IT WAS 45 YEARS AGO this Summer. Expo 67, the World’s Fair. I remember it very well — though I was just 11 at the time. My family — my Mom and Dad, my brother, and our little part-beagle-part-terrier Cookie — drove up from Virginia in our blue ’64 Belvedere.
We had an attachment to Canada, because in earlier years we had travelled across thousands of miles of her beautiful plains and mountains almost every Summer, driving from Alaska to Minnesota and back again. Quebec was new to us, though.
I had been prepared to be disliked, since some folks had said the Francophones don’t like Anglophones. But I experienced nothing like that. The Quebecers seemed to like me, and I liked them back. No one seemed to mind speaking English to us. Except for the euphonious sound of French, which still delights me, they seemed just like us.