These two views show the exterior of the Nickel Plates former Raber, Indiana, depot. You can see the decay, but it's still nice to look at. The interior definately speaks of a railroad past. However, the dividing wall that held the ticket window and seperated the public from rail station duties has been removed. All the original wood of that wall is still there and could probably be easily restored. Good luck station 386.

There it was. The "Weigh House," as we knew it. The small, old building with the balance beam inside tied to the enourmous scale outside. Heck, I thought one was built for the other. Many, many years later I learned that the "weigh house" was actually the old Raber, Indiana, Nickel Plate depot. And then, it made sense. I began to see the tell-tale marks of a depot and not a scale house. It was always there, just changed. And now, its decay is more evident. The depot sat at the grade crossing at Raber. Just to the east was a similarly sized section house. But make no mistake, these were two seperate structures. Most folks don't realize that there even was a Raber depot. In fact, in 1998, at the NKPHTS convention, I previewed the Harvey book on Nickel Plate depots. He had it laid out in pre-production form and I quickly scanned it to see what he had on Raber. Nothing. Typical. Strangly, though, when I asked why he had nothing of Raber's little flag-stop station, he remarked that Raber itself was more than likely too small to command the presense of a depot and that the section house was probably all there was. "Ha!", I thought. I knew that wasn't the case. I proceeded to explain that Raber did have a depot of its own and that my grandfather had purchased it from the N&W in the early 1970s for just a dollar and that he had moved it 1.4 miles west of Raber and it still stands there to this day!

Well, it wasn't long before the preservation bug bit me. I conjured up many fine plans to at least cosmetically revive this sleeping beauty. After all, it was a fine example of a small rural depot and was basically still complete; if not slightly modified. Shortly after that, the lay-off bug really bit me.

With my income gone and my savings now serving a better purpose, I could only relegate my plans to simple pipe dreams. And today, the depot still stands. The roof sags, the siding is shrunken and weather worn. The interior is slowly showing signs of moisture and the dream seems farther away than ever.

I figure the shingles have asbestos; I could be wrong. Someone once told me the original depot was replaced with this on in the 1940s, during the war. I imagine they still used asbestos then...and lead-based paint. Oh, and there's even the old two-door, two-holer outhouse! (See the Mechanical Dept. detail drawing.) It looks like it once had signs on the back denoting which side was for whom. Men and women, or was it engineer/firemen.

The dream of saving it led me to do a little research. I had once even located a former station agent of Raber. Amazingly, he lives less than a mile from me even now and has moved from telegraphy to ham radio operator. He gave me a few details about the interior of the depot such as the placement of the ticket window. But I never got to put the bars back in place.

At any rate, it's falling apart. It may last another decade, but not well. And, should the property ever change hands, it would probably be razed. I hate to watch it deteriorate, but I don't know what could even be done to save it. It was a small, wooden rural depot. I guess nobody cares.