When my grandparents were able to buy their first house after World War II, it was only affordable because it was the tiniest house in the otherwise ritzy Toronto neighborhood of Rosedale – and because a railroad line cut right across the back of the garden. As a small child, I found this immensely exciting. When my grandmother’s china and glassware began to rattle in the cabinet, I knew I had plenty of time to race out to the rose bushes that grew along the wire fence to watch all the freight cars and oil tankers roll by, and then to wave at the man in the caboose.
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