I recon at the time I might have been all of eight when this happened. It had been a hard year; you know one of those years when you save your money from your paper route to buy that beautiful metallic blue and chrome Schwinn bike that was in the window of the hardware store; then two short weeks before Christmas it disappeared!
One of those years when your little brother breaks the kitchen window playing catch; and you get blamed for it! Then you have to pay for it out of your precious bike money; sometimes a fella’ just can’t win.
Well anyway, Papa was working at the round house for the Chicago, Burlington, & Quincy railroad at the time as a engine hostler and with the war on both in Europe and the South Pacific he was always busy keeping the steam engines serviced. I would stop at the round house after school and watch as those big Mountain and Northern class monsters would come chuffing like gentle giants onto the turn table to get turned for servicing.
Don’t tell anybody, but I got to ride in the cab once in awhile too; it was a hoot! I got to know all the guys Papa worked with; there was Gus and Murphy, the steamfitters and Roy the electrician, even Mr. Simmons the “Super”. He liked me ‘cause I never left the door open when I visited like some of the guys did.
Anyway, where was I, oh yes I remember now. It was a hard year and we had got lots of snow. In fact one guy said we had so much snow that the trains were having a hard time getting mail through from Omaha to our little town of Creston. I never paid it much attention with school and all until one night I came home and Mama told me that Papa was working a snow plow train west out of town to clear the tracks.
It was way past my bedtime when I faintly remember hearing him stomping off the snow on the back porch and come in the back door. Mama was so glad to see him that she cried and I really didn’t understand that at the time, but I do now. Sometimes bad things happen on the railroad. I hurried around my paper route the next morning wanting to ask him about the snow but he was long gone by the time I got back to eat my oatmeal and scoot off to school.
Well December 23rd. rolled around and as you can imagine I was one very disappointed eight year-old. Like I said some no good pole cat had snitched my bike from the hardware store and Mr. Sikes, the kindly silver haired store owner told me that he didn’t have any more in stock! With the war effort on getting another one was nigh to impossible!
Well I moped around after school that day and on a whim I stopped in at the round house to discover that there was a new O-5a class Northern just in from the shops in Burlington. My sadness vanished in a flash as I walked around the gleaming black machine and stared in admiration at the gray drivers and the white sidewall wheels. Why even standing still she looked like she was moving.
I could smell the blend of fuel oil, coal smoke, and lubricating oil mixed with grease riding on the heat radiating from the huge firebox that hung just above the rear four wheeled trailing truck. She was like a living, breathing creature; straining at the leash to be let loose on those rails. Thinking back now I think I was in love and really didn’t know it!
Well I backed off a few yards peering up into the vestibule cab hoping for a glimpse of the mysteries it might hold when suddenly two strong, lean hands grabbed me. I floundered for several moments as the male voice behind me decreed, “Easy there young man, you about fell into the service pit.”
I caught my breath as my heart started to pound in my chest. Turning my head I found myself poised on the edge of the adjoining stall’s service pit and that was a seven foot drop. Quite a fall for an eight year old, believe me. I turned my head the other way to discover a white haired rotund man with a full flowing beard and mustache wearing bibs and a well starched engineer’s cap smiling down at me.
His rich blue eyes sparkled with delight as he asked, “Aren’t you Howards Anderson’s boy?” I nodded in mute awe not sure just what to say as the man dropped to one knee and smiled warmly extending a well calloused hand as he introduced himself, “I’m Chris, I just brought 5619 in from Burlington. What do you think of her?”
My eyes went wide in delight; this was no ordinary man, his broad shoulders and lean waist were those of a man that controlled the throttle on that Northern! He was Sir Lancelot and Captain America all wrapped into one. He was everything I dreamed of as I looked back at the gleaming machine and stammered, “You, you drive her?”
The man chuckled as he stood then waving a gloved hand at the 4-8-4 wheel configured locomotive and confessed, “Well if anyone can drive a locomotive son. She’s a work of art and has the soul of a real lady, you treat her right and she’ll make sweet music for you.”
I was enthralled, totally under the spell he was weaving as I stared at the ladder that accessed the cab almost fifteen feet above the floor. I held my breath as he seemed to read my thoughts then spoke the words I wanted to hear so desperately, “Care to take a gander up in the cab?”
I think my feet were moving at full throttle even before the words were out of his mouth. I stretched my dungaree clad leg up to that first step and grasping those hand rails I launched myself upwards like a kid possessed! My legs might be a bit short, but they seemed to fly as I assaulted the ladder towards my goal. I was all too aware that Chris was right behind me, I could smell his Old Spice cologne like Papa wore to church on Sunday. Gee I miss that smell now days; it reminds me of a time when Fathers were dad’s; not buddies! Oh yeah back to the story.
I stepped into the cab staring at the mass of levers and red painted valves that covered the back head of the boiler having no idea what they all controlled but that didn’t matter at the moment. My eyes found the leather padded seat on the right side of the cab and that was the place where Chris sat to control the awesome power that this machine was capable of producing!
One instant I was looking at it and the next Chris grasped my lean waist and I was enthroned on the plush leather looking down that long gleaming black hood towards the closed double doors of the stall that accessed the through truss turntable. Suddenly I was not in the roundhouse, instead in my imagination I was thundering down the rails. The floor vibrating under my feet as the pistons drove the huge Northern like a black bullet faster than a mile a minute.
I looked up at him and mouthed a silent “WOW!” He grinned seeming to understand my vision then he leaned over and touched a lever that hung from the roof of the cab as he said, “Throttle.”
I nodded in total awe then listened carefully as he showed me the firebox and the brakes. Then he winked and turned on the bell as I grinned and peeked out the cab window watching for Mr. Simmons. I didn’t want to get in trouble after all this effort to get up here.
I watched Chris reach for the whistle cord and he gave it a slight tug, letting just a small chirp of sound escape the whistle. I giggled as the low three note sound wafted the air creating the sweetest music this side of heaven as he grinned and winked at me. I was in heaven; there was no other way to put it, even if some cotton picker had stolen my bike!
I don’t recall just how long I sat there soaking up the smells and sounds around me but I was just climbing down from the cab when my Papa came around the corner of the tender and spotting me he grinned knowingly as he informed me it was time to go home. I nodded and pointed to the cab as I chirped, “Dad this is my new friend Chris. He’s the engineer on 5619; she just came in from Burlington.”
Papa’s steel gray eyes gleamed, his weathered face crinkling in a soft understanding smile as he inquired, “Who did you say son?”
I turned and stared in bewilderment finding no one in the cab or on the ground as I insisted, “Where did he go, he just was up in the cab with me! Honest papa, he was!”
I started searching only to have my Papa kindly urge me towards the door for the three block walk home; insisting we not be late for supper. I looked up at him noting the perplexed expression on his face and I wondered what could be bothering him as we trudged through the falling darkness. My Papa was a somber man but this was unusual, even for him, something was wrong.
It wasn’t till later that night when I was tucked under the warm covers of my bed that I heard my folks talking at the kitchen table and learned why Papa was so perplexed.
“I ‘m telling you Lizzie, Josh spoke to Chris today; I asked the boy to describe him on the walk home and he was correct; right down to the watch fob.” My Pa declared soberly.
Mama’s voice was filled with her usual gentleness as she retorted, “Now Howard you know as well as I do that can’t be. Chris was lost three years ago on Christmas Eve in that train accident outside Red Oak.”
My father reiterated, “Then how can my son describe the man having never met him? My son has seen a ghost my dear wife; or Chris K. Ringle is still very much alive! You know as well as I do that his body was never recovered and he saved that entire passenger train at the risk of his own life!”
I lay there in stunned disbelief as I stared up at the ceiling. Chris was no ghost; I had shook hands with him and you sure couldn’t smell a ghost’s cologne! My Papa was wrong, but how could I prove it?
Part Two
I was trudging through the cold winter wind delivering my papers the next morning as I tried to get my eight year old mind around the facts involving what had actually happened at the round house. No one had witnessed my conversation with Chris and yet the man had without a doubt saved me from a nasty tumble into the open service pit.
I might be only eight but I had read a few paperback detective books and by golly I was going to play Dick Tracey and find out just what had happened that night three years ago tonight. I don’t remember much of the day at school but as soon as I was out at three I made a beeline for the depot. I had questions to ask and there was only one guy I knew that would know and tell me the details of what I needed to know; Smittey in the switch tower!
I had to wait for the east bound manifest freight train to rumble through town before I could scramble up the steps of the tower but when I opened the door I found Smittey pouring himself a cup of hot jo. Smittey was an old Irishman that was the closest thing I had to a grandpa, having lost mine right after the great war in France, before I was ever born.
Smittey was a lean weathered old road hostler that spoke with a rough rich brogue and it got heavier if he was agitated in the least. From the look on his face I knew he had heard something as he cocked his head to one side and quipped, “Neo laddie whe are ye doin up here on such a dey as thes?”
I leaned against the closed door and shoving my hands in my pockets of my sheep skin coat I replied, “Smittey, you have always told me the truth so I need to ask you about somebody.”
The Irishman sat back in his old oak chair and glancing at the wall clock gave me an assessing look before he insisted, “ I hear ye be a askin about Mr. Ringle are ye?”
I nodded and the man indicated the other chair in the small open space which I gladly took since it was close to the oil stove that radiated the blessed heat that cut the winter chill. The man paused to take a sip of the scalding black brew he preferred. Thinking back I surmise it was to sort out his thoughts more than to slack his thirst. I waited, my feet swaying back and forth as I observed him.
“Tis a sad storey ye be a asking for lad, but a finer Godly man ye no could find in Chris. The man was a gentleman, pure and true and many a foine lady set her eyes on him but he had ne time for such things. E was the best engineer on this division, E knew every switch and crossing tween ‘ere and Lincoln. He knew every locomotive on the roster and how te get em to sing for ‘im.
T’was a nasty night, blowing snow and colder than I care to remember; I was ere workin and heard the tale from the road super. There was a troop train bound from Denver and they were behind by about two hours. Chris had taken on water at Council Bluffs and had a clear board to Red Oak. He was hoggin a 4-8-2 heavy and had a full head o steam working up the grade when the signal man ahead gave him a red light.
Chris eased his lady deown and waited as he should, the brakeman set out flares as was usual. But then an air line blew and the man had to make a repair. Suddenly in the distance there was the sound of a whistle of another train. That’s when things went bad, the brakeman had an accident, fell off the last car and broke his leg.
Without any regards for his own safety Chris grabbed a lantern and ran back to flag it down. The brakeman told us that the last time he saw Chris he was waving down the double headed Mikes. The trainman filled in as fireman so they could get the train into Red Oak, but ne one ever saw im again.”
I sat there in silence as I mulled the account over in my mind. Something didn’t measure up and Smittey cast me a wary look as he demanded, “Ye ave a bit te share wi me Lad?”
I nodded and recounted what had happened in the roundhouse as he listened carefully. “So ye be sayin tha ye met Chris. What was he wearin Lad?” he inquired.
I told him and the man’s eyebrows went up as he nodded, “Aye that be wha he was wearin aright. Ye know lad, ye not the first mon te see Chris. Some say he’s an angel, that comes back every Christmas te elp those in need. That the good Lord lets him return to do the deeds of kindness for poor folks.”
I looked out the window watching the 0-8-0 goat working the yard then asked, “Have you ever seen him?”
There came a gleam in the old man’s eyes as he replied;”There are nights in the middle of the worst blizzards when I ave seen his broad shoulders lumbering up and down the station platform as if making sure that his passengers all got home safe. But if ye ever say such a thing I’ll be a denying it.”
I jumped from the chair convinced now that what I had seen and felt was quite real and seeing the look in my eyes Smittey waved a finger at me. “Now I’ll no ‘ave ye going off tellin folk what ye saw. Seeing and talking wi an angel tis no light thing lad. Ye best ask the good Lord how ye should act. There be a reason for this, mark me words.”


I left the tower and crossing the tracks moseyed my way home pondering the old grizzled Irishman’s words of wisdom. I was turning down Cherry Street when I cmade a startling conclusion which stopped me in my tracks. I was indeed blessed, in more ways than I could even begin to count. I had no family overseas fighting on some jungle island or in Europe.
My father had a good job, he was kind and understanding. He loved me unconditionally and my mother’s gentle kindness and wisdom was a true treasure. Together we had us a home filled with warmth and love.
What was a bicycle in comparison to that? I had worked all summer for something that I really didn’t need! Stomping the snow off my boots on the back porch I slipped them off going in the back door and went up the back steps to my room where I stood looking out the window down across the street. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turning my head I blinked my eyes in shock seeing Chris step out from behind the trees just down the street.
He smiled up at me and waved then without a word disappeared again as quickly as he had come. I stood there in bewilderment wondering why he had done this, when Smittey’s words came back to me, “The good Lord sends him back each year to do acts of kindness for those in need.” It was if a sudden burst of sunlight erupted in my soul.
Turning I grabbed my coat from the bed and opening my closet door plucked my leather pouch that contained my hard earned bicycle money from the nail it hung on. I then knew what I had to do! Quietly I padded down the back stairs and managed to slip out the back door knowing I had to hurry before Papa got home. After all I would be hard pressed to explain to him why I wasn’t home helping Mama set the supper table.
My boot clad feet seemed to fly down the alley behind the houses as I hurried on my way. The street lights were casting a pale golden glow across the fallen snow as I crossed the street and turned south. The old clapboard house sat back off the street, a single light glowing in the kitchen window behind the threadbare curtains.
Mrs. Morris was a widow, her two sons were in the military overseas and they sent her money to live on, but everyone knew she was barely getting by. Suddenly inside everything fell into place and I knew this was right. Hadn't the wise men given gifts that first Christmas?
I trudged up the sidewalk and carefully easing the screen door open I slid the leather loop of my money bag over the inside doorknob. Taking a deep breath I reached up and turned the bell then dashed away as fast as I could run, she never need know who had sent her this gift.
There was no school the next day but the Register still had to be delivered. I found them tied in a bundle as usual on the front porch and bringing them inside I folded them before tucking them into my paper bag. Once done I grabbed a oatmeal cookie to curb my hunger pangs holding it as I donned my heavy coat.
Shoving one side of the big cookie in my mouth I pulled on my mittens, wrapping my scarf around my neck against the frigid cold and set off knowing I didn’t need to hurry as I didn’t have to go to school. I went about my usual routine delivering my first two papers munching on the soft chewy cookie when a familiar figure fell into step beside me; I froze glancing up to observe him.
Chris was wearing a heavy leather trench coat and a stocking cap over his white hair, his hands stuffed in his pockets against the cold. His eyes were bright and filled with warmth, his rosey cheeks aglow as he looked down at me with such joy that it filled my heart with never before feelings of well being. I smiled at him and quipped, “I didn’t think angels got cold.”
Tipping his head back he laughed with pure delight and patting my shoulder he chuckled demanding: “And who told you that, Smittey?” I shook my head and turned to toss the folded paper on the next porch as he continued, “I saw what you did last night Joshua. You did something wonderful that I can’t even begin to explain to you, but someday you will understand and when you do? You’ll know what the true meaning of what Christmas really is.” I paused and looking up stared at where he had been standing, he had simply vanished; his footprints in the snow ending next to me!


It spent the day listening to Jack Armstrong on the radio in the dining room over KMA radio in Shanendoae along with helping Mama and my pesky little brother Matt decorate the Christmas tree. It was getting close to supper time and I was just helping Mama set the dinner table when the phone rang in the living room and I heard Mama answer it.
She summoned me after she hung up and told me that Papa was going out again on another snow plow run. I had to take him his supper at the round house before the special left in an hour. I was bolting for the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me, eager at the prospect of being around the locomotives again.
I bundled up in my heavy coat and boots making sure my mittens were in the pocket. I remember entering the kitchen that was again filled with the wonderful smells of Mama’s delicious cooking. She was a wonderful mother; she always had homemade cookies in the jar and made Papa’s favorite pecan pie at least once a month along with her homemade cinnamon rolls.
Looking back now I remember those days fondly and miss her so very much. I watched her slender hands tenderly pack up the hot food in towels to keep them warm for Papa; hot fried chicken, flakey biscuits, a fresh baked potato with butter and a thermos of hot coffee.
She opened the pantry door and lifting down the picnic hamper she carefully and lovingly packed it. The turning to me with a warm smile she kissed my cheek telling me to be careful and hurry home. I hustled out the door into the softly falling snow knowing Papa was no doubt hungry.
Minutes later I pushed open the side door of the stout brick structure and stepped into the warm interior that was illuminated with bare electric lights and filled with the sounds of male laughter. Pushing the door closed against the bitter frigid wind I trudged down the length of a high wheeled 4-6-2 S-2 Pacific class passenger engine and around the end of the tender to find my father sitting by the desk waiting me.
The other men on the crew were swapping stories and eating sandwiches in preparation for the run west from town. Handing off the basket I paused looking for some excuse to hang around a bit. After all who likes doing dishes when you have a little brother that owes you? I stalled my departure as long as I could then heard Gus suggest, “There’s a B-1 Mountain two stalls over. Just came in about an hour ago, go ahead son.” I was off in a flash as they chuckeled at my eagerness. Rounding the end of the locomotive I froze in mid step.
I heard it as clear as a bell, there was no mistaking that sound! It was the sweet notes of 5613's steam whistle just outside the engine house. I spun about and sprinted out the side door to see it. Stepping out into the darkness I discovered it was snowing even harder now as my blue eyes searched quickly for the approaching locomotive.
The headlight pierced the swirling crystals as I heard the rumble feeling the earth vibrate under my feet as I huddled against the wall of the roundhouse. I stared at the siding a few yards away as the huge Northern class locomotive clattered noisily past into the night.
The train slowed and stopped with the Railway Post Office car mere yards from where I stood transfixed. There was the muffled sound of the side door rolling open and I shielded my face to go wide-eyed when I discovered Chris standing there in the lit car wearing the dark blue uniform of a conductor.
He smiled at me broadly then reaching behind him he rolled into view a familiar blue and silver bicycle. I stared in shock as he eased the Schwinn to the ground beside the car and declared,” Merry Christmas Joshua and thanks for your help.”
Even as he grabbed the door handle I saw the bike start to tip and without even thinking I dashed forward grabbing it, pulling it clear as the whistle sounded in the distance. The train eased into motion smooth as silk and instinctively I waved not at all surprised to see a familiar white bearded figure wearing red and white standing on the rear observation platform waving farewell as it faded into the rapidly falling darkness.
Even as I stood holding the gleaming bicycle in my mittened hands I knew that I had learned the most important thing about Christmas. It’s not what you get that counts; it’s what you give!
* * *
I was walking down the worn brick platform at the station in Creston a few years back on Christmas Eve, the snow was drifting down in big flakes when I heard a strange sound behind me. Turning I saw in the shadows cast by the glass ball lamps the image of a man in bib overalls.
Hunched over with age he wore a crisp starched engineer’s cap as he shuffled away into the darkness. I merely smiled; I didn’t need to take a second look. I knew who it was; looking up into the star lit sky I whispered, “ Merry Christmas Chris.”


Glossary of railroad term;
Northern- A 4-8-4 wheel configured locomotive used for fast freight/passenger service.
Mountain- A 4-8-2 wheel configured locomotive used for long haul passenger service.
Pacific- A 4-6-2 wheel configured passenger locomotive built for high speed.
Hostler/Hogger/hogging- Railroad term used to designate an engineer or one that operates the locomotive.
Goat- A switching locomotive with smaller wheels for greater pulling power.