The news was devastating. Our beloved two-year-old dog Timbit had been diagnosed with a slipped disc from degenerative disc disease. The vet had recommended expensive surgery with no guarantees and an uncertain future. We headed home to take an evening to allow the doctor to monitor Timbit, deferring the big decisions for the next day.
My wife got on the phone with her family to debrief the day’s events. But after staring blankly at Netflix for twenty minutes, I concluded I couldn’t just sit at home. I had a four-day pass to attend Edmonton’s fabled Folk Festival, and this was the second night featuring a stellar lineup including one of my Canadian favourites, Blue Rodeo. Perhaps if I went, I could get my mind off things, if only for a while.
I arrived at the gate and produced my ticket. But the young lady at the gate told me it had been scanned the day before. “Yes,” I said, “I was here yesterday.” “Oh, well then where’s your wristband?” she asked. Alas, I had thrown it away, naively assuming one would receive a new wristband each day. Turns out I was wrong.
At that moment, my nerves were shot. Just as I was about to burst into tears and head home, the young lady replied, “Let’s go see my manager.” After she explained my predicament, the manager agreed to give me a new wrist band, while offering a gentle admonition with a smile: “Just make sure you don’t throw this one away!”
And with that, I walked into the buzzing confusion of the festival. Enveloped by the positive energy of throngs of smiling, laughing festival goers illumined in the late afternoon sun, I began to feel a bit of comfort.
While I was taking in the lilting strains of folk duo Gunning & Cormier, my friend Bob came up and gave me a hug. As the music played, he shared words of comfort and support, punctuated with a shared love of the fabled family dog.
Later, we made our way down to the front of the mainstage for Blue Rodeo. As this iconic Canadian band began to play, I was brought back to the summer of 1987 when I was hitchhiking and a man picked me up in his Bronco. He was playing Blue Rodeo’s first album, Outskirts. And as we connected about a shared love of Canadian music, he offered me my first summer job. It was hard to believe that now, 37 years later, I would finally be seeing Blue Rodeo live for the first time.
The band was fantastic, their performance matched only by that of the jubilant crowd, electrified by a litany of hits that defined a generation.
And then there was the security guard. While some security guards carry a scowl and a glare, the gentleman standing beside us joked through the concert while sharing his appreciation for the music and his desire to have a dog of his own. I reflected, just like the kind people at the gate, this guard was another one of those thousands of selfless volunteers that give of their time to support the countless festivals that stitch this country together.
After the music, I walked up the grassy slope of Connor’s Hill and looked down on the spectacle of the glowing city skyline, the lighted bandshell, and thousands of people stretched out on the grass. I wondered, how many others in that teeming crowd were carrying burdens this evening? And yet, we could all find comfort sharing a moment of joy together.
We’ve all heard the stereotype of Canadians being nice. I admit, I have long had a mixed reaction to that reputation. Nice is boring, I thought. But reflecting now, I realized I couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, Canadians are nice. But far from being boring, it is kind of awesome. Indeed, it may be a national superpower. And that evening, I felt its strength. From the kind people at the gate to my friend’s warm hug to the joking security guard, to the throngs of joyous festival goers to the unforgettable performance of an iconic band, I was enveloped by the warm embrace of “Canadian nice,” and with it comfort for the day and strength to face tomorrow.
