What I don't know about Canada...

O Canada! Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada,
We stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

"Resent" is too strong a term for it, but it is fair to say that many Canadians are a bit peeved by the fact that Americans know so very little about their neighbors to the north.

U.S. History is part of the curriculum in Canadian schools -- many folks have told me they memorized all of the states and their capitals while in school. But most Americans -- certainly including this one -- learned very little about Canada in school and have paid very little attention to news about it ever since.

I've always been curious as to why the Canadians never bothered to kick the British out. I couldn't understand why they have so much affection for the royalty -- more, it sometimes seems, that even the British themselves. And I suppose, in the back of my jingoistic American mind, I wondered why Canada had never asked to join the United States.

If I decide to write more formally about my discoveries and observations during this year on the road, Canada and Canadians will have to be a part of the mix -- perhaps several chapters. To do justice to such an analysis, I'll have to do more reading on the subject. I'm still generally ignorant about how Canada became Canada.

One revelation is that the expansion into Canada came from the north as much as from the east. Because of inland waterways, many trappers and other early visitors and settlers dropped down into the western parts of the continent from above.

This exploration and development of trade took place much earlier than the settlement of the American west. Many French, British and other newcomers formed families with natives and, over several generations, became a significant culture of their own in the new world.

This largely peaceful "invasion" and the integrating of cultures resulted in far less violence as compared to the Indian Wars in the States. That is not to say there were no problems; blood was shed and friction continues to some extent. But the dynamics of settlement and conflict resolution were far different above the border than in our country.

I crossed the time line today and ended up an hour late for supper. Sunset doesn't provide much of a clue this time of the year; in fact, clearing skies have made it much brighter at 7:30 than it was a noon.

Ten more days in the Canadian west. I believe I've identified some questions; hopefully I'll have time and opportunity to find some answers during that interval.

Time to run for the border

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true

Some day I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemondrops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me
        -- Arlen-Harburg, 1939

OK, time for a reality check.

I’ve endured five weeks of pure sweetness and light here in Canada and must confess that it’s taking a toll on me. A city boy from California can only take so much of this treacle and cream before ending up with a stomach ache.

After ten more days of this goody-goody, “How d’ya like Canada, eh?” treatment, I may not be capable of surviving back in the real world. Listen, I’ll be in Joliet, Illinois next month – home of the Stateville prison which has been home to all kinds of mobsters -- I have to rediscover my lack of trust or they’ll eat me alive back in the states.

I spent the morning at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Heritage Museum here in Regina. It’s a brand new facility with impressive exhibits.

The basic message was repeated often; it might have been written for Sesame Street. Mounties are expected to be courteous at all times, to avoid violence, to be sensitive, helpful, trustworthy, brave (OK, I’m drifting into Boy Scout territory here; but these folks are the ultimate Boy Scouts.

I was believing it all. I wanted so much to believe it all. Maybe I need to believe it on some level.

Then I saw exhibits that reveal Canada’s dark underbelly. Oh, what a shock to discover that there are gangs, drugs, mass murderers, cop-killers and the same assortment of deviants we know so well in the States.

Oh, Bullwinkle, tell me it ain’t so!

Well, I don’t have much basis for forming any conclusions. I did manage to corner someone who should know – a retired member of the service, one with about 35 years experience. His remarks were made in a calm, matter-of-fact manner and I have no reason to suspect sour grapes – but, who knows?

“It’s like any law enforcement group,” he told me. “We have our share of bad apples and the bottom line is that a few people in the government set the agenda.”

There is so much to appreciate in Canada. I must confess that I’ve been humbled by the dozens and dozens of just plain decent folks I’ve met who are troubled by U.S. actions and policies but are too polite to make their case forcefully.

I believe that, for the most part, Canadians tend to choose paths that may reach goals a bit less quickly, but that do less harm to fewer people.

My travels take me back into the states on June 10 and I’ll have all Summer to re-aclimate to my own culture before returning to Canada on Aug. 4.

I suspect that the succeeding month, spent in Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick will provide more informed insight. By Fall, I may have learned enough to offer more rational conclusions that have populated this channel of late.

Meanwhile, Saskatchewan has been swell; but I’m on to Manitoba in the morning.

Ungirding my loins

Fighting the power comes naturally to me – particularly when the power is being wielded by government or big corporations.

On the road for week after week, I get few opportunities to flex my fight-for-the-little-guy muscles. My best opportunity came at the Canadian border (see http://wanderingdave.blogspot.com/2007/04/good-fences.html) when I was given rough treatment by the border guards.

But I choked down all of my righteous indignation, deciding that I’d endure just about everything short of the ultimate border-crossing indignities (I’ll leave those up to your imagination) because I really did want to tour Canada…

Canadians are so darned nice (see http://wanderingdave.blogspot.com/2007/05/canadians-are-way-too-nice.html) that I’ve just had no way to build up angst while north of the border since the initial crossing.

No way, that is until I heard from the huge American corporation that has been connecting Wandering Dave to the world via cell phone and broadband internet.

I’ve been paying top dollar for service since the end of 2005 and had no cause for concern or complaint until a few days after I crossed the border. About a week into the first of two loops through Canada, I lost my internet connection.

A day after the signal disappeared, I got a call from a Verizon customer service rep who apologized for the loss of service. So far, so good.

But then she asked if I was aware that I had accumulated about $1,500 in “roaming” charges while using my broadband connection via laptop.

Since I had been assured several weeks earlier by another, equally anonymous, customer service person that everything was set up for unlimited online access as well as hundreds of minutes of cell phone time, I was not at all cautious; I continued making heavy use of the ‘net.

Needless to say, during the succeeding three or four weeks, I’ve not been using the Verizon connection for Internet access – and I’ve made far less use of my cell phone than usual.

I prepared for a battle, realizing that corporations tend to focus on the bottom line and that convincing Verizon to cancel charges of this magnitude might prove difficult.

When the charges finally appeared on my bill, I initiated contact – expecting a pitched battle that would likely involve hours of phone tag and waiting on hold.
To avoid some of that phone time, I decided to attempt to resolve the matter by email and filled out an online form that directed my concerns to what I expected to be one of a long series of bureaucrats who might eventually lead me to a decision-maker who would or would not take pity on me and adjust or cancel the charges.

Enter Michael. He works in customer service for the Verizon Wireless division. He called me less than 12 hours (overnight) after I sent the email.

I was pretty sure that Michael wouldn’t be able to solve my problem; but I was eager to gain his support. So I tried very hard to get him to empathize with my plight. I told him how hard it was for me to deal with a big company and how frustrating it was not to be able to talk to the same person twice.

When Michael (he never shared his last name with me) said he’d forward my request to a supervisor, I pleaded with him to attach a note or comment that would help that person understand that I am a good customer who became caught up in a complicated situation and shouldn’t be punished for a misunderstanding.

Oh, I was eloquent.

Well, miracle of miracles: it worked!!

I received a second call from that very same Michael – less than an hour later. He announced that $1,491.23 was being credited to my account.

As they say in the auto business, “your mileage may vary.” But, for me, Verizon has suddenly become my favorite phone and internet company. They may yet break my heart one day, but at this point in history I think they’re tops.

Michael, this one is for you!

Under the boardwalk

“History goes underground!”

That’s the teaser posted on highway signs, flyers and other promotional materials throughout Saskatchewan touting the Tunnels of Moose Jaw.

Since I had never even heard of Moose Jaw before last year (I thought Saskatchewan must have been one of the northern territories with a name that sounded – to me at least – so much like winter and snow), it goes without saying that I had no knowledge of the tunnels beneath this fair city’s downtown streets.

But as soon as I arrived in Canada and told residents that Moose Jaw was on my itinerary, many began telling me that I MUST see the tunnels.

Al Capone, they said, used Moose Jaw as an occasional hideout when things got too hot in Chicago. The tunnels were a part of gangster lore from that period and were a “must-see” attraction for travelers.

My journalist’s skepticism kicked in. The story is certainly feasible; but I had a feeling that it was being told with a wink.

Checking the matter out on the Internet reveals that towns seem as eager to claim Scarface hideout status as others to brag that “George Washington slept here.” B

Brookfield, Wisconsin; Saint Paul, Minnesota; Olean, New York; French Lick and Terre Haute, Indiana; Dubuque, Iowa; Hot Springs Arkansas; Johnson City, Tennessee and Lansing, Michigan are among an apparently endless list of communities claiming that Capone used their fair city as a hideout at one time or another.

One element of the Moose Jaw claim is that the infamous mobster traveled by rail, specifically on the Soo Line. Well, definitive evidence is hard to find; but I uncovered enough to make this part of the story ring true.

On the other hand, most Google hits for “Capone+Moose Jaw” resulted in findings related to the tunnels attraction. I could find no independent historical references that placed the mob head in Saskatchewan.

All of this notwithstanding, the Tunnels of Moose Jaw attraction is definitely a Wandering Dave kind of place. I contacted the headquarters and arranged for a tour and then showed up with my reporter’s notebook and skepticism in hand.

The first of two 50-minute excursions took me through time into a sweatshop laundry operation beneath the streets of Moose Jaw. An “upstanding businessman” owned the business, acquiring cheap labor from “coolie brokers” and keeping them in virtual slavery while they attempted to pay off debts owed to pay for their passage and living costs.

Math worked against them and those that turned to gambling, opium and other vices seldom breathed fresh air and never saw sunlight as Chinese were forbidden to go above ground during daylight hours.

The subject matter of the “Passage to Fortune” tunnel tour is a bit grim; but the theatrics employed by our guide and the frequent use of humor tempered the message. Though it took more than a century, Canadians finally faced up to the wrongs committed against Chinese immigrants. I found that to be consistent with the character of the people I’ve met in the provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan over the past month or so.

By seeking forgiveness and attempting to provide restitution as possible, Canadians demonstrated that even shameful episodes can be transformed into sources of pride when dealt with honestly and with humility.

An hour later, I confess to beginning the second tour with a bit of an attitude. For starters, we had to hike down to the corner and halfway back up the other side of Main Street – in a rainstorm – to reach the tour entrance. I was dressed for spring weather and was more than a little soggy by the end of that trek.

We were greeted by a “flapper” who claimed to be the owner of an establishment that not only sold liquor by the glassful, but was a front for a bootlegging operation overseen by our hostess and her partner, Gus – a Chicago gangster doing business in Moose Jaw.

The latter character, portrayed by a fellow identified as “Ryan,” made my doubts regarding the historical accuracy of the tour completely irrelevant. This was pure entertainment and theatrics. As with any good drama, the audience is required to suspend belief and let the show be what it is.

And what “The Chicago Connection” is, is fun. It’s not likely that every tour guide has Ryan’s talent; but the script is lively and a real laugh riot. There are plenty of facts that no doubt are accurate and plenty of fiction, including a “raid” at the end of the tour that features gunplay – Tommygun fashion.

After the second tour, I had a chance to sit down for a few minutes with Jeff Grajczyk, one of the pair that saw an opportunity in 1999 and took over an operation previously run by a local non-profit organization.

Since then, attendance has more than tripled and the tours have been revamped.

Admission is a bit costly ($21 per adult for a two-tour package); but the management has obviously made a significant investment, has assembled a talented team and has created a memorable experience.

It’s hard to say what anything is “worth” these days; but, I can’t imagine anyone asking for a refund – even if historians one day determine that Al Capone never actually set foot in town.

And that’s the low-down from below ground in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.

The price of fame

     People here in Moose Jaw are crazy about me.

     I've been getting the royal treatment, including a private audience with the mayor and special introductions to the crème-de-la-crème of Moose Jaw society (most of whom, it turns out, live right here at Mulberry Estates).

     Don't let me be over modest; I've always known that I'm loveable. I just never thought I'd find a group of folks with enough intelligence and good taste to recognize the goodness in me.

     Here, they laugh at my jokes, they welcome me at the dinner table, they teach me their games and other Moose Jaw-ian customs and they even allow me to deliver my long-and-boring pitch aboutf the Internet.

     And most amazing of all, they somehow arranged for my last day in town to include plenty of sunshine and a delightful concert to end the day.

     Moose Jaw is on Highway 1 which is the major east-west artery. Those arriving from the north -- Saskatoon, for example -- need to exit Highway 16 about 12 miles north of town and come in on highway 2.

     Trust me, it's worth the short detour. Skipping Moose Jaw while in Saskatchewan is like driving though Oz without stopping in the Emerald City.

     I'm scheduled to leave in the morning. But I'm a little worried that my new-found friends may let the air out of my tires overnight and force me to stay.

     And I'm even more worried that they won't.

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
when you're perfect in every way
Can't wait to look in the mirror
I get better looking each day

To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man

Oh Lord it's hard to be humble
But I'm doing the best that I can
      -- Mac Davis, 1980

Whist-ful thinking

Grandma Burke taught us how to play Whist in the cottage along the shore of Platte Lake. She also taught us Canasta and how to be worried if our bowel movements didn't come with near-perfect regularity.

OK, the bowel movement part has nothing to do with today's blog; but I can't think of Platte Lake and Grandma without recalling the morning she looked me right in the eyes and demanded to know whether I had had "a movement." I tried to read her face to determine which was the correct reply and settled on "yes."

Later, when I learned more about bodily functions -- and about my father's childhood -- I realized that my fortuitous choice of responses may have saved me from a very unpleasant, but memorable day at the lake.

Anyway, back to fun and games...

I belive I may have played whist only at that Michigan cottage and once about five years later in a Kansas farmhouse where Grandma had moved with her second husband.

Until tonight, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, that is.

Tonight I played cards with eleven women who are probably all older than Grandma was when she taught my sisters and me to play Whist back in the '50s.

None of these delightful ladies asked about my bodily functions; but just about every other topic was on the table alongside our playing cards. We had a ball.

I rediscovered Whist, losing three out of four series of five games each. I partnered with four different ladies and played against nearly all of the rest. We traded wisecracks and mock insults for about two hours. Then, more than half of us hung around for coffee and a lot more joking, interspersed with a little serious talk about life in a retirement community.

At one point, another man walked into the room and commented about my status as the only male among so many females.

"This is a situation I try to create every where I go," I quipped.

"Well, you better watch out," the other fellow retorted, "or one of these ladies might make you an offer you can't refuse."

"What do you mean, 'might?;" I countered. "I've already received three offers from people in this room. Of course, as a gentleman, I can't reveal their identities."

Well, the women all took this in stride and began interrogating each other and accusing each other of being among the brazen hussies who might have propositioned old Wandering Dave.

It was the most fun I've had on this trip. We laughed and joked until one of the ladies finally announced that it was past her bedtime.

"Well, if one of us leaves, we'd all better leave together or tongues will be wagging tomorrow morning," declared another.

The room cleared in a matter of seconds. And I was alone.

I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me.
She showed me her room, isn't it good, Norwegian wood?

She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere,
So I looked around and i noticed there wasn't a chair.

I sat on a rug, biding my time, drinking her wine.
We talked until two and then she said, "it's time for bed".

She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh.
I told her I didn't and crawled off to sleep in the bath.

And when I awoke I was alone, this bird had flown.
So I lit a fire, isn't it good, Norwegian wood.
     -- Beatles, 1965

Unleashing Hell

At my signal, unleash hell.
    --Maximus, Gladiator, 2000

I’ve been through two wars and I know. I’ve seen cities and homes in ashes. I’ve seen thousands of men lying on the ground, their dead faces looking up at the skies. I tell you, war is hell! .
    -- General William Tecumseh Sherman

I’ve asked about 100 Canadians why they’re proud to be Canadians. The most common response is a few seconds of silence.

Though every one I’ve spoken with is clearly very proud, they find it unseemly to brag. Canadians, for the most part, are modest.

When pressed, they generally supply adjectives like, “friendly,” “generous,” “tolerant,” and “peace-loving” as responses.

That last, “peaceful,” “peace loving” or “peacekeeping,” seems sometimes to be referring – indirectly, of course – to their neighbors to the south.

The fact is (though they rarely seem willing to say it directly), one of the things Canadians are most proud of is that they are not Americans.

I have been asked a dozen or more times to explain and predict the course of events in Iraq. And in the context of the Canadian culture, as I’m beginning to understand it, it’s very hard to justify or rationalize U.S. policy in the Middle East.

Yesterday, however, I spent a couple of hours with a Canadian immigrant, a woman who came to Saskatchewan from Holland not long after World War II. She and her husband were “recruited” by a team of Canadians that toured Europe encouraging folks to help populate the western provinces.

My questions about that experience led to the background story – a story of life in an occupied country where death and destruction become a part of every day and the only constants are fear and sadness.

When two German soldiers were billeted in their home, the Dutch family had to deal with a paradox: how could two “nice” young men, who were so polite and considerate as uninvited guests in their home, be part of a killing machine that roamed the neighborhood at night, taking friends and relatives away to suffer and die in labor and concentration camps?

Sixty-five years later, the emotions remain raw. My hostess reached for tissues as she wept when images obviously as clear as if they happened yesterday came to mind.

The pain from remembering filled the room. My throat tightened and I felt tears welling in my own eyes. But it was clear that she wanted – needed – to share more.

When news came of the German attack, the entire population of her village fled to high ground. The Dutch intended to flood the lowlands to slow the enemy advance. But the Blitzkrieg overran all defenses before any resistance could be mounted; the people returned to their homes, but not to the Holland they had known.

The occupation went on for years. Everything was in short supply. The first thought each morning was about food: Will I eat today? Or go hungry? Neighbors, particularly Jews, were taken away by the hundreds. That terror compounded the fear resulting from German troops in the streets and, ultimately in their very homes.

This was as intense a conversation, as intense an experience, as I’ve ever had. My heart ached for this gentle woman and for the millions who endured what she did – and more.

Sixty-five years after the invasion and occupation, it is clear that such events not only survive in memory but that they shape entire lives and affect the way survivors react to nearly every aspect of life. Having lived in fear and deprivation, it’s impossible to feel safe and comfortable again.

I can’t help but think of the millions of American children who go to bed each night feeling certain that life will be the same for them in the morning. In other parts of the world, children have no such sense of security.

But I also realize that twenty, forty and even sixty years from now, the terror that is a constant for children and adults who live in occupied and war-torn countries will remain strong.

Survivors like my Dutch friend remain victims for life.

So much for “glory.”

Joy of music

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
       -- William Congreve, the mourning bride, 1697

Joy is my favorite emotion. Too often, the little trials and tribulations of daily life keep joy on the back burner. I’m convinced that joy is in me all of the time, but it’s easy to lose touch – sometimes for protracted periods.

But joy comes quickly, easily and often to toddlers.

Because so much is new to them they experience the joy of discovery almost constantly. And because their lives are uncomplicated by overtones and hidden meanings, positive reactions are rarely affected by external factors. To a three-year-old an ice cream cone is just an ice cream cone; no thought is given to calories, prices, potential impacts on future appetite or other variable that tend to take some of the joy out of ice cream for adults.

These days, most of the joy in my life seems to come from the reflection on past joys – or from piggybacking on the current joy of others.

Watching that three-year-old enjoy ice cream, for example, allows me to connect to pure joy – at least vicariously. Nothing else in the world exists at that moment for that child, just the treat. It will be years before he or she begins to distinguish between brands, so the moment is “perfect.” For as long as it takes to eat the cone, joy abounds.

Watching the toddler spread the joy from ear to ear, I am no doubt, touching base with the time I did the same, and with the time I watched as my own children repeated the experience.

Ice cream is an effective joy-prompter; but the retro-joy experience is never more powerful than when it’s triggered by music.

By luck of the draw, I enjoyed a live concert last night in Saskatoon and another this afternoon in Moose Jaw. Both shows featured lots of oldies that triggered many memories.

Last night’s program included a mix of solos and sing-alongs. As is often my practice, I took a seat where I could easily observe both the performers and the audience. It was obvious that many of the numbers affected listeners.

Years ago I was surprised by how often song lyrics seemed to have been written with my current life situation in mind. It was as if the writers and performers knew me and used their skills to help me get in touch with myself.

Well, I guess this is yet another example of my naïveté; as I have become older I apparently actually have become wiser, too. I’ve finally figured out that everything we take in first passes through our personal filter – and only those parts we can manage and relate to penetrate that screen.

Then the input either gets added to the body of knowledge or it resonates with something already in our minds – or both.

If I’m right, that means song lyrics that seem to have been written about me are merely being adapted by my mind to fit me.

OK. It’s not rocket science; but it’s helping me to recognize that songs don’t often generate joy inside me – they activate joy that’s already there.

This doesn’t diminish my love of music; far from it. I feel empowered by the knowledge that I can access emotions, at least second-hand, through music even though it’s not possible to return to the past.

Music can’t bring back people, places or things that are no longer in the world; but it can help recapture the feelings they engendered. Including joy

Just an old fashioned love song
One I'm sure they wrote for you and me
Just an old-fashioned love song
Comin' down in three-part harmony

Just an old-fashioned love song
Playing on the radio
And wrapped around the music
Is the sound of someone promising they'll never go
       -- Paul Williams, 1971

I admit it's getting better

You'll be swell! You'll be great!
Gonna have the whole world on the plate!
Starting here, starting now,
honey, everything's coming up roses!
        -- Stephen Sondheim, 1959

Vista Volunteers were issued copies of the New York-phone-book sized “Catalog of Domestic Assistance Programs and given a lecture or two intended to sort out the many federal agencies and programs before being dispatched to the poorest communities in the nation.

In short, our challenge was to interpret the whole federal government to folks who were unaware of the many opportunities it provided.

The idea was that we “savvy” members of the American middle-class would be able to serve as liaisons between the poor and their government. This theory applied not only to our relationship with regular citizens, but with local government and non-profit organizations – including churches.

Building on the success of the Peace Corps, President Kennedy created the Volunteers in Service to America and put his pal Sargent Shriver (Maria’s dad) in charge of the whole shooting match,

That was more than 40 years ago. The program still exists as Vista/AmeriCorps, but has morphed several times in the interim and volunteers are handed a less ambitious (and far more pragmatic) set of goals.

By the end of my service, I had become much more realistic and was satisfied that while I did nothing spectacular or even long-lasting, I did serve as an interested and caring member of the middle class and sought to make friends and do what I could to give a few folks a small boost in one way or another.

I still feel rather foolish when I admit that in 1967 I considered myself fortunate to have been able to participate in the War on Poverty, that I sincerely believed that I would one day be able to tell my grandchildren that I participated in the final struggle that put an end not only to hunger and other economic deprivation, but also to prejudice and discrimination.

The assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy occurred during my year of service and led to the loss of innocence for many of my generation. That golden era of optimism that had sprung into being in 1961 when the president announced that “the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans” began to tarnish in 1968.

The dark ages that followed – also known as the Nixon years – led to disillusion and eventually, for many of my generation, to the abandoning of efforts to make the world a better place in favor of lining our own pockets. We became the “me” generation, people who came to believe that “greed is good.”

After having abandoned the field so many years ago, and after having developed a cynical attitude toward the notion that it ever was or ever can be possible to really put an end to poverty, illiteracy, disease, war and so on, I set out on my current adventure without any thought of rediscovering youthful optimism.

But in Oregon and Washington and then, much to my surprise, most particularly in Montana!, I discovered that many of my contemporaries didn’t give up the fight. And I learned that despite national leadership that was, to say the least, unfriendly to what they like to call “a culture of entitlement.”

I discovered that the old catalog of assistance programs has been replaced by local agencies – both governmental and non-profit – that are staffed, for the most part, by dedicated people who are committed to addressing inequities.

And, unlike many of us who attempted to serve without professional training, today’s army opposing poverty knows what it’s doing and is committed to much more than a single year of service.

More about my growing optimism regarding the domestic front as it grows. And stand by for a report from Montana that epitomizes the new landscape.

Saskapaloosa

Saskatchewan happened in a hurry.

At the turn of the 20th century just over 90 thousand souls occupied this center of three plains provinces. A mere decade later, the population popped -- by a factor of five -- to nearly one-half million.

Growth continued apace and by 1930 it appeared that there would soon be a million people in this tall, slender slice of Canada.

Then came the Great Depression -- complete with drought and other challenges to farmers. Growth halted -- the population actually dropped for the next 20 years and didn't begin to rise again until the prosperous post war years.

The province finally did top a million in population in 1986, but quickly retreated below that milestone and has hovered near 975,000 ever since.

Before a quick look ahead, let's look back to those incredible decades of growth -- between 1910 and 1930.

Think Iowa.

That's right, Iowa. To be more specific, think of River City, Iowa at the time Professor Harold Hill came to town to start a boy's band.

Here's to the plow
Here's to the plowers
Here's to the quilting
For hours and hours
Here's to the tractors
The children can drive
Here's to the churches
That keep us alive.........
I opened my eyes to an infinite number
Of stars that have kept me awake half the night
'Cause when I awoke
When I awoke
I awoke in Iowa
          -- Uncle Bonsai, 1999

One reason for the exodus is mechinization. Visiting the Saskatchewan Western Development Museum in Saskatoon not only provides a replica of a Saskatchewan town during the period of growth (looking, as mentioned above, eerily like River City Iowa at the same time), but also provides a full-size real-deal history of the development of farm equipment from horse-pulled plows through behemoth steam-drive "land-trains" to modern gas- and deisel-driven tractors and combines.

Another reason was that in the '30s Canada was faced with the same massive drought and resulting economic depression suffered in the U.S. Many farmers pulled up stakes and moved north where water was more readily available and their abandoned farms were eventually consolidated with others as power equipment made it possible to manage more acres.

It seems likely that the province will again reach the million people mark. This time the growth is related to several factors, including oil production and jobs in new technology and education.

My sense is that the residents of Alberta and Saskatchewan tend to be loyal to their provinces and tend to stay put. Medical, educational and other social services seem to be of high quality and that makes these regions great places to raise families -- and more families, of course, means even more families as time passes.

I'm bullish on Canada after having spent nearly a month here. Before I finally head down the east coast, I will have spent nearly three months here -- and will have been in at least six provinces.

From now on, though, when I think of Saskatoon, I'll always remember the Saska-BOOM that hit between 1910 and 1930 and transformed the region from a wilderness to a settled agricultural region. The formula for success: offer free land with a rail system that promised to keep pace with expansion; add pioneers and watch it grow.

Home again, in another strange town

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
    -- John Howard Payne
         (1791 - 1852)

"I'm home."

That was my reaction when I turned the corner and saw the familiar outline of my soon-to-be lodgings here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. This was the first time those words have actually come to mind upon arrival; but they ring true.

As I've moved back and forth from Pacific to Mountain time, through higher and higher lattitudes, from winter to spring, back to winter and, finally this week into spring again, the constants in life have been my Saturn and the Holiday facility du jour.

The amenities are predictably luxurious, the staff is predictably responsive and considerate and my fellow residents are predictably friendly and fascinating.

Travellers have a set of needs that, for those who can afford quality lodgings, transform into expectations. But no luxury hotel offers the kind of community atmosphere that I'm finding in the retirement facilities I occupy along my route.

I know, for example, that there will be laundry rooms that are maintained daily in immaculate fashion where, with no need for coins or rolling baskets nor any competition for the machines. I know there is at least one library, a computer lab and any number of comfortable chairs and couches throughout the complex for relaxing and reading.

I know that meals will be served on time and that they will be nutritious and tasty. I know that I will have a choice of dinner companions who almost invariably will provide interesting conversation during a leisurly meal.

I know that my room will be clean and comfortable, with a small refrigerator, television, coffee maker and other features. I'll have a clean bathroom with fresh towels and other supplies.

Yes, it's like going home -- except a bit more like visiting relatives who won't allow me to help with the cooking, dishes, cleaning or any other domestic tasks. And like meeting hundreds of relatives I've never known before. There is a sort of natural tendency to like these folks despite the fact that we have little in common.

Whether it's in the U.S. or Canada, I've discovered home away from home in every place I've stopped.

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.
    --Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit, 1844

What a dump!

Life (here) is like sitting in the funeral parlor and waiting for the funeral to begin. No, it's like lying in a coffin and waiting for them to carry you out.

If I don't get out of here I'll die. If I don't get out of here I hope I die and burn.
       _{-- Bette Davis, "Beyond the Forest," 1949}

It's official, my little old town of Merced, California has once again been declared one of the least livable spots in the good old U.S.A.

I'm still homesick, but knowing that I'm far away from California's not-so-great Central Valley provides some comfort.

Fortunately, Merced isn't last on the list of livable communities -- but each of the three that ranked lower are also located in the Valley. In fact, it's pretty easy to generalize that the whole darned place is barely habitable, according to the study.

The criteria include cost of living, clean air and potable water, healthcare, crime, jobs and education. Merced manged to score higher than bottom-feeder Modesto -- a larger city about 40 miles to the north, but not by much.

The good news is that the newest campus of the University of California opened a couple of years ago in Merced. Inevitably, scores for many of the criteria listed above will rise. Merced is destined to move up the list; how far may be determined by factors less influenced by the arrival of the UC, such as climate and environmental problems.

I moved to Merced because of the new university. I expected to observe a clash of cultures that would prove to be interesting. It seemed to me likely that the university would grab Merced by the ears and haul it into the 21st century very quickly, with lots of squealing and squawking, but invevitably transforming a bottom-ten town into a pick to click.

Davis, Irvine and other communities that now thrive and flourish under the shadow of UC campuss were the model and I couldn't forsee the possibility of any other outcome for Merced. I still don't.

But, I've learned that even rapid progress takes time. Merced will be transformed; but inertia is a powerful force and perceptions change slowly.

It's now apparent that the "pioneer" students and faculty whom I expected to populate the new campus are a pragmatic bunch. Many viewed Merced as an opportune stepping stone and have spent time in the wilderness paying dues that allow access to top-tier campuses along the coast.

It now seems evident that Merced and the university will both have to overcome their way-station status before becoming a final destination for large numbers of talented students, faculty and others.

The university constitutes a tide that will raise all elements of the Merced community, but that tide is rising slowly. It ebbs and flows. Enrollment at the university is far lower than was hoped and just 75 students will receive degrees this year.

In my travels, I'll pass by several cities that ranked far above Merced. Cities I've visited here in Alberta Canada would likely rank fairly high based on the criteria.

When I do get back home, I wonder if Merced will be a welcome sight or if it will appear dingy and dismal -- a city deserving of bottom-ranking.

Come along with me
to my little corner of the world
Dream a little dream
in my little corner of the world
You'll soon forget
that there's any other place
       _{-- Yo la Tengo}

I get those big city blues

Just listen to the music
Of the traffic in the city,
linger on the sidewalks
Where the neon signs are pretty.
How can you lose?
The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles,
Forget all your cares.
So go down town.
Things'll be great
When you're down town.
No finer place for sure-
Down town.
Everything's waiting for you
Down town.

On his 1960 tour, John Steinbeck tried to avoid big cities. He offers several complaints about urban settings, but he seems to me to have had a general bias -- he just didn't like American cities.

I don't enjoy driving around the larger cities nearly so much as those under about 100,000 in population. In the smaller settings, I am able to get my brain around the topography and layout of streets much more effectively. I'm directionally challenged, but after a couple of days driving around town, I start to feel comfortable and can even find my way back home without depending on my GPS navigator.

Two of my last three stops (Calgary and Edmonton) are in the category of behemoth cities. I have been fortunate to find ridges that overlook the downtown area in both towns and appreciate their beauty. And I have driven through neighborhoods at random to get an idea of what life must be like on the city streets.

I stumbled onto a skid row section of Calgary -- under highway overpasses near the downtown area. This tired commercial area had a familiar "feel" to it -- an oppressive air of hopelessness. I observed -- warily -- some of those who occupy that space. Alone, in pairs or trios, they shared a bottle and spoke in very loud tones as if to claim that they have a voice and can influence the factors that are keeping them down.

Despite signals from my internal early warning system, I stopped for gas and watched as one of those leaning against the building pushed himself upright and looked my way. Just then a police car rolled between us and the man turned away.

As I paid for the gas, I asked the attendant, "am I in a high crime area?" He answered more with a look than with words and I decided to get out of the neighborhood before the cop moved on in his beat.

The best way to see a city is as the guest of a resident. Let a friend do the driving and enjoy a guided tour without any of the worries that go along with being a tourist. I had the chance to see parts of New York City in that fashion some 30 years ago and am still surprised at how much ground we covered by bus, subway and on foot. There's no substitute for an indigenous guide.

I'll be in Edmonton for two more days and will venture forth again. The river is lovely and this is a town with a lot of history. I'm not fearful, but like Steinbeck, I don't enjoy the traffic and the crowds and the sense of urgency that seems much greater in metropolitan areas.

Canadian Oil Rush

This province (Alberta) is obviously in total "boomtown" mode.

New houses are going up like crazy and construction cranes are everywhere on the cities' skylines.

The smell of money is in the air. Prices are skyrocketing as they did in gold rush towns back in California when the "forty-niners" paid in gold dust. Jobs are plentiful; fast food workers are making four figures (over $10 per hour).

And the Canadian dollar is threatening to catch up with the U.S. dollar for the first time, I'm told, since before World War II.

It's an exciting time for young families and if I had one (a young family) I'd be very tempted to move to Red Deer -- what a nice city that is.

I'm interested to see whether the economy here in Alberta carries over to provinces to the east. Oil is the source of much of the riches, and the farther I travel from the oil reserves in northern Alberta, the less may be its impact.

My current home town of Merced has been booming and I recognize the effects of good times. Such things always follow cycles, however and the growing pains that can now be lubricated with money could become too-much, too-fast pains that may be harder to deal with if the boom goes bust.

Meanwhile, it's a great time to be in Canada -- all things seem possible and opportunities abound.

All day long in Canada

Sunrise will be at 5:39 tomorrow morning – that’s 18 minutes earlier than back home in Merced (plus an hour if you consider that I’m in a different time zone; but let’s not complicate the matter).

Sunset, on the other hand, won’t take place until 9:21 tomorrow “evening” – compared with 7:59 in Merced. That means an hour and 40 minute more sunshine at this latitude ( 52 degrees, 32 minutes north) than in the Golden State (37 degrees, 18 minutes).

I would have to go much higher (up to about 66 degrees, north) to reach the point where the sun just doesn’t go down at all during parts of the Summer. That means northern Alaska, several hundred miles north of the apex of Interstate 2 and way past Anchorage.

Increased hours of sunshine don’t tell the complete story. Several of my new acquaintances here in Canada have remarked at how quickly it gets dark after sunset in the states.

It turns out that twilight is considerably longer, meaning that it stays light after the sun goes down and begins to brighten sooner before it comes up again. Because of the earth’s tilt, the sun takes much longer to sink far enough below the horizon up here. In fact, at this latitude, twilight never actually ends during the period near the summer solstice in June.

At the equator, twilight is over in less than a half-hour. Up here in Canada, it lasts all night.

I’m enjoying the long, long Canadian days. Winter might be a very different proposition.

Canadians are way too nice

“Ohh, wal, you’ve gotcher farmlands and the mountains, eh? And over there in B.C. yah got the Mary Jooana and those darned Hippies, yep. And now there’s that oil here in Alberta bringin’ in the immigrants like crazy, don’t yah know?”

Canada, we tend to forget, is a bigger county by a considerable margin than the U.S. – there are nearly 44 million square miles up here – more than a square mile for each citizen.

Our shared border is the longest in the world not patrolled routinely by armed forces. And there is far more in common between Canada and the U.S. than is different.

But there is a difference – and Québécois might justifiably say, “Vivre le difference!” Canadians are much sweeter, nobler, kinder, gentler, friendlier, thoughtful – well, more just plain nice than their southern neighbors.

It has been argued that the distinction began some 230 years ago and has grown, subtly ever since.

Northrop Frye, a noted Canadian scholar, concluded that,” The central fact of Canadian history is the rejection of the American Revolution.”

Encyclopedia Britannica Online extrapolates on that theme:

Contemporary Canadians are inclined to favour (sic) orderly central government and a sense of community over individualism; in international affairs, they are more likely to serve the role of peacemaker instead of warrior, and, whether at home or abroad, they are likely to have a pluralistic way of viewing the world.

Not long after arriving in Alberta, I began asking Canadians why they are proud of their country. Their reaction, in nearly all cases, has been remarkable.

Imagine asking the late actor Gary Cooper why he thought he was a great actor. In his famous self-effacing manner, Coop would no doubt cast his gaze downward, scuff his boot in the dirt and begin his response with something like, “Shucks, I never said any such thing…”

Cooper wasn’t Canadian, but he was from Montana and I found the folks in that beautiful state to be every bit as nice as their northern neighbors.

Anyway, there’s no doubt that Canadians are very proud of their country; but expressing that pride just doesn’t seem proper to them.

I’m going to continue my survey and look forward to repeating it when I return to the states. I’m certain the responses will be quite different down south where characteristics like friendly, tolerant, pleasant and peace-loving are given lip service but aren’t considered sources of pride.

My rude welcome at the border was an anomaly. This is a nice place to visit and I believe I would like to live here – if they could just solve that little problem caused by the earth’s tilt. I like the long days and short nights, but wonder if I could adapt to the opposite situation in the fall and winter. More on this little accident of astronomy in a future posting.

Meanwhile, have a nice day. I’m pretty sure I will.

A little more slightly famous

Three guidebooks have come into play during the Wandering Dave Grand Loop Tour. The first, and most mentioned, is Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley.” More than anything, that great American writer has become my muse, reminding me to pay attention to both hemispheres of my brain.

The second book has been one of my motivators for many years; it’s Henry David Thoreau’s most famous work: “Walden.” In many ways, my trip into the world is motivated by the same needs as Thoreau’st two-year-long retreat. We both sought a simpler lifestyle that allowed time for contemplation plus a chance to commune with nature.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

The third book is a modern work by a very good writer and speaker, Stephen Van Yoder. The book is, “How to get slightly famous,” and slightly famous is exactly what I’m after in the Wandering Dave persona – or any other, for that matter.

Today (May 9) my mug appears above the fold on page A-1 of the Red Deer Advocate. The photo is part of a “reefer,” or “teaser” intended to attract interest to the local section of the paper. And there, on page B-1 – this time below the fold” was a story about my current adventure. The headline: “Making contact from afar.”

I contacted the Advocate a week or so ago and received a call from reporter Laura Tester. We met less than an hour after I arrived in town and had a nice chat while staff photog Randy Fiedler snapped shots from a half-dozen angles. Laura seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say and made the experience a real pleasure.

Now, appearing on page one of a local daily newspaper might go to the head of some wanderers; but Van Yoder’s book and my own experience indicates that even becoming slightly famous requires repeated exposure over time.

But this front-page exposure is exciting, I’m curious to discover what kind of response it may engender on the web.

More about Van Yoder and getting slightly famous is available at www.getslightlyfamous.com Click Here

Is this heaven? No, it’s Canada

“If you build it, they will come.”

In the 1989 classic, “Field of Dreams,” Ray Kinsella (played by Kevin Costner) follows orders issued in a whisper from the cornfield on his failing Iowa farm.

“It” turns out to be a baseball field on prime agricultural land – an expenditure of resources that makes no sense to those who are less idealistic, including a bank holding the note on Kinsella’s farm and including Ray’s cynical brother in law.

“They” initially turn out to be ball players from a time long past – ghost players including one who happens to be Kinsella’s dead father.

Later, after a father and son reunion and reconciliation symbolized by a game of catch on the aforementioned field of dreams, movie viewers learn that “they” includes thousands of people searching for something nearly lost, but kept alive by the American pastime: baseball.

James Earl Jones, as former ‘60s activist Terence Mann explains why those thousands of people will be drawn inexorably to the field as follows:

People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past.
Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes.
And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray.
The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time.
This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.


Those thousands whose headlights stretch to the horizon at the movie’s end, of course, represent all of us; and baseball symbolizes the kind of straightforward and wholesome activity that unites families and communities and creates an elusive and powerful condition that I call joy.

Of course the game is a metaphor. The movie makes it clear that the baseball isn’t paramount when Dr. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham, played by Burt Lancaster, turns his back on a chance to continue playing in order to fulfill his true life’s purpose and, as a doctor, crosses over the baseline and off the field of dreams to save Kinsella’s daughter’s life on the sidelines.

No, for me, baseball represents “family;” it symbolizes “love;” it stands, as Terence Mann says, for all that is good and that seems to be lost in the crush of life in the 20th (and now 21st) centuries.

For the first half of my adult life, I desired to build fields of dreams. As a recreation administrator, I saw the value of baseball – and ballet and crafts and drama and just about any wholesome activity and I firmly believed that people who took time to play together would find a way to coexist.

Public recreation had experienced a golden age in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Unrest in major cities related to the struggle for civil rights led politicians to support programs and facilities for leisure pursuits. Money became available for playgrounds and millions of former “latch-key” kids who previously went home to empty houses had the option of remaining on campus for after-school activities.

Then, at the end of the ‘80s California’s Proposition 13 and other legislation brought in the era of “no new taxes!”

Dollars began to dry up for public recreation programs. Staffing was cut, after-school playgrounds were closed, and by the time “Field of Dreams” arrived on the scene, the golden age of public recreation was over and many programs were fighting for survival.

The film, which was nominated for an Academy Award for best picture, resonated in me. But that resonance was bittersweet because I left the recreation profession in 1986, discouraged by changing priorities

In recent years, I’ve encountered outstanding recreation professionals who offer valuable services to their communities. I believed that they were the lucky survivors of an earlier age.

More recently, though – and particularly while on the road this year – it has become clear that what I’m seeing is not a vestige of the past, but rather is something new. Community recreation, it seems to me, is finding a way to prosper in the post-proposition 13 world.

And, as I’ve discovered this week in Red Deer, that prosperity is evident in Canada, big time.

In this mid-sized city, the local government has entered into partnership with non-profit and commercial entities and has built – and continues to grow – a set of offerings that take leisure services to levels I never dreamed of during my career in the field.

Epitomizing this new effort is the Collicutt Centre in the southern end of town. This multi-million dollar complex hosts thousands of visitors every week – over a million last year – and reflects the community’s willingness to again support recreation with tax dollars.

More on the Collicutt Centre in another posting. I’ve spent several hours on site and must admit that I’m getting that old feeling from years ago. A good feeling.

Terence Mann: Oh, my God.
Ray Kinsella: What?
Terence Mann: You're from the sixties.
Ray Kinsella: [bashfully] Well, yeah, actually...
Terence Mann: [spraying at Ray with a insecticide sprayer] Out! Back to the sixties! Back! There's no place for you here in the future! Get back while you still can!

A total disconnect

Even on the road, a person has to find a comfort zone. And in the 21st century, that includes communication lifelines.

Though I called ahead, my lodgings weren’t ready when I arrived in Red Deer. I’m as far north as I’ve ever been and, nice as the folks around here are, in a foreign country. Now, I‘m relegated to a motel along the main highway. Alone in a big room with two huge beds and all of the amenities I might expect in a typical corporate establishment of its kind.

But I normally dine with dozens of friendly people. And as I’ve moved farther from home, the folks I meet have become more curious about my trip and mealtimes have become increasingly enjoyable. With a hundred or so gathered for meals, conversation is easy to come by; but last night, I dined alone.

The Internet is a big part of each day. When I’m in my room, I stay connected much of the time and look forward to the periodic musical alert that announces the arrival of email or the alarm signal alerting me to an appointment.

Isolated from the physical surroundings that have remained a constant even as I’ve traveled some 4,000 miles, I huddled last night beside my digital lifeline. When I dozed off, my laptop was still connected to the ‘net.

Accustomed to waking in strange surroundings, I took a few seconds to get my bearings early this morning. I intended to take advantage of the motel’s free Continental Breakfast, but first, I moved to the keyboard to check email and see what had transpired overnight.

The Internet connection was broken, a common occurrence, so I clicked the refresh button.

No connection.

This, too, is a fairly common event. I removed the modem from the side of my computer and then reinserted it – this reset the device, a procedure that often brought the connection back to life.

No connection

I removed the modem again and rebooted my laptop. This measure had never failed to put the stars aback in alighment and restore communications.

No connection.

Hours later, I remain unconnected. I’ve probably made a score of attempts, moving the machine from one side of my motel room to the other and trying everything I can think of to remedy the problem.

I’m outside my comfort zone and in a strange land. But wanderers must be prepared for adversity; modern wanderers may face digital hurdles along with the rest.

As I write this, I remain out of touch – at least from my laptop while it isn’t connected to a landline. But the world has changed and just as I was quickly moved from one set of lodgings to another, I’ll find my way to some kind of node and will be back online in time to post this message and reconnect with the world.

And once I become one with the Internet again, I suspect that I’ll find a solution to whatever set of rogue electrons is keeping me from linking up wirelessly. Before I leave Red Deer, I fully expect to be digitally whole again.

Stand by.

Death takes no holidays

I remember, as a teenager on vacation with my family, learning that my grandmother had died. Some 15 years later, while on another vacation trip, I was told my other grandmother had died.

When I left my home this year on Valentine’s Day for a year-long journey, I knew it was likely that news of the death of friends and possibly even one or more family members would be part of this trip. After all, I live with more than 100 people over the age of 80.

Being on the road, on a journey, constantly invites metaphors. Life itself, metaphorically, is an uncertain journey with death as the only unavoidable destination; and, though certain, death is itself a mystery to most of us.

My solo expedition drives home the metaphorical point that in our lifetimes we must often go on alone, leaving behind those with whom we’ve interacted and whom we will miss.

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever meet again,” observed a woman I spent time with this evening. A few minutes earlier she had revealed her age: 90; and I believe she was acknowledging both the fact that I’m not likely to ever return to Calgary and that she is not likely to ever leave.

When others have made similar suggestions, I have often observed that, “Life is long and takes many unpredictable twists and turns.” That notion occurred to me this evening; but the fallacy of such logic in this instance would have turned a light moment into a somber one. Knowing, as Robert Frost advises, that way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back to Calgary and even if I did it wouldn’t be until after this lovely lady’s likely lifespan will come to an end.

To a wanderer like me, all roads are the one less traveled. At every turn, I can safely say, “I may never pass this way again.” And to everyone I meet I should properly say, “We may never meet again.”

Last night I received word that the daughter of a good friend had died. Her passing was not unexpected and, as in many such circumstances, was viewed with relief because it marked the end of suffering.

It is her journey’s end.

But tomorrow I move on to a new destination, to a town I’ve never seen before and will most likely never see again after a visit that’s likely to seem too brief. I’ll cross paths with a few dozen more fellow travelers, many of whom are no longer very mobile; and I’ll make a few new friends whom I will not have time to get to know nearly so well as I would like.

I have to believe that brief encounters make up in quantity, somehow, for their brevity. It feels worthwhile; but the benefits are tinged with regret when I move on.

Robert Frost might have been thinking of the nature of wanderers – both metaphorical and actual, when he wrote:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
somewhere, ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- 
I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference.

A turn for the better

Traffic tickets tend to travel in pairs for me. My first double infraction took place during my freshman year in college when I was cited for running a red light and then for speeding, both within about a two-week period. I managed to talk my way out of fines in both those instances -- but that's another story.

Illegal left turns were my downfall in Denver a year later. While California's "No Left Turn" signs are typically located in the median or are suspended from traffic lights, in the Colorado Capital -- at least at that time -- "No Left" signs were published along the right-hand curb -- and on the near side of the cross street so they were pretty much invisible to out-of-state drivers who decided to hang a left at the last minute.

It wasn't until I collected my second citation that I drove back around and realized the problem. I had been conditioned in the Golden State to look left and was oblivious to Mile-High rules presented from the right margin. Fortunately a clerk in the municipal courthouse took pity and stapled the two documents together, charging me only for the topmost infraction.

I doubled up again in about 1971 when the speed limit was lowered to 55. My 1970 Ford Maverick was underpowered and driving below 65 in high gear just didn't feel right -- that cars cruising speed was 70 and I couldn't help regressing into that comfort zone on long trips. I was cited twice on a round-trip circuit between Colorado and California; I slipped up twice in about 1800 miles and was ticketed in western Colorado and northern New Mexico within a six or seven day period.

Well, it was Denver Déjà Vu this morning when I arrived at an intersection here in south Calgary. I had just passed through a spaghetti noodle shaped maze of on- off- over- and under-ramps and, despite the strident pleading of my nearly flawless GPS navigator, I had missed my turn.

The ever-forgiving device quickly touched base with a nearby satellite and barked a new command: "In 400 yards, make a U-turn."

I dutifully pulled to the left and into the turn lane. I have learned to trust this new technology. My chronic lack of a sense of direction is no longer a curse, I merely follow directions and my little friend gets me where I want to go.

Looking across the intersection, I spied a white patrol car. Uh oh, I thought. Is it legal to make a U-turn at this intersection?

I scoped out the territory. There were no signs prohibiting the maneuver. I even checked behind me along the median and to my right along the curb. No, no signs at all, naught but the traffic light with a green arrow ready to flash the "go" signal at any instant.

Son Jesse will confirm that I've long had an attitude about U-turns. I tend to view them as failure experiences; and in this case I clearly was where I was because I had failed to attend closely to instructions offered by my digital buddy.

Well, the light changed, the arrow flashed green and all systems seemed to indicate that I was good for launch. I glanced at the patrol car and pulled a smooth 180.

Studying the rear-view mirror with far more interest than usual, I wasn't surprised to see the hood of the patrol car rise as it lurched forward a bit more quickly than seemed necessary. Then the red lights atop its roof began to cycle through their complex patterns of illumination and even the headlights flashed to make it impossible to ignore the fact that I was...

Busted.

I pulled over and waited while the officer probably called in my license for "wants and warrants." After my cold treatment at the border, I was more than a little concerned that I might be in for some more Ugly American treatment. I imagined being run in to the police station and subjected to the third degree.

Keeping my hands firmly in the 10 and two positions so the officer would be assured that I wasn't armed or posing a threat, I waited. When he arrived at the window, I slowly lowered one hand to crank down the window.

"I observed you making the U-turn," the officer began.

I was relieved. In my experience, those with power too often tend to withhold information and keep the objects of their attention in the dark. By letting me know the issue at hand was my driving and not a bank robbery or other more serious matter, the officer almost put me at ease.

Made more comfortable, I risked a smile and admitted that I had almost second-guessed my decision to pull that U-turn. I explained that my PDA had commanded me to complete the maneuver and that I didn't see any signs to the contrary and decided to follow orders.

Fortunately, my captor seemed amused and to understand my quandary. He explained that in Canada, the absence of a sign offering permission means, "don't." This policy is opposite that in most or all of the States, where one may turn unless prohibited to do so.

Lesson learned.

The only question remaining was whether I was to be punished for my ignorance.

My hope that I would be forgiven without punishment was not only financial. I am certain that I can afford to pay the fine. No, this Canadian official was in position to reinforce or counter the negative vibes I picked up a week or so ago on the border. If he took the hard line, I might forever after tend to view Canadian law enforcement officers as callous, aloof, uncaring brutes.

But this fellow came through for Canada -- and for me. He smiled and handed back my paperwork. We were OK with each other. I had learned a lesson about traffic law and he had done his job by providing that lesson.

Now THAT'S law enforcement and public service and being a good "neighbour," as they say up here in Canada.

Road weary?

Yesterday morning found me in Calgary under an overcast sky that delivered a cold drizzle just as I was forcing myself to venture forth, as a good tourist should, to see the sights.

For the first time I considered turning back and giving up my plan to circumnavigate the United States.

I’d come 4000 miles in 12 weeks, spending 5 days in each of 15 towns. I’d written thousands of words, taken hundreds of photos and even produced over an hour of audio.

Though determining who was visiting this WanderingDave.com website, its obvious that a significant number of people have dropped by, for one reason or another.


The biggest problem may still be that – despite my rather frequent and perhaps somewhat wild-eyed claims to the contrary – the trip and this web site have no clear purpose or mission.

It occurred to me at one point that my venture is like “The Seinfeld Show” – a show about nothing.

My desire to establish a theme interferes with my writing. While waiting for topics that seem to fit the unknown pattern, I pass on others that I fear may turn some audience members off.

Basically, I’m trying to write for an audience that I haven’t been able to define. And that is a real problem for writers like me.

It’s fair to say that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about writing and way too little actually creating prose.

This piece, titled “road weary?” may begin a transition of some kind. For the next interval – of undetermined length – I will strive to create a more straightforward representation of what’s going through my mind. My travels will certainly continue to provide a context, but I will work less hard on creating a travelogue and more on my “search for America” – or, as I’ll probably discuss here soon, “the search for MY American dream.”

I hope you’ll decide to continue riding along with me – and that you’ll consider providing some feedback either by commenting here, by using the forum or by email.