Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (7 page)

Canada and hockey, we love them both—and we always will.

Ted Mahovlich
Toronto, Ontario

Waiting in Line

G
od bless you all. This is your victory! It is the
victory of the cause of freedom in every land.

Winston S. Churchill

As I approached the Peace Tower at the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa, I saw it: a line of orderly, polite, patient Canadians—waiting. Without a word, I joined the line and many more followed me. The young man in front of me carried a backpack large enough to carry four weeks’ worth of food and clothes. He looked like a student, and I imagined he had come a long way to stand in this line. An old soldier, wearing a uniform covered in medals, bypassed the long line. With the assistance of a family member, he went straight to the front without incident. As he passed I could only smile at him.

The woman behind me, who had just arrived from work, approached the RCMP officer on duty. She returned to tell the rest of us, “It will be about twenty minutes. I suppose I can wait twenty minutes for him,” she said with a smile. “He did give his life for us.” Several of us murmured in agreement.

The Ottawa papers had been full of the story. A Canadian soldier—who had left Canada on a World War I troop ship—had died in France in 1917, and his name had been lost forever. Four years ago the Royal Canadian Legion embarked on a mission to bring him home, and a few days ago, his remains had been exhumed and then carried to the Vimy War Memorial in France by a French honour guard. In the emotional ceremony that followed he was turned over to a Canadian honour guard. Then this soldier with no name was flown home to Canada in a maple casket covered in a Canadian flag.

The next day his remains were to be laid to rest at the Canadian War Memorial. But today he lay in state in his flag-draped casket on Parliament Hill, to be honoured by all Canadians as a hero. The 27,500 Canadian mothers who lost their sons to war during the twentieth century, and never knew where their bodies lay, would now have a place to come.

As we waited in line, the flag on Parliament Hill flew at haft-mast and the Peace Tower bells tolled the quarter hour—a dirge for Canada’s war dead that sent chills up and down my spine.

I was so proud to be a Canadian that day as I paid my respects. The number of people there astonished me. For me it was a very personal pilgrimage, but it was personal for thousands of others as well. As I stood in line I wondered,
Could this passionate display of quiet respect happen
anywhere else?

When I reached the doors of the building, I climbed the steps. The last time I had climbed those steps I was a wide-eyed child taking my first tour of the Parliament Buildings. But all tours were cancelled on this special day. Instead, I was greeted by a very young cadet who gave me a pamphlet that told the story of the Unknown Soldier and his long journey back home. As we entered the Hall of Honour and drew close, suddenly all conversation in the line stopped. We stood in silent awe and reverence.

Six soldiers in full-dress uniform from all the divisions of the Canadian military protected his remains. Keeping a twenty-four-hour-a-day vigil, these soldiers—men and women, young and old—stood surrounding the coffin with heads bowed in respect for their fallen comrade. Clergy members from all religions, including the First Nations communities, participated in the vigil. Flowers and wreaths from Prime Minister Chrétien and Governor General Adrienne Clarkson, along with many others, cascaded over the casket. Other visitors had left poppies behind. The image was overwhelming.

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

I
n 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 passion 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.