Thank goodness for Momma and Poppa’s patience

Let’s take another journey back to the early ’50s when Dave Allen recalls his adventures of living at “Look Over Lodge.”

It was almost as wet inside the log cabin ( a play cabin built by my Poppa for us boys’ entertainment), as it was outside in the rain. The tree bark shingles were only partially doing their job. None the less, despite the leaks, the cabin was far from the Lodge, closest to the railroad tracks and seldom visited by Poppa.

Over the next days, I built my cache of runaway provisions and secreted them in the log cabin. This would be no spur of the moment, unprepared attempt at escape like the episode on the Kon Tiki. No, this was as meticulously planned as my little 8 ½ year old brain could make it. This plan had to be successful.

I figured I would certainly need all of my army surplus stuff, my Indian stuff, my cowboy stuff, my camping stuff, extra clothes, food, etc. The only problem being, only about a fourth of my “stuff” fit in my backpack. And that back pack, crammed tight weighed almost as much as I did. Besides being heavy, it was awkward and clumsy. The backpack was too awkward, clumsy, and heavy to ever hope to get it and myself into a moving boxcar. No, to successfully “hop the midnight freight train” I had to go “ lean and mean.”

II pared down my escape provisions to the absolutely essential necessities, such as…my Dick Tracy “glow in the dark” pocket knife; my Sargent Preston of the Yukon survival tent; my Sky King floatable magnetic compass; my Ranger Rick waterproof matches; a bag of cracklin’s (pork rinds); bag of Cheerios; and last but not least, my secret decoder ring just in case I got a message from “the Shadow.” Everything was in place for my getaway at midnight on Saturday night.

It was almost 11 p.m. before Poppa tired of watching the test pattern on the Zenith T.V., polished off his Schlitz and went to bed on the sleeping porch. When his snores settled into a comfortable rhythm, I crept out of the top bunk and ever so slowly and carefully made my way downstairs and out the front door. Luckily for me, there was a full moon. Even so, it was spooky making my way down the darkly shadowed path to the log cabin. Each tree and bush seemed to be trying to grab me and prevent my escape.

The cabin was in a small clearing and the moonlight was shining bright. This helped me to retrieve my supplies, to which I’d added at the last minute, my army belt with hatchet and a canteen full of milk to go with my Cheerios, a highway map of Missouri and my life savings of $2.47 (mostly in pennies.)

I could hear the wail of the midnight freight a mile away as it sounded at the crossing by Bill Flipsie’s house. It would blow again when the train engine approached the crossing at the Look Over Lodge private lane. When we had first moved to Look Over, the freight train’s horn had woke me up each time it sounded. But we had gotten use to it and I knew Poppa wouldn’t hear it.

Even though the rails were straight from Bill’s crossing to ours, the freight train couldn’t get up much speed because of the sharp bend just past our lane as the train headed toward Hercules Powder Company. It was this slow pace that I counted on, as I climbed over the barbed wire at the north end of our farm and climbed the embankment to the tracks. Even so, I had barely gotten in place before the engine whooshed by and sounded its horn.

I’d never been this close to a moving train before. In the dappled moonlight, this lumbering leviathan, heaved and bellowed, creaked and groaned, swished and swayed, accompanied by heavy clickity clacks, which were quite loud when you were right next to them. Even at less than 10 mph, it seemed like it was going 60 or better. Those heavy iron wheels could fuse a penny into a nickel, cut off your foot or cut you in half (as my Momma told me had been done to some poor man as he tried to pass through a stopped train at the crossing between Webb City and Carterville).

As the freight neared our lane, it sounded its horn a second time, applied it brakes to slow down for the upcoming bend. Now down to approximately 5 mph. I ran alongside the first open door, but was unable to catch it for loss of footing in the loose gravel. I did catch the next car by its open door but just barely. There I was, hands clinched, arms straight, and my legs trying to catch up with the rest of me. As the freight slowed even more, my legs were able to come even with my torso and with one “do or die” leap, I rolled belly first into the boxcar.

I was beginning to have second thoughts. At the lane crossing with Look Over Lodge just ½ mile away at tops, who was going to miss who the most? Them or me? I decided to get off when the freight train stopped at Hercules Powder Company, but it didn’t stop…not there or any place else until it rolled into the freight yards at Carthage. By then I’d made up my mind That Look Over Lodge was a pretty nice place to be. Besides, Momma and Poppa needed me to keep their lives from being boring!

As I excited the boxcar in Carthage, my feet were no sooner on the ground, than I was blinded by the bright light of a lantern accompanied by a gruff voice saying, “Stop there you little hobo … don’t you know it is illegal to ride the rails?’ Frozen in the lanterns glare, I heard the unseen voice crunch closer in the loose gravel and accuse, “Say you’re Fred Allen’s kid aren’t you?” “No,” I said, as I ran as fast as I could down the tracks, back toward home and I disappeared into the darkness.

Home must have a good 4 or 5 miles away, but I only stopped running when I got winded and then when I regained by breath, I’d run again. The tracks seemed endless. The sky was just starting to gray up as dawn approached.

While the moon began to set, I finally reached the log cabin. I changed back into my Red Ryder jammies, hid my aborted escape gear; ran up the path; cautiously opened the front door. All was quiet on the home front, not a sound. I silently locked the front door; traversed through the kitchen, the dining room, and started up the stairs. Each small creak of those hardwood steps made me cringe with the fear of discovery. I held my breath until Poppa’s heavy snoring reassured me it was safe to venture on. It seemed an eternity before I climbed into the old Crowder Camp barracks bed to the top bunk. I breathe a sigh of relief, I was home, safe and sound and nobody was the wiser as to my short lived escape on the midnight freight train. I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. It was my secret.

In what seemed like only a few minutes my Mom was nudging me to get up and come down to eat. I was pretty tuckered out from my night’s activities. Instead of my usual cereal, Momma produced from the oven, a plate of hot sausage, biscuits and gravy. Momma said, “your poppa and I wanted you to have grown up breakfast just like the little man you are becoming. I was in awe, a little suspicious and very hungry. Poppa asked, “You feel okay? It seemed like you were kinda limping. Are your legs sore? I quickly assured them I was just fine. Momma and Poppa gave each other a knowing look. I had pulled it off and was home free!!!

It was about 12 years later, in 1963, that I discovered I had not pulled off the great escape. They had known about my riding the rails since shortly after 4 a.m. when they got a phone call from the yard bull in Carthage. They decided I had enough grief and they didn’t need to add sorrow or a whippin’ or embarrassment. I told you Poppa had patience and so did Momma. They had to be to survive with a boy like me!