Oh, Canada! Congratulations on the return of hope to your glorious country. Thank you again for allowing my family in as landed immigrants in the summer of 1969. Fleeing a failing democracy, my father sought refuge in the softly rolling hills of the Shuswap Valley in a “Green Acres”-type farm held together by barbed wire and bailing twine. Although I elected to return to the U.S. four years later (swayed by love for a man, not love-of-country), my parents and one of my siblings remained, making various places on Vancouver Island their home.
While there, I participated in Trudeau-mania–Pierre Trudeau, that is. This is probably too much information, Canada, but your new prime minister’s mother, Margaret Trudeau, a native of Vancouver and I shared the same gynecologist, who just happened to be Donald Sutherland’s brother. Given that Justin Trudeau was born in 1971, it’s quite possible that my feet were in the same stirrups as his mother’s during her pregnancy. Of course, I’m making all kinds of assumptions here that may or may not be true, but I just had to share this little Made-in-Canada story on this auspicious day for my former home. My heartiest congratulations to you all.