Have I told you about my latest dream? No, not the one about running like the dickens to try to reach the back end of a train while my good friend Jack Carlton, watching me from the caboose, waves bye-bye. I’ve had that recurring dream for years. I never do catch the train, by the way. And Carlton never stops it so I can get on.

I’m talking about a dream even more far-fetched. I’m standing at Union Station in Dallas, dodging panhandlers and cigarette smoke, trying to decide whether I want to take the light-rail DART train to Plano — or Garland, or the VA Hospital, or West End downtown — when I spot an arrow pointing to the big city of Glen Rose.

You read that correctly. In my dream, a commuter train sits in the station, ready to take off for Somervell County as soon as somebody gives the word. If the somebody they’re waiting on is me, they’re going to be waiting a long time because the train I’m looking for is the one to Cleburne.

And it’s the train I fear I’ll never find, because 200 years from now, North Central Texas politicos will still be arguing over where to put the tracks and how much to spend for the system. And by then, the cost will be up to $86.7 trillion, at which point we’ll all probably be riding bicycles so none of this will matter anyway.

But just in case it does, let’s revisit a long-ago transportation solution so far ahead of its time that the power brokers of today may want to take notes on the feasibility of resurrecting it.

You’re probably pretty sure I’m talking about the Interurban, an electrical contraption that linked smaller towns with metropolitan centers such as Handley and actually worked pretty well except for the infrequent occasion a cow refused to move off the tracks and the Interurban car ran into it. The cow usually won.

No, I’m talking about a rail transportation system so marvelously inefficient that it went up in flames like the Hindenburg.

I’m talking about the fabled Trinity & Brazos Valley, aka the Turnip & Bean Vine, aka the Boll Weevil.

In 1954 Jack Proctor, a Hall of Fame wordsmith, wrote for the Times-Review that:

“The influx of boll weevils in the Central Texas cotton belt around 1902 resulted in the naming of a railroad, a railroad which actually played a colorful part in molding the history of Cleburne and Johnson County.”

Notice that he didn’t say it was a good railroad. He said it was colorful.

“The road was variously known as the Trinity & Brazos Valley Road, the Valley Road and other names,” Proctor continued, “but a 78-mile stretch of the railroad from Cleburne to Mexia, completed early in 1904, bore the monicker of the Boll Weevil, from the time of its inception until its death in the early 1930s.

“The nation and Texas was railroad-minded around the turn of the century. Col. E.M. House, from his home in Austin, cherished a dream of constructing a rail line up through Central Texas.

“A pioneer Texan, Col. House discussed this dream with his lifelong friend, Col. R.H. Baker, an insurance man. The two teamed up and decided to hang on to Mexia as their objective, but they would build to that city from the northwest instead of from the south. Baker began soliciting favor of Hillsboro citizens in 1902. He found the city ripe for such a proposition, so he Proctoreeded.”

A fool is born every minute, in other words. In Hillsboro, the Boll Weevil parted fools from their money.

“In J.L. Allhands’ romantic book, ‘The Boll Weevil,’ it is learned that Baker found two peaceful towns north of Hillsboro, Osceola and Covington, which also accepted his proposition,” Proctor wrote. “Allhands, whose name still is maintained in the firm of Allhands & Swatzell of Cleburne, wrote that Baker’s final objective was the county seat of Johnson County and a Santa Fe railroad division and shop point, Cleburne, a city started from a lot sale held May 15, 1867.”

Let’s pause a second. By 1902, Cleburne was more than a collection of lots. There were also saloons. And saloons being attractive destinations to tourists and conventioners, the Boll Weevil had just cause to feel comfortable chugging into Our Town. So confident were local business types that the Boll Weevil would prosper that a depot was erected. So solid was the edifice that it stood almost 100 years.

This is not to say that the Boll Weevil was as easy to create as a dirt road. Banks along the route were so steep, and gullies so deep, that engineers had to plot for safety.

Proctor wrote, “They made the slopes in the cuts one-half to one, instead of the usual one and one-half to one. That change proved a costly one for several years.”

Necessary funds were borrowed, presumably from the Chinese, and work went full speed ahead.

“Soon, 60-pound rails arrived from Germany, via Galveston,” Proctor reported. “On Oct. 15, 1903, the first section of the lone 26 miles in length, from Hillsboro to Hubbard, was officially opened for business.

“There were many trials and tribulations connected with building the remainder of the road, but the toil continued until Cleburne and Mexia were linked together with 78 miles of railroad in January, 1904.”

Excitement peaked at about that point.

“From an earning standpoint, that Cleburne-Mexia line was disappointing,” Proctor wrote, “and Allhands, who helped build the road, writes in his book, ‘Our hindsight makes it plain that the road was a mistake — a mistake because that dream has long since dissolved and its right-of-way returned to its original farming state.’ ”

As though finances weren’t problematic enough, pests soon reared their ugly heads.

“After the road had operated a short time, the boll weevil ravages became so destructive that the Dallas Commercial Club, probably functioning as a Chamber of Commerce, was afraid King Cotton might lose its throne,” Proctor continued. “So the organization got busy sponsoring boll weevil conferences with the mayors of surrounding towns and cities.

“When it was remembered that this new jerkwater railroad, running between Cleburne and Mexia, had not been nicknamed, Lewis Mims, with the construction company, jocularly suggested it be called the Boll Weevil.

“The nickname stuck, and the line was so known far and wide, until the new and rejuvenated Trinity & Brazos Valley adopted the Valley Road as its official name some years later.”

To face facts, the Boll Weevil was a pretty sorry operation when compared with other rail ventures of the time. But several remnants of the thing remain visible to the naked eye, like an Egyptian pyramid or WPA football stadium.

You can easily spot elevated roadbed in the vicinity of Osceola between Covington and Hillsboro. There are T & BV depots in Teague, Coolidge, Corsicana and Waxahachie.

Boll Weevil track exists in Cleburne and in the above haunts but not in many stretches between them. The 29.89-miles of track between Cleburne and Hillsboro were abandoned Sept. 16, 1932. Hillsboro to Hubbard, 25.18 miles, followed suit in 1935. Hubbard to Mexia, 22.53 miles, in 1942, was the last to go.

And that’s too bad, because a reconstructed Boll Weevil — Cleburne to Dallas via Hillsboro and Waxahachie — might be every bit as sensible as commuter rail — Cleburne to Fort Worth via Burleson and Crowley.

Good thing I came back from Granbury six months ago, isn’t it? I’ve got all the answers.