The rails roll. The majestic train rumbles down the track. Grand Central Terminal’s mile-long gold chandeliers cast a golden light upon the train cars as it passes by. The men are silhouetted silhouettes among the glowing glass. They are pioneers, folks who could not afford cars but could not live without the wood, iron and glass that they would have needed for the early railroad.
Nine people died when the coal car they were riding in exploded. They were trapped below ground. They died below sea level. Firemen freed them. The train moved on.
Next stop, New York. The train would change hands. First the Pennsylvania Railroad, then the Central Pacific and finally the Alabama Railroad, the last of the narrow-gauge trains that ran past small, beautiful, Eastern towns. Then the tracks disappeared, the cars were sold, the rails replaced. And less and less people went, because they couldn’t afford to live there.
Because it is difficult to get close to the tracks there is only one way in, one way out, and it is not a safe one. It has been an uphill battle for many years to change things. There are people from every walk of life and every walk of life’s path that would like to see change, to make things right. It is a battle that isn’t going to be won anytime soon, but once you start something there is no turning back.