The Wabash Cannonball

The Wabash Cannonball


“Hey, soldier! War over yet?”

I parked my second-hand but serviceable model A Ford on the shoulder of the road and went over to give the middle-aged farmer the good news.

He could tell by my broad grim and dusty brown uniform that we’d sent the enemy packing. He pumped my hand enthusiastically, introduced himself as “Frank”, and insisted I join his family for dinner.

“Stan’s the name. From back east,” I said in reply.

The farm was small, no more than a couple of acres. The road ran along a wooded area, and I’d glimpsed a deer in the thicket. The small stream created a tiny waterfall, running over grey and brown rocks. As I approached the house, I could smell strawberries and grapes along the wooden fence. Ripe tomatoes on the vine made my mouth water.


“Chi-Chi! You’re pregnant! “said a disembodied voice.

The farmer’s wife, who I soon learned was called Betty, was listening to a soap opera on the radio. She quickly changed the channel when she saw us coming.

“From the great Atlantic Ocean to the wide Pacific shore…on the Wabash Cannonball…”

A tear came to my eye, and I quickly brushed it away. It was that very same train I’d put my wife on; her dad would pick her up at the end of the line. She’d gone back ahead, to start making a home for us. I was driving the new highways, seeing the country and maybe selling a photograph or two before I settled down in that steady factory job my uncle was holding for me,

I remember the first time I saw my wife; it was in the Ice Cream Parlor, with those funny little wire chairs and tables. Her cousin introduced us. She was a vision from heaven, in her yellow cotton sun-dress, with it billowing around her legs. Great gams, she’s got. I splurged for a 25 cent banana split---with two spoons, of course. I knew right then and there I’d make her mine forever.

Betty’s a great cook. She served plate after plate of vegetables and fresh-killed chicken---even home-made bread, with jams she’d put up last summer.

The next morning, they sent me off with a sack of over-stuffed “Dagwood” sandwiches and a big jug of fresh home-made lemonade.


‘Round about noon, at least the sun was high in the sky, my car sputtered and came to a dead stop. Battery overheated, I figured---the day was a real scorcher.

I searched around in front for my army canteen---that round, leather covered water bottle that was the best friend a soldier had---whether he was in the muddy European trenches or patrolling the red-light district near home base. I’d knocked out more than a few drunks by swingin’ it at ‘em, too. I found it in the back; empty. Gone too were the sandwiches.

I did the only thing I could: I improvised, and poured the lemonade into the overheated battery. Soon she was kicking and purring like a Las Vegas showgirl!

“Listen to the jingle, the rumble and the roar, as she glides along the woodland o’er the hills and by the shore…”

One thing I was learning on my trip across country---America really is beautiful. Those endless prairies, the golden fields of wheat and corn glowing in the afternoon sun took my breath away. Those “majestic mountains majesty” really did shine purple in the setting sun.

I took a bunch of photographs, too. Might sell ‘em to the newspaper when I get to the big city.


Every small town has one. A General Store, I mean. They carry everything from nails to needles, and lots in between. Most farmers are pretty self-sufficient; they almost never need set foot in the city. The General Store carries flour, pickles, and cloth goods—and makes up a big sandwich for the occasional traveler. And they sometimes throw in a nice big piece of homemade chocolate cake---for free!

Milk is ten cents a quart, and I glugged down thee or four. It was a real treat. During the war milk was rationed; me and my buddies gave our ration coupons to the women and kids.

Coca-Colas were only a nickel---I bought a six-pack to go.


“She came down from Birmingham one cold December day…”

And it sure was nippy today, had to blow on my hands to keep ‘em warm. By driving all night, I managed to reach the big city by early afternoon.

Parked right in front of the newspaper, I did, and went right in. The pretty secretary told me to sit down and wait. And wait I did. And wait some more. Editor Roger Witherspoon, a crusty curmudgeon of a man, marched into his office, trailing musky pipe-smoke in his wake.

And still I waited. I was thinking about my wife, and how I’d send her a telegram…

Witherspoon called me into his office at last. His frown deepened as he looked at each of my pictures, and shook his head.

“No, no, this won’t do..”

He shook my hand politely and ushered me out the door. It was late; I’d have to hurry if I were to make it to the telegraph office before it closed.

“Be home..next week..” the attendant slowly typed out my message in morse code.

Now I’ll get a bite to eat and a room in the local YMCA (cheap but clean) and wait for my wife’s return telegram in the morning.

“Billy Bob’s Grill and Canteen” was right around the corner, a place where the prosperous local shopkeepers brought their wives on a Friday night. Those wives were all dolled up, in their lacy pastel dresses and black mink coats. The pretzels and peanuts at the bar were free (to make us drink more), and they had the usual brands of beer and scotch. The ladies were drinking “High-Balls”---scotch and ginger ale. I ordered a burger and thick, home made French fries, which came quickly with a bit of parsley on a wooden toothpick. And a beer, of course, draft—right from a shiny ice-cold metal keg.

I was having a high old time. The band even knew a few Polka numbers. Man, that old geezer could sure work the squeeze box!

I stayed till closing time, ‘round about 3 a.m., and thought I’d check on my car.
“Ole’ Cannonball,” as I affectionately call her, was just sitting peacefully where I’d left her. I started up the motor. Nothing. It was cold, I gave her some time. Still nothing.

Out comes the fat bartender in his greasy red apron. He turned right around, after looking at the engine, and came back with a bottle of seltzer water. He dumped it in my car. With a knowing look, he also took a hip flask out of his back pocket, gave it to me, and advised me never to be without it. Still had a slug or two of brandy in it, too.


Early next morning, I went to the telegraph office.
“Wife…in hospital…” came the message, and it was signed not by my wife but by her dad.


I lit out of there so quick, you’d think the place was on fire.

I was praying “Ole’Cannonball” would work, but it wasn’t to be.
And who should chance upon my futile attempts but Roger Witherspoon!

Looked under the hood, he did, after removing his fancy suit jacket. Put his foul smelling pipe on the fender. I could see he was still wearing those fancy red arm garters on his lacy shirt. After a time, he spoke.

“Looks like the spark plugs are gone. The motor’s had it, too. And the tires, all close to flat. Do you a favor, take it off your hands for you. Give you enough for a train ticket.”

What could I do? I had to get to my wife. I put out my hand for the money.

“Take a picture of the car,” he said.

So I did.

“Now come upstairs and run it. Photographers’ day off.”

Hours and hours later I finally had a print that would satisfy him. It’s a wonder that he didn’t ask for my first born child, on top of it.

“Here’s to Daddy Claxton, may his name forever stand…”


The real Cannonball train got me home in record time.
Pushing nurses and orderlies aside, I burst into the hospital room.

“Wah,wahhh!”

There lay my first born child, wrapped in a pink blanket, contentedly sucking her breakfast.

Then it came to me in a blinding flash of illumination. I hit my palm to my head in sheer exasperation.

I could have avoided all that trouble, if only I’d remembered to fill the water bottle!

end