Summer of '78

I had originally written this blog post earlier in the year, long before the bodies of 215 children were discovered buried outside of a residential school in Kamloops BC, long before 751 more bodies were detected in unmarked graves outside a former residential school in Saskatchewan. The horror of these discoveries and the realization that the atrocities that went on in these schools were kept hidden—we certainly weren't taught this dark history in school—are beyond words. That Canada was built on the backs of First Nations people makes me give pause to just what we are celebrating on this day.

This post is a memory from July 1, 1978 but for this July 1, 2021, I am doing no celebrating.

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It's rare that I don't go downtown at some point on Canada Day. With the exception of the pandemic, of course, and those two years when I lived in South Korea, I have great memories of being at the centre of the nation's capital every July 1st dating back to my teens.

In fact, during the first summer that I was a teenager, in 1978, I have a vivid memory that sticks with me to this day. It was the time that I met two prime ministers.

Me, in the summer of '78.

In 1978, my family and I lived a short way from the downtown Ottawa core. We were living in the Gatineau Hills, in a small community called Kirk's Ferry, just north of Chelsea along Highway 105. The 5, a dual-carriageway that now runs from the Ottawa River to Wakefield, came to an abrupt end at Scott Road, in Chelsea, when we first moved into our custom-built home on Ojai Road, in December of 1977.

As a young kid who was taken from the sixth grade halfway through the year, I had a tough time adjusting from living in suburban Parkwood Hills to fitting in at a rural school in West Québec. My classmates had long ago developed friendships and weren't willing to accept someone else in the last half of the last year of elementary school. And because the level of French was much higher than what I was taught in Ontario, I felt that I was even further behind these new classmates.

I couldn't wait for the school year to end.

I had great hopes that my friends from Century Public School, in Nepean, would want to remain friends, and that I would have opportunities to cross the border when the summer began. I did, in fact, visit old friends during the summer, and a few came up to the Gatineau Hills to spend weekends with me, but get-togethers were not as frequent as we hoped, and contact eventually dropped off.

Our first big family outing to Ottawa came on Canada Day. My mom packed a picnic lunch into a giant cooler and we piled into our 1966 Pontiac Parisienne. Parking in Lowertown, either on St. Patrick Street or on one of the parallel roads, we made our way to Major's Hill Park, where we checked out the various vendors and entertainment that has always come with the day's festivities.

We had left the cooler in the trunk of the car, having decided to leave it there until we had secured a place where we deemed it a good place in which to picnic. We found a shaded spot on the east end of the park, under some trees by the fence that ran along Mackenzie Avenue. Mom, who had brought a large blanket, spread it out and reserved the spot with my two sisters.

My step-father and I headed for the cooler, which wasn't too heavy but was big and awkward for one person to manage on his own. With each of us taking a handle, we could make the job easier.

This is the part of my story that I remember most vividly. As my father and I walked down St. Patrick Street and reached Parent Avenue—I know it was this street because I remember having just passed Notre Dame Cathedral, to our left—we passed a man who was walking with his two sons, hand-in-hand. He was dressed in light-coloured slacks and a striped button shirt, with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up his arms.  As we passed this gentleman, he looked at us, smiled, and said "Hello."

My father and I returned the smile and greeting with our own, and we continued on our way to our car. It wasn't until a few seconds later, when my father stopped suddenly, looked back at the man, and said, "Oh my God, Ross, that's the prime minister."

I turned to look as well, and immediately recognized him. Neither of us had expected to see our country's leader walking so casually with his kids and without heavy security. Surely, security was close by but they weren't noticeable.

We immediately turned around to catch up with Pierre Trudeau, and by the time we reached him a few more people had stopped to say hello and shake his hand. The prime minister had lifted his youngest son, who was four at the time, onto his shoulders, so that he could shake hands with his right hand and hold onto his eldest son with his right hand.

My father shook Prime Minister Trudeau's hand and then introduced me. I remember the prime minister looking into my eyes as he shook my hand and repeated my name. While we greeted one another it felt as though he was giving me his full attention, even though I was a young teen. He then returned his attention to my father as he continued to speak to Trudeau. The prime minister asked us where we were from and asked how we were enjoying the day, while my father answered the questions and added how we were supporters and admirers.

While I listened, I looked over to the young boy who was standing next to me, holding onto his father's hand. At the age of six, he was already used to strangers approaching his dad.

"Hey," I said, smiling.

"Hey," said Justin Trudeau. That was the extent of our conversation.

There were now lots of people approaching the Trudeaus, and we could see some casually dressed men in sunglasses who were obviously part of the prime minister's detail but were trying to fit in. They were getting closer to Pierre Trudeau as they were watching the growing admirers. It was time for us to move on, to let others pay their respects.

My father and I continued to our car, retrieved the lunch cooler, and saw the prime minister and his sons again, still slowly making their way to Major's Hill Park but being stopped by adoring fans. When we joined my mother and sisters, we excitedly shared our experience.

The benefit of living on the Québec side of the border that Canada Day became apparent as the day came to a close. It was easy for my family and I to make our way to our car, where we quickly drove across the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge and head north, to Kirk's Ferry. We didn't have to negotiate the many closed roads in the downtown core to get to Parkwood Hills.

The summer of '78 will always be for me the time that I met two prime ministers: the current one and one that would lead us in the future.

I hope that our current prime minister takes concrete action toward bettering our understanding of our past mistakes and moves toward reparations. Without truth, without commitment to be better, there can be no reconciliation.