In 1956, a few years before I was born, my family moved from Millburn NJ to Scranton PA. Even then, Joe Biden's hometown was struggling, the hub of a coal-mining region that had gone into steep decline.
Although it was only 135 miles from New York City, it is difficult to imagine now just how insular Scranton was in those days before the interstate highways. Even in the '70s, after the highways came through, we used to joke about living "behind the anthracite curtain," as it seemed there were so many people there who never ventured beyond the coal towns that lined the Lackawanna and Susquehanna valleys.
In the '50s, for those who did travel to the world beyond, the trains of the Lackawanna Railroad were the way to go. And my older brother, whose heart was already in metro New York and who never adjusted to Scranton, discovered those trains. So every couple of months for most of the next decade, beginning when he was about 7, my mother would put him onto the eastbound Phoebe Snow at Scranton on Friday afternoon after school, and he'd ride to Brick Church station in New Jersey, where my grandparents would pick him up in time for dinner. On Saturday they'd plan a day trip to New York. On Sunday, he'd board the Phoebe just before 11 and be back in Scranton about 1:30. From those trips, a lifetime of train enthusiasm was born -- for him and later for me.
Although I was too young to ride along with my brother on most of those trips, my earliest memory of train travel is from one Christmas, I think it was 1964, when my mother and I joined him for the ride to NJ and back. By this time the Lackawanna had merged with the Erie, and the Phoebe had been converted to an overnight run originating in Chicago, rather than a day run from Buffalo. The eastbound was hours late coming from Chicago. I remember sitting for a long time in the waiting room at Scranton, with the light fixtures lining the tops of those high-backed benches -- so tall that I couldn't see over them even if I stood on the bench, which I was repeatedly asked not to do. Eventually we boarded a train that originated in Scranton after dark and took us eastward, and I remember my brother being put out that it wasn't the real Phoebe, which still hadn't shown up.
On the return trip, though, we rode the Phoebe, and my brother knew the route by heart -- the high line across western NJ, then snaking through the Delaware Water Gap, up into the Poconos and down the Roaring Brook gorge into Scranton. I remember staring out the window and the sensation of passing freight cars at speed and the spray of new-fallen snow that the train kicked up as it raced through the countryside.
In a couple of years, the Phoebe Snow was gone, though the Erie Lackawanna still had another train, the Lake Cities, that my brother and grandparents rode occasionally through the late '60s till it too was gone.