This story happened about ten years ago. My boys were very young, probably two and four years old. We had just taken our first trip to Asheville, NC.
It was August, and even in the mountains, it was blazing hot. On our last day, my wife and I decided to take the kids and drive around the area a little to look around. I somehow got on a road that seemed like it was heading out of town. Grass and low-lying shrubs replaced buildings. Coming out of a sweeping right hand turn, I looked to my left and noticed we were now pacing a Norfolk Southern freight train, about a 100 feet way. We were going maybe 35 miles per hour, but the train was a bit slower.
As I looked up ahead, I noticed that the road curved to the left, and eventually crossed the tracks at a guarded grade crossing. I raced ahead a little and pulled the car off the road well behind the gates. The train continued to slowly approach the crossing, but eventually rolled to a stop maybe 300 feet away.
While the locomotives idled, I figured it would be a fun idea to get the kids out of the car so we could watch the train pass when it started up again and waive to the crew.
Now, I was well aware how real railroaders perceive foamers, and I did not want to appear as one. We were all sanding well behind the crossing gates, off the road, trying not to give any hint of foaminess (even though I was standing, foamer-like, outside my car with two young boys and my wife).
As we waited there in the glare of the hot August sun, I noticed that the front door of the lead diesel started to open. Out came a large man, maybe 6’2”, wearing blue jeans, dark leather jacket and dark sunglasses. He climbed down the engine steps and started striding purposely directly toward us!
He continued his methodical trudging along the right-of way, getting closer and closer. There was no hint of emotion on his bearded face, his eyes invisible. Was he going to chew me out for trespassing on railroad property? Chastise me for endangering my kids somehow? He got closer and closer. I started to panic, and was preparing to load everyone back into the car. But before I could make a move, there he was, standing directly in front of me!
He glared briefly at me from behind the sunglasses before he spoke. “It’s awful hot out here,” he observed, with no emotion, as he brought out four ice-cold bottles of water, and handed them to me and my family!
I was speechless. I mumbled something about what he did on the train, and he said he was the conductor. We thanked him profusely for his kind gesture, and he shook the kids’ hands. I asked him if the train would be moving, and he said yes, in a few minutes. We thanked him again. He nodded, turned and silently marched back towards his train.
A few minutes later, with the blast of the horn, the locomotives revved up and started heading toward us. The gates came down, and the train growled past. The boys waived to the crew and were rewarded with waives back. The last car eventually slid past us silently, and the gates went up. It was quite again.
We all packed back into the car. Alice and I couldn’t stop talking about what had just happened—a true example of Southern Hospitality the likes of which we had never experienced before, and might not again.
