By Norman Cain, March 21, 2017 — During the summers of my adolescent years, my sister and I would be sent from Philadelphia to South Carolina. We would live on my maternal grandparent’s farm. We would take the late evening train, leaving from Philadelphia’s 30th Street station. Sometimes we would be taken to the station by Mr. Wilson, a neighbor and native of my parents South Carolina township. We were sometimes transported to our destination in spacious, clean yellow cabs that were driven by polite drivers dressed in black pants and ties, white shirts and chauffeur caps. Since our house was 10 blocks from the station, we would arrive there in 15 minutes. After my father paid the fare, the door would be opened by the driver and then he would proceed to open the trunk of the cab and place the bags on the pavement.
The station’s protruding entrance was bordered by five Grecian columns. As I glanced at the closed stores, I was always amazed at the line of bright yellow cabs lined in front of the station and the efficiency and cadence that the drivers displayed when they serviced those arriving and departing the station. The station was a huge majestic building which was on the South by Another huge stone structure: The Philadelphia main branch post office. The station itself measures 290 by 135 feet, with coffered ceiling with chandeliers. The tiled floor had a brilliant shine. On the top of a circular booth, in the middle of the station, there was a time -table displaying the schedules of arriving and departing trains. A sculpture of the Arch Angel Gabriel, lifting the body of a fallen soldier out of the flames occupied the space in the middle of the concourse. On the South wall sat a female sitting on a horse-drawn carriage; the children surrounding it carried models of steamships and steam locomotives.
The interior would be filled with scurrying travelers, who filed in and out and across the bars, restaurants, gift shops, newspaper store, and shoe shine stands that were inside the station. Some sat on the sturdy brown wooden benches. The deep meter measure voice of the dispatcher boomed across the interior, announcing the arrival of trains to Chicago, New York. Red caps pushed and pulled large carriages filled with baggage across the floor, and ill-dressed folk who evidently were not going anywhere mingled with the crowd. We were always an hour early. Anxiety would overcome me and I would fake having to go to the bathroom and permission was granted. I took this opportunity to regale in a sense of freedom and mingle among the crowd. Once back on the bench, I would listen to the dispatcher intently, and when our train was announced I would be the first to be unseated. My father would have the largest suitcase, my mother a smaller one, and my sister and I would have something in our hands. We would descend the stairs and upon reaching the bottom a conductor in a black uniform would bellow “all aboard.” My parents would board the train, already filled to capacity with mainly white folk, hoist our luggage on overhead racks, urge us to behave ourselves, and as the train pulled off we would wave at their images through the window.