TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum Moved

TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum has been moved: The TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum, which was opened in 1991 on a section of its land adjacent to Celal Bayar Boulevard of Ankara Station, has been moved! At the end of last year, we had received the news that this Museum (locomotives) would be lifted while talking with a railroad executive friend on the construction of the new Ankara Station. During our speech, he said that the trains will be drawn somewhere in the area where TCDD Behiç Bey Enterprises is located and that they will be exhibited in the new museum structure to be created there.

At the beginning of December of last year (December 5), the karatren (steamers) in the museum have moved to Behiç Bey collectively, next to the sports ground there, to their new location overlooking the Turkish Grain Board (TMO) silos. Since I have not been able to get any tidy information so far, I called my railroad friend again, worrying that something bad could happen to this precious heritage (!). Whoever we asked until he reached him, the hiss did not come. Chief officer, no one of the relevant irrelevant knows that the big museum has moved ... I said at least, if such a museum, which was involved in the cultural memory of the city and the country, had been written an explanatory "note" in the place of the entrance door after its removal to its new location. Moreover, even if it had not been moved, if it had been preserved in this old place close to the city and the city, the tired and old trains obviously embarked on a new journey whose journey had not ended. Either this museum still stands on the TCDD website with its old position and deployment!

Let this point be there. I heard that they were moving, they were under protection, I immediately went and took photos of the rest of the old TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum. Maybe he should somewhere. Today, we were in the garden of the General Directorate of Business Administration in Marşandiz as the first sprinkles of rain, which we had been waiting for the country for months, were falling (2 February). With running steps we headed towards the area where the steamers were placed. The one who knows the joy of the first train and sees our joy lives. We immediately took photos of the steamers washed by the most beautiful rain of the season, which stopped in the summer without seeing the winter…

Wagons, coal cranes, water pumps with ten steam locomotives of different genres and brands, exhibited at the TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum, were placed in a certain order, and were waiting for the arrangements and works to be done. The worn out of the locomotives, which started in the old places, seemed to the upper level after this move. They were spilling frankly!

Marquises (machinist's place), quarries were turned into garbage, tool edavat, plate signage, what's wrong or stolen were taken. All these vapors have to be seriously maintained and repaired from a to z. Today, we received the news that the locomotives pulled into the widows of this new and reassuring new museum place will be repaired completely as we expected (February 25). Let's hope that steam locomotives (karatren) that will be taken to rest in their new places (museum), as they were said in a promotional brochure printed in the years when the museum was opened, continue their journey as they did yesterday. Let them walk to the future by sharing the culture and historical traces and accumulation they carry on their backs with their visitors…

Let's hope and wish again that after the necessary cleaning, maintenance and repair processes are completed, the news of the new opening ceremony, where the "new" museum will meet with its audience, will be heard! In the year when this museum was opened, I wrote an article: “The Trains That Lost Their Poetry…” With the sadness reflected from the vapors that have turned into black and white photographs in the places allocated to them in the museum area. Now only with the trains of locked trains on these tracks that live in memories and cultural memory ... at the line lengths of memory and precision…

That's why I wanted to bring the old text that I mentioned together with the readers to see the inspiration of the locomotives that were inspired by writing.

TRAINING OF POETRY

Our “Nahiye” was in a turn where the railway entered and came out of it. I always remember the train from Ankara. Wouldn't it come from Kayseri? Of course he would come. But I think that side of our house and relationships should have been that direction. The location of our house was also suitable for this: the house was on a hill overlooking the station. When the train coming from Ankara direction has been hanging since Kanlıca, smoke would appear before the nose of the Ördelek Bridge reached the bottom. Then, the Kayseri Express, which was pulled by a locomotive with ears, would appear from the corner where the mountains and the bridge meet. He finished his turn by lying on his right side, gliding towards the village. As soon as the hill turns, the locomotive's nose starts to appear as soon as it starts with a humming sound… It should not be said to sound like this: the music of movement and vitality that attracted the walking city of Qatar's muscles, pistons, steel and iron was a music. The original, nourished as well as impressive sliding sound was also fed by the murmur of the steel wheel on the steel rails. From that turn to the final turn to the station, the train always ran with such a magical gliding sound, a three-to four-kilometer straight road, surrounded by vineyards and gardens. That voice is still in my ear.

He slowed down as he approached the second turn, floated and deflected, then crossing the level crossing to the makura, maintaining a certain speed, like the stalled horses. If I get caught in front of my grandfather's (mother's father) two-storey house facing the station there; If not, the time would run up to the scissors to catch the train there. He saw every train, my grandfather's house.

Uncle Makas Saadettin was our neighbor. As one slipped back so as not to topple the trunk, which his big belly was crying forward, one foot would gently hold the flag of the green velvet to the knees. "The road is yours, late." He was soaring in front of the train switchman box that I thought he was floating ... I thought the world was shaking. The giant wheels that are longer than my height, with their steel glitters, the giant body that breathes like a bull bull, the ceremonial continent soldiers, with its polished brass belts, with the unique smell of burned coal and oil ... -Trak, with scratch-traks ... A little breathing at the station, breathing through his nose like sweaty horses, then flowing towards Kayseri ... Among the village children, who were fluttering as "newspaper ... newspaper".

The last wagon was also betrayed by the Saadettin, the train left the station before leaving the green velvet flag (a red in the red) carefully curl, wraps, the wooden handle would put the outside of the leather sheath to stay outside. Then she would hang with the other next to the wall of the club, always crossed over. He would then turn to the station or home as if he had believed in his inner face.

It was like me, not the scissorer! I could not have heard of the music that every train passing through Fakılı, the piston wheel sounds and the clicks of the axle, which started with the appearance and running from the skirts of the tables, added to the uniform and quiet life of the village.

How close it was, Uncle Saadettin to those beautiful locomotives. I would envy him. I envy him. I always stood behind. Both steps away. He scared me: “The wind will take you under”. It was the wind winged trains that I would have believed. Uncle Saadettin has already left us. I always wonder: Is there anybody who remembers Uncle Saadettin, who says "pass the road," to the civilization horse made of steel and fire under them - now he lives and lives now - in a lifetime of a machinist and a fireman? Is there anyone who adds that child, who is afraid of being caught in the wind of Qatar, to a corner of his memories of Anatolia?

Those locomotives remained in my mind. Like the names of the commanders that remained in the wars… Fresh from the oven, fresh as bread, polished as newly bought sardine, as agile as the newly opened foals, angry like a bull, and large like a mountain. They were fancy and cute. Maybe they were poetry. It was as if they were made of fire and bone, not of iron and steel. Wherever I am in the village, I would be added to the floor with all my senses as soon as I heard your voice. Which milestone passed, which tie bar greeted; I knew which apricot or acacia tree shook its leaves. I knew where to cut smoke, where to struggle, where to whistle and scream. If I couldn't reach the scissor or station, the train would flow through me.

How measured, attractive, everything had been replaced by a beautiful structure that locomotives. Earnly locomotives with ears starting with the number 46 or 56. As if they were in the image of people, I would love to choose so closely from a distance. If not, would they wipe their horses out of the iron all day, winter and summer, as if the firemen, the machinist were caressing their skirmishers and foal rump. I remember very well; those locomotives seemed to love those people as much as they had bread money. Like love, they wanted attention, wanted care ... Uncle Sadettin loved them, I know them. I have never seen a complaining line on his face. He looked at the passing trains, smiling. I fell in love with those trains that I have been struggling to be together with that scissors countless times and have witnessed their nice situations…

Even today, as it is influenced by the beauty of one-red red bead on the edge of the black manuscripts, I think about the human labor, creativity and taste that produces the aesthetic taste of the body, which is carried by the body of the gilded brass belt in the sun, gilded moon star, extremely redundant and used red spots on the black bodies of the locomotives.

Those trains were like living sculptures, from brand to plate, from wheel to piston, from body to coal, from smoke to whistle, and living. The locomotives were just like the peasant who planted his garden on the shore of the railway, coloring the land as if painting with a blend of various kinds of fruits and vegetables. They were not only carrying, taking, pulling, but also 'cared for' with taste ...

They were the symbol of civilization, except for one or two old trucks. Reminiscent of vitality, beautiful, colorful dreams, cities…. Maybe that's why it's so alive, so close to ourselves; I would find those trains so warm and cute. The train was our festivity, with some dead faces that shined in the sun during the day, falling from the windows that were washed with sleep at night, some children behind the bright lights, soldier faces, beloved faces… fussy human faces. I would love to be on that train one morning. While my friends were asleep, I would consider walking away from the village with the day. I would have forgotten that the train lost in the night would shine the darkness of the village for a moment and then leave us alone and in the dark - with a disappointment - waiting for the next train.

My father would get on the train. Teacher. (Now he is building the house where he will throw his head by spending his last energy from the Village Institute days on a piece of land that looks at the Fakılı Station, before the scissors reach! As he climbs to seventy! He should also ask the trains to him!) He would go to Ankara, Kayseri would go to. As for Uncle Saadettin, I envied him, and I took care of him. The train was longing, meeting. It was pain, separation. It was waiting, it was the news. He was the director, he was an inspector. It was a query, it was an investigation. It was brought, taken away. It was a notebook, a book. It was joy, it was love. It was a poetry song… A watercolor, a red pencil, striped lined notebooks on the back cover, a photograph of Sümerbank's structure in Ulus. It was medicine, needle, sometimes painful. It was to wake up sleepy in the middle of the night… In the morning cool, it was the water that was poured into the hands in front of the house in the twilight of tan. It was the towel held. It was farewell… The door was knocked towards the morning: The newspapers and magazines that fell in front of the children sitting on their duvets. Who were the toys? That is why I will not forget a poem in our Turkish book at that time; Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı's poem which started as “Where is the night / Beautiful train strange train”…

If the locomotives are infinitely beautiful and attractive, they breathe, they are sometimes heavy, tired, sometimes they are not held, they are like a piece of human vitality; They were the strange lonely, sorrowful places where they took passengers, picked up passengers, passed by, passed away, stopped and rested (mutually waiting for these waiters in the language of the trainer) ... Gas lamps at night were left with telegraph clicks during the day. Houses without children were like courtyards without students. If they add the following monument to life, they have remained unbearable places in my memory, Anatolian stations. It would seem to me that if they did not carry trains, their poems would always remain so orphans…

Our Fakili (New Fakili) station was one of those stations.

It was winter. It was late. It was tipping snow and dusting. I recall that we sleep in the half-open waiting room. I was finally getting on the train! I was shaking. We should have been going to Kayseri. The fire that burnt down the walls of the stove, which was painted with silver gilding, was burning inside me, and my eyes were closing as I looked at the flame-flickering gas lamp.

The train came with snow-covered rails dusting light. We remained in a hot cloud of steam. Locomotive breathes "tak .. tak..tak..tak" at intervals… Sleepy quiet wagons in the back. I left myself from the steam over the clouds. I don't know if we're going or not. Pufupufu ... pufupufu ... It goes on and on in the night and the steppe, just this sound, and one clicks of the wheel ... The wood rows ... I'm in the middle of the chamber where we sit, on a wildly spinning globe. Oceans, continents, countries on top ... I remember the sick child who was fluttering in order not to crash into the floor of the compartment, that patient with a passionate fever, like a child. When I woke up at the Boğazköprü Station with the cold of Erciyes licked my face: My father said, "You're tickling."

Now here (at the TCDD Open Air Steam Locomotive Museum), the beautiful friends of the child inside me, locomotives, have not only lost their poetry, but also produce sadness as much as deserted Anatolian stations. You see an old acquaintance, a friend, a lover… and they are astonished, human beings are here as well… These iron horses, which once breathe their breath, are beautiful locomotives that have wiped the heart of Anatolia for 130 years, the trains that have come to the land, look so strange. ; they are looking for their people… Although they do not have vapors or smoke, they take a journey in the dream; They take you around the seas in the steppes of your childhood world. Like a fairy tale that you listen to and forget, they eliminate a long time in your ear ...

Armin

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