Oh Canada

I have always envied Canadians, and it started when I was small.

We were on vacation in Kentucky at a rustic motel in the woods and it was 1959. The motel's small log cabins were set back from the parking lot in a stand of tall trees, and its gift shop featured lewd figurines of topless hillbilly girls whose breasts were whiskey jugs. A boy named "Artie" and I were playing in a grassy clearing amidst the cabins. I was having the time of my life, and dreaded the eventual goodbye. It was like Artie'd become my best friend in just an hour, the brother I'd never known.

When it was time for him to leave, his parents emerged from their cabin. His dad was like a movie star and his mom was like a model, with stylish sun glasses and a colorful scarf wrapped around her head. They were so young and beautiful that I was astonished. Parents only looked like this on TV.

"Artie, it's time to go," sang his mother, "and say goodbye to your friend." When she turned and smiled at me my heart melted. His two sisters, equally beautiful and having fallen no distance from the tree of their goddess mother, waved at me and hopped into their parent's new convertible with Ontario plates, folded down the top, and sped off down the gravel driveway toward a great life of endless vistas, prosperity, and Canada. When they turned onto the main highway, Artie cupped his hands and yelled, "see ya 'round Bert," and they were gone forever. Their plates were black and white and had a crown imprinted on them. God, they're like royalty, I thought. They might as well have been Princess Grace and Prince Rainier for all I knew.

Then during the Vietnam War I was envious of the Canadians I'd meet. I'd be at a party and the conversation would turn to "what's your draft number?" and some guy would invariably be Canadian and tell you he didn't have one. Heads would turn, the room would go quiet, and the envy was tangible. How lucky to be Canadian, I thought. You have all the benefits of being an American without any of the burdens of policing the empire and dying in a war. When the party was over the Canadian would leave, untroubled by a care in the world, and I would trudge out into a heartless night, worrying about the number 72, and hoping to avoid a terrible fate. Once again it was Princess Grace and Prince Rainier leaving me behind in a cloud of Canadian dust.

And then there's Boxing Day, an extra day of Christmas. Sigh...