Tag: Canada

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The Anniversary

We knew we would get married the first time we met.  Still, it’s not the sort of thing you discuss on a first date. And it almost didn’t happen.

We met at a Christmas party in Canada. My job was to greet guests at the door. I was resplendent in a pair of yuletide green jeans and two oven mitts shaped like moose heads. I used the oven mitts like puppets, welcoming new guests to the house in my best moose voice. The moose slurred a bit, since I had been “sampling” egg nog most of the afternoon. But most of the guests spoke French, so they had no idea what the moose was saying anyways.

I opened the door and there she was. The moose slurred Merry Christmas. She smiled, greeted me, and glanced down at my green jeans. It was not altogether a look of approval.

As it so often does during Canadian parties in winter, talk soon turned to hockey. I overheard her say to someone that her sports interest was not actually hockey, but American football. She instantly had my respect because you NEVER say that in Canada. She overheard me laugh at myself as I slopped egg nog on my green jeans. She was amused. Those first moments – respect, humour, and slopped food – formed a pattern for what was to become our relationship.

I switched to drinking tea in an effort to actually engage her in meaningful conversation. We talked for hours about family, faith, our previous work in Africa, and other matters of the heart. We exchanged numbers. As the party ended the moose bade her farewell. I watched her walk away, and I knew.

The next day I called. She was abrupt. She hung up quickly. My heart sank. How could I have gotten it that wrong? I hadn’t drunk that much egg nog! But then she called back. “Sorry about that”, she said sheepishly. “It was 4th and inches with Dallas inside the ten yard line and the game on the line. I just couldn’t talk. Kansas City and Oakland play in an hour, do you want to come over to watch?” And so it was to be.

Two short weeks later we went on separate trips to opposite corners of the world. We were going to see very close friends who happened to be of the opposite sex. During our respective trips our friends disclosed to each of us their preference to be more than friends. These expressions came from people we cared for deeply and had known for years. She and I still barely knew each other. What to do?

When we returned home I asked her how she had responded. She smiled and said, “I said thank you, but I can’t. Because a few weeks ago I met the man I am supposed to marry.” And so it was to be, 20 years ago this week.

This story is dedicated to the love of my life. Happy Anniversary, my dear.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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The Border

Crossing the border between Canada and the US used to be pretty easy. That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

Take for instance the time I crossed from rural Maine into rural-er New Brunswick. To reach the border I foolishly took a minor road through the heart of Maine. Don’t ever do this. When eventually I hit the border, the crossing booth looked like a glorified port-a-potty. There were two female Canadian border patrol members squished into its cedar-lined interior. I expect they saw fewer than 20 cars a day.

I rolled down to the window and handed them my passport.

The guard looked into the window of my car. “Sir”, she said. “It looks like you have a car packed for a family. But I don’t see a family. Is there a family in there? You didn’t forget them, did you? That is generally considered bad for the marriage.”

I explained that my wife and children had flown to Halifax. It was only me doing the 1,000 mile drive because we needed a car once we got out there. I was solo, but would soon meet the family in Halifax.

“Sooooooooo”, she said with faux chastisement, “No family. That would explain the beef jerky and cigars at 10:30 in the morning”.

Indeed. That morning on the way out of Bangor, Maine, I happened upon a shop that sold beef jerky, whisky, and cigars: the holy trinity of road trips. Of course I hadn’t had (much) whisky since I was driving, but I was happily nurturing a cigar and chomping on beef jerky as I rolled up to the border.

I confessed. Mea culpa. Guilty as charged. Then I asked her not to judge me since Maine is – truly – an exceedingly boring state through which to drive. She agreed. Then she added: “Looks like we got another liberated husband here. Enjoy your time in Canada”.

That was it. Not a single question about where I was staying, for how long, what I was bringing in. Nothing. I was clearly not an existential threat to the legal or sovereign interests of Canada.  That’s to be expected between the best of neighbo(u)rs.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Mountain Men

Swiss mountains are unforgettable. So too are the people you meet up there.

Last year my wife and I were hiking a remote trail high in the Alps. We came upon a farmer repairing a stone wall. He was a burly fellow with a mutton chop mustache. He looked like Obelix the cartoon character, or an agrarian version of Lemmy from Motorhead.

As we passed I wished him a “Guten Tag”, this being the German part of the country and greetings an essential part of Swiss culture. He raised his hand in a Roman salute and responded “Salve”. His greeting was Romansh, an ancient derivative of Latin used by only a handful of Swiss, yet still one of their four official languages. It was a moment straight out of another millennium.

I regularly hike up a mountain trail behind our house.  Three hikes out of five I will find a man there, sitting alone on a mountainside bench. He is my age and from the Middle East, either an immigrant or an asylum seeker. He sits and smokes and gazes with sad eyes over the broad Lake Geneva valley. We nod and smile at each other as I pass by, but we have never conversed: he speaks neither English nor French nor German. Still, he has become a fixture on the mountain. I miss seeing him when I find the bench empty.

Just today I was hiking alone in high mountain pastures when a storm boiled in. It began to rain hard as I made for the shelter of a stone cattle barn. I sat there under the eaves as a wicked thunderstorm rolled through. It was glorious.

Then out of nowhere three Swiss farmers appeared. We greeted each other. They began to prepare the barn to milk cattle. One of the farmers wore a baseball hat that featured a Canadian maple leaf and the silhouette of a bull. I pointed to the hat and said, with some pride, “Vive le Canada!” He responded with a smile and perfect English, “Yes! Canada! That’s where I get all my bull semen from”.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]