Storymania - Oh Canada by Anna Hood

Oh Canada
Anna Hood

A memory drifts by; I extend a mental line and reel it in:

It is spring; we are coming home, home to Prince Edward Island, where the
wind blows cold and fierce off the north Atlantic. The emerald waters, the
green waters, of the Gulf of Mexico, have been left far behind. We are
coming home. This is not without its difficulties. One of us would have
preferred to stay.

This is my country, Canada.

'Oh Canada, our home and patriot land, true patriot love, in all our sons
command...'

Niagara Falls roars a welcome: There is no gold in The Golden Horseshoe, at
least not for us; we hurry towards Toronto following the western curve of the
lake.

The Queen Elizabeth Way dumps us onto the 401, the Trans Canada Highway. It
is a blacktop ribbon of destruction where groundhogs and raccoons litter the
road, sacrificed to the god of speed. No deer, thank God!

Steel giants with arms outstretched carry hydro to gluttonous power hungry
cities. There is a nuclear plant close by, somewhere on the shores of
Ontario. My sister lives along here, in its shadow .   Her two children are
fragile little people. Ashleigh is slim like a willow branch and Cam has a
fearful look in his eyes that makes me afraid for him. There are rumours
that cancer spreads rampant along the little towns and cities that dot the
shore. The government has done surveys proving this is untrue but I don’t
trust government surveys.

Skeletons of elm trees line the roadway, victims not of the nuclear plant or
the highway but Dutch Elm disease. Ravens, shrouded in black feathers, sit
like undertakers on the bald branches waiting for the next victim of the 401
god.

We pass through outcroppings of rock, the Cambrian Shield. Boulders the size
of Toyotas fence the fields. Pioneers cleared this land with only a horse.
Did these people dance and laugh or were they so busy hauling water and
scrambling to feed themselves, they had no time to play. I picture the women
alone, away from their mothers, in this strange land full of old trees and
gods that only the Indians knew.

'With glowing hearts, we see thee rise, the true north strong and free...'

My Joe is a wannabe Yankee, born in Scotland, raised in Canada. He is
ashamed of Canada, like somehow we don’t measure up.   I am fierce with him.
I want to pound some pride into his body. This is Canada! I want to shout.
We are one of the very best in the world.

'And stand on guard, oh Canada, we stand on guard for thee..'

He wasn’t born here so this isn’t his country. At least this is the excuse I
use for him. He goes for glitter and glitz and flag wavers and jets that
spew fire and death. Our military is a joke, he says. I have to admit this
is so but we are a peaceful nation. Our shame is within our own boundaries,
our native people, the poor, the homeless! My God why don’t the churches
open their doors for these poor devils that have to sleep in the cold under
bridges or in parks? Of course this is easy for me to say. I know no
homeless; perhaps they destroy, perhaps they fight; maybe even kill. Easy
for me. Why don’t I open my own doors and let them sleep in my house?

We get fuel in Ontario; we won’t stop again until we reach New Brunswick.
French signs welcome us into Quebec in Francais seulement. It is against the
law to post an English sign in La Belle Province.

Part of our national anthem is now sung in French. I don’t know these words.

We have driven this route many times and find The Tunnel easily without
benefit of English signs to guide us. Over our heads the St. Lawrence River
rushes to the sea. On the south shore we travel beside it mixing with cars
whose licence plates boast of their uniqueness. We pass signs pointing to
little towns named for saints, Sainte Anne de Beaupre, Sainte Agathe, Saint
Basile, Saint Hubert. Quebecois eyes watch us speed by. We don’t stop.

Near Trois Riviere the fields are white with birds, snow geese on their way
to the Arctic. They don’t care that only French is spoken here. My throat
catches when I see them. Snow Geese mate for life.

A sign for Husky gas appears. Riviere-du-Loup our turning point; we are
getting close.   We head south-east for New Brunswick where we will eat and
fuel up.

I gobble a Big Mac in Edmonston eager to be on my way. “Hurry,” I say. “I
can’t wait.”

New Brunswick is a blur. The sea calls my name.

A bridge, a marvel of engineering, now joins The Island to the mainland. It
stands cold and concrete and imposing on giant pillars beside the wharf where
the old ferries used to dock. No longer do you wait in lines that seemed to
stretch for miles, cursing the wait, cursing Northumberland Ferries, cursing
the cold and the wind and the bugs, cursing the guy who tries to cut in line.
No longer do you dig your toes into the sand and skip stones as you watch
for the boat hoping you are close enought to the front of the line to get on.
No longer do you leave your car and run topside to get a bitter coffee. No
longer do you visit with neighbours going home. No longer do you stand at
the rail with the salt wind blowing your hair. No longer do you wait with
anticipation for your first glimpse of the red rocks that mark The Island.
No longer. But no matter. We cross the Straight just the same. Eager for
home.

The sign says: WELCOME TO PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND.

We are in a stream of cars with an old driver piddling along at the lead.
The potholes are big enough to lose the car.

“There’s still snow in the ditches! Fucking Hellhole!” says Joe.

I roll my window down and gulp the salty air laughing. I am home. Oh
Canada, I am home.