Dave Eldredge, Mrs. Atwood’s nephew, dishes hot dawgs and pop-sickles over the Grill Car’s counter.
(Moody Photo)
This is what I call posing ’em! Mr. Atwood smiles between his brand new Oldsmobile and his baby No. 4.
The W. W. & F. was the only one of these little roads to keep the Railway Post Office route. All the others—the Farmington & Rangeley, and the Bridgton’s mailcar—were taken away during the other war. This one, though, stayed to the last run.
There were—let’s see: one, two, three ... there were ten stations on the line, some being rail points for stages from other post-offices, too. Must have been twenty or more offices served by this R. P. O.
Its worst mess of all came in 1931 when a mortgage-monger who controlled some timberlands up in Palermo got hold of the road. That’s a good story, too, but we’ll have to skip it now except to say that the road didn’t improve any under his ownership, and track got so rough there was no fun riding on it. Coming down that morning, June 15, they’d just left Whitefield station when Crash!—a broken rail. The tiny Portland engine switched ends and dove down the bank toward the river. A flatcar tail-feathered up behind her. The cream-car careened. The last Railway Post Office wobbled feebly, jolted to its last stop, and settled into the ballast for a good, long rest.
That was the Weak, Weary & Feeble’s last trip. Wreck was never picked up. Mr. Atwood may have some pictures of that, too.
She was the second one of the Maine two-footers to go.
In 1935 the Sandy River, with its excellent line, trim engines and cars, and business possibilities dunked its fire and went home. That left two: the Bridgton line and the little Monson.