Evan, that friend of mine who said I should start a blog, posed an interesting question about Canada. Since Canada Day is just about a month away, I thought I'd put this up so that we can really ponder it over the next month.
Evan was born in the States and we got talking about a country's identity as a whole. He said that whenever he asked Americans what America was to them, they would go on listing all sorts of things: valour, courage, the Statue of Liberty, war, the Constitution.
It can't be denied that Americans have a great sense of collective hisotry as well as collective purpose. As a whole they are very patriotic and will defend their country and their freedom to no end.
But when Evan has asked Canadians what Canada is to them, they ususally just sit there and look at him sort of lost for a moment, not really sure WHAT it means to them. Evan said the best responses he could find were "it's where my family is" and "it's beautiful." He started to find that Canadians see Canada as a geographical place, not a united body of citizens with a common purpose.
We were sitting in my old apartment living room while he was telling me all this. On one wall there was a sliding glass door as well as another door-sized window, only twice as wide. I could see straight off the balcony and across the apartment courtyard where a tall oak tree stood swaying a little in the wind.
I looked at Evan and said that to me Canada is a tree, old and tall, but youthful, strong and beautiful. When the wind comes it bends with it, never laying down or breaking in two. The branches bump into each other, sometimes quite forcefully, but they all move together in the same direction.
There were a bunch of there talking together in the room and when I finished they all just looked at me for a moment before they teased me for showing off and for being "such a writer". Once everyone calmed down Evan said that was the best description he'd heard.
Canada is an old and vast land, but a fairly new country. The land and the people are strong and beautiful. Everything and everybody varries from ocean to ocean to ocean, but we fight for our freedom and brave the cold each winter.
When the wind of adversity comes our way, be it political, economical, elemental or so on, we aren't known to stand firm and unshaken; we are passive. But we aren't doormats. We won't be pushed down or broken in half. And though we each have personal opinions, we recognize the quiet unity that comes from being Canadian.
The difference I see between Americans and Canadians is our perspectives. When it comes down to it, what are we all fighting for? What is the reward we're seeking? A safe and happy place to be with our families. We fight wars for safety, we have courage and perseverance to provide for our families. We sacrifice, we keep our chins up, we love.
It seems to me that Americans are still fighting for that peaceful and happy place, though I think they're probably already there. But for a country that often ends up a target, it's admittedly difficult to let go of fear and see the beauty all around.
As for Canada, "it's where my family is". It looks like Canadians are at the end. We've reached that safe and happy place and we're not really very worried about having to fight anymore.
So, aside from what I think, what is Canada to you?
Monday, 31 May 2010
Friday, 21 May 2010
One Great Man
A friend of mine stated recently on facebook that he went out for lunch with his Grandpa, and that got me really missing mine. I grew up in the the same city as my Grandfather, who always referred to himself as "Grand-dad" but I called him "Grampa". Some of my second cousins called him "Dad-O", which was a nickname I'd never heard before.
My Grampa passed away just about four years ago after a bad car accident. He survived but his back was broken and he spent the next year in a wheelchair. I remember how depressed and how irritated he was. Even though he was 88 years old, he'd kept in amazing shape right up to the accident. He kept good care of his huge yard and garden and little orchard, and he would go for walks every day alone. No one could ever keep up with him, his long legs stretched out on the pavement too quickly.
One day I started writing down little notes on my childhood memories and one of them was about the day I opened my very first bank account. My Grampa took me to Canada Trust when I was ten years old and opened up savings accounts for my brother and me. I didn't really understand what the big deal about bank accounts was except that I could go and get my book stamped and it would tell me how much money I had, which as a ten-year-old sounded pretty cool.
After we opened the account my Grampa sat down with me and said that I'd have to save my money and only spend it on important things and that I couldn't spend it on silly things, like lolipops. That was sad news to me because there was always a bin at the grocery store check-out filled with bunches of lolipops and I always wanted to buy one but I never had the money.
My mother always told me to cherish my grandparents because you never know how long they'll be around. I always thought that was a pretty pessimistic way of looking at life, but she was right. I wish I had sat and talked and learned more about my grandfather before he died. He had so much knowledge and life experience.
When he was in the hospital after the accident I came to visit him on one of his really rough days. He didn't want to see anyone and told my Gramma and my mom to leave him alone and go away. They left the room but I stayed where I was and let the quiet overtake us for a while. I felt so terrible for him. He went from a man completely self-reliant and independent, reduced to a man who needed someone else to feed him and wipe his chin and help him cough.
After a few minutes I opened up my English Literature textbook and read some of the poems I had been assigned for homework. I didn't quite understand what the poems meant, but I asked my Grampa what he thought of them and without hesitation he spilled out an analysis of the poem and brought to light little details I would never have seen.
He was a brilliant man and he did things in his own unique way. Whenever he sat down to type up a letter, he would only use his two index fingers. My Aunt said that he could type incredibly fast using just those fingers, the two of them flying over the keyboard faster than your eyes could keep track.
Grampa even designed his own house with a very open and airy second floor, but that was because he was an architect. Across the back of the house were several door-sized windows and two sliding glass doors leading onto the balcony. Every once in a while in the summer we'd be sitting down to eat and a bee or a wasp would fly in through one of the sliding glass doors. We would hear it buzzing and sometimes it would fly around our heads and everybody would flinch and duck. Or, if it was trying to get outside, it would get stuck bumping up against the window. Grampa would roll up a newspaper or magazine sitting nearby and make his way to the windows and bludgeon the thing to death. It always took more than one swing and if I didn't know any better, I'd say Grampa was a little afraid of the thing.
Grampa was a workoholic, in some ways. He worked as an architect in an office downtown well into his seventies, but when he chose to retire, all he really did was move his office into the main floor living room in his house.
Despite how dedicated Grampa was to his work, he was more dedicated to his family. He and Gramma would drive to the opposite side of town to pick my siblings and I up for church on Sundays from time to time. Everyone in our entire family loved him. Consideration was in all of his actions, and despite the fact that, in women's eyes, most men are thoughtless, he was consistently thoughtful.
But he wasn't all seriousness. There were times when I looked at my Grampa and couldn't help but laugh. He was so expressive, silly and at times very sassy. I was eating lunch with my Grandparents one day and Grampa reached for the butter. Gramma looked at him and said, "You're not supposed to reach across the table!" and Grampa paused for a moment before sticking his hands in the air and mimicking Gramma. That made me laugh.
A few minutes later my Gramma reached for something and my Grampa just couldn't resist. He put his hands on his hips and said, "You're not supposed to reach across the table!" That really made me laugh! Unfortunately I was drinking from a glass of juice at that exact moment and the juice came out my nose. My Gramma just sat there looking indignant, knowing he was right but bitter at being reprimanded, and yet nearly smiling. Deep down I knew she thought it was funny.
I got married just about a year and a half ago and whenever I think of Grampa I feel a little sad because my husband never met him and I think they would have gotten along marvelously. He taught me so much and I never realized it until this past year. Love, acceptance and understanding of family, dedication, hard work, perseverance. He was a venerable old man who had never forgotten to laugh. Life had taught him his place as the patriarch of our family and the bread-winner of his home, but he never forgot the little kid that still lived inside his heart.
My Grampa passed away just about four years ago after a bad car accident. He survived but his back was broken and he spent the next year in a wheelchair. I remember how depressed and how irritated he was. Even though he was 88 years old, he'd kept in amazing shape right up to the accident. He kept good care of his huge yard and garden and little orchard, and he would go for walks every day alone. No one could ever keep up with him, his long legs stretched out on the pavement too quickly.
One day I started writing down little notes on my childhood memories and one of them was about the day I opened my very first bank account. My Grampa took me to Canada Trust when I was ten years old and opened up savings accounts for my brother and me. I didn't really understand what the big deal about bank accounts was except that I could go and get my book stamped and it would tell me how much money I had, which as a ten-year-old sounded pretty cool.
After we opened the account my Grampa sat down with me and said that I'd have to save my money and only spend it on important things and that I couldn't spend it on silly things, like lolipops. That was sad news to me because there was always a bin at the grocery store check-out filled with bunches of lolipops and I always wanted to buy one but I never had the money.
My mother always told me to cherish my grandparents because you never know how long they'll be around. I always thought that was a pretty pessimistic way of looking at life, but she was right. I wish I had sat and talked and learned more about my grandfather before he died. He had so much knowledge and life experience.
When he was in the hospital after the accident I came to visit him on one of his really rough days. He didn't want to see anyone and told my Gramma and my mom to leave him alone and go away. They left the room but I stayed where I was and let the quiet overtake us for a while. I felt so terrible for him. He went from a man completely self-reliant and independent, reduced to a man who needed someone else to feed him and wipe his chin and help him cough.
After a few minutes I opened up my English Literature textbook and read some of the poems I had been assigned for homework. I didn't quite understand what the poems meant, but I asked my Grampa what he thought of them and without hesitation he spilled out an analysis of the poem and brought to light little details I would never have seen.
He was a brilliant man and he did things in his own unique way. Whenever he sat down to type up a letter, he would only use his two index fingers. My Aunt said that he could type incredibly fast using just those fingers, the two of them flying over the keyboard faster than your eyes could keep track.
Grampa even designed his own house with a very open and airy second floor, but that was because he was an architect. Across the back of the house were several door-sized windows and two sliding glass doors leading onto the balcony. Every once in a while in the summer we'd be sitting down to eat and a bee or a wasp would fly in through one of the sliding glass doors. We would hear it buzzing and sometimes it would fly around our heads and everybody would flinch and duck. Or, if it was trying to get outside, it would get stuck bumping up against the window. Grampa would roll up a newspaper or magazine sitting nearby and make his way to the windows and bludgeon the thing to death. It always took more than one swing and if I didn't know any better, I'd say Grampa was a little afraid of the thing.
Grampa was a workoholic, in some ways. He worked as an architect in an office downtown well into his seventies, but when he chose to retire, all he really did was move his office into the main floor living room in his house.
Despite how dedicated Grampa was to his work, he was more dedicated to his family. He and Gramma would drive to the opposite side of town to pick my siblings and I up for church on Sundays from time to time. Everyone in our entire family loved him. Consideration was in all of his actions, and despite the fact that, in women's eyes, most men are thoughtless, he was consistently thoughtful.
But he wasn't all seriousness. There were times when I looked at my Grampa and couldn't help but laugh. He was so expressive, silly and at times very sassy. I was eating lunch with my Grandparents one day and Grampa reached for the butter. Gramma looked at him and said, "You're not supposed to reach across the table!" and Grampa paused for a moment before sticking his hands in the air and mimicking Gramma. That made me laugh.
A few minutes later my Gramma reached for something and my Grampa just couldn't resist. He put his hands on his hips and said, "You're not supposed to reach across the table!" That really made me laugh! Unfortunately I was drinking from a glass of juice at that exact moment and the juice came out my nose. My Gramma just sat there looking indignant, knowing he was right but bitter at being reprimanded, and yet nearly smiling. Deep down I knew she thought it was funny.
I got married just about a year and a half ago and whenever I think of Grampa I feel a little sad because my husband never met him and I think they would have gotten along marvelously. He taught me so much and I never realized it until this past year. Love, acceptance and understanding of family, dedication, hard work, perseverance. He was a venerable old man who had never forgotten to laugh. Life had taught him his place as the patriarch of our family and the bread-winner of his home, but he never forgot the little kid that still lived inside his heart.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Return of the Honk
Well that honker just couldn't stay away. Because he came back the very next day.
This time my bedroom window was closed because of the snow that had been falling since the day before. I had just woken up and was still lying in bed when I heard a man calling out from the other side of my window. My first thought was one of hope, hoping it was the same guy back from yesterday just so I could see what would happen this time.
I wasn't wrong. This time he was standing ten feet from the door yelling the girl's name and throwing pittiful little snowballs at her third-storey window. In hindsight I guess I should have given him a little credit for standing out in the snow instead of waiting in his car. But he dashed that credit to smithereens after what happened next.
"Jane! Jane!" he called. No answer and yet he stood there for a solid three minutes staring longingly up at the window, waiting for his supposed Repunzel not to let down her hair but to buzz him in. No such luck. I watched him walk away, all the while looking back at the window as if she might just show up and let him in. He disappeared around the corner of the parking lot and I thought he was gone for good.
I should have known better. He came back about a minute later, this time in his silly black car, a Sun"flower", and parked by the fence with his window rolled down. Last time I spied on the man I peeked through slightly opened blinds. This time I had absolutely no fear. I opened those blinds all the way and stood with my arms folded and my nose not five inches from the blinds.
There was hope that he might not honk this time, but that was foolish. About thirty seconds later he honked his sing-song honk: honk-ha-honk-honk honk-honk! I waited and about three minutes later he honked again. No girl to be seen. Then the old man that lives in the apartment next to mine walked up with his little dog and the creep in the Sun"flower" called out, "Sir! Sir! Can ya hold the door for me?" My neighbour is a kind man and did so.
So Honkomus-Maximus, as I shall now refer to him, backed up his car about twenty feet, for what reason I haven't a clue, parked it and ran up to the door. I figured this was the end of it for a while and as I started to make my bed (a consistant morning ritual) I thought perhaps the girl doesn't have a phone. That would explain why Honkomus-Maximus doesn't ever buzz or just call her.
As my four teddy bears made their way to the head of my bed I noticed Honkomus-Maximus leaving the building. He got back into his car, rolled down the window and lit up a smoke. This perplexed me. So I stood and stared at him for a good couple of minutes. He pulled forward twenty feet after his smoke and honked again. Nothing. No girl. No Repunzel.
After a few more minutes he must have had all he could take because he ripped out of the parking lot and around the corner onto the street in a big fat hurry. I haven't seen him or the girl again and since a new tenant moved in this morning, I guess I won't be seeing Honkomus-Maximus again. I feel triumphantly grateful, and yet a little sad. I will miss our little encounters, even if he never knew I was there.
This time my bedroom window was closed because of the snow that had been falling since the day before. I had just woken up and was still lying in bed when I heard a man calling out from the other side of my window. My first thought was one of hope, hoping it was the same guy back from yesterday just so I could see what would happen this time.
I wasn't wrong. This time he was standing ten feet from the door yelling the girl's name and throwing pittiful little snowballs at her third-storey window. In hindsight I guess I should have given him a little credit for standing out in the snow instead of waiting in his car. But he dashed that credit to smithereens after what happened next.
"Jane! Jane!" he called. No answer and yet he stood there for a solid three minutes staring longingly up at the window, waiting for his supposed Repunzel not to let down her hair but to buzz him in. No such luck. I watched him walk away, all the while looking back at the window as if she might just show up and let him in. He disappeared around the corner of the parking lot and I thought he was gone for good.
I should have known better. He came back about a minute later, this time in his silly black car, a Sun"flower", and parked by the fence with his window rolled down. Last time I spied on the man I peeked through slightly opened blinds. This time I had absolutely no fear. I opened those blinds all the way and stood with my arms folded and my nose not five inches from the blinds.
There was hope that he might not honk this time, but that was foolish. About thirty seconds later he honked his sing-song honk: honk-ha-honk-honk honk-honk! I waited and about three minutes later he honked again. No girl to be seen. Then the old man that lives in the apartment next to mine walked up with his little dog and the creep in the Sun"flower" called out, "Sir! Sir! Can ya hold the door for me?" My neighbour is a kind man and did so.
So Honkomus-Maximus, as I shall now refer to him, backed up his car about twenty feet, for what reason I haven't a clue, parked it and ran up to the door. I figured this was the end of it for a while and as I started to make my bed (a consistant morning ritual) I thought perhaps the girl doesn't have a phone. That would explain why Honkomus-Maximus doesn't ever buzz or just call her.
As my four teddy bears made their way to the head of my bed I noticed Honkomus-Maximus leaving the building. He got back into his car, rolled down the window and lit up a smoke. This perplexed me. So I stood and stared at him for a good couple of minutes. He pulled forward twenty feet after his smoke and honked again. Nothing. No girl. No Repunzel.
After a few more minutes he must have had all he could take because he ripped out of the parking lot and around the corner onto the street in a big fat hurry. I haven't seen him or the girl again and since a new tenant moved in this morning, I guess I won't be seeing Honkomus-Maximus again. I feel triumphantly grateful, and yet a little sad. I will miss our little encounters, even if he never knew I was there.
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