Ahh Jill,
there were Electric Trains and then there was Stan Harbour's Electric Train. Oh my God, this was no ordinary J.C. Higgins two track, three car model, no, no. This was not only a Lionel three track, ten car ( inclusive of Coal, Lumber, Milk Barrel and the Car of all cars, the Crane car ), but even more than this, the train of trains was housed in what would become known to us as a Train Sanctum, The Harbour House.
To truly appreciate this story, one must first understand the environs of most Public Housing Projects. To the South were the never ending rail tracks that carried real rail cars with not so real dreams of the skinny malnourished Little Blue Boys that stared them down everyday. To the North, the ever present white homes with their verdant lawns that housed the absurdly rich middle class.
Of all the homes that stood out like white shiney pebbles in a sea of green, was the little home sitting just behind the Poplar Springs Methodists Church, and was reverently known to those with long long dreams as simply the Harbour House. Further understand, that to us, Christmas was invented just to be held at the Harbour House and even to this day as I look back, 1600 Pennsylvania ave. could never have held a candle to the Harbour House Holidays of yore. No sir, this is exactly where God intended for Christmas to be celebrated and celebrated it was. Sure, the Salvation Army did the best it could but it would take more than an army to destroy our vision of where and what Christmas was all about. I realize history speaks of the Holiest of Holy Christmas nights but suffice it to say there were six or seven skinny little project laden kids that did not get the message, for it was on the holiest of Christmas eves that the one God Given gift of all God Given gifts arrived at 2734 40th st. and that my friend was the address of THE HARBOUR HOUSE, the gift, of course, the Train of all Trains.
Did we enjoy our own little Christmas? Yes, but the Toy and Fruit stockings made from Orange Sack material and the community toys, whether they be rebuilt bikes, scooters or whatever were just nice little diversions compared to the Christmas that always took place at the Home of Homes.
As the months past, conditions were set in motion that eventually led to an invitation to visit the Harbour House and to view the train of trains housed in a sanctum.
To be invited to the Harbour House was no ordinary invitation, not on your life. There was heavy duty to be paid and in our minds we paid dearly, but that was the price of unbridled youth, yep, there were just certain things that you just had to prostitute yourself for and it was simply understood that The Harbour House was at the top of this very short list. Like I say, this my friend was no ordinary invitation and as a matter of fact, I would have to say, the first of these invitations is the basis of my belief in God today, yes, extremely powerful. Not only were these rare invitations in our mind sanctified, but they were issued on what appeared in our minds to be harsh and irrational conditions, but like I said, there just some things you had to accept.
First and certainly not the least, was that Stan, the Harbour's youngest son, be allowed, no matter his level of talent, to play ball with the rest of us at the local playground. For whatever reason, I had managed to ascend to the level of PTB - Powers That Be, mainly because of my blazing speed and uncanny ability in scaling the Bakery's fence and extricating from said bakery's truck, fresh cinnamon rolls that were enjoyed by all under the infamous Mimosa tree on almost a daily basis. Well, this new found power reaped great dividends when it came to choosing the make-up of our teams on the play yard. Now let me tell you, just as I had to tell my little friends, Stan Harbour was a round little piece of S---, so uncoordinated he couldn't pee in a straight line, but with a visit to the Harbour House at stake, that little bastard became the second coming of Willie Mays as for as this skinny poor boy was concerned.
The second condition and one that irked the Little Blue Boys just slightly less than the first was Mrs. Harbor, who surely must have been the reincarnation of Mary Todd Lincoln herself, despondent, angry and at all times ill. The conditions she insisted on were harsh and cruel. To enter, one had to surrender their dignity in several ways, and first and foremost was the dress code. If one was wearing any cut off jeans that seemed soiled more than three days, they were immediately turned away. All frogs, snails, slingshots, spitball making equipment and medal log roller marbles had to be surrendered at the door without question. God forbid one loose metal log roller get loose, bounce upon the electrified rails and short out the train of trains, shutter at the thought. Once these harsh and almost unbearable conditions were met and all dignity surrendered, our group of skinny little beings were told to follow the anointed Stan down to the infamous Train Room. Like I said before, this was no ordinary train room, no this was a true sanctum, for this train and it's track rested not on a wood or linoleum floor but on something called a Persian rug, now I know today that it in all probability, it at some time decorated the halls of Sears prior to it's purchase, but to the skinny little boys in the sanctum, it seem to have come from the Shah himself. Outside of the imperial nature of the flooring, the thing that that impressed me the most was the unadulterated silence that seem to further reinforce the godliness of what we were about to witness. Now, once allowed into this holiest of places, nothing was to be said, nothing was moved and once your position was taken, you were psychologically molded into place until you were told to quitely leave. Having taken our places, we were immediately riddled with the fear of not being able to complete the journey because of some transgression spotted by the ever present Mrs. Harbour. Successfully getting through that fear, we are subjected to the spectacle of seeing the little s--- transforming himself to something akin to Napoleon as he took his position and sat his fat ass behind the holiest of instruments, the TRANSFORMER, the power source to God's gift of gifts. Trust me, nothing in my young life quite equaled the anticipation welled up inside of me as Stan moved his meaty little hands closer and closer to what must be the power source of the Universe and more importantly the source of power that would in a moments notice send this unbelievable piece of machinery into action. With all of us in stoic positions, skinny elbows digging into just as skinny thighs and mouths agape, the train slowly moved toward and disappeared under it's first obstacle, the vast expanse of the Nougahide Sofa. The disappearance of the carrier of our dreams was almost more than we could bear. Thanks to patience and an unbending faith the toy of our dreams would always reappear with seemingly more smoke, whistle and light than when it entered. Each reappearance would somehow signal the eternal presence of this toy of all toys and just as significant the eternal nature of our invitations. Well, I would like to say that was the case and that we went back time and time again, and yes we did go back, but much to our dismay, it would be our last. On our next visit, unbeknownst to all, for whatever reason, we just had to strike it up to black mail, Johhny Jumper, the project hellian had received his first and what would prove to be his only and our last invitation. After entering and having sat for several minutes watching the heavenly toy take us in our dreams to hinterland after hinterland, our deep thoughts and dreams were shattered by the screams of Mrs. Harbour for Stan to come at once and rectify some transgression apparently committed before our arrival. To most that had made this sanctified journey before, this was just a stronger signal that all code and regulations be followed even more stringently, especially with the absence of Napoleon himself. Well, Johnny Jumper, being himself and unfortunately not schooled in the rules of the Harbour House and seeing an irresistible opportunity to test the power of not only our dearly beloved toy but the train Gods as well, suddenly and without warning extricated from the adjacent book case, the M and I did say M, not the I and not the E, no, by God he just had to grab the biggest book I had ever seen in my life, the damn M encyclopedia, and not being satisfied with the sandy gentle sloping grade constructed by Mr. Harbour, and with one fell swoop planted the world's largest book under the sanctified tracks of God's Toy itself, the Train! My God, before any of the frightened in his audience could blabber a word, the little train was suspended and screaming for it's dear life and appearing as if hung from the Golden Gate. Well by the time the smoke from the screaming engine met the smoke from the burning transformer, Napoleon Stan and his Napoleonic mom had reentered the now smoked up arena with the sounds of skinny shrieking heart broken kids and the unmistaken gleeful excitations of one Johnny Jumper resounding off the walls. Well, I don't have to tell you, the feet of six skinny project kids never even by a long shot touched in any way that Persian carpet as we exited for the last time, the late great Harbour House. I always wondered what happened to our pet frogs, snakes, snails and marbles and little arsenal, but needless to say, we had a hell of a lot less errors in Right Field.
Cheers,
Voltaire |
