Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul

by Jack Canfield

  The Way Home

  There is no such thing as one’s own good. Goodness is mutual, is communal; is only gained by giving and receiving.

  Arnold Haultain

  I’d spent the night rushing to the window every time I heard a branch fall. Now, looking out into the early morning light, the devastation was obvious. Not one tree in our rural neighbourhood in Kingston, Ontario, had been left untouched. Jagged branches lay everywhere. The Great Ice Storm of January 1998 was upon us.

  The house had an eerie silence: no hum from the furnace, no buzz from the refrigerator, no morning news blasting from the TV. All the clocks were frozen at 10:49 P.M.

  Alex and I were fumbling around in the basement with a shared flashlight, trying to find our camping stove. We needed coffee—some sense of our morning ritual to start the day. I heard the screen door open, then a timid knock. Doris Lee, our closest neighbour, had somehow managed to make her way through the maze of ice, wood and downed power lines, to arrive at our door. She looked anxious.

  “Have you seen Harold and Prince?”

  Our property backs onto a wooded area, and every morning we would watch Doris’s husband Harold with Prince, his golden Lab, ramble off down the trail. Prince trotted quietly on the lead and always brought Harold home safely. Harold had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease the previous summer. Doris had been adamant about maintaining their life together and trying to keep things as normal as possible. However, she hadn’t reckoned on an ice storm.

  “I was upstairs, looking for batteries for the radio, when I heard the door close. Harold is so used to his routine, I just couldn’t stop him from taking Prince out.”

  Alex rushed to pull on his coat as he asked, “How long have they been gone?” Doris hesitated. “About half an hour. I didn’t want to bother you, and Prince is usually so good about finding his way home.”

  Alex looked at me. I turned to Doris and said, “You go home. I’ll be right over. I’m going to find our camping stove. I’ll bring it over, and we’ll make some coffee while Alex finds Harold. They’ll want a warm drink when they get home.”

  Doris turned and headed back to her house while Alex sprinted across the yard toward the woods. I finally found the stove, and, making my way across the icy war zone, I arrived safely at Doris’s home.

  She and I waited in her kitchen. I made the coffee, but Doris didn’t even notice. She stood by the sink staring out into the yard, her cup untouched. I sat at her table, reading all the carefully printed notes she had placed around the kitchen—beside the stove, the light switch, the electric kettle—to remind Harold to turn off or unplug things. There were also notes on the refrigerator door, mapping out a daily routine for Harold: walk the dog, eat breakfast, wash. Doris had done everything possible to make life easier for Harold. Now she turned from the sink and walked over to the table.

  “Prince always brings him home, you know,” she said softly.

  I wanted to say something to comfort her but I felt unqualified. I was just beginning to understand the burden Doris dealt with on a daily basis. Instead, we simply waited together quietly. An eternity seemed to pass before I finally saw Alex coming across our yard. He was carrying Harold’s beloved golden Lab in his arms. Harold was walking behind him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Prince was hit by a falling branch,” Alex explained. “Get some towels or blankets. He’s alive but he must be in shock. He’s been bleeding from that cut over his eye.”

  We covered Prince with blankets, and Doris coaxed Harold into dry clothes while Alex told us his story. At first he had called for Prince, thinking it would be the easiest way to find the pair. He was almost ready to turn back and get more help when he heard Harold’s voice.

  “Harold was sitting on the ground comforting Prince. He’d taken off his coat and put it over the dog. It was all I could do to convince Harold to put his jacket back on.”

  We sat around the kitchen table, four silent people, unable to pull our thoughts away from the dog in the corner. Prince was more than just a faithful companion. He helped care for Harold. Without him, Harold would lose his independence. We anxiously watched the pile of blankets covering the injured dog, fearing the worst. Suddenly, there was a small movement.

  Alex put his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “Look, Harold, he’s waking up.”

  A doggie nose popped out from under the pile of blankets. We watched Prince wiggle out and come across to the table. Harold put a trembling hand on his dog’s head. Prince gazed at him with his soft brown eyes and gave a halfhearted wag of his tail. Doris whispered a private thank-you. I looked at Alex, and the ice storm and power outage were forgotten. Until that day we hadn’t appreciated how isolated Doris and Harold were, and what a struggle they had just coping day-to-day. In that moment we decided we were going to change all that. Starting then, Prince and Doris were getting two new assistants.

  Susan Owen

  Kingston, Ontario

  The Seal

  At the age of fourteen, I landed one of the most sought-after summer jobs in Vancouver—I became an attendant at the Stanley Park Children’s Zoo. Few of us are fortunate enough to experience the perfect job, but for the next five summers, I did just that.

  Zoo designers from around the globe asked for tours because they had heard that our children’s zoo was one of, if not the, best there was. The children’s zoo, an integral part of one of the world’s most beautiful areas within a city, Stanley Park, was ahead of its time. Pits were used instead of cages, and zoo attendants worked hard to make each habitat different and exciting for the animal that lived there.

  Orphaned members of the local native wildlife were also brought to our zoo for care. Everything from baby pigeons to owlets, fawns to porcupines were given the best possible attention.

  The harbour seal pups in our care were kept in the back building, away from small fingers. Twice a day, we would bring them out to the man-made pond in the contact area and allow them to swim. The pond was at the bottom of a waterfall of fresh, cold water.

  One day, as I waded in the thigh-deep, icy water with two seal pups, some people gathered to watch. The pups stayed close to me, surfacing occasionally to catch a breath and look around. I saw a boy, about ten years of age, pointing at one and calling to his mother to come and see.

  As I walked around, feeling my legs turning numb, the boy yelled, “Hey! Where’s the other one?”

  While one of the seals was nuzzling my leg, my eyes scoured the pond for the other, Spica. The water was clear, as well as cold, and it was soon obvious Spica wasn’t where he should be. My heart skipped a beat as I realized he had swum under a rock formation, which was there to hide the drain. There was a small, fist-sized hole on one end of the formation, and another hole, just large enough for a baby seal, on the other end. But I was quite certain that the inside area was too narrow for Spica to turn around in.

  “Oh no!” yelled the boy. “The little seal is under the rocks and can’t get out. He’s going to drown!”

  Everyone in the zoo came to the edge of the pond to watch the drama unfold. I was terrified and called to another attendant to take the other pup to safety. I dove under the water and felt the small hole. Sure enough, Spica was trying to get through it. I knew that the pond would take hours to drain. I also knew that seals could hold their breath for twenty minutes or longer, but I didn’t know if a week-old seal in an agitated state could.

  And then, just like a white knight riding to the rescue, one of the men who worked at the main zoo arrived. Ken was a good friend to all of us and often spent his breaks at the Children’s Zoo. He ran over, assessed the situation, and whipped off his shirt and shoes. Jumping in, he dove under and tried to reach Spica through the larger of the openings. He couldn’t even touch him.

  “Okay, Diane,” he said to me. “Dive under and push him back as far as you can. I’ll try to grab him from this side. Ready? Go!” he commanded.

  I held my breath, found Spica’s muzzle st
ill near the small opening and pushed as hard as I could. My head throbbed from the frigid water, and my lungs wanted to hyperventilate. Every ounce of my being screamed to get out of that freezing water. It took every thread of strength I had to stay put.

  Finally, I could no longer feel Spica, and with my stomach in knots, I stood up. Precious time had gone by, and Spica had been motionless, offering no resistance when I had pushed. The little boy among the spectators was now providing a play-by-play account: “Oh, the poor thing! He is suffering so much! His little lungs are probably exploding. The poor little seal . . . he’s dead by now.”

  Suddenly, after what seemed like forever, Ken burst out of the water, gasping and coughing. He was holding a very limp body. I looked at Ken, and he lowered his eyes as he shook his head. The crowd, even the little boy, was silent.

  And then, Spica raised his head, and in the way of infant seals, cooed at me.

  The audience let out a cheer and applauded loudly, generously patting Ken, my new hero, on the back. He handed me the pup and I snuggled the wet, slick fur, revelling in the intense relief.

  I glanced around, searching for the boy. I found him, standing perfectly still and absolutely quiet, while tears ran down his face and dripped into the pond.

  Diane C. Nicholson

  Falkland, British Columbia

  Guests Who Dropped in

  from the Sky

  Shirley Brooks-Jones relaxed in her seat. She and her friend Jo were returning from a satisfying trip to Denmark, where they attended a board meeting of People to People International, an organization created by President Dwight Eisenhower to foster international understanding and friendship.

  On the way home to Atlanta, they stopped overnight in Frankfurt to dine with Jo’s granddaughter. The next day was September 11, 2001.

  Delta Flight 15 was four hours out of Frankfurt when suddenly the pilot announced that an indicator light was giving cause for concern. They had received approval from Canadian air traffic control to land in Gander, Newfoundland, the nearest airport.

  Fortunately Gander was created as a military airfield and a transatlantic refuelling point in the 1930s and so has a long runway. Shirley knew of the Canadian town and its strategic significance during World War II, but little else. She wondered how long they would be there, but when the plane touched down, she realized there was something more going on than just concern over an indicator light. Already on the tarmac sat planes from many of the world’s major airlines. As the Delta passengers watched, a steady stream of aircraft continued to land.

  Upon landing, over the intercom the captain apologized to his passengers and explained there was no equipment problem. He calmly told them that because of a national emergency, U.S. air space had been closed and was controlled by the military. There were loud gasps and stares of disbelief. Local time in Gander was 12:30 P.M. (11:00 A.M. New York time).

  No one was allowed to leave the plane. For the next few hours the captain updated the passengers every fifteen minutes, slowly detailing the horrific events that had unfolded in New York City, Washington and Pennsylvania that morning. Although naturally upset and anxious, the 218 passengers remained calm. The crew carried on their duties as if they were still in the air, and all was normal. People spent their time talking, or trying to call home on their cell phones. Shirley began to jot down notes of the experience.

  Delta Flight 15 was one of the first American airliners to land in Gander on September 11. Eventually, there would be thirty-nine aircraft parked on the airport’s tarmac and runways. Once darkness began to fall, Shirley realized this was not a mere twilight stopover. In the wee hours of the morning, when she spotted passengers disembarking from a neighbouring aircraft, she knew they weren’t flying anywhere soon.

  By the time all the people were off all the planes, approximately 6,500 people had converged on Gander, a town of just more than 10,000. With no word of when the planes would be able to leave, the community found itself in an emergency situation. However, in this region that lives with rough seas, harsh weather and an uncertain economy, helping others is part of the way of life.

  Volunteers, community agencies and many other organizations all went into action to receive the passengers from all over the world, and provide them with hospitality, accommodation and welcome. The town’s half dozen hotels and motels were instantly full. Schools, clubs, lodges and other large gathering places were converted into temporary hostels with mats, cots and sleeping bags. Many people opened their homes, and the oldest passengers were taken there. No passenger was left without a bed.

  But the response went well beyond Gander. As the word went out, towns and hamlets nearly an hour’s drive east and west also welcomed unexpected guests, bussed in by school board drivers who came off picket lines to assist. Those communities too far away to receive visitors sent whatever they could—blankets, clothing, toiletries and food. The passengers of Delta Flight 15 were taken to Lewisporte, a town much smaller than Gander but just as big in generosity.

  Shirley and Jo, along with a few others from their flight, went to the Lewisporte Lions Club. Their hosts realized that after sitting for so many hours on a plane, cut off from the media, the weary travellers would be anxious to see the historic events with their own eyes, so they set up cable TV.

  When the passengers walked in, they dropped their bags, stood there and said nothing as they watched what seemed like Hollywood special effects. Some went into silent shock. Others broke down crying. All experienced an emotional catharsis that helped to purge some of the pent up horror and grief and create a special bond amongst everyone there.

  The Newfoundlanders responded to the passengers’ needs with extraordinary generosity. The people in this region of Canada are so often in a “have-not” situation. Still, local volunteers worked tirelessly to meet every need they could anticipate. They cooked meals, provided all the basic necessities, and even made sure medical prescriptions were refilled. Special needs for clothing came from the local’s own wardrobes.

  In Lewisporte, Shirley learned that the man tirelessly running around with a clipboard was the mayor, Bill Hooper. She told him how impressed she was with the way Lewisporte was handling the emergency. She was surprised when he explained that like any small community, they had never even dreamed of such an eventuality, let alone practised for it!

  To keep the passengers occupied and distracted from their anxieties, excursions such as boat cruises were arranged during the day. Soon, passengers and hosts began to feel as if they had known each other for years, almost forgetting the terrible tragedy that had brought them together in the first place. Magically, people who might have never spoken to each other were drawn together, finding amazing connections.

  The local Red Cross tracked every passenger in every group, making sure everyone was back at the airport at the right time. When the time came to leave, no one missed their flight.

  Shirley and her new friends were happy to be going home, but the people of Lewisporte had shown them so much love, there was a real sense of regret in leaving. In a way, the town reminded her of the small community in Ohio where she grew up. It was raining the day they left, and Shirley was glad—for it hid many tears.

  Four days after the travellers dropped out of the sky on the Canadian coast, Delta Flight 15 took off for home. Once in the air, people walked about the aisle, sharing experiences and hundreds of stories. Everyone knew everyone else by name as they exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Shirley spotted a man that she remembered seeing on September 11, but hadn’t seen since. Dr. Robert Ferguson was one of the fortunate ones to find comfort in a hotel room, and Shirley teased him in a friendly way about missing an enriching and humbling experience.

  As they chatted, another magical connection emerged. In spite of the good fortune of a hotel room, Dr. Ferguson told Shirley he had experienced the pure beauty of the Newfoundlanders in their response to the crisis. But Canadian warmth was nothing new to him. While he now lives in Winsto
n-Salem, North Carolina, he was born in Ottawa. He then spoke about Newfoundlanders; how the province has so little, yet the people are so giving. They both noted how no one would accept any compensation or payment for what they had done for the visitors. When they began to discuss what they could do to show their appreciation, Dr. Ferguson told her he had already started.

  His idea was to start a scholarship fund for the young people of this community, where opportunities are not as abundant as in other parts of Canada. Earlier, he had quietly put together a statement and makeshift donation form for passengers to pledge money toward the cause. The form was already circulating through the first-class passengers. When she heard this, Shirley offered to lend her talents as an experienced fund-raiser in whatever way she could.

  The effort was going well, but Atlanta was getting closer and closer. Shirley couldn’t wait to be back on U.S. soil, but suddenly it was coming too fast. There was no longer enough time for all the passengers to see the form and make a pledge before they descended into Georgia.

  There was another option they had not yet considered. It was unheard of for a passenger to speak on the public address system in an aircraft—it’s stringent airline policy. But surely these were unusual circumstances. Why not ask?

  Dr. Ferguson was uncomfortable asking such a thing of a flight crew, especially in light of recent events. Shirley felt the crew, let alone the captain, would never go for it. Even so, she asked a flight attendant if she would look over the statement and read it to the passengers. After reading it, with tears in her eyes she went to ask the captain. Perhaps it was because of the way he had treated his charges during the crisis, Shirley was sure he would say yes.

  And he did! The captain thought it was wonderful, but suggested one of the passengers should read it! As Dr. Ferguson was reluctant, and so was everyone else, it fell to Shirley to address the 218 passengers. She was nervous and hesitant, but with so many other people doing such extraordinary things, it seemed the least she could do.