CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA - WHAT WE MISS MOST OF THE ROLLING YEAR
THE RURAL CHARM OF OLD MUSKOKA - THAT SHOULD AMAZE US - IF WE STOPPED LONG ENOUGH TO RE-INTRODUCE OURSELVES
THE WARMER, GENTLER MID-NOVEMBER WIND, CURRENTLY PUSHING UP FROM THE BASIN OF LAKE MUSKOKA, THIS AFTERNOON, OFFERS A KINDLY REPRIEVE, FROM THE COLD START TO THE DAY. THERE WAS A TRACE AMOUNT OF SNOW FALLING ABOUT AN HOUR AGO, BUT IT HAS SINCE CLEARED, AND BECOME PLEASANTLY BRIGHT; WITH EVEN A FEW SUNNY INTERVALS THAT HURRY-UP THE MELT, OF WHAT FELL THE DAY AND EVENING BEFORE. THE HUGE FEATHER-WEIGHTED CLUMPS OF SNOW, BALANCED ON THE BARE LIMBS OF THE LILAC BUSHES, IN THE YARD, HAVE ALL BROKEN FREE NOW, AND TUMBLED IN MOUNDS ONTO THE ICE CANOPY BELOW. THE SOUND OF MELT-WATER TRICKLES ALONG THE EAVES, WITH A TINNY RATTLE, CASCADING DOWN THE DRAIN-PIPE AT THE CORNER OF BIRCH HOLLOW. AND THERE ARE STREAMS OF WATER POURING THIS MOMENT, DOWN INTO THE LOWLAND, OF THE BOG, BREAKING INTO TINY SILVER CATARACTS, AT THE BRINK OF THE HILLSIDE, FIVE FEET ABOVE THE HOLLOW. IT IS A SOOTHING MIXING OF SOUNDS AMDIST THE DIN OF A BUSY URBAN PLACE; JUST AS POETIC, AND SPIRITED, AS THE SWEEPING, BRUSHING SOUNDS, OF THE LIGHT WIND, STRUMMING THROUGH THE THICKLY BUNCHED PINE NEEDLES. THERE IS THE DISTANT THUNDER OF A PASSENGER JET, PASSING OVER THE LAKE BASIN. A NEIGHBOR OF OURS, IS HAVING A CONNECTION DUG, AT HIS HOME, THAT REQUIRES DEPLOYMENT OF A BACKHOE, AND WORKERS WITH SHOVELS. THE HEAVY MACHINERY VIBRATES THE HILLTOP, OF BIRCH HOLLOW, AS IF A JELLY MOLD. I HAVE TO TRAVEL UPTOWN, AT THIS MOMENT, AND FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS, OF WORK, WILL ENJOY A CHANGE OF LANDSCAPE; SEEING THE TOWN FROM A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE. A CHANCE TO FRAME THE AFTERNOON TRAFFIC, AND PEDESTRIAN FLOW, ALONG THE MID SECTION OF MUSKOKA ROAD, OTHERWISE KNOWN AS UPTOWN GRAVENHURST. I THINK IT MIGHT EVEN RAIN, THE WAY IT LOOKS AT THIS MOMENT, BUT I THOUGHT THIS EARLIER IN THE DAY, JUST AS IT BEGAN TO SNOW INSTEAD. THE CONTRASTS OF WEATHER INTRIGUE ME, AND AS I WATCH OUT OVER THE TOWN, FROM A NUMBER OF OBSCURE PORTALS, IT ALL WINDS UP PART, AND PARAGRAPH, OF THESE STORIES; EXAMINING THE TRUTH TO THE RUMOR, THAT SOMEHOW, IN SOME FASHION, CHRISTMAS IN MUSKOKA, IS THE MOST PERFECT TIME OF THE YEAR TO VISIT, AND TO CELEBRATE RURAL LIVING. MY WISH, IS THAT THIS SEASON OF THE YEAR, WAS MORE THOROUGHLY APPRECIATED, AND CELEBRATED, FOR ITS RESIDENT CHARMS. EVEN ON THE DULLEST NOVEMBER DAY, IN THE MIDST OF A COLD RAIN, THESE ENVIRONS ARE EVER-ENGAGING, AND OF CONSTANT INSPIRATION. I HAVE NEVER ONCE, HAD TO DEAL WITH A SHORTFALL OF THESE SOURCES OF INSPIRATION, WHILE LIVING HERE IN SOUTH MUSKOKA; A MOST FASCINATING PLACE IN WHICH TO FULFILL WILD EXPECTATIONS. A REGION AWAITING YOUR PASSIONATE EXPLORATION AND MISSION OF SELF DISCOVERY. I COULD HAVE SET UP MY WRITING STUDIO ANYWHERE ON EARTH, AND HAVE ONLY EVER RECEIVED, IN RETURN, A SMALL FRACTION OF WHAT I NEED AS MOTIVATION TO WRITE; AN INSPIRATION, THAT HAS, FOR ME, ALWAYS BEEN MORE OF A FOUNTAIN, THAN A WELL.
THERE IS SOMETHING QUITE SPECTACULAR, AND HEART-WARMING, FOR THE NOSTALGIC AMONGST US, TO SUDDENLY RISE OVER A HILL-TOP, ON A COUNTRY MOTOR-TRIP, AND SEE, SPRAWLING OUT IN FRONT, THE IMPRINTS OF THOSE OLD FARMSTEADS; THE OVERGROWN ROCK FOUNDATIONS AND FENCE LINES, THAT ARE STILL VISIBLE IN THESE MODERN TIMES. EVEN UNDER THE SLIGHT MANTLE OF NEWLY FALLEN SNOW. TO WITNESS THE ACRES OF UNEVEN, SLOPING PASTURE, POSITIONED BELOW GENTLY ROUNDED HILL TOPS, WITH RELIC BARNS SILHOUETTED IN THE DISTANCE. SNOWFLURRIES DRIFTING INTO THE SCENE, MOMENTS EARLIER, SUNLIT, AND SPARKLING TO THE HORIZON BAND OF LEAFLESS HARDWOODS. STANDING AS THEY HAVE FOR MOST OF A CENTURY, QUIET SENTRIES, TO ALL THAT GOES ON IN RURAL PLACES LIKE THIS. TO LOOK FAR, FAR DOWN THE COUNTRY LANE, AS IT BECKONS THE COUNTRY TRAVELLER TO LAY DOWN NEW TRACKS, RISING AND GENTLY DIPPING, FROM HIGHLAND TO LOWLAND; AND OFF IN THE DISTANCE, THERE IS A CROSSROADS. AND THEN A SHADOW-DARK TURN TO THE WEST, AND THEN BACK TO THE EAST, IN THAT MISTY, GHOSTLY, SEPIA TONE BEST KNOWN OF A VINTAGE PHOTOGRAPH. WE HAVE TO ADMIT, WE REALLY DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT THIS PLACE WE SEE EVERY DAY. WE CAN TRAVEL THIS ROAD MOST OF THE YEAR, BUT FAIL TO RECOGNIZE THE SMOOTH CONTOURS AND RUSTIC COUNTRY CHARACTERISTICS, OF OLD SETTLEMENT SURVEYS, AND THE EXTENT OF LONG RETIRED FARMSTEADS, AS THEY USED TO BE, POSITIONED IN PICTURESQUE EVERGREEN FRAMING, DOTTED ALONG THESE BACK ROADS.
IT'S WHEN THE SILVER-SMITHING OF AUTUMN FROST, QUIETLY, IN DARKNESS, MANIFESTS ITSELF ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE, PAINTING THE HARDWOODS IN THOSE VIBRANT HUES OF RED AND GOLD, THAT PLEASE US...., AND THE EARLY TRACES OF SNOW THAT GREET US AT FIRST LIGHT, ONE LATE SEASON MORNING, WHEN WE SUDDENLY TAKE NOTICE. THIS DAY IS SPECIAL. BUT WE DON'T ALWAYS KNOW WHY. AT FIRST, WE MIGHT ONLY THINK OF IT AS A POSTCARD IMAGE, NICELY ILLUMINATED IN A PREVAILING SENTIMENT, OF DISCOVERY, YET DENY, BY ARROGANT AVOIDANCE, THE REGION ITS INHERENT MAJESTY. WE CAN BE ACCUSED OF OVERLOOKING THIS, IN OUR OWN MISTAKEN COMMONPLACE; THE CONDITION MODERNISTS FIND THEMSELVES, ROUTINELY PREOCCUPIED WITH BUSINESS AND ITS TECHNOLOGIES, STRESSED HOMESTEADS THAT OVERFLOW, AND TOPPLE IN MISADVENTURE, THE RESULT OF TOO MANY DEMANDS, AND TOO LITTLE TIME TO SPARE. WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD WE MISS IN OUR HASTE, TO SPIN ON THE CARNIVAL MERRY-GO-ROUND, THAT ALWAYS TAKES US BACK, TIME AND AGAIN, AS A SORT OF FAITH RECKONING, TO WHERE IT ALL BEGAN.
THERE IS A PREVAILING ARCHITECTURAL QUAINTNESS, THAT EMMINATES FROM OLD-COUNTRY RELICS, LOOKING FAR UP, AND THEN DOWN, MUSKOKA ROAD, IN THE GEOGRAPHIC HEART OF GRAVENHURST, THAT IS VISUALLY TRADITIONAL, BUT NOT OVERLY BURDENED BY THE RIGID ATTRIBUTES OF WHAT MIGHT BE REFERRED TO, AS "THE HISTORICAL". IT IS A FRIENDLY, WORKABLE COMPOSITE, OF OLD, NOSTALGIC AND MODERN STORE FRONTS. SIGNS ON VINTAGE BRICK BUILDINGS, CONTRASTED BY THE FEDERAL BUILDING CLOCK TOWER, AND THE TOWER OF THE TURN OF THE 1900'S OPERA HOUSE. IT IS A MIX OF VALUES, AND TRADITIONS, THAT WORK WELL AS A STREETSCAPE, AND YET IT HAS ENOUGH CONTEMPORARY CHARACTER, TO PACIFY THOSE WHO CALL THEMSELVES PROGRESSIVES. IT ALL QUALIFIES, EVEN ON FIRST APPEARANCES, AS A TOWN CAPABLE OF EMBRACING VALUES FROM ALL ITS YEARS, WITHOUT APPEARING SO HISTORIC, AND PIOUS, AS TO THWART THOSE WHO WISH TO IMPROVE UPON A THEME. IT'S WHAT I LIKE ABOUT LIVING IN GRAVENHURST, ENCLOSED AS IT IS, BY THE OVERLAPPING CONTEXT OF NATURAL ATTRIBUTES, WREATHING AROUND ALL THAT IS OLD AND NEW, HISTORIC BUT IN CONTEMPORARY FASHION; PROGRESSIVE YET RESPECTFUL, OF WHAT CHANGES MIGHT SERIOUSLY ALTER WHAT HAS BEEN KNOWN AND LOVED FOR ALL THESE YEARS. THIS STREET SCENE, IN THE GENTLE VEIL OF SNOWFLURRIES, APPEARS SO CHARACTER-FILLED AND STORIED, AS IF THE BACKDROP OF THE OLD AND REVERED PLAY, "OUR TOWN." A NICE PLACE TO VISIT ON A SNOWY DAY, AND A WONDERFUL PLACE TO LIVE, ON ANY DAY.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN WE CONSIDER THIS LOCALE, AS JUST A PLACE TO HANG OUR WEATHERED HATS. A PLACE TO RESIDE, WHEN WE'RE NOT SOMEWHERE ELSE. A PLACE TO PUT OUR FEET UP, AND WARM AGAINST THE FIRE. A PLACE OF BUSINESS. OF RURAL ECONOMICS. A MAIN STREET TO PASS BACK AND FORTH ALONG, FROM BUSINESS TO HOME, AND BACK ONCE AGAIN, OFTEN WITHOUT ANY SINCERE NOTICE OF WHAT LIES BETWEEN. OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOODS, WITH ARTFUL, CHISELED HARDWOODS, BORDERING THE AVENUES, AND SHADED LANES, CONSIDERED THE REGALIA OF A HERITAGE TOWN; AND HOW MANY TIMES DO WE WONDER TO OURSELVES, IN PASSING, WHO MIGHT HAVE LIVED THERE IN A BYGONE ERA. WHO LIT THE HOME FIRES IN THESE STATELY PLACES, DARKENING NOW AGAINST THE LATE AFTERNOON SKY. WHAT MUST THESE ELEGANT HOMES HAVE LOOKED LIKE, AT CHRISTMAS, A HUNDRED YEARS AGO? FIFTY YEARS AGO? WHAT WILL THEY LOOK LIKE THIS YEAR, WHEN CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS MARK THE SEASON? ON HOW MANY OCCASIONS, WOULD WE DECIDE ON OUR OWN, TO INVESTIGATE THESE UNANSWERED QUESTIONS, AND RESEARCH THE PRIOR OWNERSHIP, TO FIND OUT? WE LEAVE IT TO THE HISTORIANS. WE DEPEND ON THE ARTISTS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS, THE WRITERS AND POETS, TO PROFILE THESE OLD AND DEAR CHARACTERISTICS, WE KNOW VERY LITTLE ABOUT, OTHER THAN FROM CASUAL, HALF GLANCES, AS WE PASS THEM NOW AND AGAIN; AND THINK THEM SOMEWHAT INTERESTING.
I THINK IT CAN BE REFLECTED, WITHOUT EVEN TRACE GUILT, BY THE COUNTRY PHILOSOPHER, IN RETROSPECTIVE, NAMELY, YOU AND I, THAT WE HAVE BEEN SOMEWHAT REMISS IN THE PAST, SUFFERING FROM A CAVALIER IMPATIENCE. THE IMPATIENCE TO GET OUR TASKS COMPLETED, OUR SCHEDULES MET, OUR DUTIES EXPENDED, OUR COMMITMENTS BESTOWED. AT THE EXPENSE OF DISCOVERY, OF THE PLACE WE CALL HOME. YET WITHOUT KNOWING, THE DEEP ROOTS OF CHARACTER, IMBEDDED LIKE THE ROCK FIELDS, SCULPTING OVER THE REGION, OF WHICH WE ARE A KINDRED PART. WE MIGHT SUDDENLY DEVELOP AN APPETITE, TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THIS HEAVENLY PLACE, THAT AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, SEEMS SO FULL OF MYSTERIOUS TWILIGHT SENTIMENT, AND FOLK-STORIES, REVISITED FROM PIONEER TIMES. OUR HEARTS STOLEN AWAY BY THOSE PRECIOUS, SPARKLING SUNRISES, THAT BECKON US TO TAKE TO THE ROADS, TO SEE ALL THAT NEEDS TO BE SEEN. WE QUESTION ITS IMPACT ON US? WE PONDER IF WE ARE BETTER, AND MORE PROSPEROUS, BECAUSE WE LIVE IN SUCH A NATURALLY SIGNIFICANT, ENCHANTED PLACE ON EARTH? THE WINTER SEASON, THE CHRISTMAS SPECTACLE, IS THAT PORTION OF THE HOUR-GLASS YEAR, WHEN IT TRULY SEEMS, AS IF TIME HAS INTENTIONALLY SLOWED ITS ETCHING UPON THE WORLD, SO WE CAN PONDER SUCH SITUATIONS, AND CIRCUMSTANCES, THAT FIND US HERE IN A RURAL SCENE, LIVING HUMBLY, CONTENTLY, WITHOUT REALLY KNOWING WHY.
AT DUSK, AS SHOPKEEPERS THINK ABOUT CLOSING UP FOR THE DAY, IT HAS AGAIN BEGUN SNOWING. LIGHTLY. NOT SUCH A BLOWING SNOW, WITH A COLD WIND, AS EXPERIENCED EARLIER IN THE WEEK. BUT ON A DELICATE, FRAGILE TUMBLE DOWN, AS IF WITHIN AN AGITATED GLASS GLOBE, PLACED BACK ON THE MANTLE, AFTER MODEST PLAY. IT IS TOO EARLY FOR SOME. WAY TO EARLY FOR OTHERS. THAT WE MIGHT AGREE A CHRISTMAS CAROL WOULD BE FITTING, ON AN OCCASION AS SUCH; BUT IT DOES HARKEN RECOGNITION OF THE FESTIVE SEASON. THE ILLUMINATED STREET LAMPS, AND COLORFUL STORE SIGNS, SHINE DOWN ON THE SNOW-COVERED WALKWAYS, THAT A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER, HAD THE IMPRINTS OF THE DAY'S PEDESTRIAN TRAFFIC, AND A FEW LEASHED DOGS BEING TAKEN FOR A STROLL. THERE ARE FOLKS RUNNING BACK AND FORTH ACROSS MUSKOKA ROAD, HEADING TO RESTAURANTS, PICKING UP PARCELS, TOTING BAGS WITH MITTEN-ED HANDS, AND THERE IS A TRAIL OF AUTOMOBILE LIGHTS ALL THE WAY UP THE STREET. THE RED OF TAIL LIGHTS, THE PAST; THE BRIGHT WHITE LIGHTS LEADING THE WAY, TO DESTINATIONS NOT YET DETERMINED. IT IS A NORMAL SCENE ON SNOWY NIGHTS JUST LIKE THIS, BUT PARDON MY FEELING OF EXCEPTION, THIS ONCE. I SEE BEYOND THE FICTIONS, AND THE PAINTED FACADES, A GENEROUS ENCLAVE OF GOOD NEIGHBORS WITH DECENT INTENT, SOMETIMES OBSCURED AND CONVOLUTED, BY THE POLITICAL WHINE, AND THE INK OF ITS OWN HISTORY.
WHAT IS TRUTHFUL, IS THAT THIS PLACE IS HOME, THIS DISTRICT, OUR SPIRIT'S RECREATION.
FROM THE ARCHIVES, A FAVOURITE AT CHRISTMAS
TRAINS, TRAIN STATIONS AND FREIGHT CARTS - THE DREAM ESCAPE FROM ORDINARY
I don’t know what it was about Bracebridge that made the train so much more intrusive in our daily lives. It must have been the Muskoka River valley and those wickedly cold winter nights, that made the train horn stab through the night air like a knife-blade. I lived up on what was, and is still called, Hunt’s Hill. The train station was located just to the north of the Hunts Hill bridge, and a stone’s throw from the old Albion Hotel......real old even by 1966. We used to get a kick out of sitting on an elevated parking border, adjacent to the tracks, and watching the drunks get tossed out the front door by the bouncer. It’s true what they say. The bouncer didn’t need to open the door with one arm, while tossing the patron out with the other. He wouldn’t use any arm to open the door because the unlucky boozer’s head would suffice. It was a two arm toss onto the cement at the doorway. I loved the view from there. One night I watched the same guy get tossed out three times. Each time, crashing head first into the door, with the warning, “And don’t come back ya bum!” That had to hurt. The head and the downtrodden’s feelings.
It was the 1960's. We had just arrived in town during the winter of 1966, in time to watch local lad, Roger Crozier, playing net for the Detroit Red Wings against Montreal, in that year’s Stanley Cup final. The Wings didn’t win but Roger was awarded the Conn Smythe Trophy as the playoff’s most valuable player. I liked the fact I was now from the same hometown as Roger Crozier. What a blessing it was then to one day actually work for Roger, as public relations director of the Muskoka Branch of the Crozier Foundation. I digress.
The hollow between two hillsides, along the river valley toward the Bracebridge Falls, did something to the sound of the train, such that for us, it seemed to be coming through the wall of our apartment. True enough there wasn’t much insulation in those walls. Outside, it was just crazy clear. Playing road hockey, on Alice Street, you’d half expect to see the locomotive light rising over the hill at the end of the street. The sound echoed and resonated all over the place and somehow joined back together as a stream of sound.....after all the respective vibrations must have bounced back off the architecture of Manitoba Street buildings. Even in the humid air of July nights, the arrival and departure of trains across three crossings, where the horn had to be sounded well in advance, became part of my life and times. I didn’t hate it. I was unsettled by it on occasion. Rather, it was kind of a respite for an over-active kid anyway, because I’d always pause to hear it cross the Toronto Street intersection with River Road. I always thought about where it was coming from, and where it might be was headed. It became an adventure in thought because in actuality we didn’t have much need for rail travel. We didn’t have any money for train trips either. Dreaming of a trip was cheap and I could still amble home in time for dinner. That kept my mother off my back. I was to be home from all my daydreams by five o’clock. No exceptions. A minute late and she suspected I’d been up to .....as she used to say....”NO GOOD!” I tried not to give her any excuse for an intervention. I was up to no good most of the time back then but we all were as mates. Fortunately the town clock tower was within my sight-line from the train station platform.
I have watched a number of television documentaries, and read many books, on the romance of trains and travel by rail.....one that particularly fascinated me was about an American photographer, who had opted to capture images of every remaining steam locomotive crossing the state. It was at the time when steam was being replaced by diesel engines.....and he felt it was critical to national heritage, to capture these remaining images of the old iron workhorses on their final runs. His originals are worth thousands of dollars each......but don’t expect to find many. They are fine art and nostalgia rolled up in one.
I missed the era of the steam engines by quite a margin. None the less I held a fascination about trains, partly because I believed they offered “the dreamer”......”.me,” the free right and privilege to board via imagination, and ride from one side of the country to the other...... having neither ticket nor timetable to return. Except being very aware when my mother Merle was bellowing about “Teddy it’s time to come home!” Or something like that but not so kindly. From so many different positions up on that Hunt’s Hill plateau, did I hear that train horn, and stop in my tracks to hear it pass. It seemed important, at the time, to do this. If you were a kid who daydreamed a lot, you will understand this. Even if I was on my bike, I’d stop for a moment, and judge whether it was possible or not, to make it to the edge of the hill in time, just to watch it cross the intersection. It was an picturesque scene as it passed by the multi-story backs of the Manitoba Street business community, and of course the old clock tower of the former federal building.
On lay-about Saturdays, the local Hunt’s Hill gang, of Rick Hillman, his brother Al, Don Clement and Jim Niven, would wind up at the train station, where we might......just possibly, engage the huge iron-wheeled freight cart that used to sit up on the elevated portion of the station. There was a wooden ramp with strips of wood across, which was supposed to slow the cart down when being pulled to track level by station staff. When we hung out there, I don’t think there was a full-time staff or station manager. We used to get into the lobby and just sit there, pretending we were passengers. I never remember seeing anybody tending the ticket counter. It was a sad and lonely place in those years. As for the freight cart, well, the cleats on the ramp only served to make the ride that much more exciting. We’d often jump aboard and the last one to park his behind on the top, had to get off and push us down the ramp. You want to talk about watching your life pass before you. I know it’s true. I didn’t hear that anecdote for years to come but when I did, (about an unrelated event), I thought about that freight cart. Jesus it almost killed us.
Most of the time we just found time to sit on the ramp, and wait for the arrival of the next train.....passenger or freight. While we thought about how neat it would be to jump on a boxcar for a trip north or south, each time we had the opportunity, we found a convenient excuse. “I’ll do it another day.....it’s almost dinner time.” If my mother even thought I’d been contemplating such a ridiculous adventure, she would have forbidden me to come anywhere near this old station. I couldn’t risk that. I had too much fun hanging out here to gamble on parental intervention.
I was a budding poet, even then, because while most of the kids my age, were looking at the mechanics of the belching, booming beast pulling the train, I was imagining adventures and thinking about all the places these incoming and outgoing trains had visited......and how much joy it would bring, to look out from those passenger car windows, and see the world as a blur.....yet feel as a traveller would, anticipating the final destination. It was a dreamer’s portal, that rickety station, and the day I found it had been torn down......was the day I lost faith in elected officials, to be the stewards of our heritage resources. The Bracebridge Train Station should have, and could have been saved, if there had been the slightest will, to allow the public the right to an opinion on the matter.
Even today, here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, I will stop on a walk down the lane on a bitter winter’s eve, to hear the crisp horn of a passing train. Curiously, only a short distance further away from our house, than it was up on Hunt’s Hill, during those halcyon days of adventure-seeking childhood. These days I’m not thinking about escape, or signing onto some great cross-country adventure. I’ve had my tours on the rails, and enjoyed each trip. Still, I feel a pang of sentiment and nostalgia when I think back to us lads, sitting on the rail platform, pondering how our lives would turn out in the future. The rail and train became symbolic for us, even though we wouldn’t have thought about it in those terms. I realize it now. It’s why I will still stop in my tracks, while walking the dog or raking the leaves, and sigh.....I suppose, about the good old days, when the train station was our second home, and the rails were the romance of adventure, and the freight cart......very nearly our undoing.
The day my mother died, I remember having to stop at that same rail crossing, adjacent to the Hunt’s Hill bridge, with a box of Merle’s belongings brought from The Pines nursing home, further up on Hunt’s Hill. How strangely poetic it was, as I thought back to all the times her voice resonated, like a train horn, to bring me home for supper. She had about a two block range. No kidding. For additional irony, on the last trip moving my father’s few remaining possessions, (after Ed’s death last year), from his apartment at Bass Rock (just below the tracks on River Road), I had to stop again for a passing freight train. When the train had passed, and waiting for the warning lights to stop, I could have sworn I saw him standing on the other side......winking at his kid one last time. He and I had stood at that intersection so many times, while walking home from grocery shopping at Lorne’s Marketeria. And we watched a lot of trains pass over the years.
Yup, the train and its rails have run through my life......and I’m good with that!
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