Oh No, Canada

 

Today may be Canada’s birthday, but the territory existed long before France (at the time) gave the colony a name. It probably already had a name, I just don’t know what it was. The boundaries were different, too, as determined by the Indigenous peoples who lived here long before the Europeans’ arrival changed everything for them.

Don’t get me wrong. I love living here. I’m grateful to live here. It’s the best country in the world, but it didn’t start out that way and we have a long way to go before descendants of the original inhabitants have any reason to believe it.

At the end of May 2021, the bodies of 215 children were discovered buried on the property of a residential school in Kamloops. Just a few weeks later, another mass grave was discovered in Saskatchewan. I can’t go into it more deeply than that, as I am not qualified to comment. I’m grateful to be here, but my being here is predicated on a colonial government’s shameful attempts to destroy an entire culture first by appropriating their land, then by taking (and killing) their children.

I am not an activist. I don’t march in protests. I haven’t even paid that much attention to media stories about native blockades and whaling rights and so on, but when I learned (too recently) about the residential schools and the Sixties’ Scoop, a small part of me died. On hearing about those buried children, I wept.

Out of respect for grieving First Nations, this year the City of Victoria cancelled plans for a virtual Canada Day celebration. In consultation, however, local Indigenous leaders felt it would be wrong to dismiss the occasion entirely, so it’s become a learning opportunity for those of us who need educating.

Like me.

The truth must be told. History must be embraced, not erased, if we wish for true reconciliation with Canada’s Indigenous peoples. I sense no desire in them for punishment or vengeance. It seems all they ask is that we listen to them with respect and recognize them as the original stewards of this magical land. Reconciliation is key. We can’t undo what was done, but we can certainly right the wrongs of the past by changing our ways now and moving into Canada’s future together.

Maybe then, we will truly have something to celebrate.

Listen Up

 

Wednesday, June 30, 2021, has been proclaimed A Day to Listen. On this day, no matter what their regular format, radio stations across Canada are committed to broadcast stories of courage and survival from our Indigenous peoples. It’s time. We need to hear about their experience as much as they need to tell us about it, for only through sharing the burden of truth can we progress together in healing and reconciliation.

In the era of music streaming and custom playlists, this is where radio proves it’s still relevant. Having worked in the industry for a short time back when, I understand how multiple stations are able to broadcast content simultaneously—assuming that’s what they mean to do. Could be that local stations will air local stories, though it seems less likely given the quick turnaround time from proclamation to air date. I rather suspect the content will be housed in a mothership location and accessed through the miracle of modern technology ... much more modern than the tech I worked with in the early 1990s!

Gone are the days when the DJ had any control over what got played. The music is still a factor, but now it’s part of a formula aimed at a particular demographic to attract the most advertisers. I wonder how Wednesday will play out, sponsor-wise. I’d hesitate to sell commercial time on such a day, as goofball ads for hot tubs or pizza parlours would clash like mad with the serious intent of the programming.

What’s important is that we tune in on the 30th, at least for part of the day. Listen to some of the stories and learn something we didn’t know before, that might help us to understand more about what really happened in our shadowed past so we can build a brighter future. I’m all for it. I’ll be listening.

Will you?

Take the Fall

 

It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice. My favourite time of year is the fall. This weekend is especially precious, being Thanksgiving on Monday and me being grateful for nothing. The calendar is clear; I have four whole days to fill with whatever takes my fancy and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than nothing.

Perhaps I sound ungrateful? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Every day is stuffed with miracles, some too tiny to see and some so blatantly obvious that only a fool could deny them. Granted, the latter seem to appear less frequently, but the little ones, the ones I don’t always see, probably mean the most. They are the ones keeping everything in motion—and after the week I’ve had, I am ever so grateful for the passage of time!

It’s been a busy autumn despite COVID restrictions and working from home. Ter and I both have birthdays in the fall, and last week was particularly busy with appointments. I had some dental work done (more than expected, actually), Ter and I both had chiropractic treatments, and she did chauffeuring duty for a friend who had tests at the hospital on two separate days. And it’s only Friday!

So you see why a weekend of nothing is something for which to be grateful.

I could run my usual list: Ter, of course. My siblings and co-workers, my friends, my job in a pandemic where lots of folks lost theirs, my health (which is pretty good despite the daily bones), living in Canada rather than a few miles south of Canada. I’m even grateful for the petty bickering of politicians during our provincial election in contrast to the catastrophic numbskullery of the American presidential race. I dislike using a negative to promote the positive, but really? Compared to what the US populace is enduring, our troubles are puny indeed.

Yep, the fall is my favourite. We’ve had a good run of sun and high temperatures through the latter half of September into October, but now I’m ready for the rain. I want my hour back from April so it’s a bit lighter in the morning and the candles are lit earlier in the evening. I want fuzzy socks and big mugs of tea, fat winter novels and holidays specials on TV. The house smells of apples and cinnamon and, this Sunday, of stuffing!!

Spring is pretty, summer is lovely, winter is sleepy, but of the four seasons?

I’ll take the fall.

Canada 150

I love it here. I love Canada. I love being Canadian. I love hearing tourists gush about how friendly we are and how safe they feel within our borders. I am gratified to know that our global reputation is as pristine as any First World country’s reputation can be. We have our problems, sure. Just ask the indigenous people whose struggle to reclaim their stolen heritage continues. Even so, we as a nation are trying to repair the damage done by our colonial predecessors in hope of making something stronger from the wreckage. We may be Canadian, but we’re also human. We can’t be perfect, at least not all the time. We just try a little harder to be respectful, polite, environmentally conscious, compassionate, sympathetic, funny, humble and supportive. Patriotism hasn’t come easily in the past, but in recent years, it’s crept closer to the forefront, and you know what? That’s okay. We should be patriotic. We live in a magical, beautiful, expansive, progressive, diverse, inclusive and wondrous place.

Though I’d like to say I am proud to be Canadian, I am more inclined to say I’m relieved to be Canadian. Pride does have a dark side. The temptation to become smug about the country I call home has increased since superpowers like the US and the UK appear to have lost their lustre, but I refuse to go there. I am proud, yes. I am relieved, yes. I am grateful, yes. But I am here not by my doing. I am here because my father who, on deciding to emigrate from England, wrote to three nations: Canada, Australia, and America.

Canada wrote him back.

Canada welcomed him, his wife, and his four kids (my wee sister was smuggled in utero). I don’t think any of us would have had it turn out differently.

Happy birthday, Canada – and thanks.

With love,

Orange is the New Black

In no way, shape or form do I support, condone or agree with the outcome of the US election. I haven’t felt that sick in front of the TV since I watched the Twin Towers collapse on 9/11. I am a democratic socialist who supported Bernie Sanders, so I admit to harbouring reservations about Hillary in office, but still—the lesser of two evils, right?

Moot point, Ru. Despite the effect this singular decision will have on the entire planet, only a select number among the global population had a say in making it. The American people have spoken. The rest of us (and those who voted for the unsuccessful candidates) will have to live with it.

Ironically, they wanted change in 2008, and they got it. Maybe it wasn’t what they’d envisioned, or there was too much of it with too little time to adjust (humans are not as progressive as we think), or maybe those descendants of the original settlers are freaked out by their former majority becoming the new minority—whatever the case, the end result of yesterday’s vote is necessary.

You can only duct-tape a leaky system for so long before it blows completely, and I suspect a Democratic win last night would have been just another Band-Aid on the bleed. Well, we called down the thunder, so get ready for the BOOM!

I say “we” because it’s been my experience that humans, much as we whine about wanting change, really prefer things to stay the same. Institutional failure may be partly responsible for the orange outcome of this ground-rattling election, but the devolution of society has as great a part to play in the demise of what came before it.

True change is often painful. Disasters, whether natural or man-made, always precede a rebuild of some sort; we only choose to improve our toys. Improving conditions for the poor, for refugees and immigrants, for the working class, even for the earth itself, isn’t usually in anyone’s self-interest until it becomes imperative. No one who voted for Obama’s successor was voting for the good of others. They were voting for themselves … and that’s pretty well what they got. Those who voted for the other candidates (remote as the independents’ chances were, they still deserve to be recognized) were likely more community-minded and globally aware, but were shown to be in the minority.

America is broken. Of course it can be fixed. It can rise from the ashes and emerge stronger, better, and braver than it was yesterday. Did they pick the guy to get it to that place? Hell, no! Healing a wound never begins on the top. It begins deep down, close to the bone; that’s where the rebuild begins. Recovery is up to the people. It’s up to families and neighbours and co-workers and community leaders to make a difference at the local level. They will have to get each other through the next few years. They can do it; they just have to be willing to do the work themselves rather than relying on the tangerine head to do it for them.

I am sympathetic, truly. I appreciate the fear and desperation of the folks who voted as I would have voted; alas for them, the democratic process must be respected even when you don’t get who you want.

As for the crashing of Canada’s immigration website when the numbers started firming up, I guess socialism is looking pretty good to some of our neighbours now, eh?

I wish them well. I believe they can do better. I hope the people will join and become a stronger nation by working together, by showing kindness and compassion to themselves and each other. The human spirit, when focused and tuned in, is fiercely inspiring. We are capable of great and wondrous things.

With love and hope,

Another Perspective

At Rockland, Ter and I would stay up to see the Canada Day fireworks from our living room window. Since we moved to sea level, we only get the acoustics. Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! And so forth. It’s scheduled, so there’s no surprise when the explosions start.

One random Saturday night, we heard the same thing: Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! We wondered aloud what the occasion might be, since we knew of no celebration associated with July 9, then shrugged and went about our nightly routine of getting the bears ready for bed.

They weren’t bothered, either. One of them reminded me, huffing a little with displeasure, that there had been fireworks before Canada Day as well, at the home opener for the local baseball team. And I seem to remember a similarly unexpected display last year, something to do with Oak Bay perhaps, that I dismissed as simply more fireworks.

How fortunate I am to live in a place where Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! heralds nothing more sinister than an unscheduled fireworks display. It’s not a sniper picking off police officers or a religious nutbar massacring innocent people at a nightclub. It’s not civil war. It’s not an insurrection. It’s just a light show against the night sky.

A similar thought occurred ahead of a Snowbirds performance a couple of years ago (and I might have mentioned it in a previous post). The rush I feel on hearing the fighter jets’ approach is nothing remotely like what another woman in a war-torn country must feel on hearing the same sound. I was at work one day when the roar of low-flying military planes rattled the building and a co-worker asked me what the heck was going on. “The Snowbirds are in town this weekend,” I replied. “They must be practicing for the show.”

“I thought we were being bombed by Lebanon!”

She was joking, of course, but the sentiment has stayed with me. I can’t stress it enough. I can’t be grateful enough to live in a place where the sounds associated with war and craziness are a signal not to duck and cover, but to take the kids outside and watch the show.

In the Name of Love

After the Orlando shooting, I felt compelled to attend a pride flag ceremony at City Hall. I took time off work and hiked down the street, joined the throng of other like-minded souls and listened as our mayor made a speech before asking us to participate in a moment of silence for the victims of this purely hate-driven crime. I stood with my head bowed and my hand on my heart, and when the moment was over, I heard someone say my name.

Looking up, I was pleasantly surprised to see a former workmate who had moved on to bigger and better things. His office was just down the street, he said, what was I doing here?

“I’m just so sorry that this happened,” I replied. “I can’t believe it.” And yet I could, given the pin-headed contrast in this enlightened age. We chatted for a minute, catching up, then he introduced me to his sister, who is in a lesbian relationship. If his compassion had not made sense to me before—which it had; he’s a truly lovely guy—it made complete sense to me then.

Whether you know it or not, at some point in your life, a friend, co-worker, neighbour, or family member has either been attracted to the same sex or wanted to be a member of the opposite. If you knew and you were okay with it, kudos to you. If you’re running through a list of everyone you’ve ever known and wondering, please stop wasting your time. It’s obvious that you wouldn’t have been okay.

In my opinion, as long as it’s consensual and the players are of legal age, there is no shame in loving where your heart leads you. The shame is in the shaming.

You can’t convince me that the percentage of gay, lesbian, bi- or trans-gender people in society has increased over the years. I’m pretty sure they have always lived among us; they just haven’t been free to express it the way they are fighting to express it in the twenty-first century.

Personally, I consider them among the bravest people in the world. Nor do I condemn the folks who hid their true natures from fear of persecution and/or prosecution in times not so long past. It must have been—and still must be—horrible to pretend to be someone you’re not because being yourself might cost your family/job/reputation/life.

Our so-cool-it’s-painful Prime Minister recently marched in Toronto’s pride parade. This guy is so together, so enlightened, so necessary for the future of our country and society as a whole. He’s a great example of what Canadians not only are, but what we can be if we choose love over hate and acceptance instead of fear. Gay men are not predators and lesbian women are not mutants. Trans-gender people (and I have known one myself) only seek to be happy in their own skin. It’s not about carnal relations—or it shouldn’t be. It’s about the freedom to love where our hearts, not our minds, take us.

And so, with love,

Toe Canada!

Here we are, celebrating another anniversary of “thank the gods my parents didn’t emigrate to the US”. Once more, I tilt my gaze skyward and express my fervent gratitude for landing in this marvelous town in a marvelous province in perhaps the most marvelous country in the world. Sure, we have our problems, but they’re mostly first world and anything less could be resolved with a little compassion and less corporate greed. Our dollar may not be equal to the mighty American buckaroo, but our coin makes a stronger stand than their paper if you stack them side by side. And who cares anyway, when Canada by global reputation is safer, friendlier and far more polite than our noisy neighbours?

Given the state of the world these days, it’s inevitable that we will be affected in a negative manner as we go, but I have faith in our national resolve to stand in support of people in trouble while maintaining our collective cool. We are reasonable, peaceful folk (except at hockey games); we abhor violence (except at hockey games) and recognize guns as the formidable killing machines they are, rather than the extension of an outdated “right” as written by a gang of eighteenth century politicians. We may be a tad alarmed at what seems an overwhelming influx of races and cultures joining our ranks, but we’ll adapt because that’s what we do. We welcome newcomers. We try to get along with everyone. We share our wealth (most of us) and try to learn from our mistakes. We’re good people in a good country and I am so glad to be here.

Happy Birthday, Canada.

Justin Time

You had to see that title coming, didn’t you?

60 Minutes did a piece on our hottie Prime Minster, coinciding with his visit to the US this week. It’s been twenty years since a Canadian PM has been invited to a state dinner at the White House, and to be honest, it’s really too bad that Barack Obama is on his way out as President, because I believe that he and Justin would have been a force for good on the world stage. I can’t predict how it will go with Hillary—and gods forbid we end up with Prez Trump in the role of obnoxious next door neighbour.

Anyway, the 60 Minutes piece gave a little insight to confirm my gut feeling about our nation’s leader. He’s young, he’s green, and he’s connected to what’s important in life. How the combination will serve him in the ugly world of global politics remains to be seen, but I was deeply impressed with everything he said.

I especially liked his refusal to buy into the fear and paranoia the journalist tried to spark with questions about crossing borders and welcoming thousands of Middle Eastern refugees into the country. Rather than suspect wolves among the sheep, he replied that respect, trust and kindness are the greater means of achieving the peace we all allegedly crave. Raising walls and locking our doors will only breed more dissention. But best of all was his reply when she asked about his boxing hobby.

“Boxing,” he said, “is not about how hard you can hit your opponent. It’s about how many hits you can take and keep going.”

Now that someone has explained it to me, it makes a little more sense. It’s also a statement about his outlook on life. How cool is this guy?

Whether or not a genuinely good person can succeed as a world leader, I’m still unsure. Doubt makes me nervous that he’ll be taken out if he starts to exert too much positive influence, but I also believe in the philosophical fact that a single positive thought can neutralize a hundred negative ones; and if this is so, then this sincere and compassionate young man is in a position to restore Canada’s reputation as a progressive and proactive nation.

We’re good people. We deserve to have a good man representing us to the rest of the world. I’m hardly a proud sponsor of politicians in general, but I truly do believe we picked a winner last October.

Billions and Billions

It’s taken me a few days to process this headline:

“Canadians are Hoarding $75 Billion in Cash”.

We are? I dunno about you, but I live from paycheque to paycheque. The only bills I hoard bear no likeness to monarchs or prime ministers; they’re all stamped with corporate logos and bear a “balance owing” at the bottom of the page.

Yet a recent report issued by CIBC Economics claims that Canadians are losing money because we’re saving rather than investing.

Question: How can we lose money that we haven’t made?

Answer: We can’t.

When the CEO of a money-grubbing corporate giant says we’re losing money, he means we’re losing the potential for money. How the number 75 billion was arrived at, I have no idea. I’m no economist. I have no degree in financial engineering. I just know that cash works, and when I don’t have a lot to spare, I’m less likely to entrust what remains to a smiley smooth-talker who promises to invest it for me, then up and disappears with the proceeds, leaving me with less than I had when I started.

I can be a little cynical about these things.

According to the CIBC report, cash holding by Canadians has increased by 11% since the Wall Street crash in 2008, and it’s hurting our economy.

In the first place, can you blame us?

In the second, uh … no. The people who run the economy are hurting our economy.

Fact: the economy is not an act of God. It is controlled by humans; a chosen and mysterious few fat cats who probably earn more in a day from other people’s investments than the investors do.

I’m not saying that all financial institutions are evil. Then again, the days of the Bailey Brothers Savings and Loan are long gone. With all the bank/investment company merging going on, it’s inevitable that all the money in the world will eventually be ruled by a single global entity, probably based in Greece to help them feel better about going bankrupt last year.

What grinds my gears is the twist on the truth employed by gigantic money-making agencies to fool us into parting with our cash. My first glance at that headline had me asking where the dollars had gone. Losing $75 billion is a whopping big accounting gaffe—until I realized that the funds aren’t really lost. They have yet to and may never exist. I’m sure as heck unlikely to see any of it in my savings account anytime soon.

Trudeau 2.0

Canada's "Boy Toy" PM

“He’s not your father’s Trudeau,” said Peter Mansbridge on election night.

I paid little to no attention to politics in Trudeau the Elder’s heyday, so I can’t say whether the country was ruined or not when Pierre was in power. I didn’t even see the reputed charisma he allegedly had, and which Justin (his eldest son) has in spades.

Prone as I am to picking my fantasy hockey team on looks, however, I do recognize that picking my politicians demands a tad more serious criteria. Despite the sense that election day snuck up on me, I was aware enough to appreciate how the campaign was handled by the candidates. Justin Trudeau’s strategy was similar to that of Barack Obama’s in 2008: upbeat, positive, and non-combative. I will always follow the optimist who speaks of hope and empowerment rather than fanning fear through ignorance.

I have voted for the Liberals in past Federal elections (never ever in provincial), but this time the candidate dropped out so I had to reconsider my options. I thought I’d go one way until I was actually looking at the ballot. My eye scanned the list in search of the name I wanted, but got stuck at the halfway mark and in the end, I chose that candidate.

Canada will always be run by the Liberals or the Conservatives. The NDP’s disappointment at losing half the seats won in the last election strikes me as willful naivete. Surely they realize that the seats won in 2011 were those that would have gone to the Liberals had the Liberals not self-destructed prior to the campaign. All that happened this time round was the restoration of Liberal support to a resurrected party under the next generation.

Duh.

Perhaps not so strangely, many folks I know said afterward that they did something similar to me—while voting NDP in their ridings, all are pleased enough with the Liberal win. The big numbers tensed a few jaws, but hey, minority or majority, let’s see what the pup can do. My older sister nailed it when she told me of her confidence in Justin representing us on the world stage. Canada lost so much ground under Stephen Harper. Now is our chance to regain our reputation as a nation of good neighbours who care more about the environment and each other than we do about preserving the wealth of industrial magnates worldwide.

Speaking of which … my one regret is that our shiny new PM will not get a chance to work with the current US President. Together, they might have been magic.

To Vote or Not to Vote

It shouldn’t be a question.

I have as much faith in politicians as I do in television evangelists. The US President has proven that a good man can be completely ineffective when he rises too high in the ranks. I believe that many people get into politics for the right reasons, but once they’re in, they find themselves trapped in a dysfunctional system that thwarts any effort to change it for the better.

This does not mean that we should give up trying.

All over town, I’m seeing the word “Harper” stencilled onto STOP signs. I laugh at them, but I know it’s no joke. It’s time for a change. Voting to get someone out of office, however, takes as much thought as voting to get someone in. If I back the wrong horse, I could help to split the opposition and result in another run for the baddies. It may be a minority run, but they’ll still be on the wrong side of the House.

It could be wiser to support the party with the best chance of ousting the incumbent. A new minority government might be at the mercy of a coalesced opposition (assuming that Harper can work with anyone outside of his party), but they will be new. As in different.

Or perhaps I should vote for the party whose platform best matches my concerns. A perfect match won’t be likely, but I’m good with the best of seven. I’m a single woman who owns no property and is close to retirement, who believes that arts programs are critical to the health and well-being of society, that health care should include proactive practices such as homeopathy and acupuncture, that a gay couple is entitled to the same rights and privileges as a straight couple, and that education should be fully-funded. Our children are our future, after all, and the means to pay for schooling does not ensure that the brightest minds apply. And the environment is in dire need of nurturing, rather than being subjected to ongoing abuse for industrial gain.

Whatever my objective, on October 19, I am going to vote.

Being a single woman who owns no property, there was a time in the not so distant past when I would not have been allowed to vote at all. This is important, but it’s not my motivation. Neither is the fact that wars have been fought and blood has been shed to ensure that democracy prevails. Nope, I am haunted by the provincial election that put Gordon Campbell in office for a third, count ’em third, term as Premier of BC.

In that election, the majority of voters voted Liberal. I couldn’t believe it. Granted, Victoria is an NDP stronghold, but still, everyone in BC sounded like they were fed up with this guy and his Trump-sized ego. Even his own caucus was tired of him, yet the majority re-elected him?

It’s all in the wording. He was re-elected by the majority of voters, not the majority of eligible voters. It turned out that fewer than half of those registered BCers who were reportedly sick of him didn’t even bother to turn out on election day. So, His Royal Heinie got in by the grace of less than one quarter of those who were empowered to vote him out of a job.

Three-quarters of us got what we deserved. The rest of us tried, but were overwhelmed by those who exercised their hard-fought right to choose their government body.

You have a voice. Use it. Even if your candidate loses, you will have had your say.

October 19, 2015. Vote. Please.

Oh, Canada!

The manager of our local coffee house asked me yesterday if I was coming into town for the Canada Day parade today. I’m not a big parade person, mostly because the crowds get in my way, so aside from being surprised that there is a parade on top of the other celebrations, I wrinkled my nose and said most likely not. Then I asked him if he was going.

I love this guy. His brow lowered and his eyes got steely, and he said, “I’m not so proud to be Canadian these days. Our government isn’t doing anything to be proud of.”

“Yikes,” I replied. “A dissatisfied customer!”

That got a laugh, but we went on to discuss the upcoming election and where the Harpers are in the standings (below the Trudeaus, he tells me, though he added that the Liberals are responsible for getting us started on the downslide). We were interrupted when his trusty sidekick asked him to take a phone call—but his comment got me thinking about where the country stands on the global stage.

Truly, I don’t follow the news. There isn’t much to cheer about, given the media’s propensity to focus on death, disaster, and dishonour. And our national leaders, no matter what party they represent, do tend to look south for direction. We’ve been dragged into the war on terrorism thanks to radical extremists targeting everything in the First World. Politically, Richard has a point. From a personal point of view, however, I still take pride in being Canadian because our population is so diverse. We’re still friendly. We are (mostly) polite. We are passionate and compassionate. We are resilient and resourceful. We have the same social problems as everyone else, but we’re trying to solve them as best we can. Best of all, we live in a place where everywhere you turn, it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

Today, Ter and I are taking it easy. An idle saunter through Oak Bay is on tap, wandering Willows Beach and stopping for a pub lunch at the Penny in the village. We won’t be part of the horde of 50,000 converging downtown for the festivities and we’ll only hear the fireworks we used to see from our living room window at Rockland. I’m happy to be Canadian, but today, I think I’m happier just to be.

Happy Canada Day, eh?

Golden Boys

Every year, my father asks me if I’ve been watching the World Junior Hockey tournament that runs over the Christmas holiday. My answer is usually, “No.” I watch so much hockey during the NHL season (or did, before Rogers took over the league), that the junior teams hold little interest. I am always aware of the tourney, however; especially of the outcome, especially if Canada wins gold.

Winning gold hasn’t been the case for a while. Last year, the Finns beat the Swedes in the gold medal game and Canada got nothin’. I don’t think we made the medal games at all. This year, Ter and I happened on the Canada/US match in the round robin and wound up watching most of the game. It was one of the best hockey games I’ve ever seen, period. It helped that Canada won, but the speed and skill of those junior league boys were mesmerizing. They made the pros look like the amateurs. From that point, we coordinated our lives around the broadcast schedule and stayed with TSN for the duration.

The quarter-final against Denmark was kind of a blowout, but it was a fun game to watch. The semi against Slovakia was less of a blowout, at least at first; if not for Denis Godla, the score would have run further away than it did and sooner than it did—even the crowd was behind the Slovakian goalie. Nobody could believe that he didn’t get the “player of the game” award. They all started chanting, “Goalie, goalie!” until the kid had to acknowledge them while his selected teammate bravely endured the photo op. They say the players choose the recipient on each team, but the crowd knew who truly deserved it that night.

And last night’s gold match between Canada and Russia was hair-raising. Didn’t start that way—our boys had them pulling their goalie 2.5 minutes into the first period and the bigger, huskier Russian players couldn’t keep up with the swarm. When the gap in the score widened early in the second, it looked like we had it. Then, in three minutes, the Ruskies scored thrice, two of them on power plays. Suddenly, the score was 5-4 and the entire third period was yet to be played. I’m thinking that they should have played for gold in Montreal, that the Air Canada Centre is cursed with Leafs’ luck. Ter is yelling for the kids to quit with the stupid penalties (the game was actually very well called). The sportscaster on Global news is reminding us that 6-5 is a recurring score when Russia plays Canada in a series and that’s all fine and dandy so long as Canada gets the 6 …

Well, we didn’t. But the Russians couldn’t get the 5, either. The game ended at 5-4, the country went nuts, and now I understand what Dad means when he says the hockey is better at the junior level. These kids play with hearts and guts and desperation. They’re not in it for the money (well, maybe they are, in the long run—most of them are already drafted to NHL teams). They’re in it for pride, for their parents, for their coaches, and for their country. This year’s Canadian team was unbeatable. They went 7-0 in the tournament, but that’s not what impressed me the most. The chemistry between the players was magical. All four lines were scoring. The defence corps were horses on the blue line. I don’t know if any of them will be stars in the big league, but they were a galaxy unto themselves in the world juniors this year.

O, Canada!

Do or Donut

The other day, Ter challenged me to write 700 words about donuts. She was joking; I took her seriously …

Who knew that a lump of sweet dough, deep-fried and dunked in cinnamon sugar, would become a cultural icon? That a plethora of sweet sticky syrupy centres could be housed in fluffy golden goodness? That crushed peanuts and toasted coconut would be so nummy glued with glaze to a treat resembling a tender and crumbly Life Saver? Or that a donut shop named for a hockey player would successfully thwart a coffee empire’s nefarious plot to possess every city street corner and mall outlet in the country?

Only in Canada, you say?

Damn straight.

Canadians are—or once were—universally known as donut junkies. We poke fun at ourselves because of it. Countless comedy skits are set in donut shops. Need a cop right now? Look for squad cars at the nearest Tim Horton’s. Paper cups bearing the TH logo figure at every community rink. The chain, if not the donut itself, is a part of our national identity.

Of all the donuts I sampled in my wild and indiscriminate youth, Tim’s produced the tastiest and most varied morsels around. Honey-glazed yeast, white powdered jelly, maple dip, sour-cream-cake-rolled-in-sugar, vanilla-iced-with-sprinkles, caramel apple fritter, walnut or cherry stick; you name it, it’s somebody’s favourite. My preferences fluctuated as I grew up, but my go-to in the gluten days was always sugared raspberry jelly … when it wasn’t Boston Cream. (Pump custard into a running shoe and I’ll probably eat it.)

In the days before cars had cup holders, Ter and I would buy 20 Timbits, park the box on the console between us, and eat ’em like chips while we drove. Since three and a half donut holes equal a single donut, we could indulge in a variety trio apiece and suffer no more than the usual sugar crash down the road. She was all about the honey glaze, I preferred the cake (but never chocolate. Mysteriously, chocolate cake donuts do not cut it). Our mutual favourite, however, was the legendary Dutchie: a deliciously dense ball o’ dough studded with raisins and crusted in a sugar glaze. Created in 1964, it stayed in action until February 2014, when the Dutchie Timbit was discontinued due to “low popularity”.

I can’t imagine why.

Tim’s opened a shop downtown a few years ago, and bakeries in a ten block radius suddenly stopped selling donuts. I guess they thought the competition for donut consumption would crush them. Well, heck. They should also have quit selling sandwiches, soup, chili and oatmeal, too, because over the years those items have found their way onto Tim’s menu, along with bagels, muffins and breakfast sandwiches. One upon a time, the showcase displayed a mesmerizing array of glistening chocolate frost, chunky nut crunch and plump sugar jellies, but nowadays you need a GPS just to find the crullers.

I don’t remember the last time I saw a Tim’s commercial actually pushing donuts. The latest campaign was their pumpkin spice latte, and a p/s donut was placed near the mug, but no mention was made of the donut itself. Then there’s the grilled panini sandwich, lasagne casserole and the sirloin roast baguette. No wonder the Dutchie lost popularity. People have forgotten they ever existed!

Why do I care? I shouldn’t. GF donuts, if they exist, are probably used to anchor the buoys provided to tie up your sailboat offshore. They won’t be comparable to the real deal at any rate. And, despite a powerful craving during my gluten withdrawal, I was hardly a donut addict. Who am I to dictate what goes on a fast food menu?

Of course, donuts are not exclusive to the Great White North: A box of Krispy Kremes was once smuggled across the border by a co-worker and everyone on staff pounced on it, eager to see how the American version fared against our homegrown standard. One bite was enough for me: it was neither krispy nor kremey, just leaden, soggy and diabetes-inducing sweet. That sealed it. No other donut, be it disguised as loukoumades in Greek, lokma in Turkish, jalebi in Pakistani or beignet in French, could compare to an old-fashioned cinnamon cake donut from Tim Horton’s.

 

Assuming you can still get one.

Bullies

A lot of people are angry after what happened in Ottawa last week. Angry, afraid, and awakened to a horrible global truth, that we as a nation are no longer safe on our own turf. It’s taken me a few days to figure out how I feel about it.

I’m sad.

Sad that Canada is no longer exempt from the venom of radical terrorist groups. Sad that Corporal Nathan Carillo’s destiny was to be the death that woke us up. Sad that I sat in a sunny open courtyard the day after he was killed and wondered what would happen if one of the passersby suddenly pulled a gun and opened fire. Sad that guns, despite the laws that control them, are showing up in these formerly unheard of situations north of the US border. Sad that it’s finally come to this, that the least offensive country in the First World has lost her status as a safe place to be.

Sad, sad, sad.

Anger is a uniquely human response, always born of another action, deliberate or not, that threatens or offends. In no way will I plead the case of the individual who did this—he’s already moved on and discovered how horrendously misguided he was to buy into the propaganda of hate. What I will say is that I believe terrorists are, at their singular core, little more than jumped-up schoolyard bullies, so wrought with their own misery and self-loathing that they seek to empower themselves by victimizing others—usually those who are weaker than themselves, but in the case of ISIS or whatever they’re called, those whom they perceive as would-be oppressors. Canada got onto the hit list because we’re allied with the big boys. Guilt by association.

Seriously? Attacking us is like kicking a puppy. We don’t play the aggressor except on a sheet of ice, but we do heed the call for help in righting wrongs committed against innocents, and what terrorist groups do is wrong on so many levels I can’t begin to list them all. Yes, the Middle East is a hotbed of conflict and yes, if they weren’t sitting on the world’s oil supply, few governments would likely bother about them, but still. Be honest about it. Show your face and state your name. Openly recant your citizenship. Be proud to scorn your family, your nationality, and the religion you claim to revere. Man up to the consequence of your decision. If you believe what you’re doing is right and true, then have the courage to own your actions.

America does. Britain does. So do the Palestinians and the Israelis. Heck, so does North Korea. And, if you push us, so will Canada.

The world is run by ego, ambition, fear and hatred. Peace is a concept, and misunderstood at that. Peace is perceived as “not at war” and is therefore unsustainable.

Warring to stop war is insanity at its finest, but we’re in it now and there’s no going back. We’ll be forced into battle against this gang of miserable outcasts whether or not we believe it’s the only way. Millennia of history tells how this will end.

Badly.

But I won’t live in fear of the bullies. I won’t accept that people are inherently evil and unworthy of my trust. I will get angry, but I will release the anger without acting on it. Every one of us was born to love and be loved. We are what the world makes of us.

And that may be the saddest thing of all.

Medal Mettle

It kills me to hear an athlete say that they’ve disappointed their country when they don’t win gold at the Olympic games. Ter and I watched Patrick Chan this week, biting our nails when Japan’s Yuzuru Hanyu blew a few jumps in the free skate and thus left the door ajar for our man on blades. Four points had separated them after the short program and after Hanyu proved to be fallible, in theory, the gold was Chan’s to lose.

Only he had a rough skate, too. In the end, those four points made all the difference. Patrick Chan won silver in Sochi—twice. He also helped his mates to silver in the first-ever team skating event, and if not for those Russians …

Finnish hockey god Teemu Selanne said in Torino that bronze is better because you have to win that medal. Silver simply means that you lost the gold (Sweden beat the Finns in 2008—thanks to a broken hockey stick, of all things). Since he put it that way, I understand the disappointment and long faces often seen on the second place finishers. My attitude has usually been, Hey, you got to the final! But in sport, there’s one winner and there’s everyone else.

Patrick Chan said with tears in his eyes that, among other things, he felt like he’d disappointed his country. I’ve heard others say it, too, and every time my heart breaks not for the country, but for the athletes themselves. They’re the ones who put it on the line, who work and train and devote their lives to pursuing their passion. Wow. Olympic gold. Sure, it’s a pretty colour. It symbolizes supremacy. It’s a funny thing, but I watch the Olympics and see greater things than gold medals being awarded. I see the athletes supporting each other regardless of nationality. I see relationships being forged and differences being dissolved. Champions don’t always win a medal. Sometimes they just finish the race. And while I get that flying your nation’s flag lends some responsibility (kind of like how you behave in someone else’s home reflects on your parents), there isn’t one member of the Canadian team who doesn’t deserve to be at the Games. They’re all heroes to me.

Gratitude

 

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving. I’m unsure why we have such a holiday, truth be told, unless it’s a nod to evading conquest by America in the war of 1812. It certainly isn’t about winning independence from Britain, since the country was originally claimed by the French, who lost it (sort of) to England on the Plains of Abraham way back when. We weren’t even a country at that time; before and after the war, we were a colony. Confederation didn’t happed until 1867—is that when the holiday started? Or is it simply an excuse for a long weekend in October? (Insert shrug here.) Whatever the occasion, I’m always grateful for a stat holiday.

 

The past few years have taught me a lot about gratitude. After love, it’s the most powerful of the virtues. Combined with love, it can work miracles on one’s view of the world and one’s place in it. The daily gratitude list has been part of my psyche for so long now that I can’t recall which of my gurus planted it there. It began as an experiment a few years ago: every day, I wrote down things I was grateful for, including things I didn’t have but hoped to have in future. The things I already had meant more to me and the things I hoped to have … well, now I actually have some of them. Others yet elude me, but I’ve also learned that things come when and if they are meant to come, not before or not at all. Life isn’t about getting everything you want. The Rolling Stones had it right: you get what you need. The hard part—the really hard part—is being grateful when what you get sucks out loud. The disappointing stuff. The challenging stuff. The aches and pains stuff. Running life’s gauntlet is fraught with “woo hoo!” and “why me?” Appreciating the “woo hoo”s are easy, and though I struggle to do it, I make myself grateful for the “why me”s. I’m even more grateful when I get past them.

 

It is Thanskgiving, so here we go …

 

I am grateful for Ter;

I am grateful for family;

I am grateful for music;

I am grateful for art and film;

I am grateful for inspiration and creativity;

I am grateful for chiropractors and massage therapists;

I am grateful to live in Canada;

I am grateful to be richer than I think;

I am grateful for breath;

I am grateful for laughter;

I am grateful for rain;

I am grateful for abundance;

I am grateful for love;

I am grateful for life.

 

With love (and gratitude),

Canada d'Eh

Canada Toes!

Today is Canada Day. The nation is older than me but not as old as Julian. Its birthday is also a stat holiday, which makes for a nice long weekend, and while I don’t do anything special to celebrate it, I do use it to take stock of what this country means to me.

What defines Canada, I wonder? Many people say we’re simply not America and that’s good enough for them. Others claim that we’re the 51st state, which may or may not be true in the corporate sense – a lot of US-based businesses occupy space up here and have also bought out iconic Canadian companies like the Hudson’s Bay Co. and Tim Hortons. The worth of our loonie seems connected to the US buckeroo, but don’t ask me how. If economics were my forte, I’d be wealthier, depressed, or both.

Then there’s the cultural stuff. Hockey, beer and doughnuts. I love the first, am repelled by the second, and can’t eat the third unless it’s gluten-free and therefore dense as a curling rock. Imperial measurements were exchanged for metric at a time when it would be hardest for my generation to adapt. Politically, don’t go there – though I admit our system seems far less confusing than the US method of electing everyone all at once. We used to be polite; by today’s appalling standards, perhaps we still are. We adhere to the use of the letter “u” in words like colour, neighbour and favourite. (Spellcheck just flagged them for me. Spellcheck is wrong.) The artistic community is producing really good work in music, art and movies; our professional sports teams generally suck except within the CFL, but I suspect that’s because it’s our own league and only Canadian teams play in it. Our link to the UK has weakened over the years, yet we remain within the Commonwealth. We’re warm, welcoming, helpful, good neighbours both to the house next door and the country next door. At least, that’s what I hear. Truly, I haven’t traveled enough to know the difference between us and everyone else in the world.

I just know that I love it here.