“Did you say none?” I asked.
“Yep. The B&B’s reserved for the celebrities. And it’s full.” Several of Gerry’s children were watching now. They had been in the store, taking in the flurry of activity.
“Any chance we could sleep in the cab?” I asked Brett. Before he could answer, Gerry interjected.
“No, no! This is my responsibility.” He studied us, pondered a minute. His extended arm swept toward the café’s booths.
“My children will sleep here.”
The children looked horrified. He turned to us.
“You will sleep at my house, in their beds.”
We were astonished. Filled with guilt, but having no alternative, we gratefully accepted his generous offer.
The next morning, refreshed and relaxed, Brett and his workmates put the finishing touches to the sound and lighting equipment on a stage in the centre of the village. One hundred-fifty benches, staggered in rows before it, stood ready. A banner of welcome read: “Strangers are only friends we haven’t met yet.” The festivities were to celebrate the monumental completion of the highway extension, allowing the first ever road access to Gingolx.
As I sat on one of the benches, I gradually became aware of a muffled sound coming from the direction of the mountains. I gaped in stunned disbelief as a procession of a hundred or more First Nations people, walking five abreast, some hidden behind symbolic masks, emerged from around a bend in the road, chanting to the beat of their drums. Their capes in scarlet or black, called button blankets, bore intricate designs outlined with scores of white buttons. Embroidered depictions of the wolf, killer whale, raven or eagle accented the designs. Deep white fringes on some capes swept just above the ground and swung in time to the beat. The senses of power, dignity and intimidation were overwhelming. I felt I’d entered a time warp, and a thrill ran through me as I marvelled at this ancient tradition few outsiders had ever witnessed.
The procession stopped in front of the stage. Speeches were made, the individual villages and dignitaries were recognized, and the visitors were welcomed. Dancers twirled in their capes. They wore headdresses of fur, or hats carved or woven of cedar. Handmade moccasins and mukluks of leather and fur completed their regalia.
Everyone crowded the benches, applauding and cheering.
The village thronged with visitors. We roamed about, taking in the natural beauty of Gingolx. It spoke of an earlier time, when nature was not just respected but revered. First Nations people consider the hummingbird a symbol of beauty, intelligence and love. Countless numbers of the tiny birds zipped past our ears, perhaps symbolic of the love the Nisga’a have for their land.
As the “Seafood Capital of the Nass,” Gingolx holds an annual “Crabfest.” Soft-shell crabs cooked in huge pots. “Burnt” salmon, which wasn’t burnt but cooked to perfection on stakes beside a huge campfire, was a true delicacy. Baked potatoes and corn on the cob accompanied each delicious item. Tantalizing aromas filled the air, but you had to act fast — they sold out in no time.
Bald eagles provided entertainment, clucking and chirping as they eyed the fish from perches high in the evergreens lining the riverbank. First Nations’ handcrafts and clothing filled the community centre across from the stage, where I felt lucky to purchase a beautiful embroidered vest.
Friday and Saturday the stage filled with performers. The long-awaited celebrities, Tom Jackson from North of 60 and Buffy Sainte-Marie, performed on Saturday evening, Canada Day, to a joyous crowd.
Sunday morning the crew finished packing the equipment for the long journey home. We bid fond farewells to our gracious host and his children, grateful for their kindness. We had received an exceptional gift in being allowed to visit such an extraordinary place, surpassed only by the genuine friendship of its people. We were honoured and proud, as Canadians, to have been included with Canada’s first people, in a celebration of a part of Canada entirely new to us, yet older than the country itself.
~DG Peterson
Vancouver, British Columbia
A Birthday Cake for Canada
Every birthday, every celebration ends with something sweet, a cake, and people remember.
It’s all about the memories.
~Buddy Valastro
“We’re celebrating another birthday this year,” Mom announced one gloomy day while we sat indoors watching the rain fall.
“Whose birthday?” my sister asked.
“Canada’s,” replied Mom.
“Whose?” Sonya repeated, as we followed Mom into the kitchen and gathered around the freshly baked chocolate cake she had made.
In 1963, my mom had immigrated to Canada from England and settled in the Toronto suburb of Scarborough, where she immersed herself into the Canadian way of life, learning its customs and how to cope with its changing seasons. Ten years later, Mom, now a proud Canadian citizen, had married my father and had given birth to my brother, sister and me. Having no other family in Canada and wanting us to appreciate our Canadian heritage, she began looking for ways to teach us about Canada.
During our early years, when money was tight, Mom kept our lessons simple but fun. Regardless of the season, the great outdoors was our classroom. When the weather allowed, we examined plants and insects, watched wildlife, and explored the endless trails surrounding our home. As we got older, Mom got more creative. This year, she was trying something new, and now we gathered around the big rectangular sheet cake she had baked for Canada Day.
“This is silly,” said my brother when Mom confirmed we were indeed making a birthday cake for Canada. But when she positioned several bowls of icing on the table, along with an assortment of photographs of Canadian symbols and landmarks, Michael quickly changed his tune.
“I like this one,” said Sonya, grabbing an aerial shot of the Great Lakes. Michael chose an image of a beaver gnawing on a tree, and I chose the Canadian flag, something familiar and, for a child my age, oddly comforting. Mom selected a few of the remaining photos, and then chatted away about the importance of each while she mixed food colouring into the bowls.
When we were done icing our cake, a magnificent design emerged. The fact that my Canadian flag was pink, Sonya’s Great Lakes had trees growing inside of them, and Michael’s beaver looked more like a buck toothed dog chewing on a bone made no difference to us. We were proud of our creation, and so was Mom.
Several years later, while watching the Canada Day parade unfold on television, I turned to Mom and said, “Why did you stop baking those birthday cakes?”
Mom answered with a sad but serious expression. “You all grew up and didn’t want to waste time icing a cake with your mom.” Her words shook me. I was shocked. Did she really not know how special those Canada Day celebrations were?
That evening, I sat at our kitchen table and ran a finger along the wood grain, reminiscing about the many birthday cakes we had made for Canada when we were kids. Each cake was different, but one ingredient was the same: Mom. It was her patience and encouraging remarks that helped us move past our insecurities and learn to work harmoniously with each other.
The very next day I left a gift bag on the kitchen table for Mom with a card that read: Inside this bag is a box of Betty Crocker cake mix, just like the ones you used to bake for Canada’s birthday. Let’s practice decorating!
And practice we did! Two days after Canada Day, with Mom’s first grandchild propped up in her highchair and all of us seated around the kitchen table, we returned to our childhood tradition. As we began to ice our cake, Mom said, “Did I ever tell you the story about Diefenbaker? In England, he was known as Mr. Canada…”
That day, Mom placed three candles on our cake. “For yesterday, today and tomorrow,” she said. Happy birthday, Canada!
~Lisa Reynolds
Ajax, Ontario
A Nation of Helping Hands
There are no limits to the majestic future which lies before the mighty expanse of Canada with its virile, aspiring, cultured, and generous-hearted pe
ople.
~Sir Winston Churchill
The Wedding Dress
Because that’s what kindness is. It’s not doing something for someone else because they can’t, but because you can.
~Andrew Iskander
When we added up the costs, we discovered the wedding we were planning would cost over $20,000. Our plan included flying home to Cape Breton Island from Fort McMurray and inviting about 200 people. But the price tag ruled it out. After tossing around a few options, we decided to get married in Toronto and keep it small — only twenty people. I found the Rectory Café on Ward Island, and booked our wedding for Saturday May 7, 2016. I also found a great Toronto-based photographer named Alex Neary.
A year before, I’d seen a wedding dress I loved at a store in Fort McMurray. They ordered one in my size and it arrived just in time to take it to the dressmaker for alterations before our May 4th flight. I was so excited!
When fire broke out in Fort McMurray on May 1st I wasn’t concerned. But on May 3rd the fire escalated and the evacuations began.
My dressmaker was up Abasand Hill where the fire was really concentrated. Around 2:00 I called to see if she might be able to grab my dress as she evacuated. “Élise, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m not even home, and I won’t be able to get there.” I realized, then, my beautiful dress was gone.
Our flight was the next day, but the road south to the airport was already closed, fire was raging everywhere, and we were pretty much trapped. My fiancé, Brandon, was an hour south in Anzac on the other side of the fire. It was time to go, so I packed up our four animals, picked up Brandon’s cousin’s girlfriend and their little boy, and we all crammed into my SUV. Like everyone else, we could only go north to the camps.
Four hours later, we heard the road to the south had been reopened. So we headed back down to meet Brandon in Anzac. The Fort Mac airport was closed, so we debated the whole night whether to even bother with the wedding. Brandon’s mother convinced us to go ahead with it, so we headed farther south to Edmonton. The traffic was awful and we missed the evening flight, but we managed to catch a flight to Toronto the next morning.
By now, Canadians everywhere were rallying to help those evacuating from Fort McMurray. My friend Alana in Halifax, and my Toronto photographer, Alex, both asked how they could help. “I don’t have a wedding dress,” I said. “If you know anyone with a dress I could borrow, that would be awesome.” They both jumped right on it with social media, and within an hour there were offers pouring in! Overwhelmed with this outpouring of generosity, I had no idea what to do.
Then Alex forwarded me an e-mail from a bridal boutique in Toronto. “If you would like to come in and pick out a dress there will be no fee. You can take whichever one you want.”
I was totally blown away. “Okay,” I responded to Alex, “I think this is the best option. I can look at a few dresses and choose one. This is my wedding day, and I still want to feel good in my dress.” So Alex set it up.
After checking in at the Toronto hotel, I went with my mother and Alex to the bridal shop. We were greeted by the shop manager, who was absolutely lovely. She told me to pick any dress I wanted. I was overwhelmed by her generosity.
The first dress I tried was lovely, but looking in the mirror, I started crying. “I can’t wear this dress,” I said. “It reminds me too much of the dress I’m supposed to be wearing, and how much I loved it.”
I finally narrowed it down to two dresses, but I couldn’t decide between them. That’s when the manager said, “You’re going to take both.” She pointed to one of them — a beautiful lace dress with spaghetti straps — and said, “You’re going to wear this dress to be married in.” She pointed to the other one — a champagne satin dress — “and you’re going to wear this one to the reception, so you’ll just have to find time to change.”
I felt like a celebrity. I mean, who gets to wear two dresses on their wedding day? And while the lace dress I wore for the ceremony was a loaner, they actually gave me the other dress to keep. I had everything else I needed with me, including two pair of shoes that went perfectly with the dresses, and some little blue flowers for my hair.
The next day Brandon and I were married on Ward Island in a lovely spring garden overlooking Lake Ontario. There were twenty-two of us altogether, including our families. My dress was perfect, and the 3:00 p.m. ceremony went off without a hitch. Everybody had a great time, and we danced the night away.
I had been worrying about the firefighters back home. A number of them were clients of my massage business. Two days before the wedding my firefighter clients had texted that my house was safe. I certainly appreciated knowing, but responded, “I’m glad you are safe. Please don’t worry about my home, just stay safe.”
I still cry thinking about those kind firefighters. I knew how hard they were working and how devastating the fire was, so I sent messages all day Friday and Saturday to help keep their morale up. On my wedding day, I got calls from two firefighters, with congratulations and best wishes. “Why are you calling?” I asked. “You must be exhausted.” But the day before the wedding they kept seeing the story of my dress in the news, and said it was great to have something positive to think about.
The whole experience changed me. I don’t make a big deal out of small things now. Like many people here, I’m purging my possessions. Things are just stuff, after all. That fire gave me a new perspective on what is really important in life — things like friendship, people helping each other, and strangers who are so kind they will give you a wedding dress.
~Élise Phillippo
Fort McMurray, Alberta
Still Good
I slept and I dreamed that life is all joy. I woke and I saw that life is all service. I served and I saw that service is joy.
~Kahlil Gibran
I grew up near Roncesvales and Dundas Street West in Toronto, close to High Park. My dad, Howard, walked a fair bit around our neighbourhood and knew most of our neighbours. He always stopped to say hello and share a joke. Dad also carried lots of change in his pocket for those who asked, and he would often buy lunch for those who told him they were hungry.
One year, as the weather got colder, Dad dug his warm grey coat out of his closet and noticed the sleeves and the collar were starting to fray. Having grown up during the Depression, he was not one to throw anything out, certainly not if it was “still good.” Dad knew it could be mended, so he asked Zenny, my stepmom to buy him some fabric. After giving it some thought, Dad decided something fuzzy would make a good trim. Zenny bought him a piece of black faux fur. It was a bit thicker than he anticipated, yet he painstakingly sewed it on to all the edges of his old wool coat — the sleeves, the collar, and even along the bottom edge, so it would all match. I think Zenny may have helped him with some of the sewing.
The old grey coat — now trimmed in black faux fur — suited him and he wore it proudly. Then, one cold evening, a man my father affectionately called “Old Joe” pushed his shopping cart past our house, loaded with all his possessions. He was wearing tattered boots with the soles flapping as he walked in the snow. Dad was just arriving home from work, and I heard him call out, “Wait, Joe, wait — I have some boots for you.”
While he looked for his extra boots, he asked Zenny if she would pack a warm dinner for Joe, because he had refused to come inside.
Then Dad asked me to get some of his socks. “The blue ones, Michelle,” he said, because in the morning he often confused them with the black ones, and would end up at work wearing one of each. He put the socks in a plastic bag, took the food that Zenny had packed, and went back outside. I went with him.
And then it happened… I really shouldn’t have been surprised when Dad took off his warm wool coat and handed it to Old Joe, too.
As we re-entered the house, I was full of admiration for my dad, although I didn’t tell him. All I managed to say was, “What are you going to wear tomorrow?” Dad put his arm around me and replied, “I have that nice blu
e jacket that Zenny got me from Tilleys.” Then he gathered up some of his paperback books and put them in an old briefcase with some pens and paper and a few subway tokens. He was already preparing his next gift for Joe.
Every time I saw Old Joe after that, wearing that grey coat with black faux fur trim, my heart would fill with warmth.
My father died many years later, but I would still see Old Joe pass by when I went to visit Zenny. He was still wearing my father’s coat, and that always made me smile. It brought back such fond warm memories of my dad, and who he was as a person, and how he lived his life.
Then, one chilly winter evening I was leaving Zenny’s house and keeping an eye out for Joe as usual. Well, more for the coat, really. It had been a while since I’d seen Joe, so I was happy when I saw that old grey coat coming down the street. Filled with sudden warmth, and tears, I strained to see Joe’s face, not really expecting him to look up. Suddenly he did!
But it wasn’t Old Joe’s face that looked back at me. I smiled, realizing that my dad’s old coat had once again found new life, in a new owner. I was overcome with emotion as I thought about how happy Dad would be to know, that even after all these years, his old coat was “still good.”
~Michelle Dinnick
Alliston, Ontario
Twelve Days of Kindness
If compassion was the motivating factor behind all of our decisions, would our world not be a completely different place?
~Sheryl Crow
Twinkling Christmas lights on our Charlie Brown Christmas tree reflected off the shiny ornaments, throwing flashes of light on the wall. Outside a few snowflakes drifted down as the grey Sunday afternoon sky darkened. My mood was as dark as the sky. Although it was less than two weeks before Christmas, I found it difficult to be in a festive mood. We had immigrated to Canada from south of the border, and holidays were difficult for us because we missed our family in Minnesota.