I arrived in Canada as a landed immigrant in 1975. I was six years old and all I recall from that day is the image of my grandfather, slightly stooped, dressed in a white shirt and carrying an orange vinyl flight bag that looked as though it might slip off his shoulder.
He was 71, a recent widower and had just single-handedly shepherded three grandchildren under 9 from Nairobi to London to Montreal to Toronto.
My parents were to join us later once they had settled their affairs. Our suitcases disappeared somewhere en route. And so there was my grandfather, walking a few feet ahead, leading me and my brothers toward our new life and away from our old, with that orange bag slung loosely over his shoulder.
via What Bapa taught me about starting over in a new country – The Globe and Mail.
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