I hear a train a-coming�

Have I ever mentioned that I live in the province of Quebec, one of the most hydro-electric rich places in the world? We export electricity to the U.S., so if you live in New Hampshire, Maine or Vermont, you are probably watching T.V. courtesty of some Quebec mountain stream. We also experience more power outages here than anywhere else in the first world, which is what prompted us to buy a wood stove around ten years ago. We never regretted that move.

Anyway, this has all been preamble to say that we experienced another one of those power outages at exactly 8:30 a.m. It was fixed within an hour. Buddy Boy was playing one of his army games online on the laptop, when all of a sudden the screen more-or-less froze. After some trouble shooting he realized that the laptop was running on battery power, and the internet connection was dead. I was lying in bed, sleeping blissfully, when the alarm system panel started chirping. It does that when the power goes off. You have to hold down the cancel button (ours is an effacer button) until it beeps at you and then the chirping stops. But you have to remember to reactivate the sound afterwards or the panel won�t warn you when the system has been breached. Everything now appears to be back to normal.

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When we first bought the property on which our house now stands, around twice a week a train would travel on the tracks across the street. It was a cute little train: engine, one to two cars, caboose. The kids were really little then and we would rush to the front door, stand on our porch and wave to the engineer and brakeman, who always waved back. Over time the train came by less and less until we did not even notice when it ceased to be part of our lives. By then the novelty had worn off, we were no longer rushing to the porch to wave at trainmen, houses had been built across the street and the trees had grown up, obscuring our view of the track for the most part.

But four years ago the rail line was purchased and trains started traveling along the track again. Now they come perhaps twice a day, pull several cars behind the engine, and no caboose. The people who have this iron horse galloping across the end of their backyards are probably a little upset. After all, when they first moved to the neighbourhood, there was no train (or it was infrequent at worst). What upsets me most is the disposal of the caboose. This particular car was the subject of childhood books and stories (The Little Red Caboose comes to mind, where the car dug its brakes into the track and kept the train from tumbling back down the mountainside). It was the �lunchroom� of the engineer and brakeman, even their sleeping quarters. Why did they get rid of it?

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