It was now 10:00 p.m., I was tired and very cold, and knew I just had to go home. I said goodbye to everyone, including the new baby I had been midwife to, climbed into my car and headed home. As soon as I arrived I called and got the great news! Once in the barn, the cow had taken only a short while to decide that this was indeed her calf, and the little guy not only survived, but was now busy guzzling away. We talked about what they might name him, and one of the boys suggested that he be aptly named “Running Water!”
I went to work the next day tired but exhilarated! All I had wanted was to see the birth of the calf, but to participate as fully as I did was one of the most wonderful experiences I’ve ever had!
~Carla Crema
Port Alberni, British Columbia
This Is How We Do It
He who would do great things should not attempt them all alone.
~Seneca Proverb
It was July 2, 2015, another scorching hot summer day. I caught the radio broadcast that a half-hectare fire was burning up the Sechelt Inlet. Just two kilometres away lay the village of Sechelt on First Nation’s land. “It’s only an acre,” I reassured myself. “They’ll put it out.”
At my home in forested Halfmoon Bay, close to Sechelt on the Sunshine Coast, I lived in constant fear of fire. With Highway 101 being the only road out and limited firefighting services, my fears were real.
Unfortunately, the wildfire took hold quickly. When I awoke early on July 5th the winds had changed, and a strange red glow lit the sky. With no morning chorus of birds and an eerie silence, my world felt frightening and ominous. Ash rained down. Minuscule particles coated the coast in a deathly white shroud, spreading further than Vancouver. With these strong, gusty winds, I knew Halfmoon Bay could be threatened.
I started to panic as I heard the reports on the radio. The fire was spiralling out of control. Just seven years before, when I lived in Langley, I had stood by helplessly as my large workshop, horse barn, and half a houseful of priceless possessions burned to the ground.
With scant information available, the media reports were sketchy. That afternoon a friend called and told me about a new Facebook group devoted to the fire. A hundred kilometres away in Powell River, Ken White, a volunteer rescue agent for the Canadian Forces and Canadian Coast Guard, had launched “The Sechelt Forest Fire” Facebook page. I saw in amazement that nearly 2,300 people had joined the group so far.
The next day the monster fire had grown to 250 hectares. Quickly named the Old Sechelt Mine Fire, it burned uncontained, fuelled by hot weather, tinder-dry forests, and unusually strong winds.
Anxious for good news, I checked my iPhone early that morning. Instead, I was saddened to learn the fire had claimed the life of John Phare, a sixty-year-old Sechelt Indian band member. An experienced tree faller, John had worked feverishly to help contain the blaze. But amidst the noise of the fire and the helicopters overhead he hadn’t heard the tree behind him falling.
Stretched past its maximum, the British Columbia Wildfire Service began contracting firefighters from everywhere to help. Fire fighters began arriving from Burns Lake, Duncan, Campbell River, Ontario and even Australia — but to few amenities. So Ken launched another Facebook page, “Sechelt Forest Fire Support Services for Firefighters,” coordinating meals and supplies for them. Action photos and fire videos filled both Facebook pages.
I couldn’t go outside without a mask due to the ash and smoke so I stayed inside and found comfort in the Facebook pages. I read countless reports of people sharing their fears and praise, and their willingness to contribute whatever they could to help the firefighters. I was deeply touched.
“I live by the fire, thank you for keeping me safe,” posted one nine-year-old girl. “I guess what I am trying to say is “THANK YOU FIREFIGHTERS!!”
“I can barely put food on my table,” wrote a struggling mom, “but does anyone reckon the firefighters need their clothes mended?”
“My husband’s fighting the fire,” posted another woman. “Do you know where the crew could eat at six in the morning?”
To which Selina August, of the Sechelt Indian band replied, “We want to help!”
What happened next was a true miracle. Selina, along with five other band members, jumped into action and started the incredible effort rolling. Hour by hour, it unfolded on my screen, gaining massive momentum. The Sechelt Indian Government District offered to provide firefighters with breakfast and dinner. Immediately the First Nation’s people were inundated with donations of food, drinks, cash, shopping, freezers, cooking and personal supplies, gift cards, accommodation, entertainment and meals.
Starting the next morning at 4 a.m., dozens of volunteers prepared daily feasts for all the firefighters and paramedics at the band hall. The people of the Sunshine Coast united to help with a strength that attracted media attention across Canada — becoming heroes in the process. We watched online, fascinated. And helped when we could.
My friends Mokie and Mike Burnham owned the Sechelt Fish Market. When Mokie learned the Burns Lake forestry firefighters, including their son, were heading to Sechelt, she asked the fire centre manager if they could drop off homemade treats at the line. He agreed, so Mokie sent texts to two friends to help bake cookies. When they posted it on Ken’s Facebook page, things went crazy. Within hours their fish market was swamped with food donations. The crews were overwhelmed, posting, “Thank you, thank you, but no more, please!”
Volunteers collected, cleaned and mended clothes. Businesses donated, organized and delivered supplies. They made T-shirts, bumper stickers and erected huge signs along the highway thanking firefighters, and honouring the fallen John Phare.
By July 12th the fire had exploded to 423 hectares, although it was forty percent contained and, luckily, burning away from Sechelt. That day, the province finally set up a base camp to serve the firefighters. The last meal was served at the Sechelt Indian band hall, with an abundance of leftover food donated to the food bank. Ken continued soliciting personal items online for the remaining firefighters. He is truly an unsung hero, creating this remarkable Facebook phenomenon.
That same day I read a post by Martin Ca of the Sechelt Indian band that brought tears to my eyes: “What started out as six individuals coming together for a great cause turned into an outpouring of kindness, togetherness, and inclusion of LOVE from the ENTIRE Sunshine Coast Community. The Sunshine Coast is a great place to live and call HOME. We are ONE. Thank you very much.”
By July 22nd our community was thrilled to learn that the fire, although still burning vigorously, was fully contained.
Meanwhile, another Facebook page was created as a memorial for John Phare, with condolences posted from all across Canada. Nearly 1,000 people attended his memorial service. John was later posthumously awarded the first British Columbia Medal of Good Citizenship by Premier Christy Clark.
November 10th was a big day. The fire was officially declared completely out. For four long months members of our community opened up their hearts, uniting through disaster — and death. In the process I learned the true meaning of the words humble, giving, and “community spirit.” I honour and thank the firefighters, our First Nations people, Ken White, and the heroes of Sechelt and the Sunshine Coast.
~Frances R. McGuckin
Abbotsford, British Columbia
The Bad Marmot
There is something that all Canadians know, the feel of the wild even in the heart of the city.
~Wade Davis
It was a lovely spring morning in Kelowna, and the dogs were going crazy. “There’s a marmot in the driveway,” announced my husband Carl. Here in the Okanagan Valley these rodents grow to somewhere between eight and twenty pounds — the size of a beaver. They are not uncommon, especially as we live next to an orchard and are accustomed to seeing wildlife, including deer, coyotes, and raccoons.
We headed out in my car to the dog park and when we returned the critter was still there — standing next to Carl’s car. Then, j
ust as we pulled into the driveway he disappeared up into the car.
At this point we were not very concerned. It wouldn’t be that difficult to just shoo him out, we reasoned.
We opened the hood and quickly spotted him and knocked and yelled in attempt to scare him out. It was amazing to see how small a space he could squish himself into. Concluding we had frightened him into lying low, we retreated to the house and kept an eye on the car. Sure enough, he eventually came out. After letting him get a few feet from the car, we ran out and quickly moved the car into the garage.
At this point we did not realize that marmots really like cars.
As the garage door was closing he ran down the drive and, with us watching, he jumped into my car! I was not prepared for how indignant I felt. Carl’s car was one thing, but my car? How dare he? I went into battle mode. We tapped and banged on the car, to no avail. As before, we retreated to the house and then watched through the window.
We never saw him climb out of the vehicle.
For the next three days we tried everything we and our neighbours could think of. We bought a live trap and filled it with carrots. We drove to the park and left the car in spots we thought he would like. We heard marmots didn’t like air fresheners so we emptied a can of Febreze into my bumper. I nearly asphyxiated myself — but he was still there. We even tried power washing him out. Yup, still there.
Taking a new approach, we phoned our car dealership. With a laugh, they said yes, they had encountered every kind of rodent problem this spring — no worries, bring it in. Why hadn’t I done this right at the start? I was so relieved. I drove my car in, and Carl drove us home.
Two hours later the service manager called and said, “Lady, the biggest, angriest marmot I’ve ever seen is in the bumper of your car, and my guys won’t touch it.”
We decided it was time to bring in the big guns. The trapper from the pest control company agreed to go to the dealership while the car was up on the hoist. This next part I know because one of the mechanics took a cell phone video of the whole thing. The trapper used a long pole with a lasso and managed to snag the critter and drag it from the bumper. After finally wrestling him down to the floor of the shop… the giant rodent escaped! Mayhem ensued as the mechanics ran around shrieking. The trapper was in hot pursuit and the marmot, as it ran through the lot and saw all those new cars, was squeaking something to the effect of, “So many choices, so little time!”
The trapper, hero of the day, finally snagged the marmot again and this time successfully loaded him into the trap. We were left with about $1,000 in damage, immense gratitude to the critter-trapper and the service guys in the dealership, and a commitment to always, always park the cars in the garage!
~Jane Everett
Kelowna, British Columbia
The Greatest Goal
All summer I was a calm and graceful lady, then hockey season started.
~Author Unknown
Math was never my favourite subject at school. I barely passed, and to this day I’m intimidated by anything more complex than adding or subtracting numbers. However, I could rattle off the jersey numbers of every player in the NHL and I knew the stats of every player on my favourite team.
I was in grade nine, growing up in the small logging community of Sooke, British Columbia. My two best friends and I were avid hockey fans. While the other girls fretted over their hair and make-up, we took a shop class and played on an all-girls floor-hockey team at school.
Our favourite NHL team was the Montreal Canadiens and my idol was the up and coming superstar, Guy Lafleur. I took great interest in every game and followed his career with a statistician’s precision. I was devastated when my idol was not selected to play on a team that saw NHL stars pitted against a selection of Russian players in a friendly eight-game exhibition called the Canada–USSR Series.
The series was played at a time when cold war tensions were running high. I wasn’t interested in the politics of the games, but I knew our nation’s prowess in hockey, so I was convinced our guys would dominate. Hockey was, after all, Canada’s game! When Russia beat Canada soundly 7–3 in the first game in Montreal, my friends and I were as shocked as the rest of the country.
When the fifth game shifted to Moscow, my friends and I wore giant Team Canada jerseys and proudly displayed Canadian flags in our bedroom windows. We looked forward to seeing our team win. But there was an unforeseen problem — the time difference.
We’d been able to watch the first four games on television because they had been played in Canadian cities. But the final four games were in Moscow, so those games would be telecast in our time zone early in the mornings — the exact same time we were supposed to be in Mr. Ruxton’s math class!
A black and white television was set up in the school library for students with spares so they could watch the fifth game. We could hear their cheering while we were in agony trying to concentrate on integers and fractions. When an audible groan arose from down the hall we learned that Russia had won 5–4. I all but blamed Mr. Ruxton for the loss.
My friends and I had a sleepover so we could watch the Sunday morning game six. Team Canada was up against the formidable stick handling of Yakushev and Kharlamov, as well as the brilliant goaltending of Vladislav Tretiak once again. When Team Canada won the hard-fought game 3–2 we breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Later we huddled together to figure out how we could follow the action in the last two games at school the following week. We decided to bring our transistor radios and listen using headphones. We knew we were taking a huge risk but it was worth it!
I hid my transistor radio under my jeans jacket and camouflaged the ear buds under my long hair. Game seven had already started when I put my head down in math class and tried to look as studious as possible. With the score tied 3–3 close to the end of the third period, my friends and I exchanged forlorn glances. I felt like crying. Then with less than three minutes to play, Paul Henderson deked out the Russian defenseman, Tsygankov, and scored on Tretiak! My two friends and I sprang from our seats screeching, “Yahooooo!”
Mr. Ruxton jumped from his desk and glared menacingly at me. “What is the meaning of this outburst?”
Without hesitation, I said, “I just LOVE math!”
He shook his head while the rest of the class giggled. Then he motioned for us to show him our radios. We sheepishly obliged and then he asked, “What was the final score?” Turns out he had been on to us from the very beginning!
On Thursday, September 28, 1972 in an unprecedented move, Mr. Ruxton dismissed math class early so we could join the rest of the school in watching the eighth and final game of the Summit Series on television. My statistician brain was adding up the facts. Heading into that final game each team had three wins and three losses and one tie, but the Soviets were ahead in goal differential by two.
It didn’t take a math genius to figure out that Team Canada had to win this crucial last game in order to win the series. With the Soviet team ahead 5–3 at the end of the second period, I glanced over at Mr. Ruxton, who looked as subdued and depressed as the rest of us. Surely even going back to math class was better than watching Canada go down to defeat.
Then, midway through the third period, Phil Esposito scored to put the Canadians within one goal. When Yvan Cournoyer scored soon after to tie the game, everyone around me went wild! All eyes were fixed on the time clock maddeningly counting down to the last minute of play. In those last few seconds I held my breath. No one moved; no one blinked.
It looked like it happened in slow motion. With only thirty-four seconds left to play, Esposito shot the puck at Tretiak only to have Paul Henderson pick up the rebound. Tretiak went down, Henderson lifted the puck and then Foster Hewitt yelled, “They score! Henderson scored for Canada!”
The cheering around me was deafening as I grabbed my two best friends and we twirled in a circle, holding each other in a frenzied display of unabashed joy. We were crying and we were laughing, teachers
and students alike.
Mr. Ruxton looked over at me and winked. I hated math, but in that moment I loved Mr. Ruxton! While the players shook hands there in Moscow, we all burst into the spontaneous singing of “O Canada,” and I knew I had just witnessed a moment in history that would never be repeated.
~Lynn Dove
Cochrane, Alberta
The Night the Lights Went Out
I have travelled around the globe. I have seen the Canadian and American Rockies, the Andes, the Alps and the Highlands of Scotland, but for simple beauty, Cape Breton outrivals them all!
~Alexander Graham Bell
“Distinctive little village tucked on the west coast of Cape Breton renowned for its hospitality, beauty, and culture.” That’s all I knew about Mabou. Once there, we discovered the famous Red Shoe Pub, owned by the Rankin family, purely by chance. A “cool one” sounded pretty inviting after driving the beautiful but winding roads of our new summer vacation territory.
My friend Linda and I sat sipping our cold drinks, enjoying the friendliness and soaking in the down-home Scottish music and atmosphere. Our waiter asked in his strong accent, “Are you goin’ to the cèilidh (pronounced kaylee) tonight, my lassies?” We soon heard that Buddy MacMaster would be playing at the hall across the road and everyone was going.
We didn’t know who Buddy MacMaster was, but we learned that he was a well-known, old-time fiddler of the Island and had been invited to Scotland several times to teach the Celtic fiddling that had been lost in the old country. Everyone in the pub seemed to know him and his family quite well, displaying great respect and admiration. I certainly knew of his niece, Natalie MacMaster, and her famous fiddling performances.
We were sure we wouldn’t get tickets at this late date. And even if we could, how much might they cost? But we forgot we were in Cape Breton. We next learned that the cèilidh started at 7:30 p.m., and tickets could be bought at the door for seven dollars! Reasonable, casual, and so Cape Breton. No question — we would go.