When Christmas Eve arrived there was still no power in our neighbourhood. But we were all at my brother’s, preparing our traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner, a special meal made up of fish and pasta dishes. Despite the difficulties, we were all together and that was the most important thing. Just as we were about to sit down to dinner the phone rang. It was our neighbour announcing that the lights had come back on. We were ecstatic! Those hard working Hydro workers had restored power to our neighbourhood, and we could go home.
When we returned home, we immediately turned on the Christmas lights. As our neighbourhood quickly sprang to life, those lights seemed to shine more brightly that Christmas Eve than ever before. The Christmas of 2013 will forever be remembered in Toronto as the Christmas of the Great Ice Storm. Filled with Christmas spirit, everyone worked together to help bring about a Christmas miracle.
~Nada Mazzei
Toronto, Ontario
The Hunt Camp
Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.
~Linda Hodges
Going to the hunt camp, according to the men in our family, is a spiritual experience. The men think about it all year long. When a boy reaches his twelfth birthday in our family, if he has aced his gun safety course he gets to go with the guys. They hunt for partridge, moose, and deer. Apparently, they also hunt for the record for who can best hold their beer. They do all this at the family hunt camp built by our grandfathers.
Once a year, women are allowed. It’s a known fact that there are women in our town who, while not actually seeing this as a spiritual experience, see it as a prelude to courtship. The rest of us are so over that. The men call us their “womenses.” It rolls off the tongue much easier than their “better halves.” Our one day at the hunt camp takes place in the fall, and it’s as perfect as it can get. Our job is to simply show up. We bring our kids… even the babies.
We women come as close to lounging as we can while sitting on a tree stump. Sitting in a huge circle around the fire pit, we’re treated like royalty. The men do the cooking and serve us fried fish, beans, and hot dogs. Once we even had cabbage rolls.
One time, on this one co-ed day at camp, we were all taught a valuable lesson. My son David was three years old. He and some of his little cousins had been having a great time gathering firewood. He came to me, pulling on the bottom edge of his shirt. He didn’t say a word; he just kept yanking on his shirt. I pulled the shirt up and out flew a swarm of bees. His tummy was covered with little welts that were getting bigger by the second.
Now the womenses in our clan were like a mini United Nations. We came in all colours, sizes, and faiths, and between us, we carried a vast amount of knowledge. But the woman who helped us that day wasn’t from our family. She was a neighbour, a native of our First Nations, who taught us to fry our fish in bacon fat, butter and a touch of soy sauce. Her name was Lily. She grabbed David and ran right into the lake. Then, she dug into the muddy, clay-like sand and smeared it all over his tummy. When finished, she handed his limp little body to me and told my husband to drive us to the nearest hospital. Lily then asked somebody for a make-up mirror and, handing it to me, told me to hold it under David’s nose so I’d be able to tell if he stopped breathing.
I never took my eyes off that mirror. Things go through your mind at moments like this. Things for which you’re grateful: family; friends; freedom; a country that has the best health care in the world; and places of worship — be it churches, temples, cathedrals, synagogues or sacred lodges.
And then, I added to that list: a hospital that was staffed by nuns; and the doctor who told us that what Lily did actually saved David’s life.
Later that night, we drove back to the hunt camp and sat by the fire. Those who could… played an instrument, and those who couldn’t… played the spoons. We all sang. We gave thanks. Grandpa gave each and every one of us a blessing, a tradition handed down to the family when his grandfather immigrated to Canada by way of France. But, the fact is, Lily’s forefathers were the first ones in our land. They were here first, and we’ll be forever grateful to them for sharing their country with us. Maybe the men were right after all; going to the hunt camp is a spiritual experience.
~Mary Lee Moynan
Callander, Ontario
Keeping Up with the Newfies
Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life… It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity.
It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend.
~Melody Beattie
The first thing I noticed were the icebergs floating lazily past, with nowhere to be and nowhere to go. I couldn’t help but envy those icebergs.
I’m always on the go. Things need to be done, money needs to be made, and things need to be bought. I rarely stop to enjoy what I have before I’m thinking about the next thing. I start planning my next trip when I’m still on vacation. I think about what has to be done around the house or what needs to be upgraded before actually taking the time to enjoy what I already have.
I wondered, would I be like this if I had these gleaming white beauties in my back yard every day, reminding me that it’s okay to slow down and just be? Perhaps I would learn from the icebergs to enjoy the ride I’m on, instead of always thinking about the next one.
It seems to be working for the friendly people of St. Anthony, Newfoundland. I was lucky enough to visit their town with my mother, grandmother, and husband during the annual Iceberg Festival in June. My grandmother was in her mid-eighties and wanted to see every province of Canada. Newfoundland and Labrador was the only province we had left, so the festival was the perfect time for us to visit.
As a city girl I wasn’t too thrilled about driving through Gros Morne Park to the other end of Newfoundland, but I was willing to do anything for my grandmother. My reluctance turned to excitement as the beautiful, rugged terrain began to reveal itself. The serene water was as deep blue as a sapphire, and a perfect contrast to the jagged cliffs of the rolling green and brown mountains. For the first of many times on the trip I was brought to tears by the exquisite beauty of nature.
As we drove the lone road up to St. Anthony I noticed that everything looked clearer, brighter, and simpler. The little fishing houses were tiny, but they were painted beautifully and well taken care of. You could almost feel the love the owners had for their homes. Then, just outside of St. Anthony, I noticed what looked like little gardens on the side of the road. Planted in the ditches, they had metal fences around them. They were nowhere near any houses. I had no idea what they might possibly be.
By the time we actually arrived in St. Anthony we were all starving. As soon as we were settled into our hotel I ran to the nearest Tim Hortons for coffee and doughnuts. I had read that Tim Hortons had a special doughnut commemorating the Iceberg Festival. As I waited in line a friendly man next to me said, “You aren’t from here, are you?” At first I was a bit offended, but then I looked around and noticed that everyone seemed to look the same. The women all had similar no-frills haircuts and outfits to match. Here I was, long blond hair, wearing boots, leggings, and a scarf; I clearly looked different.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m here for the Iceberg Festival with my family. We’re just visiting.”
“Well,” he said, “the best way to really experience Newfoundland is to go to a kitchen party.” He went on to explain that a kitchen party was a big party with dancing, drinks, and, if we were lucky, an appearance by some Mummers. When I asked him what a Mummer was, he said it was something I would need to see to understand. He then gave me the address of a kitchen party, and I headed back to round up the family.
I was a little nervous to go, but I knew we needed to try this new experience. And from the moment we arrived I knew it was going to be life changing. It was so far beyond anything I could imagine in my wildest dreams. We were se
rved drinks that were chilled with pieces of iceberg instead of ice cubes! I could not believe I was literally drinking an iceberg! It was colder and fresher than any drink I’ve ever had in my life.
In the main room a traditional Newfoundland band was playing regional folk music. People were dancing and singing and having the best time. Everyone looked so happy as they passed around the “Ugly Stick,” a traditional musical instrument made from household and tool shed items like a mop handle with bottle caps, tin cans, small bells and other items to make noise. It’s played with a drumstick and produces a very distinctive sound. Everyone was given a chance to play it, myself included. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt happier than I did while I was banging the boot with the stick attached on the floor, the nailed on bottle caps clinking to the rhythm of the folk song the band was playing.
When the band took a break shortly after my turn with the Ugly Stick, I asked the people around me what it was like to live there. They explained their simple way of life, based around fishing. Everyone was a friend, and everyone looked out for each other. The gardens I had noticed in the ditch were planted by the residents, and each one had something different growing. They would all share the harvest with each other. Everyone went to the same hairdresser and shopped at the single clothing store, and that was why everyone looked so similar. And they were happy with it. It seemed to be a simple and idyllic life, and it worked for them. I don’t think I have ever encountered a more friendly, genuine, and happy group of people in all my travels.
All of a sudden everyone started clapping and very upbeat music began. Out of nowhere, a group of little men in costumes ran by and started dancing. The Mummers were out! Traditionally, they come out on Christmas Eve and get everyone drunk, but they had come out for this Iceberg Festival kitchen party. People were dancing, yelling, singing, and having the most spectacular time. As I looked around, taking in the sight, I noticed there were no televisions, no designer clothes, and the women looked like they weren’t wearing any make-up. Everyone was exactly who they were, in the raw. And they were so incredibly happy! I realized that I needed to stop trying to “be up on everything” that was the latest and learn to be happy just the way I was.
Today, when I find myself getting too busy or overwhelmed, I think back to the icebergs, and the people of Newfoundland. I remind myself that it’s okay to relax, experience life as it is right in front of me, and just be myself.
~Patti Leo Bath
Tampa, Florida, USA
Helping Hands
When you are kind to someone in trouble, you hope they’ll remember and be kind to someone else. And it’ll become like a wildfire.
~Whoopi Goldberg
Jubilation marks the end of World War II. Hope flourishes as bells ring and people embrace. But my Russian parents are filled with loss: they have lost their families and their homeland. My mother is already pregnant as they trek from Czechoslovakia to Regensburg, Germany. Here they find refuge in a camp for displaced persons from Russia, Ukraine, and Poland, all victims of forced labour or prisoners of war. I would be born there.
My parents soon meet a destitute elderly woman who has lost her family. They take her in. Within a year my father finds work at a coal mine in Belgium. It is dangerous work, and in the barracks where we live the anxiety of the women waiting at home is palpable. I hear frightening tales of cave-ins and trapped miners.
But I have two parents who love me, rabbits and chickens in the small yard beside the outhouse, an army of dolls, and a large bear that I love. My clothes and those of my dolls are hand-sewn by the elderly woman who is now my godmother, and the only grandmother I will ever know.
In Belgium we learn to speak French and, knowing that French is spoken in Canada, my parents decide to emigrate like others from the mines. We receive postcards from those who have gone before us, and I dwell on one in particular. It shows a man in a large feather headdress standing beside a tepee. I assume this is how we will live in Canada.
After four years there is finally enough money, and we take the train to Bremerhaven, Germany where our ship is docked. But we almost miss the ship’s departure when the Canadian Immigration official wants to deny my grandmother boarding; she is not a true family member. At this I start to wail and cling to her with all the love and grief of a five-year-old whose life is already disrupted. Thankfully, the compassionate official writes her name in my father’s passport as his natural mother. With relief, we board the ship, and our voyage to Canada begins.
It is a stormy crossing, and most passengers are seasick. Fortunately, my father and I escape that fate and enjoy the ship’s cafeteria, watching the swirling outer world through portholes. We arrive late, but safely, at Pier 21 in Halifax, where we undergo health examinations. Customs inspectors cut away the canvas my mother carefully sewed around our two cardboard suitcases. They confiscate a dried salami but permit us to keep the jar of my favourite cherry jam. Next we board a train for Kingston, Ontario, where Russian friends from the mine have already settled. But because of our ship’s late arrival there is no one to meet us. Nobody here speaks French either, and we are on our own.
We leave the suitcases at the station and begin to walk. It is December, almost Christmas, and snow banks line the sidewalks we follow into town. The joy I first felt at seeing so much snow is short-lived. It is a long walk, none of us has proper footwear, and the adults take turns carrying me. With ten dollars in his pocket, my father’s first priority is to find food to feed his hungry child. We stop at a small corner store with glass cases displaying a variety of sweets. There is a delicious aroma from the fresh loaves of bread on a rack behind the counter.
Then a miracle happens. When the elderly couple waiting to serve us hear my parents speaking Russian, they exclaim excitedly, “We haven’t heard anyone speaking Russian since we left St. Petersburg after the Revolution! Welcome, welcome!” They hug us as though we are long lost family. They take us to their living quarters above the shop, give us tea and cake, and invite us to stay with them until we have sorted out our situation. I am intimidated by the grand piano in the sitting room but soothed by the beautiful carpet hanging on the wall, Russian style, just as my mother decorated a wall in the Belgian mine barracks. Our suitcases are retrieved, and I am reunited with my beloved bear. Someone vacates a bedroom, and we spend our first night in comfortable beds.
A few days later we arrive at an old stone farmhouse outside the city. The heating is limited and I am frightened by the many rooms with closed doors. But I am happy to be reunited with another family from the barracks. They are the first in a series of unrelated people who become adopted aunts, uncles and cousins, since our real relatives are assuredly lost to us, even if any of them survived the war.
A few days later it is Christmas. Someone provides a tree, which my mother decorates with a few ornaments she brought. My grandmother cuts out delicate fairies from plain white paper. Someone else brings a cardboard box of gifts for me: mandarin oranges, candies and little plastic figurines of cowboys and Indians. I don’t know what they are but the headdress on one is familiar and I wonder if a tepee might still figure in my future! All this is in addition to boxes of warm clothing, which we desperately need. So much is provided for us by the goodness of many hearts.
My parents begin new jobs while my grandmother looks after me. My mother, once a medical student, washes dishes in a restaurant. My father, an electrical engineer and military officer, drives a tractor cutting grass in city parks. Sometimes he works a second job as a bartender in the same restaurant as my mother. They work so hard that within five years my father is able to begin building our own house. The former coal miners who live in the same city share their skills, and help one another build homes.
Despite this abundant new life in Canada, my parents miss their homeland. They meet other Russian immigrants, sometimes in the evening sitting on blankets in a park. Someone brings an accordion and they sing the old sad songs, tears streaming down their faces. None of them
can go back, and no one can discover what happened to their families. The Iron Curtain is impenetrable.
So strangers become a kind of family. My mother never forgets the compassion and generosity of those who made possible our new beginning, all members of the local Jewish community. Although not Jewish, she begins a life-long involvement with the synagogue, volunteering at fundraisers and providing food or companionship to the sick or elderly.
Just as they were welcomed, my parents have continued to greet newcomers to Canada with Russian words of welcome when they arrive at their door seeking help and advice. Soon they have leads on jobs, and help with learning the intricacies of banking, shopping and public transportation.
It takes a village to help establish bewildered or lonely immigrants. A village of compassionate people helped my parents create a new home, and provide a safe and happy life for the child that was born as a displaced person. My mother, at ninety, continues to inhabit this village, helping and welcoming when energy permits, as new refugees and new generations of children find the opportunity for a safe and happy life in Canada.
~Tanya Ambrose
Mallorytown, Ontario
When It’s Maple Sugar Time
You can’t buy happiness, but you can live in Canada and that’s pretty much the same thing.
~Author Unknown
It never fails. It’s been a long day at work. I’m trying to get the key into the lock, I hear the phone ringing, and my arms are full with a briefcase and a toddler. After ten seconds (although it feels like an hour) I get into the house, put my grandson Matthew down on the floor, and race for the phone, getting there just as the ringing stops.