It was the early summer of 2002 and I was in my back yard reading "No Great Mischief" by Alistair McLeod. I was enjoying the book very much. It was almost noon and I heard the familiar sound of the VIA Rail Train sending out its warning as it raced eastward toward Scarborough and beyond. After taking a moment from the pages of my book to listen, I began to read again. If my children had been in the backyard with me they would have surely responded to that lonesome call of the train by simply stating. "There goes your train, Mom!" This is in response to the earlier years when I would quite often, jokingly, tell the air around me when hearing that long, low blast, "OH dear, there goes my train again."

I remember reading a short story where a winter storm was so blinding that the homesteader had to tie a rope from his home to his barn so he wouldn't get lost. The eastbound train is a little like that rope. I feel comforted just knowing that it connects Union Station to the Newcastle Station and that it calls out to me every day to let me know it is headed east. I don't pay attention to it like I once had but that sound still makes me homesick. And it didn't help matters when I soon came to a passage in Mr. McLeod's book that read,

"Sometimes I am at Pearson airport between flights and if I have time, I walk down to the departure gates for the East Coast flights. The gates always seem to be the farthest away and I cannot do it unless I have a lot of time. I have no real reason for going except that I want to be in the presence of those people"….

I put the book down for a moment then and thought about home until I was full of longing for the river and its people.

My husband and I moved to Toronto from the Miramichi in the fall of '89. It wasn't an easy transition. The city took a lot of getting use to. My first few, white knuckles, hand clenching, driving lessons on the 401 caused me to go out and buy a bus pass.

Initially, the only friendly people we came across were a few lost souls who held the liquid contents of their life's journey in brown paper bags. They would wave or yell at us when we stopped at intersections in our blue Pontiac Sunbird. First we had no idea why, out of all the traffic and hoards of people, they chose us to acknowledge but then we soon realised it was our New Brunswick plates. They were Maritimers too. However, once we switched to Ontario plates we blended in and became unrecognisable as fellow Maritimers.

And then there were the smaller things. Like, for the first few years here I couldn't find King Cole Tea, summer savoury, or Ganong Chicken Bones. My mother in law soon saved us by sending these, much appreciated, items to us. Waxed bologna was here but I had a few problems every time I approached the deli employees at the Loblaw's grocery store. They just didn't seem to understand me when I asked for Maple Leaf Bologna sliced thick. Thick to them seemed a fraction more than shaved. Although, I do remember one occasion when the woman behind the deli counter asked me, "Do you want that sliced thick for frying?" I almost reached over and gave her a hug. It just so happened she came from the Gaspe, from a small town just across the bridge from Campbellton.

However, it is on summer days like this particular one, as the sound of the train is soon replaced by the sounds of sirens, the neighbour's lawn mower, and the occasional car alarm, that I long most for the Miramichi. I long for a leisurely walk along the shore with my sisters and their children, a game of horseshoes with my father, a drive through Bushville in the evening when the sun comes down low enough to reach out and touch the river, a game of forty-fives at the kitchen table in my father's house while sipping tea, eating sugar donuts and sharing humorous stories. There is much that I miss about the Miramichi.

Toronto is where we live now and we have been living here for a long stretch. It is a good life. I am raising city children, who have zoo memberships, root for the Toronto Maple Leafs and can easily manoeuvre through crowded sidewalks to get to their favourite ice cream store. But, for myself, occasional longing for the East Coast will always be a part of life here.

And it is mainly for the same reason that Mr. McLeod's character in his book trudges to the far corner of Pearson's airport to the East Coast flights. I just want to be in the presence of those people.

Mary J. Daley grew up in Chatham. Fourteen years ago she moved to Toronto with her, now, husband. They have two children. Mary enjoys reading, creative writing, gardening and snowboarding.