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 are 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.
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, where 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.
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.
Short line railroads died out in the last century, although some still serviced remote small factories and desolate communities. It was cold outside and I headed to the only open cafe in Greenwich. I opened the door. Six town cops sat at a table. An older man drank coffee at the counter. I ordered a bagel and coffee from the waitress.
After a short conversation I ask the old farmer, “You been living her long?”
“Most of my life. My name’s Dave.”
“What happened to the Batten Kill Railroad?”
“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 one ever. He had suffered a childhood attack from polio and wandered town on crutches. A good man and a smart one, but natonal 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 talkng about.”
“I bet you do. All the best.”
I left the cafe and drove back to Fiddlers Elbow.
Like so many old things I wouldn’t be here for long. Neither would Dave and certanly not the Batten Kill RR.
We had all seen better days.
