“My primary job is to greet the steam engines as they roll into the wide bays of the engine house in Ely, Nevada. Only after the final screech of brakes and long sigh of steam signals the engine has stopped do I return to my other duties. I also welcome tourists when I have time and feel inclined.
They call the Northern Nevada Railway Museum where I work, a living museum. It’s a redundant term because everyone sees the place bustling with life. The cavernous engine house echos with clattering metal, shouting, clanging tools, engines revving up then dying with a wheeze; people teeming about – mechanics fashioning repairs while their helpers dash for parts and tourists wander among the giant machines, reading the plaques that tell their stories. The tourists are allowed to go anywhere they like as long as they promise not to climb on anything.
We have many visitors, even some from the distant past. I’ve seen them often enough – women with large flowered hats atilt on their heads twirling parasols, lifting their swishy skirts deliberately with one hand as they board the trains. And, men with handlebar mustaches and mutton chop sideburns in dark pressed suits who pull small, round watches from their vest pockets and peer at them with a serious air.
I thought these particular callers a nice touch. But one day, a porter pulled a cellphone from his pocket and scrolled down the screen as though he’d forgotten what century it was. Ever since, I’ve doubted their authenticity. However, they delight the tourists, so I keep my suspicions to myself.
I do get nervous when tourists insist on operating the trains. I have to trust that the conductor won’t allow them to do anything foolish. What could be worse than harming an old steam engine?
Other tourists want to pretend to live in the early 1900’s so they rent the superintendents’s house over by the coal tower. The house has been fitted up with modern plumbing and a microwave so it isn’t entirely like it was originally. Being rather particular about my personal habits myself and prizing my comfort, I understand and refrain from criticism.
The trains mostly run back and forth towards Ruth, a little mining town up the tracks. They say it isn’t far but judging from the time it takes for the round trip, I think it must be rather distant.
Of all the people who come here I like the mechanics best. They know each of the locomotives intimately and can tease even the most decrepit engine to life. They lovingly wipe down paint and grease moving parts. They never get frustrated no matter how many impossible-to-find parts a stubborn engine demands. When a particularly difficult engine thunders to life, everyone roars with it, clapping their hands, tossing their caps in the air and high-fiving each other.
No matter how clamorous the engine house during the day, it is silent at night when I patrol the perimeter before retiring. Even though I see quite well in the dark, I appreciate the moonlight as it seeps between the cracks in the plank walls and through the frosted windows, throwing shadows against the dark specters of old tools hanging on the opposite walls. The tools have been here from the beginning; some mysterious having been fashioned for a long forgotten purpose. Nevertheless, they will never be removed. I navigate the hulks of the bellows and other big equipment looming from the floor to pay special attention to the north side of the building where field mice try to sneak in from the poplar-ringed pasture lying across the tracks.
For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Dirt. I was born in the engine house and have lived here my entire life. I take my work seriously and it is not an overstatement to say that it has been exemplary. Besides my official duties, I donate my off-hours to ensuring the building remains rodent-free. The head honchos once journeyed from the State capital of Carson City to recognize my diligence. If you care to read their commendation, it hangs on the wall of the caboose where I sleep. It has no practical use but I appreciate the thought. The bed, toys and treats I like very much.
(NOTE: As all we must – Dirt passed away at the venerable age of 15. A new caretaker cat is now engaged in the formidable task of filling Dirt’s paw prints. We wish him (or her) well as he (or she) carries on the legacy that Dirt established during his long years of service at the Northern Nevada Railway Museum).