Shades of a bygone era

Seems to me that every day we lose a bit of graciousness in this country, a sort of soft slipping away of a kindlier, gentler way of living. I read with dismay that Amtrak is going to discontinue dining cars and fresh, cooked-to-order food on its trains.

I’m dating myself badly with these thoughts, but I grew up in the era of the trains. My father’s family lived in suburbs or Toronto, and every summer we traveled from Chicago to Ontario to visit. Some years we drove, but the best were the years we took the train. I slept in Pullman berths, where the porter made your seat into a bed and when you were safely tucked in, drew the curtain so you had privacy. Those berths were double-decker, but being young, I was never allowed on the top berth, and I usually slept with my mom. But I have clear memories of waking in the night when the train stopped at a station and looking out the window at the people gathered on the platform. In the mornings, you wakened, made your way to the loo, took care of business, and brushed your teeth. Then, scrunched in that berth, you dressed quickly so as to be ready for breakfast in the dining car.

Some years Dad splurged, and we had a bedroom, with a commode that masqueraded as a plush-covered seat right out in the middle of the roomette. You still had berths, and I still slept in the bottom. The porter would knock gently on your door to tell you it was time for breakfast.

Best of all in those trips was the dining car, with white linen tablecloths and napkins, and goblets of ice water, and porters in starched white jackets—do I really remember they also wore white cotton gloves. I was probably ten or under on those trips, so the food didn’t impress me so much, though everything I hear is that it was elegant and delicious. I remember being catered to by kindly men who seemed to anticipate my every wish. And I thought it was wonderful to sit at those tables, with my parents, and watch the landscape go by—probably by morning we were well into southern Ontario.

A few years ago, research for my Chicago novel, The Gilded Cage, brought me smack up against George Pullman, the man who invented the Pullman car and revolutionized railroad travel. Along with Marshall Field and Palmer Potter of the Palmer House Hotel, he was one of the robber barons of Chicago who believed in helping the poor—as long as the poor obeyed their rules.

In the 1880s, Pullman built a model community on Chicago’s far South Side, called appropriately Pullmantown, for his employees. This community of look-alike houses was luxurious in its day for its amenities—indoor plumbing, gas, and sewers. But residents had to follow a strict code of behavior. Pullman believed that fresh country air—no saloons, no red-light district, no labor agitators—would lead to happy contented workers. Residents paid rent to the company and shopped at the company store, worshipped at approved churches. Newspapers were not permitted, nor were public gatherings, speeches, and the like which might agitate people. Step out of line, and you lost your job and your home.

The panic of 1893 caused Pullman’s business to falter, so he cut jobs, laid men off, and raised rents. The result was predictable—the nationwide, bloody Pullman Strike of 1894. Sort of takes a bit of luster off the memory of my 1940s trips in Pullmans.

So these days, were supposed take the train and eat packaged food. Amtrak has lots of reasons it’s more practical, more convenient, will satisfy more customers. My daughter, who probably only has vague memories of an uncomfortable train trip to San Diego sleeping in freezing cold coach cars, assures me this is better. More practical, and people will get what they want. And I am left with visions of all those disposable dishes adding to our planet’s waste problems.

Me? I think I’ll just travel by Vonlane luxury motor coach from now on. Sure, it’s pre-packaged food, but attendants anticipate your every need, bring you pillows and blankets, serve you wine. And best of all? It’s always on time.