My Truly Canadian Olympic Games Moment

I have been really enjoying the Winter Olympics.

To the point of distraction.

Staying up far too late watching skiing and ski jumping and moguls and snowboarding and half pipe and speed skating and figure skating and dance skating and …

.. and curling

.. and hockey.

The one point of these Vancouver games that I anticipated was "how would they light the Olympic Torch?" – that big mammoth glorified gas fireplace that sits above the city for all to see for the duration of the game – only to be snuffed at the end with the remainder of the flame shipped back to Greece to be stored like Lord Stanley's Cup.

"Where would they put it?", I wondered.

"Why up in the mountains – on Whistler –so high it would shine down on all like the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles", I answered myself.

You should worry when you answer your own questions – or so they tell me. Especially me. I am usually giving myself bad information.

But my answer made perfect sense - to me.

"So how would they light it?", I countered myself again.

Well let's see.

In Atlanta – they had Muhammad Ali light it. That was a wonderful scene – the great Ali in heroic fashion mastering his challenges to ignite the flame.

Moving - In true American style.

In Barcelona they had an Archer stand at the bottom of the great arena – and the last runner of the torch lit the end of the Archer's arrow – and he shot it up into the sky – landing in the center of the caldron – and igniting the Olympic flame!

Legendary – in true Spanish flare!

In Beijing – the entire upper wall of the arena depicted scenes from all across China – and a runner ran all the way around the huge electronic banner and lit the flame at the end.

Honorable – in true Chinese tradition.

So how would Canada do it?

"I know, they could have a ski jump above the torch, and a ski-jumper slide down the great ramp – floating as only a ski-jumper can – and land inside the torch to ignite the flame - but who would we sacrifice at these games? You couldn't survive that, could you?"

But Vancouver trumped my expectations.

Vancouver selected Wayne Gretzky – the Great One – old 99 himself – to be the lighter of the torch.

The Great One was selected above others such as Terry Fox's mother – the young man who ran across Canada after losing a leg to Cancer – to raise awareness of Cancer across our entire Country – only succumb to it before he could finish his quest.

He is truly our greatest Canadian ever.

If Terry Fox were still with us – I would hope he would have had the honor.

"So what would the Great One do? Light a hockey puck on fire and shoot it into the torch? That would be really cool."

Nope.

Ya see, here is what they did.

They got a yellow pickup truck.

And they gave the Great One the torch – and they made him stand up in the back of the pick-up.

And then – in the pouring rainy mist that only Vancouver can muster year around – they made old ninety-nine hold that torch up and they drove him through downtown Vancouver – to the hidden location of the great Olympic Torch ...

(which weren't on no mountain at all - it was locked up tight downtown - so no one could snatch it)

... and they unlocked the gate so he could get in, and he walked over to the torch and lit it.

Ta-da!

In true humble and modest Canadian fashion.

Oh my.

I kept waiting for the pick-up truck to pull into a Tim Horton's donut shop to get an extra large double-double for the trip – or maybe stop at the beer store to grab a two-four of Labatt's or Molson's.

The Olympic Beer Run tradition would have been started right here in Canada.

Now that's Canadiana, baby!

I do love my country so very much. And in a way – I do think The Great One's lift in the back of a pick-up was a fitting tribute to our mighty land of hosers.

Bob and Doug McKenzie would have been prouder than punch.

And we all have another wonderful Olympic memory.

So for all the wondrous - and disastrous – things that have happened in these 2010 Olympic Games in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada …

The lighting of the torch is still the highlight of the games to me.

I plan to talk about if for a long, long time.

Turtle Club Baseball Is Back

Baseball started today.

The Turtle Club in LaSalle, Ontario started their winter clinics.

The Turtle Club has a great little setup in a gymnasium down the street from the famed Essex Golf and Country Club. There are five little workstations for throwing, ground ball and pop fly practice, and two batting stations.

Each of the thirty little girls in our session was eager to be there.

Faces smiling.

Trying hard.

And no one complaining to go home.

Baseballs bouncing on a gymnasium floor. Coaches standing with the kids helping them get their fingers right on the ball, stepping through to get leverage on the ball. Elbows raised and hands positioned on the handle of the bat to strike the waffle ball on the tee with force.

Balls bouncing off of heads in the pop fly station.

Balls being whipped at coaches in ground ball station.

It's wonderful.

In an icy cold January like this one, I need any hint of summer that I can get.

Sure, there is no smell of fresh cut diamond grass, or no red clay, or the chalk of the baselines yet.

Not yet.

But there is baseball, and baseball is alive in the hearts of my girls.

Alannah and Ashley-Rae did well. I was happy with how hard they were trying – and in how fgood they were doing. They were paying attention – not spinning around while waiting their turn – doing dance moves and chatting and giggling with their friends.

They cared.

That's all I can possibly ask.

You can't make a kid like baseball. They either like it or they don't.

And at least for this first practice, they liked baseball.

I know some of you may wonder why this means so much to me. But it does.

The Turtle Club is a fantastic organization, their facilities are just around the corner from our house, and most times when we go someplace, we drive right by it. And when we do we look down the laneway as we pass and we all remember how pretty it is there in the spring and summer – the green white and yellow colors of the parks and clubhouse – the old fashioned white scoreboards with numbers hung by hand in the squares.

The history there is grand. National titles and trips to the Little League World Series by Turtle Club teams.

It means something.

I want my daughters to grow up being a part of the Turtle Club. To have the experience with them of being a part of such an organization while they grow up. To contribute to such an organization – to care about something and give back to it.

To learn sportsmanship and team work.

And maybe even learn some leadership skills – if the opportunities present themselves.

Opportunities always present themselves.

Last year I took a stab at becoming a Turtle Club coach. But they didn't seem to think my application and references were up to their standards. And that was ok. So I helped out where I could.

But this isn't about me. I'm happy to assist however they ask me to.

So here we sit on the last day of January – the first day of Turtle Club baseball. And I am so delighted that it started on such a fantastic note.

Most other little kids in Canada right now are wrapped up in hockey or ringette right now. Both are fantastic sports in their own rite. Both teach the exact same things – but in different ways.

But to me there is something special about baseball, and what it can offer a little kid. And what a little kid can learn from learning such a diverse set of skills.

So for this moment I am savoring how positive 2010 baseball started out this morning.

And I think the best is yet to come.

Suddenly January doesn't feel so cold anymore.

Suddenly spring doesn't feel so far away.

The Turtle Club is playing baseball again.

Even if it is inside a gymnasium.

The Good Stuff

It's a Monday. And I am once again sitting out on the back deck beside the pool with my faithful black lab Suzy lying at my feet.

Only today it is cold out.

The pool is covered by the new black tarp we bought to replace the last one Suzy ripped when she wandered out on to the tarp to get one of her chewy toys.

I dug my brown suede winter coat out, and my cup of warm coffee turns cold quickly.

The tree behind us has changed to a brilliant crimson red. Not many leaves have fallen yet, but some lay in the rain water collected in the black tarp.

Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. A good long weekend perfect for finishing up the yard work projects on my property.

I have spent the last two days working on the yard, pulling weeds clearing the flower beds and trying to figure out how to make my lawn look as good as it once did using only the "green" fertilizer and weed-killer products available now to us in Canada.

They outlawed the good stuff.

That's what we all call the lawn fertilizers and weed killers we used to put on our lawns to keep them pristine and lush and full. The good stuff. You just can't buy that stuff anymore. The chemicals in those products were deemed to be hazardous to the environment.

A fellow came by in the spring to roll and dethatch my front lawn. As he was making his pitch for us to use his services all year long, he proclaimed "I only use the good stuff. I have it stockpiled in my barn".

My neighbor across the street has the best lawn in the neighborhood. Even as winter approaches his lawn is a deep rich green lush and full with not a single bad patch on the lot.

You kind of want to take your shoes off and go run around on this guy's lawn.

How does he do it?

I can see a bunch of riding lawn mower fanatics gathering over beers in a garage to discuss why the one neighbor's lawn looks so good.

"I hear he's using the good stuff", one would whisper.

"Really? Wonder where he gets his?" would reply the flannel shirt wearing buddy.

"Word is he gets it from the co-op!" would say the third.

"Let's go!" they would all mutually agree – and hop into the fourth guys pick-up truck to go investigate the underground network supply of good stuff fertilizers and weed killers, only to find the co-op had no such inventory.

At least none that they would share.

We have become quite used to depending on these products to make our properties look as good as we can. Now we will have to do it the old fashioned way – pulling weeds – making up concoctions from recipes we find on the internet to keep those nasty weeds and crabgrass at bay.

These concoctions could be more deadly than the environmentalist's claim the good stuff was.

Some urban centers are dealing with "meth labs" – people manufacturing their own methamphetamine – a nasty horrible addictive drug that seemingly destroys people's lives by merely thinking about it.

But in Canada, we will now also have homemade labs for making fertilizers, weed-killers and pesticides. To replace the good stuff we all became so dependent on.

The United States has not gone so far as to regulate these yard care products as Canada has. In fact I am not sure if all the other provinces in Canada even have.

It may only be Ontario that is trying to lead the way in the regulation of domestic fertilizers and weed killers.

I can see those same bunch of guys now – disappointed by their inability to get their hands on the good stuff from the local agriculture co-op – scheming and plotting their trip across the bridge or tunnel to the American side – a small lawn and garden shop in the suburbs of Detroit – to get their stash of the good stuff and smuggle it back into Canada – back into Ontario – hiding the massive pile in the flat bed of the pickup truck under a pile of blankets.

Nervously they pull up to the customs officer's booth on the Canadian side of the Ambassador Bridge.

"Do you have anything to declare?" the officer would ask the group of four suburban home owners.

"Uh – nope" would say the driver.

"Any guns, alcohol, firearms?"

"Nope".

"Any tobacco products, meats, vegetables?"

"Nope"

The officer steps outside the comfort of his secured roost in the booth and walks around the pickup truck.

"That's a lot of blankets." He would say. As he lifted the small pile up, he would discover the stockpile of the good stuff.

The boys would be told they couldn't bring such toxic products into Ontario – and the stockpile of the good stuff would be seized – the foursome warned not to ever try that trick again – and they would be sent home.

Is it right or wrong that these fertilizers and weed killers be banned from our province? I don't know.

But it does say something about our culture in that we feel the need to keep our lawns so perfect that we are willing to contaminate our environment – our ecosystem with these chemicals that must do some kind of harm to us and the wildlife that lives in suburbia.

Truth be told, I still have two bags of the good stuff. Left over from last year. I was smart enough to stock pile away.

But I haven't used it. I thought I would give this green experiment a try. And this year my lawn was so bad I was an embarrassment to the neighbors. Yesterday I pulled three big lawn bags of weeds from my front lawn. Weeds that I have no idea where they came from. Stuff that I have never seen grow in a lawn before. Four hours of back breaking bending, yanking and pulling. Even my super-duper weed pulling device I bought this spring couldn't get some of them.

So am I tempted to go dip into my stash of the good stuff?

Damn right I am.

One night next spring – around two in the morning, I will make sure all the lights are off in my house. I will go around to all my solar powered garden lights and disassemble them so they will not give me away. And in the pitch black of night I will feed my spreader with the good stuff and apply it to my lawn.

Because I think my lawn is addicted to the stuff.

And I can't stand to watch it go through another summer next year of withdrawal.

Yet Another Foot Of Snow

Well, we made it halfway through January.

So far, so good.

In Windsor it just keeps snowing. And the temperature has been sub-zero Fahrenheit for the last week.

I pulled an icicle off the Christmas lights on the garage (coincidentally the lights are shaped like icicles too), and the icicle was reaching down to the ground cave-like, like a stalagmite in a Kentucky tourist attraction.

This isn't Windsor weather?

We don't get snow?

We certainly don't get a foot at a time and have it stay around waiting for the next foot-at-a-time snow fall.

Something is wrong with this Global Warming theory.

Because it's freaking cold!

At work we have a smoking shed. All of us contemptible smokers stand in this shed together. By Ontario law, our little shed cannot be totally enclosed. So to ensure our shed meets this law, our company high-priests determined that both the walls at each end – the front and the back – be removed.

So what is left resembles a carport for a motorcycle. And not even big enough for a real bike like a Harley-Davidson. They should just put a bicycle rack at the far end to justify the structure.

It's a wind tunnel to test one's ability to withstand the most miserable weather conditions.

This is a law I have never personally seen and doubt really exists – but instead is a concoction of those anti-smoking fascists right left winged do-gooders who insists we must live healthier lifestyles that do not offend their personal sense of right and wrong.

The point is that it is very cold in our smoking shed. We all huddle together as we smoke to block the wind and to keep warm. A couple of romances have sprung from this practice, or so I have been told.

During one of our huddling exercises, as we looked at the ever increasing level of snow on the ground, we started talking about sledding. Sleds and toboggans. Amazingly the do-gooders I mentioned earlier have not yet banned sledding or tobogganing.

I started to reminisce about my brief childhood life in Apple Valley Minnesota.

I was about eleven or twelve then. We lived on the top of a large hill in a brand new subdivision. And directly across the street, the developers had put in a park. That park had a bicycle path that started right across from my house, went down a steep slope and leveled slightly to run down between the houses and into a little woodland area where the path became very curvy.

In the summer it was mildly fun to ride our bikes on this path.

But in the winter – as the snow hardened and slicked down – it became the perfect raceway for those sleds that have metal runner and you steer with your feet. I think mine was called a "Red Flyer". You could really get a good three minute run off this path – and go like stink.

But we didn't steer with our feet on our sleds. We laid down on our bellies and used our hands. And it seemed like we went ten times faster.

We had no helmets, only wool caps or tuques. We had no padding other than our snowmobile suites. In Minnesota – like Northern Ontario – cool people wear snowmobile suites.

You would start in the middle of the street, and you would run as fast as you could towards the start of the path – holding your sled up in front of you.

You can only run so fast in snowmobile boots.

When you got to the start of the path, you would start your dive – moving the sled under you as you came to the ground – landing on it with head at the front and hands on the steering handles.

The odd kid would miss, landing on his chin. They usually went home when that happened.

When you got down into the woodland stretch of the trail, you had to quickly weave around the trees. That was the fun part. But I don't ever remember any of us getting hurt by slamming into a tree. We were wearing tuques and snowmobile suites, remember?

That was probably the only part I remember liking about Minnesota winters.

The snow in Apple Valley wouldn't melt away until mid-May.

I wish I could show this kind of fun to my little girls. But I haven't seen a Red Flyer sled for many years. They are probably made out of plastic now. In China.

But all of Essex County is very flat. We would have to drive two hours up the 401 to London to actually find a hill we could really sled down.

As I was regaling my huddled smoking buddies with this tale, they looked at me. Only those not born and raised in Windsor knew what I was talking about.

Because Windsor has always been flat. And Windsor rarely gets snow.

Perhaps the world environmentalists are correct that our world is changing.

But it is confusing to see the icebergs melting in the Arctic Circle in the summertime, and stalagmite-style icicles growing down my garage in minus twenty degree temperatures in the Winter.

Right now - at minus twelve degrees Celsius – I am tempted to take two aerosol cans of Pam non-stick cooking spray – the butter tasting kind - and point them up to the ozone. And spray them until they are empty.

And all the while I would yell "Come on Global Warming!!".

Because it's freaking cold outside.

Big Brother Little Brother

The relationship between Canada and The United States is an interesting one.

Perhaps it is more misleading than interesting.

I do not mean politically. Nor foreign policy. Although both those relationships are equally puzzling.

Instead I mean the relationship of the nations peoples. Like national siblings.

I have at this point lived exactly half of my life on both sides of the U.S. – Canada border.

The basic foundation of the relationship is generally that the Canadians think little of Americans and claim they – not the Americans - hold the high moral ground.

Americans – on the other hand – rarely take time to consider Canada's opinion and most often consider Canada an extension of itself with much more liberal and socialist laws.

To most Americans, Canada is a huge wilderness north of the border dominated by polar bears, moose, drunkards and pot-heads. The bad weather comes down from Canada, and the bad guys do their best to escape north to Canada. Other than that – how Canadians feel about Americans is basically not an American's concern.

And I think this point drives the Canadians crazy!

The Canadian on the other hand has no choice but to concern themselves with everything American. Their television is inundated with American shows, news, gossip, movies, and sports. Either by the fact they are watching American networks or that the Canadian networks pick up American content.

And quite often Canadians know more about The States than they do about their own country.

Many Canadians believe that when a police officer arrests someone in Canada – that their Miranda rights – "You have the right to remain silent ... anything you say can and will be used in a court of law…" – when in fact there is no such statement that must be read to you on Canadian soil.

More Canadians know who the first President of the United States was than who the first Prime Minister of Canada was.

Canadians have a low opinion in general terms of the American population. They consider them to be rude, pushy, and just downright obnoxious. Of course this is true of some Americans – some I have known – but it is also true of some Canadians – some I have known.

Now there are exceptions to the American populous ignorance of Canada. Border cities like Detroit, and Buffalo are more keenly aware of their cross-border neighbors. Those areas receive Canadian television content from such networks as the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation).

In fact – a very odd twist I am seeing now in Detroit – amongst hockey fans – is a desire to be more recognized by the Canadians CBC broadcast team of Hockey Night In Canada. Canadians consider hockey to be "their game". And therefore the best players of the game must be Canadians. This point is most poignantly and eloquently proclaimed by the iconic god of Canadian hockey analysts – Don Cherry. Being as flambouyant and significant an influence in Canadian culture as well as The self-proclaimed hockey subject matter expert – he gives little public recognition to the Detroit Red Wings – clearly the best team in the NHL now for its second straight year and a dominant contender for nearly a decade.

But the Red Wings are full of Europeans. Great Europeans. Pavel Datsyuk, Henrik Zetterberg, Tomas Holstram, and Nicklas Nystram – to only name a few. And there has always been a belief by Grapes (as Mr. Cherry is affectionately nicknamed) – that European hockey of finesse is not real "Rock-em-sock-em" hockey. And those players skilled with finesse are not real hockey players.

So Mr. Cherry chooses not to applaud the Red Wings as much as Detroit fans and sports media aficionados may like. Certainly not as much as they really deserve.

And the Detroit sports fans and media are very critical – quite openly – and quite passionately – of Mr. Cherry's attitude towards the Red Wings.

But the point is not whether Don Cherry likes European players – he prefers his good old Canadian boys by far – and promotes them whenever possible – which is his perceived role as a Canadian Ambassador of Hockey – but instead the point is – to me – a person very cognizant of both sides of the border …

This group of Americans care about what this group of Canadians think!

The only other time I have ever seen such American concern for a Canadian opinion was when Canada refused to participate in the war with Iraq – instead continuing its focus on fighting Afghanistan.

I for one watch both sides of the border and I laugh. Because both sides are really so much more similar than different. Both sides hold racists views only the are targeted at different victims. Both hold very similar principles and moral beliefs but where they differ they treat the difference as though they are irreconcilable. Both hold strong patriotic emotions – and both wave their own flags a bit too much.

I find it fascinating. I find it frustrating.

And because I have lived for extensive and equal periods on both sides of the border – I see both sides hypocrisies.

And I find them delightful.

Ring-What?

There are a number of games played on the Canadian winter season ice.

There is ice skating on frozen ponds.

There is hockey.

There is curling – which if you don't know – is a shuffle board like game where each team tries to slide large heavy polished rocks into a target on the other side of the ice, and the team with the most rocks near the target wins. It's a great game of skill, accuracy and strategy.

And then there is ringette.

"Ring-what?"

Ringette. It's a game very similar to hockey. But very different in several key ways:

The players use a hockey stick – with the blade cut off – so they only use the shaft. The butt of the stick is taped.

The puck is replaced by a heavy rubber ring – like the one you probably played ring toss with when you were young.

The players pass the ring to each other much like hockey players passing the puck, but the skill in ringette is in receiving – catching the pass – because instead of just letting the puck hit the blade of your stick as in hockey, the ringette player has to lift their stick and try to put the end down in the middle of the ring as it slides by.

There are also some other significant rules that distinguish it from hockey – like the one that states that no offensive player can put a skate or a blade in the goalie crease, and no offensive player can play defense behind a line on their own side.

You know – rules.

But the key to ringette is trapping that ring on the end of your stick – and then slinging it off the end for a pass or a shot on net.

Oh, and ringette – at this point anyways – is pretty much played by the female gender.

So as the father of a seven and six year old girls, I was very interested to see ringette again.

The ringette I saw played this year was pretty elite. While visiting my cousin Sarah's family at their log cabin outside of Cambridge, Ontario – Sarah insisted that we attend a special game being played that day. The game was between two elite teams: The Paris Ontario Ringette Association's under 20 girls playing two Team Canada Squads representing those on or trying out for Canada's national team.

And this game was played the day before Team Canada made its final cuts.

To make it even more interesting, there were two girls from the Paris Ringette association trying out for Team Canada this day. And the crowd was torn between rooting for the Team Canada rookies, and their hometown squad.

I sat and watched this game. I was not new to ringette. Sarah has been involved with this sport with her Dad (my Uncle Fred) since she was little and living in London, Ontario. Together they started and founded the Ringette association in Mitchell, Ontario. And now Sarah is continuing the tradition for her two daughters Justine and Paige – to carry Ringette into the next generation. She is proud of the exceptional executive committee she is a part of.

When I was young and living in Minnesota, I played a little hockey. Very little – and probably very poorly. When we visited my Uncle Fred's one Christmas, he and Sarah invited my brother Paul and I out to skate a practice with them.

I still remember that day – and how incredibly fun it was. And how difficult it was to catch that stupid ring on the end of my stick. And how humbling it was to have younger girls skating circles around me.

As I sat and watched the warm ups for the game, Sarah explained to me why the older girls were skating with the younger girls from the younger teams.

"This is a very important part of ringette", explained Sarah. "Part of this games culture is to expose the younger players to the older players, on and off the ice, to help them learn and grow quicker".

So ringette also teaches team members to also be role models.

And as I looked around the ice at both the Paris and Team Canada skaters, they were each doing their part to help and inspire the younger Parisian skaters. The Team Canada goalie was talking to the younger Parisian goalie about how to get down quicker to the ice to block low shots.

As the game began, I was blown away by the skating skills of both sides. Better than the best boys I have seen. Faster and quicker spins and turns than I have seen at the AAA OHL level. It was an incredible vision of players weaving so quickly through each other that it almost seemed like positions were only a formality for score cards.

The skill and accuracy of the pass making – moving the ring to open ice and watching the team mate sling over to pick it on the end of her stick up the middle of the ice, whip it outside to the wing, and receive it back on the end of her stick and in the same motion fling it powerfully at the net for a shot – only to have the sprawling keeper block it away.

It was at least as exciting as hockey. And because the player has the ring on the end of their stick – the skating they can do – the spins and cuts and twists are so much more exciting.

It is really something to see.

If you were to ask a hockey player about ringette, he would likely tell you it's for girls.

But if you asked a hockey player to go play ringette with these girls, he would likely decline the offer.

Because hockey players do not want to be shown up by a bunch of girls.

Catching Economic Pneumonia

The American Automobile Industry is in serious trouble.

Chrysler and GM are both faced with potential bankruptcy situations. The American federal government is struggling with finding a way to bail them out – hesitant to throw money at a problem where money won't likely solve the plight but instead only post-pone it.

The outlook at this moment is very gloomy for the Motor City of Detroit. This is a town that has already seen itself erode away to a mere shadow of its former metropolis status – with no signs of healing as city political scandals and racial tensions continue to undermine any chance of recovery.

What many American's may not know is that there is also a great deal of the Automobile Manufacturing done on the other side of the Detroit River – in my hometown of Windsor, Ontario. Since the dawn of the industrial revolution brought on by Henry Ford's invention of the mass assembly line, Windsor has hosted major manufacturing facilities for the Big Three – as well as all the supporting services such as tool and dye shops for parts manufacturing.

The vast majority of employment in Windsor is directly related to the manufacturing of American automobiles.

Over the last three years, we have seen plant shut downs and companies going out of business as the Big Three continue to crumble under pressures of low car sales, high gas prices, and the cost of a unionized labor force.

The Canadian federal government is also looking at ways to assist the Canadian Big Three entities. But much like the Americans, they realize that simply throwing money at these problems will not resolve the crisis at hand.

Over the past three years strides have been made in the quality of the Big Three products, as well as the fuel consumption. And the Unions have made some concessions to ease the burden on the Big Three. But in both Detroit and Windsor, the public outcry is a finger pointed right at "foreign" automotive manufacturers.

Right up the 401 from Windsor in Woodstock is the Cami Automotive assembly plant – jointly operated by GM and Suzuki. Up the highway further is the Toyota manufacturing plant in Cambridge. Each is supported by the same parts manufacturers, trucking firms, and suppliers used by the Big Three. As well, there a numerous plants across the United States manufacturing the "foreign" automobiles.

Yet Ford sends their parts to be assembled for many of their models in Mexico.

Quite clearly, the collapse of the Big Three is larger than just North America. The scope of impact of such a collapse would be felt in absolutely every sector of every economy in every country on the planet.

Yet as one drives through Detroit – you see all kinds of signs, billboards and bumper stickers urging their population to "Buy American". And oddly enough, Windsor – a Canadian city - has bumper stickers quoting "Want to lose your job? Keep buying foreign cars!".

I don't think those Canadian Auto Workers realize their American Auto Workers think of them as foreigners taking American Jobs away.

And I can only wonder what the bumper stickers in Mexico say.

If I were a betting man – which I am not – I would bet on the Big Three declaring bankruptcy. I would bet on the Big Three status to be in receivership by the end of 2009. And I would bet that the Big Three would find themselves being completely restructured – and in the end – find themselves to be much more capable of doing business in this new global economy.

Sometimes when something is really broken badly, it has to be completely taken apart, the damaged parts replaced or redesigned, and then put back together again.

And that is what I see about to happen to General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler.

And the World economy will catch a bad cold, but heal.

The North American economy will catch pneumonia but it will survive.

But Detroit and Windsor will disappear as we know them today.

The Last Day of Turtles

After six months of Saturday and Sunday practices in a gymnasium, with outdoor practices and then games taking place on the infamous Turtle Club ball diamonds; today was the wrap up of both Alannah's Red Timbits T-Ball team, and Ashley-Rae's Green McDonalds Blast-Ball team games.

The season ended today with the Turtles Club annual Tournament of Champions.

The progress made by Alannah's T-Ball team since those first days of gymnasium clinics has been pretty astounding. Remember that explaining baseball to a child for the first time is a huge educational task. The game is not easy to figure out until it has been instilled as a part of personal experience.

Now, after six months of dedicated coaching by persons I can only describe as Saints of Patience, not only do the girls know how to throw a ball, catch another player's throw, field a ground ball, and hit the ball off the tee to a target area where the opposition has left a gap in their coverage – but they now even know where the next play is to be made – and what their role in that play is. Each infielder covers their base. Outs made by infielders throwing the hitter out at first are common.

It's an incredible example of progress and player development.

The fifty year old Turtle Club's facilities are exceptional. Six quality diamonds, each perfectly fenced with nice dugouts and groomed with perfectly cut grass, orange clay dirt with perfectly straight white chalk lines defining the boundaries of each field. Bleachers that change from shade to sun found on each side of each diamond make watching a game a pleasure. And three parking lots intertwined through the facilities accommodate the traffic of the busiest game days.

Like this weekend's Tournament of Champions.

Between games, Alannah and I would go watch the big girls play fast pitch softball. Today the Turtle Club's under-seventeen girls travelling team was playing a Michigan clubs traveling team. The flags of each country were proudly stretched across the back of each team's dugout. The pitchers of both teams wind-milling their underhand pitches at speeds comparable to boys overhand pitching.

Alannah and I sat and watched three innings of this game – sitting in the shade of the bleachers. Watching the girls hit line drives, steal bases, and turn double plays.

"This is the kind of ball you will play when you get older, Alannah." , I said to my eldest daughter as she watched the big girls with wide eyed amazement.

The announcer on the PA speakers announced the next batter. Her name was Alannah. Alannah looked at me with her mouth wide open. Then she sat and watched the older Canadian Alannah drill a line drive into left center field, through a gap, for a stand up triple, and driving in two runs.

Alannah stood up and clapped real loud for her older namesake.

"Dad, do you think I will be that good?", asked Alannah.

"If you practice real hard and try your best, I bet you could, Alannah", I answered. "You might even play on this team."

"Wow – that would be sooo cool."

"Yes, Alannah. Yes it would".

So now that the season is over, and the girls have their participant trophies, I find myself sad that the 2008 season is over. I will admit that in mid March – after two months of 9:00 AM Saturday and Sunday gymnasium practices, I was ready for this day to come a quarter of a year ago. But now it is over. And Alannah has grown to become a ball player. Perhaps not a great player, or maybe not even good yet, depending on your criteria for judgment. But a ball player is a ball player.

And ball players are my favorite kind of people.

Now I fully recognize that things may change in Alannah's mind as the next six months unfold. But I hope some of her accomplishments, achievements, and the things she saw the big girls do will stay with her and she will still want to be a ball player again next year.

And if she does, there is no better place to play ball than with the Turtle Club.

A Week of Work in Maple Leaf Nation

It was the best of weeks, and it was the worst of weeks.

Yeah, I know ... a bit cliché don’t you think?

True, but it was.

A work week in Toronto for me is 4 days too long. But we got so much done. And as I alluded to earlier, I was dropped off at the train station by my loving family as they headed to the Grandma’s house for Alannah’s seventh birthday.

The purpose of this trip was two-fold; the first to get sign off by staff members that we had accurately captured their business processes in use case documents stuffed with diagrams and narrative to describe the diagrams. The second reason to portray our vision of what the final solution would achieve and even look like for them. The former would consume the early days of the week, the latter the later days.

The temperature was minus 34 degrees Celsius and the sidewalks were layered by thick uneven ice barricaded by high banks of snow on both sides.

I must say that I do enjoy our counterparts in the Toronto office. Walking through the door, I feel like I am home in our Windsor office. We were greeted warmly and set up in the large boardroom to begin our exercises.

As the various staff came into our meetings – new faces appeared that we had not interviewed in earlier visits. So as expected, new tasks and variations to the processes we discussed were uncovered. We captured these variations and recorded them into what we hope will now finally be the final documentation of how things currently work.

This process carried on from Monday through Wednesday, each day ending with piles of red-marked documents to be revised. Each evening we as a team would go and have dinner – a nice steak one night, seafood the next. Each meal with a couple of beers and great conversation about what we had learned or uncovered that day, and how these revelations fit into our vision. Our vision was still solid and accurate.

On the third day we were relocated from the big executive boardroom to a smaller version. The Board of Directors were in the office this day, and the red carpet rolled out – as it should be – to accommodate their efforts. This evening our company executives had taken over our hotel lounge. The conversation was excellent, so we hung around and enjoyed the type of camaraderie that our company is famous for.

The Maple Leafs game was on the TV in the hotel lounge. They were playing the Sabers in Buffalo. And they were losing. Again like so often, by a single goal. And our eyes drifted to the big LCD TV to watch the high definition play by play.

The Executives jeered our loyalty to the Leafs, in good humor of course. One was a Windsor boy who roots for the Red Wings, the other from Calgary, who roots for the Flames. Having gone through my high school years in Atlanta, I am always quick to point out to him that I rooted for the Flames in Atlanta long before he had ever heard of them.

But it is hard to be a Maple Leafs fan.

The next day was the presentation of our vision. The executives were still in the building, and interested in the session. And it was going well. Very well.

It was also Valentines day.

Around the table we made a common statement that one of these trips we were going to get our hands on Maple Leaf tickets. They are impossible to get, sold out nearly every game – and when tickets could be found – they were priced beyond reasonable expectation.

“I doubt they would be sold out on Valentines Day”, said one supervisor.

“This is the time they usually release their unsold tickets”, stated another.

“Let’s give it a try”, said Peter – our team leader – and the presenter of our Vision presentation.

Jamie launched his web browser to the Ticket Master website. I went down to the lobby of the building to have a smoke. Yes, I started smoking again. Naturally, when it’s minus thirty-four degrees Celsius outside.

Both Peter and Jamie are die-hard Leaf fans. I couldn’t bear to witness the disappointment of not finding tickets once again.

When I returned, Jamie said “I hope you wanted to go to the Leaf’s game tonight”.

“You got some?” I turned and asked.

Jamie beamed a proud nod.

“How much?” I asked.

“Eighty-seven bucks” came the reply. “And I already bought you one”.

“Ahh .. uhhh … errr – great! Thanks! I’ll pay back when we get home.”

I hadn’t budgeted for a hockey game. It was Valentines Day. Darlene was already mad that I was away for it. To tell her I was going to a Maple Leafs game … how would she take that? It turned out later that she was quite happy for me.

Jeff, a sales representative from our London office was going to join us, up also for our meetings. Formally of Toronto, he was quite adept to drive us in. He picked us up at the Hotel, and away we went.

The traffic in downtown Toronto is never easy to navigate. Even more difficult when trying to get to the Air Canada Center for a Maple Leafs game. But he did it. Like a pro. And he found a great parking lot with only a couple of blocks to walk to the arena.

Ontario is a pretty big province. Toronto sits on the coast of Lake Ontario. All areas west of Toronto are populated with predominantly die-hard Maple Leafs fans; the kind of fans like those in New England who root for the Red Sox , Celtics and Patriots. Fans like those in New York who live and die for their Yankees.

Leaf Nation.

But the funny part about it is that this organization – steeped in such heavy tradition and legend as the Toronto Maple Leafs – this version of the Maple Leafs - stink.

Like they have for years. Forty one years to be exact. They likely will for years to come.

They stink.

And tonight they were fighting for position.

The way the rest of the Leafs Nation saw this game was different than my perspective. You see, I have grown very tired of being let down by these bums. And right across the Detroit River from Windsor we have the Red Wings – easily the best team in the National Hockey League.

Leaf Nation saw this game to be the one that got them to within eight points of the wild card position.

I saw this to be the game that keeps them out of the basement. To keep them from being the worst team in the NHL.

But still, any Leafs fan will tell you that to just attend a game is an experience. Toronto and Montreal easily share the distinction of being the capital of Hockey. The home of hockey. We live in a land where you do not have to refer to it as ice-hockey. Hockey is indeed Hockey in Canada.

I got a program, just like I would a Tigers program for a ball game. Jeff bought a round of giant sized beers – just like I would do at a ball game. And we headed for our seats.

And what great seats they were.

We were in the 1^st row of the upper level. We hung out the crowd – with the ice nearly beneath is. We could clearly see the whole ice. We could see plays form on our end and play out down the ice. We could hear the hits. We could see the finesse. And we could clearly see all the goals. We could clearly see all the penalties that were called on our Leafs. We could clearly hear all the boos that the fans were piling on the players. And we could see all the goals resulting from the New York Rangers power plays.

The Leafs did come close to tying it up. And into the last two minutes it was a close game. But when they pulled the goalie in the closing seconds, New York’s one goal lead became two with a long slider across open ice as the puck slowly trickled into the empty net.

Deep sigh.

I may be the first person to wait twenty five years to see the Maple Leafs play in person, only to finally decide to root instead now for the Red Wings.

But it just seems so damned unpatriotic to be a Canadian – the home of hockey – only to root for the team from Detroit.

If I were to switch my allegiance, I would be able to root for a likely Stanley Cup final team. I could get tickets – because while Detroit is called Hockey-Town – the city is complacent with having the best team in the NHL. Yawn. I could go and see the play offs.

But that red wheel with a red wing attached seems so insignificant an icon. The Canadian flag was changed from a version of the British Iron Cross in the mid 1960’s. The blue maple leaf icon known for the Toronto Team was colored red.

Red to satisfy the fans of the Montreal Canadians.

To symbolize in the hockey Canadian way that English and French indeed live and play hockey together.

That truly is where the red and white maple leaf Canadian flag came from.

Canadiana, baby.

On the train home, we barely discussed the game. It was disappointing. We were much quieter coming home.

Saturday night I watched the Maple Leafs play in Boston. It was on the CBC – Hockey Night in Canada. And they played much better. And they beat the Bruins four to three – in overtime.

And I thought to myself “Great!! We are only eight points out of the wild card!!”.

It’s hard to be a Maple Leafs fan.

Yeah, I know ... a bit cliché don’t you think?

True, but it is.

Ode To Timmy's

This morning, as with most mornings, I pulled through the drive through of our local Tim Horton’s to get my morning coffee. I’m a double-double guy, useful to know if you’re ever on your way to see me, and are wondering what you might bring me.

An extra large Double-Double. Thanks.

For my non-Canadian readers, let me explain Tim Horton’s.

Tim Horton was a hockey player. A Maple Leaf. And when his career was drawing to a close, he opened up a coffee shop.

Today there are more Tim Horton locations in a Canadian city or town than gas stations. They are more convenient than finding an ATM machine. They are more popular than most anything else Canadian.

When a new location is built, the town it will be built most likely will add an extra lane of road there, a turning lane, because quite often the entrance is lined up down the street.

And it occurred to me that there are three retail chains that basically define Canada as a country:

• Canadian Tire hardware stores – most famous for auto-accessories, but you could also furnish you home there as well. Maybe even with Canadian Tire money – the coupon bills in denominations – each decorated with the proud Scotsman.

• The Beer Store – only in Ontario – owned by the Provincial government and the only place you can get a ‘two-four’ of Blue or Canadian.

• And Tim Horton’s

They sell coffee. They sell donuts. They sell great lunches as well. But mostly they sell Coffee.

One of the most Canadian scenes you will see is the early morning Hockey moms and dads – taking their little ones to hockey practice, sometimes as early as 5:00 am. That is when their teams ice time is. And as you survey the crowds of proud parents in the stands at the rink, 90% of them are holding a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.

Likely it’s a double-double.

Double-Double. That’s about as fancy a name for a cup of coffee that Tim Horton’s offers. In fact it is not even called a coffee, it’s called a “Timmy’s”.

A Timmy’s double-double.

When you walk into one – or even pull up to the drive through window – they smell great. The smell of fresh baked donuts mixed with that rich Timmy’s scent. Ahhh.

And there is always a slightly plump girl there to serve you, with a smile, like a friend – like the girl from the small farming community you pass by every day. These fine young ladies are affectionately referred to as our buxom beauties of the great white north.

Tim Horton’s is so important to the Canadian mindset that to boost moral to our troops in Afghanistan, Tim Horton’s sent a crew there to set up shop on the main Canadian base in Kandahar.

A little bit of home.

They have tried to expand into the United States, I believe with marginal success. I guess people down there must equate them with Star-Bucks? But there is no comparison. Star-Bucks is a totally different audience.

Maybe those American’s don’t have to take their kids to the rink at 5:00 AM?

Someone should make a car freshener that smells like a Tim Horton’s.

Could that ever be said about any other hockey player?

http://www.timhortons.com/

Minus Four and Medium Rare

My cousin Sarah sent me an email the other day. It was a play on Jeff Foxworthy’s “You know you’re a redneck when…” jokes.

My favorite “You know you’re a redneck when” joke has always been “you have more tires on your home than you do on the vehicles parked on your front lawn”.

That one paints the picture.

But this version had a Canadian bent. “You know you’re Canadian when…”

If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you may live in Canada

If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a
wrong number, you may live in Canada

If you measure distance in hours, you may live in Canada

If you can drive 90 kms/hr through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you may live in Canada

If you install security lights on your house and garage, but leave both unlocked, you may live in Canada

I do not know if Jeff Foxworthy has even read these jokes, let alone written them, but please let it be known that I did not write them.

But I was thinking about them just this evening.

You see, the evening was slipping away on Darlene and I when we realized we needed to do something for ourselves for dinner. The girls had already eaten given the unique circumstances of the night.

But we were starving.

Darlene went upstairs to fry up some bacon and cut up some tomato. A BLT sounded like a great idea. But then I stopped and said, “Do we have anymore of those frozen hamburger patties you made the other night?”

“Yes”, Dar replied. “But you’re not stinking up the house frying burgers in the kitchen!”

“No”, I retorted, being the natural retort-er that I am. “I will BBQ them, sound good?”

“It’s 4 below outside and its snow squalling”

“So?”

And outside I went in my favorite winter work jacket, and a beer. Out to the back patio. I brushed the mound of falling snow off the BBQ, opened up the hood, twisted on the propane tank valve, and flicked the starter switch.

“Booosch” when the flame as it lit the flood of propane on the first attempt.

As the BBQ heated up, I was cleaning the grill. And I started to think of the email Sarah sent me. “You know you’re Canadian when…” I thought.

Then it dawned on me.

“You know you’re Canadian when you have to brush the snow off the BBQ to make dinner.”

That’s a good one.

Then I heard the splash. And I heard the giggles. And then the whispers.

The neighbors behind us were in the hot tub. In a snow squall. Glasses of wine were clinking. And they were giggling at the idea that I had caught them.

And that’s when I realized what truly Canadian meant.

“You know you’re Canadian when you can have a couple of wines and fool around with the missus in the hot tub during a blizzard.”

And then I swear I heard Ann Murray sing “Snowbird”.

A Revolutionary Green Commuter’s Pod

Seven years ago, in October of 2000, I found myself driving 120 miles to work in the morning, and 120 mile home at night. I did this from October through December.

Darlene and I had just taken our first home together, in a little town called Amherstburg. We lived in the historic downtown area of Amherstburg, historic because it was the main Canadian battle ground of the war of 1812.

But I still worked for a software shop just north of London - 120 miles away.

Everyday, as I got on the 401, the main expressway that travels from Windsor to Quebec City, I would usually find myself driving beside the passenger train – the Via Rail train that I have ridden so many times since – as it had also just left the Windsor train station.

Driving home at night, I would most often look over and see that same Via Rail passenger train returning to Windsor. And every day, for the next three months, I would play with this idea:

What if I could just pull my car (at that time it was a Mercury Mystique) right up onto that train?

I would imagine that I would just pull right up onto the train, onto a special automobile ferry car on the train, and I would lock myself down and just ride the train, in my car, to London. Once we got to London, I would simply pull off the train, and drive up to the office.

Wouldn't that be sweet?

But remember, I had three months to play with this idea. I don't know if you have ever made the drive from Windsor to London on the 401, but most of that drive is very flat, and very boring.

"Wouldn't it be great" I would think each trip, ".. if as I pulled on to the train, I could plug my car into the train".

"But why plug in? – what would you get?"

"Why, I would get all kinds of stuff?" I would answer myself. "The train would be like a moving service centre".

And then I would explain to myself again how I had worked this all out.

You see, at first, it would be great to simply pull your conventional highway vehicle up onto a train and piggy back to another city without the hassle of driving. Or the danger of driving. The 401 can be very dangerous, especially in the winter.

The 401 is the busiest commercial trucking corridor in Canada. And Canada (believe it or not my American friends) is the United States largest trading partner. The number of large semi rigs on the 401 usually outnumbers standard automobiles.

And that is why the 401 is dangerous. Trucks have schedules. Trucks have drivers who are tired. Trucks have drivers who are trying to optimize their efficiency for the maximum profit of a trip.

So as the timeline of the "Auto-Ferry" would evolve (I'm sure we can come up with a better name than "auto-ferry"), it would begin with people simply pulling their cars up onto the train, and riding to the destination station, sitting in the car, listening to the radio. Maybe you could pack a lunch, or hit a fast food place. When you arrived, pulled off the train, and simply drove to your final destination.

But wait? They serve meals on the train. In first class they serve very nice meals on the train. Maybe there could be a first class Auto-ferry car – where I could order a very nice meal? Maybe even a glass of wine or a beer if I am going to be on the train for a couple of hours? That would be nice.

What if I could also watch a movie? I could bring a portable DVD player? Or my car may already have one? Or maybe I could rent one from the auto-ferry? And while I am at it, I could hook into their wireless Internet conncetion?

Hey, there are a lot of services that a person could pick up on? What if I bought a commuter car – specifically for this kind of travel?

What do you mean?

An electric car. An electric car or minivan. A pod if you will – built to fit the train car. That you could drive in and around town once you got there. I could pull it up onto a auto-ferry train car and simply plug it right into the train for services? I could plug it in to:

• Recharge my "pod"
  
• Have Satellite TV or Radio to watch in my "pod"
  
• Have a high speed internet connection in my "pod".
  

You could use a touch screen in the dashboard of your pod to order a meal - or even get a tune-up - while your traveling.

Hmmm?

When I ride the train now, I ride for business. A majority of the automobile traffic on the 401 is business commuters. Lets play with the "Business Trip" scenario.

I live in Toronto, and I do business in Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec City. Because I am in sales, I have a mini van that I drive to carry product and promotional material with me. Now the Auto-Ferry Pod has become an attractive option. The company replaces my gas guzzling mini-van with a mini-van pod. The advantages are that my travel is more productive and less expensive. Here is how:

Instead of driving and limiting my productive time to simply making phone calls, I can pull my auto-ferry mini-van pod onto the train and connect. From that point forward, I am at the office. I spin my drivers seat around and now am sitting at my desk. My laptop plugs into the jacks in my pod – at my desk - for power and internet connection. I VPN (Virtual Private Network) into the office. I have access to all my files on line, email, chat, even video-conference if need be. I have both a printer and fax machine in my mini-pod. And maybe even a coffee pot.

While I am travelling, I can be as productive as I would be in the office – because actually I am in the office. It is my office that is going to Quebec City.

I even have an overnight cot in my mini-pod. I can lay on my cot and watch TV – satellite TV – as I spend my evening on the train. Or listen to music, or even goof around on the Internet – writing my blog and checking my stats.

I like this idea. I do know that my hometown Windsor really could use an idea like this one right now.

Windsor is the "Detroit" of Canada. Neither Windsor or Detroit are doing very well right now as the big-three automakers are floundering, being overtaken handily by the Japanese Toyota and Honda.

Windsor and Detroit need a "revolutionary idea". And this is a good one. The fact that Windsor is at one end of the busiest commerce lane in Canada, perhaps North America, may prove to be a tremendous catalyst for this idea. And as the product of the auto-ferry and the pods to travel the route catches on, other routes will spring up – using old Am-Track lines in the US – and the Trans-Canada railway in Canada.

Imagine if you upgrade these rail systems to the high-speed railways of Europe and Japan. Imagine if you exported the Mini-pod overseas.

Imagine how much greener it would be.

Imagine how much more independent this means of mass transport would be.

Imagine how economically inspiring this industry would be.

Imagine?

Don't Be Scared Of A Little Snow

It snowed last night.

And this morning. And now this afternoon. In total we got nearly a foot. It is supposed to snow more tonight.

The radio says the roads are very bad. The expressway is like an ice rink. The authorities are asking us not to drive.

I was outside shoveling the driveway when Darlene came out with the phone.

My co-worker Julia called to tell me that she and the other Staff Association members think we should cancel the Children’s Christmas party.

I looked out the window. A pickup truck went sliding sideways by our house. He straightened himself out and slid the other way.

“I agree”, I replied. After hanging up I called our major AM radio station. Everyone in Windsor knows this is the station to listen to for local news and snow cancellations. While I tried to get through the busy line – Darlene submitted the cancellation notice request through their news tips website.

Shortly afterwards I heard our cancellation announcement crackle over the radio.

I went back out to finish shoveling.

And I started thinking about my Uncle Fred.

I had lived with Uncle Fred’s family when I moved back to Canada.

I was twenty-three and the year was 1985. I was living in an apartment with my brother Paul in Baton Rouge. I had decided that summer that I was going to move back to Canada.

I gave my notice at work. I was a night manager at a grocery store – and the store was closing down. It seemed to be a better idea to move to Canada and go back to school, rather than live a Janice Joplin song and be “busted flat in Baton Rouge”. So as Christmas approached, I packed up what I owned and stuffed it into my Mazda 626.

Paul and I spent Christmas at my Mom and Dads that year. The understanding was that I would go back to Canada – get this degree – and move back down south – this time to Pensacola – and start a real career.

I remember that Christmas morning because Paul and I woke up and played our traditional round of golf before we opened presents. We started on the 13th tee outside their back door, and played around to number twelve – where we came in for breakfast and opened our presents.

Two mornings later – my car still loaded with all my possessions and clubs squeezed back into my inventory – I kissed my Mom and Dad good bye and started my Drive up I-65 through Alabama – then I-64 across Kentucky and Tennessee, over to I-75 that would take me up into Michigan.

The first day was a breeze. I had the windows down, and the tapes in my cassette player blaring loud. I made it to Dayton, Ohio. It was raining and dark – so I decided to pull over for the night.

The next morning I stepped out of my motel room, and nearly broke my neck on the ice. The rain had frozen. It was cold.

I had crossed the Mason-Dixon line.

I filled my car up with gas and started out onto I-75. About 45 minutes up the road, a gust of wind grabbed my car, and slid me across 4 lanes of expressway, into a deep ditch – just missing a cement drain pipe.

I spent the rest of the morning hiking to a gas station to get a guy with a tow truck to haul me out of the ditch and put me back on the road. As he did – he tried to sell me some winter tires. I declined.

I did not cross the border into Canada in Detroit. I did not enter into Canada in Windsor. Instead I rode I-94 north of Detroit to a little town called Port Huron. I arrived at the empty border crossing expecting to be searched and have my car taken apart.

I crossed the Bridge and reached the Canadian customs booth in Sarnia.

“Citizenship?” asked the customs officer.

I held up my green card. A plastic card that had a picture of me at the age of three. “Canadian” I answered.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“Until I’m done school” I replied and briefly explained my educational plans and agenda.

He smiled and replied “Welcome home”.

That has always stuck with me.

I looked at the road ahead. I saw none. It was all white. I looked back at the officer “One thing please, where is the road?”

“See those little white posts?” he asked in reply, “the road is about 3 meters to the left of those:,

“Oh”, I replied. “Welcome to Canada, Fred” I thought to myself.

It got easier as I drove on. In my little Mazda 626 with everything I owned in the car. I could see other tire tracks, and I could see the edge of the road. But I drove very slowly.

It was really snowing and the roads were being closed behind me. My perception of what “bad” meant kept expanding as the day progressed – and now I felt I understood what “bad” meant.

Every twenty yards or so, a one or two foot high snow drift would appear. And now I felt comfortable to just blast through them. I did this for about an hour. And now I was getting close. I had made my way to Perth County Road 11. I was simply trying to find the concession Uncle Fred’s farm was on.

I thought I saw it, and pulled into the snow drift that fronted the concession gravel road – Boosh – I smashed through and drove up the gravel road – only to really see the farm on the next concession up – looking across the fields. I turned around, and blasted through the drift again. Back on the road, I traveled up to the next concession.

Boosh – I blasted through the drift at the front of the concession.

But this was different. I didn’t come through the other side. Instead I drove to the top of it, and my car sunk down into the drift – which was not a drift. The snow was easily five feet deep all the way down the concession.

I sat there in my little Mazda 626 – with Louisiana license plates on the front and back. I sat there and wondered how I would get down the concession to the farmhouse I could see all lit up about half a mile down the road.

I almost made it.

I flashed my headlights – and turned my car off. I was just about to get out of the car and literally swim the snow to the farmhouse. That’s when I saw the two snowmobiles – and they were coming straight at me.

“How’s goin eh?” said the first – a kid I would later know to be Jim.

“I’m stuck” I smiled.

“Yer stuck alright. Where yer goin?” asked the toque (tuke) and parka clad Jim.

“To the Brill’s farm” I replied, “and I almost made it”.

“I’ll go tell Fred yer here, wait here” said Jim. “Who do I say’s coming?”

“Fred Brill”, I said. “He looked at me. My Uncle Fred and I do have the same name.

“Okay den”, and hopped back on his snowmobile and away he sped.

Shortly after, Fred appeared with the John Deere tractor with the snow blower attachment on front. He came blowing right at me. He climbed out of the cab and waded over to me.

He was smiling as happy as could be to see something funny like me and my southern car stuck in the snow.

“Jimmy says Fred Brill’s comin to visit me” he laughed – those big old teeth grinning like he couldn’t be happier.

“It’s snowing” I said.

“Tis, tis so” said Fred. “Stay put lets get you in the barn”.

Uncle Fred hooked me up to the tractor – lifted the front of the car right up with the rear of the tractor while the front of the tractor was still pretending to be a snow blower.

The girls, my cousins Sarah, Ellyn and Jenny, all took pictures of their southern cousin – the bumpkin – being towed down the farm laneway. I have to see those pictures every Christmas.

I almost made it. 1,200 miles, and I got stuck in the last half mile.

But Uncle Fred never let a little snow scare him off.

I miss Uncle Fred.

But today – during our foot of snow blizzard – after cancelling our Children’s Christmas party - I can hear his voice loud and clear.

“It’s just a little snow, Freddy. Don’t be scared of a little snow.”

Happy Thanksgiving Americans

I know that I am Canadian. And I know that the November Thanksgiving holiday is for the Americans.

I know.

But I still like it. Although I am not certain that I like it better than ours.

The Canadian Thanksgiving is held in early-mid October. It usually sneaks up on me when I am not expecting it. It is supposed to occur just after the final Canadian harvest is reaped from the land.

It is generally a Sunday holiday and inherits some of the general attributes of a Sunday.

The American Thanksgiving is of course on what I thought was the last Thursday of November. It also celebrates a successful harvest. I think I like that it is held on a Thursday much better, as it gives the feel of a day off that you should be working – adding yet one more thing to be thankful for.

And while they are at it, they take the Friday off too!

You can’t knock that, can you?

Both are similar – both traditionally expect turkey dinners with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and cranberries. Both are meals completed with pecan, pumpkin or apple pies for desert.

The difference is however that in Canada we are inundated by the American media reminding us that they get this great holiday, while for us, it is just another work week.

We actually suffer from “American Thanksgiving Day Envy”. And we might be a tad bitter.

Both events are fall events. The Canadian event has the color of the leaves in the trees. The daylight lasts longer, and often I have even played golf on Canadian Thanksgiving day.

The American Thanksgiving day has the mythology of Pilgrims – Quakers for the most part – celebrating with their new native friends they mistakenly dubbed to be “Indians”. I have always wondered why the NFL did not insist the Patriots play the Redskins on this holiday.

Perhaps it was discussed and dismissed as “too predictable”.

On the topic of football, it is traditional on Canadian Thanksgiving to actually watch a Canadian Football League game. It used to be that you could watch Ottawa vs. Saskatchewan - the Rough Riders vs. the Roughriders. Ottawa vs. Saskatchewan. But Ottawa dropped their team recently – so the games are usually the Alouettes vs. the Argonauts.

It's even funner to watch it on the RCO - the French-Canadian side of the CBC.

My daughters bring home a ton of “crafts” from school every day. Things they have colored, cut out, pasted together, and present to their Mother and I as artwork worthy of precious fridge door space.

I noticed this year at Thanksgiving time they brought home construction paper and tape versions of Pilgrim hats. I asked them both to ask their teachers how many Pilgrims ever migrated to Canada. They did – eventually – from Dutch Pennsylvania – our family was part of that migration - but I don’t think they were still known as Pilgrims.

I think it must be cheaper for the Canadian primary schools (elementary schools) to use left over American artwork rather than make our own.

How many maple leafs can you color anyway?

In any case, the underlying foundation of both versions of Thanksgiving is to be thankful.

In the Canadian sense, thankful that the harvest was successful and there is food enough for the 6 months of winter. Thankful you won’t starve.

The American sense is to be thankful for being American, and to get a jump start on your Christmas shopping on that Friday you have off as well. Oh yeah, and all that stuff about family and friends.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends and loved ones. We in Canada are thankful that you are still thankful. As long as you’re content, we know you won’t be invading us.

I will be thinking of you as I sit at my desk pounding out work this Thursday and Friday.

And to those of you Americans who have me on your gift list this Christmas, I am now a 38 waist with a 30 inseam.

Yes, I have put on a little weight.

I think it all started last October on our Thanksgiving day.