They say a fish doesn't understand it's in water until it's pulled out. I didn't understand what Canada meant to me until I left it.
When I was a kid, my Canada didn't feel like a country. It was a collection of calendar scenes tacked above the classroom blackboard; mountains, fishing ports, ranches, farms and frozen wastelands. They'd been colonized by the French and the British then commercialized by the Americans but otherwise ignored.
It was easy to tell which country had the greatest influence. My dozen British lead soldiers were far outnumbered by my plastic US Marines. I had abandoned my Made in England Mechano set for a box of Lincoln Logs. I read a dozen Archie Comics for every adventure book by Enid Blyton and read nothing at all in French As for TV, there were a few French or British accents on the "think shows" but prime time was ruled by Walt Disney, Lucille Ball and the Honey Mooners. And I knew that Dick, Jane and Spot were Yanks not Brits, as soon as I saw their "Father Knows Best" house.
So I was tremendously excited when my parents announced we were driving to the States for a holiday. It was more like a holy day to me since the USA was a Promised Land where all good things came from; Coca Cola, The World Series, Monopoly, Roy Rogers and even the car we were driving, our brand new 1961 Ford Fairlane.

What a thrill to see the Stars and Stripes waving in the breeze. The USA was like a Hollywood movie in Panorama and Colorvision. It made Canada seem somehow less real, just a dull and distant backdrop.
Dad let us off at a motel and before I'd finished counting all the channels on TV, he rushed back holding up a bag of burgers. "They were only 19 cents each!" he yelled. That was half of what we paid at home. Those burgers were American manna at a miracle price. They came from a place called MacDonald's. We couldn't know that MacDonald's would eventually enter Canada and drive my parents' little restaurant out of business. Or that I would grow into a disgruntled hippie, rebelling against all authority especially American.
By 1969, after first year of university, I was quite cynical as I crossed the border into the U.S. I tented with pals in a state park and we shared our favourite spooky campfire tales about CIA plots, Vietnam War horrors and what life would be like after a U.S.- Russian nuclear war. We were joined by other campers with similar attitudes except they were Americans, charming, well informed Americans.
Eventually, the conversation turned to Canada. "So what's your country like?" asked a young woman with beads crowning her straight blonde hair.
"We don't live in igloos," I answered.
"I know," she said. "You've got Trudeau. He's cool. And Medicare. And I heard about Expo 67. But what are your books about?"

The only Canadian novel I had read at school was "Leaven of Malice" but it was completely forgettable. I had just finished reading "Catch 22" and "Lord of the Rings" and I had "On the Road" in my knapsack. I didn't know what to say.
"Then, what kind of music do you listen to?" she asked.
"The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez," I answered.
"But they're English and American," she said, looking puzzled. "What about your folk songs?
I thought of "It's A Hard Rain Gonna to Fall", "We Shall Overcome", "Blowing in the Wind". All American. I wanted to sink into the earth until I remembered the Canadian School Songbook.
"We learn our folk songs in school," I told her and I listed all the songs I'd been taught. As I did, I realized they were English, Scottish and Irish. The best I could do was Frere Jacques. I stopped talking after that and stared into the fire wondering if I knew anything about my own country and if there was anything worth knowing.
The next morning I hitchhiked to Toronto. I ended up getting a room called an "ashram" at a place called Rochdale. It was a very high, hippie high rise on Bloor Street that operated as an urban commune and a rather uncentered centre of enlightenment.
But it vibrated with wonderful music. Someone in the stairway was singing Leonard Cohen's "Suzanne". Someone on a balcony was playing Neil Young's "Down By the River". Burton Cummings was on the radio singing "These Eyes". Gordon Lightfoot seemed to be everywhere with his Canadian Railway Trilogy,

"There was a time in this fair land
when the railway did not run.
When the wild majestic mountains
stood alone against the sun."

In July, I attended The Mariposa Festival on Toronto Island. It was my first open air music festival and the first time I heard other great Canadian singers. Bruce Cockburn sang, "Going to the Country" and I wasn't imagining Tennessee or California, I was imagining a dirt road in Ontario, a wheat field in Manitoba. Then Judi Collins sang "Both Sides Now" with a voice that rose above all borders and opened up the sky.
That night, a few of us sneaked into the nearby bird sanctuary and slept under the stars. Only I couldn't sleep. I stayed up thinking about what those songs meant to me as a Canadian. I also thought about that American girl, wishing I could tell her about those songs, wishing I could sing them to her.
Many people my age called that season in our lives The Summer of Woodstock. I suppose I could call it The Summer of Mariposa or The Summer of Rochdale but in a very special way, it was The Summer of My Canada.

THE END

by Sheldon Oberman www.sheldonoberman          .com soberman@mts.net
please ask permission if you wish wish to copy and distribute.