St Thomas More High School - Utopian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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Z f 2,4 ?. 'q-173: .ri-iiiglyl' . W: A I ? 2 2 '51?5fi-3Y2fF1i-551, ' .:.j'.7ffiiEL.,?,, f' rg 73? - . V If QL'-QTY L... -A: It S-LT.-ix, X f EF , -- -fw '-1l.E--- .-Y--ff: ' - him at least fifteen minutes to get there, and he had only about five minutes before the loud, long whistle of the speeding train would be heard. His mind, trained to the hazards of his job, told him that in a blizzard like this, the engineer of the train could not possibly see the oil truck until it was too late. Something had to be done, and it had to be done quickly, else the catastrophe would be inevitable. His mind, working feverishly, suddenly rewarded him with an idea. 4'It's got to work, 4'Pop muttered to himself. Hustling into his little house, he grabbed the red lantern, ever ready for emergencies, that was hanging on the wall. The lantern slipped from Pop's moist hand and fell to the ground THE CHELSEA REVIEW . . ,',,, J K' X 2 X as he hurried out the door. He picked it up and dashed toward the handcar that was stationed on a side track, just past the oil truck, it lead into the main-road track. He quickly boarded it and started up the tracks in the direc- tion of the on-coming 12:50 Express. If the Express were on schedule, he would have four minutes in which to get far enough up the tracks to signal the engineer so that he would be sure to stop a safe distance from the truck. Pumping the handle desperately, he slowly made his way up the tracks. With the snow blowing in his eyes, he could just about see six feet ahead. Praying earnestly as he travelled farther and farther from the big oil truck, he dedicated his thoughts to God that the engineer .63

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'Q E SHI W7 BY ALEX DE ANGELIS, '53 AR OFF in a mid-Western railroad office, a tired, old man had just heard the crushing news that his years of faithful service had come to an end. His boss had broken the news as kindly as he could. Pop', Mullin thanked him and tried to smile. Lifting his battered hat from the big mahogany desk, he bade farewell to his fellow-workers, and reso- lutely left the office. His feet were leaden as he went down familiar steps that suddenly seemed strange and unfriendly. Pop made his way through the small town, downcast and dejected, hardly noticing those who called out the Hi, 'Pop,' that always made him so happy. The dreaded news had clouded his mind. He had hoped that somehow -somehow-they wouldn't tell him to go. If it weren't for the loud whistle of the Rawlings Express, he might have walked right past his respectable little shanty, which looked even more pathetic because of the few weedish look- ing flowers Pop had coaxed to grow about it. The cabin belonged to the railroad. As he stood there with his eyes Exed on his home, he could not help recalling the first time he entered it, years before. They might have been lonely years, but they weren't. His mind raced back to the time he Hrst started. It was during the depression years of the early thirties. He had considered himself rather fortlmate in getting this job. He liked the workg he liked to see great gargantuan trains stop as he flagged them down. He did his work well, so well that The Michigan and West- ern held on to him. But now a new mechan- ical-device-age had arrived, and the company didn't need him or his kind any longer. The boss had given him one night to get his belongings together. He would have to leave. The shack was to be destroyed. Progress knew no mercy. The old had to make way for the anew. He would be provided for. A pension - yes, quite ample. But what pension can satisfy the spirit taken out of a man's heart? Old Pop Mullin felt very old for the first time in his long life. 62. xk x Very old -- very old - his heart-beats ,. -1 seemed to say in agreement. i L He slowly opened the door to his shack, and there in a glance he saw his neatly kept quarters of not more than 100 square feet. A bed, a closet, a wash- '. . 1 . 43 1 Us X S X X. x .L x -Q Ny X5 X, X XX xX . X 5 X . ,xg XZX X- X rl 3 .-f y r X',. fv XX 'Qi .x ' bt- sxf lu X' S? K. -Lg - , s f if A if ' I basin, a stove, and a cherished picture of the Sacred Heart had been his home for all these long years. Pop took off his heavy, gray jacket and stumbled to his bed and stretched out on it. He thought this would be a good time to thinkg to think about his long past, about his uncertain future. He recalled all his hardships misfortunes, calamities, he thought of his happy moments, too, even though they were very few and numbered. He would have even tried to figure out where he would go from here, if he had not suddenly fallen asleep from sheer ex- 4P'4 ' '. -Y. M 1 ,, ' Es-sit - ' 'T I , jg. u, '35,P. 91, ,T . l vp, 34:39 .' if 4, 421: .,f'f??'1rN?f'-7' agar? .fi11- 0,1 , 4. 5, - . ff? J' 1'-gn ,SN fit- TQ- 'r 13' .J 5-1.v.r5, . . ,tag-:, -7-1 4, -1-fav, , I' u-,11.'vl'A' - ,.- . -.M f , -ig, A s ,fix .41 I M haustion. Old Pop Mullin dreamt a terrifying dream this night. He dreamt a dying man's dreamg a dream of Heaven, of God, the angels, of what it would be like, far up there in the skies. He dreamt of good and evil, of trains, and whistles. He dreamt, yes, even of his death and the moment of it. It seemed that he was drifting back, back to the time of a long winter's night, the time of that terrible blizzard of a snowstorm of a couple of years ago. He had buttoned his overcoat and gone outside to see if the 12:50 Express was coming. He walked up the tracks a few feet and stopped dead. What was this? He couldn't be- lieve his eyes - a large oil truck with a big red INFLAMMABLE sign on its body. The huge truck was stranded on the railroad tracks. Doubtless the driver had run out of gas and had gone to fetch some more, thought Pop Mullin. But what happens if the 12:50 Express arrives before the truck driver returns? The hands on his old pocket watch were drawing close to 12:45, and in five minutes the Express was due. His first thought prompted him to run towards the neighboring gas station, but just then he halted, remembering that it would take . THE CHELSEA REVIEW ll? 'Wil 'lilllll v

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might see the red light of his lantern in spite of the terrible blizzard that swept crazily through- out the deserted area. It was now 12:49. As the old man glanced at his watch, he saw that only three minutes had passedg three minutes that seemed at least an hour each. Any second now he would hear the train's shrieking whistle as it came racing down the long, narrow tracks. Faster and faster he pumped. He felt as though he had been pumping the handle up and down all his life, and his heart seemed to agree. The snow was falling harder now, and his thoughts were swirling as quickly as the snow flakes beating against his face, raw from the merciless wind. My eyes are failing me, he said to him- self 3 'Tll have to depend on hearing the train whistle, he cautioned. He had no idea how far he had traveled from the disabled truck, but he hoped it would be enough for the big, gray 12:50 to bring her- self to a safe halt. Suddenly he heard the voice of the on- coming train. It seemed to be miles away. Was it a train whistle or just the wind playing tricks on me? thought Pop. Again he heard the long shrill sound, and he was sure it was the 12:50, now. 1'll see the big head-light soon, he thought happily. He reached with his numbed hand to grasp the bright lantern. As he raised it high above his head, he saw the first flickering sign of the big train light through the driving snow. Up in the engine of the big train, Tim Con- nelly, the engineer, was speaking to his assistant, Bob Wagman. We're three minutes behind schedule, Bob. Watch me make them three minutes up right now, Tim said, as he pulled the throttle out. The big engine let out a roar as it obeyed, and the train increased her speed. Bob was leaning out of the side when he reached over and grasped Tim's shoulder and shouted to him over the noise of the wind, 6'Do you see that down the track? I sure do, responded Tim. '6Who is that crazy fool?,' Tim pulled the whistle-cord hard. He's still coming this way, said Bob. 64... Why doesn't that . . . fool jump? Tim said, as he grasped the emergency brake cord. The sound of the shrieking brakes and the sparks from the wheels filled the air. We're going to hit! cried Tim over the noise of the shrieking wheels. On the handcar, Pop Mullin stood frozen. He wanted to jump, but his legs just wouldn't move. It was too late now. The big, gray train was on him. Yet he knew before he went that his death would not be in vain, for all the passengers on the 12:50 Express had been saved. There were loud congratulationsg the big banquet in his honor, the new watch with the proper inscription given him by the President of the company. Pop had made the first page of every newspaper in the country. Why did you do it? he was asked again and again. 1 had to. It was my job, he had answered simply. And he meant it. Pop sighed in his sleepg and as his heart stood still, he heard Him say: I gave you one talent, you have given Me two. Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the Kingdom of the Lordf Pop,' had retired in truth, and his pension was eternal. It wasn't until the next morning that Pop's body was found. The dream had been too much, too real, for his ailing heart. The repairman, who had come to put in the new equipment, found Pop Mullin lying on his bed. On his face was an expression of complete peace. Pop,' Mullin, for all his earthly suffering, had at last found the peace for which he had yearned so long. It welled up in his heart and burst, flooding his body with a peace and repose that reflected the happiness of a soul that had done all things well. The coroner said that old Pop had died from a disease very common to people of his age-heart trouble. As he pulled the white sheet over Pop's head, he said, He probably never knew that death was on its way. Better call his priest. He will want to knowf' He began to put away his things. Still looking at the old manis form beneath the sheet, he mused, Tough to be an old man like that and die--alone. Yet, somehow, he doesn't look -alone, does he? Too bad, he didn't get to enjoy his pension. Oh well, that's life, 1 guessf' The others nodded in solemn agreement, and silently they walked out. . THE CHELSEA REVIEW