Railroad Crossing Crash in Italy - Marie Stazzone

We lived in a tiny village in Italy. The town square was really a bend in the road, flanked on either side by a cafè, a green grocer and a church. Further down the road there was a butcher shop, another bar and a railroad crossing. We lived on the other side of the tracks, just as I did growing up in Mt. Greenwood. Only difference, I didn't drive while living in Mt. Greenwood.

At the train crossing there was a guard house and the crossing guard who lived there would raise and lower the guard rail for each train passing. While I was living there, technology had improved his job. He no longer had to turn the turnstile by hand, but could push a button. Immediately, a red light on either side of the tracks would begin to flash, a bell would start to ring and five seconds later, literally five seconds later, the rail would automatically raise or lower, blocking passage across the tracks, although, at the end of the guard rails, there remained a narrow opening wide enough for a pedestrian or a bicycle to walk through.

I left home, driving our FIAT 1100. My baby daughter was cradles in a blankets inside a woven wicker basket on the back seat. Her little three-year old brother was sitting next to her on the back seat. Those were the days before children under four had to be strapped into safety seats. Those were days before seat belts were routinely installed by automobile manufacturers, before they became required by law.

I came to the railroad crossing. No red light was flashing, no bell was ringing. So I proceeded to cross the tracks. Just as my front tires rolled onto the rails, I heard the bell ding and then... I saw the crossing bar, like a guillotine, drop, its weight crushing my windshield into smithereens. Then I heard it. A train whistle. I was trapped on the tracks with an oncoming train in arrival.

I turned around to look into the back seat. The wicker basket had tumbled to the floor bottom-up with the baby underneath. My son had also rolled onto the floor, face-down. Both the basket and the boy's back were covered with millions of shiny pieces of glass.

The train whistle sounded again, closer than before. I couldn't move. "Stop the train!" I shouted. Outside it was winter. The car windows were rolled up. No one could hear me.

Or maybe someone did! My car door suddenly opened. A man grabbed my arm and ordered me to get out. "Don't worry! I'll get the babies," he reassured me. I saw the crossing guard standing at the side of the tracks. "Stop the train," the man yelled to the stationmaster. And he did. About 30 yards from the car, the train halted on the tracks with a screech. Men came running out from the bar next to the station and proceeded to lift the guard rail which was bent like a bow. My car looked like a broken arrow beneath it. They must have managed to move it off the tracks so the train could proceed. I don't remember.

All I do remember was standing on the side of the road, brushing glass off my son's back and pulling shards out of his hair. The baby had been protected by the basket and was unharmed. The man who helped me led me to the bar. "You look like you could use a whiskey." I started to protest but too late. He handed me a tall glass. "Drink this. You'll feel better." He had silver strands in his hair and having been taught not to talk back to my elders, I obeyed and drank the whiskey. And I did feel better.

To this day, I don't remember how I got home. I don't know who that man was. What I do know is, shortly after, we got a letter from the Federal Railroad Transport System, suing me for having damaged their guardrail...

So that's my story. A train...a wreck...but a happy ending. "All's well that ends well"

Marie Stazzone, MPHS Alum

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Great story, Marie. Thanks for sharing.

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