Thank you, Your Honour.

Honourable senators, I will try to read fast, and I don’t have a lot to say, actually. My friend upstairs asked, “Are you going to mention a lot of Cicero?” Well, no, I’m not, not today. This is a different kind of parting speech. It’s about how I got here. Not how I filled out the application, but how I actually got to the chamber. So hopefully you’ll bear with me.

Dear colleagues, I want to thank the security in this grand building, who are willing every day to protect and put their lives on the line for the senators here. They are among the true heroes of our nation, unheralded as they sometimes might be. I also want to thank the Clerk of the Senate, Shaila Anwar, Gérald Lafrenière, Deputy Clerk, and their team, as well as the pages who have been our support team while we are in our seats. I want to thank the Usher of the Black Rod, Greg Peters, a man who —I have come to discover — is of noble and unflappable character.

I would also like to thank the committee clerks for their diligence, the Library of Parliament analysts and the interpreters for theirs, without which no committee could ever function, and thank you to all our dedicated staff.

I would like to thank my Director of Parliamentary Affairs, Diane Lacombe, who has been with me for eight years now, who persistently organized my affairs, meticulously went over my speeches and translated them, corrected my awful spelling and continued day to day to be a true blessing to me as I made my way on this journey, a strange enough journey for me.

And, of course, my wife Peg, who has been with me from the time we were kids, making this drive from Fredericton to Ottawa countless times in winter, spring and fall, making sure, though it wasn’t ever easy, that I was dressed properly when I left for the chamber.

I would like to express my gratitude for all members of the Senate who were kind enough to befriend me at this time in my life — those I agreed with and those I did not — were gracious enough to me and at times kinder to me than anyone else I knew. I thank you all for making my time here a revelatory time in my life.

And how did I get here? I am not so sure.

You see, I am not speaking about how I got here by filling out an application and sending it to the Prime Minister’s Office, and when the Prime Minister did call, I accepted — for when one’s Prime Minister does call, one should answer — if at all — in the affirmative.

No, that is not it. However, I am still wondering how I got from Metcalfe Street into the Centre Block Senate Chamber without being arrested.

For you see, I had no idea where the Senate Chamber was. I had never been on the Hill before. I had seen Parliament Hill in pictures. I had driven by it once, at 11 at night. I was in no position to call myself an expert on Canadian affairs.

The only thing I knew was that Marie Jose Entwistle phoned and asked me to meet her in the foyer of the Senate Chamber, which was in the Centre Block left.

But being as directionless as I am, or often tend to be, I did not know where this left side was — that is, was it on the left of the Centre Block facing me, or was it on my left, which was in the opposite direction? Or was it the building on my right, which was to the Centre Block’s left, which I came to discover was the East Block, or might it be on the Centre Block’s right, which was, as you may guess, on my left, which would be, I discovered, the West Block?

So I started to wander first to the left and then to the right and then to the left and then in complete circles until an RCMP gentleman, who was watching me with some degree of mystification, came over and said, “Can I help you, sir? You seem to be uncertain where you are. You seem to be distracted.”

“Well,” I said, as dignified as possible, “Where do I go,” I said, “to become a senator?”

He looked at me with a certain amount of pity as if to say, “A regular nutbar.”

But he didn’t say that. He did say, “Sir, you have to be chosen.”

Again, trying to be very venerable, I answered after a pause, “Yes, you see, I am chosen.”

“You are chosen?” he queried.

“Quite,” I said. “Yes, I have been chosen, and I am chosen. So since I was chosen, where do I go to get chosen?” “If,” I said, “you know what I mean.”

He put his hands behind his back and looked down upon me, imposingly. “Well, sir, I am not sure what you mean, but I am sure I cannot allow you to go toward the Senate at this moment.”

Actually, he said that.

I looked at him quite perplexed. I shrugged. I looked to the right and left. Then I said very sternly, “Well, if not now, when?” I blinked. I blinked rapidly. Trying to show I was harmless.

By this time, another RCMP gentleman walked over. He, however, seemed to recognize me in some mysterious way. I, by the way, was trying to look as distinguished as possible.

“Oh,” he said, “you are the new senator from New Brunswick?”

“That is me,” I said.

And so he directed me toward the Senate Chamber, where dear Marie Jose was waiting. I imagine both these officers were thinking, “A new senator. He’s got the brain of a houseplant.”

However, though most people here might know that I am easily confused and discombobulated, I don’t think I have the brain of a houseplant.

Then came the big day I was to enter the Red Chamber. I awoke early that morning and decided to get ready, to look as spiffy as possible. But then as soon as I looked at my big, heavy, brand-new shoes, I started to worry. Since I have long been almost completely unstable on my feet, I asked Peggy if I actually had to wear shoes. “Might it be better all around for everyone concerned if I didn’t wear shoes? Just bigger socks?”

“Why?”

“I am going to trip and fall flat on my ass.”

“No,” she said.

“Wait and see — wait and see — I am going to trip —”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” I said, “you wait and see — I’ll be fine.”

So that moment did come, as we senators know, and I walked toward the two senators who were to guide me in: Senator Harder and the late Senator McCoy. Both these senators I learned to admire very much. And as I was coming into the foyer to meet them, a photographer said, “Mr. Richards, look this way.” I did and walked headlong into one of the Canadian flags guarding the Senate Chamber.

It would not have fallen over, I don’t think, but how was I to know? So I grabbed it quickly and aggressively with both arms extended as the picture was taken, a look of sudden panic on my face. It did actually look as if I was trying to strangle it.

So I was very worried that some paper would print that picture the next morning with the caption: “Newest Senator David Adams Richards hates our Canadian flag.”

However, that did not happen, and I came to this chamber and was welcomed by some of the finest and brightest people I have ever met.

There are some regrets. I never stood on a point of order, for I wasn’t really sure what a point of order was. I felt I would have made my mark if I had stood just once and said, “Point of order, Your Honour.” However, I was never able to do that.

Nor did I ever introduce a bill. I would have liked to, but I really couldn’t think of one. Don’t you worry; if I had thought of one, I certainly would have introduced it.

I have sat with three groups and as an unaffiliated senator twice. I have supported some government bills, but most of them I didn’t. Nor would I if they came forward again. I didn’t support them only because I felt they were bad for our country. I feel that way now.

I relied upon my speeches to inform the public that Canada deserves better than the bills sometimes coming across from the other place. But that is the way it was and is.

As one biographer said about me:

By the time he was nineteen, not only did David Adams Richards disagree with authority, he disagreed with everyone who disagreed with authority — he must have been impossible to live with.

Well, I leave that to others to decide.

I have lived most of my life as a semi-recluse, doing my books. But I have met so many grand people here who gave me their friendships as a blessing.

Make no mistake; the Senate is essential to Canada. Without it, no government could function. I have become aware of how great and important this Red Chamber is. If we speak of greater issues, not our own, we might do a bit better. For if we all threw our little problems into the centre of this floor, all of us would pick up our own problems again.

Let us try to remember that the individual is everything or life is nothing. No governmental policy or self-indulgent angst can ever change that.

Let us remember, too, that God calls upon us not to be comfortable but to be great.

As one of my characters once said in a book long ago, “I love you all.” So I think I will leave you with that.