The Railroad Bridge

In my hometown there is a stretch of U.S. Highway 62 known as East Malone Avenue. It runs between downtown Sikeston and Interstate 55. About half way between the two, the highway passes over a small stream known as St. John’s Ditch. To my knowledge, the Ditch serves no real purpose though I imagine it provides water to irrigate the adjoining fields.

Bear with me here.

Sikeston is a town that stays under the radar for the most part. The university town to the north, Cape Girardeau, gets more attention. I guess that is fine for the locals. Still, it has some things of note; both famous and infamous. First the infamous. In 1942, Sikeston was the scene of the last lynching in Missouri as a mob broke into a state jail and murdered Cleo Wright. Somewhere in between famous and infamous is the Bootheel Rodeo, a tradition for 60 years now. The famous? Well, the famous is the original Lambert’s Cafe “Home of the Throwed Roll.” Also home to the best Chicken Fried Round Steak that I have ever eaten.

There is one event that leads us back to St. John’s Ditch. On May 17, 1948, former President Bill Clinton’s father, William Jefferson Blythe, Jr. was in an accident that threw him from his car. He landed in the ditch where he drowned. This was three months before Clinton’s birth.

So, this brings us back to the Ditch and why it holds a small place in my memory. I spent my freshman year of high school living with my grandparents and attending school there. During that year I renewed my friendship with Stephen Rogers. Stephen and I were born four days apart at the Missouri Delta Community Hospital. I was the older one. During family visits we would sometimes see each other at the church his parents and my grandparents attended.

But during this school year, we became best friends and Sikeston was our playground. Our bikes took us just about everywhere we wanted to go. The music shop and library on N. Kings Highway were frequent stops. On that same street was Kirby’s Sandwich Shop, where we’d have burgers and fries. In those days Kirby’s served Coke-Cola out of glass bottles and we’d try to keep track of how many different locations the bottles came from. We saw our fair share of movies at the Malone Theater on Front Street. We would set in the back at church. We’d always try to sing the bass line of the songs and we played paper football on the hymnals during the sermons. From time to time, we found ourselves in a bit of trouble.

One afternoon we were riding our bikes around in the neighborhoods just south of East Malone, near the Ditch. There on the south side, crossing over the water was a narrow , cast iron, black pipe. It was not too wide, but wide enough for us to challenge each other to see if we could walk across the pipe to the other side. Dicey. So we steeled our courage, and in turn, we both made it across. The trouble was, our bikes were back on the other side. We need to get back across. So, up to the road we go.

The easy thing would have been to walk the few yards down the highway, get our bikes and be on our way. But really, where is the adventure in that?

You see, just across the highway are railroad tracks. And across the Ditch is a suspended, iron encased, railroad bridge*. Ah, something to be explored! So instead of turning west and walking to our bikes, we sprint across the highway and up to the bridge. Without much effort we were down the bank and climbing out into the bridge.

Is was quiet under the railroad; for a short time. It wasn’t long until we felt the bridge begin to vibrate. It started as a slight vibration but grew steadily over a few minutes. Then, we heard it. The sound of a train horn, not too far off. There was train on the track and it was headed straight for us! It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were in trouble. We were half way across the bridge, over the water, and there was not enough time to get back to the bank. So we positioned ourselves as low in the bridge as we dared and wrapped our arms around the iron girders. Then we held on for dear life hoping to not be shaken loose and thrown into the drink.

It was a long train!

We just stood there for a few moments after the train had passed. Not really sure why. Perhaps we were too scared to move. Or maybe it was a quiet moment of thanksgiving  realizing we were alright. I can’t remember. But after awhile we crawled out from under the bridge and crossed back over the highway. We got our bikes and were on our way again. Only, we would be hard pressed that day, or any other, to find another adventure equal to what just happened.

I seem to remember not sharing this story with my grandparents; not that night at dinner, not that year. It would be years before they knew what had happened that day. I wanted be sure that enough time had gone by and the possibility of their grounding me had long since passed.

There are times that I miss my hometown. It has been a few years now since I have gone home and I need to visit there again soon. But any time I have gone back, I am sure to stop by Kirby’s for a burger and fries and Lambert’s for the Chicken Fried Round Steak. I drive down the cobblestone street where the old Woolworth’s used to be; where my grandmother worked. I stop and browse through the White Elephant and spend a few moments sitting on a bench in the American Legion Park. Remembering. 

On my way out of town I’ll drive down East Malone and cross over the St. John’s Ditch. In that moment I forget about everything else Sikeston was or is or may be. For that moment, I think about a Saturday afternoon in the Spring of 1972 when my friend Stephen and I felt the rumble of rails like never before. 

I smile a sly smile.

Greg

Postscript:  A few years ago I learned that Dolan Rogers, Stephen’s dad, died. The date was October 1, 2008. Reading his obituary in the hometown paper, I discovered that Stephen tragically died earlier that year in Carbondale. He was 51 and he was my friend.


* The photo of Kirby's and the railroad bridge across St. John's Ditch was grabbed from Google Maps.