A Near Run Thing

 From the Syracuse Post-Standard, Sun., Feb 17, 1946

 Jim Jackson gazed from his kitchen window, early one February morning in 1903. and remarked: 'She's comin' from the northwest an' I'll bet we're goin't to have an old ripsnorter. When you see the snow comin' down slantwise that way, you can get ready fer a storm."

The wind howled around the big white house on the hill, across the tracks from Mallory depot, and the soft flakes were falling faster and faster. And, as I struggled down to the depot for the morning passenger train, it was getting worse by the minute. No passengers emerged from, or boarded No. 7 that morning - and that was the last train we saw for some time. Clayt Fellows, section boss, showed up for a brief survey of the situation and then he and his men holed up in the section house to await developments.

All morning and afternoon the storm increased in fury and the uproar of its mighty travail was almost deafening. My telegraph wires had been unworkable since late morning, and on the road between Richland and Salina, I had no means of knowing their position, or condition.

About 4 p.m. I got my switch lamps ready and started south with two of them. One was to be placed at the junction of Corbett's spur, and the other on the sidetrack switch stand. The wind was blowing ferociously, the snow was swirling in such compact clouds that it was impossible to see a single foot in any direction, except at intervals, when the storm lulled for a few brief moments.

I was walking down the center of the main track, when suddenly from out of nowhere came a mental urge, intuition, "hunch," or whatever you care to call it, that I should step across to the adjacent side track. Almost involuntarily I did so - and I had taken not one step from my new location, when a snow plow, pushed by two engines whizzed by on the track I had just left! All I got was a slight addition to the storm's mighty roar, a ghostly flash, a shadowy, fast-moving mass - and the show was over!

Must I admit I was a bit weak at the knees for the next few minutes? Sam Hollingsworth, one of the engineers on the plow, said afterward that he got just one glimpse of me as i stepped over to the siding. He claimed he could sense, by my leisurely manner that I had no idea there was anything behind me. And he swore mightily and oft it was so close, that had I been two inches larger at the waist, the snow plow flange would have hit me! Jim Jackson was sitting in his big chair by an east window, and during a break in the storm he saw the plow bearing down and apparently running right over me. Grabbing his coat and cap, he ran down the hill "faster," as he said, "than any 72-year-oldster ought to travel." Plodding down the side track, he finally glimpsed a form ahead of him and yelled lustily, but I didn't hear him. I went on and set my lamps, and returning, met him.

We went back to the depot, and my day's work being done, we went up the hill for supper. As we left the station, however, Jim's wife, "Car'line" came plowing through the snow in eager search for us.

After supper we sat rather quietly in the big cheery living room, discussing my near-adventure and listening to the wild hullabaloo outside. Finally, Jim looked at me with a speculative eye, and remarked: "Y'know, I don't hold, generally, to the use of liquor, but it seems to me, Bert, that in memory of a dumb out-an' -out miracle, we could do worse than to celebrate your good luck with a nice hot toddy - that is, providin' of course that we had anything to make it with!"

The old rascal knew that I had a bottle of Tucker's rye up in my room. I used to get a reasonable supply of that famous brand at Garlock's liquor store, across from the old New York Central depot, whenever I came to Syracuse. Perhaps the reason my supply was a bit low at that time, was due to the fact that I hadn't been in town for some time!

Anyway, we had our hot toddies - one apiece - and, although Car'line sipped hers in very small portions and with a most deprecatory manner, as if she did it under protest, she left no final dregs in her glass. Jim related again, in full detail, the story of his one and only extended journey beyond the confines of Hastings- a two weeks sojourn in Oswego on jury duty, 'way back in the '70s. It had been a great adventure for him and he seldom failed to recount it, exhaustively, whenever he could induce any listeners to stay within hearing distance, long enough for the telling.

One of his favorite episodes of the occasion was about the waitress at the old Adams House in Oswego, who, at the end of each dinner, came to the tables and chanted: "Apple, mince, cherry, raspberry, custard an' punkin," to which outburst, Jim claimed he always replied, "I'll take a small hunk of each!"

"And," he used to chuckle, "I always got 'em, too!"

Then, when the yawns became alarmingly manifest, Jim arose from his big morris chair, knelt beside it; and, while we reverently bowed out heads, he offered thanks in his own sturdy and unflowered tones - thanks for the preserving hand of the Father, which had been held over me that day...And, folks, when he had finished, I felt myself nearer to the Throne of God than I had ever been before!

So - a mighty storm howled and raged outside; the force of nature seemed to be at war; but here, within, was peace and comfort and thankfulness and good fellowship. Perhaps just a tiny preview of heaven - who may know? Jim and his Car'line have slept for, now, these many years; but I never journey by the big white house on the hill without thinking of that day, long ago, when death passed so closely by me, that I could feel the brush of his ebony wing.