It often starts like this. Yep, that’s me with my American Flyer set-up.
The journey continues as we think we know what we want, based on early influences. (Penn Central Geeps and a U-boat on the westbound freight main near the depot in Richmond in the late 1960s.)
But things can change as we explore the big wide world. (Chessis System Geeps in the West Virginia New River Gorge, 1985. My V&O inspired coal railroad phase)
You can bounce from pillar to post until you finally realize what it is you’re looking for. (The yard job working Centerville in the 1960s. Look at that beautiful track work.)
When you finally make the choice about what’s truly important to you, things get simpler.
For me, the craft isn’t about simple and easy solutions. Where’s the fun in that? It’s about trying and making mistakes…
…and learning from them as a way to get better. It’s about using something you’re drawn to as a means to push and challenge yourself to excel.
That’s what keeps you engaged with this craft for decades.
In a culture that worships at the alter of instant gratification, we’ve lost sight of the idea that this craft is a journey. I may have started with crude tinplate trains but I didn’t stay there. Even from an early age I wanted my models to look like the big trains outside. Closing the gap between what I can do and what I want to do has taken me decades of learning, trying, failing and trying again. It’s a process that won’t stop until I do. That’s a simple truth people used to understand. Now I’m not so certain people do anymore.
When the whine and cheese blather about how “that’s too hard” or “why bother when so much great stuff out of the box is just a click away,” or about how elitist snobs like me are ruining things for everybody with all this emphasis on excellence, I simply remember that no one is born a craftsman. It’s a life-long journey you choose to take. Yes, it can be hard and frustrating and at times I wonder if it’s worth it and then I’m reminded that it is.