Dec 28, 2020

Greenwich, New York is a small village north of Troy. The farming community lays atop a ridge east the the Hudson River and the traffic along Route 29 consists mostly logging trucks and pick-ups. A rebel flag hung for the house next to the fire station. This was Trump Country, even though the village had been an important stop on the Underground Railroad prior to Emancipation of the slaves.

The week before Christmas I helped a friend move south to Fort Lee, NJ, loading two vans with art, food, and clothing. It was a long day. I liked working with Malinda. even more so, because she drove up her van and I took the UHaul alone. The Northway was traffic less, although some Trump supporter roadraged against me south of Albany. Out of the city people weren’t like those in the city. THey spent too much time in cars to toleerate the sound of others.

The second morning my friend slept in late with her three dogs. I had time to kill and drove through Greenwich to the Batten Kill Falls. I noticed a tall grain elevator climbing into the sky above the leafless trees. Surprised by this discovery I rode over to a deserted train depot.

Trains once went everywhere in America. THe car industry had killed off my train travel in the 1940s and 1950s. This line had been defunct for some time. A yard engine huddled in the shade. Rust coated its edges and weeds grew under its wheels.

The rails buckling from the ties bore witness to years of hard seasons without use or repair.

A larger engine bore the words BATTEN KILL RR. Some short line railroads still serviced remote small factories and desolate communities. This was not one of them.

It was cold outside and I headed to the only open cafe in Greenwich. There were no people on the street. Few cars too. I opened the door. The cafe was warmer than outside. Six town cops sat at a table. It was too cold for a crime spree this far north. An older man drank coffee at the counter. I ordered a bagel and coffee from the waitress.

The old man in his 80s was up for a conversation. Most people up here kept to themselves. They weren’t fond of strangers and I asked the old farmer, “You been living her long?”

“Most of my life. My name’s Dave.”

“What happened to the Batten Kill Railroad?” I had been coming up here for a while. I had never heard a train whistle during that time. I had first taken a train from Portland, Maine to Boston in 1958. I fancied traveling in them still.

“Ah, that used to be a class III railroad opened in the early 1980s on two deserted lines. The owner, Ronald Crowd was a black man, the first to own a railroad in the USA. Probably the only one ever. He had suffered a childhood attack from polio and wandered town on crutches. A good man and a smart one, but national strikes put the Batten Kill in serious debt.”

The waitress delivered my order and I thanked the farmer for the information.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Not likely. I sold the farm and the woods. I’m heading south. I’ve had enough of these winters.”

“I’m from New England. I know what you’re talking about.”

“I bet you do. All the best.”

He left the cafe and after my coffee and bagel I drove back to Fiddlers Elbow. Malinda was still in bed, although awake and watching MSN. Later today I was taking Amtrak back from Saratoga across the Hudson.It was a good ride down along to the Hudson to New York City.

Like so many old things I wasn’t be here for long. Neither would Dave and certainly not the Batten Kill RR.

We had all seen better days.