The conductor wakes us with some of the usual news. “We need to travel at reduced speed due to signal problems. We are going to be late folks. Sorry!” Next we hear the collective moans of the passengers, some of whom are quick to text the office that they will be late, again. “Remember NJ Transit only guarantees same day service,” says the conductor, hoping to lighten the moment. It’s a beautiful spring morning, flowers and trees are in full bloom, no rain, no snow, none of the usual suspects for delays. Yet here we are late again. The consolation is another 20 minutes of shut-eye.

For all the delays, the train is still the way to go, especially if you have a love of trains. My love began as a youth, usually around the holidays when my dad would set up the train set in our basement. Dad worked for New York Central at the time, driving and moving freight containers in the rail yard as they were off-loaded from the trains.

Naturally, our locomotive at home was a Lionel New York Central Legacy Ten-Wheeler Steam Locomotive #1258. I remember its jet-black look, cool to the touch and heavy in my small hands. Dad had set up a figure-eight on a sheet of plywood with the tracks screwed down to the board, all set up on a couple of saw horses. The wheels were just about eye level to my 10-year-old head. The main rod was a bright shiny steel arm that put the driver wheels in motion as power was applied. The power supply was a simple transformer that would have one red wire and one black wire twisted around the connector and twisted down with the screw nut. The power was delivered with a simple red-handled switch that moved from left to right.

Coupled to the locomotive naturally was the coal car with “New York Central” emblazoned on its side.

We had a few other cars that rode behind that, all followed by the caboose. One car held tree logs that usually fell off around the turns. Another was a car that carried any small toy we could fit in there—usually my green toy soldiers or various toy animals. The locomotive made a few sounds of its own with a flip of the switch, a clanging bell and the sound of a whistle as it sped up on the track. The real magic was in the liquid smoke. My Dad would put a few drops in the smoke stack of the engine. Smoke would puff from the stack and the headlight would come on as it rounded the rails.

Once it was all up running, the biggest kid in the room was Dad. My brother, sister and I would stand around the board as Dad ran the train. The smile on his face told us the story; he was having a great time, telling us, “This is for you guys!” True to form, when one of us did get behind the throttle, we would speed it up around the curve and cause the locomotive to derail. This was followed by someone getting yelled at, and the party was over for that day. I do believe we would all take our turns sneaking into the basement to run the trains alone, even Dad.

Fast forward 20 years later. I found the set that had been disassembled from the board, and everything was placed in a box and left in an attic. There were rusted track, some missing parts and the transformer, which seemed to be in good condition. In the bottom of the box, carefully wrapped in tissue and newspapers, were the cars of the train and the “New York Central” herself. She was still heavy in my grown hands. Just looking at her brought me back to all those wonderful times. Closing my eyes, I can see the smile on my Dad’s face in our Brooklyn basement. Happy Father’s Day in heaven, Dad!