At around the age of eleven, I was booked on one of Canada’s national lottery TV shows that featured live guest performances. It was either Wintario or Lotto Canada— I can’t remember which one—but it was being shot in Toronto. Gas was expensive—at least for us it was—so my mom and dad decided to have me travel by Canadian National Railway. It was an overnight trip, but it sure beat spending thirteen hours on a bus each way. For a small-town talent like me, this was a big deal. My mother worked hard to get me on national TV as an amateur. Just over an hour into my train trip to Toronto, I was settled in comfortably: homework out, guitar stowed above my seat, ticket in hand. My mother had arranged for a chaperone to pick me up in Toronto, and I felt confident that my first train ride all by myself was going to work out fine. What could go wrong? Um, this: The conductor glanced at my ticket, and his smile morphed into a frown. “Oh, this train isn’t going to Toronto, young lady,”
