Now imagine in grave detail the stereotypical image of a mad black woman.
A train rolled into the same tourist station—the same turn-around every Sunday at noon—for who knows how long. Yet in the 4 + years both of us had been in the mountains of Frostburg, Maryland, we had never heard, seen or knew anything of that old coal engine. Nevertheless, that faithful Sunday sitting in the old-timey western diner, eating our burgers and fries we saw black smoke rising above the valley tree tops. Moments later the big black engine made its way around the bend and came to a screeching halt on the track right outside the window of the diner. Next, like a scene right out of a twilight zone movie, a conductor fully adorn in a nostalgic railroad uniform hopped down from the cab and hundreds of people from many nations flooded out onto the dock.