By Elaine Carrier

Editor:

One crisp autumn day, with winds blustering, playing tag with my hair, a group of hysterical historians set out to view the Henderson depot. To my surprise it had been partially stripped of its dignity, but nevertheless its beauty still held the eye of the curious beholder.

Some may question the word beauty. I see the depot as it can be – not as is. There are people who would like to see it restored.

Some of Henderson's greatest eye catchers have been neglected; this is one of them. I have memories as a child playing around the depot.

I was about 12 years old, and I was trying to carry my bicycle across the tracks. I put my bike down for a minute to rest, and the wheel became wedged between the rails somehow.

A train was coming down the track (in a distance); I was scared. I struggled with the bike to no avail. A lady came running down the track from the depot. I had noticed her earlier sitting on a bench waiting for one of the passenger trains. This lady helped me to get my bike free. I was so grateful.

I regained my childlike composure, turned to say “thank you” and she was gone.

Who was she?

I don't know.

Where did she go?

Perhaps she caught a train. Some people may say she was an angel.

That is one of my memories of the depot. It is a true story. I wonder if anyone else out there has something to share. “A priceless jewel hidden in the depths of their memory bank.”

The Gleaner, November 8, 1997