Summer’s almost gone

It looks like a gloomy end to summer here in New Brunswick. The weather has turned a bit cold with grey skies and intermittent rainfall.

I’m huddled in my room, steering clear of others in an effort to avoid spreading the crud that’s been working its way through my system for nearly a week, now.

This flu, or whatever, got serious on my third day in Quebec City – making that visit more strange and uncomfortable than ever. It moved from my head to my lungs on the day I drove here; some effective drugs kept me going and the trip was surprisingly smooth.

Yesterday, the disease continued its ruthless march and made me thankful that I haven’t had to travel over the past 48 hours – being very far from critical plumbing fixtures isn’t cool when one is in my current condition.

I’d be inclined to visit a doctor, but my carrier says I’m only covered for acute care while out of the U.S. and I guess I’ll wait until my condition feels more acute (whatever that feels like).

Labor Day weekend (Labour Day, as they say up here) is not my favorite holiday. When I was a student I always looked forward to the arrival of September; as a teacher, I lost most of my affection for the start of school.

My itinerary was changed and I’m now scheduled for 10 days here in Fredericton. I have been considering a foray into Nova Scotia and Prince Edwards Isle; but I’ll wait to see what happens, healthwise, and may end up using this extra time in one place for rest and recuperation.

It’s hard to be enthusiastic about the trip when your head feels like a watermelon and you have to rush to the bathroom every hour or so; so, I won’t pretend to be enjoying life on the road on this cloudy, cold, rainy, miserable Friday.

----------

Some lyrics to bring myself up out of a funk:

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you...
And the way you look tonight.

Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.

With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart...
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
It touches my foolish heart.

Lovely ... Never, ever change.
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it ?
'Cause I love you ... Just the way you look tonight.

("The Way You Look Tonight" is a song featured in the film Swing Time, which won the Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1936. It was written by Jerome Kern with lyrics by Dorothy Fields. Dorothy Fields later remarked that the melody, upon first hearing it, moved her to tears and she was thrilled to provide the lyrics: "The first time Jerry played that melody for me I had to leave the room because I started to cry. The release absolutely killed me. I couldn't stop, it was so beautiful.") -- Wikipedia

Mon Dieu, I have the Flieu

You can spray him wherever you figure there's streptococci lurk
You can give him a shot for whatever's he's got, but it just won't work
If he's tired of getting the fish eye from the hotel clerk
A person can develop a cold.

You can feed him all day with the vitamin A and the bromofizz
But the medicine never gets anywhere near where the trouble is.
If he's getting a kind of name for himself, and the name ain't his
A person can develop a cough

        --Guys and Dolls

It's evidently not a 24-hour virus, 'cause it's been around longer than that. All of the old familar symptoms have arrived-- congestion, cough, sore-throat and aching muscles.

I never know whether it's the flu or a cold -- either way, I'm always astounded at how little I appreciate feeling good ... until I don't.

A long road trip awaits in the morning. If symptoms persist -- and if I survive the drive -- I'll seek medical assistance in New Brunswick.

Meanwhile, sorry for the gap in blogs -- I'm immersed in French and flu symptoms for the moment.

Prince of Pringle Creek

Shortly after I arrived in Brooklin, I received a note from my previous stop. Because of a cancellation, I had "traveled" only cross town and was spending three more days in the Toronto area.

The message directed me to call about a package I'd left behind. The facility manager, whom I shall always remember as "Artie" even though he shares my name, urged me to return for a special bundle.

I drove back "home" that afternoon and was warmly greeted by Ida -- an Irish gal who stands (I should say sits) sentry near the front door for hours at a time and greets visitors with a smile and her version of "top of the morning."

Dave -- er, Artie -- was in the office and presented me with a beautifully wrapped gift package including several signature items from Pringle Creek.

I've been treated like royalty in most of the facilities I've visited so far, some more than others. Pringle Creek set a new standard both for fun, friendliness and the gift bag.

If this largess contines, I may need to attach a trailer to the Saturn...

Home on the tundra

They’re a little bit country and little bit Eskimo.

For four hours and change, last Friday, I was treated like a long-lost son by sixty or urban cowboys who live east of Toronto and way north of Memphis, Tennessee.

“It’s an older crowd and it’s a great crowd,” boasts Ron Keirstead who started the weekly gatherings about a week ago. Along with his wife, Linda, Keirstead obviously puts in long hours getting ready.

Everyone, including an unlikely visitor from a far-away land called California, was obviously at ease and feeling no pain – though this was an alcohol-free event.

A local newspaper reporter observed, “The event isn’t just about enjoying country music and having a good time.” Much of the six-dollar entry fee ends up in the coffers of a local food bank.

More food than a crowd twice the size was spread out on tables at one end of the hall for a short dinner break. None of the food appeared to have been prepared by caterers or to have been purchased ready-made; it was the kind of fare one finds at potluck suppers: good and plenty.


Kierstead summed things up in his interview with the local paper: “it’s the satisfaction of the people and knowing the enjoyment they’re getting out of it,” he said. “The smiles and the very important word of thank-you. It’s the satisfaction of new people coming in saying how much they like it and that they’ll be back.”

Eight or 10 musicians took the stage during the open mike portion of the evening. They were all quite good, but the warm reception provided by those in attendance – about half of whom were on the dance floor at any given time – put the singers into a comfort zone that gave an enhanced meaning to the words “country” and “community.”

One gentleman sang two songs as a tribute to 54 years of marriage. The look in his bride’s face later in the evening when the couple two-stepped around the room confirmed my sense that music had allowed this husband to describe his love in a way words alone never could.

There were no children present, and I may have been the only person present under 60; but I’m certain that the good will that filled the room must spill over into the wider community.

I suspect that this one-year-old enterprise will thrive, perhaps outgrowing the odd fellows hall. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if a group looking very similar to those I met last week is still gathering every Friday night 20 or 30 years from now.

This was a night I’ll remember, a group of just plain friendly folks who gather for the sheer joy of sharing time, music and dance with each other.

I’m proud to be an Okie from Ontario, Canada.

Like one of the family

What a day this has been
What a rare mood I'm in
Why, it's almost like being in love

There's a smile on my face
For the whole human race
Why, it's almost like being in love

All the music of life seems to be
Like a bell that is ringing for me
And from the way that I feel
When that bell starts to peal
I would swear I was falling
I could swear I was falling
It's almost like being in love
        -- Lerner and Loewe, 1947

For four hours this evening, I was treated like an honored guess by a group of total strangers who knew nothing about me. I was greeted in the most friendly fashion by dozens of people and was thanked repeatedly for what was really nothing more than taking advantage of their hospitality.

After spending about two months in Canada and meeting several hundred people, I feel qualified to offer my opinion that these are very friendly folks. So friendly that a fellow like me is embarrassed by their kindness and hospitality.

When Canadians complain that they are either ignored or misunderstood by Americans, they are right. Few of us have been taught about our neighbors – I know I couldn’t have placed most of the provinces and territories before my trip up here this year – and I suffered from many false assumptions about her history.

But I think our worst shortcoming has been taking this great country for granted and for not making her a true partner. I believe Canada has demonstrated a cooler head when it comes to foreign relations and we might have benefited from paying more attention to a good model.

I’ll write more about tonight’s great experience here in Brooklin, Ontario. It’s late and I’m already likely to get pretty sappy about the wonderful folks who made me feel much more than welcome in their community this evening.

I love America and believe in staying there and helping fight to make her live up to the ideals outlined by our founding fathers. But if I were inclined to leave my homeland, I couldn’t hope to do any better than to simply cross the border into Canada.

My time in Canada is fleeting. But the mystery of Quebec remains ahead, as does a possible addition of travel into Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Isle.

I’m excited about the prospect of spending weeks in the eastern and southeaster United States – regions I’m pretty unfamiliar with. I’ve heard plenty about “southern hospitality;” but I can’t imagine being treated with more hospitality than I found here in Ontario and earlier in the Prairie Provinces, particularly Saskatchewan.

Stand by for some details regarding my night out in Brooklin and for photos of a remarkable unremarkable group of people who live and play here.

Consider yourself at home.
Consider yourself one of the family.
We've taken to you so strong.
It's clear we're going to get along.
Consider yourself well in
Consider yourself part of the furniture.
There isn't a lot to spare.
Who cares?..What ever we've got we share!
        -- Lionel Bart, "Oliver," 1968

Gems along my path

Every stop along this 18,000-mile circuitous route I’ve chosen has presented memorable people. Dozens of these folks would make excellent prospects for roles as good and lasting friends.

Once in a while I run into one or two whom I’d hire on the spot – if they were willing to relocate, of course. One quality seems to have more sway over me than others: when I meet another writer, I feel in a comfort zone.

I met such a man here in Brooklin, Ontario – a town I never expected to visit. He’s a former postal service manager and was brought to my attention by Sylvia Pugelj, the activity director here at the Court at Brooklin.

Here’s the story that piqued my interest in Vern Mechan…

The Suit

by Vern Mechan

It started with my Father saying he had made a decision – which meant my Mother had let him think it was his idea.

My Dad drew himself to his full height of five foot seven and declared in his best authoritarian tone “Son I have decided it’s time you had a suit”.

Well… you can just imagine how excited I was. Here I was, the only kid in the whole neighborhood who was going to have a suit. How lucky can you get?

I immediately ran down to the corner pool room and started to leaf through all the old Gentlemen’s Quarterly magazines that were there for the more discriminating pool hustlers to browse through while waiting for the next mark to show up.

Sad to say I discovered nothing in their pages that would look good on a nine year old boy unless he wanted to look like an overdressed midget from a Damon Runyon novel.
What to do?

Being in the throes of the great depression my Mom and Dad had become very selective shoppers so we made the rounds of the local second hand stores and when all failed, the Salvation Army.

None of these fine establishments were able to supply me with the sartorial excellence I had been looking for so my parents made a momentous decision “let’s buy the lad a new one”.

Well joy reigned supreme in the Meehan household because I was sure to be a celebrity in the neighborhood. Imagine a nine year old boy owning a new suit when not even grown men could afford one.

The next question was, where will the money come from? After all it was 1934 and, outside of getting a few part time jobs, my Dad hadn’t worked in a few years.

My Mom then surprised us by saying she had been doing washing for the rich people on Baby Point Rd. and had managed to put away fourteen dollars for an emergency. Oh joy

I was not only going to get a new suit but now I found out we were rich too. Life didn’t get any better than that.
Let’s see now, we have the money but where are we going to buy it?

It turned out the answer was in my bedroom. It was the T.Eaton catalogue which as any young boy from that era knew doubled as hockey shin pads. Now we were in business.

We turned to the boys clothing section and “Voila” there were more kinds of suits than I ever knew existed. There were suits with short pants, long pants and some with no pants (I found out later they were sport jackets which didn’t have pants).

We found a nice light brown suit with two pair of pants and it only cost eleven dollars.

The next day my Mom and I hopped on the streetcar and went downtown to the Eaton’s annex to see if they had one like the one in the catalogue. Luck was on our side and we found a suit almost the same except it had only one pair of pants but it was two dollars cheaper and I guess I should mention the pants were short which didn’t make me too happy, after all wearing short pants even at nine old years didn’t make me the coolest kid in the neighborhood.

My Mom was really pleased though, not so much about the suit but the bargain she got. My Mother loved bargains, like the time she bought the Christmas tree and she…No that’s another story …maybe next time.

To make a long story longer we took the suit home and the lady next door shortened the shorts (is that bad grammar?) to fit me. I looked in the mirror and discovered the kid in the catalogue looked a lot better than I did which upset me no end.

By this time I was becoming disenchanted with the thought of being the only kid around with a suit and I started to think of all the bad things that could happen like having to wear it to school and maybe even be forced to wear a tie and worst of all maybe the other kids would make fun of me and I would grow up with no friends and probably wind up being a hermit.

I decided the suit must go before it ruined my life. I got together with some of my friends and we decided on a plan.
The plan was to tell our Mothers we were going to go to church and on the way I would do something heroic like saving one of my friends life by pushing him out of the way of an onrushing car and of course my suit would at the very least get torn. I knew my Mom and Dad couldn’t get mad at me for being so brave.

I thought about it in later years and figured the plan wouldn’t have worked anyway because in our neighborhood in 1934 you would only see a car about every three days and I don’t think we were willing to wait that long. I guess you want to know what did happen to my suit.

Well nothing heroic happened. We were going to go to Sunday school but seeing that none of us liked church anyway we decided to go down to the creek and play around for a while. Well, boys being boys things got out of hand and I got pushed into the creek, suit, leather shoes and all. I swear I could see that suit start to shrink right on my body. I was not a happy camper.

I knew the jig was up and I had to go home and face up to my parents.

After my Mom’s colour returned to normal and my Dad stopped yelling I was asked what happened. I had one more ace up my sleeve. I told them Reverend Fisher had baptized me and I got soaked.

My Mom quickly said “Reverend Fisher is a Baptist and you go to the United church”. I was confined to the house for four weeks.

I was paroled after two. I think my Mom thought I was enough trouble and was glad to get rid of me.

By the way I got my next suit when I was seventeen and I paid for it myself. Oh yeah it also had long pants.

Mehan, 81, is a Toronto native. He was a postal supervisor and office manager for the Canadian Postal Service. He now lives in the Court at Brooklin in Ontario, Canada.

Coming about

One year, our Christmas present was too big to fit under the tree. So our parents parked it on the street. It was just about the first thing we saw that Christmas morning.

My sisters may have had mixed feelings, but I was completely thrilled. This new family vehicle was just what I wanted: a sailboat!

Blame it on Howard K. Pease and Rob White, a couple of authors whose stories dealt with adventures on the high seas. Pease wrote about huge cargo ships and Rob White told tales of smaller craft – powered by the wind and often operated by children or teens. I devoured the books written by both men and dreamed of spending my life at sea.

Our little Omega probably didn’t impress other sailors much. It was an open craft, about 16 feet long, a bit broad in the beam (it had to accommodate our family of five) and boasted two sails – the main and a jib.

The most critical maneuver for sailors is tacking.

Aerodynamics make it possible for a boat to actually sail upwind – not directly into the wind, of course; but, when “close hauled,” a boat can come pretty close. The sails form an airfoil, the same principle that provides lift for airplanes causes sailboats to be pulled, rather than pushed, through the water.

By alternating course from one side to the other – a maneuver known as tacking – sailors can make good progress directly against the wind.

The term for this act of moving the bow from one side to the other is “coming about.” The smoothness and rapidity with which a crew completes this move significantly affects their average speed. Racing crews work frantically to minimize the time required to move from one side of the wind to the other.

One sailor generally manages the tiller or wheel and the mainsheet – a rope used to control the sail that is mounted on both mast and the boom. The boom swings from one side of the boat to the other depending on the tack.

“Ready about!”

This command alerts the second crewmember to loosen the sheet that holds the jib – a second sail attached to the forward part of the mast. This sail is not attached to a boom; it must remain flexible so it can be pulled in front of the mast and make its way to the other side of the boat and complete the tack. The line is freed from its cleat, but held taut by the crewmember for the moment.

“Helms alee!”

As he makes this announcement, the first crewmember pushes the tiller away from his body – toward the side of the boat that the sails are on. This forces the bow in the opposite direction – directly into the wind.

When the boat turns into the wind, both sails begin flapping, or “luffing.” At this point only momentum allows the helmsman to maintain control and, in this configuration, it’s just a matter of time before the craft actually begins moving backward. Rapid progress through the wind is critical to maintain forward momentum.

Just as the bow passes through the eye of the wind, the opposite side of the jib catches the wind and billows out on the opposite side of the mast. The force of that wind helps speed the turn.

At the same time, the boom crosses over the stern; it will soon fill with its own dose of air and will again drive the boat forward.

“Cut!”

At the critical moment when the lateral force of a reversed jib is no longer needed to help turn the boat, the commander alerts the crewmember to release the sheet binding the jib to one side of the boat and to haul in the opposite line.

All that remains is to adjust course and trim the sails to the optimum course.

Sailors take pride in the efficiency with which they come about. A well-made boat, a skilled crew and a good wind can make tacking work like poetry.

My rigging has become fouled here along the shores of Lake Ontario. I’m caught in the doldrums for a few days while plotting a new course.

My hosts for this 12-month voyage have once again come through for me and I’ll soon be underway, with no added costs or serious inconvenience. I’ll be staying in alternate, but comparable accommodations for the next week or so, but will be back on schedule by the time I reach Quebec.

While tacking is a sailor’s favorite maneuver, it’s sometimes necessary to jibe. During a jibe, the wind crosses behind the boat. The sails don’t luff, but when the wind gets on the opposite side of the main it changes sides quickly, with the wind’s force behind it.

Jibing can be done safely; but sometimes an inattentive crew will suffer an accidental jibe. In this instance, a careless sailor can be struck by the boom – even knocked overboard.

No wonder that even when executing a controlled jibe, the captain shouts, “Jibe-o, duck!”

Tacking and jibing notwithstanding, it appears to be clear sailing for Wandering Dave as I begin the second half of my trip.

Red skies in the morning,
sailors take warning.
Red skies at night,
sailor’s delight.

Stymied

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley
        -- Robert Burns


At the end of 1959’s “Some Like it Hot,” Daphne and Osgood Fielding II occupy a speedboat heading for the latters big yacht moored in the bay.

The multimillionaire (portrayed by Joe E. Brown) has fallen head over heels in love with the bass player (Jack Lemmon) – a member of an all-girls band. But he doesn’t know that the object of his affection is actually a male bass player dressed in drag to escape detection by gangsters who know that he is a witness to a murder resembling the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

Captivated by Daphne’s charms, Fielding II can’t wait to get to the boat before proposing. Jerry can no longer maintain the deception and comes clean:

“Oh, you don't understand, Osgood! Ehhhh... I'm a man,” he cries over the roar of the engines.

Unaffected by this announcement, the other man announced: “Well, nobody’s perfect!”

My near-perfect road trip hit some bumps this week here in Ontario, Canada. I managed to avoid becoming stuck in Lodi, but Whitby has got the best of me.

The blame doesn’t lie here, though. The problem is about 150 miles east of here. A faulty water pipe flooded the facility I had intended to occupy, forcing a couple of dozen residents to move out.

Repairs are underway, but the guest room has been closed for the season and I’m the odd man out this week in Kingston.

The kind folks here in Whitby have extended my stay for two extra days, so my challenge is to find a headquarters somewhere between Whitby and Nepean for about 72 hours…

When another form of “disaster” struck (in the form of a souped-up pickup truck) on the very first day of this trip, I determined that collisions and any other kind of adversity would be turned into adventure and be seen as an opportunity to add value to the trip.

                Get your motor runnin'
                Head out on the highway
                Lookin' for adventure
                And whatever comes our way
                Yeah Darlin' go make it happen
                Take the world in a love embrace
                Fire all of your guns at once
                And explode into space

                I like smoke and lightning
                Heavy metal thunder
                Racin' with the wind
                And the feelin' that I'm under
                Yeah Darlin' go make it happen
                Take the world in a love embrace
                Fire all of your guns at once
                And explode into space

                Like a true nature's child
                We were born, born to be wild
                We can climb so high
                I never wanna die

                Born to be wild
                        -- Steppenwolf, 1968

Locomotion

I love to go a-wandering,
along the mountain track,
and as I go, I love to sing,
my knapsack on my back.

Oh, may I go a-wandering
until the day I die!
Oh, may I always laugh and sing,
Beneath God's clear blue sky!

        -- The Happy Wanderer

Whitby, Ontario is in a major metropolitan area – it’s really part of an international metropolis – and yet my cell phone nearly is beeping almost constantly to remind me that I’m “roaming.”

Well, I’ve been a bit offended by the term – ignorantly, as usual; so I decided to look it up on this quiet, rainy Sunday afternoon.

It turns out that the definition for roaming is nearly identical to – actually indistinguishable from – that of “wandering.”

And that has me even more offended.

If I thought I’d be spending a whole year just roaming, I might well have stood at home.

Making matters worse, I find a host of even more synonyms. Among these is “meandering.”

Puh-leeze! My movements are much too purposeful to be undignified by such a term. I never lose sight of my objectives – which can’t be measured by how well I may have stayed on a fixed course or how many notches I have on my camera (indicating “major attractions” I have bagged, digitally).

“Rambling,” seems less offensive, though it implies to me a rather constant amount of momentum and constant movement. I not only stop to smell the roses, I stop for just about anything. Only my brain synapses remain in constant motion.

I’m disqualifying “rove” outright. Not only does it seem to me to lack any sort of purpose or benefit, it’s also a word associated with a living human with whom I’d just as soon not become associated.

A movement to add the verb, “to Rove,” to the dictionary will gain my full support, however. The word could be defined as “causing a person to become elected despite their complete lack of training, experience, judgment or other relevant qualifications.”

There are a few words that I really don’t need to address. Nobody, for example, would want to be accused of “straying.” And no matter what adjectives one might apply, who would want to be labeled a “gadabout.”

Folks do seem to want to put us in a cubbyhole. Unusual behavior must be categorized. It’s not normal behavior – in our culture, at least – and must be put in perspective.

As for me, I relish the idea of being place in the same file folder with The Happy Wanderer and with Ben Rumson – the 19th-century miner portrayed by Lee Marvin in “Paint your Wagon.”

I love the changing landscape as it appears through my windshield. But, as has been said, I never saw a town that didn’t look better through my rear-view mirror.

Now, don’t take that personally. And, for heaven’s sake, please don’t accuse me of gallivanting!

Beware the Helots

The title character in the 1941 classic, “Meet John Doe,” wasn’t actually named John Doe. Gary Cooper played the part of an injured major league baseball hopeful named Long John Willoughby who accepted an ambitious newspaperwoman’s offer to pretend to be Doe in return for food and a little cash.

Released near the end of the Great Depression and the beginning of World War II, this film covered a lot of bases. Later a fervent anti-Communist in real life, Cooper portrayed a straight shooter who would have none of Communism or of fascism as introduced by the evil DB Norton whose pet motorcycle patrol did everything short of wearing swastikas in their emulation of the Nazis.

Perched on Doe/Willoughby’s shoulder was the Colonel – played by ever-lovable Walter Brennan. The Colonel’s unfaltering message was, “let’s get back on the road where our only care is finding the next meal and our only pursuit is playing music.”

I was reminded of the Colonel this morning while searching for a label to apply to a broad category of folks whose mission in life seems to be to maintain the status quo, to enforce all rules regardless of circumstances, to challenge every attempt at diversity, to oppose progress, growth, development, innovation or any other form of change and to stand in the way of common sense, logic, reason and any method of decision-making other than adherence to tradition.

The Colonel discovered a way to divide the population into two groups: those who, like himself and Long John, traveled freely with no intent to create problems or even get involved with others beyond asking for the occasional handout or putting in a few hours performing an odd job now and then; and those who had bank accounts. He called the account-holders “Helots.”

Now, “Helot” actually is a proper noun from ancient times. Occupants of the lowest rank of citizens in Sparta were Helots. This is a far cry from the status of those the Colonel. And I suspect that the writers and director Frank Capra decided to use the term for the same reason I want to adopt it: it’s a great sounding insult-title.

The phrase, “Aw, he’s nothing but a gol-durned Helot!” just flows off the tongue. It’s probably because the word includes “heel” and nobody wants to be considered a heel.

Anyway, short story long, I’ve decided that my new pejorative title for the intransigent (one certainly can’t hope to wither an opponent with that kind of language) is HELOT.

And so, I will now identify the health care worker who ventured out into the grassy picnic area outside her hospital after midnight this morning to ask me to explain my presence (I was writing) and the library worker who, two hours ago told me that as a non-resident I could have only 30 minutes of Internet access despite the fact that the library was nearly empty … as HELOTS.

I feel much better now.

Pig in a park at dusk

“What time is dusk, anyway?”

That is the operative question when planning to go watch fireworks or free movies in the park.

While I’ve pretty much outgrown any serious interest in the former, I can still get excited about the latter – particularly when the film is one I’ve never seen or the setting is new to me.

Those two qualities applied this evening and I headed toward a city park here in Whitby, Ontario at around 8 p.m. to take in “Charlotte’s Web,” featuring the voices of Julia Roberts, Robert Redford, Oprah Winfrey and other cinematic notables.

My affection for these open-air exhibitions may stem from childhood days in Ohio when our family piled into the car and headed for the drive-in theaters that have since almost completely disappeared from the landscape.

Part of the appeal was being able to create a personalized “nest” in the back seat. Blankets and pillows from home made our deluxe accommodations seem quite cozy, so cozy, in fact, that we three kids rarely stayed awake until the end of the second feature.

Though the sound quality actually left much to be desired compared to large and expensive speakers housed in indoor theaters, having that little volume knob on a window-hanger speaker gave the illusion of providing control over the audio.

I remember my father experimenting with various locations atop the berm that allowed just about any desired angle of incidence for screen viewing. From the ideal perspective, each family member should be able to sit in complete comfort and see the entire screen.

When the car was in motion, my sisters and I often argued for the right to sit in the front seat. We usually made a similar stink over who would enjoy the “front row seat” at drive-ins; but the winner quickly realized that sitting up front greatly limits nest-building opportunities and before long he or she would crawl over the back of the seat and join the siblings.

Our family car was a carryall – a cross between a panel truck and a station wagon. Its height made it only fair that we occupy a berm near the rear of the lot – or near one side or the other – as we would definitely block the views of others. But that added height, along with our father’s scientific maneuvering meant that we could usually see the movie from any of three rows of seats.

The Whitby “theater” is level parkland. Families were already gathered in roughly formed rows – actually more in clumps that comprised rough rows. Each encampment had unique features designed to meet family needs based on ages, sexes, numbers and dispositions of the kids.

Some parents obviously prepared to deal with sleepyheads and brought warm blankets, pillows and stuffed animals. Others were ready for big appetites, hauling huge ice chests and bag after bag of goodies to their sites.

Here and there, parents applied insect repellant to exposed skin. Some were like me and uncertain of how long they’d be waiting for the show to start and brought interim toys and other distractions for their offspring. And a few seem to have simply brought anything and everything they could carry, setting up campsites that appeared to be equipped for the entire weekend.

When the movie began, most of the kids in our crowd appeared to be oblivious.
For a few moments, I feared that the constant company of videos in most 21st century homes might have made the movie part of this evening less captivating for today’s kids than it was for me in years past.

But the magic of E.B. White’s classic, combined with the sky’s transition from blue to black dotted with and emerging blanket of stars, soon captured the young audience’s attention – and held it for the duration of the film.

I was four when Charlotte’s Web was published, living in Ohio and spending the occasional evening at a drive-in theater. The story of a pig and a spider and the power of friendship resonated in me then, but never more than tonight under Canadian stars in the company of a new generation of humans.

Today is my friend Frank’s 100th birthday and the topic of friendship has been on my mind since breakfast. Charlotte, the spider, seemed to be senior partner in the relationship until her own vulnerability became known to the viewers. The tragedy of loss was tempered by the joy she experienced when her dying efforts succeeded in saving her friend from the Christmas dinner table.

And hope for new friendships became reality when hundreds of Charlotte’s young appeared in the springtime and set out into the world to seek adventures, and friends, of their own. Three remained behind in Homer’s Barn with Wilbur and the others to build on a community of friends who had learned to love each other despite their differences.

Canada doesn’t seem at all like a foreign country; but I suspect that children anywhere in the world would understand the simple but profound messages offered in tonight’s presentation. It’s a shame that these same messages fail to guide their parents.

It’s a beautiful Friday night in Ontario.

“There's no denying that our own little Wilbur... he's part of something that's bigger than all of us. And life on that farm's just a whole lot better with him in it. He really is some pig.” - Homer Zuckerman

Yankee Imperialists, we

Well, the evidence is mounting and only one verdict seems likely: conquest of Canada – at least parts of Canada – was a part of United States war planning in 1812.

I’ve been quite happy believing that our motives were all pure and that we only wanted to be left alone (by England, who had been interfering with our commerce and pressing American sailors into service in the English navy).

And I still believe that the War of 1812 was essentially intended as a reminder that we were a free and sovereign nation.

But, when American strategists assessed the situation, they must have been struck by the threat and opportunity presented here in the Great Lakes region.

The threat was that England could take advantage of its naval strength and ability and use lakes and rivers to outflank American forces. The war could easily have been lost in this “back-door” action, particularly in view of the fact that the British had already managed to capture our nation’s capital and to burn the White House.

The opportunity was that American victory in the region could force a British retreat and make it possible for the United States to conquer central Canada. By controlling the waters that provided the British with an advantage, Americans would not only eliminate that advantage, but also gain it for themselves.

Holding captured territories after the war would have been consistent with the burgeoning sense of destiny that Americans felt when they looked at the vast expanses of territory that could be added to the original 13 states.

The temptation had to have been strong and there’s little doubt that, had victory in the north been more decisive, the Americans probably would have demanded territory as part of the peace agreement.

As it was, both sides were ready to end the fighting and U.S. negotiators gave up all hope of expanding our borders north by agreeing to return to pre-war borders.

This aspect of our history was not emphasized when I was a young student. And the notion of Manifest Destiny was generally celebrated, as were our brutal conquering of Native Americans and Mexicans.

Current events have certainly sensitized me to this kind of historical awakening. Having been born and having grown up during a period of intense patriotism and national pride, each chink I discover in the American Armor hurts.

My first such unpleasant epiphany came in December of 1965. I remember being surrounded by grown-ups while engaged in a discussion/argument about the now-infamous and then-alleged Gulf of Tonkin Incident that led to American attacks on North Vietnam and a dramatic expansion of that conflict in Southeast Asia.

I remember feeling that I was being ganged up on and the humiliation that followed my ultimate, and (I believed) most compelling argument.

In a half-whimper-half-shout, I protested, “The president wouldn’t lie to the American people.”

The adults immediately burst into laughter.

Not for the last time, I realized that I was clinging to a truism based on American mythology. At a very early age, I had heard the story of George Washington and the cherry tree.

That message resonated in me; it comforted me. In my mind, it grew in importance as I extended the rule to all American presidents: The president wouldn’t lie to the American people.”

It sounds ridiculous today.

What a shame.

And so, I must now add Canadians to the list of those whom my country has dealt with in a less-than-ideal fashion. As believers in self-determination, we should not have contemplated “capturing” an occupied territory and imposing our way of life on the occupants.

And if that doesn’t sound like advice that applies today, you may not be paying attention.

The Americans are coming! The Americans are coming!

Canadians in this part of the country are pretty clear on it: the U.S. and Canada were once at war! Many seem convinced that American imperialists had their eyes on the northern shores of the Great Lakes and the rich farmlands to the west.

I never considered the idea that there might be a few Canadian heroes who are remembered for having helped defend their land from the invading Americans. But that’s a part of local history.

Technically, the War of 1812 was between the U.S. and the England. But as an English colony, Canada was part of England and thereby fair game for our attacks and a springboard for invasions into the States.

Despite the fact the blood was shed, there don’t seem to be a lot of hard feelings about the events. Like the folks I met in the Prairie Provinces, eastern Canadians seem friendly and neighborly toward Americans.

The U.S. vs Canada epiphany came during a visit to an historic printshop near here – at Niagara on the Lake. I saw a 200-year-old wooden press that had been burned in a fire set on Canadian soil by American troops.

Two university students hung out well beyond the call of duty and rapped with me about history – which is both of their majors. It was great fun for me and they seemed to enjoy our time together, as well.

I’m meeting seniors on this trip at a ratio of about 20-to-1 as compared with younger people – this because there is a large supply available at meal times and approaching them is easy; but I’m enjoying my less frequent visits with younger folks and am generally encouraged by their basic goodness.

There seems to me to be a growing sense of duty. This manifests itself most often in volunteering in caregiving or educational settings; but I’m hopeful that it will translate into more active citizenship. So much information is available now, it seems logical to hope that the people will soon begin making better use of information when they choose their leaders.

Ah, I’ve climbed back on the soapbox again. I may have been inspired by the fiery redhead who operated the printshop I visited yesterday morning, William Lyon McKenzie soon moved on to York (which became Toronto) and a life in politics.

As for the dispute between Canadians and Americans, I suppose it’s only right to accept that our neighbors should celebrate the bravery of their ancestors – even when that bravery cost American lives and led to a military setback that may have prolonged the war and cost even more lives.

And if there were Americans “back then” who believed it to be our destiny to rule all of North America – clear to the North Pole – then it’s just one more ambition to live down. The good news is that we didn’t, or weren’t able to, follow up on such ambition and don’t need to add Canadians to a list of victims that already includes hundreds of tribes of Native Americans, some French and Spanish and a whole lot of Mexicans.

Hopefully our current adventures overseas will help drive home a message: now that the whole world has been divided up, a nation’s destiny probably ought not extend beyond current borders.

I’m not done investigating this facet of our history. Meanwhile, hold that line.

Look north for a little perspective on Islam

I just discovered a great new comedy on Canadian Television. It's the best invention since M*A*S*H for using comedy to make an important point.

This show may not become available on network television in the states, but tonight's episode, the first, is on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_I4YrgGHCXE

The show actually may have first appeared months ago and tonight's broadcast was a re-run. In any event (whether we're on the cutting edge or not), it's worth a look.

Here's a CNN broadcast about the new sitcom...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7XlPKCUh8k

It's time to start learning more about Muslims. This show, in my humble view, is a good start. It's hard not to like the characters being portrayed in the show; and learning to laugh with others may be the quickest path to learning not to hate them.

Have I cleaned up my act?

OK, I admit that my approach was designed to generate a little heat. These Canadians are so nice that I can’t help but push a bit to see if I can get a rise out of them.

Wrong, dumb, evil, mean-spirited . . . yet, somehow so American! Don’t you agree?

Anyway, the advertising invites visitors to enjoy “free wi-fi” and (technically) only requires that one bring his or her own laptop to the party. There’s no explicit mention of any prerequisite purchase of coffee or that a load of laundry be included in the deal.

That’s right, laundry and laptops in the same commercial message. This place, Sips & Suds offers Internet connectivity for patrons who hate just sitting and watching their clothes tumbling in the dryer.

Since I’m having a little trouble with my own connectivity here in Canada, I thought I’d drop by to test the waters, so to speak.

I walked in to the nearly empty establishment and opened with a provocative question: “Is this the place with the free wi-fi connection.”

Sometimes an unambiguous question generates more doubt and confusion than one that is more convoluted. After all, the web site clearly says: “Use one of our high-speed terminals for $3.00 an hour, or bring your laptop and connect to our network for free.”

As I have observed to be the case in other contexts, my question aroused suspicion – and put the nice lady behind the counter on the defensive.

“Well, yes,” she replied. But there was something about the way she spoke that suggested a “But…” in the next sentence.

Canadians, however, are far less likely to jump right to the “but.” They seem a bit more trusting and quite a bit more polite and willing to bide their time before deciding they’re in a fight.

“Are you going to do some laundry?”

It was a question, not a demand or accusation. Just a question that, if answered in the affirmative, would put an immediate end to the controversy.

As a true-blue Yank, I – of course – refused to give a straight answer.

“Your ad says, ‘free wi-fi,’” I countered. “Doesn’t free mean no obligation to pay?”

After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I decided to hit the “off” button before our conversation went into the spin cycle.

“What if I buy a cup of coffee,” I suggested. “Won’t that qualify me as a customer and get me some free wi-fi?”

My hostess quickly agreed and I attempted to make up for my cruel experiment by taking a large coffee and turning down the offer for “double-cupping” and of a plastic lid.

We spoke in friendly tones for a few minutes. I learned that college students occasionally took advantage of the wireless connection and, when the place was busy, may have actually discouraged paying customers from dropping in.

From a comfortable perch beside the window, I took a look at Sips & Suds and developed an appreciation for what the owners have done.

They opted to pay for mo
re space than necessary, creating a quite open and inviting atmosphere. And they invested in decorations and furniture that makes it very clear that this isn’t the traditional coin-op laundry operation.

A bit more than an hour later, I’ve watched business pick up a bit, but the machines are fairly quiet and acoustic tiles in the drop ceiling absorb much of the noise. It doesn’t seem to have become hotter or moister.

Of course those three kids that usually turn up whenever I’m using a Laundromat could easily destroy this positive ambiance. They probably live in that apartment tower across the street and will be over later.

I’ve been fortunately independent of Laundromats for a number of years. If I ever return to that lifestyle, I’d consider myself fortunate if I found a spot like Sips & Suds nearby.

Flim Flam Flummoxed

Harold Hill, the consummate con-man and perrenial pragmatist, stood before a motley band of boys, aged six to seventeen.

Everything was on the line: Hill was looking at serious jail time; he stood to lose the newfound love of his life; and, no matter how this thing turned out, his days of carefree and careless exploiting of all whom he met were probably over.

A life-long con artist, Hill traveled through Iowa in search of “rubes” who would fall for his pitch that the only way to save their city’s youth from the depths of depravity was to establish a boy’s band.

And Hill happened to be selling uniforms and instruments. What a coincidence.

The “Professor” always skipped town immediately after the shipment arrived – first collecting the money, of course. Only then did the unsuspecting parents realize that without instruction, the instruments and outfits were worthless.

Claiming to be the originator of the “Think System,” Hill assured doubters that once the boys were able to imagine themselves playing, they’d discover that the ability to play had only been locked inside them – to be freed by the think system.

The admittedly exciting life of a con artist has an appeal. But it’s also, clearly, on the “dark side of the force.” By living in a world of lies, the con man misses much…

There were bells on the hill
But I never heard them ringing,
No, I never heard them at all
Till there was you.

There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging
No, I never saw them at all
Till there was you.

And there was music,
And there were wonderful roses,
They tell me,
In sweet fragrant meadows of dawn, and dew.

There was love all around
But I never heard it singing
No, I never heard it at all
Till there was you!

And so love proved to be both the downfall and the salvation of Harold Hill as he stood before those untrained lads who clutched unfamiliar instruments in their hands and looked at the Music Man with absolute faith and confidence.

“Think, men. Think!”

And, at least in the world of compose Meridith Wilson, love and faith conquered all. The discordant noise that initially came forth from the novice band was transformed into … well, into MUSIC!

The ears and eyes of parents – and of anyone else filled with love – easily transform cacophony into symphony, rags into riches and distrust into acceptance.

Seventy-six trombones led the big parade
With a hundred and ten cornets close at hand.
They were followed by rows and rows of the finest virtuo-
Sos, the cream of ev'ry famous band.

Seventy-six trombones caught the morning sun
With a hundred and ten cornets right behind
There were more than a thousand reeds
Springing up like weeds
There were horns of ev'ry shape and kind.

There were copper bottom tympani in horse platoons
Thundering, thundering all along the way.
Double bell euphoniums and big bassoons,
Each bassoon having it's big, fat say!

There were fifty mounted cannon in the battery
Thundering, thundering louder than before
Clarinets of ev'ry size
And trumpeters who'd improvise
A full octave higher than the score!

Those of you who are You-Tubers, check out these links:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLDsLeVxOaU&mode=related&search=

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-L1CRjm9U8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LI_Oe-jtgdI