever you are.
My guest today is Michael Cronin who has never once had a hit record or for that matter even recorded one himself, but nevertheless has played an important role in the creation of hundreds of millions of records through his famous designs for over 200 world class recording studios all around the globe.
Roswell Pro Audio - Roswell Pro Audio is a boutique microphone company based in the wine country of Northern California. These hand crafted microphones provide a distinctive sound, and a level of performance normally associated with far more expensive devices. Now you can get the rich quality of a big studio mic vintage sound on home studio budget. Make your best record ever with Roswell.
Michael started out restoring a 19th century London church as a modern recording studio for the Eurythmics in 1984. Then worked with Tom Hidley afterwards creating his own company, Michael Cronin Acoustic Construction. Some of Michael studios include: Guillermo Tell and MEGA in Paris, France; the renovation of MOSFILM in Moscow, Russia; BOP Studios Bophuthatswana, South Africa; The Tracking Room, Ocean Way, Blackbird Studios and Masterfonics in Nashville, Tennessee; Capri Digital in Capri, Italy, and even producer Mutt Lange's famed hideaway studio Sully Sound in Tou de Pays, Switzerland.
Tegeler Audio Manufaktur - Tegeler Audio Manufaktur has the mission of bringing the highest quailty analog audio gear to musicians and producers everywhere at an affordable price. The founder Michael Krusch has taken a unique approach by designing hi quality analog gear that you can control digitally from within your DAW. Check out the complete line of compressors, eqs, and fx processors all remote controllable by your DAW plugin: "By musicians for musicians!"
In addition, Michael has been a pioneer in designing and building educational recording facilities such as the multi-studio complexes he has done in New York City, Miami, and Atlanta for SAE, the world's largest multimedia academy.
He has also contributed his skills to culturally significant facilities, including the archivist mastering room at the Country Music Hall of Fame and acoustical consulting work for the Songwriters Hall of Fame, both in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also one of the most sought after designers and builders of advanced, high-end home theaters in the U.S.
http://michaelcroninacoustic.com/


Where Should City Parks Be Connected?
Home More News Where Should City Parks Be Connected?
One of the My Future Cottage Grove initiatives is to improve pedestrian safety and connections to our community parks. You can help by providing your input in an online interactive map related to this initiative. By doing so you can help make the City's livability even better as you input determines the future! When you add a location to the map consider where you currently walk or bike, and where you'd like to see a future bike trail or sidewalk connection.
Where do you think there should be more city park connections?