Although Dad was assigned as the station agent at Pauline his skills as a telegrapher meant that he was out on the road filling in for others at different stations on the line. The station was a two story affair and we lived on the second floor. Pauline was a branch line that did not have regular passenger service so when Dad was away Mom did not have to stay at the station. Dad was out on the road and we were returning from a Christmas visit to my Grandparents in Ottumwa. It was snowing on the ride back. Then the snow stopped, the wind rose, and the temperature dropped. Pauline was on a spur south of the main line of the CB&Q. The nearest stop was at Hastings which meant we would have to drive the 15 miles from Hastings to Pauline.

As the train approached Hastings in the dark of night, the conductor stopped at the seats where we were sitting and told us that we had better not drive back to Pauline.
Mother said, "Oh, I have to get back tonight."
"Surely there's nothing in Pauline that can't wait until tomorrow."
"No, I have to go tonight," she said, her stubbornness now augmenting her poor judgment.
"I'll talk to the agent when we get to Hastings," the conductor said as he quickly walked away.
Just as the train reached Hastings, two porters suddenly appeared at my mother's side. In accordance with a conspiracy they and the conductor had planned, one man grabbed Jane, my little sister, the other grabbed the luggage, and they rushed off the train and into the depot where my mother would have to follow. As she walked across the station platform, she saw the conductor speaking rapidly to the depot agent, who nodded his head to indicate both his understanding and agreement.

The porters said good-bye to Jane and my mother, then ran back to the train. Passengers hurried off and others hurried on. Mailbags flew from the mail car as others flew in. A porter grabbed the Pullman stool and climbed the steps of the coach. The conductor looked at his pocket watch, signaled the highball with his lantern, waited for the responding whistle from the engineer, and stepped aboard at the exact moment that the train started to move. Minutes later, the train, one of the many silver-colored Zephyrs, a city unto itself, disappeared into the night.

Back in the depot the agent tried to talk my mother into staying. She was adamant. He warned her about the lack of traffic at that hour, about how a breakdown would strand and freeze her to death, about the fact that no one was expecting her, all to no avail. Finally he went outside, started our car, checked the radiator, batteries, spark plug cables, and the gas gauge and put our bags in the back.

After Mother had driven out of Hastings and started toward Pauline, the true seriousness of her situation finally hit her. The temperature had fallen further and the blowing and drifting snow flew across the road and obscured her vision. She thought of turning around but she couldn't find a place to turn so she kept on. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Pauline came into view and, to her surprise, she could see that the depot lights were on. When she walked inside she found that the fire in the office stove was burning warmly and she found one of the section men sitting comfortably beside it. "Pretty cold out there tonight, isn't it?" he said.

My mother told me that she was never happier to see a section man in her entire life. He belonged to a race of men known for their hard work and their love of storytelling. And now this section man had another story he could tell and retell until the day he died, a story about the night that a depot agent in Hastings had called and told him that Mrs. Irelan and her little girl had driven off in the bitter cold and that someone had better go down to the depot, start a fire, and make sure that she got there in a reasonable period of time. And if she didn't, someone had better go out looking for her.

"It was the stupidest thing I ever did," my mother always said. "Thank God, there were people with good sense looking out for me.