A veteran signalled the student in front of me to proceed to pay his respects to the Unknown Soldier. As he walked forward, I suddenly realized that I was at a funeral and unprepared. I didn’t have a poppy or even some tissue! As I waited, my anxiety built and I wondered, What do I do? What do I say? How long should I stand there? These questions rushed through my head. The nod came from the veteran and I moved forward unsteadily.
My anxieties disappeared as I moved close to the casket. What I did was unimportant; my presence was paramount. Suddenly I became aware of all the energy in the room. It wasn’t just sorrow or remorse, it was pride! The energy washed over me like a wave. In that moment, I knew I was not alone paying my respects, my whole family was there behind me. My great-grandfather, who fought in both World Wars, stood beside me and saluted. My grandfather, who was killed in World War II, held my hand. Although I probably only spent a moment there in front of that coffin, in many ways it was a lifetime. As I left, I signed the registry for all of us. Over the three days he lay in state, 10,000 Canadians waited in line to pay their respects to the Unknown Soldier.
The next day, during an emotional, hour-long ceremony, the Unknown Soldier was lowered into his final resting place at the Canadian War Memorial. An honour guard of the Royal Canadian Regiment fired three volleys as the coffin disappeared into the new Tomb for the Unknown Soldier. In silence, the audience watched as a silver cup containing soil from the Unknown Soldier’s former grave site in France was emptied over the coffin. A parade of veterans representing Royal Canadian Legions across the country followed, scattering soil from every province and territory onto the coffin. Nine buglers played the “Last Post” and Ottawa held two minutes of silence. Then, four CF-18 fighters thundered past overhead, and by the time “O Canada” was sung, most of the audience was in tears.
When I got home, I called my grandma in Uxbridge and recounted every little detail of my time waiting in line for the Unknown Soldier. I needed a hug from her. And even though we were far apart we shared a virtual hug over the telephone lines.
On that day, I learned how very proud I am to be a Canadian.
Katherine Cornell
Markham, Ontario
Meeting the Prime Minister
In all his legendary freedom of style and thought, in the midst of storms and upheavals, he remained faithful to what he held most dear; his family, his friends, his country, and his faith.
The Reverend Jean-Guy Duboc
At the State Funeral of Pierre Elliot Trudeau
It was May 1975. I had spent the year travelling through Central and South America. It was now the last leg of my trip, and I was in Georgetown, Guyana. I was almost broke, somewhat battle-scarred by an exciting but turbulent journey, and weakened by the ravages of a tropical disease I’d picked up in Ecuador six months before. Wanting to check for mail from home, I went to the Canadian High Commission in Georgetown.
It was a typically hot, humid day in the tropics. The High Commissioner, walking around the office in shirtsleeves, mentioned that Prime Minister Trudeau was coming to Guyana on a short visit and invited my friend Cheryl and me to attend a reception for Prime Minister Trudeau the following week. We were scheduled to leave Guyana before that, but after the invitation, we decided to stay to attend his reception.
It was too great an opportunity to miss. I had seen Mr. Trudeau before, in the “Trudeaumania” summer of 1968. He had been absolutely mobbed by an adoring public while campaigning at a wild rally in Toronto. I had been an avid fan.
A few weeks after the election, elated that Mr. Trudeau was now the leader of Canada, I left for Spain to pursue my graduate studies at the University of Madrid. Everywhere I went the first word out of people’s mouths after I said I was Canadian was “Trudeau.” Prime Minister Trudeau had put Canada on the map and made me proud to be a Canadian. Single-handedly, he had given Canada international status and stature. Now, seven years later, in the former British colony of Guyana, I was about to cross paths with my hero again.
On the day of Trudeau’s arrival, the streets were lined with schoolchildren waving placards bearing his picture. He was driven to a park in the centre of the city. When Cheryl and I arrived, there he was, looking as dapper and handsome as ever, in a tan safari jacket—the official dress of the Guyanese politicos. Tanned and healthy, Trudeau seemed out of place in the company of the dour Guyanese prime minister. After the speeches, the park was quickly cleared by the military police, who waved us all away with guns in hand. I wondered if we would be able to get through the security later that night for the reception at the Canadian High Commissioner’s private residence.
We were driven to the fete by Bill, the owner of Bill’s Guesthouse, where we’d been staying. Bill was so thrilled for us that he’d polished his car and sported a chauffeur’s cap so we would feel special. However, we were under no illusions as to why we’d been invited. Other than a couple of bankers, geologists and bauxite miners, there were so few Canadians in Guyana that we were there to fill the ranks.
Despite our worries, we made it through the security at the gates and, clutching our invitations, we breezed through the reception line shaking hands with the High Commissioner and a few other officials. Inside, the guests were dressed to the nines. Cheryl and I had managed to pull together a somewhat respectable look, but we were not what one would call “dressed up.” After all, we’d been on the road for almost a year—and our clothes showed it.
Suddenly, he was there, sweeping into the room through the reception line. The room went quiet and all eyes focused on Prime Minister Trudeau. He looked so relaxed and casual in his white safari jacket and wide smile.
He was chatting with some people on the other side of the room when he caught sight of us staring at him. Before we knew it, he looked us square in the eyes, strode across the room directly to us and said, “You’re a long way from home. How long have you been in Guyana?”
As we talked, he listened so intently to our stories about our travels that we felt as if we were the only people in the room. At one point he peppered us with questions about where we’d been in Canada and seemed pleased that we’d been “from sea to sea,” as Cheryl so aptly put it.
Behind him, I noticed a number of officials looking at their watches, pursing their lips and shooting us dirty looks. Anxiously, I pointed them out to the prime minister. He just smiled and said that he was enjoying his chat with us and that was all that mattered.
Five minutes later someone tugged gently at his sleeve. Again, he just smiled and shrugged the man away. It was then I realized that Trudeau was truly the people’s prime minister. It was more important to him at that moment, to talk to us—a couple of young, wandering Canadians— than it was to be rushed off to do something else.
He chatted with us about his own travels as a young man and, before bidding us farewell, he issued us an invitation to visit him and Margaret at 24 Sussex Drive in Ottawa, after we returned to Canada. Cheryl chuckled as if to hint that she didn’t really think it was a sincere gesture.
“I’m serious, come and see us when you get home,” Trudeau said. And as he turned back to look at us, he added, “I want to know how the adventure ends.”
Our greatest regret is that we never took him up on it. Twenty-five years later, overwhelmed with grief, I found myself sitting at my computer at 2:30 A.M., listening to stories about people who had travelled to Parliament Hill from all parts of Canada to pass his flag-draped coffin. I’m still haunted by the fact that none of us, especially those of us who loved and respected him, will ever have the chance to experience his greatness again.
Goodbye, sweet prince. You were a statesman, a father and a true patriot who gave us a reason to believe that it is still a beautiful and magical world.
Elisabeth Munsterhjelm
Windsor, Ontario
The Autograph
It was 1963 in the Toronto suburb of Willowdale. I was eight years old and hockey-crazy. My next-to-nil skills had not stunted my pass
ion for the game. Earning himself a reservation for a warm seat in heaven, my dad would stand shivering beside the boards of the outdoor public rink, watching me ride the bench in the Catholic Minor Hockey League. The Toronto Maple Leafs were, of course, my heroes, and their Bee Hive Corn Syrup photos plastered my bedroom walls in black and white. I had no idea that one of my most revered icons lived a mere three blocks away.
Back then, walk-a-thons and bike-a-thons had not yet been invented, so we raised funds the good old-fashioned way, selling something the public could actually sink its teeth into. In my school’s case, it was the annual doughnut drive—Margaret’s Doughnuts, big and doughy, choice of honey-glazed or chocolate-glazed, cheaper if you bought two dozen or more.
Door-to-door I went, clipboard in hand. Although it was long ago, I can still smell the Gestetner fluid on the freshly minted order form. I sold dozens of dozens; hardly a soul turned me down. Was the irresistibility in my product or my sales pitch? “After all, mister, EVERYBODY loves doughnuts.” My sheet was almost full, and my stomach almost empty, when I reached Wedgewood Drive with its two modest rows of look-alike sidesplits. I went up the south side—no one home, no one home. The next house would be my last; I had already stretched my parents’ limit of a two-block radius, and dinner would be on the table in ten minutes.
I rang the doorbell and rehearsed my spiel while staring at the flamingo on the screen door. The bird swung toward me, and my next and indelible memory is looking up from a large pair of fuzzy slippers, way up, to the face peering down. Once it registered, I stood there speechless for what seemed an eternity, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water. Collecting my composure, but still unable to go into doughnut-talk overdrive, I told him something he already knew. “Yup, that’s me,” he replied with a nod and a smile.
Having successfully established a rapport, I followed with new information—that we shared our given name. I have a vague recollection of stammering through my “Please-buy-some-doughnuts-to-help-my-school” speech, and then a vivid one of him taking the clipboard from my hand. Of course, I had no way of comprehending the historical irony of the document he handed back to me. Flushed with pride from our first-name-basis farewells, I flew home clutching the clipboard to my chest. Nobody got a word in edgewise at dinner.
The next morning before the bell, I guardedly showed off the precious paper. In the classroom, my teacher grumbled good-naturedly as she copied out my orders on another sheet—no way would I let go of the form, no way was I giving up that autograph. Doughnut delivery day could not come fast enough, but my return to Wedgewood Drive was anticlimactic—his wife answered the door. There I stood, red-faced in my Maple Leafs sweater, as four school chums who had doubted my story taunted me from the street.
Fast-forward several years and several hundred franchises later: I wonder if the runt at the door was his inspiration. (“After all, EVERYBODY loves doughnuts.”) In futile search, I’ve torn my folks’ basement apart, but it seems I’ve lost that purple-lined piece of Canadiana, the testimony to a feat that is surely mine alone to claim: I sold Tim Horton a dozen doughnuts.
Tim O’Driscoll
Burlington, Ontario
Reprinted by permission of Allan M. Hirsh.
Hey, It’s Our National Anthem!
The moments are few and often fleeting—those moments when Canadians wear their patriotism on their sleeves. It seems it’s just not us to wave the flag too enthusiastically or belt out “O Canada,” hand on heart, at a baseball game. But sometimes we strut our patriotic stuff when no one expects it.
It all started with this little British TV show called Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? The Americans, recognizing a ratings’ golden goose, snapped up the North American broadcast rights. Now that meant that we here, north of the 49th, could watch the show—we just couldn’t participate, and so we were feeling a little left out of what was fast becoming an international phenomenon. Then some smart folks at CTV got on the line to their American cousins and all agreed it would be a swell idea to do a special all-Canadian show—on the set in New York City. Of course, everyone knew that an American host would have a difficult time pronouncing “Saskatchewan,” never mind “Trois Rivières”. And so the phone call came. Would I host this special event? I couldn’t say yes fast enough.
Over the next few months, the country was in a tizzy, speed dialing the special hotlines—dozens, even hundreds, of times a day—for a chance at a million dollars, a trip to New York City and a place in TV history. The first programme (actually, we did two in the end) would be the highest-rated TV show in this country! There were even contests to select the audience members who would be flown to the Big Apple for the necessary cheering and moral support that have helped make the programme such a success.
As the hour approached, the excitement was palpable. The contestants, representing the width and breadth of this country, had been briefed, put through the paces and had tested all the actual high-tech toys that adorned the Millionaire set. Were the buzzers and buttons working? Did they understand the rules? Who would have the fastest finger? Would they freeze in the glare of the million-watt lights? Would the folks at home be proud or unforgiving if the answers were wrong? Could these chosen few show up at the office or even at home if they missed what seems so darn obvious when you’re sitting smugly in the comfort of your own home?
I was as ready as possible. There had not been a lot of time to rehearse, and the few precious hours squeezed in during Regis’s downtime were done at a frantic pace. Then, of course, there was the chair crisis. Regis is no taller than I am, but he does wear pants making his leap into the seat doable. This pedestal was a precarious perch not designed for tight skirts, high heels or a graceful mount.
Details. A discreet little box magically appeared that allowed me to step up to the host hot seat with a little dignity. As I talked with the contestants—trying to calmly reassure them this would be fun, regardless of the outcome— I soon knew I was in a crowd of Canadians. They didn’t care about the money, they said, they were just glad for the whole amazing experience. And so was I. This really was going to be a lot of fun.
The countdown to show time was about to begin when we heard the faint echoes of our national anthem. Backstage of the elaborate set, I peaked around the darkened corner to see what was going on. There was the audience—all those gentle Canadians—rising, some leaping to their feet, in song. This was not part of the plan. There had been no suggestion that we would sing.
It seemed that the poor, misguided, stand-up comic who had been warming up the crowd had offered a free T-shirt to the person who could name—and I quote—“that song of yours.” One woman had queried with a look of genuine puzzlement: “Do you mean our national anthem?” “Ya, whatever,” he shrugged in reply.
Then, without missing a beat, one lone Canadian man in the back row stood up—stood up tall—and bravely began his solo rendition. Before he even reached “Our home and native land,” the whole noisy crowd was on its feet belting out—yes, belting out—our national anthem. As the chorus rose, the tears began to flow. My make-up! I thought. I won’t have time to fix the tear streaks carving their way through the powder that coated my face. I turned to find that the contestants were also crying little rivers. But everyone had a smile on their faces.
As the proud and familiar sound rang through the studio, I could see the tears glistening in the eyes of those who were singing their hearts out. Everyone seized the moment, cheering, leaping about in their seats and hugging the strangers next to them.
Yes, we can do TV every bit as well as our friends south of the border, and yes, when someone appears disrespectful of those symbols we have come to cherish, that represent our Canadian separateness, we react—with our hearts.
Yes, we are Canadians, and we are proud. That night, we were wearing that patriotism on our sleeves, and using them to wipe away the tears of joy.
Pamela Wallin
Toronto, Ontario
I A
m Canadian!
All my intensities are defined by my roots, and my roots are entirely Canadian. I’m as Canadian as you’ll ever find.
Donald Sutherland, actor
Hey!
I am not a lumberjack, or a fur trader.
I don’t live in an igloo,
Or eat blubber, or own a dogsled,
And I don’t know Jimmy, Suzy or Sally from Canada,
Although I am certain they are really, really nice.
I have a prime minister, not a president.
I speak English and French, not American.
I pronounce it “about” not “a boot.”
I can proudly sew my country’s flag on my backpack.
I believe in peacekeeping, not policing,
Diversity, not assimilation,
And that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.
The toque is a hat,
A Chesterfield is a couch,
And “z” is pronounced “zed,” not “zee,” “zed!”
Canada is the second largest land mass,
The first nation of hockey and
THE BEST PART OF NORTH AMERICA!!
My name is “Joe,” and
“I AM CANADIAN!!!”
Thank you.
Glen Hunt
Toronto, Ontario
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Page 5
