Canada Day

It's a beautiful morning. Although there are ample clouds in the sky, something we've grown quite accustomed to in the Ottawa Valley this spring and summer, heralding more rainfall than we usually receive, there are also adequate-enough clearings to reveal the presence of the sun beaming down on our gardens, enticing it to ever-more spectacular seasonal conceits.

This is also Canada Day, a time of country-wide celebration of the country's official birth in 1867. I remember well the centenary, when our three children were young. And that's a long time ago. I even recall that time when I was very young myself, and asked my immigrant-father why some other children shouted "Christ-killer" after me, and what, after all, is a Jew, anyway? I grew up inherently Jewish, in a secular, socialist family who lived their Jewishness absent religion.

My father spoke to me then about identity. In so doing, he stressed national identity above all. He said to me that I should feel proud and assured that I was first and foremost, Canadian. That formed the crux of my identity, he said. After that, I was a Jewish child, a girl, a Canadian girl. Which didn't stop perfect strangers often asking me throughout my life where I "was from".

We subscribe to two daily newspapers that are delivered daily to our home. On this day, neither have published. My husband, an early riser, has usually tuned in to radio news by the time I awaken, and he tells me the highlights, lying abed. He mentioned that there were no newspaper deliveries this day, and I groaned. I'm fascinated by the news, look forward to consuming it along with breakfast, my daily non-guilt pleasure.

He zipped out, on this Canada Day morning, to pick up copies of one national, one local (Toronto) newspaper that did publish this day, to ensure that my morning would start right.