Saturday will be my 60th anniversary of being in Canada.
I'll pause here while you curse Louis St. Laurent and his lax immigration rules.
I have vague memories of emigrating...a seemingly massive Cunard ship on the docks in Liverpool. My mother and I sharing a cabin with another woman and her daughter (my dad came two months later). Everyone running to the rail when another ship passed in the Atlantic. A steward bringing us a big pitcher of water every day. People around me getting seasick.
It was Nov. 24, 1952 when we came ashore in St. John's, and I really don't remember any of those two days, though when I was next in St. John's in the 80s and looked down on the harbour, it immediately looked familiar.
I have no idea if we went through immigration at the famous Pier 21 in Halifax. My mother was Canadian, but I was a British citizen. Whatever, my memory of Halifax was my grandfather from Charlottetown being there and scooping me up, and then we took the train to The Island to start my life as a Canadian.
Back then, the locomotive dropped the passengers cars off at the ferry terminal at Cape Tormentine, the cars went on the ferry, and another locomotive was waiting in Borden to take the train into Charlottetown.
My heritage minute.