I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THE RAILROAD
I would like to introduce you to three men. The first is this fellow over my shoulder — Hamlin Garland, noted author and founder of the Cliff Dwellers Club in 1907. The second is Robert Collyer, a prominent clergyman who founded the Chicago Literary Club in 1874. His portrait is occasionally outside this door propped on an easel. And Vachel Lindsay, the wandering poet and bard who belonged to this Club for years. Mr. Lindsay is delivering a presentation at this very lectern as you step off the elevator. He is also in a second spot (delivering the same lecture) right around the corner here.
You know these men as faces who grace the walls of this historic Club. I know these men from a different slant. I know these men from the letters they wrote: Hamlin, Robert, and Vachel.
You see, I am an avid collector of autographs and historical manuscripts. It is a hobby that has its roots in my youth but has its branches flowering and blooming in the man that stands before you. The tangle of roots, leaves and branches of my avocation has grown far beyond the hope offered by any tree surgeon’s saw. My hobby has become a passion with me.
I have always pursued my interest in collecting autographs for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. Collecting autographs — collecting anything — can be wonderful, relaxing and educational. But, when one has a hobby of “collecting things” whether stamps, coins, cigar box labels or manhole covers, there are always those special moments when in the collector’s life he happens across an acquisition that he remembers and can talk about forever. Such has been the case with me.
Typically, my acquisitions have been individual items gleaned judiciously from dealer catalogs, auction houses and garage sales here and there. My collection has been built logically, though somewhat eclectically, conservatively and delicately. Piece by piece, letter by letter, manuscript by manuscript. I have always been modest in my taste, frugal in my purchases and purposeful in those things I acquire.
In 1982, however, I made an historical acquisition of leviathan proportion which exceeded in bulk the contents of most public libraries. I purchased the entire archive of the Chicago Rock Island Railroad: the entire business records of the defunct railroad which were housed in a ten story, 100,000 square foot building at the corner of Polk and LaSalle here in Chicago. “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” therefore seemed like a fitting title for a discourse on philography — the gentle hobby of collecting autographs and historical manuscripts. I will talk about the genesis of my avocation and some of its highlights (there have been no “low lights”). And I will share with you “the rest of the story” on the shut down of Chicago’s Rock Island Railroad and what happened to 100,000 square feet of paper.
To put things in proper perspective, it is important to return to the seedling from which this passion, nee hobby, grew.
When I began collecting autographs at the ripe old age of six, it started with baseball players. My father would bring me to Wrigley Field, home of the ever-struggling Chicago Cubs. Many of you have probably been to these “Friendly Confines,” so imagine this. We would usually arrive during batting practice and sit in the nosebleed section of the grandstands. My Dad would settle into his seat with a hot dog and a beer and I would gallop down the concrete steps to beg for autographs from the players. Big kids would sometimes try to ease the pushy pipsqueak out of the way but I learned to duck under the flying elbows and work my way to the front of the crowd. There I would perch, leaning on the three foot brick wall, staring at my idols.
The one that I always watched for was big number 9 — Hank Sauer — my favorite player. Hank was a decent baseball player of above-average speed, fielding ability and batting average. Since every kid I knew had a “favorite” player, I thought about the matter as carefully as anyone my age could and picked Hank Sauer to be mine. Why? For one thing he swung the heaviest bat in the big leagues. Forty ounces of thick-grained lumber. A tree. Hank was strong as a young ox after breakfast. I was strong as a frog on a diet. Also, my Dad liked Hank Sauer and that alone was usually good enough for me.
Of course, Hank never knew that he was the object of my attention. I would always go to Cubs games and seek him out hoping to get a “Hank Sauer” etched in ballpoint on my scorecard. My efforts, however, no matter how hard I tried, were always futile. He was there, right in front of me, walking by, swinging his forty ounce bat, laughing, scratching and joshing with other players, almost close enough to touch, but always just out of reach.
All of the players, Dee Fondy, Bob Will, Gene Baker, Ernie Banks, Bob Rush, Harry Chiti and the others would amble around the dugout on the third base line, spitting tobacco juice into the sod, occasionally sauntering over to the gaggle of kids standing by the dugout. They would look at us, say “Hiya kid,” and sign programs until they were called away to the important task of playing baseball.
For all of my effort and for all of my sunny afternoons spent in the “Friendly Confines” of Wrigley Field, I got a lot of autographs but I never got Hank Sauer’s autograph. The only thing that approached some inkling of success was that on one steamy August day, I made eye contact with him. I was waving my program frantically and yelling “Hank! Hank! Mister Sauer! Mister Sauer!” He turned around and glared at me like I was some kind of eight year old lunatic. Eye contact . . .
At age nine, I also began bringing my baseball mitt and wearing my official little league hat to the games on the off-chance that the Cubs might need a left-fielder. I would sit very seriously, mitt on my left hand, hat squarely on my head, waiting for my chance. “We regret to announce that Hank Sauer has sprained his ankle and will be unable to play left field. Anyone with a regulation mitt and baseball cap, please report to the Cubs dugout immediately.” I was ready!
In looking back, the hobby of collecting autographs for me was a natural evolution of my days of trolling a scorecard under the nose of Cubs’ pitcher Elmer Singleton trying to snag his signature. By age twelve, I kicked into a different gear — I began writing letters asking for autographs. I sent out literally hundreds of requests for autographs to the world’s politicians, authors, artists and theologians. Interestingly, I never wrote to entertainers or sports figures. Maybe it was because I had never hit the high note as an eight year old hustler. I had never gotten a “Hank Sauer.” I guess I didn’t like the idea of being rejected by an idol.
For these efforts, I regularly received mail from the White House, the Casa Rosada, the Vatican and the Bulgarian Embassy. One bright Saturday morning during the summer, while playing catch with a friend on my driveway, the mailman stopped and gravely asked me if I really knew all those people I was getting mail from. “Sure,” I replied and tossed the ball back to my friend. From that day on, whenever the mailman would see me, he would smile and toss a two fingered Cub Scout salute. The mailman saluting me, a kid! I figured that I must be doing something right to gain that kind of respect. The mailman saluting me! To blazes with homework. I wrote more letters. The mail began arriving at my house wrapped in rubber bands and twine. I was the only kid in town with his own file cabinets in his room!
As I matured, even though the eight year old kid was still secretly dancing in my heart, I became “more sophisticated” about collecting autographs. I moved into the “big leagues” of the autograph world. I began buying my autographs from dealer catalogs and auction houses. I turned my back on Hank Sauer and was now purchasing letters signed by famous authors, theologians, politicians and occasionally Presidents. I wouldn’t think of asking a celebrity for an autograph directly. After all, I’m not a kid. I even sold my entire collection of baseball cards (two shoe boxes full — including a 1952 Mickey Mantle rookie card and a 1947 Lou Bondreau when he was player-manager of the Cleveland Indians). I sold them to fund my new passion. I did for some reason keep one card — Hank. Hank had been, well, my inspiration.
As I said, the collecting of historical autographs can be restful, therapeutic and challenging. I always feel a sense of awe to pick up a letter penned by an historical figure. Yet some of the most poignant letters are those written by the ordinary, unsung citizens of long ago whose names and likenesses are neither remembered nor found in any history books. In one letter that I treasure, a young girl is tearfully pleading for anyone to help her find her lost dog. The dog is black with white paws and tail. “If anyone finds my dog, please let me know. I miss him badly.” The date of the note is 1804. I always wonder — did the little girl find her dog.
Another area which bespeaks the human condition is love letters and family correspondence. I always feel like an intruder when I pick up a letter from a Civil War soldier to his love back home or vice versa. When you read the touching and heartfelt words penned so long ago, it helps one to appreciate with clarity that we are all truly of one humanity. A friend of mine has a sad letter written by a young army officer to his mother back home. He was a member of the nobility and his missive speaks of hardship, war and loneliness. This letter is special because it was written during the Crusades nearly 1000 years ago. I have one especially poignant letter from a Captain Atwood to his love back home. It was penned in Indian country in 1870 and it is deeply stained with blood.
The focus of my collecting today centers around two areas: Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States and an author named Edward Everett Hale.
As to the Supreme Court, I enthusiastically collect original letters and documents penned by the 120 or so men and women who serve or have served as Justices of our nation’s highest court. I have handwritten exemplars of Jay, Marshall, Brandeis, Frankfurter, Cardozo, Renquist, and everyone in between — with one exception. I am down to needing one Justice to round out a complete collection of Supreme Court Justices. The fellow I am looking for is not Hank Sauer, his name is William Cushing. He was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1732 and he died in 1810. Cushing wasn’t much of a lawyer even by the charitable standards of his day. He was notorious for his inability to make a decision. Despite serious professional shortcomings, he was appointed by his pal, George Washington, to serve on our nation’s first High court where he waffled for twenty years until his death.
William Cushing was also the last Justice of the Supreme Court to insist on wearing a full white wig — complete with curls — while sitting on the bench. It was only after his colleagues and people in the neighborhood laughed and pointed at him when he walked down the street — that he abandoned the practice.
At present, I need a “Cushing” to round out my collection. I sometimes wonder if I when I get a letter of Cushing, would I trade it for a Hank Sauer. I’ll think about that one.
The second area that I collect is the author and theologian Edward Everett Hale. Hale is perhaps most well-remembered for his classic work The Man Without a Country. He also served as Chaplain of the United States Senate from 1901 until his death in 1909. Today, in autograph circles, whenever anyone has a Hale item, they are advised to “Call Petersen. He’s a sucker for Hale.” And, indeed, I probably am.
In the last fifteen plus years, I have accumulated about 250 of his personal letters along with some inscribed first editions. Why, you ask, did I begin collecting Hale in the first place?
About sixteen years ago, I purchased an auction lot that happened to contain six of Hale’s handwritten letters. I had frankly never encountered so many letters of one person before in my still blooming novitiate as a serious collector. The following week, when I saw two Hale items being offered for sale in a catalog ($10.00 a piece as I recall), I thought to myself “hummmm, I have six, if I buy these, I will have eight.” Simple math. And I bought them.
Today, Hale’s letters, when they can be found, are still relatively inexpensive. After all, there’s just not a lot of demand for Hale except for some character in Chicago. Whenever I see Hale offered at a reasonable price, I gobble it up.
Despite my collecting focus, I am not averse to picking up items that do not relate to Hale or the Supreme Court. I have a pot pourri of the usual suspects: a few Presidents, politicians, inventors, authors, artists, soldiers, theologians and scientists. I buy, sell and trade as it suits my needs.
In my career as a collector of autograph and manuscript material, I have had more than my share of acquisitions which one typically calls a “bargain.” In the trade, one often speaks of “cherry picking.” If you are a collector of anything, you will know of what I speak.
One summer afternoon in 1980, I was walking in an alley near my house with my four year old daughter. A garage sale was in progress. I walked in and noticed the usual glass bric-a-brac, dish towels, used clothes and old tools. One table in the corner had a grey file folder stuffed with papers sitting on top. Hmmmm . . . I opened the folder and began leafing through an assortment of business correspondence. My breath suddenly was snatched away when I turned to a letter signed by John F. Kennedy as Senator from Massachusetts. I inquired “how much do you want for this stuff?” casually gesturing at the folder.
“How about 35¢?” came the tentative reply.
“Can you do any better than that?” I countered, inclining myself toward the exit. Remember, a garage sale is like a flea market in the old section of Cairo. Negotiating is a part of the culture.
“A quarter?” She countered. I nodded and handed the woman two dimes and a nickel and sped from the scene with a letter worth many times the quarter I paid for it.
In 1982, I was traveling through Portugal. Business and pleasure. The pleasure part was stopping in any place that had a sign “Livhros Antiguos” (“old books”) in front. In a dusty store in Lisbon, where piles of centuries old paper, ancient antiphonal leaves and parchment manuscripts littered the floor, I purchased a packet of handwritten garrison rosters and correspondence from the Spanish Commandante of Gibraltar. The date of the material was 1696, nearly ten years before the British would storm Gibraltar and occupy it by force. The price I paid for this collection of Iberian history was about $75.00.
Leslie Hindman Galleries here in Chicago has twice been the site of particularly propitious and profitable acquisitions.
About fifteen years ago, there was an auction of the autograph collection of a man named King Hostick — a generous benefactor of Sangamon State University and a prodigious acquirer of valuable and historical manuscripts. During the course of the auction, I had raised my paddle to knock down several lesser items: a collection of original printed eulogies to George Washington all dated 1799 and 1800 (for about forty dollars as I recall) and a group of similar printed eulogies to Abraham Lincoln from the summer of 1865. The biggest score, however, came as the auction was drawing to a close.
With two items in the thick catalog remaining, people began to get up, stretch, walk around and meet and greet friends and adversaries on the auction floor. Leslie herself was at the gavel and trying to regain some semblance of order among the milling crowd. The place was getting noisy. I myself was getting ready to leave. The second to the last item in the catalog was a book by an Englishman named Smith entitled The Cries of London. It was dated 1806 and the catalog entry said there were “old letters tipped in. “
Leslie nearly shouted “The Cries of London by Smith. Do I hear a hundred? How about fifty?” I glanced at the catalog “Old Letters Tipped In.” Hmmmm. I raised my paddle. “Sold to No. 463 for fifty dollars,” she said quickly and moved on to the last item in the catalog.
I honestly had no idea at the time what I had purchased. I vaguely remember thinking that raising my paddle was not particularly smart. I mean fifty dollars for an old book I’d never heard of. Then I pondered the cryptic admonition in the catalog. “Old letters tipped in.” I decided to be charitable with my purchase and belay my concerns. When I got the book home, I realized that for fifty dollars I had purchased the original galley proof (or publishers) edition of The Cries of London by Smith. The book contained a series of original etchings that had been submitted to the author by well-known artists of the time. Plus there were handwritten letters of Smith himself explaining how to typeset the book, arrange the etchings and paginate the tome. Since I am not inherently an antiquarian book collector (though I am certainly a book aficionado) and I had no particular historical interest in Smith, the author, I sold the volume to the Getty Center in Malibu. They were more than happy to have it.
A second occasion when Leslie Hindman’s Gallery offered Petersen a major bargain was at the three day sale a few years ago which featured a painting by Van Gogh that had been discovered in a barn in Wisconsin. I did not bid on the Van Gogh but I did bid on a few Civil War parchment military commissions signed by Edwin Stanton, the Secretary of War. I thought they might look nice in a frame hanging on the wall.
One of the lots in the catalog was described simply as “old letters from Virginia.” I had ignored this item during the preview to the sale so I had no particular reason for interest in the lot.
The auctioneer spoke: “Old letters from Virginia. Do I hear one hundred.” Pause. “Do I hear fifty.” Pause. “Does anybody want some old letters from Virginia for twenty five dollars?”
I looked around and raised my paddle.
“Sold” the auctioneer said pointing at me. He quickly moved on to the next item.
When I picked up the “old letters” the next day, I discovered that they had been wrapped and bubble packed like a fragile Lladro figurine. I brought them home, plopped down at my desk and carefully slit open the package with my Swiss army knife. The “old letters from Virginia” turned out to be six beautiful handwritten letters and legal documents from Spotsylvania County, Virginia. All were dated 1785 and 1786 and all were in the hand of and signed by a fellow named Charles Lee who went on to become George Washington’s third Attorney General.
While it is fun when you can hit a home run with a rare book with old letters “tipped in” or to score a touchdown with some personal papers of Charles Lee, it is challenging (not to mention rare) that a collector would have a chance to orchestrate a deal of mammoth proportion. Such was the case when I acquired the archives of the Chicago Rock Island Railroad. This was an event like winning the Super Bowl. Kind of like Denver winning the Super Bowl.
To put things into perspective, let me share some brief historical background on the Rock Island Line. Let’s flashback about 150 years to a home about 250 miles west of here.
The notion of starting a railroad that was in time to become the Rock Island system first came under discussion in June 1845 at a meeting of civic leaders in Rock Island, Illinois. Rock Island, together with its municipal neighbor across the Mississippi, Davenport, Iowa, were cities still in their infancy when this historic meeting took place.
The original City of Rock Island had been the site of Fort Armstrong, an Army installation that had been constructed in 1816. The military abandoned the site in 1836 and one of the prominent locals, Colonel George Davenport, staked out the area for his own. It was at the home of Colonel Davenport that a group of businessmen met on that warm June evening in 1845.
These men were keenly aware of the growing and flowing waves of settlers who were pouring west through Illinois and into the Iowa Territory beyond. They decided that a railroad should be constructed from Rock Island east to LaSalle, Illinois, to provide an overland link between the Mississippi and Illinois rivers. They even visualized a possible extension of the line further east to Chicago. The City of Rock Island would thus become a hub of rail and river traffic providing significant commercial advantage to the area.
Within a month of the historic meeting, Colonel Davenport died but his death did not deter his associates from proceeding with the ambitious project. Plans for the railroad were further discussed and finally a charter was drawn up. By act of the Illinois legislature, the Rock Island and LaSalle Rail Road Company was incorporated on February 27, 1847, with a capital stock of $300,000. Raising the charter capital was tough and it was not until three years later in November of 1850 that the full amount had been subscribed.
People at the time expressed serious doubts about a railroad that simply connected two inland waterways. Support was lukewarm and the endeavor began to founder. At a moment when the entire project seemed in doubt, Judge James Grant, the first President of the railroad contacted a prominent railroad builder from New Haven, Connecticut, who just happened to be visiting Chicago at the time. The builder was Henry Farnam and he was in town to help plan the linkage of Michigan Southern Railroad west to Chicago. Farnam was roped into the Rock Island railroad project and soon wheels of progress began moving, sledge hammers began swinging and the first track was laid in October 1851. Little did Farnam and the others know that I would be picking up the pieces 130 years later.
For a hundred twenty glorious years, the Rock Island Line hummed successfully across the national landscape carrying passengers, freight and commodities in a thirteen state area from Chicago to the Rocky Mountains between the borders of Canada and Mexico. In the words of Woody Guthrie, the “Rock Island Line was a mighty fine road.”
But when we fast forward to the 1960’s, we see the mighty rail system laboring, wheezing and dying. It was in the 1970’s that the Rock Island railroad began the final throes of financial hardship that ultimately lead to its demise. In the early 1970’s, the nation’s economy was falling, interest rates were climbing, competition was cutting prices to the bone and the great and mighty Rock Island Line, like the unsinkable Titanic, began its inexorable descent into oblivion.
On March 17, 1975, a decision was made to file for bankruptcy. A petition for reorganization was filed in Federal Court in Chicago. Judge Frank McGarr ordered that the frail Rock Island temporarily continue to do business and sell any extraneous assets which might generate capital. The sale of assets commenced with the divestiture of rolling stock — locomotives, freight and passenger cars and cabooses. It concluded with the sale of office furniture and passenger car furnishings.
On December 10, 1977, twenty years ago last month, the Rock Island Railroad held a day-long auction at the Old LaSalle Street Station in downtown Chicago. At this final sale, the railroad, under the watchful eye of the Federal Court and the trustees in bankruptcy, disposed of tons of goodies: tables, chairs, table clothes, dishes, silverware, books and tickets. At the time the auction was ordered, executives of the railroad decided to “salt” the auction with about six hundred boxes from its corporate archives to help generate public interest. And generate interest it did . . .
When the media in Chicago learned of the upcoming sale and the inclusion of the Rock Island’s archives, I still remember the local newscasts touting the possibility that an auction-goer could perhaps unearth a letter of Abraham Lincoln or Stephen Douglas (two of the more prominent attorneys who worked for the railroad in the early days). Or you may find wanted posters and legal files dealing with train robbers such as the illustrious James boys or the infamous Daltons.
In a word, I was hooked. I was not a particularly sophisticated collector at the time (I still do not consider myself to be a particularly sophisticated collector) but I was thrilled at the chance of going to the auction and finding a bargain. I arrived at the station in time to sign up for a cardboard number and to find myself a seat at the back on an uncomfortable steel folding chair.
I remember the auction with considerable and rather surprising clarity. The auction was jammed — literally standing room only. It was held in a large high-ceilinged room (the size of a small gymnasium) fronting Van Buren Street with the auctioneer’s back against a cold floor to ceiling window. The room was freezing (there was no heat) so everyone remained bundled up like Admiral Byrd, sipping hot coffee and munching on cold donuts. After waiting around for several hundred lots of coat racks, table cloths, dishes, silverware and mother of pearl artwork which had graced some turn of the Century dining cars, it was time for the archives to go on the block. The “archives” consisted of about 600 unmarked, sealed, ancient “tote” boxes.
Interestingly, the tote boxes had to be purchased with the contents unseen. They were filthy, dirty and in some cases oily and they were sold in lots of ten, fifteen or twenty boxes to the group. It didn’t make any difference to me that I couldn’t peak in the boxes. I was going to bid come blazes or high water! When the dust had settled, I was the proud owner of 45 boxes (three lots) at $3.50 per box. The next day, I picked them up stuffed them into my Plymouth Valiant and carted them home. I began lugging them into my basement from the driveway. My wife stared at me, arms akimbo, wondering if I gone round the bend. I assured her that I had not.
During the next few months (it took that long to properly go through it all), I pored over the archive, painstakingly sorting, identifying and classifying the material. I have to tell you, it was like going through the Dead Sea Scrolls. As I opened the boxes, and the contents saw the light of day for the first time in over 100 years, I leafed through gem after gem after gem. Increasingly, I rued deeply the fact that I had not bought all six hundred boxes.
Everything in the boxes was dated between 1865 and 1915. Among the items gleaned from the 45 boxes were the following:
Dozens of letters of United States Vice President James Schoolcraft Sherman
Letters of U.S. Vice President Charles Curtis
Letters of Vice President Charles Dawes
Letters of Clarence Darrow as Chicago’s Corporation Counsel
Letters of Anton Cermak
Letters of Mayor Carter Harrison the elder (Mayor Harrison is over my right shoulder)
Scores of letters from Governors of the various states
Letters of United States Supreme Court Justices (I kept those)
Letters of U.S. Presidential Cabinet members
Hundreds of letters of United States Senators and Congressmen
Hundreds of letters of Illinois States Representatives and Senators
Hundreds of letters from Chicago Alderman (including several from the infamous “Hinky Dink” Kenna and “Bathhouse John” Coughlin)
Hundreds of letter of City of Chicago, Cook County and State of Illinois officials
Thousands of letters from city governments all over the Midwest.
Thousands of letters from business, industry and attorneys in the Midwest
A hundred or so old legal files relating to everything from a farmer’s cow killed on the tracks to a train hold up in New Mexico — complete with a wanted poster listing the desperados
Hundreds of tickets, annual passes and timetables
Scores of old rate books, leases, Articles of Incorporation and pamphlets
Interestingly, most of the letters from the politicians were asking for free passes on the Rock Island for themselves and family members. Even the letters of the Supreme Court Justices requested free passes on the railroad at a time when cases involving the Rock Island were pending in the Supreme Court! Is it too late for an exposé?
After finishing the Herculean task of collating, identifying and cataloging, I contacted the University of Iowa, a school with a well-publicized interest in the Rock Island Railroad. I sold nearly everything to them for quite more than I had paid for it.
Having realized what a treasure (at least for a collector of autograph material) I had stumbled across, my eyes narrowed a bit. I figured that there just had to be more than just 600 boxes of archival material of a rail line that lasted for 130 years. I called the auctioneer who had handled the sale, Nachbar Auctioneers of Chicago.
“You had an auction a couple of months ago at the Rock Island Railroad. Do you know if there are any more archives which are available?”
“No, I think that was all” the voice responded.
“Are you sure?”
“Uh Huh.”
I wasn’t convinced. So, I began calling the Rock Island Railroad directly — every few weeks — talking to different people about where, not if, the railroad kept the remainder of its archival heritage. No one seemed to know (or they weren’t talking). When the Chicago Pacific Holding Corporation took over the remnants of the line after the Rock Island was formally dissolved, I began calling them too.
After literally two years of trying to locate the Rock Island archives, I finally got through to someone who knew the story. It turned out that the archives of the Chicago Rock Island Railroad were housed in a 100,000 square foot building on the northeast corner of Polk and LaSalle here in Chicago. It was a little more than a stone’s throw from where I sat talking on the telephone and not far from where we sit this evening. I told the fellow on the phone that I would be willing to buy the contents of the building. He laughed and said “its not for sale.” He said they planned to throw all the records away.
There is an old and usually valid expression that the squeaky wheel gets the oil. For the next two years, I squeaked at the Chicago Pacific Holding Corporation begging for archival oil. Finally, after months of jawboning and negotiating, the successor to the now defunct Rock Island line, agreed to sell me the entire contents of the building for $500.00. One contingency: I had to get the contents out within three weeks. I agreed.
Now, you’re probably asking yourselves “What in the world was the man going to do with all of that . . . stuff? You will recall that I had sold the items gleaned from the auction to the University of Iowa. Such was the case with the remainder. I had already laid some careful groundwork and within one hour of my telephone handshake on buying the remainder of the Rock Island archives, I had it sold the contents of the building to two institutions: the University of Iowa and the University of Oklahoma at Norman — another university with an interest in the history of the Rock Island.
Over the next three weeks, I orchestrated the arrival, loading and departure of eight over-the-road 48 foot tractor trailers into the tiny shipping dock of that building. Day laborers who I had hired, worked furiously and packed the trailers full of paper and sent them off to the new institutional owners of the material. Today, the Rock Island Line is only a memory, its archives were saved and are reposed in the holdings of two great universities and I am left with a few simple vestiges of my four year quest. I have a cross-section of track, a railroad spike and a dining car cereal bowl.
By maintaining their holdings of the Rock Island archives, the Universities of Iowa and Oklahoma have insured that future generation of researchers, writers and balladeers will have food for thought, word and song. It will help all to remember that the “Rock Island Line was once a mighty fine road.”