Happy 150th Canada

July 1, 2017 at 6:15 am (Life, Memoir) (, , , , , , , , , , )

I first realized that Canada was a country and that I was Canadian when I was seven years old.

That was in 1967. Canada was turning 100. I was seven and in First Grade and my older sister, who was eleven, really wanted to go to Expo ’67 in Montreal. She was threatening to hitch-hike. (Spoiler Alert) – She didn’t get to go – She was, after all, only eleven and we were very poor!

Country was a new interesting concept. I knew where I lived. A certain small town in Saskatchewan. I vaguely knew where my province was though I did not yet remember being outside of it. And, of course, we sang O Canada in school and I knew that the song referred to something bigger than my province.

But 1967 was the year I figured out Canada belonged to me. The abundance of celebrations, both inside and outside of school, said come, enjoy, you belong here! Canada was mine!

The next time I felt that Canada was explicitly mine was when I was first old enough to vote. Pierre Elliot Trudeau was running for Prime Minister and I was graduating from high school and becoming a full fledged adult. I had a responsibility, as a Canadian adult, to cast my vote in this very sexy and exciting election.

Is there not an iconic photo of PET in a canoe? You see, canoeing is also very Canadian.

Canada.

Her wide prairies.

The joy of swimming in her lakes.

Our numerous national parks, FREE this year. Go and see how many you can see. I would love to do a coast to coast to coast tour of them all!

Canada.

My Country.

Quiet and soft and safe.

 

 

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Rain

October 14, 2008 at 9:20 pm (Uncategorized, Weather) (, , )

It was raining this morning when I walked to work. A cold, late Fall, be thankful it’s not snow, type of rain. This is Pre-Winter rain. Cold, bleak… a rain that chills you to the bone. A foreboding rain just in time for election day! I voted anyway. 😉

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I have lived in Saskatchewan, on and off, for many decades. I have made a study of the rains.

There are blustry spring rains. They are Winnie the Pooh rains; rains that tear the umbrella out of your hands and turn it inside out. These are the rains that drench you to the bone and are quickly gone but leave your socks soaked and your spirit damp. These are the rains that push Piglet and Eyore off the page.

There are calm summer storms; rains that last all day but fall gently on the earth nourishing it. Soft rains where you don’t need an umbrella because you don’t mind getting wet. This is usually a warm rain. This is the rain I enjoy walking through.

There are wild summer storms that race across the prairies drenching and raging at the soil. I use to stand on my balcony, at the edge of the city, and watch this type of storm slowly make its way into the city. This could last all day. I would see a rain cloud form miles away and hours later it still would not be here. It was a leisurely rain. It was enjoying taking its time. You had hours to prepare to go out into the rain. However, you did not want to go out for the wild storm would rage at you and leave you feeling destitute.

As a child, one of my favorite activities after the rain, was to follow the streams across town pretending that they were rivers and that I was smaller than I actually was. I wanted to be small and big at the same time. I wanted to tell the rain’s story by reading the streams.

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