I love that sound.
It reminds me of early childhood years in the Fraser Valley. We were considered semi-rural because our house was exactly half a block outside of the city limits. I know this because there was a sign that said "City Limits" that drew the line between the people who were within the limits and those who were not. (Even at a young age, I knew it was better to be inside the limits.)
But out in our semi-rural spot, at least we could hear the train.
The track was at the far end of our street, along 1st Avenue. Every few years, some young guy would try to race the train at Prest Road, or a semi-trailer would stall on the tracks at Broadway, and tragedy would ensue. Or so it seemed at the time. Now, I suspect that those tragedies were only made real by the excited whispering of little children - much more fiction than fact.I don't know if I was drawn to the sound of the train by the tragic undercurrents we imagined, or by the limitless possibilities it conjured up.
Where is the train going?
- On a long journey to the mysterious north?
- On a short trip to the big city?
- Fancy people with fox stoles, pocket squares and sleeper cars? (ok, I read a lot of Agatha Christie)
- An endless sequence of grain and corn oil?
OR 
??I never really knew. And I still don't, actually.
About two weeks ago, I was caught on the wrong side of the tracks and had to sit and watch the train go by. There were many cars of different shapes, none of which gave any clues about their contents. Most intriguing were the tanker cars that showed punch marks on their skins as if something had been trying to escape from the inside out.
These days we also get the benefit of some fine graffiti as the railcars pass by. From bold and colourful statements that suggest a political agenda:
So when I heard that wail tonight, I raised my glass and gave a silent toast to the mystery.
