I have indeed been very lucky. With Time and Machines, I have been able to connect.

For there have been more than a few moments when I was able to experience a direct connection to the past. And the past was that of my family; people who came before I did by a good number of years.

Yes, the railroad will loom large in this tale. Be it the place or the people, the railroad plays a part.

A good start came in the fall of 1980. Having finished my first full year of employment at AAA, I decided to head off on an adventure. The first time that I was solo, visiting places I had never been. But there was a moment on a September evening, aboard Amtrak’s “San Francisco Zephyr” when it was about to depart Sparks, Nevada; continuing on its journey to Chicago. In that moment, I was making my first ride east of Sparks. And I was about to follow the same route my great-grandfather made countless times in his career as a locomotive engineer from Sparks to Carlin. It was pretty simple stuff, but pretty heady. And it was indeed special. I knew it then and was filled with excitement. So much that I don’t think I slept at all that night.

Now in years since, I have made many trips east of Sparks, with friends and solo by automobile. Oddly enough, I have not made the same trip again by rail. There always lies hope of it. But I have visited many locations along the way that my grandfather and his family members visited during their years in the Silver State. Some of those were to places where I know family had been. Palisade, Nevada, for example. Today, it is pretty much a siding on the railroad. A cemetery overlooks what had once been a town site. Here is a view from the Barriger Library of what the town and surrounding area looked like sometime in the 1930’s. (This gallery offers more images from the same collection.)

All of the structures seen are gone today and have been for a number of years. Since discovering this image, I have found a great deal more information that links members of my family to both the standard gauge railroad (the Southern Pacific) and the narrow gauge railroad (the Eureka and Palisade) seen, not to mention businesses and properties in and about Palisade.

Standing in about the same spot as the photo shows, again, it did not take a great deal to connect with those people at the moments their lives were experienced here.

Starting in the mid-1970’s through the late 1990’s, I volunteered at a railway museum between San Francisco and Sacramento. You name it, I did it. Steam, diesel and electric trains. Track work, restoration projects, train crew with and without passengers, ticket sales, gift shop sales… it never seemed to end. On the Museum’s demonstration railway and then the adjacent former mainline railway the Museum eventually acquired, it was bringing history back to life that offered some of the most satisfying moments.

A few of them come to mind. The first was in the early 1980’s, on an early morning getting a steam locomotive ready for the days operation. Again a connection, as here I was doing much the same tasks as my great-grandfather had some 80 years earlier when he had been a young locomotive fireman with the Southern Pacific. I knew that I was proud of him for what he had done back then; and I hoped that he would have been proud of me carrying on, doing what he had all those years ago. (He had passed away over a dozen years before, but he lived his life as a railroader. So much so that he carried his railroad watch for reference, even though he had not used it for many years in railroad service. That watch is deservedly treasured by another grandson named for him.) A later chance meeting led to a connection with another retired locomotive engineer who had worked with my grandfather, in the late 1940’s after World War II, when he was starting his railroad career. He had some good stories to share from those years.

The second moment came in the mid-1990’s towards the end of a long day. The group I was part of had been out on the railroad doing work on the track, getting a little used line ready for a special passenger excursion as part of an upcoming convention of railway museums. I was running a diesel locomotive on a train carrying everyone back from the work site to the museum. As the train rumbled along at the mighty speed of 15 miles per hour, I was again connected to the past as I was doing what my great-grandfather had.

When I graduated high school in the summer of 1977, a career on the railroad looked promising. Along the way, other things got in the way and I never did make that job choice. I look back at times and wish I had. Part of me understands, but then reality comes along and reminds me I would have been laid off during the recession of the 1980’s and probably would have been soured against the industry. While I still have an interest in railroading today, the experiences of the railway museum and private railroad car operations have offered some fantastic times with some truly amazing people.

That is where the third moment comes into play. One of those days as a steam locomotive fireman, I had the pleasure of firing for a gentleman who had not only been a locomotive engineer but who had actually run the locomotive we were on that day in service on the Western Pacific. We didn’t go very far or very fast that day, but for him it had to have been a trip back in time. And I was glad I was able to share it with him.

We do not always get such opportunities. All of these moments are the kind of memories worth having. Special they are and I am glad to have been in the right place at the right time. With the people and the machines that made them happen.

Ah, in my heck of the woods, it just would not be the holidays without this sign.

And therein lies the tale!

In the mid 1960’s my family moved into a new home in Mountain View, California. On San Rafael Avenue, just off the US-101 Freeway. A nice four bedroom, two bath tract house with a two-car garage, a living room, family room with a master bedroom suite. And it included a space that could be developed as an extra room or covered patio.

My mother is fond of recalling the five years we lived there as being in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Plenty of families with young children. Many servicemen making use of their GI benefits to afford the homes in this tract. And plenty of employment opportunities as Silicon Valley was in it’s early days, with NASA’s Ames Research Center and the Moffet Naval Air Station just across the freeway.

I don’t recall the exact year, but the Christmas season came and some of the neighbors organized a home decorating contest. Just like the one shown in A Charlie Brown Christmas. And the goal was to have every home decorated. To make the neighborhood a holiday destination; a must-see.

Now my dad didn’t exactly have a lot of free time to spend on a project like this. During the week, he was working for ACME Steel producing steel strapping and other packing materials. His commute was a tough one, making the trip from Mountain View to South San Francisco five days a week. With four children at the time, weekends tended to be hectic with occasional visits to grandparents in San Francisco’s Seacliff. There was not a lot of extra time to spend on an effort, not to mention paying for the electricity it would entail.

I don’t know what pushed him in this direction, but he got out a piece of plywood, and painted it plain white. In an olde English script, laid out by hand, the word “Humbug” came to life. When finished, this sign adorned that two-car garage, in defiance to the rest of the neighborhood.

It was an instant hit with some of the neighbors. The organizers of the contest, they were less than amused. One neighbor I never recall seeing or hearing from any time. This may have contributed to that.

In 1970, we moved to a new home in Walnut Creek, where my parents still live today. And just as it did all those years ago, the “Humbug” sign still takes it’s place of honor every Christmas season, above the two-car garage. It’s become a tradition. So much so that when a few years ago, he was late in putting it up, folks in the neighborhood were concerned he was okay. He’s even known by some as the “Humbug” Man.

One of my brothers has taken over the duty of putting the sign in place now, My dad is over 80 and while doing okay, he has been through enough misadventures that involve ladders. So this is a good thing that someone else takes over the responsibility.

It’s been almost 50 Christmases since the sign came to be. The lettering has changed a bit over the years and the lights are still single good sized bulbs. No LED’s or icicle lights added. Traditions, after all.

So, there you have it. The tale of the “Humbug” sign.

Let me leave you with the words of Ebeneezer Scrooge, from the pen of Charles Dickens, that inspired it:

“A merry Christmas, uncle!  God save you!” cried a cheerful voice.  It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge’s, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

“Christmas a humbug, uncle!” said Scrooge’s nephew.  “You don’t mean that, I am sure.”

“I do,” said Scrooge.  “Merry Christmas!  What right have you to be merry?  What reason have you to be merry?  You’re poor enough.”

“Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily.  “What right have you to be dismal?  What reason have you to be morose?  You’re rich enough.”

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said “Bah!” again; and followed it up with “Humbug.”

In many ways, I am right back where I started. Writing, that is…

Over the years, I have been lucky enough to have written for school newspapers, newsletters, press releases, online columns and of course, right here on this very blog.

It’s been a bit of a throw back moment for me in the last few weeks as I have taken time to compose a few items for the Bulletin, published at the Dickens Fair. Published in a style that definitely steps back in time. Printed on a pair of vintage printing presses, using movable type. All laid by hand and lovingly crafted for passers by at the Fair.

A hobby of mine – okay one of many – is to look for information on my ancestors, using various newspaper databases found online.  In particular, I find myself searching through newspapers from the Silver State, dating back as far as my family or people sharing the same surnames found themselves in Nevada. I tend to be amazed at these people coming west to find a life there. The years since have taken me out to visit some of the places these folks lived in. And to be honest, there was not a lot then and there is even less now in some of those places. If you had nothing else but friends and family, I guess you did what you could to survive. No organized support beyond those people. You either made good or you moved on in search of something better.

As an example, let me share the tale of Jonathan Sandon Walker. Born in Bootle, in Cumbria in the northwest of England in 1842, he was one of nine, possibly ten children. He went on to be apprenticed to two trades. That of the stone mason and the brewer. I do not know what led him from England to the Americas, but he came to New York in 1869. From there he made his way to Grass Valley, here in California. A short time later, he was in Eureka, Nevada were silver-lead ore had been discovered as early as 1864. Using his brewing experience, Jonathan ran a series of saloons around the district including at Eureka and Mineral Hill. He was not particularly successful. I believe these “businesses” were little more than tents, as he was burned out and flooded out several times.

But reading the various local newspapers of the day, I get an idea of life in that part of Nevada. Indeed, rugged, but full of amusing incidents as well as tragedies and moments of joy.

Taking more than a bit of inspiration from those early editions, it has been a pleasure writing a column and occasional stories for the Bulletin.

And who knows? Maybe 2016 will find me filling these pages more often. One can only hope…

So, it is coming down the home stretch in 2015. Last page on calendars and all that. Time for a bit of reflection between those holidays and more shopping opportunities, right?

For my part, it is the time when the Dickens Fair comes to San Francisco, bringing the Victorian spirits of Christmas to life. Doing my bit behind the scenes at Cuthbert’s Tea Shoppe gets me into the seasonal frame of mind. And the walk about with everyone in a similar mood and a proper pint or three of a favored beverage does not hurt either…

As another year of circling our sun comes to pass for me, I tend to look back and think on some of the best moments I have enjoyed. Some are with family and friends, personal and private. Others are those kind of stop and just watch things unfold. But all are the kind of events that I would not have missed for anything.

Take for example the scene above. It is a mid-winter afternoon as the sun is setting. Out in the prairie, north of the Sacramento River Delta. A somewhat rare undeveloped bit of the San Francisco Bay Area, if you like. If not for the railroad tracks and fences, a plot of land that is much as it has been for centuries. Undisturbed by plows, or human passing in many ways. Plants and a few animals living as they have for a long time.

And along comes this machine, from a time past. An obsolete technology. At the control of the men who operate it. As it comes to a stop, it lives and breathes. For a few minutes, it sits in this scene, as it once had during its working life. Now retired to a museum, it has resumed duties after sitting in storage for some 30 years.

In this moment, this image captured, it steps back in time. Back now a century to when it was new, bringing people and materials west, to their own adventures. With the tales of families, careers, loves and lives all influenced by that moment.

I only have this single image from that afternoon. The rest of it committed to memory. The sound of steam, exhausting as the air pump worked and the dynamo turned to create electricity for the headlight. Mixing with the sound of the grasses in the breeze, zephyrs at play.

That moment was something special. And I am glad I was there as it happened, as it will never come again. Just one of those times to watch and experience.

Thankful indeed.