This is my story.
When I was around six my parents and I moved to live in my Grandfather's home after my Grandmother passed away. The home was an old farm house about a quarter of a mile from the train tracks. He had worked for the Southern all his life (he never had a drivers license, but took the train where ever he wanted to go).
When we moved in he was an old man and had been retired for a number of years. He had done a number of jobs for the Southern, but the one this story relates to is the fact the he had worked on a bridge gang for a number of years. The house was a big old thing, and early on I went exploring inside and out. There was an old log cabin (original house) and in that was a big trunk with a number of heavy duty pry bars and other tools, which they must have used to lay and move track. I still have a short digging shovel with the Southern logo on it. This, of course was a kid's dream to be able to play around with all this stuff!
But the most wonderful find was in an old upstairs room inside the house. One day I went up there and opened the door. It was full of junk, furniture, AND a special find. In a far corner was an old wooden crate that had been covered up with a bed spread. I removed the bed spread and open the wooden top.
Okay, time to guess. ????
It was a crate three quarters full of sticks of dynamite. As I later learned, back when my Grandfather was working, you used your back to get most things done. Machinery was sparse, and back then, if a tree or some other obstruction got in the way, you dealt with it the old fashioned way. You blew it up!
Well, this was a great find for a six year old kid. I really did not know exactly what it was, but I had a feeling it was something cool. At any rate, I grabbed a couple of sticks and took them downstairs about the same time my Mother came into the house. I only wish I could recall the exact words she spoke.
The story goes downhill from here. My marching orders were to stay out of that room, and the crate of dynamite was immediately removed from the house, never to be seen again (I thought). The following Saturday my Father and I were in the car and we drove to the dump to throw away the trash. It could have been serendipity or Dad was working with inside knowledge, but about twenty yards up from where we parked were two guys and sure enough, the crate was next to them. My Mother had evidently told them to get rid of it however, she must not have specified the how and where it was to be done. At any rate, their job was the disposal of said crate, and that they did. They began by putting a fuse in one end, lighting them with a cigarette, and one by one throwing them as far as they could down into the dump. It was great fun.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM !
Sure enough it was real dynamite, and the sound was unlike any thing I had ever heard to that point. Forget cherry bombs and M80's, this was real destruction. This was shake the ground noise. Can you imagine if you did that today? It is a great memory for me and I only wish I had been a little older and wiser, and could have asked my Grandad more about that crate of dynamite, and exactly what he used it for. He never talked about it.
As I have aged I spend more time remembering those early wonderful times. I have fond memories of him and still have his railroad watch. It is one of my most cherished possessions.
