Somewhere I have a picture of Dorothy I snapped in the tunnel buried under the front lawn of Parliament Hill, connecting Centre Block and East Block. She’s beaming, holding a little flag, standing there all cute amidst the asbestos-coated steam heating pipes and dodgy electrical conduits. Love it. And her. It was a great night.
We were on our way to my office after the big concert up above on Canada Day night. That was twenty-eight years ago. The first time I lost my mind and ended up in the House of Commons. It was the 125th anniversary of the nation, and I was feeling smug. Just met the Queen. Randy Bachman had just played my Fender Stratocaster on stage. Over a dozen rock stars had performed the version of the national anthem I’d financed with corporate donations. Dorothy and I were headed for an epic party, where this bevy of rockers would line up to sign my axe.
Still got it. Here it is.
So after the first political gig I wrote a few books, got a network TV slot, then headed out. Dorothy became my roadie. We spent eight years travelling the country, as I delivered an average of 200 lectures annually on investing, real estate, the economy and the future. Crystal ballrooms to church basements. Fort St John to Wabush, St. Johns to Vancouver. Two or three provinces a day, jumping between Air Canada and Canadian planes seamlessly because all the gate personnel knew us. We knew them.
Later I returned to Parliament (that was a brawl), went back on TV, wrote some more books, started a television production company, created eight network series, launched the first online streaming broadcast, owned a few stores, pubs and eateries, then a decade ago started a national financial advisory practice, which evolved into one of the largest in the country. Oh yeah, and a blog.
Here’s the point: I know Canada. Dorothy knows, too. The 49 years of our union have been a tale of travel, experience, revelation and joy. Now in the time of Covid we reflect on this – the freedom of movement, lack of fear, social embrace and civility of our land – and are grateful. We’ve been blessed. Canada gave us that.
Crawling out of quarantines, lockdowns, self-isolations, confronted daily with social distancing, masks, suspicion and de facto martial law, many wonder what happened to the country. There are no parades this July 1st. No fireworks. Fewer flags. Nary a gathering. Parliament Hill’s front lawn is empty. Many people chose to work today so they could take Friday off, creating a long weekend. Just another stat holiday.
That’s a mistake. The country may be a little bent, not broken. The post-pandemic future will be different, which does not mean worse. All the grousing, sniping, bitching and carping on this pathetic blog cannot wipe away the reality of our great fortune. There is peace, plenty and promise in Canada. These days the contrast with the US, our deeply divided neighbour, puts this in focus. The simple fact we’re winning a viral war through cooperation and respect says much. Life may not look as steamy and perfect as it did to me in that tunnel years ago. But a new perfection will emerge. We’re all blessed to be Canadian.
Now go find a Mountie and hug her.