Canada

Death by Snow


gm_13005 Shining Bank Snow, Alberta 1977

Image by CanadaGood via Flickr

With a second “snow event” in as many weeks behind us, I pondered the piles which have turned our yard, front and back, into a white labyrinth and thought about the phone conversation I had yesterday with my husband.

“The boss dropped by, ” he told me, “looking for anyone who might be interested in a possible project down on the Gulf Coast. I told him that I might be but it wasn’t a decision I could make* without consulting you. The probability of the project is based on a U.S. economic recovery, which isn’t all that likely, but how would you feel about it?”

He was talking about the Texas coast. Texas being only slightly less objectionable than say Alabama, whose governor recently admitted that he has no Christian charity to extend to anyone who isn’t Christian and was once such a bastion of seething racism that blacks forced to travel through it packed their own porta potties and carried an extra gas can for refueling in the trunks of their cars.

“Baby, this is the 7th day without sun and it’s been snowing non-stop since last Wednesday,” I said. “This probably isn’t the best day to ask if I’d like to move south.”

Of course, the southern states in the U.S. are harbingers of the level of bat-shit crazy that will fan out over the rest of the country like the four horsemen once the next election cycle kicks into full propaganda mode this coming fall, so I am lukewarm (though not literally) about the prospect of a front row seat. Monitoring the shenanigans from Canada is enough adventure for me.

But the prospect of warmth, sun and no snow does tempt.

Everyone is escaping to Mexico. I listen to the travel tales filled with bouts of uncontrollable diarrhea and Federales with  machine guns escorting bus loads of pale northern tourists to the insulated resorts with a minimum of envy and a lot of wonder.

I read too much to consider Mexico even the slightest bit safe for someone pale and unable to speak the language beyond the ability to ask for a beer or for directions to the nearest washroom.

Silly white tourists. My student roster when I taught drop out prevention flowed over with Mexicans, who are ingratiating and smile a lot but who also see Americans (we are all Americans to them) as marks to relieve of the heavy burden of our bourgeois bounty.

The boys would regale me with stories of their tourist trap homes and cajole me to visit.

“I have a cousin (uncle or auntie) who can set you up cheap! It’s warm and more beautiful than anyplace you have ever been.”

“Is it safe?” I would ask.

Sheepish grins before a serious look would replace the huckster, “I wouldn’t send you anywhere that wasn’t. My family (friends) would look out for someone who I send.”

I’ve never been to Mexico. Rob and I thought about marrying down there, but the whole translation of documents plus the logistics of getting everyone there proved to be a significant deterrent.

Normally, it’s Rob who funks out early in the winter. He blames it on the lack of sunshine, but statistically, Alberta is one of the sunniest places in Canada.

I am fine until mid-April and it’s still snowing. It’s not the lack of sunshine; it’s the absence of spring. We simply don’t have spring here. It’s cold until it’s not. It snows until it’s meteorologically impossible for it to do so anymore. This could be early April or it could be June.

In Iowa, winters are a bitch, but spring – hot sometimes and lush due to the rain and snow melt – arrives with gusto in late March or early April. That is what my body is used to and I do miss it.

But there are feet of snow in the yard, along the roadsides and piling like small mountain ranges in the parking lots. And it’s still January.

Everywhere I go, people marvel and say, “I have never seen it snow this much before.”

Even Rob remarked, “It’s never snowed this much in the fifteen years I have lived here.”

To be a part of such an historic snowpocalypse hasn’t been a life’s goal and I am unlikely to look back fondly on it.

People talk about “climate change” and “global warming” and I read about scientists who are concluding that the earth is nearing one of the ends of its infrequent warm periods and preparing for the next ice age. The earth’s natural state, after all, is “ice ball”. Whatever the reason, it sucks and I have reached literal saturation.

*Rob unilaterally made the decision to move the family to Kansas back in the early 90’s and was informed by his late wife that he did not have the authority to ever do something like that again.

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Resolving to Be Myself in the New Year


Happy New Year 1910!

Image by Puzzler4879 A Blessed New Year To All via Flickr

As the last days of 2010 speed by, some of us are plotting new courses for a new year, and this means – naturally – making those awful, and often fruitless, resolutions.

Most people concentrate on the concrete. Resolving to lose weight, which more often ends up with the health club having a fatter wallet and no significant body improvements for them save a skinnier bank account. Diet improvement or renouncing counter-productive habits are biggies, as is the ever popular “getting organized”.

Make-overs are big because of the broad applications. Nearly anything can be “made over” and “improved”.

A smaller portion of the population tackles the interior with goals intended to improve, cultivate or jettison relationships.

Typically, I don’t make resolutions anymore. I have goals but my success is not measured by how quickly they are achieved. Rather I look at how they incorporate into my life and I would say that my goals are in a constant state of refinement as I pursue them in a non-manic way.

One thing I have noticed about myself as I head into my fourth year living in Canada, is that I am more and more myself.

In my old life back in Iowa, there were obligations and responsibilities that obliged me to stifle who I am more often than was good for me (though it probably benefited a small group of others). I don’t employ many of the checks by which life was precariously balanced. Nor do I masque myself.

Oh, I can still be inscrutable, but more often, what you see is who I am.

This year, I resolve to continue being more and more myself.

Perhaps you might too. It would certainly be easier and more inexpensive than a lot of other superficial options.

In case I don’t see you again before the new year, have a joyous and peaceful one, dear reader.

You were not meant for crawling, so don’t.
You have wings.
Learn to use them, and fly.
-Rumi

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Domestic Extremists Go Home!


U.S. Marshal with prisoners being transported ...

Image via Wikipedia

Or stay home? Or emigrate to a Central or South American garden spot?

There’s always Canada? Or is there? I’ve written this before but it bears repeating, Canada is not a Blue State‘ers utopia. Our federal government is Bush-lite minus the enhanced interrogation and the whole nationalized health care thing is a bit of a bait and switch in practice as opposed to the nirvana theory it puts forth.

So who is a “domestic extremist” anyway?

According to an internal memo making the rounds at Homeland Security and the TSA, I would resemble that designation for my written opposition of the new enhanced screenings being administered at airports. Going on record (cyberspace is the ultimate in documentation) and writing in support of Opt Out Day could have earned me a spot on some super double secret list of people my homeland government sees as a threat.

A threat to what?

Good question. Not so easy to answer and still maintain the facade that the United States isn’t as dictatorial as the Jihadi’s they are waging war against in the Middle East (and sucking up to as well though the contempt revealed in the recent Wikileaks makes one wonder if the American government has any idea of what it stands for or whose side it is on).

During our routine lunch time chat today, Rob wondered if I might have made this new list and if it could cause us issues when we travel to the Midwest to see family next year.

“You could get denied entry,” he said.

It’s not something I haven’t thought about actually. Crossing the border gives me the willys, as my dear readers well know.

Border guards are like the old feudal lords with absolute power and discretion within the confines of their tiny perches on the invisible line that separates sacred American dirt from socialist tinged Canada soil. They can detain a person with impunity as easily as they can wave one through. They can decide someone is unfit to enter – citizen or not – without explanation. Democracy? Constitutional Rights? A Border guard needs these things not.

Administering border authority is a bit like the old wild west when the local sheriff or U.S. Marshall was more powerful than the wealthiest merchants or ranchers.

Of course, working for the TSA has its own creative rules making perks too.

What’s a person to do?

Simon Black recommends ex-patriating. He uses as his example the Roman Empire and how those with gumption and means simply moved on once it was clear that dictatorship and tyranny had replaced the rule of law. But, as I mentioned earlier, Utopia is the name of a fictional place in a book by Thomas Moore (which interestingly is a satire, surprising given its creative source).  Although the U.S. is clearly heading toward a more restrictive form of governing than the Founders could ever in their worst case scenarios have imagined when they argued over the wisdom of allowing ordinary citizens the vote, Americans themselves still think they are mostly the most free people on Earth.

Search me. I have nothing to hide.  Let them search you – unless you have something to hide.   I could never be a victim of too much safety.

But American jurisprudence and government just about patented the idea of the slippery slope. Forget that at your peril.

It’s interesting that such a topic would come up on the same day I was reading about the new Canadian citizenship test and calculating whether or not I’ve put in my seat time to apply.  I have a few months to go, but it’s not out of the reach for the coming year.

And there is the small point of my being “home” already as home is a state of personal preference and the physical reality that one creates when all is said and done.

If I were turned away though? I suppose there’d be a few tears and then I’d suck it up and get over it. I’ve “gotten over” actual tragedies after all, so a pseudo one couldn’t be all that hard. Though my guess is that most Americans would feel like the Benedict Arnold inspired character in A Man Without a Country, who is condemned to a wandering exile aboard U.S. Naval ships, never to be allowed to re-settle elsewhere and never stepping foot on American soil, would it really be any different from the tales of those who migrated to the U.S., never to see their homeland again?

Home is where your heart is and one’s heart belongs to people – not imaginary lines on a globe.  If you had to choose between your country or your loved ones, would there really be a choice?

It’s just dirt and only toddlers find it tasty. What’s important really are the binding ties, and I don’t think that America has thought about that for a long, long time unless, of course, the subject was cutting them. But it might be something for its people to consider.

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