It was 1967. Everyone in my Grade 1 class at E.A. Orr had been given a flag with the Centennial symbol on it. It was pale blue, with a white stylized maple leaf and the words “Canada 1867-1967” written on it. It was mounted on a little white flagpole and I was very proud of it. I even knew what “centennial” meant.
1967 was also the year my brothers first entered the Oakville Soap Box Derby. They had talked about it for a couple of weeks and then suddenly one day there was a strange-looking vehicle in our backyard. It did not look at all like I had imagined it would – there were no name brands or suds anywhere to be seen. It was more like a car out of a Flintstones cartoon – boxy, low, familiar but decidedly different.
My brother, as I recall, got it from someone who had gotten it from Wheelabrator on Speers Road. They were the sponsors and there was a big stylized “W” on the hood. We could repaint the car to make it our own, as long as the “W” was left intact. That was no problem, we decided – we would just tell everyone it was our monogram.
Then came the problem of how to paint it, how to put our stamp on it. Several design theories were proposed and rejected. Then we hit upon a pattern and colour scheme sure to make our little car stand out from the rest, sure to be modern and very 1967 in style. Psychedelic.
My mother bought little cans of paint: red, yellow, blue and black for the lines between the colours. We spent hours in the backyard, painstakingly painting lines and filling them in with colour. The finished pattern looked, well, weird. It was a bit like looking at a tortoise with a pigment imbalance.
But then, my brothers decided it needed a finishing touch. What would be perfect, they said, was my Centennial flag.
I was aghast. This was no mere trinket to be displayed on a gaudy car – it was a symbol of Canada to be passed on to future generations. I protested, refused, shed tears. At last I consented when told that it was meant to be a good luck symbol to help my brother win. And it looked kind of nice, too. But they had to swear that it would be returned to me as soon as the race was finished.
The big day came and we set off for Kerr Street. There was a giant ramp set up in the middle of the road to give the cars the momentum they needed. Crowds of parents and siblings milled around the street, the air filled with tension. The waiting seemed to last forever, until at last the cars appeared at the top of the ramp. The drivers folded themselves into their contraptions. I looked at the other cars. There were some which were much sleeker in design, but none, not a single one other than ours, was quite as colourful.
The checkered flag was lowered and the race began. The cars rolled down the ramp at less-than-lightning speed and were off. They rolled past the clump of spectators and down to the finish line. All except the psychedelic car with the giant “W” on it. It rolled down the ramp all right, and straight into the curb, just missing a clump of spectators. It sat there, my brother behind the wheel, defeated. The steering column was faulty and the wheels just wouldn’t turn, he said. The race was lost.
We took the car home, the boys already planning changes for next year’s model. With one important alteration – the flag would not be on it. It had failed miserably as a good luck token. Besides, it was broken in the crash.
Judy Wedeles
Oakville Today, June 1 1989
