Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page A

moved close to the casket. What I did was unimportant; my presence was paramount. Suddenly I became aware of all the energy in the room. It wasn’t just sorrow or remorse, it was pride! The energy washed over me like a wave. In that moment, I knew I was not alone paying my respects, my whole family was there behind me. My great-grandfather, who fought in both World Wars, stood beside me and saluted. My grandfather, who was killed in World War II, held my hand. Although I probably only spent a moment there in front of that coffin, in many ways it was a lifetime. As I left, I signed the registry for all of us. Over the three days he lay in state, 10,000 Canadians waited in line to pay their respects to the Unknown Soldier.
    The next day, during an emotional, hour-long ceremony, the Unknown Soldier was lowered into his final resting place at the Canadian War Memorial. An honour guard of the Royal Canadian Regiment fired three volleys as the coffin disappeared into the new Tomb for the Unknown Soldier. In silence, the audience watched as a silver cup containing soil from the Unknown Soldier’s former grave site in France was emptied over the coffin. A parade of veterans representing Royal Canadian Legions across the country followed, scattering soil from every province and territory onto the coffin. Nine buglers played the “Last Post” and Ottawa held two minutes of silence. Then, four CF-18 fighters thundered past overhead, and by the time “O Canada” was sung, most of the audience was in tears.
    When I got home, I called my grandma in Uxbridge and recounted every little detail of my time waiting in line for the Unknown Soldier. I needed a hug from her. And even though we were far apart we shared a virtual hug over the telephone lines.
    On that day, I learned how very proud I am to be a Canadian.
    Katherine Cornell
Markham, Ontario
     

Meeting the Prime Minister
     
I n all his legendary freedom of style and thought, in the midst of storms and upheavals, he remained faithful to what he held most dear; his family, his friends, his country, and his faith.
The Reverend Jean-Guy Duboc
At the State Funeral of Pierre Elliot Trudeau
     
    It was May 1975. I had spent the year travelling through Central and South America. It was now the last leg of my trip, and I was in Georgetown, Guyana. I was almost broke, somewhat battle-scarred by an exciting but turbulent journey, and weakened by the ravages of a tropical disease I’d picked up in Ecuador six months before. Wanting to check for mail from home, I went to the Canadian High Commission in Georgetown.
    It was a typically hot, humid day in the tropics. The High Commissioner, walking around the office in shirtsleeves, mentioned that Prime Minister Trudeau was coming to Guyana on a short visit and invited my friend Cheryl and me to attend a reception for Prime Minister Trudeau the following week. We were scheduled to leave Guyana before that, but after the invitation, we decided to stay to attend his reception.
    It was too great an opportunity to miss. I had seen Mr. Trudeau before, in the “Trudeaumania” summer of 1968. He had been absolutely mobbed by an adoring public while campaigning at a wild rally in Toronto. I had been an avid fan.
    A few weeks after the election, elated that Mr. Trudeau was now the leader of Canada, I left for Spain to pursue my graduate studies at the University of Madrid. Everywhere I went the first word out of people’s mouths after I said I was Canadian was “Trudeau.” Prime Minister Trudeau had put Canada on the map and made me proud to be a Canadian. Single-handedly, he had given Canada international status and stature. Now, seven years later, in the former British colony of Guyana, I was about to cross paths with my hero again.
    On the day of Trudeau’s arrival, the streets were lined with schoolchildren waving placards bearing his picture. He was driven to a park in the centre of the city. When Cheryl and I arrived, there he was, looking