Canada Day

Written by Laird Long

The beach was crowded, and Glen had to be careful as he maneuvered in and out and around the multitude of bathers and sun-worshippers with his metal detector. It was a hot day even for July 1st, not a cloud in the sky and that had brought out the hordes anxious to escape the nitty-gritty furnace of the city.

It was only eleven in the morning, but Glen had already made a pretty good haul – $4.65 in loose change, a pair of slightly bent sunglasses, one fully functioning watch and two rings (one of which appeared to be at least 10K gold).

People sometimes made fun of Glen as he scouted around with his long-handled magnetic machine, sweeping it back and forth over the ground, headphones on, listening for the beeping sound that signaled buried metal. But he looked at it this way: not only was he enriching himself to a certain extent (to supplement his meager teacher’s pension) and getting some much-needed exercise, but he was also providing a community service. Because along with the valuables, he also uncovered and removed from the dirt or the sand loose can pull-tabs, bottle caps and openers, misplaced keys and other sharp metal objects which could cut unsuspecting bare feet or other body parts, if stepped on or fallen on the wrong way.

Glen pushed back the floppy brim of his Tilley hat and mopped his forehead, promising himself a hot dog and cold soda for lunch with the money he’d found. He was up by the entrance to the beach, and as he bent his head and machine back down, he noticed a plastic bag sticking out of the sand about ten feet to his left.

Often his bespectacled eyes were just as adept as his metal-detecting machine at finding treasure, and such was the case here. Because as Glen bent down and pulled the sealed plastic sandwich bag out of the sand, he saw that it contained money – lots of it, in bills and coins. He grinned, eyes lighting up like a slot machine that’s hit Jackpot!

Then he frowned slightly, noting that the brightly colored bills and large golden and silver coins weren’t good ol’ American greenbacks and change, but rather Canadian currency. Sadly, they were not legal tender in Nebraska, where Glen lived.

But the money could still be exchanged at a bank for American cash (at a slight discount, given the Canadian dollar’s lower value relative to the US dollar). Glen’s grin went back up again, as he prepared to open the baggie and count up his loot.

Suddenly, though, he was surrounded by four fellow beachgoers who’d seen him pick up the moneybag. They closed in on him, loudly proclaiming the dough as their own. Glen quickly stashed the found money in his fanny pack for safekeeping and then held up his hand. “Hold on, folks!” he addressed the two men, one woman and one child, all of whom were clad in nothing but swimsuits.

“What do you mean ‘hold on’?” the stocky blonde man protested. “That’s my money. It dropped out of my pants pocket on my way onto the beach. Now give it here!”

“Not so fast, Blondie,” the redheaded woman cut in. “That’s my cash. I put it in the plastic baggie so I could bury it in the sand beneath my clothing – so it wouldn’t get stolen when I went swimming. But I lost it on my way down to the beach.”

“That money’s mine, mister!” the tall bald man exclaimed. “I keep it in a plastic baggie when I go to the beach so it doesn’t get wet. I’m Canadian. I’d show you my passport … but I don’t have it with me.” He gestured at his swim trunks.

“I’m Canadian, too,” the little black-haired girl stated, looking forlornly up at Glen. “My parents and I are visiting my sick Grandmother down here. That’s all the money I brought with me to buy presents for her. I put it in a plastic bag to take to the bank to change into American money.” She reached for Glen’s fanny pack.

He took a step back, holding his metal detector up as a barrier to the avarice crowd. As a former schoolteacher, he knew a little something about the Great White North, having taught North American studies in high school for years. So, like all teachers, he felt that a pop quiz was in order, to identify the true Canuck owner of the Canadian currency.

“How many provinces are there in Canada, young lady?” he asked the little black-haired girl.

“Ten,” she promptly replied, smiling sweetly.

“And what’s the capital city of Canada?”

“Toronto,” she responded, just as confidently.

Glen turned to the stocky blonde man. “What are Canada’s two official languages, sir?”

The man grunted and grinned. “They are English and French, of course.”

“And who was the earliest European explorer to discover Canada?”

“You mean besides the Vikings?” He scratched his chin. “Well, it was, of course … Jacques Cartier.” He held out a hand for the cash.

Glen moved on to the tall bald man, giving nothing away. “What’s on the Canadian flag, sir?”

“It is a maple leaf,” the man instantly answered, “a red maple leaf.”

“And what is the largest lake situated entirely in your country?” Glen asked.

The man hesitated, turning even redder than his sunburn. “Uh, well, that’s kind of a tough one …”

The little black-haired girl giggled.

“Let’s see, Lake Winnipeg is quite large. And there’s, uh, Great Slave Lake and Great Bear Lake, up in the Northwest Territories.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not a hundred percent sure which is the largest.”

The redheaded woman snorted. “Honest, he says.”

“Okay,” Glen said, turning to her. “Does Canada have a President, like we do?”

The woman smiled. “What is this, twenty questions? We have a Prime Minister.”

“And whose picture is on the Canadian one-dollar bill, madam?”

“The one-dollar bill? Why, um, that would be … the Queen!”

Glen unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out the plastic baggie full of Canadian currency. “I can now return this to its rightful owner,” he stated.