Staying Canadian

Recently – through facebook of all places – I have had the wonderful experience of reconnecting with a lot of my old high school friends.

And they tell me that they have enjoyed very much my stories of being a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia, and my adventure of moving back to the Great White North.

But – as they are Americans – and proud to be so – they often ask me why I stayed in Canada after school.

America is the land of opportunity you know.

I returned to Canada – as I have said before – simply to go back to school yet again – to get the education – to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I didn't want to slug it out doing the hard work I did in Louisiana, delivering electrical supplies to all corners of that odd and interesting state, or managing grocery stores – and especially not digging any more damned ditches.

So I returned to Canada, land where I was born but had left when I was three years old. I was a Canadian citizen – but I was not really Canadian.

The personal computer had just arrived, but had not yet made its niche on every office desk like it is today. People were just trying to figure this new version of technology out. And I found that I understood the concepts of the mainframe and mini computers – their roles – how they worked – and how they fit into the schemes of what was then called data processing.

So I studied hard for several years – occasionally slipping back into those youthful desires to have too much fun – which got me in so much trouble in my previous attempts at achieving a higher education.

But my Uncle Fred – a wonderful man who I miss dearly now – and who I can never pay high enough tribute to – had this time instilled a work ethic in me.

"Keep your eyes and ears open – and your big mouth shut!" I was told over and over again.

I still have not learned that lesson.

After the second year of school, I was fortunate enough to land what was called a Co-op" position with Revenue Canada – in their headquarters in Ottawa, right across the street from the Parliament buildings – the very seat of the federal Canadian government. The Canadian version of the American House of Representatives.

On a fairly frequent basis, as part of my duties, I would deliver documents and reports to the Minister of Finance or a Deputy Minister in charge of this and that and what-not.

One of my Mom's cousin's – therefore a cousin of mine I suppose – was a gentlemen who represented the riding of Owen Sound – Mr. Stan Darling.

Cousin Stan had held that seat for a good number of years – as conservative as conservatives can be... in Canada – and was often seen on television standing just behind then Prime Minister Brian Mulroney in Parliament sessions – and as the Prime Minister would speak – cousin Stan - sitting right behind the Honourable Prime Minister - would holler things like "here here" and "that's right" – in unison with his colleagues seated on both sides – pounding their fists on the table, face red and jowls jiggling.

A true back bencher.

"You should go visit your cousin Stan", Ma would tell me from her nice warm Pensacola paradise in Florida. "Just to say hi, and to tell him I said hi too".

So I tried, but he would never see me. Later at a family reunion, Uncle Stan claimed to my Ma that he had no idea I was in Ottawa, let alone trying to stop by to say hi.

Politicians are politicians – no matter what land you live in.

Canada, as you probably should know if you don't already, is a bilingual country. The French Canadians and the English have for years struggled in cooperating with each other. The best government jobs go to those who are bilingual, so mostly the French – who had little option but to learn English – hold the best cival servant positions.

So picture if you will – a young good old boy named Fred, still talking with a thick southern drawl, still driving his favorite little Mazda 626 with Louisiana license plates – still planning on returning to the sunny south of Florida when his degree was earned – totally French illiterate to say the least - working in a French Canadian office environment where French is the predominant language.

I made very few friends.

A beautiful girl in our office named Sylvie – who spoke only French when I was around – despised me. My nickname to her was not a French name I can repeat.

I understand it is a vulgar term .

In a second work term, I actually worked across the Rideau river in Hull Quebec. My luck there was better, but still not one that made me feel … welcome.

So I returned the following Fall to London. School started up and I had a very good school year.

My grades were all A's with the odd B here an there. When that semester was over, I decided to fly down to Pensacola to visit my Mom and Dad for Christmas.

Uncle Fred drove me to the Airport in Detroit. We crossed at the Windsor bridge – and I was pulled into customs for questioning. They examined my bags – and they asked for my identification – proof of citizenship. I pulled out my little green card – the one I had been carrying since I was three.

My picture was still that of a three year old boy.

A heavy set African American lady was the customs officer inspecting me. She watched as I pulled my green card out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"What was that in your wallet?" she asked.

Caught off guard – I held my wallet open. She pointed to my old security card from Revenue Canada – Customs and Excise. She recognized the logo. I pulled it out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"That's my security card from Revenue Canada in Ottawa", I said politely and proudly. "I worked up there on a co-op job for my schooling".

She looked at me, and her face went so sad. She told me that the terms of living in Canada and retaining my American green card meant I was not supposed to work in Canada.

"But … how was I supposed to survive if I couldn't work?" I asked. "This was part of my schooling – I had to take a co-op job for this program – for this degree!"

She actually started to sob, and told me she was so sorry she had to do this – that she wished she didn't.

I simply looked at my watch and knew I had to catch my plane.

In that blink of a moment, as this very sweet lady with a downtown Detroit accent cut up my green card while crying – I made the decision that I was going to stay in Canada after school.

Canada would be my home. I would be a Canadian.

I had already been honorably discharged from the United States Coast Guard for being Canadian. And I never really had any luck making anything work in the States.

So I thanked the lady. "Please don't be upset", I said. "You helped me make a decision I had been wrestling with."

She really was a very nice lady, and she felt much more horrible about this tragedy than I did.

I took my bag and my wallet and I turned to my horrified Uncle Fred who could not believe what had just happened, and we left for the airport.

In the car, Uncle Fred turned to me and said yet again, "how many times have I told you to keep your eyes and ears open and your big mouth shut!".

This time I looked at Uncle Fred and said, "It's all for the best".

America may be the land of opportunity, but it was clear to me that day that America didn't really want me there.

So I am a Canadian. And proud to be so.

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”.

Clinton vs. Obama and McCain vs Romney - A Michigan Double Bill.

It is widely held that if one wants to remain friends, the topics of politics and religion should be avoided.

But these are such amazing days that we see for our American neighbors.

And next week, we in Windsor will watch closely as the Michigan Primary is held. Michigan is in such a tender and fragile – prone – position right now. Windsor is as well, and it is definitely in Windsor’s best interest to see a strong Detroit.

So we do care. Very much.

When you sleep next to an elephant ... you best know which way they role.

As you already know, both a woman and a black man are running for the presidency of the United States of America. Both are running for the nomination of the Democratic Party.

We always knew the day would come when one or the other would occur. But, I at least, didn’t expect both to happen at the same time. Barack Obama seemed to appear out of nowhere.

It is about time indeed for both.

The standard has been set. You cannot transcend race or gender and then use race or gender to distinguish yourself from your opponent. It erases the fact that either was transcended.

And so far I believe this standard has been pretty well met. Let’s see how South Carolina goes. Race is a powerful influence in South Carolina.

But the question is “Are any of these three Democrats capable to be president?“

It would be an awkward position for any man to be in, that of “First Gentleman”. But I think of all men who could break down that barrier … Mr. Clinton could do so.

Though I am fairly certain Bill would not likely be granted his own Intern.

You must remember that former presidents are still referred to as “Mr. President”. So in the event Mrs. Clinton should go on to win the American Presidency, the couple would be referred to as “Mr. and Mrs. President”.

They would have matching bath robes.

If you remember in the mid 1990’s, there was much speculation that Mrs. Clinton actually had greater influence on her husband and the White House than expected.

And I honestly do not see anything else that distinguishes Hillary Clinton from Barack Obama or John Edwards.

So flip your best coin.

On the republican side, I am so delighted that John McCain is doing so well so far. I have liked Mr. McCain for the last eight years. I believe Mr. McCain and his every word I see to be sincere and honest. There has never been a politician since Mr. Carter that I can say that about. But I see Mr. McCain as being much more capable than Mr. Carter.

However Senator McCain is in support of an Illegal Immigrants bill that I personally question. While I certainly do not condone illegal immigrants into the U.S. or into Canada for that matter – I do know that such measures bills further restrict Canadian access to the U.S. Border.

Since Canada and the United States are so dependent on each other as our largest trading partners – I do not see such a move helping Michigan. Instead it would tighten the noose around the largest North American trading route between the U.S. and Canada – the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit and Windsor. It is border restrictions now that are negatively impacting not only Canadian automakers, but their American big brothers as well.

He is running against Mitt Romney, who I also see as a very good man. I like Mr. Romney. But I do not believe Mr. Romney has the depth of understanding that years in a prisoner of war camp that John McCain has. That being said, Mr. Romney may well be the best answer by brining business sense to the internal running of that country.

Fred Thompson? I like this man very much. He is very McCain like. A bit gruffer and less civil. Mr. Thompson would also make a wonderful President – but he is not that likeable; even though I seem to like him.

It looks like the race between Mr. McCain and Mr. Romney can only be obstructed by Mr. Huckabee. Again it comes down to a coin toss – a coin with two good faces and a tail.

And Governor Mike Huckabee? I don’t think I could trust him as far as I could throw him. Maybe a couple of feet if I stretched well before trying. He probably weighs what, about one-eighty?

Rudy Giuliani exploits 9/11 in such a fashion – conjuring thoughts and images from the tragedy at every opportunity – appropriate or inappropriate. I am surprised that with only 3% of the American’s polled support remaining, that he is still running.

I wonder how all the candidates tie back to the oil industry. Does that really matter?

Canada is the largest supplier of oil to the United States.

Damn those Canadians.

Let’s hope one of the faces turns up, because they are just now finishing eight long years of pure “tail-end leadership”.

I do not wish upon my American friends and family the spectacle of electing a person to this most important role based only on the novelty of being black or female. I do indeed hope the Americans find the most qualified person who fits the needs of the next four to eight years well.

As a Canadian, most Americans – including my own friends and family - may say I have no business in writing these observations. But this election does impact the world. And living across the river from Detroit, Windsor is very much so desperately impacted by the state of Michigan’s economic status.

And there is still this one truth that all political pundits try to overlook:

American’s will pick celebrity over notoriety.

Thank your stars (literally) that Arnold Schwarzenegger is Austrian born and ineligible to run for President.

Although we might see them try to amend their constitution.

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.

A Hoe-Down with the Cardinals in Mo-Town

In Canada, we are celebrating what we call the “May two-four weekend”.

While the two-four does reflect the Bob and Doug McKenzie Canadian Philosophy of beer drinking here in the Great White North (beer is most commonly sold in boxes of 24 best known as two-fours), in fact this is the Victoria Day weekend to celebrate Queen Victoria’s birthday.

What is the best part of the May 2-4 weekend? Getting Monday off.

It’s also my cousin Ellyn’s birthday.

This year Darlene and I spent the Sunday at the Tigers game. They were playing the St. Louis Cardinals – in the third and final game of the 3 game inter-league series rematch of the 2006 World Series.

Last fall of course, the Cards beat our boys 4 games to 1. It didn’t make sense at the time, and it does not make sense today. Last year during inter-league play, the Tigers swept those Cardinals. They did it again this year.

Did I give away the ending? I don’t think so.

Going to a Tigers game for us means crossing the border by either the bridge over or tunnel under the Detroit River. No big deal, we do this all the time. Darlene does it every day.

The game starts at 1:05 PM. We drop the girls off at Grandma’s by 11:15AM. And we are in line at the tunnel at 11:30 AM.

Understand that if the border did not exist, we would be 5 minutes away from Comerica Park.

We chose the tunnel because the tunnel goes right down town and comes out underneath the Renaissance Center – the keystone of the Detroit City skyline from the Windsor side.

The Ambassador Bridge – even though we live at the Canadian end of it, forces you to use the Michigan expressways – which are mostly closed for repairs and various projects during the summer. Not a fun Sunday adventure.

But what we forgot was that the Red Wings were to play the Anaheim Mighty Ducks in the all important game 5 of the Western playoff finals. That game started at 3:00 PM at “The Joe” (Joe Louis Arena).

And in Hart Square, they were having a hoe-down.

No, really. A hoe down. In downtown Detroit. Mo-Town.

No, I don’t think it was a play on the word “Hoe” either. For the first time in my memory, the downtown plaza was packed with Stetsons and cowboy boots. Shucks.

Anyway – we got in line at the tunnel at 11:30. At 1:30 PM, we cleared customs in Detroit. It took us an hour and a half to make a 5 minute journey. Most of which we could not even listen to the radio while in the tunnel.

Luckily when we emerged, we found out our boys had taken a 1 – 0 lead.

Yee-haw.

We found great parking for a sold-out game – two blocks away for only 10 bucks.

Yee-haw.

We entered Comerica park through the center field gates. There you will find a row of bronze statues for all the Tiger greats: Ty Cobb, Hank Greenberg, Al Kaline, and Willie Horton. There are spaces for more. Spaces for guys named “Pudge”, “Kenny”, and perhaps if he decides to stay around – Gary.

Darlene had just met Willie Horton a couple of weeks before. She was really struck by the tremendous bronze tribute to this younger vision of him.

After acquiring two beers and four hotdogs – we headed to hunt down our seats.

Section 114, row 45, seats 22 and 23.

We found section 114. But it only had 43 rows? We found a park “usher?” who escorted us to the other side of section 114.

“We didn’t think you were coming” he said as he moved his newspaper and lunch for us.

Row 45 was the very back corner of section 114. Since this section wrapped around part of the pavilion, there were only two seats for Row 45. Seats 22 and 23.

“The good news is that we wont have to get up every time somebody on our row wants out” I said to Dar. But the bad news was you couldn’t see the field for the steady stream of people passing by.

Yee – haw? Nah.

Gary Sheffield, for the first time this year, played right field. Maglio Ordonez instead was the DH. Sheff was brilliant out there. He made three great sliding plays, and one basket catch. Mags had an RBI.

You know, I might could live with Mags DHing.

Justin Verlander was the starting pitcher and lasted 8 good innings.

Yee- Haw.

In the end, The Tiger’s won, sweeping the Cards. What the heck happened last October?