Bigfoot and Lemon Law

Hi all: I'm here in the Redwoods with daughter Rebecca and the Bigfoot Field Research Organization (http://www.bfro.net/), as seen on the MonsterQuest TV show We are tromping in the dark woods looking for traces of that most elusive creature, and after some time here, heading off to the Oregon coast to play golf at Bandon Dunes (http://www.bandondunesgolf.com/). Back in two weeks, and more to come. In the meantime, my friend Sergei Lemberg has a few things to say about lemon law. William


When It's Time to Make Noise
By Sergei Lemberg
William so eloquently writes about the dire consequences of "quiet zones," and I agree wholeheartedly that engineers should make all the noise they need to warn pedestrians and drivers that a train is coming their way. Through link [www.LemonJustice.com], my colleagues and I help people make another kind of noise - the kind that forces car manufacturers to do the right thing.
All too often, consumers are victimized by car manufacturers when the automaker can't or won't fix a serious defect in a new car. We're not talking about annoying problems like speakers that aren't installed properly, but rather defects that make the vehicle unreliable or unsafe. Every state has what's called a lemon law, meant to protect new car buyers from just these kinds of defects. Unfortunately, though, most people don't understand their lemon law rights, or know how to go about preserving them.
Because each state's lemon law is different, it's easy for people to become confused. Generally speaking, though, most states cover new passenger vehicles that are intended for personal use. Some states are even more lenient. Texas lemon law, for example, covers virtually every new and demonstrator vehicle with two or more wheels that's designed for use on the highway.
Typically, lemon laws dictate that, in order to be considered a "lemon," a vehicle must have serious defects that occur within a certain time frame. In Texas, it's during the first year or the first 12,000 miles - whichever comes first. There's also a requirement that the vehicle has been taken in for a certain number of repairs (such as four times for the same problem) or has been out of service for a certain length of time (such as a cumulative total of 30 days). Often, there's a requirement that the manufacturer has to be notified via certified mail and given one last opportunity to make the repairs. If the automaker can't fix the problem, they're required to give the consumer a refund or replacement vehicle.
This is the point where consumers need to make a lot of noise. Understandably, manufacturers don't want to acknowledge that they have a lemon, and have legal teams that are dedicated to fighting lemon law claims. Often, they make people jump through hoops until the time limit for getting compensation expires, then walk away with smiles on their faces.
If you think you have a lemon, there are a number of steps you should take. First, keep a logbook of every communication you have with the dealer or manufacturer. Also note every time and date that you have a problem with the vehicle, as well as the days that the vehicle is out of service, either because it's in the shop or because it's not in working condition. Second, keep all of your repair records; never leave the shop without a copy of the work order. Third, keep any written correspondence you have. If the law requires that you send the manufacturer a final demand letter via certified mail and allow the manufacturer one final repair attempt, so make sure you have the paperwork to back that up. Finally, contact a lemon law attorney after the second or third repair attempt. He or she can help guide you through the final steps that will legally establish your vehicle as a lemon. Because most lemon laws say that the manufacturer has to pay your attorney's fees in a successful claim, representation shouldn't cost you a dime.
The bottom line? If you think you have a lemon, raise your voice and make a lot of noise. It's the only thing car manufacturers can hear.

Where Silence Can Be Fatal

William J. Brotherton: Where silence can be fatal

Nobody likes being awakened at night by a train horn, but there's a good reason for the noise.

Many communities in Minnesota are evaluating the use of "quiet zones," where railroad engineers cannot sound their horns except in emergencies. It sounds good in concept, but quiet zones can be killers. Sadly, that was illustrated recently with the death of 5-year-old Kevin Bradford just outside a railroad quiet zone in Texas.

The Union Pacific freight train had just left a quiet zone before its crew encountered Kevin, his brother and a cousin on the tracks. The boys never heard a train horn until it was too late, because freight trains can take a mile or more to stop, depending upon the number of cars and the speed of the train.

I should know. I'm a former Burlington Northern Railroad brakeman, conductor and trainmaster, and was in the cab of a locomotive on several occasions when we struck automobiles. Thankfully, no one was ever hurt, because on each occasion that we hit a car, we were either going very slowly, had very few cars attached to the locomotive, or both.

Since the advent of railroading, locomotive engineers have been required to sound warnings at crossings -- first with a steam whistle, and later with a diesel horn. Specifically, two long blasts of the horn, one short one, and then another long blast through the crossing, is required by law. It's very noisy, obviously, but necessary, given that trains can kill you.

When I was railroading in Minnesota, a locomotive engineer decided to implement his own quiet zone in the northern part of the state. At 2 in the morning, he was passing through an area with isolated farms and a multitude of rural crossings. He decided as a courtesy not to blow his horn. Bad mistake. His train struck a car with two people inside, killing them. The engineer went to jail.

Quiet zones were first authorized in 1994, but federal regulations for them were not approved until 10 years later. More and more cities are implementing them, because who likes to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of a long wailing train horn? Never mind that the railroad tracks were there long before houses and businesses were built alongside them, or that many train crews have come to refer to quiet zones as "killing fields."

When I was a child growing up in Atlanta, my friends and I frequently walked the tracks of the Seaboard Air Line Railroad. We liked watching the trains, waving to the conductor in the caboose, and dreaming about all the faraway places that the glistening passenger trains could take us.
One day, though, we got caught in the middle of a single-track trestle of the Seaboard, and the Silver Comet, a crack passenger train, came roaring around a curve at 90 mph. By the time it crossed over the trestle, we had jumped into murky Peachtree Creek, suddenly more worried about water moccasins than about being hit by the train.

What saved us was that the passenger train had blown at a crossing shortly before it got to us. We had a warning that a train was coming and we didn't hesitate to jump, even though it was at least a 50-foot drop. If there had been a quiet zone, we would've been killed. As it was, we only got muddy. And if there were water moccasins in the creek, we scared them away with our hollering as we made the leap.

Let's face it. No one should be out on railroad tracks without a legitimate reason to be there. But people break rules, especially children. And if quiet zones continue to proliferate, we're going to have a lot more injuries and deaths because of train horns that were never heard.

William J. Brotherton, a Texas attorney, is the author of "Burlington Northern Adventures: Railroading in the Days of the Caboose."

The Race at Crawford Curve

After several weeks in Alliance, Nebraska, sleeping in my van in the parking lot at the Burlington Northern Railroad terminal in the early Spring of 1980, I started getting road trips to Edgemont, South Dakota, Ravenna, Nebraska or Guernsey, Wyoming. There were very few locals, which was good, because I had worked enough locals in Grand Forks. Ninety-five percent of the trains out of Alliance were through freights, usually unit coal or grain trains, and they paid better money than locals.
I was happy to get called one morning in April of 1980 for a 110-car coal train to Edgemont, South Dakota, at the “edge” of the Black Hills. The crew caller had walked out to my van and tapped on the back window. My wife had made curtains for the van so I had a little bit of privacy. After tapping on the window several times because he couldn’t see me, the crew caller hollered out “9:30 coal train to Edgemont.”
I hollered, “okay,” and satisfied he had awakened me, the caller walked back towards the terminal. I looked at my Seiko watch and it was 8:15 a.m. Plenty of time. I opened the side door of the van. It was a beautiful, sunny, spring morning, with a temperature in the low forties. I fixed a bowl of cereal with milk from the ice chest I had brought with me from Grand Forks. I made a couple of baloney and cheese sandwiches to take on my run, and I headed into the terminal with my lunch, lantern, and my grip, packed with my travel kit and change of clothes. I met up with my crew at one of the tables inside the terminal. I grabbed a cup of coffee and we checked our orders and our watches. They seemed like a nice bunch of guys.
The conductor was a big guy, maybe five years older than me. When he shook my hand, I could almost feel my bones crack. “Call me Moose,” he said. Moose introduced me to the rear brakeman, Bill Murray, a guy in his early thirties who had a broad smile.
“Everybody calls me Murray -- there's too many Bills out here,” he said. I laughed knowing what he meant. “Sandy Maloney is our hoghead, you'll enjoy riding up on the front end with him,” Moose piped up, using the old-fashioned term of hoghead for engineer. Alliance did have the feel of an old-fashioned railroad town, unlike Grand Forks. I knew something about the history of Alliance. It was an old Chicago, Burlington & Quincy railroad town that existed only for the railroad. It mushroomed into a major division point when Wyoming low sulfur coal came into such demand after the advent of the Clean Air Act in 1970. The railroads couldn't haul enough Wyoming coal to the Eastern power plants, which needed the lower polluting coal to stay in compliance with the Clean Air Act. That translated into more jobs in Alliance.
“By the way,” Moose continued, Murray is going to ride with you on the head end.
“For a while anyway,” Murray countered. They both laughed and I felt left out of the joke.
“What are you guys talking about?” I asked.
“You'll see,” chuckled Moose, as he picked up his manifest and orders from the table. “Let's get to our train.”
The terminal yard was so big that there were crew haulers who transported the crews to the locomotives and cabooses in bright green Chevrolet Suburbans. I made a mistake of referring to a caboose and I was quickly corrected that the proper term in CB&Q territory was “waycar”, not caboose. It was called a caboose on the Great Northern and the Northern Pacific, but not the CB&Q. Railroaders were particular about things like this.
Murray and I climbed up into the lead SD-40, a monstrous General Motors Electro-Motive Division locomotive. We had seven of them, necessary not only because of the tonnage we were hauling, but because we had to make Crawford Hill, one of the highest points in Nebraska. To climb the hill, the train went through a long horseshoe curve that allowed the train to gradually climb the hill without the use of helper locomotives. Some trains did need helpers, locomotives that would tie on to the rear end of the way car and shove trains up the hill. Helpers were typically used on the other side of Crawford Hill, a much steeper grade.
We received the order to proceed out of the yard. Sandy gently worked the throttle until all the slack had run out of the train. Moose in the back end double-clicked the radio transmitter to let Sandy know the waycar was moving. As soon as Sandy heard the double-click, he moved to throttle seven, and the seven 3000 horsepower diesels roared. It was important to wait until the conductor signaled that the caboose or waycar was moving because if the engineer throttled up too quickly, the conductor and rear brakeman could be thrown against the back of the waycar if they weren't seated. I had seen several fights break out between engineers and conductors at the end of a run because the engineer had been sloppy in his train handling and given the conductor a rough ride.
As we snaked out of the yard, I turned to look back and all I could see was thick black diesel smoke and a long line of black coal cars. We were on our way.
“You gonna do it today?” It was Sandy speaking. I turned towards the engineer, thinking Sandy was asking me a question. I thought for a minute that perhaps he wanted me to call out signal blocks.
“Yep, sure am, and I'm ready, too.” It was Murray that replied to Sandy. Murray pulled out a machete from a sheath. I hadn't noticed him carrying that before. Maybe it was because you normally don't expect a railroad brakeman to carry a machete.
“What the hell are you guys talking about?” I finally blurted out. They both laughed.
“We've got a little bet, Bill,” replied Sandy. “Me and Moose bet Murray $100 that he couldn't cross the Crawford horseshoe in time to catch the waycar. By the way, Murray, there was nothing in the bet about you having a machete.”
“You guys didn't say I couldn't bring one. Without this machete, I may not be able to hack my way through.”
“That's part of the bet.” Sandy didn't want to budge.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “you're talking,” I pointed to Murray, “about jumping off the locomotive at the beginning of the curve and making your way to the other side of the horseshoe in time to catch the caboose, I mean waycar. Is that what you're going to do?”
“I sure am, and I'm gonna take these guys’ money. Do you wanna make a bet too?”
Sandy piped up, “$100 is the bet. Moose and I bet he wouldn't make it.”
This was crazy. “There's a small river down there, and it's overgrown with heavy brush and trees. And it's not just straight across. You’ve got to get in and out of a valley!” That was true. To cross you had to descend into a valley and then climb back up a pretty steep hill. I continued, “It’s gotta be over a mile. You’ll be exhausted before you start climbing the hill to get back on the train. And,” I wasn't finished, and I pointed at Sandy, “what the hell happens if he doesn't make it? Are you gonna stop the train on Crawford Hill and wait for him?”
Sandy scratched his head. “You know, I hadn't really thought about that. I guess we could say he fell off the train if we had to stop. I should be able to start the train again without helpers.”
“Well, Bill, are you gonna bet?” Murray insisted. “I'd put your money on me. Throw in $100 and you'll get your hundred dollars back plus another $100.” He was cocky now.
“No, I don't think so,” I said. “I'll just watch. No offense, Sandy, but I do hope he makes it; we're sure going to have a lot of explaining to do if we show up in Edgemont without him.”
Sandy just chuckled. “Hell, we'll get him on board somehow.”
We made good time across the western plains and grasslands of Nebraska, as we gradually climbed in elevation towards the Pine Ridge, with its hills of Ponderosa pine. After we reached Crawford Hill, we would begin entering the Sand Dunes of Nebraska, considered the largest dune field in the western hemisphere, some 265 miles long and 125 miles across.
As we began approaching Crawford Hill, some 4300 feet in elevation, the locomotives began working harder. Around one o'clock in the afternoon, our train was at the bottom of Crawford Hill, and the train started going slower and slower, as it began climbing the hill. The temperature was about 55 and the sun was still shining. “You know Murray, rattlesnakes will probably be sunning themselves down there.” I said, and pointed down to the valley of the horseshoe.
Murray got up. “I'll be running so fast they won't have time to strike. Plus, I've got my machete.” With that, he passed by me in a hurry out the front door of the cab, with Sandy hollering at him to leave the machete. Murray stepped down the platform on the front of the locomotive, tossed his machete, and lowered himself down onto the embankment. He lost his footing and tumbled, even though the train had slowed to about 15 miles per hour, but he jumped up immediately, grabbed his machete, and took off sprinting towards the other side of the horseshoe. Sandy stood up with his foot on the "dead-man" pedal, the device that the engineer had to keep a foot on to keep the air brakes from applying, and strained to see him. “Did he got off ok?” he asked me.
I watched Murray disappear into a thicket, wildly swinging his machete. “He looks like he’s doing fine so far,” I said to Sandy.
“Good,” Sandy grunted. “I still don’t think he should have that machete, though.”
We made our way through the curve, the flanges of the locomotive wheels squealing loudly as they pressed against the inside of the rails. There were oilers every hundred yards or so on the curve that lubricated the flanges in order to minimize the friction. It was hard to tell whether or not the oilers did any good.
We made it halfway through the curve. There was no sign of Murray. I walked out onto the front end of the locomotive and leaned onto the bonnet (the “hood” in front of the windshield) as I gazed out over the horseshoe valley, straining to see any movement in the brush. There was nothing moving that I could see. We crossed over the river. It looked about 15 to 20 feet wide and maybe 4 or 5 feet deep. Murray was going to get wet. There were probably brambles down there also, so he was probably going to get cut up, too. But, he stood to gain $200 and some bragging rights. That was probably worth it if he made it. I sure could have used an extra $200.
The lead locomotive was now turning into the final part of the curve and I walked back into the cab.
Sandy spoke up, “We should see him pop up any minute, don't you think?
“You sound like you're rooting for him,” I told him.
Sandy laughed, “I guess I am. Boy, don't you know the brass would have our asses if they knew what we were doing?”
“Yeah, they sure would,” I answered. “But you know what, it's kind of fun isn't it?” We both laughed.
We left the curve and began bearing towards the right. We could no longer see the inside of the horseshoe. Sandy reached for the transmitter and then thought better of it. What could he say? Dispatchers and management monitored the radio transmissions. One odd statement over the radio could bring scrutiny. Trainmasters had been known to flag trains down to board them when they suspected monkey business, especially violations of Rule G, which forbade use of drugs and alcohol on or before going on duty.
The locomotives were starting to descend Crawford Hill now. We were picking up speed. Several more minutes and all of us would have some explaining to do. Sandy throttled back the locomotives, anticipating that he would have to stop the train. Murray should've made it to the waycar before we reached the top of the hill.
Then we heard it. The double-click on the radio. Sandy wasn't taking any chances. “Everything OK back there?”
“Yep,” reported Moose.
We got into Edgemont a little after 7 p.m. The relief engineer and brakeman climbed up in the locomotive, and Sandy and I crossed the tracks towards the station. We saw Moose, but there was no sign of Murray. Sandy sidled up to Moose and quietly asked where Murray was.
“Oh, he headed straight to the hotel; he was a little banged up,” Moose said with a wink of his eye.
We met up at the railroad cafe across the street from the station after cleaning up. I ordered an omelet and hash browns. I was starving. Every cafe that served railroaders always offered a 24-hour breakfast menu. It was usually the cheapest thing on the menu, and for me, the most satisfying. Sandy, Moose, and I were halfway through our meal when Murray limped in, a bandage over his left eye that was bruised and swollen. When he sat down, I could see scratches all over his face.
“Pay up boys, I won the bet,” he demanded in a lighthearted tone.
“I still don't think we ought to pay. I never agreed to a machete.” It was Sandy.
Moose got out $100 bill out of his wallet. “Oh pay up Sandy, it was worth the entertainment value.” Sandy got out his wallet.
“Well, it looks like he's got at least $200 worth of medical expenses. I guess I'll pay.” Sandy handed over $100 to Murray. “By the way, how close did we come to leaving you?”
Moose and Murray roared. “I had my hand on the emergency valve ready to dump the air when he sprang out of the bushes bleeding and sopping wet.” Moose continued, “I had to extend my arm, while standing on the bottom step of the waycar, and just barely caught him. If I hadn't pulled him up, he'd still be lying back there by the tracks.
“Well, let's eat and head on over to Whitey's Saloon,” Murray said as the waitress put his dinner order of steak and baked potato in front of him. “I'm awful thirsty after that long run.”

When I Give The Signal, Run!

Hitchhiking was once a very honorable way to get to where you were going. In the early 1960s, it was very common to see people on the side of the road with their thumbs out. While you might get the occasional derelict, a lot of times it was kids like us, soldiers, or people that just didn't have a car.

We used to hitchhike everywhere in Atlanta before I got my drivers license at 16 and managed to buy a car. Up to that point, though, we hitchhiked everywhere. At 14 and 15, we'd hitchhike down to Florida, or maybe up to Chattanooga. We'd meet all kinds of people, of course, some of them a little strange. I'm still not quite sure why my parents didn't seem to object. Maybe because they probably assumed I would have disregarded their admonition.

One summer Friday morning, my buddy Jerry and I decided to hitchhike to Chattanooga. I had met a girl about a month before who was from Chattanooga, and she casually said one day to come on up and see her sometime. She eagerly gave me her phone number. That was good enough for me. I had recently transferred over to North Fulton High School, and Jerry was a new friend. I don't think he'd ever hitchhiked before, but he was game. He never hitchhiked with me again, because he had forgotten to mention to his parents that he'd be gone that weekend. They were a little upset at him when we got back.

Back in those days, Interstate 75 was still mostly on the drawing board. We started out by hitchhiking up Peachtree Street, then down East Paces Ferry Road, until it intersected with Highway 41. The same Highway 41 that the Allman Brothers sing about. It was a rough little highway that meandered through the Blue Ridge Mountains, crossing over into Tennessee up in to Chattanooga.

We got several rides that took us just outside of Marietta. It was about noon and close to 90° when a beautiful 1959 Chevrolet Impala convertible pulled over onto the shoulder just past us. The driver, a white male, probably about 35 years old, motioned for us to come get it. We ran up to the car and jumped in. Sometimes of course, people would pull over only to race off just when you were about to reach their car. They considered it great sport. But this guy didn't do that. I jumped into the front seat after Jerry climbed into the back. The driver introduced himself as Jasper and we all shook hands quickly before he raced back onto the highway. Sometimes cops would ticket drivers for pulling over to pick up hitchhikers.

Jasper had hair that was slicked back with Brylcreem, and a real Georgia twang. "Where y'all heading?" He asked.

"Chattanooga," I responded. Jerry piped up in the back "we're going to see some girlfriend of his!" We both laughed. Jasper seemed like a good guy and it looked like he was going quite a good ways.

"I'm heading that way myself, just got to stop and make a little money. If you're not in a hurry, I'll get you to Chattanooga around suppertime. That okay?"

We replied that it was.

As we entered the city limits of one of the many little towns that Highway 41 passed through, Jasper casually commented, "keep an eye out for any pool halls."

We went through three towns before I happened to notice a dirty little pool hall in a small downtown. We hadn't even noticed the name of the town when Jasper slowed down for the usual 35 mph speed limit sign, announcing the possibility of another small town speed trap. Speed traps in Georgia were as common as roads named Peachtree in Atlanta.

Jasper doubled back, and drove by the pool hall slowly, peering intently at the dirty plate glass window with the words Pool Hall hand brushed in white paint onto the glass. He drove past several empty parking spaces in front of the pool hall and parked in front of a hardware store a block away. When I looked at him funny, he just said, "you'll see".

He popped the trunk of the candy apple red convertible and took out a polished wooden case. It held his cue sticks. Jerry and I looked at each other. Was Jasper an honest to God pool shark?

"Alright, listen to me. Follow me into the pool hall, but not too close. Don't act like you know me. And when I give you the signal, run to the car." Jasper lit a Camel cigarette, unfiltered of course, and started walking back towards the pool hall.

"What kind of signal?" I asked.

"Fair enough question. When I look at you and nod my head, take off to the car. Get there as fast as you can. I'll be right behind you. Just pay attention." Jerry and I looked at each other again. This was going to be an interesting afternoon.

We followed Jasper into the pool hall. Nobody noticed two fifteen-year-olds in blue jeans and T-shirts because the seven or eight people in the dark pool hall all stopped what they were doing to watch Jasper walk in very casually, holding his cue stick case. Jerry and I found two bar stools to sit on and watch the unfolding drama. It didn't take long.

A big beefy guy sidled up to Jasper. "Looking for a game?"

"I might." Jasper’s case held two sticks. He carefully selected one, and began chalking it. They settled on eight ball for $10. Both of them placed $10 on the side of the pool table.

Jasper lost. Jerry and I were surprised at how poorly Jasper played. He miscued several times, and when it looked like he should have been able to run the table, he'd miss an easy shot. At least, it looked like an easy shot to us.

The beefy guy and his buddies who had watched the match were jubilant as the victor collected his $20. Then Jasper casually said, "how about a rematch?"

Beefy guy asked Jasper how much he wanted to play for. Jasper said, "How's 50 sound?" Beefy guy quickly accepted. I was beginning to wonder if Jasper was going to lose all his money and ask us to help him with the gas to Chattanooga.

My fears were confirmed when Jasper lost again. Beefy guy was jumping up and down with excitement as he pocketed the hundred dollars. Once again, Jasper asked him if he was interested in another rematch. Beefy guy quickly accepted. Then Jasper said, "How's $300 sound?"

All of a sudden, beefy guy looked nervous, but his friends goaded him into accepting. He wasn't about to lose face to some stranger in his pool hall. He pulled $300 out of his wallet and slapped it down on the side of the table. Jasper followed suit and beefy guy broke.

It was all over in just a few minutes. After beefy guy put his first two balls in, he missed the seven ball. Jasper efficiently ran the table, and called the eight ball pocket, and quickly dispatched it. Beefy guy and his friends were stunned, and Jasper, in the most fluid motions I had ever seen, put his cue stick back into the case, latched it, collected his winnings, and turned to me and nodded. I almost missed it. Jerry did, as he was watching the small festering crowd as it dawned on them what had just happened. I grabbed Jerry by the shirtsleeve, and we casually walked out.

We were halfway to the car, when we heard a roar from the pool hall, someone running behind us, and Jasper yelling, "run!"

We didn't even bother opening doors. I jumped over into the back seat and Jerry grabbed the front. Jasper had the keys in his hand and I was sure glad to hear that Chevy crank right up. We roared away just before beefy guy and his friends reached us. Jasper had planned his parking spot well. There was no stoplight nearby that would've allowed the angry mob to storm the car. We made a clean getaway out of town.

Jasper stopped at a truck stop 20 miles down the road, after he was convinced no one was chasing us. He even bought us hamburgers.

After he dropped us off, I found a payphone and eagerly called the girl we had come to see. There was no such number. I had been duped.

We spent the night in a park and hitchhiked back the next morning. Every now and then I wonder if Jasper ever got caught by any of his pigeons!

This is an excerpt from my new book "Atlanta as a Small Town: Stories of Growing Up Southern".
©2007, William J. Brotherton