Our Canada Our Country Our Stories

by Our Canada Magazine a Division of Reader's Digest

  The good news is that extinction due to human activity can, in many cases, be prevented. An inspiring example is that of the Vancouver Island marmot, Canada’s rarest mammal. Once numbering fewer than 30 in the wild, there are now approximately 200, moving towards a goal of 600 marmots living in three geographically distinct populations. Though still at risk, its future is brighter thanks to the intervention of the Marmot Recovery Foundation and partners such as the Government of British Columbia and several forestry companies.

  Looking ahead, I hope Canada will long include room for all of our nation’s roughly 140,000 wild species—only about half of which have been scientifically described to date. From the Great Plains ladies’ tresses—an orchid found in open grasslands—to the snuffbox, a freshwater mussel persisting in Canada in only two southern Ontario rivers; from the oreas anglewing, a butterfly of the western mountains, to the kiyi, a fish restricted to the depths of Lake Superior; from the hotwater physa, a snail found only in one hotspring complex in Liard River Provincial Park in northern British Columbia, to the Sprague’s pipit, a bird of our threatened Prairies; and to so many more species in trouble, I hope that Canada’s rich natural heritage—honoured by a maple leaf on our national flag, the common loon on our dollar, and in so many other ways—will persist for generations to come.

  —by Rob Rainer, Perth, Ontario

  Recess in the Arctic

  A wondrous surprise awaited this teacher from “down south”

  From 2003 to 2007, I taught at Moose Kerr School in Aklavik, Northwest Territories, which is west of Inuvik, 20 minutes by air or about an hour by ice road.

  Typically, it is too cold for children to play outside at recess during the Arctic winter, but during one particular week, the temperature rose to almost –12°C and outdoor recess had been announced. I shivered at the thought of going outside for a whole 15 minutes; however, I was in for a surprise—a most exhilarating experience, actually!

  Did I mention that it was still dark outside? In December, the sun rises in the early afternoon and is out for only an hour or so. At 10:30 a.m., it is still very dark; stars are blinking and at times the moon is shining.

  On this day, there was no moon, but the stars were twinkling and the air was so still you could hear wolves howling in the mountains and the neighbourhood dogs answering back. Smoke rose straight into the air from the homes nearby and the smell of burning wood filled my senses and brought back memories of long-ago days in Newfoundland.

  Soon it was the excited laughter of children that filled the air. Someone threw a soccer ball and the game began. I had trouble identifying the players, but I knew that they were seven- to ten-year-olds from Grade 3 to Grade 5. Everyone was wearing a bulky snowsuit or a Mother Hubbard parka made by one of the town elders. Toques and face masks covered every bit of exposed skin. Little puffs of air hovered above our heads as we breathed out into the cold morning.

  I stood still, enthralled by the surreal scene playing out in front of me. The ball flew back and forth over the snow until the children fell in bunches on top of it and screams and laughter erupted. Someone emerged from the heap with the ball and kicked it, sending everyone scrambling to their feet to race after it again. To my right, the younger children slid down a slide and plopped in the snow at the bottom, emitting excited squeals. The other teacher from “down south” stood there and appeared to be as frozen in wonderment as I was.

  Fifteen minutes passed quickly and protests arose when we announced recess had finished. Eventually, all the children lined up and piled inside. Their little faces were bright and red, eyes shining and happy. It was health personified! Everyone grabbed a tissue as they entered the classroom; the cold air had left all of us with a runny nose. I was already looking forward to my next recess-duty day, but most likely the temperature would fall to the normal –25° or –30° and we’d have to stay inside. It had been a rare day.

  The experience made me wonder why we’re afraid to let our kids play outdoors in a bit of cold weather: I believe we could learn a lesson from north of the Arctic Circle.

  —by Ann Dwyer Galway, Paradise, Newfoundland and Labrador

  The Dream of Belonging

  Travelling a long road to find his Aboriginal past

  This is a story of my journey to seek out my native ancestral heritage. The journey started innocently enough with my mother, Iris Beeler, mentioning she would like to know more about her Aboriginal background. Little did I know the long voyage I would have ahead of me.

  As a youngster growing up in Nova Scotia, I always wondered why my sisters and I looked different from the other children. In the schoolyard, and sometimes even in later life, we were taunted and jeered at by our peers.

  Being “Indian,” the term at the time, was not popular during my mother’s childhood either. They were treated with disdain when visiting the general store in town and were not respected by most members of the community. So it was with great surprise that after all these years, my mother finally wanted to be recognized as an Indian under the Indian Act. What a herculean task to undertake.

  We gathered what little information we could from libraries, old correspondence and the memories of family members. Then, in 1991, we submitted a request for status under the Indian Act for my mother. We received a letter from the Minister of Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development denying our request because we didn’t have enough proof we were related to an “Indian,” as defined in the Indian Act. We were quite disappointed and not knowing what else we could do, the journey seemed at an end.

  In 1995, I decided I wanted to claim my heritage and I would not give up until I had a status card in my hand! With the advent of the Internet, I was gradually able to discover more about my grandparents, great-grandparents and so on, through online databases and forums, but especially through email putting me in contact with family.

  As anyone who has performed genealogical research will tell you, when you find the answer to one question, you end up with a dozen more. Add to this the fact that records for Aboriginal people are often meagre, lost or destroyed. Many family members existed off the grid, living and dying without ever being registered anywhere. Others got married and changed their names, sometimes more than once! Property changed hands several times and sometimes towns or villages even ceased to exist.

  While being in touch with more family members provided a link to my past, much of the information gathered was through storytelling, and was not factual or valuable enough for the government. What my family did provide me with, however, were names and places to begin searching for more information—places such as Elmwood, a town in Nova Scotia I had heard about growing up, as well as the name of my ancestors, the Hammonds.

  Throughout the years, I was able to find census records dating back to the 1700s and 1800s, land and birth records, marriage certificates and even ship records from the 1750s when my German and English ancestors came to Canada.

  In 2011, my wife and I visited Nova Scotia to discover more. We made an adventure out of it, taking the train from Ottawa to Montreal and then overnight to Halifax. After arriving, we rented a car and went to the South Shore Genealogical Society of Nova Scotia, where I met a distant relative who worked there. I found some information in a book about our family, which we photocopied. I asked if they had a file on my family and they did! Upon opening it, I only found information I had sent them a few years ago. Imagine travelling all that way just to get information from yourself!

  We visited other museums and one stood out above all others: the Parkdale/Maplewood Museum. Inside this museum was a large glass cabinet containing artifacts of my great-great-great-great-grandfather, Chief John Hammond! There were also baskets made by the Beelers, my mother’s family.

  We then visited the old cemetery in Elmwood. Not a lot of people know, including myself for a long time, that Elmwood used to be called the Indian Grant Lands or, officially, the New Germany Indian Reserve 19A. The government of the day told the Indians living there
if they wanted to stay, they could, but the lands would become the town of Elmwood and anyone who was Native and married to a white person would lose their status as an Indian. This changed when An Act to Amend the Indian Act, or Bill C-31, was passed in 1985 and restored band membership to thousands of women who lost their Indian status when they married non-Indians.

  The Elmwood cemetery is small and surrounded by forest. Walking through the weathered old memorials, I found the moss-covered tombstones of John Hammond, Agnes Hammond and others who I had been searching for all these many years. It was an emotional moment—my journey to find my roots had come full circle.

  After some quiet reflection, we continued on our journey, had a wonderful vacation and returned home, armed with all our new information. I assembled all the documents and submitted my application for Native status to the Eastern Woodland Métis Nation Nova Scotia and was accepted.

  This organization accepted me as a member and issued a certificate recognizing me as an Aboriginal and I am registered as one in a national registry. My children and my sister’s children are now applying as well. I finally have what I always wanted—to be recognized as an Aboriginal in Canada. I am now proud to say, “I am Métis!”

  —by John A. Gervais, Embrun, Ontario

  Hunting With Mémère

  At 86, this grandma still keeps up with tradition

  Finally, a nice day to take Mémère hunting. Every fall, my grandma Gilberte Tremblay and I hunt for partridge. Back in the day, she used to join us for deer and moose hunting as well, but at 86, the long treks in the woods are too much for her now.

  I pulled into the driveway of the small house where she lives on her own, and knocked on her door. She greeted me wearing her hunter-orange gear, consisting of her favourite cap and warm jacket—she was raring to go. With a fanny pack around her waist to carry her ammunition, off we went in pursuit of perdrix, as partridge are called in French.

  These days, we don’t do much walking; instead, we drive ever so slowly along trails wide enough for my small pickup truck. When the trail becomes too narrow, we head off on foot in hopes of seeing a partridge or two.

  Mémère is always careful not to make too much noise and steps lightly as she scans the bush for any movement. When she sees a bird she wastes no time, aims and kills her supper. She spends little time celebrating and is right back on the search for a second target.

  As we walk along enjoying each other’s company, we can’t help feeling rejuvenated by nature’s beauty. We call it a day when Mémère reluctantly complains about leg pains.

  I’m so grateful to have such a wonderful grandmother, who enjoys the same hobbies I do. Let’s face it…a grandma who hunts is the coolest thing I can think of.

  We drive back to her place, clean the birds and fry them up in a pan with butter. We toast each other with one of Mémère’s favourite beers as we wonder how many partridges we’ll bag next year.

  —by Carmel McDonald, Garson, Ontario

  Learning to See

  Art comes from within, not one’s ability to hold a brush

  Though not always a career choice, art has always been a passion. When I was young and our family went to the little country church Sunday mornings, I was too young to follow the sermons, so I’d sit next to Grandma and draw on the back of the bulletins. I liked drawing the delicate flowers on the organ or the intricacies of the decorative hat in the pew ahead of me. My kindergarten teacher often commented on how nicely I coloured and I amassed a collection of neatly completed colouring books. Although there was never an “Aha!” moment, those events started me on my lifelong journey into the world of art.

  The path that brought me to this point in my art career has been winding. My sister, Luana, and I were born missing some toes and fingers. The doctors told my parents that we would never walk or hold a pencil. I guess I’m like a kid—tell me what I can’t do and that’s the first thing I’ll accomplish!

  As a young adult attending Northern Illinois University, I thought about majoring in architecture because I loved precision drafting. But I soon became disillusioned with its rigidity, so I switched to illustration. Ironically, I minored in math and science. This was unusual, as most art majors minored in art history or something related to art.

  Events in my life took me away from the world of art for a while but not forever. Moving to Hamilton for my husband Joseph’s job in the early ’90s, I started my journey back to creative expression. It was there that I was introduced to one of my mentors, Trisha Romance, a watercolour artist, at a local autograph-signing event. This proved to be a turning point for me. I was captivated by Trisha’s ability to express beauty and emotion in watercolour, so I decided to pursue that avenue myself.

  While Trisha made watercolour look easy, it proved to be a challenge. My precise, calculated style made it difficult to achieve the fluid medium of watercolour. Still, I persisted. I had some success and my love of art was rekindled. I began honing my ability to see shapes, value and proportion—elements that make for beautiful portraiture.

  Another turning point came in an unexpected way. I watched All My Children. There, I admitted it. But this time, it wasn’t a cliffhanger episode that got my attention; rather, it was an interesting profile after the end of one. Back then, Judy Scott Weldon did a series portraying local citizens who made a difference with their profession. Her segment was only a minute or two in length. On this particular day, she spotlighted Mark Tumber, a local photo-realistic portrait artist. I had taped that day’s soap episode and I kept rewinding it, but it wasn’t to catch the drama of the show—it was to watch Mark and his amazing drawings. I was hooked. It turned out he was doing a show at the local mall and I knew I wanted to meet him.

  When the exhibit opened, I went to the mall. I was nervous, but I met Mark, who was a true gentleman and offered to look at some of my work. His generosity sealed my love for photo-realism and I was off and running. Once I turned to coloured-pencil drawing, I never looked back.

  I found that I loved not just capturing a likeness but also a personality. Candid shots are so expressive and really give a glimpse into what a person is actually like. Children are especially captivating, since they often express who they really are. Unlike adults, they haven’t learned to raise a façade in a given situation—what you see is what you get.

  Because my work is so detailed, I work from photographs. I prefer to take my own, but people often have favourite photos they email to me. During Christmas and summer is when I’m busiest with many weddings and anniversaries, but my greatest inspirations are the people I love, so my portfolio is full of family members.

  Over the years, I sharpened my portrait-drawing skills. Since pretty much everyone has eyes, a nose and a mouth, the key to capturing a likeness is determining how those features relate to one another. Everyone’s proportions are different, even identical twins! My math and science education came in handy here because measuring features accurately enables one to draw a person’s unique expression.

  When I meet people at shows or events, I inevitably hear, “Oh, I can’t even draw a stick person.” Anyone can measure eye widths and lip fullness. Being born with fingers missing on each hand, I have to hold my pencils with both hands. People are amazed I can draw, but drawing isn’t about holding the pencil—it’s about learning to see.

  —by Marcia Godbout, Innisfil, Ontario

  Russian–Israeli–Canadian Jazz Singer

  Nothing fazes this vocalist, not even losing her voice

  In May 2011, I found myself at a studio in New York, cutting a record with some of the greatest jazz players—Randy Brecker, Gil Goldstein, Larry Grenadier—and singing arrangements by the legendary Alan Broadbent and Rob Mounsey. It was an amazing experience and resulted in the strongest album I could ever have hoped to make.

  In the Moonlight came out in late September 2011 and shot to the top of the Billboard and iTunes jazz charts in several countries and remained there for weeks. In subsequent months, I tour
ed nonstop. But the journey to that point and up until today has certainly been colourful and I’d like to tell you my story from the beginning.

  My career began completely accidentally and no one was more surprised than I! As a full-time, first-year commerce student at the University of Toronto, I only sang on the side at a few shows, purely for fun, and certainly didn’t believe a career in music was possible.

  I had immigrated to Canada from Israel three years earlier, in 1999, at the age of 16 and my parents had just become employed again. We had no connections in the “biz” or money to invest in my career or pay a lawyer to look over the record deal that was offered to me by the head of Linus Entertainment, who’d heard me at a show. I went for it nonetheless, with the full support of my family. With very little performance experience, I didn’t have real confidence per se, but I was excited and curious about what this could turn into. And looking back, I’m happy I took the leap.

  My first recording experience was surreal. There I was at the studio, having never even heard my voice on tape before, surrounded by excellent Canadian jazz musicians: Guido Basso, Rob Piltch and Pat LaBarbera. I froze at first, then thought I sounded horrible. I cried a little, but I persevered. My mom would drive me to the sessions and, with each day, I grew happier and happier. If I wasn’t studying, I was singing.

  I launched my self-titled album at Toronto’s famed jazz club the Top of the Senator at the end of 2004, when I was 22 years old. I performed at the club for a full week in December. I remember one particular night when I wrote a three-hour accounting exam in the early evening and then raced to make it to my own show. I think I changed in the bathroom at University College.