Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (8 page)

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 Am Canadian!

A
ll 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
Bensimon, Byrne, D’Arcy

Canada Loves New York

G
eography has made us neighbours, history
has made us friends.

John F. Kennedy

After the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, Canadians shared the tragedy and loss with our American neighbours. From the very first, I felt it was an event that required more than tea and sympathy. Canadians were directly involved. Somehow we needed to demonstrate solidarity for all citizens, including Canadians, who were the victims of this horrific event. For me, as for most Canadians, it was up close and personal.

As cochair of the Canada–U.S. Inter-Parliamentary Group, I called my friends and colleagues in the U.S. Congress, both in Washington and New York. Everyone was depressed and overwhelmed. As Canadians, we felt their sorrows deeply and poignantly.

A few days later, with less than twenty-four hours notice, our prime minister had held an open-air service. Over 100,000 people gathered on Parliament Hill. It was clear Canadians wanted to do something. My first thought was a mass benefit concert at Toronto’s Skydome to raise money for families of the victims, but that was abandoned when it was quickly overtaken by other concerts.

A friend, producer Gabor Apor, said, “Jerry, your efforts are misplaced. You should organize something in New York.” I realized he was right. The more we thought about it, the more we felt a message needed to be made in New York City. We all knew we had to get things back to normal and quickly, or both our economies would slide into recession. The fear of terrorism was affecting consumer confidence on both sides of the border. We were in this together.

Then Mayor Giuliani made a magnificent speech to the United Nations, inviting people who wished to help America to come and enjoy New York. My wife Carole said to me, “Jerry, stop moping about this. Let’s organize some volunteers and do something.”

A few days later, we called together a handful of outstanding community volunteer leaders. They enthusiastically endorsed the idea, organized a committee and set up an office. The weekend of November 30 to December 2, 2001, was dubbed the “Canada Loves New York” weekend. We had barely one month! A frantic search discovered the historic Roseland Ballroom was available, and the owner was persuaded to accept a nominal fee.

A Web site was created, and an 800 number donated. Leading Canadian newspapers, TV and radio donated full-page ads and media time. Canadian celebrities volunteered their talent and showed up in Canada, New York and Los Angeles to tape commercial spots. Prime Minister Chrétien joined in without hesitation. Special air, bus and train fares, as well as hotel rates, were negotiated for the weekend. Everyone contacted to participate said, “Yes!”

Vigorous volunteer groups quickly formed in Montreal and Ottawa. When other groups across Canada and the United States heard about the rally, they joined in as well. Because so many fire vehicles were destroyed on September 11, a volunteer persuaded the CIBC to donate a new, specially equipped twenty-four-passenger van to the New York Fire Department (NYFD). We wanted to present it directly to Mayor Giuliani and the chief of the NYFD, so the mayor was formally invited to attend the rally on December 1.

A dynamic volunteer committee of young Canadian professionals working in New York was quickly formed. These people’s lives had been directly impacted, so they enthusiastically worked nonstop from the very start. Soon, between Canada and New York, upwards of a thousand Canadian volunteers were working eighteen-hour days to bring this idea alive.

Hundreds of thousands of Canadians live within Greater New York, and to reach them we needed something big—and we needed it fast. So we contacted the owner of one of the large screens in Times Square. He offered to not only donate time on his screen, but got all the other big-screen operators in Times Square to participate as well. Now, our message could reach Canadians living in New York! The Jumbotron at Madison Square Garden came onboard. Then we managed to persuade the Empire State Building to be lit up in the Canadian colours of red and white for the weekend!