tiltjlp
PN co-founder
- Joined
- Jun 9, 2003
- Messages
- 3,403
- Reaction score
- 145
- Points
- 65
- Favorite Pinball Machine
- Flying Trapeze 1934
Growing up in the Cincinnati, Ohio neighborhood of Fairmount in the early 50's held many special delights. When I was only two or three, I noticed for the first time, that a trolley passed by our house numerous times a day. My father told me that it was the last old-time trolley still operating in town. While I don’t recall having ridden that wooden, open-air beauty, I remember I had some wonderful dreams about that colorful trolley.
But I did more than dream. Along with my friend Billy, whose dad worked for the Cincinnati Traction Company, I played a trolley driver. Billy’s father began giving us his out-of-date transfer pads, and we would pedal our trikes up and down the street, as if we commanded the Route 49 Fairmount/Downtown/Zoo Trolley. Billy even had a tricycle bell, which he would ring as he picked up his imaginary passengers. How I envied Billy that bell. Although I asked for one, I never did get a bell of my own.
All summer long, we rode our tricycles trolleys endlessly, to the amusement of neighbors and passersby. One of our regular stops was in front of Mouck’s Bakery, where the nice bakery lady would occasionally give us each a thumbprint cookie. Selected friends and neighbors would be offered a transfer, which were accepted with a smile and a chuckle. Art Brestle, who owned the candy store on the next street over, would pass us on his way home, and would ask if we were on schedule.
I did my best to stay on good terms with Billy, since without him as a friend, I would lose those nifty transfers. But when he got a transfer holder clip and a moveable tear-off bar from his dad, our friendship became one-sided. Now Billy could ride our route with his transfers clamped to his handlebars, while I had to keep my transfers shoved in my back pocket. With all those real bus driver accessories, Billy began bossing me around, and even tried to make me confine my route to his driveway.
Two weeks after I stopped playing trolley driver with Billy, that last trolley made it’s final run. While there might have been a newspaper story, there was no fanfare, nor ceremony, at the end of the route, which was only a block from my house.
One day, I saw a trolley bus instead of a trolley. While the bus has two poles, like the trolley, which received power from over- head wires, the magic was gone from my young life.
As I grew older, I started running errands to the local Kroger store, which was next to the trolley bus’s turnaround loop. For years, the old rails for that last old-time trolley laid exposed, giving me a false hope that they might return.
Of course they never did. In time I excepted, and even enjoyed riding the nice, new, shiny trolley buses. And when those were finally retired in favor of diesel power buses, I noticed, but I didn’t really give it a thought. But when those overhead wires were removed from the Fairmount landscape, I had to swallow away a lump in my throat.
The new fleet of orange and cream buses may have meant progress for the city and most of it’s people. For me, it marked the end of boyhood dreams, boyhood games, and boyhood innocence. History for me is in many ways the same as nostalgia; a holding on to the memories of a slower paced and often more colorful way of life.
But I did more than dream. Along with my friend Billy, whose dad worked for the Cincinnati Traction Company, I played a trolley driver. Billy’s father began giving us his out-of-date transfer pads, and we would pedal our trikes up and down the street, as if we commanded the Route 49 Fairmount/Downtown/Zoo Trolley. Billy even had a tricycle bell, which he would ring as he picked up his imaginary passengers. How I envied Billy that bell. Although I asked for one, I never did get a bell of my own.
All summer long, we rode our tricycles trolleys endlessly, to the amusement of neighbors and passersby. One of our regular stops was in front of Mouck’s Bakery, where the nice bakery lady would occasionally give us each a thumbprint cookie. Selected friends and neighbors would be offered a transfer, which were accepted with a smile and a chuckle. Art Brestle, who owned the candy store on the next street over, would pass us on his way home, and would ask if we were on schedule.
I did my best to stay on good terms with Billy, since without him as a friend, I would lose those nifty transfers. But when he got a transfer holder clip and a moveable tear-off bar from his dad, our friendship became one-sided. Now Billy could ride our route with his transfers clamped to his handlebars, while I had to keep my transfers shoved in my back pocket. With all those real bus driver accessories, Billy began bossing me around, and even tried to make me confine my route to his driveway.
Two weeks after I stopped playing trolley driver with Billy, that last trolley made it’s final run. While there might have been a newspaper story, there was no fanfare, nor ceremony, at the end of the route, which was only a block from my house.
One day, I saw a trolley bus instead of a trolley. While the bus has two poles, like the trolley, which received power from over- head wires, the magic was gone from my young life.
As I grew older, I started running errands to the local Kroger store, which was next to the trolley bus’s turnaround loop. For years, the old rails for that last old-time trolley laid exposed, giving me a false hope that they might return.
Of course they never did. In time I excepted, and even enjoyed riding the nice, new, shiny trolley buses. And when those were finally retired in favor of diesel power buses, I noticed, but I didn’t really give it a thought. But when those overhead wires were removed from the Fairmount landscape, I had to swallow away a lump in my throat.
The new fleet of orange and cream buses may have meant progress for the city and most of it’s people. For me, it marked the end of boyhood dreams, boyhood games, and boyhood innocence. History for me is in many ways the same as nostalgia; a holding on to the memories of a slower paced and often more colorful way of life.
