Harry Chapin

July 17, 1981
Other than that, it was a typical trip on the North Shore line of the Chicago and North Western Railroad suburban system. The passengers ended their usual workday, boarding the train in Chicago, bound for various stops along the way to Waukegan. I was working on the train as a collector – a fancy term we gave to brakemen who served on commuter trains. Almost everyone would address us as “conductor”, but most of us ignored the misnomer. We were employed as ticket collectors, not language correctors. Working on the rear cars, it was also my job to open and close the doors at each and every stop, ensuring that passengers boarded and detrained safely.

On this evening, this train had an extra stop scheduled for Ravinia Park. It was normal to make the stop on nights when there was a concert planned. But it didn’t make sense for the train to stop this night, you see, the singer/songwriter Harry Chapin was scheduled to perform, and he had passed away the day before as the result of a tragic car accident. I could only guess that the train dispatcher hadn’t changed the train orders, and that neither the engineer nor the fireman had radioed for instructions. Maybe they didn’t know.

The stop was coming up, and I figured that I would perform my duties as usual. As the train came to a halt, I opened the doors and stepped out onto the platform. It was quiet, no one in sight. Silently, I offered a prayer for Harry. After an appropriate pause, I boarded the train, leaned out, and waved an all clear to the engineer. I closed the doors, and we left. In the end, it made all the sense. Waukegan could wait. Seven hundred tons of steel had paused in the rush of things, marking the only time a train would stop and pay homage to a deserving artist.