Hobo Jungle
-
P&R Pete
Tramp, I took some pics of the drawings with outside light, but I had a wrong setting on the camera, and the files were WAY too huge to post. After the ballgame, when I took them again, the interior light made them look way too yellow.
I'll take another shot at them tomorrow.
Even if you DID charge me 3 times that which is your current offer.
I'll take another shot at them tomorrow.
Even if you DID charge me 3 times that which is your current offer.
-
Chris Rock
- Posts: 1480
- Joined: Fri Sep 23, 2005 6:08 pm
- Location: United States
After seeing the Virginian engine here, this auction may interest some. It is for a Virginian caboose. It is 2 rail but could probably be converted to 3 rail.
http://cgi.ebay.com/DVP-VIRGINIAN-STEEL ... dZViewItem
http://cgi.ebay.com/DVP-VIRGINIAN-STEEL ... dZViewItem
-
P&R Pete
What a day: gray and dreary, bone-chilling rain/snow, whipping-wind annihilating the cherry blossoms. Kind of day that coffee was made for. Glad I've kept the cast-iron and coal on 'simmer'. The farmers needed this rain- the Spring-turning is done, the seed sitting in Dust-bowl soil, worth nothing more than a prayer and a promise. A day that makes one long for baseball weather, and as I sit on the couch and hear the wind howl and rattle the windows, (watch out- here comes the bad segue), my mind drifts back to my heroes from childhood, Berra and Ford, Richardson, Bauer and Howard, Skowron and Pepitone, Mantle and Maris. Easy to also remember the stories from the earlier part of the century, when baseball was legend, and DiMaggio, Ruth, Gehrig were part of the lore.
I grew up in NE NJ, in Yankee country, and this is why I fell for Tramp's original baseball print, the drawings reconstructed to resemble a baseball diamond, with the players as the bases, and the stadiums surrounding, and Cobb's play at the plate situated as the infield.
Also why I'm glad to post a few pics of the individual drawings:
I grew up in NE NJ, in Yankee country, and this is why I fell for Tramp's original baseball print, the drawings reconstructed to resemble a baseball diamond, with the players as the bases, and the stadiums surrounding, and Cobb's play at the plate situated as the infield.
Also why I'm glad to post a few pics of the individual drawings:
Last edited by P&R Pete on Sat Apr 22, 2006 3:46 pm, edited 2 times in total.
-
P&R Pete
-
P&R Pete
-
penncentral8885
- Posts: 3012
- Joined: Wed Aug 17, 2005 10:09 pm
- Location: Indiana
Hell Hev, I don't even think it's about the money now!, Seems like we do all we can to cheat and try to put our names in the hall of fame! 
http://www.indianarailwaymuseum.org/
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
-
P&R Pete
Got a surprise and very-welcomed telegraph from a lady hobo who ain't been around these parts for awhile, name of Jackie Blue. She's another good one who had been with this Jungle since it's inception Thanksgiving Eve 2000. Had a lot of fun and good times before she lit out in a southbound boxcar, and hearing from her again was sublime.
In her honor and memory, I'd like to reprise a poem she graced us with, that I wrote down March of 2002.
Went like this:
"The Secret Life of Trains"
by Lori A. Howe
Carrying the last of my father's vineyard,
warm Burgundy from 1971,
I climb iron stairs
to sit cross-legged on the footbridge.
Trains slithering beneath me,
I touch the crimson bottle to my lips
and my breath freezes, heavy and pungent,
roiling the night air.
Exiled from the sea-lands,
trains slide by
their reflections,
shedding the war-garments of snails
in the darkness,
casting golden eyes upon the ground.
A dozen trains an hour shake my body
as they hurry,
heavy, black, and obedient,
like cattle or pigs,
and I smile into the clouded dark,
tip a precious drop over the edge.
I anoint my children, my lovers.
The tanker cars have secrets.
Suspicious of containers
that do not leak,
I deny their faded inscriptions.
I believe this one contains
red-haired women
the size of goldfish, luminous
swimmers of hidden blue waters,
and another embraces a nation of mice,
tiny brown heartbeats
nestled against the weather,
sleeping in a mother cargo
of heavy woolen socks.
The next one, I suspect,
is full of oregano;
it is the lightest on its wheels
and they clack with the green scent
of herbs in the dusk.
I sit with wine and the jewelry
of all the women of my house,
watching journeys I will not join.
The muffled barking of wheels
growls and grows to a shaking;
The fury and solace of momentum
do not wait for a dark-haired woman
on an iron trestle
consuming the last of wine
bottled the year she was born.
In her honor and memory, I'd like to reprise a poem she graced us with, that I wrote down March of 2002.
Went like this:
"The Secret Life of Trains"
by Lori A. Howe
Carrying the last of my father's vineyard,
warm Burgundy from 1971,
I climb iron stairs
to sit cross-legged on the footbridge.
Trains slithering beneath me,
I touch the crimson bottle to my lips
and my breath freezes, heavy and pungent,
roiling the night air.
Exiled from the sea-lands,
trains slide by
their reflections,
shedding the war-garments of snails
in the darkness,
casting golden eyes upon the ground.
A dozen trains an hour shake my body
as they hurry,
heavy, black, and obedient,
like cattle or pigs,
and I smile into the clouded dark,
tip a precious drop over the edge.
I anoint my children, my lovers.
The tanker cars have secrets.
Suspicious of containers
that do not leak,
I deny their faded inscriptions.
I believe this one contains
red-haired women
the size of goldfish, luminous
swimmers of hidden blue waters,
and another embraces a nation of mice,
tiny brown heartbeats
nestled against the weather,
sleeping in a mother cargo
of heavy woolen socks.
The next one, I suspect,
is full of oregano;
it is the lightest on its wheels
and they clack with the green scent
of herbs in the dusk.
I sit with wine and the jewelry
of all the women of my house,
watching journeys I will not join.
The muffled barking of wheels
growls and grows to a shaking;
The fury and solace of momentum
do not wait for a dark-haired woman
on an iron trestle
consuming the last of wine
bottled the year she was born.
Return to “The Club Car Lounge”
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 21 guests