Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Katimavik Part II: They Yelled at Us!


Late in 1979, my Katimavik group left its friendly little Quebec village near the New Brunswick border. We had spent the previous three months getting to know the people there, working on community service projects, singing by guitar all evening, eating bean stew and whole wheat bread, and taking care of the environment. 

We boarded an airplane (if the guitar had been out, we might have been singing some John Denver) and headed for the west coast. In Victoria, we were met by a military bus. Katimavikers know what to do with a bus; on a bus, Katimavikers sing! And that’s what we were doing as we entered the gates of the Esquimalt military base for our three-month military option rotation. Our group leaders (military officers) were there to meet us. We were slow getting off the bus, and they yelled at us!

This was a big shock to us sensitive granola-crunching tree huggers. But we got used to it. Katimavik is, after all, supposed to introduce young Canadians to different ways of Canadian living.

The Katimavik military option was a three-month stint in the reserves. All through that Vancouver Island winter (which was delightful) we did a version of basic training: parade ground and fitness;
 
 
 
fun things like winter camping;
 

 
 
and scary things like rappelling.



Our lifeboat training was an all-day event on a decommissioned destroyer sitting in the harbour. 



My friends and I had fun exploring the empty ship during our breaks.



The best activity was our sea-training trip to Vancouver on two little boats.




















We did man-overboard drills while crossing the Strait of Georgia,














and then sailed into Vancouver and docked at HMCS Discovery in Stanley Park. All the girls on my boat were stashed in the big back cabin.



It was like a girls’ sleepover, except that we had to take our turns on duty, and we weren’t allowed to sleep in. I know this, because I had the 5AM watch, and it was my job to wake everyone up at 6 (easily done: one cabin, lots of lights, one light switch). The early morning shift was lovely. I sat on the narrow deck outside the cabin and looked at Vancouver, such as it was then, in the early morning light. 



By the time our military training ended, spring had arrived in Esquimalt. In March, my Katimavik group boarded an airplane and headed for the Lake Simcoe/Georgian Bay region of Ontario. It was a return to winter. But it was also a return to guitar sessions, community service, tree hugging, and crunchy granola; in other words, back to the essence of Katimavik.

 

 

Friday, October 31, 2014

Tales From the First Century: the Veterans


When World War II ended, many ex-servicemen ended up in teacher’s college. Some of these were still teaching in the 70s when I went to high school. At my school, we all knew that a couple of our teachers were war veterans. One of them played the trumpet at our gym-based Remembrance Day ceremonies. The only one I heard talk about the war was our eccentric English teacher Mr. West. He claimed to have survived the war by acting strange. He was a messenger in a camp prone to snipers, and he figured that if he dressed funny and put weird things on his jeep, the snipers would decide he was unimportant. I think he used the same tactic on his teenage students.

My mom, Anne Hill, was a young teacher trainee in the late 40s. This is the story she wrote about one of her fellow trainees.

Bruce was a student teacher at the University of British Columbia (UBC) when I was. The strange fellow student and sufferer of the year of Teacher Training was a veteran. Teacher Training class began in the fall of ’49, four years after the war ended. Our class, beginning university in ’45, was lucky in having so many returning veterans in it, whose education was being paid for by a grateful government. Many of them were married and had children. The contrast between them and the 17-year-old freshmen was marked. Certainly no one tried to make them take part in the usual frosh pranks labelled “initiation.” Their contributions in class discussions left the rest of us in the dust. They were there to learn and get on with their lives, unlike many of us who felt life was still a long way off.

At UBC in Teacher Training, the Practice Teaching sessions were fraught with anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. Bruce, though, was unfailingly cheerful, which was enough in that year to make him strange. The rest of us tended to earnestness and sobriety. We would all be sitting at lunch in the cafeteria worrying, exchanging horrible stories of sessions in classrooms with teens. Into this cloud of gloom would come Bruce, almost leaping into our presence, declaring, with finger raised, “Never mind: Conflict is Life, Indifference Death!” My spirits lifted then and were eased by laughter.

My first Practice Teaching session was in Victoria in a huge Junior High School of about 1200 students in grades 7, 8, and 9. It was the first time that school had ever had student teachers. My group of three student teachers included Bruce and another veteran. We were required to sit in the back of the classroom and write critiques of whichever of us was in front of the class. Bruce’s notes about me included “You are looking very fetching this morning Miss Christie,” and “Do be kind to our Miss Taylor (a delicate child who looked like Elizabeth Taylor).” As for Bruce, he always left the kids smiling, if not laughing. He was a natural ham, which was not always appreciated by those who evaluated him. But his obvious regard for that age group makes me think he must have carried on as a teacher.

At the end of the practice sessions, we went off in all directions to remote corners of B.C. and were never in touch again.

My Grade 11 granddaughter asked what I was scribbling, as I wrote this while we waited at the SAAQ for her driver’s test. So I told her about Bruce. “Oh,” she said with some spirit, “that’s the kind of person who should be a teacher.”

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Quest For Communication Part II: We Heard Already!

A Greek messenger runs through a Greek countryside with an important message. After a grueling twenty-six miles he finds the Athenian leaders and delivers his report: victory at Marathon! The Chief Athenian glances at his fax machine and says to the runner, “We heard already!”

This was a commercial on TV when I was a youth. It was my first clue that communications were speeding up. Now if we run long distances, it’s only for fun.

Twenty-six years ago, I hand wrote a letter to Morningside, put it in an envelope, addressed it, stamped it, and dropped it in a mail box. About a month later I began hearing from friends and family that Peter Gzowski had read my letter on the air. Gzowski always prefaced his listener letters with a brief review of what the show had been about. It had, after all, been several weeks since the topic had aired. That’s how long it would take letters to arrive at the Morningside offices and be processed.

These days on Q, we know immediately what Canadians think—that is, we know what speedy Canadians think. If I ever wanted to be Jian Ghomeshi’s “letter of the day,” I’d have to zip that missive off by email immediately. And Jian doesn’t bother reviewing the topic.

I was already vaguely aware of the concept of email when I heard Gzowski use the word on Morningside one day in the late 80s. He introduced a listener letter by saying that it had arrived by email (he emphasized the strange new word) from somewhere in Canada. He said the letter had been sent seven minutes ago.
      “That’s amazing!” I thought.
      “That’s amazing!” said Gzowski.
Things are even faster now. Radio announcers read tweets from listeners as they arrive.

Email slowly entered our house, but it took me awhile to adjust to its ramifications. Sometime in the late 90s, a friend and her daughter moved to Florida. The daughter was friends with my daughter. One day I mused aloud as to how they were doing. I didn’t expect an answer. It was a rhetorical muse . . . a whimsical reflection on life changes and distance. After all, there couldn’t be an answer. There had been no letter from them in our mailbox, and no phone call.
      “They found a nice house and a job,” answered my daughter.
She’d heard already!

I don’t have that Morningside letter anymore. There is no digital search feature on the planet that can call up a piece of paper from the past. But it was all about efficient new communications. I was a part-time receptionist at the time, and one of Gzowski’s guests had complained about newfangled office phones. I thought these phones were wonderful. They had lights and buttons and magical ways to send signals to the denizens of the Aviation Safety Board in their warren of corridors. I said as much in my letter. But now I can see that none of us—not me, not Gzowski, not his guest—had seen anything yet.

Back in the Greek countryside, the Chief Athenian glances at his BlackBerry and says to the fax machine, “We heard already!”

 

Friday, August 22, 2014

Tales from the Trail Part II: Bruce Revisited

In four short years, my sister Mary and I went from being the smallest children in the family hiking trip


to being the only children in the family hiking trip.


By 1978, my two older siblings had other things to do with their summers. These four years transformed us from foot-dragging children into teenagers that charged on ahead of their parents. This was probably the same year as that other famous reversal in our family…in which it was my eager parents dragging their sleepy teenagers out of bed on Christmas morning. 
 
We decided not to pick the trail up where we left off four years ago. We had found out how long it takes to get anywhere on foot, and it would have been impossible to leave the heavily populated regions of the trail. Instead, we started our hiking trip at the other end of the Bruce Trail. Driving up the Bruce Peninsula in a rented car, we parked in a municipal lot in Tobermory and set off.  

At this end of the trail, we enjoyed the same splendid escarpment as at the other end.

 


But the views off the cliff were of turquoise-coloured Georgian Bay rather than of farms and villages.



This trail was more challenging than in the tamed, populated Niagara region. Instead of farmers’ fields and accommodating stiles, we tackled rocky beaches and cliffs.

 
 

 
Sadly, just like at the other end, landowners sometimes kicked the trail off on to the roads.
 
We hiked for a week, arriving at a campground near Hope Bay. In order to collect our car, Mom and I walked out to the main road to catch the once-a-day bus to Tobermory. We were instructed to flag it down when we saw it. About a minute after a yellow unmarked school bus zipped by us, cheerfully honking its horn, we realized that this had been the bus. So we put our thumbs out and got rides up the peninsula from three different friendly locals.  
 
Every single local we talked to had complaints about the Niagara Escarpment Commission. It seems that even way up there in the wilds of Ontario the tension between wilderness and settlement requires negotiation. 
 



 
 

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Elsewhere Part III: Tales from the Trail


My family’s 1974 summer vacation happened because of a geography book that was lying around the house. Our book about Ontario included several pages on the Bruce Trail, and we decided to give it a try.  We had done lots of camping already but had never attempted a long hike. My siblings and I pored over the book, estimating speed and distance, coming to the optimistic conclusion that we could get close to the end of the trail at Tobermory. We even equipped ourselves with a snake-bite kit, in case we made it to the Bruce Peninsula and encountered one of those fearsome Massasauga Rattlers. This just goes to show how little non-hikers really know about distance. It’s just as well that we weren’t really determined to finish the trail. In our three-week vacation, we barely made it off the Niagara Peninsula.
 
My family and I set off on this adventure in our usual fashion, which was by walking to the Longueuil Metro station. Fully equipped with knapsacks and hiking boots, we rode into Montreal with the morning commuters who (much to my self-conscious, 13-year-old horror) stared at us curiously. Boarding our train in Montreal, and using all means available to the traveller, we arrived in Niagara Falls. Everyone else was there to see the wonder of the Falls. We were there to find Brock's Monument, which is where the trail begins.
 
 
Our first day of hiking was very pleasant on the wide, flat trail. It was a good beginning, crossing the flat lands on the way to the Niagara Escarpment.
 

The next three weeks brought the variety of circumstance one would expect on a long hike.  We had a trail guidebook, and so our way along the escarpment was reasonably clear. But occasionally the trail departed from the dictates of the guidebook map. Where we should have been walking along the edge of the cliff, we would find ourselves on dirt back roads. It turned out that in the time since the guidebook had been published, individuals and developers had been buying up land along the escarpment, forcing the trail away from the edge. We were seeing the expansion of the Greater Toronto Area. In my modern-day version of exploring (googling), I was glad to see that the Bruce Trail conservancy group is even now working on that problem by buying escarpment land.
 
The back road routes were lovely but dusty and hot. Sometimes it wasn’t clear which way we were supposed to go and where we should pick up the trail again. Being off by a mile is a big deal when you’re on foot. It was a hot, dry summer in southern Ontario. The places to fill up our canteens were clearly marked in the guidebook, but sometimes they were far apart, and sometimes the smaller creeks in the forests had gone dry. We supplemented our hiker’s food by stocking up at general stores (also clearly marked in the guidebook), but meals couldn’t come soon enough for us. Dad’s military training kicked in when he was faced with four kids who all got tired at different times. He took on the task of dictating our (frequent) breaks, and he had a cheerful but no-nonsense way of encouraging us to keep going when we were tired. We were often hungry, but there were snacks at every break. Our daily “elevensies” chocolate bars were a previously unheard-of luxury. 
 
While packing for our trip, we had all grabbed books to read on the journey. Between the six of us, we ended up with the entire collection of The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings, which we shared around to take our minds off our tiredness as we sat in the shade and munched our chocolate bars.


Like Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, we found out just how long it takes to get anywhere on foot, especially when trails that should have been there are blocked or lost. Like Frodo and Sam, we knew what it was like to be hot and hungry and exhausted with the end barely in sight. Just like the nine companions of the ring, we felt that discouragement that comes of an uncertain and unclear trail. And remembering that first day of easy hiking, I could especially relate to Bilbo who, at some point on his journey, laments the fact that adventures are not all pony rides in May.
 
But, like all of those fictional characters, we knew the joy of rest and good food at the end of a day’s hike.

 

We got into a workable routine of daily walking, and when we did get views off the escarpment they were splendid.



The wooded walks were cool and dark.

 
 
 
The paths that wound through farmers’ fields and over stiles were bucolic.


We enjoyed to the fullest any cold forest stream we encountered, for drinking and for frolicking.
 
 



 
 
 
We were grateful for the luxuries that came our way…like our daily chocolate bars or a campground with a pool. Once, when we materialized out of the woods into a public campground, a friendly couple in a trailer invited us in for juice and beer. They then insisted we stay for spaghetti and moose meat sauce. This is on our family’s list of memorable meals. 
 
Somewhere in my long lost trip diary is the information about where on the Bruce Trail we ended our hike. It was somewhere in that heavily populated region of Ontario west of Toronto. When it was time to go home, we made our way to the GO Train and headed into Toronto. Our knapsacks took up an entire section of seat, and the morning commuters stared at us curiously. But by then I was used to being part of a group of rough-looking, hiking-boot-shod, knapsack-clad anomalies. 
 
 
 

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Tales of Technology Part IV: Quest for Communication


In a highly fictional past, at an uncertain location on earth (as depicted in the movie Quest for Fire):
Naoh has been sent to find fire.  He succeeds, but upon his return the flame extinguishes before he can hand it over to his tribe. 
They are crushed.
Then Naoh announces (translation) “I can make fire!”
The tribe stares at him like he’s crazy.

May 2014, at the NK’MIP campground in Osoyoos BC:
My sister Mary and I, and our twenty-something niece Tamara, are hanging out at the trailer. Mary has pictures on her phone that we want to send, but there’s no Wi-Fi. 
We are crushed.
Then Tamara gets out her phone and announces “I can make Wi-Fi!”
Mary and I stare at her like she’s crazy.

Between one epoch and the other, some technology happened.  The consequence is that we went from wanting a constant supply of warmth to wanting a constant supply of communication.

A lack of warmth and communication came together one cold summer day somewhere on a northern Nova Scotia road in 1973.  The technology that my group needed was a Star Trek-style communicator so that we could contact our place of safety  and demand that it yank us from our trouble.  In this day and age we call that a cell phone.  Back then, we had to settle for a telephone at a Bible camp. 

My group consisted of me and my two older siblings, and a neighbour boy from our relatives’ Tidnish cottage.  We were on bicycles.  Our trouble was the cold, wet day, and the fact that we couldn’t find our parents and younger sister.  We had all set out on bicycles together from Tidnish for an overnight expedition to Pugwash.  But the four of us were faster than the others,  and we arrived at the fork in the road sooner.  Young, sure of ourselves,  and impatient, we struck off on what we knew to be the correct road.  My parents and sister clearly took the incorrect road.  Nevertheless, they found the Pugwash campground and we didn’t.

When my tired group saw the Bible camp, we hoped it was our destination.  It wasn’t.  But the kind people there let us use the office phone to call the Tidnish cottage, which my parents had already phoned from the Pugwash campground…and the cottage phoned my parents  who called the Bible camp who told us to wait there.  That’s how it was done in those days. My Dad bicycled over to get us, and showed us the way. 

Since ages past, the technology was there for my parents to make a fire and warm their soggy group of deflated teenagers.  But what they really needed was the ability to make Wi-Fi ─ and gleefully send a picture of us to the relatives at the cottage so that they could laugh at us.  Sometimes advanced technology comes with its own consequences. 

 

 

 

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Strike! Part II: The Demise of a “Rattling Good Paper”


In 1912, my great uncle Loring Christie wrote a letter to his parents, describing a political convention he had attended in Chicago.  Before launching into his description, he said:

You would get some ideas of it from the paper I sent. And looking over the copies of the Montreal Star that accumulated during my absence I find they had a very good story of it - and further they had very well informed, intelligent & shrewd editorial comment on the situation as it developed. (A rattling good paper that, by the way - it excites the admiration of many of my friends here.)

Sixty-six years later, the Montreal Star was still going strong and I was one of its teenage readers.  It arrived at our door in the late afternoon.  I liked to lay it out on the living room floor and flip through it when I got home from school.  The other Montreal paper, the Montreal Gazette, appeared at our door in the morning.  It actually belonged to Champlain CEGEP’s library, but was sent to our house so that Mom could bring it with her to work.  If I got up early enough, I could flip through that one before she left.

Then, in 1978, the Montreal Star pressmen went on strike.  I missed my afternoon paper, but (probably like most of Montreal) I shrugged and read the Gazette instead.  The strike was settled eight months later, and my afternoon paper returned.  But the Star had a problem; they had to get their readers back.  So, in direct competition to the Gazette, they started a morning edition.  Now I had two papers to flip through in the morning.  The Gazette retaliated with an afternoon edition.  Now I had two papers to flip through in the afternoon too.

It was an all-out turf war, a time of glorious superfluity.  For the few months that it lasted, Montreal readers were wooed by the word.  I barely knew what to do with all this print at my fingertips, this inundation of information.  I was like a present-day teenager that spends too much time on the internet.  My homework called me, but I had four newspapers to read.  

As with any age of excess, it couldn’t last.  The frenzied suitors that courted their Montrealers had limited resources, and the strike-damaged Montreal Star had been weak from the start.  Something had to give, and the Star folded in 1979.  The Gazette has been going strong ever since. 

 

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Guest Blogger: An Account of Expo 67


On April 29, 1967, my family took its first expedition to the newly opened Expo 67.  Soon after, my mom wrote an account of the day.  Here is that account.  I was five years old. My grandparents weren’t there that day.  This photo was taken some other year (not sure which) when they came to visit.  My grandmother must have taken the picture.

 
Left to right: me, Mom, Mary, Grandpa, Murray (behind Grandpa), Kathleen, Dad
 
 

High excitement and a few howls at breakfast and dressing and leaving activities. But we got away bright and early for us--9:15. Drove over Victoria Bridge with dire warnings from Murray and Kathleen that you can't get to Expo from Victoria Bridge. They proved right—they and the map. We had to first get into Montreal and pretend we didn't come from the South Shore, and get ourselves onto the new express highway that rolls down beside Expo and under the Victoria Bridge. There, we kept getting waved on because we weren't a taxi or a bus, and finally stopped, facing the wrong way in a one way curve, to let everyone out. Kathleen and I then took a few wrong circles before we got ourselves back into town and over the Victoria Bridge, to park over near Longueuil in order to get a bus down to the subway. All this was to avoid that $2.00 parking fee, or an excess of subway fares.
 
As we left the car, we realized that we had left Kathleen’s passport with John. So my first entrance into Expo was a rather frantic race to find the Mexican pavilion where we had all planned to meet, and get the passport back to Kathleen before she got too unhappy waiting outside the gates. I didn't succeed, The Mexican pavilion was not open--the only one that wasn’t finished, and after an impatient wait I returned to Kathleen to find her weeping into the fountain. In the meantime, John and the other three had been waiting patiently at the subway exit on the opposite side of the subway station from the one we used. Jean’s "There they are" was the best sound I heard that day. United we set forth, first of all rejecting the idea of having a stroller for Mary as being too expensive ($3.00).

John and the other three had made a triumphant entry in the main gates and were such a beautiful looking bunch·of healthy red-headed Canadians that they were immediately nabbed by some female with a TV crew who proceeded to interview them. They then rode the Expo Express to Place des Nations and walked over to the subway station to find us. With 400,000 other people with similar ideas about what to do (minirail ride) and see (American, Russian, Canadian pavilions) first, we could have spent the day in lineups. But lineups if longer in duration than about 30 seconds tend to send our youngest two over the edge, so we steered clear of them. We shared the cosmos walk with crowds and found our way to the steel pavilion, which looked nicely deserted. Inside were the sounds and smells and darkness of a steel mill with lots of explanations of the process. However, we moved right on through at the rate of interest of the youngest and found ourselves in a large foyer with ramps to be ascended and posts to be run around and some comfortable-looking seats to rest our feets and look out towards home, and Expo Expresses whipping by. Also washrooms. Outside we found a little green hill and we parked out of the wind to eat our lunch. Fortunately, we were finished before we saw a guard whistle someone else off for lunch eating. John was wondering at approximately the same time why all those other people were sitting on benches to eat their lunches instead of on this nice grass among the little evergreens.

Refreshed, and in spite of the complaints of the youngest two about walking and the oldest two about not spending the next hour or so in a minirail lineup, we walked on down the avenue past Mexico, India, and many others, and down by the canal. Mary found more excitement in a little round disk racing along in the wind making a musical tinkling on the pavement than in the displays of architecture built for her amazement. Throwing gravel into the canal was another contact with "man and her world" for her.
 
From canal level we entered the huge Theme building complex from below and were awe-struck by the atmosphere. Great unpainted rusting steel girders rose in a sort of Eiffel Tower type of construction (at least at the bottom--and so it seemed to me, never having seen the Eiffel Tower except in chases in movies). I don't know what could be more expressive of the building powers of human beings on the surface of earth. We made our way up through the steel to the Expo Express Ile Notre Dame station and had a very pleasant quick ride around to Ile La Ronde for amusement.

We found a great many other people had beat us to it! John and I look forward to wandering about it after dark sans kids.  We followed the broadcast lure of “Children’s World” and found a lovely ride on little yellow engines, following tracks in and out of tunnels and over hills, which they all enjoyed.  Murray had his eye on the Gyrotron but it is in for repairs.  After the bell-ringing horn-blowing ride over hill and dale, we went down into a lovely sand pit full of clean warm sand, sheltered from the wind.  There is a big varnished wood sculpture to be climbed on and in and out.  So off came three pairs of shoes and socks for a rest playing in the sand. 
 
John and Murray went off to investigate the aquarium, to see if it was sufficiently uncrowded to try today. But it is not open until May 5. They returned with six ice cream cones which we enjoyed absolutely. We stopped to admire a screaming fast ride, then went by Expo Express on a scenic trip all the way to the other end of the line.  We decided to call it a day, so John and three got off near Habitat 67 which they inspected while Jean and I went on to the subway and got the car to pick them all up again.  It was a pleasant walk past Swan Lake with its fountains, beyond which could be seen the Calder statue, or sculpture of “Man", and past tantalizing pavilions.

At Habitat 67, after inspecting some apartments, John says they went up and on and were prepared to inspect another when a friendly guard informed them that it was Prime Minister Pearson’s apartment.  He was out at the hockey game though, so they didn’t stop to tea.

John and I collapsed when we got home, while the kids went out to skip and play ball.

Mary, when asked Sunday morning where she had been and what she had seen, said “Expo. Flags, and like lollipop things…and sand…and train engines with no cars and no caboose…and sand…and bare feet….and….more bare feet—Jean’s.”
 
[At the end of her account, Mom handwrote the cost of the day]:

Subway & gas & w.t.o.s.l*            $1.00

Ice cream cones @25 cents L    $1.50

Ride for four on old 99                   $1.00    

                                                            $3.50

*wear and tear on shoe leather

 

 

 
 
 

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Fun Canadian Stuff: Waiting for the Summer Fair


When my family went to the west coast in 1975, we spent a day at the Pacific National Exhibition.  There were rides, cows, and a demolition derby…all in the pouring rain. I was in heaven.  These big-city events are one way for urbanites to get a taste of the county fair: the exhibitions, the rides, and maybe a circus.  As a Canadian, I got to enjoy all of these on a national level.  But I had to wait.

The Exhibition
When my siblings and I were very small, my parents took the family on short expeditions after church every Sunday.  I clearly remember hanging out at the St. Lambert locks, watching ships rise and fall.  One Sunday we ended up on a hill beside the Saint Lawrence river, looking at a pair of islands.  They were crawling with machinery.  Even though I was only five, I must have been listening to my parents’ conversation, because I know, all these years later, that these were the Expo islands. 

We had fun at Expo 67.  But first we had to wait for the islands to be built, and then for each unique pavilion to rise up from the ground.  But we got there.  I have my Expo season pass to prove it. 
 
 

The subsequent years brought fun times for our family.  Expo 67” turned into “Man and His World,” where we spent many fun evenings.  Meeting Dad on Île Sainte Hélène after his work, we had a picnic and then ran all over the exhibition grounds.  Our summer passes allowed us to come and go at will.
 
Mug Shots from "Man and His World"
 
Me 
 
My Dad

My Mom
 
The Rides
Eight years after those photos were taken, that fun Canadian thing was gone for good.  But by then I was grown up and on to other things.  The year before that, I had been a content Katimaviker living in Geneva Park near Orillia, Ontario.  One day, the Katimavik organizers decided to send my  group south to Unionville for a couple of weeks, to help restore a historic planing mill. We packed our bags, piled into the Katimavik van, and headed down the poky little highway that took Lake Simcoe-dwellers to urban places.

At one point on that road, far across a field, we saw a mysterious-looking collection of cranes, steel, and convoluted structures rising into the air.  This strange sight dominated the extensive fields around it. “It’s supposed to be a big amusement park,” said our group leader.  “Like Disneyland.”

That curious collection of structure did indeed become “Canada’s Wonderland.”  I eventually visited our new national amusement park, but first I had to wait: twenty-two years, when my husband and I went there with our kids. By then, those tangled configurations no longer towered over farmers’ fields.  The city had grown around them, and our poky little highway had become one of several four-lanes carrying people north.

The Circus
Six years after my ramblings with Katimavik , I lived in a downtown Ottawa apartment and worked as a baker in the Byward market.  One peaceful summer morning at 4:30AM (my work began at 5AM)  I was walking down a deserted Bronson Avenue on my way to work when a huge truck slowly trundled past me…and then another…and then I experienced my Imperial Star-Destroyer moment.  It’s not unusual for a couple of trucks to rumble down a city street, but these trucks just kept coming and coming, one after the other, until the entire massive convoy had lumbered by.  The sides of the trucks announced “Cirque du Soleil.”  The newspaper told me where they had been heading when they passed me on the street: LeBreton Flats, the empty space in downtown Ottawa that hosted festivals and Popes. 

Again, I had to wait before I ever got to see this national treasure: twenty years, when my husband and I went to the Florida show with our kids.

 

 

 

Monday, March 17, 2014

Quiet


I grew up in an interesting place. Quebec had parties, politics, sports, and some cutting-edge schooling.  It also saw a little bit of trouble, which we could all have done without.  But something else was going on in Quebec while I grew up there: a revolution. I was in the middle of it but didn’t see it; it was too quiet. 

My family’s day-to-day life was lived in the worlds of the Protestant school and the Anglican church. We knew our Francophone classmates and neighbours, and we heard lots of French spoken at the public swimming pool (I once ended up in an all-boys swimming class because the registrar thought I was Jean-the-French-boy, not Jean-the-English-girl).  But we didn’t know the Francophone world well enough to be party to the profound shift in culture that was pulsating around us.

But I can look back and see that it was there.  The revolution was already underway when my family arrived in St. Lambert, our Montreal suburb, in 1965. The remnants of Quebec’s recent past were still rattling around like ghosts when, on our arrival, my Mom took us to get our library cards.  The librarian told her to come back with her husband; he was the only legitimate signatory for the children’s cards. A mere eight years after that incident, when I was in grade 6, my teacher was an enthusiastic French-Canadian who wore pants instead of skirts, told us to call her “Diane”, and organized in-class dances on the last days of school.  Six years later, my group leader in Katimavik was an equally enthusiastic French-Canadian named Joanne.  She taught French to our group by going over contemporary lyrics, and managed us with great confidence even though she was only four years older than the youngest of us. 

The story of the Quiet Revolution is best told by those that really experienced it.  The Anglo-Quebec world was in the revolution, but not of it.  All I can really say about it is that Diane and Joanne were clearly not about to let someone else sign for their kids’ library cards.

 

Friday, February 14, 2014

Love


When I moved to Ottawa in 1981, I liked to ride my bicycle along the Ottawa River. I lived in the west-end suburb of Nepean, and rode from Andrew Haydon Park to downtown. I often stopped on a hillside near Woodroffe Beach and enjoyed the view of the Gatineau Hills. Now, married with four grown children, I live in the east-end suburb of Orleans. I like to ride my bicycle along the Ottawa River, from Petrie Island to the Aviation Museum. I often stop on a hillside at the mouth of Green’s Creek and enjoy the view of the Gatineau Hills.  

This is where 30 years has taken me: 25 Kilometres down the Ottawa river. 

I loved Montreal, and I loved living at home. I would have stayed. But I wanted to learn a trade, and I was too insecure in my language skills to attend a French cooking school. Besides I was  lazy, and the Baking Techniques course at Algonquin College in Ottawa was only one year long. Moving to another city was an exciting idea, as long as it wasn’t too far from home. And Ottawa had already managed to lure me.

I traveled to Ottawa as a child, on a daytrip with my family, freezing in our drafty Volkswagen bus. We saw a play at the National Arts Centre, and then went across the street to the National Gallery of Canada (in its old building). We visited the city again as teenagers, during a rainy family camping vacation in nearby Westport.  On that trip, we saw the Museum of Man (in its old building) and I loved it. On a February day shortly after that, my mom, brother, and I bussed to Ottawa to check out a college program for my brother, Murray.  We visited Algonquin College (in its old building) and then walked along the Rideau Canal. The sun shone, and people glided by on skates. The city was freezing cold, but I loved it.

Ottawa has been a good place to live. The bicycle paths are extensive, and the canal freezes each winter; year in and year out. The National Gallery of Canada moved to a fantastic new building. The Museum of Man got a great new building and a terrific new name.  I made friends, took in all the sights, and even spotted some celebrities.

Most importantly, I met the man I was going to marry. So 25 Kilometres down the Ottawa River is a great place to be. Love is a good reason to move to a city. Love is an excellent reason to stay.