He whistles air through the space in his front teeth. “You foolin’ me. Canada be so big?” I nod. The bus chugs along, and in that moment I think how many times I have looked at a map of my country, but only now realize how big it actually is.
That evening my husband Brian and I invite our Bequia friends Velma and Picky over for a dinner that includes, for dessert, my attempt at sapodilla crisp. They enjoy it, but I miss the apples. The young couple explain that they want to leave Bequia. “We dream of going to Canada,” they say.
We remind them about their lovely island, the abundance of fish, and fruit and vegetables when in season. I think about the food shelves in our stores carrying everything from lobsters and tuna from the east coast, to salmon and cherries from the west coast, maple syrup from Quebec, and southern Ontario peaches.
They talk about the pictures they have seen showing superstores overflowing with choice. Velma says, “You can buy anything, anytime.” It’s true. They talk about Canada’s healthcare. “You have real medicine, skilled doctors and the latest technology,” Velma says. Velma wants to be a nurse.
I reflect a moment on the basic health kit we needed to bring with us. Even pain reliever, like Tylenol is rare here. “You have jobs,” Picky says, “and make money.” He adds frowning, “We could buy our own house there instead of living with my parents.” Velma nods. I try to cheer them up and talk about how fortunate they are to have family living close by and schools — one elementary and one high school — although Brian adds, “They could both use a coat of paint.” Paint is also hard to come by here.
I share a look with Brian across the table. Neither of us mentions this will be our last year here. Our son starts kindergarten next year and without question we want him to be educated in Canada. Velma has heard about our four seasons and asks, “What is winter like?” Brian and I both laugh. They stare at us. Then Brian gets up, walks over to the fridge, another luxury on the island, and opens the freezer door. He sticks his head in and calls out, “This is it.” I laugh again but turn to see the puzzled looks on our guests’ faces. “That is what it’s like all winter long,” Brian sits down chuckling.
“Lakes freeze,” I say. “Imagine the sea, if it is hard like ice and you can walk on it?” Their eyes grow wide.
We’re not sure if they understand exactly, but when we both giggle again, the laughter is contagious. I pump water by hand from the cistern that collects rainfall, and put the kettle on the gas stove. I think about the abundance of fresh water in Canada. As night falls we light a candle and get out the cards.
It is hard for me to concentrate on the game since in the back of my mind I am now thinking about the winter challenge. I remember a time when it snowed two feet overnight. We both started shovelling as though dealing with the snow and not letting it overcome us was our Canadian duty. We showed the world that winter does not get the better of us.
Later we got the car stuck in our driveway. But we did not let it get our spirits down. Instead we used the trick everyone learns in Canada. We put an old piece of carpet under the tire. I rocked the car back, then forward and then, Brian said, “On the count of three go for it.” I gunned the engine and he pushed from the back, and we got out. “Hooray,” we shouted, beaming with pride.
Will we once again embrace Canada’s cold? I think about the snowsuits, boots and hats we will have to buy. But bundled up, we will be warm. It’s not so bad. I look forward to building the first snowman with my son. I wonder about driving on icy roads, but know that I will drive more slowly in the winter and with caution. I look forward to ice-skating and ice fishing. Maybe our son will want to play hockey.
I’m sure we are up to the task. We’ve been taught from an early age to live through a Canadian winter, and appreciate the beauty and fun of it as well. I imagine my big country and feel like I want to put my arms around it. Suddenly I am excited. We are lucky to be going home soon.
~Kathy Ashby
Bracebridge, Ontario
Sorry, Not Sorry
We’re known for being polite… but we can be proud too.
~Heather Reisman
When Canadians enter into conversations, we are usually considered to be very friendly and polite. More specifically we are known for our use of the word “Sorry.” Well, sorry, we can’t help it! It just comes out without even really thinking about it, or at least it does for me.
I was born and raised in Nova Scotia, and, growing up I was always very concerned for the wellbeing of others. So naturally, like those around me, I adopted this common word for everyday use. Whether it was bumping into a stranger on the sidewalk or asking a question, “sorry” always weaseled its way in. It wasn’t until university that my so-called “Canadian habits” would be put to the test.
I had been accepted to study abroad for six months in Sweden as part of the Saint Mary’s University exchange program. By January 2014, I was on my way to Jönköping, Sweden, a town about the size of Fredericton, New Brunswick. I would be living with other international students and I would take four classes. I had been to Europe before on vacation, but never to actually live and study, so I was thrilled to have the experience.
Once I was unpacked in my room, I introduced myself to everyone in my path. I seemed to be well received by my peers and soon had a great circle of friends. Naturally, every so often I would utter the word “sorry,” but unlike at home in Canada, I would get chastised by the other students. “Stop apologizing! You did nothing wrong,” they would say. They soon began to tease me and placed a “sorry” jar in our kitchen. I had to put a Swedish krona in the jar every time I spoke the word. “I’m just trying to be nice!” I would explain. “Sorry, not sorry.”
In March I went on a trip to Amsterdam with my Australian friend to visit a few of her friends who were living there. We enjoyed our time immensely, and her friends showed us around beautiful Amsterdam. “Sorry” came up a few times, of course, which made the Aussies burst into laughter because, not only did I say it frequently, they found my Canadian accent to be an additional source for laughter. “Sorrrrreeeeeeeee” they would say, to imitate me, as they thought the correct way to pronounce it was “Saw-ry.” After a few days of the teasing I stood firm, and mentioned that when kids in Canada have speech impediments they sound Australian, and it’s considered an improper way of talking. At this they laughed even harder and said “touché.” Sorry, not sorry.
Not only was my sorry-saying apparent, but my friendliness as well as my outgoing personality identified me as an “extreme Canadian.” In April I went on a school-organized trip to Prague. I had always wanted to go, and though none of my friends were going I was happy to meet other students. There were many international students on the trip as well as Swedish students. One night we ate at a tavern where we got a taste of traditional Czech food. I was alone, so I sat down at the first table where there was a free seat. As it turned out the people sitting with me at that table were all Swedes. I introduced myself and started chatting away, asking them where they were from, what program they were studying, etc. They answered very quickly and did not ask much in return, but as I knew no one, and we had two hours to kill, what else was I going to do?
After a few minutes, one of the guys said, “You ask a lot of questions. It’s very hard for us Swedes to answer and ask questions like you Canadians.” I was taken aback by his comment, but I brushed it off, as I had found most Swedes tend to be shy and reserved compared to Canadians. However, I thought it was a bit rude. I was there on exchange, I knew no one, we went to an international school where half the population were on exchange from other countries… were we supposed to not talk to each other? Sorry, not sorry. Luckily, that was my only negative experience for being Canadian.
My sisters visited me in May and I showed them around Jönköping. One of my favourite places was an antique store where they had a barn filled with various trinkets and collectables. My sisters and I picked up a few keepsakes and went up front to pay for them. The owner ask
ed where we were from.
“We’re from Canada,” answered my sister, “and I live in Toronto.”
“Ah! Toronto!” the man exclaimed happily. “My sister lives there.” He seemed so pleased to speak with us. And when we tried to pay, he wouldn’t accept our Swedish kronor. “No, no, it’s free for Canadians,” he said. Very touched, we thanked him immensely, and then continued on our tour of Jönköping.
I guess it helps to be Canadian sometimes! But in reality there is so much more to being Canadian than our friendliness and good manners. Though I enjoyed my time in Sweden immensely, I was so happy to return home. I am so proud of my roots and I will never apologize for being Canadian. Sorry, not sorry!
~Megan Pothier
Fredericton, New Brunswick
With Glowing Hearts
The world needs more Canada!
~Former U.S. President Barack Obama
It was my birthday, and my son phoned to wish me a happy day and to suggest I turn on the TV. Not so much to watch, as to listen. Listen and sniffle. The Winter Olympics were on and a Canadian was about to receive a gold medal. That meant “O Canada” would be played, and he knew that hearing it would produce some deep emotion. There’s nothing like a few happy tears on your birthday.
A typical Canadian, I usually hide my patriotism. I join with the multitudes that grumble about taxes, bureaucracies and government waste; I worry about unemployment, university fees and Medicare; I wonder about national unity, gas pipelines and the CBC. But beneath all that angst, I am thankful to be a Canadian, and nothing elicits that gratitude faster than the national anthem.
My attachment to “O Canada” goes back to my adolescence during the anti-everything era of the late 1960s. My high school music department arranged a student music exchange with a school from Portland, Oregon. That trip became the focal point of life for all of us for months. Heady daydreams were second only to scrimping, saving, fundraising — and maybe even practicing. We were going to the States! Real cool. The land of promise. The centre of the universe.
Our introduction to Americana, however, was not what we thought it would be. Our friends to the south were going through some very difficult times and it showed. Wandering the school halls, we were awed by the expense of the facility, and unnerved by the extent of the tension. Our American counterparts were a divided people in almost every way — blacks not hanging out with whites; students protesting the Vietnam War; cool kids not mixing with the un-cool ones. They congregated in their little groups, staring suspiciously at passers-by. We survived our five days by staying as inconspicuous as possible.
Concert night arrived and we were on edge with excitement and anxiety. Their band and choir were the biggest and the best. We were nobodies from Canada, hoping to make a good impression. We processed through the auditorium to the first two rows of seats, which had been reserved for us. There we sat: fifty Canadian teenagers and 500 American adults waiting for our national anthems to be played.
Suddenly the first chord of “O Canada” rang through the auditorium. Without discussion or planning, and without hesitation, we fifty leapt to our feet and began to sing. As the music ended we sat down, each of us surprised at the depth of our own emotion — and the way it was shared amongst our peers.
Seconds later we were startled by loud applause. Our American hosts gave us a standing ovation. Afterward, one stranger said, “Hearing you kids sing your national anthem gave me the shivers. I’ve never seen such patriotism. I wish Americans could be like that.”
Our last hours in the United States were spent driving north on Interstate 5 in a cramped school bus. The exuberance of the southward journey was gone, and we were a subdued bunch, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. When we finally crossed the border even the bus seemed to sigh with relief. Suddenly, a loud voice rang out, “We’re home!” Whistles and whoops filled the air, along with an array of hats, shoes, books and souvenirs. Home had never felt so good.
Many years have passed since then, but whenever I hear “O Canada” I find myself back in an auditorium in Portland, Oregon, singing with conviction, love, and pride. Whatever its deficiencies may be at any given time, home still feels good. Pass the tissues, please.
~Lydia A. Calder
Edmonton, Alberta
The Woman on the Bus
Thank you is the best prayer that anyone could say. I say that one a lot. Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding.
~Alice Walker
There were fourteen of us in an old school bus loaded up with supplies. We were taking the supplies from Prince Edward Island all the way to a “street children’s” educational program in Quetzaltenango, the second largest city in Guatemala. On our old bus, we travelled south through two Canadian provinces, fifteen American states, and Mexico, passing three border crossings in fourteen days. The Guatemalan civil war that ran from 1960 to 1996 had ended two weeks before we crossed the border into that war-torn country.
In remote areas of Mexico we were often stopped at checkpoints by members of the military. But our bus driver had come prepared. He gave each soldier a Canadian flag pin. The serious-looking soldiers would suddenly crack grins, and usually became friendlier as they examined the pins. They always asked the driver where we were going, why, and for how long. They checked our passports and then motioned the driver to go. I believe the gift of those Canadian flag pins was the reason we were never harassed or detained for very long.
Once we arrived at our destination in Guatemala I began my volunteer work. I lived with Mayan families, visited women’s’ organizations, and helped out at a refugee camp the size of a small city.
This was my first trip to Central America, and I was surprised to learn that the symbol of Canada, our beautiful flag, was so easily recognized there. On one particular day, I was travelling by bus through the rugged countryside of Guatemala, and I was the only foreigner. The banged-up bus was jam-packed with Guatemalans sitting four to a seat or standing in the aisle along with squawking roosters and hens in cages. The slow-moving bus crawled along dusty roads, dodging huge potholes, through villages surrounded by volcanoes and lush green mountainsides.
I had become so entrenched in this new world that I wasn’t paying much attention to the woman who was now crushed against me in the seat. Overcome by the heat, the woman had fallen asleep, her head resting on my shoulder. She was short and middle-aged, with cropped black curly hair that framed her round face. Her hands lay at her sides as if they too were resting.
I had met enough women there to surmise that she had probably gotten up long before sunrise to prepare food for a family, perhaps caring for children, and doing necessary household chores before leaving the home of her employer.
I wanted to move, but did not dare rob her of her sleep. The bus eventually jolted to a stop, causing her to wake. Half asleep, she grinned at me, a toothless ear-to-ear smile. And I smiled back. I did not speak Spanish well enough to converse with her.
At the next stop, vendors of all ages flooded onto the bus, calling out, “Fruit, water, sweets for sale!” Now wide-awake, the woman pulled out a pouch tied around her neck and hidden in her bosom.
She carefully counted out a few coins and bought a piece of fruit. After the purchase, she tucked the pouch safely back in her bosom. Without any hesitation, and with a big smile on her weather-beaten face, she broke off a piece and offered it to me. Touched, I smiled back and graciously accepted it. I knew the poor of this country did not have the luxury of buying snack food. She must have been very hungry, and yet she generously shared with me.
I wanted to give her something in return, but my knapsack was stuffed with clothing and a few personal items. Eyeing the Canadian flag pin on my shirt she asked, “Canadiense?” In Spanish I replied, “Yes, I am Canadian,” surprised that she had recognized the symbol because of the remoteness of the area I was travelling through.
I then took off my Canadian flag pin, and carefully pinned it on the collar of her sh
irt. The woman reverently touched the Canadian symbol with one finger, as if it were made of gold. She beamed with appreciation, and thanked me in Spanish. As the bus clunked along, she wore her Canadian flag pin with noticeable pride.
When the bus finally arrived at her destination, she placed the palm of her hand against the palm of my hand and smiled. I knew it was her way of saying goodbye and safe journey. I watched her get off the bus, and I continued to watch until she was out of sight. The memory of her simple kindness remains with me today.
~Stella Shepard
Morell, Prince Edward Island
A Lesson in Germany
A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself.
~John Campbell
After university I was given the opportunity to travel with a Christian theatre group. After two years travelling in the United States, the director asked me to go to Europe to continue the work and I happily accepted. My music and drama team covered a large territory: The British Isles, Ireland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland and France.
Europe was everything I had imagined — full of history, incredible architecture, art and intriguing foods. I looked forward to working on my French, which had never progressed beyond a rudimentary vocabulary, even after three years of high school French in Ontario. I had no fears, and everyone I met seemed genuinely friendly and receptive to visitors.
But I must admit there was this one time when, at the outset, I wasn’t sure. We were staying in our German headquarters, in between tours, and I had discovered a long, isolated stretch of beautiful countryside to explore. I walked contently in silence, enjoying some rare “alone time.” I wasn’t paying much attention to the road ahead, and was not expecting to see anyone else and, as a result, I was quite startled to hear a voice.
I looked up to see a woman of about seventy apparently intent on communicating with me. My German was pitiful, and I knew she would not find it easy. She went on for a while, and then hesitated, likely sensing my lack of comprehension. Then she asked, “Canada? You Canada?”