Cin and I turned left and walked slowly toward North Elm Street. One reason for the slow progress was the interference caused by the small trees and bushes which had grown up in and along the rail bed. The steel tracks and wooden ties were gone, except for those of a track spur that led into the New England Oil & Coal Co.'s yard, where the oil storage towers stood and the coal bins were lined up along the track. Since the freight cars are no longer backed in to the company yard from the main track over this spur, there is a wire cyclone fence running across it and along the yard's boundary.

About a hundred yards further on we came to the street, which was once crossed by tracks that were used twice a day (morning and evening) by passenger trains, and now and then by freight trains. In my day the trains going north came to the end of the line in Winsted. The turntable there spun the engine around to face south, ready for the trip back to Torrington and points beyond.

At one time a small, hut-like house stood on the north side of the North Elm Street track crossing. This was used by the railroad crossing guard between train arrivals. Its yellow color had gotten dingy from the coal smoke emitted by passing engines and from the stove in the hut. The house had a door, and one window facing each direction from which a train might arrive. In addition to the guard watching for a train, the train's engineer blew a warning whistle at set distances to alert the guard and traffic on the road of its approach to the crossing.

Before the train's arrival, the guard was busy lowering the gates across the street on either side of the track by winding with a special wrench a set of gears mounted on a metal stand outside his hut. A bell was set off as a warning, and a lantern with a red glass prism hung from each gate near its narrow tip to warn traffic of its presence. The gates were painted white with black stripes to help them to be seen.

When those gates were down, all traffic—both pedestrian and vehicle—stopped until the train was past and the gates raised. Whether people, even kids, were more obedient then, lived at a less hurried pace, or what, I don't know—but I do know there were gates at every street crossing in town and I never saw anyone ignore a gate when it was down.

Cin and I turned around and walked back along the track bed. Knowing that Judy would be involved shopping for quite awhile, we followed the line—which runs parallel with the rear of the shops in the plaza and with North Main Street—until we arrived at the Newfield Road. The section of rail bed near the plaza was much more open and wider than the part we had already traveled. This was likely the result of the construction work connected with building the shopping center. Leaving this portion we traveled into a heavily wooded area that acted like a curtain, whose parting gave one a glimpse into our past.

On our right was a fence line that separated the railroad's property from that of the Warrenton Woolen Mill. This mill was one of the many Torrington factories that grew up along the rail line. The close relationship between the development of industry and the growth and success of the railroad in the Naugatuck River Valley can readily be seen here. All of the factories similar to what existed at the woolen mill had a spur connection to the main rail line, over which it received raw materials and sent finished products to market.

All is now quiet here where once the grunt and snort of the mighty engines was heard as they maneuvered to reach the plant's loading dock. No longer are heard the shouts nor seen the signals flashed by the workers in directing the action. One encounters only the mute remains of the track spur and the massive, sturdy trestle that spans the east branch of the Naugatuck River as it flows south to join the west branch on its journey to the sea.

After Cin and I had crossed the trestle and reached the Newfield Road, we began retracing our steps to the path from whence our trip started. No doubt, Judy was finished shopping or soon would be, so we hurried along. On the way my mind churned rapidly with thoughts that our walk had brought back out of memory. In my mind's eye, I could see a group of us young scouts from Troop 6 of St. Mary's Church loaded with gear and trudging along the rail line on our way to experience an overnight campout. Our assistant scout leader, who had served in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) during the Depression, led us on this hike to Camp Workeomen, the district's camp at West Hill Pond in New Hartford.

As this memory faded, I was startled to hear a train whistle—faint, but distinct. Soon, the whistle sounded again. It was definitely the sound of an approaching train, and it was becoming louder and more distinct as the engineer whistled a warning before reaching each road crossing. Although my mind told me this couldn't be happening, the sound grew louder and more ominous. I hadn't heard it for a long time, but I recognized the distinctive rumble of the train crossing the trestle.

In turning, I saw the large round, black face with a headlight in the center of the steam engine, which was puffing large clouds of smoke. The bell on top of the engine was ringing insistently. The engineer had seen me and was warning me to get off the track. Yanking Cin with me, we moved to the side of the clearing, surrendering the right of way to the huge, charging locomotive.

We watched the engine with its attached coal/ water tender rush past while the engineer nodded to us and I waved back to him. There followed several passenger cars with the marking "NY, NH & Hartford RR" printed on the side of each. Even more amazing was the fact that the cars were filled with young men dressed in brown, with some wearing a broad-brimmed hat much like I wore as a Boy Scout, and which are now called "Smokey the Bear" hats. The young fellows were talking, smoking and laughing among themselves. Some of those sitting at the open windows smiled and waved while others called out a hello or hollered that they were off to the Army. Now I made the connection. These "youngsters" were a part of the state's National Guard who were called into service in 1941. As a kid, a group of us met this train at the Torrington station, where it stopped to pick up the city's unit. I knew John Hanecak, who was a member of this unit and whom I saw climb aboard.

We then waved goodbye. Some of those in the crowd were women—the sisters, mothers and wives, such as Mary Hanecak, who cried as they left. They understood the dangers which lay ahead of these men. Mary's husband saw a great deal of action in the islands of the Pacific, where he and others had to use outmoded rifles—the Springfield, left over from World War I.

Cin and I got back on the rail bed after the train passed. I could hear the sound of the cars and the warning whistle slowly getting less and less distinct as we walked in the same direction in which the train had disappeared. During the walk back to the path from where we had started, I looked for signs of the train, but found not one that would have confirmed the fact of it having passed this way.

What was it, then, that I had just seen and heard? Dare I talk about it to anybody? Nah, they would think I'm crazy. So I warned Cin not to say a word either. Being part border collie, he is very intelligent and at times almost sounds as though he's trying to talk. So after we got back to the car, I jokingly asked Judy if she had heard a train whistle recently. She laughed, saying, "Are you kidding?"