Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (4 page)

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
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“Many villagers dreamed of immigrating to Canada where they believed people were allowed to make choices and work hard to make a life for themselves. Although we were prevented from leaving with threats of imprisonment, many people attempted to flee because we were starving in the homeland. Grandpa and I and our six children were among those who made plans to escape.

“Our village was twenty miles from the border. We would have to walk and sneak past the border guards. On the other side of the border, we would be met by people to whom we paid our life’s savings to help us travel across the land to the ocean, and across the ocean to Canada.

“Crossing the border was extremely dangerous—the guards were ordered to shoot anyone caught trying to pass illegally. For this part of the journey, we were on our own.

“Late at night, taking only what we could carry, we left our home and quietly stole out of the village. Because three of our children were still quite small, it took us five days to reach the border. When we arrived, we hid in the trees on the edge of a mile-wide open area that ran along it. We planned to wait until dark before trying to cross.

“As the sun began to set, my husband and I carried the three smallest children while our other three joined hands. We could see the border and began to run across that mile-wide open area towards freedom. Just as we reached the borderline a bright spotlight flashed on and caught in its glare the two older boys running with their younger brother, who was literally suspended in midair between them. A loud voice boomed over a bullhorn— ‘Halt! Immediately!’—but my sons paid no attention and continued to run.

“Gunshots rang out and continued even after we had crossed into the neutral country on the other side. The light still followed us and suddenly found me as I ran carrying the baby. When our eldest son, John, saw this, he let go of his two brothers and yelled for them to run. Then John began to draw the guards’ attention by jumping, yelling and waving his hands. The bright light settled on him as the rest of us finally reached the protective barrier of the trees on the other side of the border. As we turned back to look, several shots rang out. John, my ten-year-old son, fell to the ground and lay still.

“Thankfully, the guards left my son there, because he lay outside their jurisdiction. Your grandpa crawled out and dragged John back to where we were huddled in the trees. My child had been hit by one of the bullets, and he died there in my arms. We wept in agony, but our hearts were filled with pride for his heroism. If not for John’s selfless actions, the baby and I would have certainly been shot. He gave his life that night so the rest of us might live.

“After we buried John, with heavy hearts we continued on and eventually found our way to Canada, and so to freedom.”

When Shelley’s grandmother finished her story, I had tears in my eyes.

“Since arriving in Canada I have enjoyed my freedom immensely,” she continued. “I take great pleasure in every single choice I have made—including the time I took an evening job scrubbing floors so that Shelley’s father could go to university.”

As she clutched at her heart, the dear lady then expressed great pride in her second oldest son, who was eight during the family’s flight to freedom. Out of gratitude for their new life in Canada, and because of the horror of seeing his brother shot down so long ago, he had enlisted in the Canadian army to defend his new country with his life.

Grandma confided that she valued her right to vote as very dear to her heart and had never missed her chance to have “her say.” She told me then that she viewed voting as not only a right and a privilege, but also a responsibility. By voting, she believed she could ensure that Canada would be run by good people and never by the kind of people who would shoot and kill someone making a choice.

My life changed profoundly that day, as I looked through the window that this special woman had opened into a different world. I made my own commitment on the spot to seize every opportunity I was ever given to vote. And I began to understand, in some small way, the passion that motivates our Canadian soldiers, who volunteer to defend our country.

When Grandma finished her story, Shelley, who had become very quiet, softly asked, “Who was the baby you were carrying when you ran across the border, Grandma?”

As Grandma caressed her cheek, she replied, “The baby was your father, my dear.”

Pat Fowler
Sherwood Park, Alberta

 

We Stand on Guard for Thee

 

P
ollsters say Canadians are depressed right
now. They say we’re discouraged. Don’t be.
Think of all the good things we have. Think of
how lucky we are. To be Canadian.

Gary Lautens, November 1990

 

Some time ago during my vacation, I had the pleasure of travelling to Europe to tour the various regions of France. Our tour group was comprised of forty-five travellers from a variety of countries. My three friends and myself made up the Canadian contingent on the bus.

As the days and weeks passed, we had the chance to get to know each other better. In some ways, the new friendships that grew became as valuable and as memorable as the trip itself.

On the second to last day of the tour, we were making our way to Calais and the ferryboat that would take us back across the English Channel, on to London and finally to the airport. Throughout the trip, as we rode along in the coach, our wonderful French guide provided a colourful and interesting commentary to give us a better understanding of what we were seeing out the window.

About two hours out of Paris, driving through the peaceful French countryside, our guide came on the microphone. His richly accented voice was serious and sombre.

“We are presently passing through the World War I battlefields just south of Vimy Ridge. If you look to your right, just across the field there, you will see the war memorial that the people of France erected to the Canadian soldiers who fought so bravely here. Even today, some of the residents from the surrounding towns place flowers on the memorial regularly. Some lived through the fighting and have never forgotten the soldiers who took up their cause. And so, my dear Canadian friends at the back of the bus, I would like to say thank you from the people here in Vimy for the unselfish acts of your Canadian soldiers.”

Across the grassy field, the stone monument stood erect and proud against the French sky. A Canadian flag rippled softly in the calm breeze. The passengers, each deep in their own thoughts, stared silently out the windows. Lost in the moment, I could visualize the sights and sounds of war. Suddenly, an unexpected wave of emotion swept over me. I felt immense sadness for those men who never returned home to Canadian soil, but at the same time, my heart swelled with an enormous sense of pride. Tears filled my eyes. I was embarrassed by my uncontrolled reaction. As I turned around, I realized that each of my friends had experienced the same feelings—their eyes were also wet with tears. We smiled knowingly at each other, not speaking a word.

I had travelled all this way to appreciate what it means to be Canadian.

Penny Fedorczenko
Oshawa, Ontario

 

The Loonie That Turned to Gold

 

“Should we tell him about the Loonie?” Trent Evans asked Dan Craig. Dan was head of the Green Team, the icemakers responsible for all the hockey rinks at the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics.

“You know I can’t officially know anything about that Loonie,” replied Dan. He turned to me with a huge smile and unzipped his green Salt Lake parka to proudly display his Roots Team Canada T-shirt. As he turned and left, the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. “I have to check on the temperature of the ice,” he announced, evading my questioning eyes. Now I’m no investigative reporter, but something was clearly up.

I was working at the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, as a TV features reporter for CBC Sports. My assignment was to profile Olympians by actually trying their sport for a day—the kind of opportunity television people dream of. It allowed me to spend time with Canada’s best and brightest as they prepared for their events. From skating with Catriona Le May Doan to playing goal with the women’s hockey team, from rocketing headfirst downhill at breakneck speed (hopefully not literally) with the Skeleton Team to being a brakeman with the bobsled team, I was amazed as I played with Canada’s best. But there’s more to an Olympic performance than the athletes. There are so many exceptional people who make things work behind the scenes, and I got to meet a few of them as well.

Back when Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers were winning all those Stanley Cups, they were known as the fastest team with the fastest ice. The crew making that ice was run by Dan Craig. Dan rose up the ranks to eventually oversee ice-making operations for the entire NHL. Taking over for him in Edmonton was the rising star of ice-makers, Trent Evans. Just like the athletes who work and train for years hoping to qualify for the Olympics, Dan, Trent and their team had become the icemakers to call if you needed the best. Here in Salt Lake, because of their green jackets, they were known as the “Green Team,” and this would be
their
Olympics.

It was my day with the Green Team. We had started our “typical day in the life of an ice-maker” early that morning. With fifty-five games and even more practices in four different arenas, all needing perfect ice, the Green Team regularly put in sixteen-hour days during these games. It was hard work, but they had a lot of fun, too. While they were teaching me to drive a Zamboni, I was so busy watching all the dials and levers and gauges I forgot about the driving. Fortunately, one of them was holding a sign at the end boards that read “TURN.” After I parked the Zamboni, the guys gathered around to demonstrate how to tell if we’d done a good job. “Eat some of the snow out of the Zamboni,” they told me. “It should taste clean and melt in your mouth.” I dutifully obeyed, searching for the right taste and texture. When I saw them all laughing so hard they had to hold each other up, I realized I’d been had.

After a busy morning, we had to put the finishing touches on the E Centre, the gold medal hockey arena. We arrived at the rink just as rehearsals for the gold medal presentation ceremony were finishing. To our chagrin, the organizers were practicing as if the USA had won the gold. Maybe that’s what prompted Trent to tell me about the Loonie. We were standing behind the Zamboni, as the strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner” died out, when he began.

The first thing ice-makers do before making any ice, Trent told me, is to mark out the surface of the rink, starting at the centre. That marker becomes the face-off circle, and everything else is measured from there. Usually they just painted a dot, but there was no paint handy, so Trent reached into his pocket, came up with a dime, and put it down to mark the exact centre. Then they began the flood. But it was actually the next day when Trent had his real flash of inspiration.

It was a slightly beat-up 1987 Loonie, but it was all Trent had left in his pocket. He put it down on top of the dime and finished flooding the ice. As he drove the Zamboni late into the night, putting layer upon layer of ice over it, he hoped the Loonie would bring good luck to the Canadian hockey teams. He also knew that if anyone were to find out, he would not only have to remove it, he would probably be on thin ice with the Olympic organizing committee.

A couple of days later the rink was nearly done when Trent’s worst fears were realized. The Loonie had been spotted by one of the Americans on the crew, who promptly reported it. Trent was ordered to change the marker. His good-luck talisman was finished.

As Trent began to dig out the coin, he was upset, knowing the Canadian hockey teams could use all the good luck they could get. The women’s team had lost eight games in a row to the powerhouse Americans in pre-Olympic tournaments. The men’s team hadn’t won the gold medal since 1952. In that moment, Trent made a decision that seemed small at the time, but would change his life forever. He left the coin where it was and covered it up with a splotch of yellow paint.

“Now,” explained Trent, “came the really hard part, keeping it a secret.” All the Green Team knew because, well, they were in on it. The two Canadian hockey teams knew as well. “And now,” he said looking at me intently, “so do you.”

The games were about to start, and the Green Team agreed to let the CBC tell Canada about the Loonie under the ice, as long as we waited until just before the final game. So, as the games got rolling, as Jamie Salé and David Pelletier skated a gold medal performance and were awarded silver, then later gold, as Catriona dominated on the longtrack in speed skating, the Loonie story sat locked in a producer’s desk at the CBC. But every day was agonizing for Canada’s icemakers as more and more attention was directed towards centre ice at the hockey arena.

The women’s hockey tournament really got going with country after country being eliminated until the final confrontation— Canada versus the United States. The Loonie remained buried under the ice, but the secret was slowly beginning to surface. After playing shorthanded for most of the game, the Canadian underdogs won 3–2. In the exuberance of the moment, members of the Canadian Women’s Gold Medal team fell to their knees and kissed centre ice to thank the lucky Loonie.

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
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