The Six String Nation guitar is passed throughout the evening to other artists and performers. When musician Colin James plays “Into the Mystic,” it sounds like sunlight bouncing on water. The lyrics “we were born before the wind…” wash over the thousands of us gently waving little paper Canadian flags.
Canada is often referred to as a mosaic, but I’ve never really liked that image because a mosaic is usually made of broken pieces and Canadians are strong. That night, as each musician brought forth something different but equally lovely from a guitar made of history, culture and the land itself, I saw Canada as a beautiful instrument that we all play.
We are not pieces of a mosaic. We are folk songs, symphonies, rock, and opera. We are pop, classical, hip-hop, R&B and jazz. I look around at the thousands of people waving Canadian flags and imagine that, just like me, they have all collected their own bits and pieces and memories of this country: the notes to their personal songs. Tonight I see Canada as a beautiful acoustic guitar, and Canadians themselves as the ultimate playlist.
~Kim Reynolds
Orleans, Ontario
Canada Day in the Governor’s Canoe
There is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
~Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
It was a sunny July 1st — Canada Day. I locked my car and began walking west along Queen’s Quay through the throngs of people toward the Harbourfront Canoe and Kayak Centre. I was looking forward to an adventure on the water.
“Hey Peter — I’m here,” I announced when I arrived. Handing me a costume, Peter said, “Here Jan, put this on. You’ll be the famous artist Frances Anne Hopkins.” Others were already dressed as voyageurs, with hats or bright bandanas on their heads. Most wore a loose shirt and a ceinture fléchée — the traditional French Canadian colourful sash — tied around the waist. A young boy wearing a formal blue coat with tails and white top hat was the Governor himself! Intrigued, I pulled on my costume, complete with a hat, and voilà — I was ready for the adventure.
Once we were all dressed Peter gathered us together. He wore his own favourite voyageur costume as the “Gouvernail” — the back paddler in charge of steering the big canoe. In addition to his loose shirt and red scarf, he wore a brown felt hat with a buckle and multi-coloured feathers — including a red ostrich plume, and a clay pipe tucked into the hatband. He was quite a sight! From a cabinet he began distributing matching wooden paddles with red blades. “Okay everyone,” he said, “grab a lifejacket from the rack and follow me.”
He led us down to the dock where his big thirty-four-foot “Governor’s Canoe” was tied up. Decorated as it would have been in the 17th century, it boasted a high rounded bow and measured six feet across the centre beam. Fully loaded it carried about twenty-two people — sixteen safely in Toronto Harbour. From his post at the stern Peter would steer his historic craft, tell stories and get people singing, and he was really good at it!
That day there were fourteen of us and, as an experienced paddler, I landed an outside seat. Another strong paddler was chosen to be the “Avant” up front, and Peter gave him a bowler hat with feathers. Once we were all aboard he ran through some basic safety and paddling instructions and taught us the “voyageur salute.”
In unison we all banged our paddles (with vigour) three times on the gunwales, raised them in the air and shouted “Hey!” This was repeated three times. With that under our belts, we pulled away from the dock.
In the safety of the slip it took a few minutes for us to find our paddling rhythm, but soon we got up some speed and, with a reveille blast from the Gouvernail’s bugle, we executed our first voyageur salute and headed out into Toronto Harbour. Our goal was the wharf at the east end where the boats participating in the night’s Parade of Lights were all gathering. Being the only craft powered by muscle we gave ourselves plenty of time, but with fourteen paddlers and the wind at our back it didn’t take long. As usual, Toronto’s inner harbour was alive with colourful watercraft: sailboats of all shapes and sizes, motorboats, yachts, ferries heading to and from the Toronto Islands, canoes, kayaks, police boats, tugboats, you name it, it was out there — including Toronto’s famous red and white fireboat, the William Lyon Mackenzie. We watched as other boats decorated with Canadian flags and strung with lights lined up for the parade. They were all motoring along and laughing at us with our paddles. “We’ll show them!” we declared, and executed a vigorous voyageur salute.
Boats continued arriving until finally the Parade Marshall sounded the signal to begin. One by one we pulled away from the wharf and began heading back west toward the centre of Harbourfront for the sail past. Every boat displayed a banner for a chosen charity sponsor. Community Centre 55 — a Toronto charity that helps families in need — was ours. Using old rope, Peter had tied a large banner displaying their name onto the side of the canoe.
In addition to the bow and stern nautical lights required to operate in the harbour, Peter hung an old candle lantern beside the historic Hudson’s Bay Company Ensign flag flying off the stern. There was no way to power anything else. With a formal bugle blast to announce our departure, we were off.
The setting sun was now a blaze of colour lighting up the Toronto skyline. Paddling straight into it — along with the wind — we had to really dig in. To keep us going, Peter led us in singing traditional canoeing songs — like “Land of the Silver Birch”, and everyone’s favourite — Stan Rogers’ “Northwest Passage.” Then we sang — to the tune of “Jingle Bells” — “Paddling hard, paddling strong, paddling all the way…!” Enjoying the good-natured comments from passing boats, we somehow managed to keep our place in line.
Finally we approached the centre of Harbourfront where throngs of people stood enjoying the parade of boats. Peter announced our arrival with appropriate reveille blasts on his bugle. “And here comes the Governor’s Canoe — paddled by a group of Voyageurs!” we heard over the loudspeakers. “Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!” the waiting watchers shouted with appreciative laughter. After executing our loudest Voyageur salute yet we broke into a rousing rendition of “O Canada”, and the enthusiastic flag-waving crowd joined in. With grins on our faces we completed our “paddle past” and I thought to myself, what a great way to spend Canada Day!
But we weren’t done yet. After a quick stop at home base we headed back out — this time straight through the western gap and out into Lake Ontario. It was time for the annual fireworks display at Ontario Place, and there was no better place to view it than from the water.
By now the wind had died, and once through the gap we settled in one spot to wait for full dark. It was truly memorable, sitting in a traditional Canadian canoe on a warm summer night, surrounded by hundreds of other boats — everyone celebrating Canada’s birthday and enjoying the fireworks and music. After the last explosion had lit the night sky we turned the canoe around and, along with hundreds of others, headed back through the western gap. All those motorized craft had the water running like a river and we barely had to paddle!
Back at the dock we turned in our gear. After thanking Peter for the best Canada Day ever, I started walking along Queens Quay toward my car. Not yet ready for it to be over, I cut back down to the water. I love walking along the waterfront on a summer night with the throngs of happy people, waterside cafés, sounds of laughter, music from the outdoor stage and the many party boats. It was not the first time in my life that I reflected on how lucky I am to live in this wonderful city — in this amazing country — the best country in the world. With a full heart I took one last look as I turned toward the street, knowing this was a Canada Day I would never forget.
~Janet Matthews
Aurora, Ontario
Many Shovels
Every successful individual knows that his or her achievement depends on a community of persons working together.
~Paul Ryan
The morning of June 30, 2014 was warm and fine. We sat on the cot
tage dock, relaxing on Muskoka-style lawn chairs with our dear friends from Oakville, Gwyneth and Todd. Our kids were playing on a giant white paddleboard in the lake.
As the children screamed in delight and swam, we adults joked about middle age, discussing our desires to eat more fibre and reduce belly fat, but only after this Canada Day long weekend! We were all equally guilty of eating too many s’mores roasted to perfection over the crackling campfire, and devouring bacon and fried eggs for breakfast.
“We’ll start behaving later; absolutely no dieting today,” I said. “There are still runny butter tarts on the kitchen counter.”
Everyone chuckled. The mood was light.
Then black clouds rolled in over the calm blue lake and blocked out the sun.
“Looks like rain,” announced my husband, Ian. “Let’s head up the hill before it starts to pour.”
The kids reluctantly pulled the paddleboard to shore and we hiked up the trail to the cottage that my parents built in 1969. I set out a tray of watermelon slices, cheese and crackers on the knotty pine table. We nibbled. We giggled. We poured ourselves cold drinks.
The wind picked up. The tall pine trees surrounding the cottage swayed. White caps formed on the lake. Thunder boomed and echoed through the rolling Haliburton Highlands hills. We were glad to be indoors and cozy.
I welcomed the pounding drops of water as the rain began. A good downpour meant keeping the forest damp and fire burning bans away. Yay for more campfires!
“Do you think the rain will last long?” asked Gwyneth.
“Nah. I bet this storm will pass quickly,” I said. “The weather up north can change fast, but that’s Canada for you.”
Gwyneth smiled. “Good, I’m glad.” She looked around and noticed the men were no longer inside. “Where did you put our husbands?”
I grinned. “I gave them a honey do list. They went out to check if the vans’ windows are up and the bunky door is closed.”
“They’re going to get soaked!”
“Better them than us!”
We both chuckled.
“Boy, it’s really coming down, eh?” said Gwyneth.
“Sure is,” I said.
I took a seat in a reclining chair and glanced out the A-frame’s giant glass windows. The raindrops bounced off the lake. And bounced. And bounced.
Gwyneth sat beside me in a comfy chair. We put our feet up on stools and rested. We flipped through magazines and chatted while the kids relaxed on the bedroom’s bunk beds, swapping stories of their own. Shortly afterward, the guys came inside, damp but not wet enough to need a change of clothes.
The rain kept pounding. Minutes passed and it didn’t let up.
Ian decided to poke his nose outside again. He stepped onto the cottage’s small covered porch. A moment later, he called me to join him.
“Come out here, Patricia,” he said.
“No, I’m good in here, honey,” I said. I felt sleepy in my chair. I was enjoying my downtime and the sound of the rain on the roof.
“Come, please,” he said. “NOW!”
I recognized the anxious tone in his voice; it meant trouble.
When I stepped outside, I couldn’t believe the scene before me. Water poured down our driveway, and our neighbours’ lane, turning both into gushing rivers that filled our yards with water and gravel. The culverts designed to carry water away were full and overflowing. Water coursed everywhere, tearing its own path as small streams formed and took over the properties.
Ten minutes later, our yard was filled with water like a toddler’s wading pool. Our friend, Todd, joined us outdoors while Gwyneth kept the kids safe and dry inside. Our cottage neighbours, Katherine and Dave, came out and joined us in our yard.
Katherine hugged me hard. “I am so, so sorry.”
“Me, too.” I hugged her back and stifled my tears.
We watched our cottage yard wash away. The water tore away the grass and gardens. It carved out a jagged, deep ditch along one side of the building, exposing the pier footings that my dad, now gone, had poured forty-five years ago when he and my mom built our cottage.
Ian stepped forward. “We need to get all the cars to the main road before the driveways wash completely away. I’ll get shovels.” He disappeared below the cottage.
Soon, every adult had a shovel in hand, including Katherine’s sister and her husband who arrived from their family cottage across the lake to help us, along with their guests. Katherine and Dave’s lane was cut so deeply that it was impassable. We worked to fill holes in the dirt so we could push all of our vehicles one by one up our driveway.
The rain kept coming. Our side stairs were torn away from the cottage. The municipal road at the top of our driveway washed out. We were covered in mud, soaked to our cores and cold. But we were standing together, leaning on the shovels in our hands.
“Are you okay?” Ian asked me once the last vehicle made it to the road.
I choked up. “I will be.”
“Good,” he said and kissed my cheek.
Gwyneth called to us from the kitchen window, “Come in now. Dinner is ready!”
I smiled. My girlfriend did her part to help, too, by cooking a hot meal and taking care of us.
Ian and I walked through water to the door.
“I get it now,” I said.
Ian lifted a furry eyebrow. “Get what?”
“Why my dad kept so many shovels under the cottage. How he and my mom, with my uncle and aunt’s help, managed to build this sweet cottage. We really pulled together today.”
The rain stopped. We ate delicious chicken and then played board games together. We listened to water rushing down the ditch to the lake, as it did all night long. The lake rose so high that our floating dock was level with the rest of the dock, and the water turned brown from mud washing in. Nobody swam. The bakery in Haliburton Village taped a handwritten sign on its door: “Closed due to flood.” Many local properties, businesses and roads were damaged.
The next morning we woke to the sounds of beeping dump trucks and construction workers repairing the road at the top of the driveway. The kids ran out to the yard and kicked a soccer ball over piles of mud and driveway gravel, laughing and running like nothing had happened. Gwyneth and Todd poured us strong coffee.
I stepped outside. Ian followed. The air smelled peaty. The place was a mess.
“We’ll fix this, Patricia,” he said. “We’re Canadian. We’re tough.”
I felt a bit overwhelmed. “Ya?”
“Yes. Call your mom now. Wish her a happy Canada Day. Tell her about the damage. Tell her we’ll get it fixed for her and our family. We can do this!”
And I’m proud to say that we did.
~Patricia Miller
Bradford, Ontario
Canada Day North of Terrace
My people’s memory reaches into the beginning of all things.
~Chief Dan George
Gravel crunched under the wheels of the big rig as we stopped at the side of the Yellowhead Highway. Three men stood waiting beside two other trucks parked in a clearing just off the road. My son, Brett, jumped from the cab of the F550 he was driving and hurried over to speak with them.
We had left Vancouver, British Columbia on June 29, 2004, travelling north 1,500 kilometres to be in Terrace the next day. Brett was hauling a 1,200-pound generator on a trailer behind a flat-deck. It would provide all the power for the July 1st Canada Day celebration. One of the men waved some papers in the air. I heard exclamations of disbelief. Concern darkened Brett’s face as he climbed back into the truck. “We’re not setting up in Terrace,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because we’re going to Gingolx — 170 kilometres that way.” He pointed north. “We’ve got to be set up for tomorrow, and it’s almost 6 p.m. now.”
“Is that possible?” I queried.
“Guess we’re going to find out.” The truck rumbled back into motion.
Brett had worked at the local tele
vision station in Terrace and knew the area well. Gingolx (pronounced Gingoluk) is one of the four Nisga’a First Nation villages northwest of Terrace.
One of British Columbia’s jewels, Terrace’s geographic beauty is world-renowned. So many German tourists visit the town that the street signs are in English and German. I’d looked forward to staying there and wanted to visit a store Brett had mentioned where handmade First Nations’ goods were sold. I was disappointed, but we had to get going.
Our little convoy whisked through Terrace, then set off up the Nisga’a Highway. We traversed the Memorial Lava Beds, an eerie landscape where lava flowed for miles after a 16th century eruption. Now well into Nisga’a territory, we passed two enormous totems, hand carved and majestic, flanking a little bridge over the Nass River.
Soon we began to descend the mountainside on the brand new highway extension. Down, down, down we rolled, all the way to the mouth of the Nass, to the ancient village of Gingolx.
I had always lived in “Super, Natural British Columbia,” as it’s advertised, but had never experienced the exquisite beauty of Gingolx. It mesmerized me. Dwarfed on three sides by mountains green with forest, this tiny place, with a population of 250, faced the Nass River, with more mountains beyond. I inhaled air so pristine I wondered if it was pure oxygen. Stillness enveloped us, broken only by the quiet voices of villagers and birdsong. Isolated for millennia in wilderness, Gingolx is truly unique.
Tired and hungry after having set up most of the equipment, we gobbled burgers and fries in the general store that also housed a soda fountain and a few booths. Ready to bed down, I asked Gerry, the proprietor, where we could rent some rooms.
“None available,” he said.
After a day’s journey nearing a 1,000 kilometres, plus the equipment set-up time, his answer came as a shock. Had I misheard him?