Why I love Canada, eh?

It’s slightly horrifying to me that I’ve had this blog for three weeks and five days now and have yet to blog about Canada. This is a cultural faux pas from which I may never recover. Also, what's a blog about Canada without mentioning Aaron LeDuc in the first paragraph? Don't worry, Aaron, you might hate Canada but Canada doesn't hate you, eh?

My history with Canada is a long one, spanning almost a decade of annual visits and nearly two decades of close ties with a very dear Canadian family, but it hasn’t always been fun and games for me when it comes to Canada and Canadians.

Like all great stories, this one begins with a prayer and ditching math class. (Don’t worry, math friends like Randy, Phil, and Brian - it only happened once.)

My first brush with Canada came when I was a 14 year old freshman (or a Grade Nine Baby, as Canadian band Bare Naked Ladies would put it.) It had been a rough few years and my life was very quickly careening off into the wrong direction. I’ll spare most of the details here but I knew enough at age 14 that my patterns of self-destruction, if they continued, would lead to injury and possibly even death by the time I reached senior year.

I didn’t really know if I believed in God anymore at that point. I wanted to but didn’t seem to know very much about Him or think that He cared at all about me. But one night, I scrawled a little prayer in my journal that said, “God, if you’re real, you need to bring people into my life to show me who you are because I’m not going to make it if you don’t.”

Little did I know that before I had even written the words, He had already brought the answer to my little home town of Los Alamos, NM, all the way from Canada with love. Actually more like Loves. As in Sean and Penny Love. Penny was a recent PhD Chemistry grad doing her post-doc work at the Lab, and Sean was her new husband and substitute teacher extraordinaire. They also quickly became the part-time youth directors at the Episcopal Church I sometimes went to.

I remember the first time I met them. I was the snobby 14 year old girl who hated adults drinking kool-aid after church in the basement one Sunday morning and they were the cute Canadian newlywed couple clutching each others’ arms and introducing themselves to all of the snobby looking teenagers they could find. They invited me to Bible Study. I smiled and said “maybe”, while on the inside rolling my eyes and swearing I would never go.

As luck would have it, about a month later, I walked into Geometry class to discover that Ms. Shockey was absent that day and subbing in her place was one Mr. Sean Love. I turned to my friend and said, "Leave your backpack in the hallway. I'm getting us out of this class."

On rare occasions, I turn on the charm. This was one such occasion. I hadn't seen the man in a month, but I waltzed right up to the desk and said, "Mr. Love! It's me, Robin, from church! How are you? Do you have any pictures of your wife?"

Now, Sean had been married for less than a year, so not only did he have a picture of his wife, he had more like 20 pictures of his wife that he started digging out of his wallet. I oohed and aahed, especially at the picture of her in her wedding dress, and then casually went for the kill. "We left our books in our lockers. Can we go get them?" I asked nonchalantly. As Sean tells the story, "I said ok and they put their backpacks on their backs and walked out of the room, never to return." But really we had left our backpacks in the hallway, so don't believe anything Sean says about this particular story.

I had never ditched a class before, mainly because I didn't want to get in trouble. But this seemed like a brilliant move on my 14 year old part. Mr. Love wanted me to go to youth group! There was no way he would turn me in because then I would never go. It was a win-win situation, eh?

But you can't trick Canadians that easily. They are a clever bunch, and full of integrity. When Sean realized we weren't coming back, he weighed the choice between doing the right thing (turning me in) and trying to make me like him (by not turning me in). He chose wisely, I suppose, in reporting me to my teacher. At the time, though, it really pissed me off, especially when I was reprimanded with two days in detention. Oh, Canada! What have you done to me?

So I served my two days in detention.

And then I didn't go to youth group.

And whenever Sean was calling youth to invite them to some activity, he would hand the phone to Penny when he got to my name on the list and make her call me instead.

We probably would have gone on like this for the next three years except that my mom signed me up (behind my back) to go to camp that summer with the Loves. I had kept the little ditching/detention episode a secret from my parents and she had no idea that World War III, involving only America and Canada, was secretly brewing in a little northern New Mexican town.

This story is long, so I'll cut it short. I begrudgingly went to camp with Sean and Penny that summer and saw someone in them who I had never seen before that closely and genuinely - Jesus. It would take me several more years, lots of Bible Studies, youth group (yes, I started going to both after camp), and living part of my senior year of high school with them to really grasp that the way Sean and Penny loved me was only a fraction of how much God loved me.

Year after year since I was 14 years old, they have never failed to hold me accountable for my actions, house me, encourage me, support me emotionally and financially, teach me about God and how to drive a stick shift, and play Rook with me. When they moved back to Canada in 2002, it only made sense to visit at least once or twice a year. I make my 12th voyage to the great north in just a couple of months. As Jeff so aptly put it, Canada is now my heart's home.

So why do I love Canada, Aaron? Well, other than cool things like Tim Horton’s, socialism, maple leaves, and the word “eh”, I love Canada because it was Canadians who introduced me to Jesus. So is my confusing, unpatriotic, awesomeness going to continue to light up your facebook world? Why, yes it is.

P.S. I never ditched a math class again after that and I even got a B+ in Calculus my senior year!
P.P.S. Sean likes to introduce me to new Canadian friends as the girl who ditched his class.

Because he told me to too

Today is my friend Dave's birthday. He would be turning 49 today except that he died from acute myelogenous leukemia almost 18 months ago. He is missed.

I wrote him a lot of letters while he was in the hospital that year. I can't keep it brief when I write most of the time, so he got a lot of very long letters from me. But I guess when you're stuck in a hospital all day every day, long letters aren't the worst thing that can happen to you.

He told me a couple of years ago, "If you're ever thinking of switching careers, writing would be a good route for you to take. I love your letters! You should write." To which I told him, "I don't want to write yet. Maybe someday. But for now I write for you."

I was in a meeting earlier this week when the theory was thrown out that the USPS is going to be obsolete in another year or two. Letters will be a thing of the past. I think about how every letter I sent to either New Mexico or California was a little lifeline for the 11 months Dave fought cancer and it makes me sad that there might very well come a day when no one writes letters anymore, just emails or blogs or updates facebook statuses.

When Erika told me to start a blog, I wasn't really sure if I was ready to write again or to write for more people than just one. But it seemed like good timing, and I know if Dave was here he would say, "Robin, you should write!"

I'm grateful and amazed at how God can heal, how He can restore and make all things new. I remember the extremely sad and brokenhearted woman I was a year ago and am so grateful for how He has put me back together again. He is a good God and I write for Him above all others.

But I also write for Dave because I miss him and because he told me to too. Happy birthday, Dave! You are missed and not forgotten. And don't worry, I'm writing :)

Bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places

Yesterday I spent $8 and went to see Shark Night in 3D. Don't judge me. I am bizarrely intrigued by sharks and spend way more time than is really necessary reading books about them, watching documentaries about them, and working comments about various facts and habits of them into normal conversations that have nothing to do with sharks.

For instance, I had this conversation with Jessie while driving to Alex and Laura's wedding last year:

Jessie: "There might be elk out now since it's dusk."
Me: "Sharks like to feed at dusk and dawn. You should never go in the ocean during those times."
Jessie: "That is the second time in like an hour that you've worked sharks into the conversation. That's really weird."

Anyway, I don't really recommend Shark Night to anyone else because it was a really dumb movie and portrayed sharks in a really bad light. For the record, they kill about 11 of us every year - we kill about 40 million of them in a year. Really sharks should be making movies called Human Night in 3D, if we're being honest with ourselves. Also, I went to the 4:20 show. Seriously? Who thought that showing a 3D movie about sharks at 4:20 was a good idea? That's just asking for trouble. That's not why I went, though. I'm not that kind of girl.

The highlight of the movie for me was when the redneck bad guy says, "It must've been a bull. Bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places." Amen to that, brother! That's one thing Shark Night in 3D got right.

It's a little known fact that bull sharks can actually survive in freshwater for 3-4 years. Bull sharks are also the most aggressive shark towards humans, not the Great White as myth would have it. Bull sharks have been found thousands of miles inland in the middle of the Amazon River. Thinking about going for a dip in the Mississippi River, Tom Sawyer? Think twice - there might be a bull shark waiting for some dinner. All those ferry crashes in the Ganges River where they write off the missing bodies as "drowning"? Doubt it - they were devoured by bull sharks. The story that inspired Jaws was actually based on a likely bull shark attack in a New Jersey creek. That's right - a creek.

All this talk about Shark Night and Jaws and freshwater reminds me of the screenplay I'm going to someday write called Shark Attack in the Poudre River. Now, I don't want to give too much away, but it's going to be about a shark attack in the Poudre River. It will follow a Larimer County Ranger, portrayed by Nicholas Cage, who begins investigating mysterious tubing deaths in the middle of a quaint town in northern Colorado. It doesn't take long for him to recognize the killer as having the same handiwork as the shark who killed his lady love years ago while rafting in the Mississippi River. But no one in the town believes him that there's a rogue bull shark hunting in the Poudre, except his new lady love Ranger Robin. Together they will save the town from the bull shark by catching it and then releasing it back into the ocean. It's going to be in 4D, because by the time I write it, 4D will have been invented.

I'll end with this - all of my crazy fascination with sharks has actually made me extremely terrified about going in the ocean. Like I almost paralyze myself in fear and drown whenever I try to swim in it. I still do it, but every time I get in, I think about how most shark attacks occur in less than 3 feet of water and that my splashing arms and legs make me look like a turtle or a seal to a shark. And then when I'm snorkeling around, I'm just waiting for a bull shark to appear out of the murky waters ahead, because, after all, bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places. But at the end of the day, I love sharks. A lot. Just as long as I stay on the land and they stay in the water.

Blogging is hard

This week has been brutal, mainly because I've only been home long enough each day to sleep and change my clothes. I don't like living life this way but sometimes that's just how it goes. In the words of Ed Powers, "It is what it is."

Now that I'm a blogger and have five loyal followers, my extreme busyness is going to take its toll on all of you as well, since blogging is hard to do when you're never home. I'm sorry. I like writing for you, really I do, but sometimes sleeping and changing my clothes is more important. And showering. That's pretty important too. Definitely more important than blogging. But I haven't forgotten you!

In fact, while I was sleeping last night, I dreamed that loyal reader Michele had her baby! Let's hope that dream comes true soon!

In the meantime, I will leave you with this tantalizing list of blog topics I will someday write about when I am not so popular: sharks, automatic sinks in bathrooms, my BFF Gwennie, sharks, Eli Manning, knitting, my cat Midge, and sharks.

Remember the Alamo! and Amelia!

I'm going to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog that was going to be about sharks to instead focus on remembering the Alamo. This shouldn't be too hard for me to do since I was just there about 4 hours ago and I still remember my visit, plus I just watched the movie The Alamo starring Dennis Quaid. I also read a pamphlet about the Alamo and saw a diorama of it in the gift shop. The combination of all of these things, especially the diorama, now make me an expert on remembering the Alamo. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I will never forget the Alamo.

I have to admit that based on the 2 hour movie, I didn't really like Sam Houston until about 1 hour and 52 minutes in. I actually thought he really bombed it for Texas and the Alamo since he didn't come to their rescue in time when they sent for help. But when he turned around and defeated Santa Anna's army in 18 minutes right at the end of the movie, he redeemed himself and I understand more now about why we're not supposed to mess with Texas and why Texas grocery stores sell boxes of Texas-shaped crackers that are described as "Crunchy, Spicy, Brave, and Delicious" on the box. Those brave crackers are remembering the Alamo every day in their brave little boxes while they sit on shelves waiting to be eaten, giving their little brave cracker lives to satisfy the cravings of gluten-hungry Texans. So proud of you, crackers! Keep up the brave work! Remember the Alamo!

I love heroism and standing up when the odds are against you and believing in something enough to risk it all. That's why I play fantasy football every year and draft Eli Manning. But there was something powerfully poignant about walking through the Alamo this afternoon and knowing that every man who stayed behind to fight knew he probably wouldn't make it out alive but still gave it his all anyway. I want to live more of my life that way, but more out of wanting to be like Jesus, not just a patriotic Texan.

Remembering the Alamo also makes me remember Amelia, partly because a lot of the letters in her name are also in the word "alamo" but also because she stood up for me and made others give me a chance years ago that continues to pay off in my life.

When I moved back to Santa Fe almost 9 years ago after a brief foray in Atlanta, I was 23 years old and the only job I'd ever had out of college was working for Young Life. I had an English degree and no real skills, but she convinced La Posada to take a chance on me and hire me as a concierge, not unlike Davy Crockett and all of those other Alamo guys urging the men to risk their all and take a chance on Texas.

Because of that concierge job, I would later get my job at Private Escapes and because of my job at Private Escapes, I would eventually land at my current job with Lifetree Adventures. I owe a lot to Amelia, just like Texas owes a lot to the Alamo. Maybe someday I'll go visit her again or talk to her on the phone. Or at least put post-it notes on my desk at home that say "Remember Amelia!" If only I could make some little gluten-free crackers shaped like her face.

While I work on that, I'll leave Texas with this one critique: probably you should have named the whole state Houston, not just one city. Based on the last 8 minutes of Dennis Quaid's moving portrayal of Sam Houston, I think it would make more sense to rename the city of Houston Texas and rename Texas Houston. So it would be Texas, Houston not Houston, Texas. Jk....I'm just messing with you, Texas ;)

Don't mess with Mark

Today’s blog is brought to you by Mark who wrote in to say, “I think you should blog on people who when they go to get on the highway, they think that the other lanes of traffic have a yield sign (despite just passing on the way down the on ramp.)”

Mark, I’m glad you brought this subject to my attention because I have to admit that I’m one of these people. I’ll come back to this in a moment, though, because I think it’s important to first talk about why blogging for Mark or doing anything Mark asks, including not being dumb when entering the highway, is, in fact, a good idea.

Here’s the deal. Mark used to be a Navy SEAL. He’s hardcore, and one of my favorite people in the world, even though we’re not supposed to have favorites. Mark is the first person I call when anything around my house breaks. He’s also the first person I call when I need a bodyguard, like when I’m riding my bike on the Poudre Trail and meet scary people who shout obscenities at me. If I feel like shooting a gun at a target in the middle of the eastern plains of CO, you got it – I call Mark. When I needed a place to live 6 years ago when the girl I was living with went crazy, Mark and his wife Stephanie took me in, and since Mark owns more guns than I have fingers, I always feel safe in his house. Mark is a master of survival due to his naval training and when the world comes to an end, I’m going to spend my last days taking shelter at Mark’s house, but only if he’s going to be there too. The bottom line is you don’t want to mess with Mark.

However, I will point out that I am far superior than Mark at paintball. I’m not sure how fate played this card on my behalf, but it’s true. When we last met on the paintball field back in 2008, not only did I track Mark to his secret hiding place in a treehouse, I shot him not once but 72 times before he screamed that the game was over and my team won. I think the game might have been over before I started shooting at him, but really it doesn’t matter at this point. After all, paintball welts heal whether you get them legally during the game or illegally after the game is over when Robin ambushes you in the treehouse.

I’d like to take a break now, and give a special shout out to my faithful reader Lynsey, who graciously hosted me in Cyprus this summer and reminded me just this morning that in my blog’s 48 hours of existence, I have yet to mention her by name. Sorry about that, Lynsey. Lynsey, Lynsey, Lynsey. I hope all is forgiven now, Lynsey. Also, since all things concerning my blog must somehow be related back to Erika, I’ll also mention that Lynsey taught me how to play the board game Ticket to Ride while I was in Cyprus and I just discovered that Erika loves this game and she’s promised to play it with me sometime soon. Good things come to those who blog. Lynsey.

But back to Mark’s compelling topic of why people think that they have the right of way when entering the highway from a ramp. While I can’t speak for all drivers, I can certainly tell you why I feel like highway traffic should yield to me when I enter the highway. See, I have to enter the highway at a certain speed or I risk being run over by traffic. When going from 0-75 mph in my new-to-me shiny red 2008 Mazda 3, I don’t have nearly as much control about where I can move on the ramp as the traffic in the highway has. They see me coming. A lot of times, they have the time and space to move into the other lane to let me in, and therefore, they have the responsibility to move over and let me in. I think it’s more important to ask the question, “Why does highway traffic not move over into the left lane when they see a car coming on the ramp to enter the highway?” It seems kind of selfish to me, really.

And yet, Mark could probably dismantle my car with his pinky finger while under water, so it might be worth it for me and all drivers everywhere to consider thinking about others as more important than themselves. So, ramp driver, slow down, look around, and don’t assume you can just barge in front of someone on the highway. And highway driver, if you see ramp driver coming and you can move into the far lane, don’t be selfish. Move over for a few seconds. Let’s share the road, everybody. Let’s keep Mark happy.