A local volunteer fire department held one Sunday and it was jammed, mainly by men who had Lionel trains as kids and have reverted to childhood — or never left it. Train shows are guy things, although a couple had wives in tow, their women looking as thrilled at looking at cabooses as their hubbies would be in a fabric store.
(One of the women may one day send the above message to her spouse.)
The room resembled a souk: venders, buyers, gawkers, tables laden with trains. Big trains, little trains, antique trains, new trains. You need a Lionel box car, or a Plasticville depot, or some extra wheels or track or an entire Pennsylvania Railroad passenger train?
Buddy, you have come to the right place.
I have long considered “jaw dropping” a literary exaggeration, like “unbelievable” and “bone weary” and women in Victorian-era novels blushing and fainting. No more. I bought nothing at the train show but told my wife I plunked down $225 for a long-coveted (by me) Santa Fe diesel locomotive.
And, oh yes, her jaw dropped.