One day in 1848, a man named John left his home in Ireland, climbed into an overcrowded passenger ship and headed for America.
One hundred and forty one years later, one day in 1989, I left my home in Canada, climbed into a passenger car, drove onto an overcrowded freeway and headed for Toronto.
John was full of fear, wondering if he’d ever reach his destination alive. And longing, wondering if he’d ever see his home again.
I was full of fear and longing, wondering the same.
Throughout his passage across the Atlantic, John was surrounded by a sea of strangers’ sad faces, many of them hostile and scowling and wishing each other ill.
I saw the same looks on many of the sad faces of the drivers in the other vehicles also travelling on the eight-lane highway that day. Some even made threatening gestures at me. And mouthed angry obscenities from the safety of their vehicles.
As the ship that carried him was tossed around on the open ocean like a rubber toy in a bathtub, John tried not to think of how he was surrounded by an endless sea of deep water and how he would surely lose his life if the vessel ever sprung a leak and sank.
And as I bounced along the highway at 120 kilometres an hour, I tried not to think of how I was surrounded by an endless sea of speeding vehicles and how I would surely lose my life if a tire on my car ever sprung a leak and blew apart.
He thought of the many people who had died attempting to make the same trip he was making.
I thought of the same thing.
Sometimes the endless movement of the ship and the unfamiliar smells from the seawater turned John’s stomach almost sick.
And as I approached Toronto, the constant bouncing of my car on the uneven roadway and the unfamiliar smell of smog from the thousands of vehicles and smoke stacks there, turned my stomach almost sick.
As storms sent waves to buffet his ship from every side, John asked God to get him safely to where he was going.
And as hundreds of speeding cars and trucks darted back and forth in waves in front, behind and on both sides of my car, I asked God to help me make it, too.
Finally, John’s heart swelled with joy as he saw the high cliffs and banks of his new land in the distance.
I too was happy as I saw the high towers and banks of downtown Toronto loom up in front of me.
His mind raced with excitement and the terrors of his trip were already forgotten as John stepped from his ship to the shore.
And as I parked my car and stepped from it to the pavement of Dundas Street and University Avenue, I too felt exhilarated to have made it. The agony of my journey was dismissed from my mind.
John never again set foot on a ship. He lived to be 87 years old and died of natural causes in 1917.
I, on the other hand, unlike my great-grandfather John, was back on the road the next day.
©1989 Jim Hagarty
