Mona introduced me to radio Bingo, a favourite activity in the small community. It was a time to connect with friends around the kitchen table, while listening to the Bingo caller over the radio. Of course it was all in Inuktitut and the only part I could understand was “B-9.” One night I hosted Bingo at my home for Mona, her son Wayne and her cousin Rita. “Did you make your yummy dip?” she asked as she tossed her coat on the chair and made herself at home. Wayne lay on the floor in the living room and coloured, while the ladies sat in the kitchen sharing stories and food while listening with one ear to the radio so as not to miss a number and lose out on the jackpot. I never won at radio Bingo, but I made friendships that will last a lifetime around those tables, friendships that did not feel a language barrier.
After three years, I left Nunavut and returned to life in the South. My friend Mona still lives in Pangnirtung. It is her home. She has two boys now and a husband who loves her very much. We are still in touch thanks to social media, and a few months ago she helped me put a fur ruff on my winter coat via e-mail. I may never have the opportunity to return to Nunavut again, but the experiences I had there will never leave me.
Northern Canada is one of the last places I ever thought I would find myself living. What I experienced while living there was nothing short of amazing. The Northern Lights put on spectacular shows almost nightly and, in the summer, I was mesmerized by the sun’s inability to set. I hiked to the Arctic Circle, saw and ate polar bear, whale blubber, and raw caribou. I camped out under the midnight sun, made snow angels on a frozen fjord at –35 degree Celsius and, as one friend put it, “How many of your friends can say they helped build an igloo?” I experienced the same types of adventures my friends who travelled abroad had: I learned how to communicate with non-English speakers, walked the streets in towns where I couldn’t read the street signs, and ate foods I had never heard of before. I had my travel abroad adventure, but in my own country, my home, Canada.
“Qujannamiik — Thank you.”
~Jennifer Caseley
Sexsmith, Alberta
This Village Called Canada
I liken Canada to a garden… a garden into which have been transplanted the hardiest and brightest flowers from many lands, each retaining in its new environment the best of the qualities for which it was loved and prized in its native land.
~Former Prime Minister John G. Diefenbaker
The music begins. On stage a few of the JKs bumble about. Others snap to attention. In the audience families and friends lift their chins and sit up straighter. We are crammed into this school gym on a misty spring night, and we all know this song, the song of our nation.
Why do we flock to Canada, to this curious, comfortable “village”? I know why I did.
For a village to flourish its people must band together in the name of solidarity, shelter and strength, through life’s sleepy seas and brutal storms. And when I lived in South Africa, that wasn’t happening.
In high school during the 1970s I belonged to The New Progressive Club. There were underground rooms. Whispers. “One voice for social justice.” Shhh. “One voice for all South Africans.”
Back then, my boyfriend (who I later married) and I fantasized about a progressive country called Canada. Handsome Mounties, white-capped mountains and ice blue lakes, matching mittens and scarves, and quiet, mild-mannered people and creatures, all scratching out a living in the endless landscape.
Our home and native land
Our voices meet in harmony. Stresses are soothed. Moods uplifted. In the front row a teacher leans across to wipe a running nose. Everyone in the village should feel at home, rooted, knowing they belong.
In 1987 South Africa, the ground rumbled under protest marchers, bombs blew us apart, and my husband was called up for yet another military stint. His orders were to conduct night raids on the very people he loved and worked with during the day.
It was time. We stuffed our lives into four suitcases, and with our children’s hands clutched firmly, we headed to the airport. As the plane soared into the sky, leaving our tear-stained relatives below, I knew I wasn’t leaving home. Rather, I was going home. Home to the safety of the globe’s great village.
True patriot love in all thy sons command
Our sound wave lifts the room. We are all rock stars! Villagers must see themselves in everyone else, doing all things in the name of ONE.
When one Canadian falls, another rises to help. When a grade-two teacher was frazzled in the classroom I volunteered for half the year. When a family member was diagnosed with Asperger’s the public school system took him under its wing. When the community needed help, I volunteered in hospice care.
We command love from Canada, which in turn, commands love back. Canada is the center hole of the cosmic wheel, which spins through eternity in a never-ending cycle of give, take… and give.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise
A small boy in a Senators hockey shirt, arms outstretched, voice strong, pirouettes on stage. A village strives for more than just survival. It strives for honour.
A few years after we immigrated to Canada my cousin and her family left Africa’s Karoo desert, and arrived in Barrie, Ontario five days before Christmas. “I’m home now too, kuzzie,” she grinned through saucer-size snowflakes.
Today her family flourishes. And beware anyone who would complain about our weather, our people; anything about this land called Canada. My kuzzie will have you know there is no finer place on earth. She may even wag her finger at you and tell you to go back to where you came from. For her, if you are in her “home” you’d better mind your manners!
The True North strong and free
Our pitch fans the fiery flame of patriotism. A baby in a stroller shakes a sunflower rattle. A person’s true north is their spiritual enlightenment. And in a healthy village one is free, and encouraged, to reach it.
And so it was in Canada where I began my “enlightenment” journey. After a friend and two family members were murdered back in South Africa, I turned to writing. I practiced ghostwriting, I created bereavement workshops, I became a writing coach. Here, at “home,” we have the back-up and brain space to re-join our soul’s journey.
From far and wide O Canada, we stand on guard for thee
Our song has wings now, carrying our artistry, our wit, our bravery. An old man, hand on walker, dabs his eyes. A great village is sought after by those who yearn to hold their heads high.
Several years ago a family fled Zimbabwe at gunpoint and arrived in Ontario. I asked all our Canadian friends to bring plant cuttings to our Canada Day barbeque, which we presented to the family.
The following day, from sunrise to sunset, the refugees planted. For compassion, they planted a peony, in the deepest coral. For grace, a lavender, in royal purple; for gratitude, a snowball hydrangea; and more… much, much more.
Like their garden, these newcomers have taken root, nurtured their lives, as well as other refugees’ lives, as they continue to embellish this exquisite tapestry we call home.
God keep our land glorious and free
Our cadence is a perfect pulse. The principal beams behind the podium. The skyline is the face of the village.
Canada’s skyline reveals its glory: mountains and mosques, steeples and superstructures, cliffs and construction cranes, towers and temples, forests and factories, barns and bluffs, and lighthouses attending our wide horizons.
But our true beauty is our people, who pick peace over war, who are quietly courageous, who are placidly proud, and who will fight fiercely for the good of all mankind.
Like Canada’s trees that withstand the great north wind, we bow to the seasons. Spring ignites hope. Summer, joy. Fall, gratitude. And winter — as we gaze upon nature’s bare bones — introspection.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee
Along the back wall a row of teenagers belt out the finale. Villagers — young, adult, frail, strong — come together in rituals.
&nbs
p; At my kitchen table there are always debates, as platters are passed and spoons scoop up seconds. Loud debates! Two generations can’t always agree, but we all vote during elections and we all wear the Maple Leaf proudly. And none of us has ever gotten a finger wag from the auntie in Barrie.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee
The anthem’s spirit lingers in the gym, a perfect “om,” encompassing all languages, cultures, and history. I know why I came home to this village called Canada.
Canada is the globe’s true north. It beckons us all to return home, in our cloaks, in our sandals, in our flower garlands. Century after century. Against the piercing blue sky our flag waves red for prana, the life-giving force, and white for purity.
People don’t come to Canada; souls return to Canada. To gather and grow.
The cameras start rolling. The spring concert begins. And life blossoms forth as it is meant to. In glory. In freedom. And in love. We invite the world to join in our song.
~Lesley Marcovich
Newmarket, Ontario
Canada Day
We have it all. We have great diversity of people, we have a wonderful land, and we have great possibilities. So all those things combined there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
~Bob Rae
A Centennial Project
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.
~Helen Keller
It was 1967 and Canada was turning 100. Our teachers had encouraged us to develop a “Centennial Project” to help mark Canada’s 100th birthday, but I had left that to the kids who had better grades.
Summer came along, and my friend Neil suggested we ride our bicycles eighty miles from Saskatoon to Lake Diefenbaker for the official opening of the Gardiner Dam. He called this adventure a “Centennial Project,” thus turning an irresponsible lark into a noble pursuit. It took a bit of convincing to get parental permission but, after promising to be careful and make a collect call home from every town we went through, the answer was “yes.”
Neil was thirteen and I was twelve. Today, the idea of allowing two boys to head off on their bikes for a two-day trip along one of Saskatchewan’s busiest highways would be unheard of. But back then it was just an idea that took a little selling.
We set off for our big adventure. I had a borrowed three-speed bicycle, five dollars in my pocket, a one-quart canteen, and a cotton sleeping bag lashed to a rattrap carrier. A few hours into our trip, our adrenaline kicked in as our bikes accelerated down the mile-long hill at the end of newly constructed, man-made Blackstrap Lake. We held on for dear life as we careened faster on two wheels than we ever thought possible. It was a lot less fun when we had to climb up the other side of the valley. We learned the simple truth of the prairies: “what goes down must come up!”
Hours later we were in the middle of nowhere. Our water was gone, I had a flat front tire, and we were trudging under the enormous prairie sky. The highway stretched on forever in front of us. We had been walking for what seemed like an eternity when a huge yellow Department of Highways truck pulled up.
“You boys need a ride?”
“Yes we do,” we replied, and seconds later two big workers threw our bikes up into the dump box and we were off: five people squished onto a bench seat designed for three. We told the men our story and they thought it quite amusing. Ten minutes later we were off-loaded at the Kenaston Garage, where I was able to get my tire fixed for fifty cents. Just that quickly we were back on the road!
The sun filled the western sky as we approached the little community of Hawarden. Night was coming and we cycled the town looking for a place to sleep under the stars. What a great adventure! The schoolyard looked promising as it offered a caragana hedge to tuck under. Hopefully the night would be clear, as we had no tarp or rain gear.
Hungry, we entered the hotel café and began to tell the proprietor about our Centennial Project. She seemed quite taken with us. Then she asked, “Where are you boys planning on sleeping tonight?”
“We aren’t sure,” we replied. “Maybe the school playground?”
This response triggered an immediate, “Oh no you won’t. You boys are coming home with me and staying at my house!”
Her tone of voice left no room for argument, so that night we found ourselves sweating in the heat of the unventilated attic of her three-story home. After all, how can you say no to someone who gives you dinner and doesn’t charge you? The schoolyard might have afforded us a better sleep, but in the morning she fed us bacon and eggs and sent us on our way with best wishes for the successful completion of our project.
Now that we had discovered the power of telling our Centennial Project story, we wondered if it would work again at the next town. It was a half-mile detour to find out, but we had a hunch it might be worth the effort. We found a little café attached to a garage, and there we told our story to the morning coffee crowd. In response, the proprietor asked if we would like free milkshakes! It was magic, successfully trading our story for a stainless steel container full of cold chocolate milkshake on a hot day!
Thrilled with our good fortune, we pedaled back to the highway and into a headwind that used up those free calories pretty quickly. Late that afternoon we arrived at Gardiner Dam. Speeches were made and the floodgates of the spillway opened to the delight of the crowd. It was a dusty, thrilling scene and a great experience. CKKR Radio from Rosetown was covering the event and, when the announcer learned of our venture, he asked if he could interview us.
“How did you boys get here today?” he asked. And we told our story again, this time for all the invisible listening audience to hear. A two-day Centennial Project completed! At a cost of only fifty cents!
My partner and I are thinking of doing the trip again to celebrate Canada’s 150th. If we do we’ll likely take better bikes and a tire repair kit. Imagine a country where two ill-prepared, underequipped and inexperienced kids could leap into an adventure and succeed largely due to the kindness, care and generosity of strangers. People offered help, food, accommodations, chocolate milkshakes and a chance at fame on the radio… and why? Because this is Canada!
~Wayne Boldt
Caron, Saskatchewan
The Ultimate Playlist
A great nation cannot be made, cannot be discovered and then coldly laid together, like pieces in a picture puzzle. No! Canada is a theme. It is a tune, and it must be sung together.
~Emily Murphy
It’s July 1, 2006 and the weather forecast says there is a possibility of rain, but my husband, two kids and I are determined to spend the afternoon and evening in downtown Ottawa. It’s not a quest for the claustrophobic; our land is vast and our population spread wide, but on this day, thousands of us flock to the capital for sweet beaver tails and savoury poutine.
It’s not the first Canada Day we’ve driven in from our Ottawa suburb, but it will be the first year we’ve stayed for the evening concert. I heard on the radio that a very special guitar will be played throughout the performances, and I want to be there.
The guitar is made from sixty-four pieces of our Canadian history and heritage, items such as decking from the Bluenose II, metal from Maurice “Rocket” Richard’s Stanley Cup ring, a piece of Nancy Greene’s ski, and reclaimed wood from the building where Louis Riel went to school. The instrument was built by Nova Scotian guitar craftsman George Rizsanyi, at the request of Canadian writer and broadcaster Jowi Taylor, who wanted to create a symbol of national unity that represented every province and territory. Named “The Six String Nation” the guitar will be played publicly for the first time tonight.
My husband tosses four fold-up camp chairs into the back of the minivan, while I make sure we have all the other essentials: sunscreen, snacks, water bottles, maple leaf shaped hats, and Canadian flag “tattoos.” Thirty-five minutes later we blend into the river of red and white filling the streets of the downtown core. We inch our way to Major Hill Park where there are activities, shows… and ice cream carts.
The rain starts later in the afternoon but, inspired by countless others, we duck into a pharmacy and buy supersized garbage bags that we turn into raincoats. By evening the rain has stopped and we head to the Hill to stake out our spot for the concert. The grass is wet but we have our camp chairs. We offer our extra garbage bags to those around us who don’t have chairs, so they can sit more comfortably on the wet lawn.
The concert begins and we are introduced to The Six String Nation guitar as it’s handed first to singer-songwriter Stephen Fearing. The thousands of us who have come to the Hill this warm July evening are quiet as the first rich ripples of music come through the giant speakers. There are hoots and whoops of appreciation. Stephen Fearing is playing his song “The Longest Road,” but with each strum of the guitar we are also listening to Paul Henderson’s hockey stick, Pierre Trudeau’s canoe paddle, a 300-year-old golden spruce, ancient rock, and wood from a sideboard belonging to Sir John A. Macdonald, Canada’s first Prime Minister. Not one of the sixty-four pieces in the guitar is musical on its own: but together they fill the night sky with incredible sound.
It made me think of the pieces of Canada I’ve collected myself over the years: a piece of pinkish rock from the Canadian Shield; sand from a beach near Barry’s Bay; a napkin from a trip across Canada by rail; an acorn from the grounds of Stephen Leacock’s home in Orillia; two keys — one to my childhood home in Montreal and the other from my first apartment in Victoria; and many concert ticket stubs from the Montreal Forum. Some pieces of Canada live in my memories: my wedding in Quebec City, watching waves crash in Peggy’s Cove, and my first view of Lake Louise.