Opinion: My Canada is not for sale

The president of the United States cannot have my country because my Canada is a snow-covered cenotaph in a small town, where the names of the fallen are spoken with reverence, remembered with poppies and guarded by the Army, Air Force and Sea Cadets.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a classroom where children sing in English, French and the language of an honoured First Nation — where joy is multilingual and tolerance is instinctive.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a snowy street corner lit by a street lamp and warmed by a carol. Where the Salvation Army band plays not just for coins, but for memory. Where a child learns the meaning of giving, and years later passes that lesson on. Where tradition and joy are not frozen in time, but carried forward in song and spirit.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a dock at sunset. Where boaters gather not to boast, but to bond. Where fresh crab and cold drinks are shared without pretence. Where help is offered freely and laughter is the currency of friendship. Where the rhythm of the water matches the rhythm of the heart.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a prairie wedding, stitched together by tradition, laughter and casseroles. Where the groom's discomfort in a waistcoat is matched only by the community's joy. Where ex-boyfriends are forgiven, speeches are heartfelt and the dance floor is ringed by tables pushed aside to make room for celebration.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a community dance theatre, where every child is a star and every parent a patron of the arts. Where the avant-garde meets the everyday, and the audience responds not with critique but with love.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a corner booth in a coffee shop, occupied by regulars who know each other's ailments, opinions and silences. Where conversation is ritual and laughter is memory. Where regrets are left unspoken and gratitude is quietly murmured. Where solutions are invented from personal history and discussed not on merit but on opinion. Where being alive is the point, and being together is the reward.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is an RV park at dawn, a campsite at dusk and a journey in between. Where the evening is spent in the glow of shared meals and shared stories, where strangers become friends, where children fall asleep to songs their parents once heard while in their own parents' arms and where legends rise with the smoke.

He cannot have my country because my Canada is a park bench shaded by trees, where kite strings and soccer balls and sacred texts coexist. Where the noise of the city fades into the hush of community. Where love is expressed in rainbow pins and wisdom is passed from grandfather to grandchildren.

My Canada is defined by people — by their kindness, their creativity, their courage. It is found in the quiet moments, the shared meals, the spontaneous applause. It is found in the resilience of a dancer, the generosity of a neighbour, the warmth of a street light carol.

My Canada is a large country with a small population, and we understand that might does not make right. We believe freedom includes personal sovereignty, and we would rather show our flag at a hockey game than on a warship.

He cannot have my country. Because my Canada is already spoken for.

David Freeman grew up in Calgary, graduated from the University of Calgary and joined the Armed Forces. After retirement, he trained first responders across the country before settling on Vancouver Island. He is 80.