The announcement that this year's centennial festivities would feature a visit from an antique caboose brought back many vivid memories of the railroad during the '40s and '50s.

Mineola was an ideal setting for the train enthusiast. Historians tell us that, in the 19th century, the Village was appropriately named "Mineola Junction". Sixty years ago, in addition to the Main Line and the Oyster Bay Branch, an additional route used mostly for freight branched off just west of Main Street and ran south, across Old Country Road into Hempstead. Decades earlier, a trolley line departed just north of the Main Street rail crossing, ran north along Main Street, and then turned east toward Hicksville. A trestle carried this "inter urban" over the Oyster Bay branch of the LIRR and I can recall, at least into the 1970's, still seeing the concrete footings from this structure at the northeast corner of the Little League parking lot.

With the exception of Mineola Boulevard, all rail crossings were grade crossings, that is, at surface level. This included the ones at Herricks Road and at Jericho Turnpike, locations that today have overpasses. The road surface at the crossings consisted of pieces of wood fastened between the rails. This provided a somewhat tolerable trip across the tracks for only a few months. The planks were subject to extreme wear, and as they deteriorated, so did the ride. Our family's '39 Plymouth was no match for these conditions; driving over the switches at the Main Street crossing bottomed the suspension, rattled the teeth, and shook down the lunch.

The freight spur was not used too often, so traffic was halted at the Third Street and Old Country Road crossings by flagmen, as needed. All other crossings were protected by gates. In those years, the crossing gates were not automated. Those approaching the tracks were confronted by a diamond-shaped sign with the mysterious wording, "Railroad crossing, watch out for the cars." As youngsters we would comment, "Shouldn't the engineer be watching out for the cars, and we be watching out for the train?"

Off to the side of each crossing was a little shanty not much larger than a phone booth. Inside sat what the railroad called a "guard". An approaching train would trigger a little alarm at the shack and this guard would step out and turn two counter-rotating cranks on the nearest gate. This, coupled to an underground mechanism would lower, not two, but four gates. I don't recall there being any bells or lights, but there was no way an impatient motorist could drive around this configuration, a feature that probably saved several lives. As the train passed, we would always exchange the traditional wave with the engineer, and then I would count the cars, a habit that persists to this day. Afterward, the gates were cranked up and the system "locked" by placing a metal ring over the crank handles. The gateman then returned to the shack awaiting the next alarm. And you think your job isn't too interesting!

Although the gates had a number of disk-shaped counter weights attached to the bottom, a tremendous amount of effort was needed to operate them. One day, at my request, the guard allowed me to "wind 'em up." After a futile 30 seconds, as the lines of stopped traffic grew even longer, he advised me to eat my Wheaties and took over.

One of the gatemen had quite a colorful personality. One minute he would wave his arms frantically for the cars to close up the ranks, and the next he would reprimand a motorist for stopping too close to the gates. I can never remember seeing a changing of the shifts, and it almost seemed as if these vigilant sentries lived in the shacks full-time.

The railroad station looked pretty much as it appears today, except for the fact that there was less automation. Tickets were dispensed by a human, not a machine. I don't recall the station master's name, but I do remember him as being a very large, very kind gentleman. After my father put down $24 for one month's transportation to and from Penn Station, it was time for movies! Standing on the floor of the waiting room were a couple of movie machines that looked old-fashioned even then. I would step onto a small foot stool so that I could peer into the scope, and 5 cents would provide about one minute of low-tech cinema magic - still a bargain compared with today's price for a three-hour DVD. I recall that one film was some sort of cartoon, and another featured a boxing match.

All of these quaint surroundings merely set the stage for the real superstars of the railroad - the steam locomotives! Rail travel through the East River tunnels has always required electric powered trains. Thus the phrase, "Change at Jamaica" became part of our vernacular. It was the impressive steam giants, however, that were usually seen and heard rolling through the village well into the mid-1950s. When it was time to select my first Lionel electric train in 1947, great care was taken to choose an engine that most closely resembled the G-5s locomotives so common to the Long Island fleet.

Today, in many locations throughout the world, tourists willingly buy tickets for rides in trains drawn by vintage steam engines. However, all they are really paying for is the passing scenery; once seated in the train, it is difficult to tell what's at the front end. With the exception of the engineer's perspective, the best view of a locomotive was always next to it as it passed, and my dad and I would often spend an hour at the Mineola station to experience just such a view. On those Sunday afternoon outings, we would frequently be joined on the platform by others with the same obsession, standing at trackside, waiting.

The show would always be heralded by the lowering of the Main Street gates. Occasionally, we would be disappointed by a false alarm (electric train), but usually, our patience would be rewarded. We could feel the ground tremble underfoot as the event unfolded. The huge, black locomotive with its string of red coaches presented a threatening, yet graceful image as it slowly passed just a few feet from our vantage point. The rails would sink slightly under the weight and, to the sound of metal brakes scraping against metal wheels, all motion would come to a halt.

Even while stopped, the engine had an amazing presence. Diesels rumbled and electrics hummed, but these magnificent machines actually breathed! As we stood and felt the heat from the boiler and inhaled the aroma of the coal fire, we marveled at what appeared to be a plumbing supply house on wheels. Pipes ran in every direction. Steam hissed and water dripped from several sources.

After a brief pause, the performance would continue. With almost imperceptible motion, the complex array of piston rods would gradually exert their force against the huge driving wheels. This would be accompanied by a single, authoritative "CHUFF!" As the train started rolling, repeated chugging would evolve into a four-beat pattern that matched each revolution of the drive wheels. Occasionally, the tempo and the wheels would briefly accelerate as traction was lost, and then quickly recovered. A growing cloud of smoke and steam from the smoke stack would block out the sun. The colder the outdoor temperature, the thicker the cloud, hence, the better the show.

Although diesel power replaced these engines more than a half-century ago, two of them have struggled to remain on Long Island. The one that stood for many years at Salisbury (now Eisenhower) Park was moved to Mitchel Field and now rests, disassembled, at Oyster Bay. The other is slowly undergoing restoration at the Riverhead station. For any of my fellow train or nostalgia buffs, it is well worth the drive out east to walk up to old Number 39 and say, "Hey, remember me?"

There is talk of eventually preparing this locomotive for scenic excursions on Long Island rails. I have every hope that the politics, financial problems and insurance issues that have hindered this noble project will be overcome. Until then, you just might find me standing at trackside, waiting.