Oyster Bay Long Island Rail Road Turntable
Oyster Bay is the location of one of few remaining Long Island Rail Road stations with an original turntable on site. The turntable was built in 1902 to replace a smaller one that had been relocated from the Locust Valley station. The turntable is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, is a Town of Oyster Bay Landmark, and a featured site on the Oyster Bay History Walk audio walking tour.
The planned Oyster Bay Railroad Museum will incorporate the turntable, locomotives, railroad cars and the depot.
Read more about Oyster Bay Long Island Rail Road Turntable: See Also
Famous quotes containing the words oyster, bay, long, island, rail and/or road:
“I had rather be an oyster than a man, the most stupid and senseless of animals.”
—George Berkeley (1685–1753)
“Baltimore lay very near the immense protein factory of Chesapeake Bay, and out of the bay it ate divinely. I well recall the time when prime hard crabs of the channel species, blue in color, at least eight inches in length along the shell, and with snow-white meat almost as firm as soap, were hawked in Hollins Street of Summer mornings at ten cents a dozen.”
—H.L. (Henry Lewis)
“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:”
—T.S. (Thomas Stearns)
“Your kind doesn’t just kill men. You murder their spirits, you strangle their last breath of hope and freedom, so that you, the chosen few, can rule your slaves in ease and luxury. You’re a sadist just like the others, Heiser, with no resource but violence and no feeling but fear, the kind you’re feeling now. You’re drowning, Heiser, drowning in the ocean of blood around this barren little island you call the New Order.”
—Curtis Siodmak (1902–1988)
“Old man, it’s four flights up and for what?
Your room is hardly any bigger than your bed.
Puffing as you climb, you are a brown woodcut
stooped over the thin rail and the wornout tread.”
—Anne Sexton (1928–1974)
“The rangey bough anticipated fruit
With snowballs cupped in every opening bud.
The road alone maintained itself in mud....”
—Robert Frost (1874–1963)