He Collects Trains

He Collects Trains

Jules Bosch

For generations the name Lionel was as closely

associated with Christmas as Santa Claus.

—    American Heritage Magazine

How much?” I impatiently asked the bespectacled man behind the counter of New Jersey’s largest train store, The Train Station in Mountain Lakes, disappointed at the value he gave my most cherished possessions: the electric train sets I’ve acquired since childhood.

The store was sprawling, with four separate areas displaying hundreds of electric trains and accessories. The symbolic Lionel sunset orange and royal blue predominated the palette— from the chrome-plated stools with tattered vinyl seats displaying the Lionel logo to the boxes on display behind the counters. Lionel trains ran in scenic layouts at different elevations in one area. In another, dozens of diesel and steam engines were lined up on glass shelves, motionless classic models, neatly arrayed side-by-side, all perfectly restored, awaiting their next owner. It was a train lover’s paradise, reminiscent of a long-ago Christmastime.

~~~

It was 1950 and I was ten. Back then, our mother would take my brother, Jim, who was a year younger, and me to Philadelphia from our home in South Jersey to see Santa Claus. Once we reached Center City, we headed for John Wanamaker’s, Philadelphia’s first department store, a venue with a bountiful history. As we advanced west along Market Street’s bustling, crowded sidewalks, it seemed we were striding, not walking. Our steps were long and quick, matching our excitement. Many stores along the busy thoroughfare featured brightly lit holiday displays with exciting, eye-catching items from furs to jewelry to toys, illuminating the rapt faces of adults and children who paused to peer through the shining windows. Christmas trips to the city became lifelong memories.

We entered Wanamaker’s at 13th and Market Streets and were met with seasonal music from the Grand Court pipe organ, beckoning bells, Christmas carolers, and the din of a department store crowded with bundled-up holiday shoppers.

During the Christmas Season, Wanamaker’s 8th-floor toy department transformed into an immense exhibition of electric rail cars a half-city block wide and nearly as deep. Displays were tiered across multiple levels, with at least a dozen trains racing in different directions. Black steam engines pulled complete freight sets of colorful rolling stock—from engine to caboose. Diesel engines pulled streamlined silver passenger and observation cars. One magazine at the time commented, “In 1950 there was hardly a freight unit rolling on the railroads of America that wasn’t also moving on the railroads of Lionel.” It was a genuine array of electric joy.

I stood in awe, enchanted by the trains barreling down the tracks. Sure, there were other popular sets then, but nothing could outshine Lionel. They were heavier, faster, more clamorous—and at the top of my gift list that year.

On Christmas morning, Jimmy and I eagerly dove into our gifts beneath the tree on our heated front porch. Windows on all three sides bore lighted wreaths, and our tree was set in the front corner, nearest the boulevard so that anyone could admire it from outside.

As torn wrapping paper swirled about, we hesitated briefly to admire each gift before setting it aside and rushing to unwrap the next. I didn’t notice any large boxes, though. There should have been a large box if trains were in the array of gifts. I feared the worst, and my Christmas morning turned from keen anticipation to despair—the one gift I had hoped for that I couldn’t wait to open was not there. I turned to some of my other gifts for solace. Maybe next year.

~~~

How much?” I asked again. I had heard the store clerk the first time, but I was annoyed that my collection wasn’t worth a small fortune. He assured me that all incoming inventories were meticulously reviewed, and after thirty minutes of looking through my three large overflowing boxes, he quoted me a figure one-third of the value I had expected. Sensing my disappointment, he began a lecture about the differences between electric trains that have been “played with” versus those that have been “collected.”

“You see,” he explained, “when your dad bought these trains, he expected they would be played with, and it is obvious they have been—vigorously.”

As my eyes lovingly took stock of the lot, I recalled an evening in the early 1980s when my wife and I were shopping for our first home. As we entered a four-bedroom Colonial owned by an Amtrak executive, I was immediately drawn to the living room fireplace. On each side were three spacious shelves displaying a classic Lionel train. The engines—a mix of steam, electric, and diesel—were in pristine condition. The most renowned was the Santa Fe Super Chief with its red, yellow, and silver Warbonnet paint scheme inspired by a Native American headdress. I felt a tug on my coat sleeve as I stood mesmerized by the vintage engines. “We’re here to look at the house,” my wife admonished, “not trains.”

On the second floor, I casually opened a door at the end of a dim hallway, and the lady of the house gently cautioned, “Oh, you can’t go in there.” Instantly, I thought she meant the room was off-limits for personal reasons. But it had nothing to do with privacy. As I peered into the room, I saw a wall of orange and blue boxes, uniformly stacked as though by a seasoned stonemason, from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, presumably from door to window. There were hundreds of boxes—a veritable vault of Lionel trains. I wished I could have opened just one box, maybe two or three. As I stood dumbfounded, the homeowner, sensing my surprise at discovering this unique trove explained, “Oh, those are my husband’s. Some people collect stocks and bonds—he collects trains!”

~~~

“For example,” he said, picking up an automatic coal dump car, “this unit has had the side gate replaced, but it’s been replaced with a black gate which doesn’t match the silver body.”

 “Yeah, but it still dumps coal,” I insisted.

As it had since 1950. That Christmas afternoon, I saw my father don his fedora and camel hair topcoat, then take the car to presumably join some drinking buddies for a holiday cocktail, which was his want in those days. My mother understood and tolerated my father’s troublesome habits and questionable friendships since most of his comrades were also WWI veterans.

Later, Dad’s car pulled back into the driveway, with his cohort Leo Garitty—a swarthy, broad-shouldered Irishman—in the passenger seat. They seemed jovial as they exited the vehicle. They had been drinking, no doubt, but something else was up. I watched from the porch as my father opened the trunk and wrestled a long box to Leo. My interest intensified. What could it be? Maybe something from his office, perhaps a gift for my mother. It couldn’t be a set of trains. All the stores were closed on Christmas Day.

Dad and Leo marched up the steps from the driveway onto the porch with much commotion, looking at me with mischievous red-faced grins. “HO-HO-HO!” bellowed Leo, grinning even wider as he awkwardly placed the box on the floor before me. “This is for you!” I hesitated momentarily. I was confused—afraid to believe. Then I noticed the blue graphic imprint “LIONEL TRAINS.” I didn't know where to begin as everyone looked on. To my astonishment, my father found a set of Lionel trains, heaven only knows where on Christmas Day.

Soon, a few of my father's American Legion colleagues appeared with a simple plywood platform and helped me set up the trains. As night fell on the porch, the Christmas tree lights and wreaths were shining, and the sounds of those nascent trains were taking root in my memories.

~~~

“I am sure it still dumps coal,” said the salesperson, “but the unit is no longer in its original condition, substantially reducing its value.” He was right, of course. He might have easily offered a dozen more “examples,” but I began to recognize the difference between my trains and those protected by a train collector—not a train lover like me. Yes, my trains had been played with and enjoyed.

Two years after that memorable Christmas, my father had passed away. My collection then remained in storage until the mid-70s, when my brother and his children began to set them up during the holidays. They added more units to the cluster, and once my wife and I had children, the trains came home. I added even more cars and set up the train for a few holidays, but my son and daughter never had my interest, and my collection went into storage again until I visited The Train Store.

Sixty-five years later, as I departed the store, I knew my beloved Lionel trains had reached the end of the line, so to speak. The collection wouldn’t bring me a monetary windfall, but all my trains—the 1950 set and those accumulated and enjoyed since—are still valuable, if only to me, in the countless boyhood memories they evoke.

In time, I gave the trains to a younger friend. He told me they were for his son—him, too, I suspected.