O Canada: The Great White North—Part 1

I have a Canadian cousin, Ella, who says “eh” a lot. “How’s it goin’, eh?” or “that was a big moose, eh?” My brother, sister, and I would make fun of it behind her back inserting “eh” at the end of everything we said and giggle. She is a cousin of my father’s and one of many Canadian relatives that I have up north. My father was born in Lethbridge, Alberta and his mother, my grandmother of course, was Canadian as well. Grandma maintained her citizenship throughout her life although she lived the US. I once visited the farm where dad grew up when I was quite young. Don’t really remember much about it though, except it was a bright, sunny wind swept day. The Alberta prairie was vast and sweeping, and the falling down buildings were over grown with tall yellow grass. We found an old wagon wheel and took it home to Oregon with us. Dad tied it to the back of our big green, converted bread truck camper (named the “Green Giant”) so we looked like modern day pioneers. People made fun of our “spare tire.”

I have traveled many times to Canada both as a child and an adult. As a family, we would drive from Portland in the Green Giant across Oregon, up through Idaho, east into Montana, and north across the border. There were many trips to visit relatives in Lethbridge and spend beautiful weeklong stays at cousin Ella’s cabin in Waterton Lakes National Park. Waterton sits on the Montana border and connects with Glacier National Park in the US and is an incredibly beautiful place nestled in the Rocky Mountains. Thick pine forests and alpine lakes scooped between jagged, snow capped peaks are the big stars of the park. Deer, bear, and moose would amble by behind the cabin. We would hike to Cameron Falls, row boats on Cameron Lake, and climb the Bears Hump for breathtaking 360 views. As an adult, I’ve skied in fantastic Whistler/Blackcomb twice and gorgeous Lake Louise once. Spent a whirlwind weekend in Toronto, got a francophile fix in Quebec, and traveled by train and car around New Brunswick on a romantic writing and photo assignment for a gay travel web site.

Today (Nov. 19), I am on the Amtrak Cascades to Vancouver, BC for a long weekend in part to hang with my friend James. I will never forget the first time I came to Vancouver. It was more than 10 years ago and I was heading to Whistler on one of my annual ski trips. As my flight came in for a landing, it happened to be a rare, clear blue January day. The city was a sparkling vision in the sun and snow covered mountains hovered over the city reflecting in the bay beneath. I think I gasped. Then, on the trip to Whistler by bus, the driver unexpectedly announced that he was taking a detour to “show us something.” My fellow passengers glanced at each other with “uh oh” in their eyes and impatience on their faces. He took us to a rushing river about a mile off the highway. The trees and sky were full of bald eagles. I think I gasped.

Recently, I discovered that I might be a Canadian citizen. The thought had crossed my mind before. A partner and I had considered moving to Toronto during the annoying days of the Bush administration. Relatively liberal politics, gay marriage, and national health care were looking very attractive at that time. Finally though, neither of us were feeling Toronto as a place to live and it ended there. Plus, it seemed that officially becoming a Canadian was not an easy task. And then I thought, since my father and my grandmother were Canadian, would that make it easier for me to apply for citizenship? I wondered...

A few months ago I had lunch with a friend in New York. She told me of an article she had read not long before about how it had become easier to obtain Canadian citizenship. Scanning the internet and finding the story, I discovered this: essentially, based on a new amendment enacted in April 2009, if a person was born in Canada and left the country for whatever reason, that person’s citizenship could be reinstated. And, subsequently, that person’s first generation descendants, even if they were born outside of Canada, could be eligible for citizenship as well. Holy crap, I thought, thats me! Three times I took a little quiz posted on the Canadian Immigration website which told me, “yes, you are a Canadian.” Wow. Really?

Why would I want to become a Canadian citizen? Well, that’s a question I’m still working on. I guess it depends on if it really happens and I'll go from there. Relatively liberal politics, gay marriage, and national health care are still attractions. Natural beauty is a big one too. I love maple syrup. I would live in hip, cool, cosmo Vancouver. Did I mention it’s close to Whistler with some of the best skiing in North America? Yes, well, it is. I seem to be at a point in my life where my options are wide open. I’m unemployed; I have a career I can take anywhere; I have no particular home city; I’m ripe for change. I can go anywhere and do just about anything. So why not? Let’s see what happens. After all, I believe I can maintain my US citizenship. How cool would it be to call two great countries home?

This realization has set in motion the application process — a search for dates and documents, a rifle through my father’s past, and this trip to Vancouver. Now (Nov. 23), I am again on the Amtrak Cascades heading back to Portland with my certified documents and official citizenship photos safely packed in my man-bag. I have everything I need and am ready to send it all to Nova Scotia to be scrutinized. Whether or not my application will go through remains to be seen and it may take months before I know. So far the process has gone very smoothly and I wonder where the glitch will be. But something is urging me forward, telling me to see it through, and keep going. And where I end up I have no idea. Getting there will be interesting, eh?

Stay tuned for part 2...

Colors

It happened to be fall foliage season when my sister and I drove across country from New York to Portland this past October. I hadn’t really planned it that way. It’s a good time of year for a move. Not too hot, not too cold. And, fingers crossed, no snow. So the bright scarlet, greenyellow, sienna, purplebrown, luminous ochre, redgreen, deep amber, bloodcrimson, flaming orange, and fiery saffron leaves for 8 days and almost 3500 miles were a bonus.

Driving across country is quite the experience. I highly recommend it. You get to see how the geography and people change from state to state. Wide open spaces mirror wider waistlines as you chug west. People become friendlier and polite after leaving the right coast. Enclosed in your vehicle the countryside feels like its moving and you’re standing still. When you stop for the night you can’t quite believe where you are. If it’s Tuesday it must be Topeka. Really? Really. Although your dining, gas, and sleeping options never quite differ. Oh, look, another Denny’s and Flying J truck stop. And, yes, there will be a Super 8 where you decide to crash for the night. I’ll put money on that. There are a few variations along the way. Some curiously named gas stations in the east called Kum and Go (I’ve had dates like that). Stuckey’s in the midwest, A&W’s in the mountain states, and fill-up station Starbuck’s as you go a little further. Let’s not forget the Auto Hand Washer at the rest areas of Missouri. Stick your hands in an alcove and you get watered, soaped, rinsed, and dried all in about 20 seconds. Where’s the manicure, I’d like to know?

Starting in the east, the geography is rolling with hills and small mountains covered with deciduous woods.The midwest states of Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri are endless and fairly treeless. They are relentlessly flat and go on and on for days and days it seems. “Jesus Saves” billboards next to the Adult Superstores. The interstate is unwavering as fields of corn, beans, and sorghum fly by. Finally, and happily, you reach the mountain states. Seeing the Rockies rise before you is such a relief after so much uniformity. From then on the country is dramatic, exciting, and engaging filled with pine forests, quaking aspens, rock formations, and cowboys.

The midwest, I think, is tough to love. Too much flat conservatism to go along with the landscape maybe. You have to look closely. I must say that I was impressed with the eastern Kansas prairie. The colors were tremendous. Rusty oranges and reds. Bleached blonds. Sagey greens and dark chocolate browns. I wish it had been a clearer, sunnier day but the quiet scrubby hills were ghostly and timeless as they disappeared into the mist. The dampness made the colors more vibrant against the neutral gray. I suddenly understood where artists Hopper, Wyeth, and Wood got their inspiration. Prying emotion out of earthy hues, sweeping landscapes, and the hearty loneliness of the population. I could imagine the pioneers on their way west. Mesmerized by the wide openness while looking to prosperity on the far blue horizon.

The beginnings of the Oregon Trail were in Kansas after all. What Sherri and I drove in a day the pioneers covered in roughly a month’s time. Tracing the route of those early settlers, we pushed across the plains from Independence, made our way over the Rockies, headed northwest through southern Idaho, and then crossed into Oregon making our way along the the Columbia River to Portland. We did not, however, have to deal with the sickness, tedium, starvation, death, disastrous river crossings, and the sometime hopelessness of that earlier journey. Just the occasional funkiness of a budget hotel in a small town.

At one point I realized I was on my own Oregon Trail. Like the pioneers I also was looking for prosperity on the far blue horizon. I had decided on my own manifest destiny as a way to move forward. Readjustment was in order and I needed to shake things up. I like change. It makes one experienced, adaptable, and stronger. “An unexamined life is not worth living,” so said Socrates, and there’s no better way to examine your life than by driving cross country. It gives you a chance to think of everything and nothing, freak out a little, ask yourself “what the hell am I doing,” and gauge your next steps. In spite of hardships, those early explorers held on to the hopefulness in their destination and I, too, was taking up the challenge.

On our last day, Sherri and I stopped at an interpretive center for the Oregon Trail near Baker City. Snaking through the gallery we learned by timeline how it all began in 1804 with Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. But I kept gravitating to the enormous windows that framed the expanse of fields and mountains. I found what I was most drawn to was seeing the actual ruts made by wagon trains permanently marking the surrounding landscape. The center sat on a windy hill top covered with burnt yellow grass and gray green sage that waved like the sea. Those ruts cut a line from far across those hills. You could feel all that life and history of 200+ years pass in front of you and I was aware of creating my own story in this journey.

But I had been thinking too much about my past, both recent and far. Worrying about my future and what I was in for. What I had left behind and what I was looking forward to. I had to stop myself. I was going a little nuts. I looked at where I was right now, up on that hill top, and stared. The wind was blowing so hard I felt it was going through me — cleaning me out. I could hear nothing else. So after all that obsessing I let myself be mesmerized by the roaring windy silence and the wide blue openness of it all. And then I looked at the colors.

The Farm

The bright yellow, 12 foot, rented moving truck followed the bouncy single lane, back country, partly gravel, party paved country road in the southeastern corner of Ohio. As my sister, Sherri, and I rolled up and down hills, and wound around past farmland, I was feeling apprehensive. Partly because we clearly stuck out like Richard Simmons at an NRA meeting and partly because of the visit that was about to take place. Finally, we found what we were looking for. The dirt road lane that was the driveway of my mother’s childhood home.

I had actually been to the farm before 35 years ago in 1974. I was 13 during the summer that my mother, father, me, and great Uncle Lovell decided to pay a visit to the old homestead. My memory of that excursion is somewhat vague being that my memory is not that great anymore. But probably being 13 I couldn’t have cared less. I do have a few clear glimpses though. Drinking cool, clean water from the stone well beside a large white farm house; seeing the stone milk house that stayed cool in the summertime; the sharp smell of cows and horses, and the buzzing of insects; walking through fields to a thick forest edge; and meeting the old woman who lived there— her frizzled white hair so thin you could see her bald head. And then there was sitting outside at twilight watching the countryside fill with fireflies. I guess I can remember more than I thought if I think hard enough...

Facts are somewhat vague, but the farm began in the mid 1800’s when my great, great grandparents, George and Rebecca Gardner, bought the property. They had hay, chicken, pigs, sheep and milk cows. It was then passed on to their son John who had married Gertie Hoopes in Oregon. Then my grandmother, Alice, and her brothers Alfred and Lovell, lived on the farm. My mother was there until about 7 or 8 years old in 1936/7 when she left for California. Later she returned as a teenager for several years, worked on the farm and went to school in nearby Chesterhill. Mom helped prepare large meals for the sheep shearers and hay threshers. Collected eggs from the chicken coop and baled hay. Assisted her large grandmother with the household chores along with a hired girl, Wilmadean Yoho(!). And, of course, walking the 1/2 mile lane in deep snow drifts to go to school.

Before Sherri and I found the lane we had spent the night in historic Marietta, OH. This was the first Super 8 on our cross country odyssey to move me back to my home town of Portland, OR from New York City. Marietta sits next to the Ohio River and was the first permanent settlement in the Northwest Territory by pioneers of the Ohio Company in 1788 (in case someone asks you). From there we drove rolling, rural roads through wide open farmland rewarded with an occasional wave from a farmer out mowing the lawn on his or her riding mower. Just like the old days. Then we reached Chesterhill. We drove up and down the very quiet main street and looked for mom’s old school house. Again, we were rewarded with a wave and a smile from a passerby in her minivan and asked if we needed help. No I said, we were just checking out where family was from... The school, we eventually found, no longer exists but its bell sits on top of an unmarked monument in a small park. Planted with small rosebushes and surrounded by benches, one can sit and stare at the bell and talk about the neighbors, I suppose. Then a visit to the cemetery where we knew many family members were resting in peace. We found some of them still resting among new headstones clean and polished, and some so old names and dates were worn away by weather and memory. During all this we saw almost no one except for our friend in the minivan. Houses seemed empty, abandoned. Storefronts had no life except for the gas station at the end of town. I’m sure we glowed like a nuclear reactor driving up and down those streets but I felt that no one was there to pay any attention.

So this brings us back to the head of the driveway. A sign at the entrance marked for sale maple syrup, sorghum, eggs and firewood. Sherri and I were fortunate on this trip being that we had bright fall foliage across the entire country and Ohio was no exception. Before us on the lane was a yellow, orange and red canopy that hung over the driveway like a covered bridge. We both jumped out of the truck to snap a few digital remembrances. Moving slowly forward, we drove under that overhang of blazing leaves and I felt we were passing into a place of memory, stories told by mother and grandmother, and of another culture.

Our mother had visited the farm about 10 years earlier and told us of the Amish family, Mr. and Mrs. H and sons, that now owned the property. She had said that they were cordial and curious but not necessarily receptive to her visit in the ancient motorhome named Maude (thats another story to be told by someone else) with her friend Sharon. She walked the lane and fields, talked about her childhood and how the lane smelled like apples when she walked to meet the school bus. She grumbled upon seeing that the H’s had removed the gingerbread from the house because their beliefs told them it was too fancy. So, I was apprehensive. Expecting awkward politeness with a pinch of suspicion.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. Sherri had written to the H’s beforehand explaining our visit, family history and when we expected to arrive. We drove slowly along the lane past the woods where the original homestead sat on your right. On your left is the sheep barn of old weathered gray wood filled with hay. As the truck climbed the dirt road we saw the big white farmhouse. Laundry hung out to dry in the mild fall breeze between two maple trees in front. Immediately, were greeted by very pregnant Rachel dressed in simple cotton with apron and head scarf. Greeted warmly and openly I should say. We learned that the original Mr. and Mrs. H no longer lived there and that their son Ervin, her husband, and Rachel were now the proprietors. Sadly, Ervin was working in the fields and had wanted to meet us himself. But it was the first dry day in many and the work had to be done. Rachel invited us into her house (this was not the original farm house but a new one erected since mom’s visit). This unexpected development threw me a little but I was impressed with the two large cast iron stoves, clean, simple surroundings and stunning, polished dark wood plank floors. As baby Laura waddled into the room, Rachel produced a letter written by my mother some years before along with old photos of the house. How strange it was to see my mothers handwriting in so remote a place, so far from where she now lives but where she spent her childhood. Sherri and I asked permission to walk around the farm and fields and take photos. Yes, we were told, but “please no photos of us.”

Most of the original structures on the farm no longer exist. The most apparent that remains is the barn. Gray, weathered and leaning more than a bit we examined it most closely. The corner support beams still showed the hand hewn cuts made by our ancestors. We snapped away knowing thats its days were numbered. Another piece of memory dismantling. As hawks circled catching the updrafts from the surrounding ravine, we walked the fields. I was feeling the remoteness of the place and the distance from another life. My grandmother and mother had walked these fields as I did 35 years before. A month earlier I had been walking the streets of Paris. It was all weirding me out a little.

Suddenly, two bearded young men were approaching at a hearty amble from across the field. Both wore denim colored tunics, baggy pants and wide brim hats. Openly friendly and clearly curious, they introduced themselves. Ezikiel, Ervins younger brother, and Adlai who was Rachel’s cousin from Tennessee. Ezikiel, recalling my mothers visit, remembered that she had said the lane smelled liked apples. And Adlai wondered if Sherri had flown in a plane to New York. It was rather cute. We spoke of the caves our mother had told us about where native Americans had lived and our guides offered to take us to the spot. Following Ezikiel and Adlai, we ambled across the fields making sure the cows didn’t see us so “they wouldn’t get any ideas.” We stepped over cow dung and waded amongst tall grasses. Gingerly threaded through barbed wire fences and wound through a forest floor of golden leaves that lead to the caves. Ezikiel then announced that he and Adlai had to return to work and “could we find our way back?” Yes, we said, looking at each other with mild alarm, we thought we could. And we did. Sherri and I made our way back to the main house stopping at the big new red barn and gawked at the cows and horses inside.

As we approached the house, I saw a horse and carriage pull into the barn next to the house. Ervin and his dogs were waiting. He was friendly, hospitable and happy that he was able to meet us. He spoke about his work and what kind of changes were made to the farm. When that new barn went up and when that tree over there was cut down. Rachel was doing more laundry (was that an electric washer? Not sure...) and hanging it out to dry. And Laura was giggling as she chased the dogs around the yard. We bought 2 quart jars of maple syrup (direct from the maple trees in the front yard. Did you know it takes 50 to 100 gallons of sap to make a gallon of syrup? Who knew?) and 2 quart jars of sorghum they made themselves with the help of a neighbor up the road. As I stood there toward the end of our visit it hit me. This was a happy place. The H’s were happy, baby Laura was happy, even the dogs were happy. I was sure the hawks circling overhead were happy. We were treated with genuine hospitality and friendliness without expectation. I felt a little embarrassed. We had invaded this peaceful place with our glaring yellow truck that represented the outside world. The crappy economy, Iraq, Afghanistan, heath care, global warming, blah, blah, blah. I felt eager to leave them to their happy place.

It was, in the end, a day of memory and contrast. Memories of my grandmother and mother, mingled with my own 13 year old recollections. How my mother’s grandfather took her to the caves every easter to boil eggs in a tin can over an open fire. How her uncles had bought their mother a wind generator and installed it on the roof of the smoke house so she could run the washing machine and listen to the radio. About how she stayed out too late one night and her grandmother came looking for her strolling down the lane wearing a long black coat and carrying a lantern — scared the hell out of mom. The contrasts were numerous. The obvious being us and the Amish. Their plain, simple clothing and our techy fleece tops and sneakers. Me being a long time New Yorker out in the middle of quiet Ohio Amish farmland. My shaved head and the men’s long beards and bushy hair. Their simple life and our constant searching. I wondered, when we met Ezikiel and Adlai, what they would have thought if they knew I was gay? Could they conceive of such things? Chase me with pitch forks? Possibly. I was out of place — a gay man on an Amish farm. At least my outfit didn’t match the truck.

As I drove the truck down the lane and passed under the portal of trees, I felt I was leaving a part of myself behind. It made me a little sad because I knew I would never be back. But my memories will not be of a 13 year old this time. I’m too aware of my past as I get older. There is a need to remember my experiences. Driving through the sunny, country afternoon, we were again rewarded with friendly waves from farmers working in the field, mowing the lawn or just driving by in a pickup truck. I chuckled and waved back. I wasn’t used to such outward friendliness. It freaked me out.