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.