Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits

The first time I saw Clarence Nockwood, the conductor aboard the Lake Erie Shoreliner, he was standing on the green-carpeted platform of New York’s Grand Central Terminal, adjusting the hands of his pocket watch. When he was satisfied that it matched the time shown on the station clock
exactly
, he looked up to see my mother, baby sister, and me in a desperate race against that clock to catch his train. Clarence was very particular about his Elgin watch, and some might say that he was obsessed with punctuality, but to him, being on time was a matter of pride. The Shoreliner, one of the famous express trains of the 1930s and ’40s that carried passengers in under twenty hours from New York to Chicago—a distance of 960 miles—was never as fast, famous, or luxurious as the
Twentieth Century Limited or the Broadway Limited, but it
was
well known for being on time. If the departure was scheduled for one-seventeen, the Shoreliner departed at one-seventeen—“on the dot,” as Clarence would say.

“All aboard!” cried Clarence as he slipped his watch into his vest pocket. “Lake Erie Shoreliner for Chicago! First stop, Albany! All aboard!”

My mother, dressed in a simple but stylish suit and modest heels, was running as fast as she could down the platform toward him, with my two-year-old sister, Jessica, cradled in one arm and a small suitcase in her other hand. A few steps behind them, I struggled to keep up, wrestling with a piece of luggage nearly twice my size.

“Wait, wait for us!” Mother shouted.

Grinning, Clarence helped us aboard and instructed a porter to help with our bags.

“Thank you … thank you,” Mother managed to say between breaths. “I thought for sure we’d missed it.”

Clarence checked the time on his pocket watch again and smiled at her. “Made it with thirty seconds to spare. You folks going to Chicago?”

“We’re going home to Ashtabula. My dad is the captain of a ship, the
Point Pelee
,” I bragged. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“I’m afraid not,” admitted Clarence. “I don’t know much
about boats and such. But if you want to know anything about trains, I’m your man.”

“It’s not a boat; it’s a
ship
,” I said. Knowing the difference between boats and ships was
serious
business in the Shipley household.

“And I’m sure it’s a fine ship, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me a second. Hold on, folks. Here we go!” announced Clarence, and at exactly seventeen minutes past one on May 22, 1938, the Lake Erie Shoreliner chugged out of Grand Central Terminal in New York City and began to snake its way north along the Hudson River.

The Great Depression was still going strong in 1938, but the Shipley family was “making do,” as Mother was fond of saying. We were more fortunate than most because Father—Captain Charles Shipley, that is—still had his job, but as a ship’s captain he was away at sea for weeks, and sometimes months, at a time. Normally, we would not have been able to afford a train trip to New York City, but Mother had recently inherited a small amount of money and a few pieces of not-very-valuable jewelry from a distant relative who lived there, and the relative’s lawyer, a fussy little man whose suit smelled of coffee and burnt toast, had insisted that she travel to New York in person to pick it up and sign the necessary papers. And so, Mother, Jessica,
and I made the trip without Father, whose ship was, at that very moment, steaming east past the Colchester Reef lighthouse in western Lake Erie.

Unlike the Twentieth Century Limited, the Shoreliner wasn’t quite an “all-sleeper” train. There were a few coach seats available near the onboard barbershop at the back of the club car, but Mother had decided to splurge (just a little), buying “section” tickets. They weren’t as comfortable or as private as a drawing room, but they were much less expensive.

“You never know when we might need that extra money,” she explained as we settled into our seats. “I know it’s a little snug, but it’s only for a little while. We’ll be back home before you know it, and you’ll get to sleep in your own bed later tonight.”

“Can I go back to the observation car?” I asked. “I want to watch the boats on the river.”

“Just be careful. Promise? Why don’t you take your new sketchbook and draw me a picture? Here, take this, in case you want to buy something to drink.” She handed me a nickel, which I tucked deep into my front pocket. “And make sure you’re back here in time for dinner. I’m going to treat you to a special meal tonight.”

Until my sister came along, I had been an only child for eight years, so I was used to entertaining myself. I started
out by wandering forward and peeking inside the combination mail and baggage car, which was directly behind the locomotive. A young porter bumped into me as I stood there wondering how I could get into the cab of the locomotive.

“You lost, young fella? Everything’s back thataway,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. “Just mail and baggage up here.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I said, sneaking one last peek into the car before turning around and heading down the narrow passageway of the two 8-1-2 sleeper cars at the front of the train. Like all sleeper cars, they got their name from the way they were set up. In this case, there were eight sections, one drawing room, and two compartments in each car. Our section was in the second of the two cars, and the curtain was still open when I went past. Mother didn’t notice—her nose was already buried in
Gone with the Wind
, which she had borrowed from the Ashtabula library before our trip and was reading for the second time in less than two weeks.

Next came the dining car, its tables all set with glistening china, crystal, and silver, waiting for the dinner crowd. As I left that scene behind, I stepped into the vestibule of the first of three roomette cars, and paused to admire the view down the shoulder-width hallway that seemed
to go on forever. Each car had twenty-two doors leading to twenty-two ingeniously designed miniature rooms, and after walking past sixty-six doors, I stepped into the bright lights of the club car. Although we were barely out of the station, it was already bustling, with all but two of the shiny leather seats filled and the bartender busy shaking drinks. The air was blue with cigarette smoke as men and women sipped cocktails, chatting and laughing noisily, and ignored me completely. It was my first time in a bar, and I lingered for a few minutes, mesmerized, before ducking into the winding passages of the three 4-4-2 sleeper cars, where the more well-to-do travelers were likely to be found. (The four bedrooms, four compartments, and two drawing rooms were different widths, giving the hallway twists and turns.)

And finally, at the back, where the caboose would be on a freight train, was the observation car. In addition to the observation area and lounge, it also contained the Commodore Perry suite—the most expensive accommodations on the Shoreliner. I roamed all the way to the rear of the car, past businessmen who glanced over their newspapers at me and excited young couples marveling at the sights of the city, and dropped myself into a backward-facing seat where I could watch the Hudson slide by as the train accelerated, rocking gently on the tracks.