We lived in rural southern Ontario, between lakes Erie and Ontario.  Dirt roads with a sprinkling of stone.  In the summer a truck with a tank on the back went down the road and sprayed tar to keep down the dust.  In the winter the snow packed to a point where you could skate on them.  Salt was only spread on the town streets, and we felt sorry for those kids who happened, by pure bad luck, to be born in the town.

We were told to be careful that we didn’t play too rough with Jeff.  ‘Rough’ to eight and 10  year olds is understood as meaning  ‘don’t fight’, so our after school and weekend routines were like every other country kids.  Jeff was one of the gang.  Except in the summer we pulled him to the days adventure/destination on a sturdy, big-wheeled wagon.  In the winter-a sled.

One of our common journeys was along the creek that ran between our homes, through a field and to the bridge that ran under the TH&B railroad.  I was later to find out that the letters were representative of the rail lines’ principle destinations – Toronto, Hamilton, and Buffalo – but for most of my youth I was under the mis-impression that it stood for ‘To Hell & Back’.  I was never fond of traveling too far down those tracks.

We would often pass the hours on a hot dusty day sitting along one side of the bridge, with the stream passing beneath our dangling feet.  After gathering a hefty pile of stones between us, we’d toss one stick after another into the stream on the other side of the bridge.   As they’d follow the slow current and pass underneath, we’d try to sink them with those stones.

We never succeeded, but we never gave up trying.

Not even in a wheelchair.

Not even along the TH&B.