In 1997 my son, Adam, decided to go on a Trans-Canada adventure. This was a bold move for him. He was going alone and taking the train from Toronto to Vancouver. He was going to get off at any station that took his fancy. One trip was to Churchill, Manitoba. At the time of writing, Churchill has been cut-off from the rest of Canada because a storm washed away the train line, which is the only way to access Churchill, except by plane.

My only request was that he call me from each station and leave a message as to where he was. Cell phones were very expensive back then and cellular coverage was in its infancy. If anything happened to him, we would have a point to start looking for him. Morbid, but practical.

In late August I took him to the train station and we said our good-byes. As requested, Adam let me know where he was and that all was well.

All was well until I got a call from him on a Friday afternoon. He was stranded in Saskatoon. Apparently, the train he was supposed to get was cancelled until the next morning. “Dad”, he started, in the whiny voice he used when he wanted something. “the local hostel doesn’t have any showers and I can’t afford a hotel, what should I do?” I said, “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back in 15 minutes.

I fired up my computer and looked up the phone number for the Jewish Community Centre of Saskatoon. Fortunately, it was still early there and the phoned was answered immediately.

I introduced myself and explained the situation. The girl on the other end asked me to call back in 15 minutes. I called Adam and brought him up-to-date.

15 minutes later I phoned back to the Jewish Community Centre. The girl told me that she had arranged for a couple to go out to the station and pick Adam up. But she needed to know what he looked like. I told her that he was drop-dead gorgeous, but that he needed to be washed, laundered and fed.

I called Adam back and told him the news. “But dad”, again with the whiny voice, “what if they want me to go to synagogue with them?” “Adam, take an hour out of your busy schedule and go.”, I shot back, sarcastically.

I didn’t hear from him the next day, Saturday, nor Sunday. On Monday I phoned and spoke to the girl at the JCC and got the number of the couple who had “rescued” Adam.

I phoned the couple and the wife answered. I introduced myself and asked, “What did you do with my son?” “Oh, Russell, we had so much fun with him. We picked him up at the train station, brought him home, washed, laundered and fed him and then we took him to synagogue for the Friday night service.” I’m laughing to myself at the irony. She continued, “Then Saturday morning we found out the train was going to be 4 more hours and so we took him back to the synagogue for the Saturday morning service and we made him carry the torah. Then we took him to the train station.” I was still laughing as I thanked them for being so helpful.

A few days later I get a call from Adam. He was now in Vancouver. “Dad”, again with the whiny voice. “What’s up, my son?”, I enquired, dutifully. “Dad, it’s the eve of Rosh Hashannah, and I’ve got nowhere to go.” “Wait right there and I’ll call you back shortly.” Deja vue, all over again.

This time I phoned the local Reform Synagogue and explained my concerns. Within a few minutes they found a family willing to go and get him and bring him back for dinner. I gave Adam the news.

20 years later and Adam is still friends with the kids of the parents who picked him up.