Ramblings of an old retired guy.
This graffiti-marked ramp to nowhere really has an interesting story.
It marked the climb to a mile long steel-beamed trestle on east to the old Union Station, which probably had as much railroad traffic as the MCD in its glory days.
West Jefferson, at that time, was covered with the trestle, which looked somewhat like some of the Chicago El's of the '30s. The road itself was brickwork, and dodging the steel support beams could be a challenge.
The foot of 12th street [[now Rosa Parks) was a favorite summer spot for fishermen to drop their minnows and shads into the river in the hopes of nailing something other than a carp or sucker. As they leaned on the railings along the river, the trains 150 feet behind them were the only thing to remind them that they were not out in the boondocks somewhere.
Around 1960, I worked scout 2-1 for the DPD, which was that exact area. Around 3:30 a.m. on the graveyard shift in the summer, we'd head for the foot of 12th with a couple of "coffees-to-go" from the restaurant at Trumbull and Fort. We'd turn the volume up on the radio [[had no portables at that time) and check on the fishermen to see how they were doing. Whether they were black or white was of no difference; they were fishermen, and so were my partners and I. We'd shoot the shit with them, admire their catches, and maybe on a chilly night even go back to Fort and Trumbull and gather up some coffee to pass out to them.
My partners were Bob Aben and Al Blondale, two old guys with 20 years on the job. I was a rookie. They treated me as an equal, and we had a wonderful three years together. They've gone on to their rewards, but I wonder if they still walk the rail at the river and Rosa Parks.
I wonder if I will do the same some day.
