Trains flowed in my blood early. Etched in my memory is Daddy's return from the Pacific in July, 1945. Perched on a baggage cart, I watched the train hiss to a stop. After much confusion, I was snatched up and hugged by a man in uniform, then a stranger. In December, my older brother got a train set. As Daddy and I got acquainted that spring, he would take me to Pomona yard in Greensboro, North Carolina to watch the switching operations while he listened to the baseball game on the radio. In September 1995, I opened Dry Bridge Station, a model train store. The seed planted fifty years earlier began to sprout.