adventures of a canoelover

Somewhere in Tennessee.

Take one Cardinal…

…add one Immature Coopers Hawk…

…and you get…

…this.

This was all that was left. I guess Mr. Cardinal was a little too eager to attract the ladies. Mr. Cooper was more than happy to answer the call.

Ian has a great art teacher at school, and periodically he gets an assignment called “You’re the Artist.” He is given free reign to create anything he wants to in any medium, and lately, the medium of choice has been steel.

He really likes welding…and if I were 15, I’d totally be into welding…the magic of introducing huge amounts of heat into a very small area, almost vaporizing the metal on each side and introducing molten metal. It’s cool. It’s also tricky to get it right without burning through the thin piece or having a cool joint that doesn’t hold.

I think one of the reasons I work with my hands so much whenever possible is that I didn’t have the opportunity to do this growing up. My father had many talents, but he was not a “handy” person. Change a tire on the car, maybe replace the windshield wiper blades, that’s about it.

I want Ian to have opportunities to try things. Maybe he’ll end up doing nothing with his hands, but at least he can say “I weld.” The cool factor is extremely high.

Someday I think we’ll weld up a bicycle frame. Not like these, though.

The finished product.

We did not, however, learn about shrinkage. We were in dry suits. Not wet suits. DRY suits.

Rutabaga bought a bunch of dry suits to give the staff something to use early season, allow customers to try/rent, and to just get everyone more familiar with the idea behind a dry suit. It was successful. NRS and Kokatat provided us with suits (at a good discount, thanks Farley and Michael!) and we figured there’s no better time than now, given the ice was off the pond just a few days ago.

No one was really excited about putting their hands and faces in the water (we hire smart people). Still, we had fun. Margaret had a little trouble due to her abundance of hair. Strangely that’s never a problem for me…

I know, I know. I keep saying that. But this time I have proof, i.e., the first signs of my Erythronium albidum showing their first tentative and shy sprouts through the loam soil on the side of my backyard shack.

E. albidum, or White Trout Lilies, are native to Southern Ontario but a large patch of them was established my my backyard at least 20-25 years ago by the original owner of this home, Evelyn Bakke. Evelyn has since passed on, enjoying the Ephemeral Garden in the Sky. I still thank her every Spring when my lilies poke their heads through and scream in tiny white voices that winter is really over, and nothing we can do will stop the inevitable progression toward Life and Warmth.

Brian: Hola, me llamo es Brian … Nosotros queremos ir con ustedes.. uhhhh …

Bellboy (Spanish): Hey, that was pretty good, except when you said “me llamo es Brian,” you don’t need the “es,” just me llamo Brian.

Brian: Oh, oh you speak English!

Bellboy (sigh): No, just that first speech and this one explaining it.

Brian: You …. you’re kidding me, right?

Bellboy (Spanish): Que?

Precious.

Living in the north, at least compared to the rest of the United States, has its advantages. We get four seasons, although they are hardly equal in length. The people are made of some hardier stock than the hothouse variety that live in the southern climes. They are, for the most part, nicer, Chicago notwithstanding.

We are also closer to Canada. For those living in non-bordering states, you have to understand that Canada is its own sovereign nation, not an extension of the United States. It has its own government. It has its own culture. It has, with loose interpretations, its own cuisine.

Working in the outdoor industry means that I bump up against a lot more Canadians than the average American. The more I bump up against them, the more they rub off on me. In general, my Canadian friends are more self-effacing while remaining confident in their abilities. They are less prone to brag about the greatness of their country, but in many ways more patriotic. More go, less show.

Canadians are naturally poor marketers. They sell the steak, not the sizzle, and take it for granted that people who partake of a certain product are smart enough to figure out the relative benefits of a potato chip without being told by a cartoon character that they’re fresher than those that just say “potato chips” on the bag.

Canadians don’t go for flashy, which is why until just a few years ago, the most popular car in Canada was the Toyota Tercel. I have no idea what it is now, but my guess is something smaller and practical, but not a Kia, which they are probably too smart to import, let alone purchase.

Canadians buy things other than tires from a tire store. They put corn meal on their bacon, put gravy on their French fries, and drink coffee from a chain owned by a former hockey player. Starbucks is for the elite, of which there are fifteen in the entire country, all ensconced in an upscale condo building in Toronto. Everyone else drinks Tim Horton’s coffee, which they affectionate call “Timmy’s,” as in “I need to stop at Timmy’s.” Their money is prettier, and now it’s worth more than ours, and while it does have a bunch of dead Prime Ministers on it, it also has loons, caribou, beaver, and polar bears on it, and Queen Elizabeth II. Ours has dead presidents and a random secretary of the treasury. We refuse to accept coins worth more than fifty cents, even though we mint them.

In short, they are not Americans. I mean to say they are American, in that they live in North America, just as Mexicans are Americans too. Another indication of the hubris of United Statsians, oblivious to the two countries to the north and south.

———

A few years ago I was at a rendezvous for wooden canoe builders in upstate New York. I participated in teaching a few classes, and was demonstrating strokes while Jodie-Marc Lalonde explained them. Jodie is obviously Canadian, as no self-respecting American would name their son Jodie. As Jodie talked through strokes, his Canadian heritage was clear in his pronunciation of particular words. Contrary to American thinking, Canadians do not say “a-BOOT” instead of “about.” They say “a-BOUWT” or something like that..it’s hard to write exactly what they say.

At any rate, Jodie and I were chatting later that day with an older gentleman, a Canadian who must have been every bit of eighty. Jodie and this distinguished man discussed canoe paddles, and the conversation turned to “Ray’s paddles.” There was a long discussion about Ray and his paddles, which I found interesting, as I am pretty familiar with the concept of canoe paddles, which end goes in the water, and so forth. After five minutes, I had to admit ignorance, as I had not spoken ten words since the conversation started.

“Who’s Ray?” I said.

Jodie looked at me patiently, but the old man was startled. He eyed me suspiciously, held my gaze, and stage whispered to Jodie, “Jodie, is this man a Yankee?”

He said “Yankee” as if it were a pejorative. Not mean-spirited, but almost with pity.

Jodie remarked that yes, I was indeed a Yankee.

The old man continued to stare at me for a few more seconds, sizing me up.

“Well, he sure doesn’t paddle like a Yankee.”

It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

—–

Not that Canada doesn’t have its problems, or as we call them here in the United States, “issues.” A good chunk of their country would like to break off and start their own little French kingdom called Bouchardia. We, on the other hand, would like to offload at least part of our country, starting with New Jersey. Until just a few years ago, they had a Prime Minister who spoke neither English nor French, rendering his communication somewhat less than effective. That said, our President doesn’t speak one language, not two. Their medical system lacks resources but serves everyone. Our medical system lacks for nothing, but a surprisingly large number of Americans can’t get a check-up except at an emergency room.

To many Americans, the Canadians are all left of center, socialists, and a little disdainful of Americans. Their medical system may be socialist, but there’s a subtle but important difference between socialism and community. In a socialistic society, one is forced to participate in a community. In a real community, it is voluntary, and it is my observations that Canadians are more interested in community building and are fiercely proud of it. Not that they’re not individuals, indeed, most of my Canadian friends are a quarter bubble off plumb, individualistic more so that many of my American friends. Community is created by a group of people who share values, not likes and dislikes.

I am proud of much of what my country has done for the world, and in general, we’re good folks, just like Canadians. Our government doesn’t represent us, just as theirs does not represent Canadians. We try to vote for people who are good folks, but inevitable an idiot or two or fifty get elected because most of us are too intelligent to run for public office.

While I can’t say, like the Molson ad, “I AM CANADIAN,” I can say that at least part of me is Canadian. I found a few Canadian ancestors in my genealogy, which means that I can claim at least some Canadian blood. Even if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t make any difference. My Canadian friends accept me as one of their own, since I paddle Canadian canoes, eat Canadian food (including Cretons), and read the Globe and Mail on-line. I love them, they love me, and that transcends borders.

If I may take a liberty with the Molson ad, I’d like to state for the record, “I COULD BE CANADIAN if it were not for an accident of birth.” Borders are arbitrary, geographical and geopolitical artifacts to divide, not unite. I choose to accept the physical border as an inconvenient reality while ignoring it in every other aspect of my life.

There we were, driving down to St. Louis last week, when we passed Atlanta, IL. I just had to stop when I saw the small, inconspicuous white sign that said, “Grain Elevator Museum – Next Right.”

As usual, as soon as I saw the sign, I said to my wife “I gotta see this…” Before she could object I was off the highway and heading into town. I mean, seriously… how can anyone pass up a grain elevator museum? I suppose people who are not at all curious could keep driving in favor of the next Cracker Barrel. But this…I had not expected this.

Imagine the simple, mundane pleasure of casually and superciliously dropping in conversation, “Say, I was just visiting the Grain Elevator Museum…fascinating architecture…a masterfully subtle use of the cubic form combined with a rough wood fascia that really accentuates its organic otherness. And what a masterful use of the rail car, juxtaposing the permanence of the structure with a metaphor of the transient nature of grain…”

Sad thing is, last night Stephanie and I had dinner in a restaurant next to a couple of insufferable academics whose drivel was almost as pretentious as it was inane. They were, almost assuredly, on their first date, hopelessly trying to impress each other. She laughed at all the right places, and he was attempting charm that came off as smarmy. I felt like launching into my grain elevator solliloquy as an antidote to the leather-patched tweed-coated blather from Table 9. One of the dangers of living in a college town, I suppose.

But I digress.

Beyond the wonderful grain elevator museum was the completely unexpected Paul Bunyan With Hot Dog Statue. No idea what it means, why PB would have a hot dog, and why in Atlanta, IL. Once more, no Babe, the big blue ox. Perhaps Babe was carrying the fries and the cherry coke.

We will never know. Route 66 still rears its ancient head once in a blue moon.

“The first day of spring was once the time for taking the young virgins into the fields, there in dalliance to set an example in fertility for nature to follow. Now we just set the clocks an hour ahead and change the oil in the crankcase.”
– E.B. White

As much as I hate ice when I’m on a two-wheeled vehicle, I have to admit I like how it looks. I got out of the car this morning and almost stepped on this thin little puddle that froze over. They’re beyond transient, existing only for a few hours, and I guess the little bit of oil from the cars in the parking lot make things freeze in interesting ways.