The LEAST They Could Do

Two headlines today: Four Canadian soldiers and a civilian reporter dead in Afghanistan. And the Prime Minister has prorogued Parliament again.

You may recall that a prorogue was also in the news and in this blog last year at this time. It's sometimes described in the news as "hitting the pause button" or "taking a time-out."

The thing is, it's more like hitting the reset button or taking a do-over. Everything on the table -- like an investigation into what Canadian officials knew about how Afghan war detainees were treated -- is now hey presto! off the table.

But wait, there's more: although Parliament won't be in session until early March, after the Olympics, the Prime Minister can continue to act. One of the things he'll do is appoint five more senators, which will mean that there's a Conservative majority in the senate for the first time in decades. So when things do come back and legislation wends its way back onto the table, the Senate will more or less approve whatever the PM wants.

Is this really democracy in action? Or is it something similar to what China did during the most recent summer Olympics, when it pretended the ethnic uprisings and milk scandal weren't going on, la la la, look over here at this digitally enhanced ceremony with a lip-synching beautiful girl pretending to sing like the more normal-looking one??

And let's just set aside Prime Minister Harper's known distaste for what he once thought of as the un-democratic practice of appointing senators, since that seems to have vanished once he got to be PM.

I'm left shaking my head. And I'm just a bystander in all this.

What must the Canadian Forces be thinking? They don't get a reprieve from the dirty business of doing their job. They're out there trying to figure out who they're supposed to be fighting, and they're dying in the process.

The LEAST Canada's politicians could do, seems like, is keep working while soldiers are risking their lives (and the economy is wacky, and the public health system could use a good de-briefing over H1N1, and maybe something could be done about the environment -- I mean, if they need an agenda, people can come up with one for them).

But that would require actual leadership from a statesman interested in EARNING a majority government instead of machinations from a petty politician obsessed with GRABBING a majority government. Sorry for the CAPs; I'm getting wound up.

I know I said yesterday that the end of the year is just a rather arbitrary date and all that -- but honestly, is this bad behaviour any way to end 2009?

Actually, I'm ending 2009 with a trip to the grocery store, impossible though that seems after last weekend's eat-stravagannnnza.

My life is returning to a post-holiday normal. Would that were true for the troops.

The Arbitrariness of Importance

In a few days, we'll be in a year ending in zero: 2010. See that zero at the end? That must make it an important year. Right?

That's what I'm wondering: Why, exactly? Is it just because ten years have passed since the last year that ended in zero?

"Everybody" seems to think this new year is really something. Some of it is the typical "end of year" madness that happens every December. You can't turn on an electronic device without being bombarded by someone's "best of" list. And this year, because people insist on seeing the start of 2010 as being the start of a new decade, we get not only "best of 2009" but also "best of the decade" lists.

Okay. Numbers do make an obvious boundary around something, a border between two things. But sometimes the year's number is as arbitrary a boundary as the placement of the border between Minnesota and Iowa -- or, for Canadians, the border between Ontario and Manitoba. The two entities need to be separate, fine. But exactly there? Are you sure? These borders are lines on a map. They bear little relationship to the actual landscape.

That's how I feel about the impending arrival of 2010: Important? Sez who?

The 2000s so far have had a bunch of significant events: the "election" and subsequent election(!??!!!) of Bush, the terrorist attacks in 2001, an adult in the White House as of January 2009. Wars. Terrorist attacks elsewhere worldwide. Tsunami, hurricanes, earthquakes, avalanches, and other major natural disasters, some in unexpected places (and some, tragically, occur where you might expect them to happen). Personally, since January 2000, I've experienced a change of home and country, a divorce and a marriage, and the death of both parents.

But January 2010 promises what, exactly? As for myself, I can guarantee that I won't lose more parents, move, or divorce/marry again. Natural disasters come when they will, regardless of year, decade, century, millennium, whatever. Sort of like federal elections in Canada, though Canadian elections tend to have less impact than your average avalanche. And we all know that the next U.S. federal election is still years away.

So, 2010. About the only thing I can see changing is that we'll be closer to those years we'll call the "teens." And yes, you can bet that word people have already started arguing whether the 20-teens start on Friday, a year from Friday, or on January 1, 2013.

See? It's arbitrary. Just like that birthday I'll have in November, the one that will also end in zero, the one that makes it practically impossible to pretend I'm still in the first half of my life. If I can make myself believe now that the whole "ending in zero" thing is arbitrary, I might get through next November without a nervous breakdown.

Zeroes: Arbitrary. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Units of Measure

You know about centimetres vs. inches. You know about C vs. F. About litres vs. pints, quarts, etc. And kilos vs. pounds. Speed: km/hr vs. mph. And even loonies vs. greenbacks.

But generally speaking, time is time. Different cultures may celebrate different time-based holidays. The actual dates of the new year and even religious holidays like Christmas and Easter are up for grabs to some extent.

But an hour is an hour, a minute is a minute, etc. Right?

Yeah, sorta. But I have heard a time-related unit of measure only on this side of the border. (Yes, I know -- not a scientific survey at all.)

It's "sleep." As in, "Two sleeps till Christmas!" It's used in my own house, by the jolly crew on Canada A.M., and in the For Better or For Worse comic strip. Plus I've heard other people around town use the phrase.

I have not heard it used south of the border.

My husband, who is good at answering questions even when he doesn't REALLY know answers, thinks using "sleep" as an alternate for "day" comes from Native culture. Which you'd think would have been an influence south of the border as well, particularly in Oklahoma. However. I heard it here first and I'm sticking to that story.

It's my favourite Canadian measurement so far because it's easily understandable (darkness, then light) and requires no translation.

I also like it because it uses downtime as the measuring tool. Not the "day" part, in which we're supposed to rush and rush and get stuff done and compete and achieve and measure our successes by wins and dollars and citations and deals.

Nope. Instead, it celebrates the "sleep" part, when we are allowed -- encouraged, even -- to do nothing. Our bodies may be busy repairing the day's damage at the cellular level, but our consciousness can rest and perhaps even create some interesting stories to entertain us while we sleep.

And that's how I hope more of us can experience this coming weekend -- a holiday for some of us, an enforced weekend away from work for others. I hope the time is about BEING, not DOING. A time for refreshment and renewal.

But meanwhile, I have a little rushing around to do before my next sleep.

UPDATE: After googling, my husband now says that Native cultures tend to use use "sleep" as a unit of distance. As in, "Grandmother's house is two sleeps away." Its use as a unit of time is more a mainstream-culture thing.

All I know is, I heard it up here first.

Act Natural

Here's the monologue. Now, what's the setting?

"Just drape your arm around here, and put your hand here, but don't hold on. Loosely. That's it. Turn your head this way. A little more. A little more. That's better. Now shift your feet forward. No, 'forward' toward me. Bend your knees slightly. Hold it, hold it, holdit holdit holdit...NOW. Good, got that one. Now, turn your head up. Look up and ahead. Chin down slightly. No, don't look down. Move your right shoulder back. Back. There, that's it. Now, hold that one. Hold it, hold it, holditholditholdit, and...NOW. Good, got it."

Et cetera.

Nope, not a glamour shot to give as a holiday gift. Or for any other reason.

Not even the picture of the church choir taken on Sunday. I was blowing my nose during one shot. Honestly, people must absolutely say "Are you ready?" Sometimes "candid" is a BAD thing.

Actually, the words above were from a clinical setting--from my mammogram, in fact. It was less painful physically than I remembered, but that might have been the massive endorphins flooding through my system, released by all my laughter at the sheer absurdity of the instructions.

But it's done. I hope it is merely a baseline. If not, I'll hear otherwise, most likely in the new year. So I'm taking off my "take the picture now!" smile for the rest of 2009.

I wasn't going to say something sentimental about the holidays and family--for a change--but it's difficult to escape sentiment at this time of year.

My father was born 93 years ago today. Though he is no longer puttering in his study on this earth, I feel confident that his experience of the afterlife is like that of Jorge Luis Borges: "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." With no need to publish research results, too: complete freedom to follow every interesting rabbit trail he runs across. And nobody knocking at the door. That really does sound like Paradise.

A Favo(u)rite Canadian-ism

"Holiday Baking."

As in, "Bring a casserole to the potluck. And, of course, a plate of Holiday Baking."

In the States, we did the Holiday Baking, but we didn't give it the name.

Thinking about it takes me right back to high school. My mother and Aunt E, her best friend, always hosted the United Methodist Women's Christmas Party. The baking started on weekends just after Thanksgiving. The party itself was usually near the end of the semester (maybe mid-December), when the students were studying like crazy and my mother enjoyed a bit of calm before the storm of grading ("marking" up here) their final exams.

I helped, at times with cheer (don't judge; I was a teenager). I rolled balls of dough in orange juice and colored coconut. I packed minty cream cheese into rubber molds and later popped out holly leaves and bells. I wrapped maraschino cherries in some kind of white doughy stuff and then dipped them in melted chocolate. Aunt E (a good Oklahoma gal) made killer divinity and toffee, but she did that at her own home, so I didn't participate except as delighted audience.

The night of the party, the extra leaf went into the dining room table. The top was covered with silver trays, heaped (in my mind, at least) with baking. I helped keep the silver trays full. I ladled (usually pink) punch from the bowl into little glass mugs that fit into a spot on an oblong plate, which the ladies could load up.

All the ladies wore dresses and big costume-jewelry Christmassy pins. My mother wore one of her skirted-suit University Professor outfits, plus a Christmas apron -- the kind you don't wear when baking because you want to keep it clean. (Yes, even though it's an apron, a garment designed to keep the clothing underneath clean. It doesn't HAVE to make sense.) She favored red florals.

In spite of all this "helping," somehow the baking thing didn't really "take." I don't even own an apron. Fortunately, ladies in churches across North America still do and they bake like a house afire, as Aunt E would say. So at choir potlucks, I can count on sampling some serious Holiday Baking. I especially like it when there's a competition -- informal and friendly, mind -- over "best shortbread."

Before the end of the season, I may well make candy cane cookies, depending on interest from the Future Leaders of Our World (g-kids). Christmas dinner will include brownies and (store-bought because they're better) Nanaimo bars, as well as pumpkin squares, to appeal to the dessert preference of the gathered eaters. But that's not the same as "Holiday Baking." It's not "extra" baking, "for fancy."

And in spite of being generally too old for my years, I don't "do" Holiday Baking, even when asked to bring a plate to the potluck, and I don't even apologize. Instead, I bring deviled eggs, for three reasons. First, I'm (technically) an American and I can get away with doing whatever. It will be thought of as part of my unique heritage. Second, what party isn't improved by a plate of deviled eggs? And third, I have the attention span and equipment to make them. Unlike, say, cream cheese mints.

My mother has been gone for a decade. Aunt E is not fully present in the "home" where she lives. So I like to imagine them in a warmly lit kitchen somewhere, laughing and singing together as they melt chocolate in the double boiler or choose a color for the coconut for those orange juice/coconut things.

Because although those two ladies may have retired their aprons in this world, their legacy lives on in other ladies in another country. And this weekend, I get a crack at their Holiday Baking. I'll be wearing my mother's snowflake pin.

Don't get between me and that shortbread.

Canadian Content at Christmas

The original words to this Christmas carol are in Wendat, the language of the Huron people; the tune is a traditional French folk song.

It was written in the 1600s by a Christian missionary, Jean de Brébeuf, at Saint-Marie among the Hurons. It has since been translated into French and English, of course. However, the English translation is relatively recent -- the best-known translation was in 1926. In this version, you get to hear all three languages.

I learned all of this more or less against my will. Last night, I was driving home from a late coffee with a pal and CBC radio was keeping me company. One of my least-favourite programs, The Vinyl Cafe, came on.

(The Vinyl Cafe is similar to Garrison Keillor's radio stuff. For me, a little goes a long way. And yes, I realize that feeling ambivalent about The Vinyl Cafe makes me un-Canadian. I am okay with that. I also dislike Jimmy Stewart, for the most part, which makes me un-American, especially at this It's a Wonderful Life time of year.) (Blech. Ptooey. Just trying to get that saccharine taste out of my mouth.)

I nearly turned to CBC Radio 2, or another station, or silence. But I didn't. And my reward for keeping an open mind about The Vinyl Cafe was hearing a lovely version of this carol and learning all this Canadiana.

I suspect I was already supposed to know this, but some information just doesn't stick until you hear it late at night, at the end of a long day, while driving in the frozen darkness toward your warm, love-filled home.

It's nice when "life lessons" like "keep an open mind, already!" bring immediate rewards like this. And if you find yourself singing "Jesous Ahatonhia" later today, don't be surprised. It's catchy that way.

Trade-Offs

The picture is from last year, but some things recur. The forecast here for the next few days is snow, with warmer temperatures--just below freezing. Then the sun will come back out and the temperature will drop again.

Some days, I'd take the cold if it means sun. Other days, I'm okay with the snow (and the hassle of driving in it) for those few degrees of "warmth."

Speaking of trade-offs...last night, I happened to hear the verse of "White Christmas" and think of my mother at the same time. And things I'd known, intellectually, about her life came together in a new way.

My mother always liked White Christmas--the movie and the song. In elementary school I learned a silly version (substitute "pink purple polka dotted" for "white" and you'll get an idea of its intellectual heft). When I sang it in front of her, she had a fit at the travesty against "that lovely song." I assumed that her attachment had to do with the war years and her fondness for Bing Crosby's relaxed "everyman" singing style. And it probably did.

But last night I had a smack-the-forehead moment. The verse starts this way: "The sun is shining, the grass is green." Oklahoma in December often looks like that. Thunder Bay in December hardly ever does. So it makes sense that "on December the 24th," she would be "longing to be up north."

Not that she would have changed her choices. With her mother's blessing (and presumably that of her father, too), she chose to go to graduate school in the U.S., marry an American, live in the U.S., and pursue her mathematics career there.

But in choosing to live far away from her parents, she--well, she chose to live far away from her parents. She traded close involvement in their lives for the professional opportunities that came from leaving the Lakehead. As they aged, more responsibility fell to her, and handling it from 1200 miles away was difficult.

At Christmas, this most sentimental time of year, it's natural that she'd wonder, just a little bit, if she had made the right choices. Even though by 1970, when I was singing the parody of "White Christmas," her mother had been essentially "gone" for 10 years and had died 5 years before. And especially even though my mother rarely, if ever, acknowledged doubt or tolerated indecision.

My mother herself has been "gone" for some ten years. Fourteen years ago, with her support (and that of my father), I moved to a new home to pursue professional opportunties. I never seriously considered living near them. I made a similar decision 5 years ago, when I chose to move here instead of living nearer my father.

As my mother's health failed, I was 800 miles away. In my father's case, I lived 1200 miles away--the same 1200 miles, in fact, that separated my mother and her mother.

Would I change either of those decisions? Not on your life.

But at this most sentimental time of the year--as I recognize that ten years can feel like a split second, as I feel sometimes more emotionally connected to my mother than ever before--I think about the trade-offs.

Was the sunshine worth it? Or would the few extra degrees of warmth have been a better choice? As I said, some things, some questions, recur.

Signs of the Season

Believe it or not, TV commercials are not the only way to tell what time of the year it is.

Though (today only!) I think the number of exclamatory comments goes up!! as the year winds down!!!! (Get yours now! I seem to be using more! than!! my!!! fair!!!! share!!!!!)

Today I found myself hunting down a pair of binoculars to check out the birds sitting around on the ice floes. I was reasonably sure they were seagulls, whose residence is unremarkable at most times of the year. This morning, their presence was fascinating, and not just because of the usual Monday morning procrastination.

As winter approaches, fewer animals are out and about. We haven't seen the muskrat in a couple of weeks. Deer still pass through but they don't hang around as much, now that the temperature has dropped below freezing. The bear has been conspicuously absent, too.

In winter, chickadees and nuthatches, jays (blue and gray) (or grey), woodpeckers (downy, hairy, and pileated) and seagulls make up most of our company. Although even the gulls are scarce. All of these birds get pushed to "ho-hum" status in the spring, when first geese and ducks, and then wigeons, teals, herons, sandpipery things, cormorants, eagles, and finally loons come to play in the bay.

But me, I know winter is coming. I can look at the thermometer and see that at 8 a.m. today it was 12 F. I can look out the window and note that the colo(u)r palette has changed to grayish blue and pale orange-tan-brown. Or I can watch my own response to something as ordinary as seagulls hanging out on the ice.

And yes, the fact of ice floes in the bay is another clue.

My larger point, if I must have one, is that this time of year doesn't have to be the season of sales and shopping and buying unless we want it to be.

I'm going outside to squint into the sun now -- because it lies so near the horizon all day at this time of year.

Who, Indeed?

Did you hear the one about how The Government can track your location based on the currency you carry?

I did, and I live in the very last house on Paranoia Lane so everyone else must have heard it by this time. There are strips in $20 bills that tell the government where you are at any given time. It's true. It was on The X Files. Seriously. (Or maybe not so seriously. It was on The X Files, though.)

Here's a new twist. Now, FOREIGN Governments can track your location through radio frequency transmitters embedded in their money. If you happen to be carrying one of these poppy quarters, that is.


The quarters were issued to commemorate Canada's war dead. Apparently the coating over the red poppy was designed to protect the poppy from rubbing off as the coins circulated. Or to hide a radio transmitter, according to widespread rumors in 2006. Depending on your level of paranoia.

Here's the AP story. Note this part:

"I don't think it is an issue of the Canadians being the bad guys," the Pentagon's counterintelligence chief wrote, "but then again, who knows."

"Who knows"? Seriously, that's the response? In 2006, five years after 9/11 and amid the ongoing mistaken belief that the 9/11 terrorists entered the U.S. through Canada, U.S. officials at the Pentagon still didn't have a sense of Canadian security?

I'm not necessarily saying that Canada is as serious about border security as the U.S. I have no idea -- but then again, I don't work for the Pentagon (as far as you know). Surely U.S. security officials, whose job it is to protect U.S. borders, have some idea of the policies and attitudes in Canada, the country that shares the much-touted longest undefended border.

You'd think, anyway. I know I'd expect that.

But then again, who knows?

P.S. Can I also mention that perhaps the U.S. does NOT grossly underestimate Canadian intelligence forces? It's entirely possible for Canadians to be as bad as the next bad guys (in an extremely polite way, of course). Perhaps Canada designed this tracking system to see which Americans actually hang onto their Canadian currency after it's slipped to them accidentally in casinos.

No doubt CSIS worked with the keen minds in charge of security at the Royal Canadian Mint, which last summer lost $15.3 million in gold. That's actual gold, not $15.3 million in value. The stuff they show in blocks in the movies. The real thing. And thank goodness that they're pursuing this investigation "rather vigorously," according to the story.

Finally, stories like this one remind Canadians that the U.S. really doesn't understand that it is NOT the centre of the universe. Or center, either.

Thursday Miscellany

Because none of these is really a topic unto itself.

• Pronunciation: I have heard two people up here (one famous and one no so much) pronounce the first syllable of "frontier" to rhyme with "prawn." Or as if the person is saying "frond-tier" without an audible d. I realize that it's irresponsible to generalize when n = 2, so I'm keeping my ears open.
• American gate-crashers: In West Wing World, Chief of Staff Leo McGarry would use the incident at the recent U.S. state dinner as further evidence that his staff can't even eat a pancake breakfast without screwing up somehow. I wonder how many low-level staffers crowd around to watch old episodes to see what is coming. You'd think they'd expend some effort trying to prevent easily preventable foul-ups. Though truthfully, if they're watching West Wing episodes, they probably let the couple in because the wife is a ringer for Donna Moss. Only more superficial. And with worse hair, speaking of superficial.
• Canadian politics: Oh for crying out loud. I agree with Paul Wells in the recent print edition of Macleans. Torture, harmonizing (raising) sales taxes, Copenhagen and climate change -- up here, it's not about the issues. That would require discussion of, well, torture, taxation, and climate change. No, Wells says, and I agree, that it's all about the polls: what does this issue mean to the government? Will this issue inspire the Liberals to cause this government to fall? If so, will Harper win his majority?
• Culture: Today's aria from the opera Harper in China is entitled, "I know you are but what am I?" It opens, "It's been too long since the Canadian Prime Minister came to Canada, and oh by the way how dare you lecture us about human rights, you torturer of Afghan detainees?" to which our hero(?) replies, "And how long has it been since Chinese leaders visited us, purveyor of lethal baby formula and false visuals from YOUR Olympics?" It closes with a unison chorus of "Hello, pot? This is kettle. You're black."

Yesterday the bay outside our house was clear. Today it has ice floes, the first of the season. Plus snow, on an otherwise sunny day. Life is good, in other words. (Except for the torture, taxation, and climate change parts.)

Of Ova

Though not my own ova. Mostly. At least not in detail. So, not-too-personal reading ahead.

Recently, I "won" a spot with a family practice doctor and had a physical. It was routine -- all except for the "don't have to talk to the people at the desk at the end" part. No payment or copayment or negotiation about whether they bill the insurance first. (They did look at my insurance card, which has a picture that is an unfortunately accurate representation of what I look like when I'm sick. If I'd known the card would have a photo, I'd have worn some makeup when I got it. Sheesh.)

After the physical, the physician also thrust into my hands a publication. This is also pretty routine, for me. I like to see what the physicians get before someone else rewrites it to make it suitable for the public. Partly it's ego (I'm as smart as a doctor) and partly it's professional development, since explaining technical things to non-technical people is one of the things I do for pay.

This publication, called "Think Ovarian!" (I could NOT make this stuff up) is actually quite interesting. It's about ovarian cancer, how difficult it is to diagnose because of its non-specific symptoms, and the familial factors involved.

I also learned that I have a condition--nulliparity--that I wasn't aware was considered a condition.

Nulliparity, according to various blended dictionary definitions, is a medical term that refers to a condition in which a woman has never given birth or been pregnant.

I would have called this condition "normal," because for me, it is. I have suffered from this condition all my life, and I will in fact suffer from it until I die. However, this is yet another way in which I am not normal and am apparently more prone to develop ovarian cancer.

I do understand that medical conditions are sometimes defined merely to describe states of being. For example, if there's a medical condition that describes the state of never having broken a bone, I also have that condition. But being categorized is still a little unnerving.

And here's another thing. Back when I had employers other than myself, the employers had Employee Handbooks. Each handbook covered pregnancy. One handbook said it this bluntly: "Pregnancy is like any other illness." Hmmm. Pregnancy = illness.

The handbook meant, of course, that people who are pregnant take sick time when they need to miss work for reasons related to pregnancy. But that's not really what it said. Which demonstrates the importance of clear communication and good communicators, to put in a plug for my profession. Connotations are important.

And now, back to the ova, I remind myself that all decisions carry risks -- becoming pregnant and having children bring their fair share -- and I'm fine with the decisions I've made.

But I'm still left with this: Pregnancy is an illness, and never being pregnant is a medical condition.

Is it any wonder so many women feel hounded about the whole motherhood thing? Whatever you decide, you're labelled. Is there a similar medically described-whichever-way-you-go decision for men? I'm guessing not.

As Jian Ghomeshi is (too often) wont to say, to be continued. I have a mammogram in a few weeks and will likely need to wonder aloud whether men would put up with a similarly cold and squashy diagnostic tool for prostate cancer. (Again: I'm guessing not.)

New Traditions?

It's American Thanksgiving and, according to my usual tradition, I'm feeling ambivalent about it.

People up here like to ask whether I'm celebrating Thanksgiving -- it's their way of participating in my culture and quite sweet, actually. People south of the border are curious, too -- perhaps imagining a group of miserable ex-pats huddled together around a sad excuse for a turkey dinner.

The thing is, Thanksgiving for me is one of those family holidays that carries a lot of baggage, and it's not the cute kind of baggage with a rolly bag and matching carry-on.

For one thing, the holiday really was always about food. And, I guess, the treat of a few days off from school (for all of us -- professors enjoy a break, too).

In our family, Thanksgiving also kicked off the Christmas holiday -- we were allowed to listen to Christmas music starting on Thanksgiving. Sometimes a few decorations appeared that long weekend as well. The Christmas tree itself had to wait till my father's birthday (and the end of the semester) on December 21.

But other than that, and tearing up the white bread for stuffing in front of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, we didn't have a lot of Thanksgiving traditions.

In fact, as the youngest sibling in my family, I experienced ambivalent Thanksgivings at a younger age than others -- at, say, 10. Older siblings worked on holidays and thus weren't available. Some sibs married, which started the pushme-pullyou of compromise and split traditions: Thanksgiving with one family, Christmas with the other.

Or worse, Thanksgiving with the parents and siblings of the in-law
-- strangers we must pretend are now "family." Then I married a time or two, and started a long string of holidays with people of varying degrees of relation, some of whom don't agree that "enough" mashed potatoes is a vat full, with a gallon of gravy beside. Get this: some people use instant mashed potatoes and store-bought gravy. Seriously.

And don't get me started on the rutabagas (known as "turnips" up here) -- a tradition in my family from the Canadian side, tolerated politely, ignored, or scorned by nearly every group I've had to spend Thanksgiving with.

I've found some logical reasons to feel ambivalent about Thanksgiving as well. Setting aside the cultural myths (that leave out the smallpox in the blankets), Thanksgiving is a holiday of consumption -- Thursday's big dinner at some negotiated point in the day, followed by sandwiches and a football-induced oblivion on the couch, and then Friday's forays into consumer goods and bargains. The opening salvo in the Christmas holiday, which has become an orgy of buying that passes for a celebration of hope and giving in the darkness. Et cetera.

Of course, I have had nice Thanksgiving holidays. Last year in the States was lovely -- I was with a brother's family. I was thrilled to be part of their small group and enjoyed myself immensely.

Maybe that positive experience has sown some seeds that are bearing fruit. This year, I find myself a little less judgmental, a little less dour about Thanksgiving. A friend asked on Sunday if I was planning something special for the day. As usual, I said "No," but then thought, "Why not?"

So I am. Nothing much -- a home-cooked dinner, which I'm proud to say that isn't all that unusual. The only real fancy bit, and even this isn't THAT fancy, is a blueberry cobbler for dessert, made with local berries I froze last August.

I'm listening to Christmas music, too, though to be honest I started earlier in the week (Messiah, because I am lowbrow in my classical music taste, and Soulful Messiah, because of the genius of Quincy's overture and Hallelujah Chorus). Today, I have also broken out Holly Cole's Christmas CD and look forward to Barenaked at the Holidays and whatever else I find in my iPod.

Canadian Christmas music on American Thanksgiving. Blueberry cobbler. A little less cynicism, a litte less judgment, and a lot more gratitude.

These are good traditions to start. And may they continue through the rest of 2009.

A Very Good Place to Start

In part because November seems to be Literary Award Month in Canada, book clubs or book groups have been on my mind lately. In the U.S., it seemed that they were known more as book "groups"--because "club" sounds too formal and exclusive, perhaps? Who knows. I've also heard them called "reading groups."

Here, they seem to be, unselfconsciously, book "clubs."

In any case, selecting books to read and discuss with a group of people is always a process fraught with conditions and clarifications and definitions. Someone wants to read "classics," meaning Middlemarch, not Euripides. Someone wants a theme for the year--war, for one depressing example.

Some insist on reading best-sellers or a celebrity's selections. Nothing wrong with that--but why do that in a group? They may be interesting or entertaining but you probably don't need a group discussion to gain a full understanding of the book.

To counteract the "there's not much to discuss about this book" syndrome, some clubs choose from award-winning books--for example, those that win National Book Awards or the UK's Man Booker prize. The idea is that these books are notable in some way beyond catching a celebrity's eye.

And in that vein, here are another couple of good resources for interesting books that are worth reading in a group: the sites for two major Canadian literary awards.

The Scotiabank Giller Prize is an award for fiction. The players are different every year, the jury is different every year, and the results are always interesting.

The Governor General's Literary Awards, presented by the Canada Council for the Arts, have lots of categories in both languages. Children's books can win either for illustration or for text, and this year the winner is the same in both categories--in English. Because yes, there are awards for writing in French, too.

Just call it "resource week" here at Half-Canadian: linking you to information you never thought to ask for!

A Good Beginning

What the heck is going on in Afghanistan these days? Are Canadian forces "coming home" in 2011 or not? What does "coming home" mean, anyway?

Enough with the questions. Here's a new site to help give Canadians, and anyone else who looks, a chance to learn more about Afghanistan and what Canada's forces are doing there: Learn the Facts: Afghanistan.

It's a new site, just finding its feet, its experts, its content. It wants to "provide objective information from credible sources in a clear, deliverable way." It was founded and is managed by two civilian students at the Royal Military College of Canada.

The site may not now be, and won't be, perfect. However, the idea -- providing a place for learning and discussion, when media coverage is superficial and driven by politics -- is excellent.

One hears a lot of claims about "new media." But if this site, like Factcheck.org (also not perfect but better than nothing), is an example of "new media," I'm all for it.

What's Up with the Yanks?

No, this has nothing to do with baseball. Not those Yankees. I'm talking about the rest of them--all 300 million who live in that big country south of here.

Here's something I never thought I'd say: I miss watching Regis and Kelly.

Now I have to back-pedal. The show used to come on after Canada AM, at 9 a.m. On occasion, I slept late and could still find myself sitting dazed on the couch downing coffee at 9, and I would watch their morning "host chat."

I never watched the show when I lived in the U.S.--I didn't need to. However, now that I'm in this "whole other country," I found Regis and Kelly to be a really useful way to keep up with popular culture in the U.S.

Sure, I could find other ways to find out what's on the mind of the Average American. But what else popped into my living room conveniently at 9 a.m. for 15 minutes? Nothing, that's what.

Instead of showing R&K, the local channel bumped the Christian morning show (brrr) into the 9 a.m. slot and runs The View at 11. I have tried watching The View. Too much shrieking and direct sales. Whoopi isn't worth it.

So that leaves me with Entertainment Tonight, which is nauseating about half the time. Plus the internet, plus various other social media.

But geez. No Regis bewailing the performance of his Notre Dame football team of a Monday morning? No Kelly to talk about her shoes and her family and her dog and the production assistant's upcoming wedding?

OK, it was never particularly fascinating. But I was used to it, darn it. Farewell, acquaintances-I-never-really-liked. See you on Facebook.

A Quote

Because no, I cannot JUST LET GO of the idea that maybe we don't have to keep FIGHTING people with guns, bombs, drones, propaganda, et cetera.

"A merely fallen enemy may rise again, but the reconciled one is truly vanquished."

Friedrich Schiller apparently said that, according to the London Independent (according to The Week).

What's say we try that whole "reconciliation" thing instead of knocking people down and killing them? Could we start now?

Remembering

...because it's 11:00 on 11/11.

And also wishing a little--wishing that we didn't have to remember war and its costs.

The sacrifice many have made is beyond my ability to understand except through metaphor. Those who have not died physically have died to a life of innocence and been born to a life of terrible knowledge. That sacrifice spares me the need to know what they know.

I'm grateful for all those sacrifices and, at the same time, acutely aware that gratitude is no true compensation. Gratitude is, however, all I have.

Except I can also wish. I wish that we did not ask men and women to risk death and horror on our behalf--that we did not have to ask it. I wish that we could share rights and freedoms--claim them for ourselves and extend them to others--without violence.

Maybe I'm naive (maybe?), but I can't help but think the soldiers we remember today may have wished the same thing. Maybe silently, maybe just for a moment, but they wished it--and they went anyway.

To remember and honor their sacrifice, I must also remember and honor that wish.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I wish my father were still alive.

(Don't worry, this isn't a sentimental post.)

Sometimes I wish my father were alive so he could see how RIGHT I was about Joe Lieberman ("I", Conn.), whose fan I have NOT been since back in the Days of Gore (Al) and Impeachment. Grrr.

My father was a forgiving man, mostly. Eventually. He was plenty angry and betrayed during the Nixon years but I think part of that hurt was bewilderment. He wondered how someone entrusted with so much could deceive himself (and others) so consistently and stoop so low in order to gain so little. At least I think that's what my father would say.

In any case, my father's forgiving attitude is what I'm aspiring to. Forgiving a U.S. senator for his need to grandstand and make an issue like healthcare all about HIM, Joe Lieberman. Yes, I realize it's not particularly shocking behaviour for a politician.

I only wish it were.

A Tale of Two Doctors

I've seen a few medical professionals lately. I pretend it has nothing to do with getting older. In fact, it doesn't; it has to do with having checkups.

Tuesday, I went to a physician's office. I flashed my health card and was ushered in to talk with the physician. When we were done, I made an appointment for my physical and left with an order for routine blood tests. No money exchanged hands. I had no co-payment. I will not receive a bill for 20% of the charge up to some amount.

This is the kind of health care Canadians like to talk about, and with good reason. When you're sick, you get care. However, when you're healthy, as I am, and you live in an area where family physicians are scarce, as I do, getting regular medical care requires jumping through hoops. Still, I get by with a little help from friends...and now I have a doctor.

Wednesday, I saw the dentist. At the end of the appointment, I went to the desk and made an appointment for a repeat in 9 months. I also received a photocopy of the form they're submitting to my insurance provider. When the insurance company pays for everything it pays for, there will be a balance left to pay, and I will be expected to pay it.

If this process sounds familiar to you Americans, it should. Routine preventive dentistry is exempt from the "free" medical care. So are routine hearing health and routine eye exams. For those health professionals, you need deep wallets or insurance. And insurance determines what treatments are covered (fluoride is not) and how often I get cleanings (every 9 months; other insurance I've had allows cleanings every 6 months).

Some issues with hearing, vision, or teeth are considered "medical" and therefore would be covered. If you suddenly lose hearing and see your physician, she may order a test from the audiologist to determine what hearing is lost and refer you to an ENT specialist or neurologist. Those kinds of problems are deemed to be "medical."

But if you're losing hearing and it looks like routine aging, you're outta luck. What about the fact that if you can't hear what your physician says, you won't follow instructions? Maybe you take two pills at bedtime instead of one pill at a time, 12 hours apart? And if you have a mouthful of decayed teeth, your overall health is at risk. That stuff isn't addressed as well up here.

Medications are also not covered. So, for example, your pharmaceutical insurance might allow you to receive chemotherapy at home. Or it might not. It might defray 80% of the cost of some drugs, and leave you on the hook for the full price of others.

Of course, that state of affairs is "normal" in the U.S. Hearing aids are expensive; many boomers should have them and can't afford them. Your insurance may not cover an experimental chemotherapy, even though your participation may benefit not only you but the entire population who has the same cancer.

When I was having my teeth x-rayed, I heard a young woman talking with a hygienist. She said, "When you don't have dental insurance, you're obsessive with the floss." I would submit that those of us who do have dental insurance can also be obsessive with the floss, and that floss isn't the answer to all dental problems. Of course, her point is that not all medical care is free even on this "socialist" side of the border.

And as I have said before, medical systems are systems, with emphasis on the word system. No system is perfect.

But this system has advantages, I have to say. I really wish Americans weren't so afraid of it.

Literary Mashup...and Zombies

In my usual hip and happ'nin fashion, I recently participated in a pop culture phenomenon: I pretended to send my six-year-old son up in a flimsy hot-air balloon in an effort to get a television show.

Just kidding. Really, I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith.

I was inspired in part by slogging through (most of) (okay, some of) a literary classic, Don Quixote, for a book club. And yes, I felt a glow equivalent to the one you get from eating nothing but veggies and working out regularly. Therefore, I needed some Halloween candy. Also some way to get "The Impossible Dream" out of my head.

Although I contemplated re-reading the original Pride and Prejudice, I opted not to. I've been curious about P&P&Z because it is successful and because it has generated much discussion yet little outrage (at least in my cocoon). Also, I recently heard an interview with the publisher who thought up this idea (I'm behind on podcasts but I think it was mid-September, an episode of Q hosted by the lovely and talented Jian Ghomeshi) and this publisher told an interesting tale.

The form is, apparently, a literary mashup.

For those who are even less hip and with-it than I am--that is, the person to whom I happen to be married--a mashup is a combination of songs (and, nowadays, videos thereof) to make a new song (or video). Go here for definitions from the Urban Dictionary. The mashup is apparently mostly a music phenomenon, with crossovers to videos on YouTube.

And according to the Q interview, the publisher one day idly wondered what the literary equivalent of the mashup was. He wrote down a list of classics whose copyrights, conveniently, are lapsed and which are thus in the public domain--Moby Dick, Pride and Prejudice, Oliver Twist, and others. And then he made another list, this time of pop culture phenomena: zombies, sea monsters, vampires, monkeys, and others. And then he drew a line between the columns. When he connected Pride and Prejudice with zombies, he knew he had an excellent mash. Er, match. Or anyway, a title.

I liked that story a lot. How often do people stop at the "idle curiosity" step, without actually pursuing something innovative? Even I go only one step beyond idle curiosity, to decide that "someone" should do "something." That is, after all, the origin of my own venture, "Great Ideas for Other People," which I still can't figure out how to make into an actual business, but you heard about it here first.

So here's a rundown of my pop culture experience.

1. I had a difficult time finding the book. I looked high and low in fiction, under Austen and Smith. I looked on the store's computers 3 times to verify that the store had 23 copies on the shelves. And then I realized that the book must be shelved in one of those sections of the store I never go into: Horror. (Other sections I avoid include the yoga mat section, the computer reference book section, and the inspirational business section. If you see me there, I'm under duress--likely for a job.) Which also describes how I felt looking at the rest of the books in the section. Not exactly my cuppa.

2. So imagine my surprise to find that the book is kinda cute except when it's dumb. It has some fairly stupid gross-out humo(u)r (bodily functions, pus) and even a couple of off-colo(u)r jokes involving balls--both the kind you dance at and the kind that go into a musket. This aspect of the zombie story line is the least effective part of the combination.

3. In some cases, the addition of the zombie story line actually serves to make characters slightly more accessible to modern audiences. Charlotte Lucas has a pretty good reason for marrying Mr. Collins, for example--one that's comprehensible even to modern women. Mr. Bennet, too, has a different motivation that makes him not completely arbitrary and capricious. However, both characters retain enough of their original personalities so as not to spoil the storyline. The Wickham story is also resolved in a way that provides satisfaction to some modern readers.

4. In other cases, the story changes seem arbitrary. Mr. Bennet and Mrs. Gardiner both commit transgressions in the mashup that aren't in the original story. I was interested to see how those transgressions could help solidify or twist the original plot back on itself in an effective way--but they never did. A significant twist to the Charlotte/Mr. Collins storyline was equally "why?"

However, the questions in the Reader's Discussion Guide alone are worth the price of the book. Or at least a look-see in the bookstore. Read #6. Seriously.

Overall, it's like those miniature Mr. Goodbars--not bad for what they are, but not nearly as good as a Hershey's Special Dark miniature.

I did enjoy my foray into the mashup world. Always something to learn from popular culture. Though I think I might need an hour to dip into the original P&P. Just to cleanse the palate.

A Tale of Two Fathers

I can't help but compare the visuals.

Wednesday of this week, the parents of Evan, an Ontario boy, sat on a couch. Evan's younger brother sat between them. Three faces like crumpled Kleenex.

The boy, Evan, died of the H1N1 virus on Monday. On Friday he had a bit of a cough. He played in a hockey tournament over the weekend. He had fever and began vomiting. His parents took him to a clinic, but he was sent home with over-the-counter drugs. Monday morning, his fever broke and they thought he was getting well. Later that morning, Evan collapsed. He died suddenly on Monday.

Compare that to the mental images you have of the post-escapade "Balloon Boy" and his parents. Same scene: a couch, parents, their sons. In this case, three confused young boys sat squeezed between two distraught-looking parents. Emphasis, as we now believe, on the "looking."

Two fathers. Two countries--but the country makes no difference. Canadians can be morons about reality television. American children die of H1N1.

Still, the visuals. The couches. Two fathers. Very different fathers. And their sons.

Thanks for Sharing

A couple of days ago I got the weirdest letter from the IRS.

Let me just say that the last couple of weeks--months, even--have been rather odd. Lots of activity, lots of things going on. Also, connections fraying. Lots of doors slamming shut in my face. While I firmly believe in closed door/open window and all that, a slamming-door time is still not exactly pleasant.

So on a slamming-door day, I also received a missive from the IRS. Ulp. My initial thought: "What ELSE??" I ranted on from there for awhile before calming down to read it.

The letter says that they can't process the amended return I submitted for my 2007 income tax because I amended something that I'm not allowed to amend.

And that's all it says.

There's no bill. There's no "Please respond with an X within Y days or we'll Z." Nothing.

Now, I have watched enough Oprah to know that when a real-live person says "I have a problem," the appropriate response from me is, "Wow, sounds like you have a problem." If I like the person, I can expand on this: "What's your plan?" or "How do you feel about it?" or "Thanks for sharing." The main thing is, this person has a problem and fixing it is her job. Not mine.

I don't even have to say, "What would you like me to do?" unless I really really want to. Of course, the person can ask me for help, and that's a different situation. But until I'm asked for specific help, I don't have to offer any. In fact, it's often best to not offer solutions. For one thing, the person may have excellent ideas of her own and just need to tell me about the problem. And for another, I really can't read minds, so figuring out what she needs is problematic at best.

I understand that the IRS is not a real person. However, it seems as if the IRS has a problem, and I don't have an indication of what action they would like me to take.

So I sent BACK a letter explaining why I made the amendment I made (because the amended version accurately describes my situation here) and asked them to suggest actions I could take that would help them resolve their issue with processing my form.

Because I am in NO position to figure out what the IRS needs. In fact, that's how this tax form became problematic in the first place--I had a particularly strange year in 2007 and could not figure out how to fill out the forms. And that was with instructions.

So now, I'm just waiting to find out how I can help out the IRS. In the meantime, IRS, thanks for sharing.

Pronunciation: Putting the "cow" in "Moscow"

Recently, Russia was in the news--specifically, the city of Moscow. And I noticed another difference in pronunciation up here.

In the U.S., the city in Idaho is pronounced "MOSS-koe," where "koe" sounds like "toe." The city in Russia, in contrast, is pronounced "MOSS-cow," where "cow" sounds like "moo" and chews grass.

In Canada, they're both pronounced "MOSS-koe," like the toe. That's the opposite of what I expected, based on the Canadian open vowel in "PASS-tuh," which is what we in the U.S. call "PAH-stuh" or, for the under-8 crowd, "puh-SKET-tee."

In such subtle ways we betray our background.

A Border Question Seldom Heard Up Here

We spent a day over the holiday weekend--the day on which it did NOT snow--on a trip to look at the leaves.

Our destination was Grand Marais, chosen in part because it's a Goldilocks distance (not too far, not too near) and in part because my husband has a new passport and wanted to cross the border with it.

And although the border guard did not ask me to smile, not once, he did ask us about the nature of our relationship. It's helpful to be able to answer "We're married."

One of the times when we weren't married and crossed the border, our answer was something erudite like "We're, uh, toGETHer." This stumbling-fumbling sentence (combined with the difference in our ages) apparently aroused enough suspicion in the U.S. border agent to prompt him to mention that he saw lots of Internet romances in which a Canadian hooked up with an American for nefarious purposes--namely, moving to the U.S.

Because Canadians of middle and older age all want to live in the U.S. For the health care. Yeah. That's it.

To be fair, Canadians of many ages are indeed snowbirds. But few want to STAY.

Anyway, the pre-marriage guard then asked my husband if he had proof of that he intended to return to Canada in a week. Proof such as the title to land he owned. My husband said "no." The agent shook his head sadly and eventually waved us through, evidently against his better judgment. Perhaps it was a holiday gift to us.

Why would someone going to a family wedding during the holiday season happen to carry title to property? Wouldn't that look MORE suspicious, not LESS?

And now, the new border requirements may resign those kinds of questions to the dustbin. Let's hope, anyway, that the passports are good for something.

However, this time, when we said "We're married," the border agent said, "Huh. So you're married but you have different last names."

The answer to that one: "Yes." And there was the head-shake again, but we were waved through.

Different last names. Sheesh.

I'd forgotten how big an issue that is in the U.S. Up here, having different last names hardly raises an eyebrow--although in a move reminiscent of Hillary Clinton, the Prime Minister's wife took his last name for the first time in their multi-year marriage only when he became Prime Minister. Why then? Who knows.

But for the most part--even in Thunder Bay, which is hardly a hotbed of radical thought--having different last names is not really worthy of comment.

Crossing the border: an experience that leaves people on both sides shaking their heads.

As Plentiful as Snowflakes

Yup. As I said Thursday, as plentiful as leaves on a birch...or, say, as snowflakes that fell on Saturday.

We were due for a few today, too, but not yet.

Snow on Thanksgiving is not unheard-of in my life. Just not common on this side of the border!

Giving Thanks

In this country, Thanksgiving falls at a time of year conducive to gratitude. Not that we don't love winter around here, of course. And spring. Summer, of course.

But, yup. Blessings as plentiful as golden leaves on a birch in early October.

Bearing Gifts

Apparently you don't want to wake up one morning and think, "Wow, life is...interesting...these days." Because then you get visitors.



Or perhaps you realize that YOU are the visitor.

The brown thing to the right of the black fuzzy thing is the support post for the porch. Because even if we ARE the visitors in this landscape, we're also the ones with the porch.

Where this creature is not welcome.

Because s/he has lots of other landscape in which to snuffle for mushrooms.

S/he is, though, a good reminder of those interesting times. Times in which I have to watch carefully as I walk to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspaper.

Not that I'm complaining. Just commenting.

Twenty-Five Hours, and a Bonus Later!

We've had a bit of a windstorm here, with trees down and power lost. News reports indicate that thousands of people in and around the city lost power for some varying amount of time.

Here in paradise, we were without power for more than 25 hours--from 2:45 on Monday afternoon to 4:30 yesterday. In the country, as in the city, electricty provides for functions such as heating and refrigeration/freezing of food. But out here, when the electricity goes out, the water pump and heater also go out. That means no flushing, no washing of hands, no warm water, no showers.

I spent much of the time huddled in a chair--reading something without necessarily paying attention, eating cheap cookies, and wondering when oh when the power was coming back. When it got dark, we sat in candlelight and envied people across the bay who seemed to have power.

OK, I did that envying part. My husband took the whole event pretty much in stride. In the daylight, he got the chainsaw out to clear our driveway of the huge spruce tree down across the end. To do that, he had to mess with various chainsaws and eventually build one of parts. Last night he fixed all the problems and we now have either four operative chainsaws, only one of which is wonky to start. During dark hours, he tried to engage me in chat. Good man.

His aplomb makes me wonder now why it was so hard for me to just go with the flow. Oh, sure--the sound of the wind is eerie. Plus it's worrisome, to say the least, to see very very tall trees all around you bending 45 degrees in one direction and 45 degrees in the other. It's almost worse at night when you can't see it but still know it's happening.

Normally I'm pretty calm and reliable in an emergency/crisis/difficulty. I can figure out what's important and focus on that. I let the back of my mind work on other eventualities but don't lose track of the here and now.

But in this case, I dithered and crumbled. Part of my problem was that I had no idea what time period I was working with. I didn't know what problems needed solutions and what could just go by the wayside.

For example, coffee. At the house, we have no provision for making coffee without electricity. However, at the camp, we have a couple of ways to do it. When I got up yesterday morning, I wondered whether I should walk down to the camp (10 minutes), make coffee there, and bring it back--our equivalent of a run to a coffee shop for a to-go mug. As it happens (we discovered later), nine large trees block the path between here and there, so that solution wouldn't have been quite so easy. However, I abandoned that idea early on because SURELY THE POWER WOULD COME ON SOON.

We also have a generator. We plugged the basement freezer into it for a time, in the hope that that much power would keep its contents from spoiling. I'm not sure it did, but it helped. But anyway, by the time we had that freezer set up, I had moved past finding a solution to having morning coffee, and it didn't occur to me to plug in the coffeemaker. All of which made rest of the day less pleasant than it might have been. Even though we were making plans in case the power didn't come on soon, SURELY IT WOULD.

I didn't even have to be cut off from the world. I own two battery-powered computing devices and our phone line worked, so theoretically I could get online. But I didn't, and I didn't see the point in trying, because SURELY THE POWER WOULD COME ON SOON. We don't have a battery-powered radio, though of course we could sit in the car to hear news reports if we needed to, but I didn't really think I needed to because (all together now) SURELY THE POWER...well.

I like to think that if someone had said to me, "You'll be without power for 25 hours," I'd have been able to cope better. But I'm not sure that that's true, given my bonus lesson.

After we got our power back, I used electricity like a woman possessed. I flushed toilets. I dried clothes. I turned lights on and off in rooms as I needed to: flick, the magic of light! of dark! light! dark! I washed dishes and myself. And yes, I made coffee. And then supper. Ahh, normal life.

And then, as we were drinking coffee and watching the sunset stain the sky and lake pink, the power went out again.

I wish I could say I cheerily lit candles and we counted our blessings, grateful for the gift of the few hours of power that would surely give us the fortitude to soldier on through the dark evening.

Instead, I put my head down on the plastic placemat, trying to avoid getting drips of candle wax in my clean hair, and said words I try to avoid saying aloud. Eventually, yes, we re-lit candles. Roy built the fire in the stove; the temperature fell with the night. He took a drive to assess the extent of the outage. I phoned the power company and heard their automated voice predicting that we would have power back by 10 p.m. I crossed my fingers.

I did rally. I returned to dull resignation, a step up from the semi-annoyed semi-comatose cookie-eating state. I wasn't being a particularly good sport, but I did force myself to be vocally grateful for the fact that I was clean, warm, fed, and dry.

The power came back on much sooner than predicted--this outage lasted only an hour. Even I am not egotistical enough to think that the relatively brief duration was a cosmic reward for my minimal effort to behave like a reasonable adult when faced with a minor difficulty. But I was sure grateful for it.

And I have tried to be grateful today--aloud. Often. And I wrote down the whole "plug the coffemaker into the generator" idea in case I lose my problem-solving ability next time, too.

Because there will be a next time--there's always something. And I'm already grateful that I have the chance to handle it with more grace.

Those Saucy Canadians

I've written before, a couple of times, about food and even what might constitute typical Canadian food.

Recently, my sister, a foodie who also watches decorating shows, mentioned donair. One program features a designer who selects a colo(u)r palette for a couple based on items in their home. In one episode, the designer found an off-white, and the couple was thrilled because the off-white was exactly the colour of donair.

I had never heard of donair--a sweet white garlic sauce, usually used for kebabs--but apparently it's a big deal in Atlantic Canada. It seems to resemble the white sauce I might have seen on a garlic chicken pizza.

So here's a list of "Canadian" foods. Poutine (french fries covered in cheese and gravy), butter tarts, Nanaimo bars, Shreddies (a specific brand of malted wheat cereal). I am also now aware of donair.

Five foods, two of which feature gravy. Go (Oh!) Canada.

True Change in a Minority Government

Welcome to Canada, where nobody wants an election, not now, not ever, but the threat of an election never quite goes away.

And when politicians can't manufacture election talk, they talk about the impossibility of accomplishing anything in a minority government. Too much compromise. The PM can't get anything of substance passed.

Americans: This is like saying that a president who's a Republican can't get anything done if the House is controlled by Democrats. You saw how that kept Bush from misdeeds in his last two years. And you can see how well Obama is succeeding with the Democrats also in charge of both the House and the Senate. As in, NOT in both cases.

The difficulty of governing with a minority government didn't stop Lester Pearson in 1960s Canada. Here are four important changes he made in five years, all without a majority behind him.

1. The Auto Pact, an early experiment in "free trade," in which trucks, cars, and auto parts moving between Canada and the U.S. were exempt from duty. It may look less like a great idea given the events of the past two years, but it worked for the previous 40.

2. The Canada Pension Plan, which deducts money from wages to support the elderly. Americans may recognize this: it's the equivalent of Social Security.

3. The Medical Care Act, which extends public healthcare coverage to include physician services. This is a step toward today's public healthcare system. Yes, Canadians have had public healthcare since 1971--and no one has yet started growing horns, tails, or cloven hoofs; pitchfork sales remain low.

4. A suspension of capital punishment. Pearson put capital punishment "temporarily" on hold; under Trudeau in 1976, capital punishment was officially abolished.

Even if you don't agree with the policies these actions put into place, you have to admit it's an impressive list.

So, we agree, it's impossible to effect change in a minority government.

Unless you're a statesman.

Are you listening, Mr. Harper? Hello? Anyone?

P.S. Because I am a serious student of Canadian history, I rely on impeccable sources. In this case, I am indebted to the 2nd edition of Will Ferguson's Canadian History for Dummies (John Wiley and Sons Canada, 2005), where Mr. Harper, Mr. Ignatieff, Mr. Layton, and Mr. Dion can also read about Pearson's minority government achievements. Because they seem to have forgotten their own history.

Freedom: Thanks to Health Care

In a recent interview (available for download here), science fiction writer Robert Sawyer was asked about creativity and living in Canada.

He says, and I'm paraphrasing, that the federal and provincial arts programs that award money to artists (writers, musicians, visual artists, multimedia, film, etc.) are fine, great, whatever.

But the single best thing that Canada did for his writing career was provide universal health care.

Surprised? I was, till I thought about it.

You may or may not like Robert Sawyer's writing, but imagine what that form of health care could mean for YOU.

Imagine being able to quit your current job and start your own business. You don't need a spouse to give you healthcare coverage. You can put your savings into the business, not into expensive COBRA coverage.

Imagine owning a small but growing business and being all too aware that if you grow such that you employ more than a certain number of people, you have to provide health insurance. Makes your long-term strategic planning look a little different, doesn't it?

Imagine owning a business and NEVER having to provide basic health insurance, at all--and not having to explain that it's a hardship or otherwise justify NOT doing it.

All that concern, that expense just...goes away.

And that's for the business world. Imagine the freedom and flexibility for artists, for students, for educators, for those who work out of the home part-time (or who work only at home) and raise children, for those finally finishing school, for career-changers.

Here's something close to home for people between 30 and 70. Your elderly mother suddenly needs more care. Guess what? You can move to be near her. No need to line up a job in advance long-distance or worry about your own health coverage.

Of course, each province has its own healthcare plan, so moving to a new province requires jumping through a hoop or two. But it's do-able, especially compared to what you'd go through in the U.S.

I remain dismayed at willful ignorance in the "debate" south of the border. Worse is the sheer lack of principle of those who create lies--and those who believe them--to justify their investment in the status quo. Death panels? You can say that with a straight face? You really believe that? Seriously?

I've stayed out of the discussion, mostly, and now I'm going on to something else. But I wanted to share this little what-if exercise, because I think it shows how universal healthcare coverage could give Americans what they claim they want most: freedom.

Toronto's Amenities

I previously wrote that Toronto, being a large city, has the amenities one associates with big cities.

Well, one of Toronto's amenities the second largest film festival in the world, the Toronto International Film Festival, which was happening last weekend. Huge coverage in this country and even some recognition in the U.S. A Really Big Deal.

Except not in most of the city. Which goes to show how big Toronto is. (Yes, I know: duh.) Our hotel was less expensive than similar places elsewhere in southern Ontario, so the rates weren't jacked for TIFF. The streets weren't particularly clogged with stars and stargazers, at least that I could tell. TIFF was just one thing happening, and to most people who live there, it happened in someone else's neighbourhood.

Which brings me to the inevitable Life Lesson. Toronto, and I'll extrapolate this to include other big cities, are just lots of neighbourhoods strung together. People live in these little
neighbo(u)rhoods. They go to diners for breakfast, shop for doggy treats, take kids to the park, gossip with the people next door.

And okay, sometimes they do stupid and criminal stuff, like get drunk and beat up a loved one. And sometimes they do weird stuff that authorities have a hard time figuring out, like this guy.

In any case, I enjoyed my brief stay. I will go back and do the tourist things, and there will be parts of the city I will like less than the parts I saw this time. But seen from the perspective of a sorta-adult instead of an easily intimidated, snarling teenager, the Big City was interesting and stimulating. I anticipate spending more time there throughout the coming years, and enjoying that, too.

Though I will say that navigating most of the length of the 401 (ranging from 10 to 16 lanes wide) for a driver with left/right issues at about 4 on a Friday afternoon wasn't something I would relish doing regularly.

Speaking of food (always), one thing I noticed was the ubiquity of fast-food-esque sushi places. Apparently some are icky, while others are yummy. (Seriously: we saw Ikki Sushi and Yumei Sushi.)

But still. Where I live now is my capital-H home. So although I may resist being Erica, I identify completely with Dorothy. No place like it.

Unfortunately Being Erica

CBC has this show, "Being Erica," in which a thirtysomething underachiever learns Valuable Life Lessons by reliving events from her past and talking with a magic shrink dude.

I don't really like the show. I know I'm supposed to. But I don't. Yes, I've watched more than one episode. Yes, I'm aware that part of my dislike is a weird talking thing that the lead actress does. Holly Hunter, Keira Knightley, and Winona Ryder all annoy me for a similar thing they do. And yes, I'm extremely aware that none of this is logical.

Imagine my excitement to realize I get my own private Being Erica experience.

We're on a trip to southern Ontario. My husband has a little business to attend to. I'm going along for the ride. Then we get to visit family.

And I will see Toronto, and parts of the rest of southern Ontario, as an adult. It's a little bit of a do-over, a chance at a Life Lesson. Dammit.

The last time I was in greater Toronto was multiple decades ago, when I was a teenager. Back then, I was resentful at leaving our fabulous vacation in the cool boreal forest to go to large hot cities full of people I didn't know to do "family" stuff with strangers and then go back home where it was also hot and humid.

In other words, going to southern Ontario was the end of the fun part of vacation and a return to drudgery, and every day spent en route was a day stolen from Paradise.

What can I say? No room for gray in a teenager's world.

Fast forward those decades. I've known for years that I should want to go to Toronto. What's not to like? It's a city, lots of amenities, an important part of this country. For two years, I've even theoretically wanted to go visit the stepson. However, in practice, just thinking about southern Ontario brought up all that old stuff.

Hence the Being Erica experience--I mean, sorta. I'm not actually becoming a teenager again, and I'm grateful for that. There's no magic shrink dude--my husband would laugh if I tried to cast him in that role.

But I can predict the Life Lessons. There's nothing inherently wrong with southern Ontario--Toronto and the other cities we're stopping in are probably interesting, wonderful places to visit. And when you live in Paradise, going home is doubly fabulous.

Look out, Monday.

Language Miscellany

Happy Labo(u)r Day! Celebrate work by taking a holiday!

Here are two snippets to contemplate on your day off and even tomorrow, when you return to regular September life.

First, in the U.S., people out in the boat should be wearing PFDs--personal flotation devices. I have heard these things called "life vests" and "life jackets" south of the border.

I've also heard them called PDFs, as a joke, in reference to the computer file, and let me just say, you do so at your peril. It's one of those things that you say so often that it becomes what you really say and then you sound truly ignorant instead of just jokingly ignorant.

Anyway. In Canada, the same things (not the computer files) are called "life preservers," at least in the popular media. This is one of those things my mother used to say that we all thought was "weird" but turned out to be Canadian. Like pronouncing pasta "pass-ta" instead of "pah-sta."

Second, in the U.S. organizations send out "press releases," or "media releases" if the PR person works in the Web 2.0 world. Small businesses, large businesses, nonprofit organizations, run-to-cure-cancer organizations, you name it--they're all sending out media releases. Because they're trying to be news.

In Canada, nonprofit organizations release PSAs--public service announcements. Obviously, the U.S. has PSAs too, but mostly on commercial TV. Remember "This is your brain on drugs?" That was a PSA in the U.S.

But here, PSAs are the norm for nonprofits. Because putting out information about nonprofit organizations is viewed differently by the media, apparently. Still learning about the "why," because it's actually the "what" that's important to me.

And now, I'm going out in the boat and I will wear my PFD, because it's the one my sister left here and it's purple and teal and cute.

Here's to working!!

Stumped

Last night was the first time I had cause to wonder whether we happened to have any tomato juice around.

I got home from a meeting at about 9:45 (almost dark; fall approaches!). As I parked, I saw a small skunk trot from in front of the garage (possibly even from inside the garage) right across the sidewalk, just a couple of yards away.

From my vantage point at the bottom of the stairs (still inside the car--why hurry?), the skunk had disappeared. For all I knew, it could be standing right where I needed to walk to get into the house. It could be frightened and even now be gathering all its little skunky courage to spray, once a suitable target (me!) appeared.

"Hmm," I thought, in my usual articulate and quick-witted way. "Now what?"

Sure, I could go around to the back and come into the house from the deck. That would mean crossing in front of the garage, where the rest of the skunk family might be gearing up to follow the first one. Or crossing the yard in the other direction, where I hoped the skunk had actually gone.

So maybe the front was still my best option.

Or maybe not.

I gathered the stuff I was bringing in and got out of the car. And I stood there beside the car, thinking, "This is a decision I don't even know where to start to think about how to make." And then the tomato juice crossed my mind. And I stood there.

And then, aha, the deus ex machina. My husband had heard me drive up and wondered why I hadn't come in yet. The porch light came on and I could see him inside. I motioned to the door, and when he opened it and stuck his head out, I said, "Do you see a skunk anywhere?"

He didn't--and to his credit, he also didn't slam the door shut in my face. With trepidation, I climbed the stairs, passed the bush where the skunk might be aiming its spray at me, climbed onto the front porch under which the skunk might be ditto, and came in.

Nothing else happened. We're not sure where it went. It might have been too young to have scent glands because there wasn't even a skunky hint lingering in the air. For all I know, it slept under the porch, or under the bush, and it may sleep there yet.

I still don't know what I would have done. I guess I had options. For one, I could have summoned the deus ex machina by phoning the house with my cell or honking. I could have lobbed stones into the area where I needed to walk. I could have stayed in the car.

I'm still thinking about it today, obviously. Now that I am at the age I am, I rarely face situations that are so completely unfamiliar to me. I don't know when it happened or what age I was, but at some point, I developed a tool kit (namely, the phone, combined with the Internet or a phone book) for most of life's perplexing difficulties.

When the toilet makes a funny noise, I know I can call a plumber if ignoring it doesn't work. If the electricity goes out, I know to check our own power lines for trees; I can call the power company and a tree service to deal with the related bad stuff. I have seen death, mechanical breakdowns, job loss, and family breakups, and I generally have the tools to deal with them or know who to call if I don't.

I may not like them. But I can deal with them.

But last night, I was stumped. I might have needed that tomato juice. And no, we didn't have any.

It's situations like this that keep my life so interesting.

The Harder Job

It seems impossible to not comment on the passing of Edward Kennedy, though I have little to add to what everyone else has said. However, I do remember two things my father said.

In the run-up to the 1980 election, my father was undergoing an amazing transformation. About five years earlier, when I entered high school, he had somehow visibly lost intelligence--about 50 IQ points' worth, I decided. Maybe more.

But as the end of the 70s drew near, so did the end of my teenage years, and so did the years of my father's intelligence vacuum. In fact, as I discovered on visits home from university, he had become incredibly learned. Things like American history, Presidential elections, politics--this "Dad" guy knew quite a bit. He had opinions about stuff and he could back them up.

Geez. Maybe that Harvard Ph.D. in history, lifelong interest in presidents and social history, and an encyclopedic memory all meant something after all.

In any case, my father had lots to say when Edward Kennedy mounted a serious challenge to then-President Carter in 1980, and not much of it was complimentary. It wasn't because of Kennedy's politics, but because challenging Carter was "dirty pool," not that my father knew from pool. It was bad form to foment divisions in the party, and my father also preferred Carter's principled (if sometimes less effective) leadership style.

During that time, my father and I talked about the Kennedys quite a bit, and two of his points have stuck with me since.

First, imagine living with the knowledge that two of your siblings were shot--not randomly, not accidentally. They were assassinated. Targeted specifically, for their work as public servants.

And yet Edward Kennedy had the courage to stay in politics. He could have invented other ways to "do good." He could have looked for a role in the media, as JFK Jr. and others in that generation have. Edward Kennedy could have contented himself with serving on boards of charities and foundations. But he continued to run for public office and serve the country in a way that made him vulnerable. Physically. Imagine his nightmares.

Second, imagine the pressure of being the one who survived. The one left to not only dream grand dreams and fight for ideals, but to live in the real world. The world where compromise is the necessary tool that translates grand dreams into imperfect programs that accomplish only some small part of the dream.

His brothers were cut down too early--"everyone" says so. Robert Kennedy's unrealized potential is either sad or tantalizing to contemplate; President Kennedy's maturation as a leader might have made the 1960s a completely different era.

But their legacies are the "what-if" dreams of hopes and inspiring words.

Edward Kennedy's legacy is one of action in the service of those same hopes, dreams, and inspirations. He was left to live down his own public mistakes in a world that was suddenly hungry for gossip about the wealthy and powerful, where his brothers enjoyed a different relationship with the press. He was left to sweat the details: the legislation and programs to give life to those dreams, in decades where the country's culture was actively hostile to caring for those less fortunate.

As my father pointed out, being the survivor was in many ways the much harder job. Edward Kennedy took on that job with gusto, and he did it well.

And he will be missed.

Canadian Commercial Content

In case you didn't know, the 2010 Olympics are being held in Vancouver. No, really--they are!

Here's a commercial McDonald's (official sponsor) is running. It's pretty darn cute. Oh come on, it takes 30 seconds and it won't make you crave a Big Mac or anything.



I also think it's pretty darn Canadian, and not just because the golden arches have red maple leafs in them. Here's why.

1. The little girl starts by saying, "Excuse me, Patrick Chan." She also says "please." She also has a specific request (for his autograph) and has an object (water bottle) and pen to do it with. She's prepared and polite. Canadian.

2. Patrick Chan, who hasn't even had the chance to bite into whatever McDonald's sandwich we are supposed to believe he eats, betrays absolutely NO impatience with this little girl. Again, prepared and polite. Also, Patrick Chan is a figure skater. This is a big sport up here. Not as big as hockey, but still big. Canadian.

3. When Patrick Chan hears that he is to sign the bottle for "M-O-M-M-Y," he looks puzzled but doesn't confront the mother directly. Instead, they exchange polite, indirect glances. You could call them shy glances. Canadian.

4. Patrick does his thing, the girl says "thank you," and they all live happily ever after in their separate booths, presumably eating their food and leaving each other alone. Canadian.

Here's how this would have played out in the States.

Woman to friend (pointing and shouting): OMIGOD! That's Patrick Chan!
Restaurant Patrons (all pointing and nudging each other and saying loudly): Patrick Chan? Patrick Chan!
Friend: Who's Patrick Chan?
Woman: Only the best figure skater in the world! He's gonna take gold from all those other figure skaters at the next Olympics and then go on to a multimillion-dollar career!!
Restaurant Patrons: Oh! Wow! Gold medal! Millionaire!
Friend: Wait. Isn't he...Canadian?
GASP, then SILENCE
Woman: Can't be. He's really good. I'm sure he's American. Hey Patrick, wanna sign my water bottle? Hey, anyone got a pen?
Restaurant Patrons (clamoring and thrusting water bottles, t-shirts, and body parts toward Patrick Chan): Yeah! me too!
Patrick Chan (annoyedly): Please, folks, can't I get at least a bite of my Big Mac? It's chock-full of protein, carbs, and veggies...everything I need to keep me going out there on the ice. And frankly, I'm feeling kinda faint."
Woman: Sure, we'll wait.
Restaurant Patrons (clustered around Patrick Chan, watching him go to take a bite): Oooo! Ahhhhh!
Patrick Chan (puts down sandwich good-naturedly): Just kidding. Sure, I'll sign whatever you got! Bring it on!
Shots of him signing everything in sight. Fade out over scene of Patrick Chan and new best American friends all eating sandwiches (supersized, of course).

In short, class, here are the salient features of the American version:

1. They have to explain who the sports hero is because he is not currently in the news. They also have to tie him to money. And they have to pretend he is both obviously the best in the world and American to be worthy of notice.

2. The characters exhibit shouting, pointing, and other behaviour that is questionable in public. They also are unprepared to ask for autographs.

3. Patrick Chan is famous and thus is an object to be stared at. The poor guy can't even eat in peace, which he seems to think is his right even though he's a "public figure" and supposed to represent the company he's shilling for. Americans love this type of contradictory relationship between media figures and the public (Britney Spears, 'nuff said).

4. The tie between the chain's primary product and the personality must be explicit, so that the audience KNOWS why sports figures eat McDonald's food and they should too. Because subtlety doesn't sell down there. And water bottles are temporary, not appetizing, and not food.

5. The final result of the whole thing is boisterous camaraderie. Everybody is part of one big happy American family. A similar phenomenon happens in Canada but rarely and usually in relation to hockey or donuts. Plus it's short-lived.

See? Can-con is a commercial phenomenon, too.

And by the way: Patrick Chan was born in 1990. I think I have socks older than he is. In fact, I'm probably older than everyone in the commercial, with the possible exception of the sandwich. Which has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that I'm nearly old as dirt. Which, yes, happens on both sides of the border.

Sigh.

Traditions

My parents were married on Christmas Day in 1942. Each year, the present-opening extravagannnnnnza included a moment for opening anniversary cards and gifts--as I recall, given mostly by my father to my mother.

It was mostly a non-event for us kids, except for their 25th anniversary, when my sister organized a system whereby we "donated" portions of our allowance and pooled our nickels, dimes, and occasional quarter to buy a silver bread tray.

And of course, the more years my parents accumulated as married partners, the more important their anniversaries became. The more I understood relationships (or truthfully, the more I understood that I knew NOTHING about successful relationships), the more I admired theirs.

Two years ago, my husband and I stood on our beach and made a new marriage. I'm enjoying developing new traditions to celebrate that commitment--traditions that match our marriage.

The second anniversary is traditionally the cotton anniversary. In our marriage, the whole second year has been devoted to empty space. Not the kind overhead, where the stars and planets and birds live. The kind in attics and basements and closets, oh my. The kind that is now mostly dry, thanks to hours replacing roofs (though we're not quite done with the re-roofing).

On our special day in celebration of our year of empty space, we will go to the dump. It is not only an ordinary "take the garbage and recycling to the landfill" day but also a day when we will use one of our two annual "cleanout" days. We have the rolled roofing from the bathroom to get rid of. Also the aluminum eavestroughs. Plus an old cracked toilet.

It's exciting to contemplate. And I can't wait to see what the coming years bring.

Lessons from Above

I've said this before. When you're at a camp (southern Ontario: cottage; Colorado and Manitoba: cabin; parts elsewhere: I don't know), the line between inside and outside is, well, fluid.

Sometimes more fluid than one would hope, if one would hope a camp structure doesn't include, say, the occasional rodent.

And yet. However blurry the line between inside and outside, the line between up and down remains quite solid, thank you very much. As I re-learned this week.

Last summer, we re-roofed the main part of "it may be a shack but it's our shack."

This summer, we are finishing by re-roofing the bathroom and breezeway. Starting with de-roofing, or pre-re-roofing. As in, destroying.

And I have learned a few Life Lessons.

First, knowing you should stop doing something is NOT the same as actually NOT DOING IT. Specifically, banging my kneecap on the ladder. The first time I thought, "Wow, ouch. I need to not do that again. Okay, lesson learned." The second time, I thought, "Damn, I forgot. But no more." The third time, I thought, "To hell with it. Maybe I should stay off the ladder till I get some physical grace." But not enough time has been invented for that to happen. Fortunately, we were more or less done, but I am not sure I've really figured out how to not bang it.

Second, when you're on a roof prying out nails, be careful to face in the correct direction. If the nail you're working on suddenly comes free and you fall backward, you don't want "backward," "downhill," and "over the edge of the roof" to be anywhere near the same thing. If you're squatting, point your rear end toward the uphill slope. If you're sitting, your feet should be lower than your (banged-up) knees.

Fortunately, I didn't have to learn this Life Lesson the hard way. Having a vivid imagination was enough to catch my attention and ensure that I wouldn't make that mistake. Which probably used up the attention I should have been paying to my kneecap.

Third, as shown in the photo (what you see is the lids of two tin cans, held on by tar to the plyboard roof), there are ways and ways of patching mistakes. Some are uglier than others, some are less effective than others, and some are both ugly and ineffective. Similarly, some are attractive and serviceable. So I'll try for that last combo. Even though I do have to admit that ugly and ineffective patches are kind of interesting from a family history/archeological standpoint 40 years down the road.

So, got that, people? Uphill and downhill are different, as are knowing and doing. Ugly/ineffective is different from attractive/serviceable.

And watch your kneecaps. There's a funnybone in there somewhere, and you really don't want to find it.