In the fall of 1924, Dad and Mother decided to take a trip back east to Chicago so Dad could visit his siblings, nephews, and nieces. This was heralded by us kids almost as much as Summer Vacation. Of course, much had to be done. First, our clothes had to be selected, and I’ll never forget standing in Silverwoods in Los Angeles on a very warm day in November while I was introduced to such novelties as heavy wool overcoats, heavy wool sweaters, heavy wool caps, gloves, mittens, galoshes, and all the other accoutrements of the cold, wet Eastern climate. This completed, reservations were made, then came packing and all the final arrangements. One of Mom’s friends received the key to the house, and away we went. We arrived at the Union Station about mid-morning, where we saw seven or eight trains all ready to leave, pulled by huge engines. We were going on the Santa Fe, aboard the Chief. There was nothing finer west of Chicago. 

As far as the kids were concerned, we were popping around like corks on home brew bottles. Excitement all over the place. There were magazines to get, newspapers and bags of candy to buy. Mom and Dad were besieged with questions. When, what, where, who, why, and a dozen other forms of extracting information. The great green coaches were strung out along the track for miles—or so it seemed—but of course they weren’t. “Is that our train?” “When do we get on?” “Which is our seat?” “Where is our car?” There was no end to the ceaseless barrage of questions.

I had been on a train before—the Union Pacific, when we came west in 1915—and I could remember parts of the trip. And later, Mother had taken me with her to visit my grandmother in Santa Barbara. So it wasn’t all exactly new to me, but the ride to Santa Barbara was easily done in an afternoon on the Southern Pacific. This was a little different. The locomotives were enormous. They were steaming and grumbling like they had indigestion and would just as soon get on the road.

Finally Dad assembled the gang, counted noses, gave us our instructions, and we proceeded to the train. The conductor glanced at the tickets, gave Dad a car number and pointed toward the end of the train. Now a porter took the tickets. “Yes sir, this is your car, watch your step up and turn to the right.” Mom was helped aboard, then came the kids, and finally Dad, making sure we were all together.

We walked down the corridor to our stateroom number. The door was open, so in we went. Having explored the stateroom and the adjoining restroom, we were assembled by Mom and Dad who laid out the ground rules for the trip. First we were each assigned a seat, then told to be quiet, sit still, and don’t use the toilets while in stations or during stops in towns.

I saw a white button between the windows and reached over and pressed it. Almost at once, a porter appeared at the door. “Did you ring, sir?” he asked. Dad looked around from hanging up his coat and hat. “Ring? No, I didn’t ring.” The porter’s eyes moved and came to rest on me. “Sorry,” said Dad, and tipped the porter. And to me he gave a warning that the button was off limits—it was taboo. As I sat at the window, the train slowly started pulling out of the station. It seemed as if everything else was moving, except us, till we began to pick up speed. We were on our way to Chicago.

The first stop of any noteworthy significance was Albuquerque, New Mexico. We arrived just before breakfast. Dad wanted something from the station, so we had our first hop off the train and into our first snow. About six inches had fallen during the night, and we were really thrilled to see and touch it.

Over near the depot we had another new experience, a real group of genuine Navajos. I had seen blacksmiths work iron, but this was the first time I had ever seen jewelry made. An Indian silversmith worked his silver into a pattern and then studded the silver with turquoise. Dad let us close a few deals with them and we bought an assortment of bows and arrows, as well as some other Indian pieces. Then it was time to board the train. We rejoined Mom, who had watched us from the train window. We told her all about the snow and the Indians and everything we could think of—four times, once from each of us. She was well informed on the subject.

Breakfast in a dining car was the very end—you can’t describe it—you must dine in that splendor to be able to appreciate it. When we arrived at the car, we were greeted by the Steward who scurried up and down the dining car and finally seated the family at two tables. My eldest sister Sally and my younger brother Les sat at the small table while Connie—my youngest sister—and I sat at the large table with Mom and Dad. We were all having a ball riding along in the diner, watching the country glide by, all covered with snow.

Breakfast was ordered and soon we were at it. Nothing to this day smells as good as a dining car. The aroma at mealtime was out of this world. If you’re not hungry, it made you hungry. Breakfast over, the waiter brought finger bowls. This was really something new. A few moments passed as I wondered what this was for. We were not going to do the dishes or wash our faces. Mom had always said if in doubt about what to do, wait till your host indicates what is to be done. So we waited. Lo and behold, we soon observed Dad wiggling his pinkies in the water, then drying them on his napkin. It seemed to me that he should have done that before he came to breakfast. The novelty really took hold of Les, who was about six years old at that time. Several meals later, the waiter failed to bring him his finger bowl. Sally noticed he would not leave the table. She tried to get him up and going, but no such luck. When she asked why, he indicated by wiggling his fingers that he had not been brought his finger bowl. The waiter noticed the gesture and obliged, and everything was all right again.

The observation car had a special attraction for us because of the open platform. It also held a special terror for Mom who had visions of her offspring one by one bouncing along the ties on their heads, with the juices running out. Finally Dad took us out on the platform to relieve our desire to go. Looking along the side of the train, we could see the locomotive drivers madly racing on the wheels. Steam and smoke trailed back over the train, and the moan of the whistle and the smell of the smoke was like getting twice as much for the money. It made a railroad buff of me for life. By making friends with other adults aboard the train, I discovered who liked to go out on the platform, and so I increased my visits out there. But it was cold and I would soon decide that the inside of the car was much better. From the train, we saw more Indians—a very large group with wagons and horses moving along parallel to the tracks. At some distance there were some travois being pulled, also. We waved, but they either didn’t see us or accepted it as the regular thing and continued on their way. Occasionally the highway would run alongside the train, and cars would try to keep up with us, but the steady seventy or eighty miles per hour of the train never slackened and they soon fell behind.

The desert gave way to ranches and farmland with fields of wheat for miles and miles. My ideas of geography began to take their first major revision. Until then, my world had been complete enough, but it was far too small as I had pictured it. This was my first real experience with vast distances, and it impressed me greatly. We traced our route on a map and I began to realize that the distance of an inch on the map may take several hours at high speed to cover on the ground.    

I constantly marveled at the new scenery, as well as the many interesting things aboard the train. Beds, for example, flopping out of the ceiling of a Pullman car. Toilets without cesspools, and hot water without gas heaters. Lights without power lines, and liquids riding along at a high speed, without upsetting. Now, of course, it’s all so simple, but back then it was food for thought. It all seemed wonderful and mysterious.

To me, the Pullman car was science gone crazy, pure crazy. At bedtime, getting into the upper berth was no problem. It was like a cat going up a tree. After a while the clickety-click of the wheels running over the rails would begin to lull me to sleep. The monotony was occasionally broken as we sped over a switch with a clatter, but finally I’d doze off.

Coming down from the bed was challenging. I used the direct approach. I grabbed onto anything that could support me, then slid over the side of the berth, swinging like a pendulum and trying to wrap my legs around someone or something to help me down. The whole thing was kind of like being a paratrooper without pay, but with all the dangers. I usually received help and a reprimand, but the most important thing was that I made it down. One time, I hurried and it was disastrous. I landed on the most lavishly upholstered part of my anatomy and was almost trampled to death by the rest of the family milling around trying to find shoes, socks, and clothing as they hurried to get a place in the washroom line.   

One afternoon I fell asleep at the window of the train. We were going at a good clip. Suddenly we met and passed another passenger train going in the opposite direction on the track next to us. The noise awakened me with a start. I didn’t know what was going on. I was scared to death. I never heard such noise and saw such flashes of light from the window. Then it was over, and I made a mental note that I should find a less terrifying place to doze off.  

Chicago was the end of the line, and as we approached the city we passed over thousands of switches and rolled over a sea of rails that seemed to float back and forth beneath the train. Everywhere there were strings of cars and chugging, steaming switch engines. Gradually we slowed down and then out of all the confusion came order as we quietly pulled into the depot.

As we stepped from the car, we knew we were not in California. A raw, cold, biting wind was blowing, mingled with rising clouds of smoke and steam from the locomotive engines. Outside the depot it was raining, and that remained my impression of Chicago for quite some time.

We stayed with Dad’s sister and her family. There were six of them and six of us—an even dozen, a real houseful, and at mealtime it looked like the 5th Illinois Cavalry was having mess. Here, I was introduced to the two phrases which were to regulate mealtime behavior to the present day. One signal that could be sent was MIK (More In Kitchen), and the other signal was FHB (Family Hold Back). The latter was usually given in case visitors dropped in for a meal. It warned us to sheath our teeth and give the wanderer a chance to get a bite.   

Dad was born in Chicago, so for him it was old home week. All his family was within a stone’s throw from where we were staying. As a result, he was kept busy visiting. Having been a Sergeant of Detectives for twenty years on the Chicago Police Force, he also had many friends on the Chicago Force that he wanted to look up. I remember one afternoon when I went with him to the Halstead Police Station where I watched one man calmly banging away at another man with a 38 caliber pistol, with only three or four feet between them. Emptying the pistol, he quietly laid it aside and promptly picked up another pistol of different caliber and emptied that one also into the man’s chest. At that range, missing was impossible. Dad and I waited till the fellow who had been the target came over and shook hands with us. They were old partners and he explained that he was wearing a bulletproof vest that the department was checking out. He said it was like getting struck in the chest with a ball peen hammer.

We meandered around one department after another. They all had one thing in common. Lots of talk and some laughing and shouting as a pall of cigar and cigarette smoke drifted in the air. The doors never seemed to stop swinging.  

During our visit to Chicago, prohibition was still in force and the mobsters were repeatedly using each other for target practice. One afternoon, my Uncle Bill was driving my dad and me around the outskirts of Chicago, and it began to snow quite heavily. It was getting dark, and soon we were lost. Dad said, “Pull over, Bill, and let me ask that fellow where we are.” Bill brought his new black Buick sedan to a stop in front of a church, and Dad rolled the window down and yelled, “Hey, you!” Before another word was spoken, the man had vanished. Dad rolled up the window. “We’re in Chicago,” he said. It seems that when things got hot in Chicago, the hoods would come down here to cool off. When Dad yelled “Hey, you!” the fellow figured that someone wanted a nice sitting target. So he just faded, but fast. Many men had heard their name called from a car and turned, only to catch a burst of lead.