A few days ago, I received a copy of my birth certificate in the mail. Nothing unusual, except that I am 57 years old and I had never seen it. Sometimes during packing and moving to bring a whole family to the new world, my birth certificate was lost.

When I read the address of the house where I was meant to live right after I was born, I thought of my parents and their bold decision to pack up their family and transport us to a whole new country called Canada. (In 1957, the distances were much greater than they are now; the world really has shrunk.)

I still remember the debates that raged in our young home back then. I remember Mom and Dad looking at a world atlas, flipping from Canada to Australia back and forth as arguments were pitched and shot down.

I know mom was worried about the heat. We all had relatives in Australia. The heat seemed to be the stumbling block. Dad, who served in Yemen during World War II and told a few stories about Aden and the weather, really wanted to go to Australia. However, mom prevailed and Canada became our destination.

Picture this. My dad worked on a dairy farm in England. Mom at that time did not work.
Back then, his salary came in little brown envelopes containing cash each week. But the sum Dad made was minuscule when he took on a family of five to feed, clothe and house. The chance to start over in a land of opportunity must have called to them like a siren on the rocks.

What amazes me is the willpower, determination and guts it took to make the decision to leave family and friends behind to fend for themselves in a strange land. No wonder as a kid I loved reading stories (I still do) of people taking on a new world (literally like in science fiction) or historically like the opening of the west, the famous Oregon Trail. The independent spirit of people who do such things resonates with me.

I grew up living with my own personal heroes, though as with all growing up, I didn’t always see them in the softer glow of hindsight.

Spending all they had to buy a ticket on an ocean liner, air travel was not a common method of travel in 1957, our worldly procession packed into a pair of steamer trunks, we headed for Liverpool by train. Our aunt, grandmother and grandfather traveled with us. More than a few tears were shed, though she couldn’t really understand why. I reveled in the thrill of the journey. I remember arriving in Liverpool and staring at the desolate terraced houses creeping ugly row after row, with clothes hanging on clotheslines looking as drab and worn as the city. I’m sure it’s not a fair summary of Liverpool, but that’s my memory.

From there there are flashes of memory. I remember standing on the deck just as the ship began to slide into its birth. I was confused by the physics of the movement and not sure if the platform would stay under my feet. I remember letting out a slow sigh of relief when I realized I didn’t have to walk to keep the platform below me. Just as I was relaxing, the ship’s horn blew, causing me to jump ten feet off the planks of wood.

Mom and my sisters got sick almost instantly from seasickness and spent much of the trip, back in the cabin. I didn’t miss a beat. I toured the ship almost unsupervised as Dad’s time seemed to be taken up with nursing. He gave me a quick tour and showed me how to find my way back to the cabin, which was on the waterline, and he left me alone. I had a great time.

On that trip I discovered corn on the cob, blueberry pie, and green peppers.

When we docked in Montreal, I left the ship with some sadness. We’d been through storms when no one was allowed on the upper deck and I’d seen icebergs slide silently past Bell Island Newfoundland, and I’d made friends with some of the crew. The brutal task of settling in lay ahead.

But I’m sure Mom left relieved, eager to have the family housed and restored under her command.

The train ride from Montreal to Guelph Ontario took us through the night and into the early morning hours of the next day. I didn’t sleep an eye. I sat with another lady and we eagerly read the names of the stations as we stopped at each place. In the dark, he couldn’t figure out what lay beyond the window, but when the sun came up, a whole new world came into focus. I remember my excitement looking at the endless fields and forests, rivers and lakes passing by the window. I remember the smell of the new world as it passed.

I didn’t give a thought to what my mom and dad might be imagining as we hurried off to our new lives. Mom had been up most of the night too. I don’t think either of them was tired.

Suddenly around ten in the morning, after all those stations along the way, it was our stop.

A whole new adventure began from the moment we stepped off the train.

Those were exciting times for me. I was old enough to understand and remember what was going on, but young enough not to have experienced uncertainty or fear of the unknown, or any of the other negative emotions or attitudes that we develop as we grow up. (That’s another history.)

Looking back, I had a great adventure, an experience that played a role in shaping who I am. But for mom and dad, I can’t imagine what emotions were stirring in their minds. All I know is that they joined the legions of brave souls who ventured into the unknown with nothing but faith, hope and the desire for a better life.

The skeptics these days seem to be winning the battle against the dreamers and adventurers of our world. For the jaded, cynical and bored attitude towards adventure and exploration that these people express, I have a question. What do you think our world would be like without the millions of heroes who left their homes to find new worlds? We are indebted to all of them.

Sometimes we look for a distant field for our heroes. Look right in front of you. Most likely, there is a hero standing there.

Our dad has beat us to it once again. However, my mom is still alive and she continues to demonstrate the independent spirit that brought our family here. Although she is now legally blind, she continues to lead an active and fulfilling life, not content to sit at home for fear of venturing out, which would be out of the question.

On the phone the other day, I asked her if this address meant anything to her: 45 St. George’s Drive, Victoria, SW 1.? After a pause, she said, “Yeah, we used to live there!”
“Where did you get that address?”

“On my birth certificate,” I replied.