He was only 18, back in 1955. He didn’t speak a word of English when he and his parents arrived from Italy. And his skills were few; he knew how to sharpen knives, so his father could butcher what livestock the family had raised for food. But when John Zentana arrived in Canada, none of that mattered. The basic criterion for entry to this new country was simple.
“Are you all prepared to work?” immigration authorities asked.
“Anything,” John’s father promised. (more…)
It was just past 6 a.m. I was rushing through the Calgary airport to catch a flight to the U.S. a few weeks ago. I was relieved when I found nobody in front of me at the United Airlines check-in. I rustled up my passport and sighed with relief that I’d probably get to the gate in plenty of time. The ticket agent scanned my credentials and took out a tag for my one piece of luggage to be checked to the airplane’s baggage compartment.
“How would you like to pay for this?” she asked.
“Pay for what?” I asked.
“It’s $22 for your checked baggage.”
“I’m only checking one bag,” I protested. (more…)
There was a day in my parents’ lives that changed everything. It happened in 1941. My father was 19 that September. My mother was a year younger. They both had grown up and gone to school in New York City. But events that day just before Christmas, meant that my mother would see her brother-in-law and her future husband, my father, go off to war. My parents were both U.S.-born and their American president described the change that day indelibly.
“December 7, 1941, is a date which will live in infamy,” Franklin D. Roosevelt said.
I do a lot of travelling, but it seems over the past few years, most of my destinations have been cities in other Canadian provinces or overseas in Europe. Then, about a week ago, my freelance work took me south of the 49th parallel. My son-in-law volunteered to take me to the Toronto airport. However, one of us suggested altering my usual travel routine.
“Since it’s the States,” we both agreed, “maybe earlier is better.”