St.
Thomas, Ontario, was known as Railway City. We
moved there, to a house five miles out of town, when I was twelve.
In the
city, we’d lived on a crowded street and hung out with a gang of kids who, like
us, had unbridled freedom of the type that is illegal today. We'd leave in the
morning and return when the streetlights came on with the occasional stop-off
for PB&Js. Our new house in the country was surrounded by farms, and it was
so quiet you could hear the corn growing. There was absolutely nothing to do.
One hot day
in the dog days of summer, my younger brothers Aaron, 11, and Mike, 9, were
lying on their backs on the living room floor watching Hogan's Heroes
re-runs. I was lying on the couch reading The Secret of the Old Clock
for the third time. I had never been a girly girl, but I still preferred Nancy
Drew over the Hardy Boys and Little House on the Prairie over Hogan's
Heroes. A preference I kept to myself.
Every
morning before our mother left for work, she put our older sister, Debbie, in charge,
telling her what to make for lunch and what jobs had to be done. Debbie was
exempt from jobs as she looked after the babies.
"You
better finish vacuuming before Mom gets home, or you're in for it," Debbie
nagged at the start of the summer. By July, she’d long given up nagging. We
knew there would be hell to pay if our jobs weren't done when Mom got home, but
we always left it to the last minute.
Like
clockwork, most days that summer, baby Zac would start to fuss mid-afternoon.
His fussing soon built into bursts of indignant wailing, which started
two-year-old Anne crying. Nothing drove us away from the television and out of
the house faster.
"What
do you want to do?" asked Aaron, sitting on the deck railing.
"There's
nothing to do," said Mike.
"Wanna
go to the store?" I said. "I've got a dollar."
"You
don't have a dollar," said Mike.
"Where'd
you get a dollar?" said Aaron.
"None
of your beeswax where I got it," I said, pulling the bill from my pocket.
"I'll give each of you a quarter."
A quarter
bought a lot of candy at Gifford's Farm Market in 1977. For a country store, Giffords
had a great candy counter, from penny candy to my favorite – mystery bags.
“Heck yeah.
Let's go!”
We rode our
bikes down the dirt road and turned onto the paved Bush Line Road. As we rode,
we discussed in great detail what candy we’d buy. We even speculated about
stealing some.
We road
past cornfields, a forest, and the Mennonite's house with the twelve kids. At
the train tracks, we reached the buffalo farm.
It was Mike
who spotted them.
"Look,"
he said, pointing toward a large oak tree where the buffalo stood underneath in
the shade. "The Herd."
We had
never been so close to them. We stopped our bikes and walked over to the thick
wood fence. The buffalo looked at us as we approached, but they didn't move.
The big
ones were the size of a car. They had large heads with short horns, humped
shoulders, and a mane of long shaggy brown fur.
"Let's
feed them," said Aaron as he pulled dried grass from the roadside.
"If we
get caught, we’re dead," I said as Mike climbed the fence with a fistful.
"Lighten
up,” said Aaron. “There's no one here,"
I squelched
my concern. What was the harm in feeding grass to the buffalo?
We stood on
the fence trying to coax them to eat, but the buffalo weren't biting. They
swatted flies with their tails, completely ignoring us.
"I
could probably ride one," said Aaron.
"Yeah,
let's ride one," said Mike.
"Are
you both crazy? We aren't supposed to be anywhere near the buffalo. Anyway, we
need to hurry, or we won't be home before Mom."
"Let's
take the shortcut," said Aaron.
The road to
the store wound down Horseshoe Hill, around the town's sewage treatment plant,
and up Sunset Drive hill. The shortcut was the trestle across the valley. Our
school bus driver reminded us, at every crossing, that kids were strictly
forbidden from the train trestle.
I
considered the shortcut idea. If we took the long way, we wouldn’t be back in
time to do our chores and we'd be in big trouble with Mum. “Okay,” I said. “We'll
leave our bikes and get them on the way back."
Aaron and
Mike started hopping railway ties down the track. It smelled of tar one hop and
oil the next. The foul smell made me think we might be doing something
dangerous.
The No
Trespassing sign was right at the edge of the wooden trestle. Treetops hid the
cliff slope below. The left side of the tracks was wide open. On the right side
there was a narrow walkway with a rickety handrail. The far side of the trestle
was hard to see.
I started
to feel scared. "Some of those boards look kinda rotten. Let's just go to
the store tomorrow."
"You’re
just chicken," said Mike as he stepped forward.
“I want
those jawbreakers,” said Aaron.
There was
no turning back. I followed Mike, and Aaron followed me. Slowly, we edged
forward. I clutched the handrail so hard that I soon had slivers.
About
halfway across, we looked down into the churning sewage vats. Surprisingly they
didn’t stink. Aaron worked up a goober, leaned over the rail, and spit
out.
"One 0ne-thousand,
two one-thousand, three one-thousand," we counted before it disappeared.
We all tried a few times before deciding we were at least a hundred feet high.
We were
still looking at the churning sewage vats when we felt tremors. We knew
instantly what that meant. The 3:30 train our school bus driver had warned us
about so many times was coming. He’d also warned us – just as many times – that
the train was too heavy to stop on the wooden trestle.
We froze.
The train
engine roared into sight. The whole trestle started to vibrate.
"Run!"
I screamed.
The train whistle
shrieked. The boards under our feet started to bounce.
Mike was
the youngest and fastest by far. I chased him hard, clinging to the railing
driving the slivers deeper. I tried to run faster, but the bouncing boards were
jack-knifing my legs up and down with every step.
I watched
Mike launch himself in a triple jump and land on the grass just off the cliff's
edge. He turned, and I could see the terror in his eyes.
When the
train blast seemed an inch from my head, I hurled myself toward Mike, my legs
pedaling through the air. I landed. Clung to the grass for dear life.
I waited
for Aaron to land beside us. But he didn't. I held my breath and turned.
I couldn't
believe what I saw. There Aaron was with one arm looped around the railing,
leaning out over the abyss as the train passed, looking for all the world like
a sailor in America's Cup.
When, at
last, the yellow caboose went by he ducked back under the railing and casually
walked over.
"Only
me and John Wayne could have pulled off that move," he said.
We looked
at each other in shock and then started laughing.
When at
last we could talk, the first thing we agreed was that not a word of this could
be mentioned to anyone, especially our mother.
"She'd
kill us if she knew," said Mike, and we erupted laughing again.
"We
are so taking the long way back," I said.
No one
argued.
***
Sarah
Corrigan survived her childhood and lives in beautiful
four-season-fun Collingwood, Ontario. Since retiring, she has been honing her
skills writing short stories inspired by her travel adventures and her family.
When she isn't glued to a book, she spends her time in the great outdoors,
adventuring with her partner Dave, and trying very hard to learn how to
golf.
See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.
