Small things have a way of snowballing. And the time we had to find a new embroidery vendor? Easily top five.

It started simple enough: black polos, crew shirts. Car host uniforms. Logo over the heart. All matching, all stitched with pride. Clean. Professional. Not covered in coal dust for at least ten minutes. Then our embroiderer dropped a red signal and died.

At first, I brushed it off. We’ve got bigger problems, right? Schedules to finalize. Safety meetings, budgets, broken coaches. Shirts could wait.

Except they didn’t.

Cue the emails.

“Who do I take this shirt to?”

“I called the number in the book and no one answered.”

What started as a minor errand turned into a low-grade emergency. Because while it felt small to me, it wasn’t small to the volunteers. For them, that shirt means something. It’s the badge. The uniform. The visible proof that they’re part of this crazy, wonderful machine we all work so hard to keep running.

And they’re right. That logo on the chest is as important to some as the coal is to the engine. It’s what keeps the fire lit. It’s pride made wearable.

Meanwhile, I’m still juggling Christmas train questions and reading a volunteer’s email that just says, “Received in the mail today,” with nothing else attached or written. Technically accurate, but about as descriptive as “train go.” I respect the mystery.

Eventually, the shirts will arrive. The logos will be stitched. And we’ll look sharp for maybe six minutes, until a kid with a candy cane weaponizes a hug.

If this has taught me anything, it’s that what seems small to me might be big to someone else. The little things are often the ones that matter most, and when we let them sit too long, they have a way of slipping through the cracks. Sometimes keeping the fire burning means remembering the small stuff before it’s forgotten, ignored, or left to die.