Canucks Amok

I want to make raise a glass to my Canadian visitors this year. You brought me a touch of Canada when my heart was longing for the great white north. Like, beauty way to go, eh?

To my good friend Terry, who has graced us with his smiling face twice now. Sorry about that blind date man! I hope you'll come back and try again. I found one for you who has store-bought teeth and is even a snappier dresser. If that is possible.


To my good ole Dad, who finally realized his dream to sing at the Grand Ole Opry. Too bad they wouldn't let him sing inside.


To my pal Stan. One minute we're hanging out at the University Library Lounge, drinking chocolate milk and ogling girls and the next minute, give or take 30 years, we are watching you barf in Bucksnort. Ahhhh, good times!

To Chris with the soft lilt to her voice and whose terrific idea it was to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving in the South. Thanks for bringing that big turkey... oh, and the poultry too.


To my friend Pickle, who as a child, bit me so hard, I am still looking for the baby teeth in my wrist. He followed up a couple of years later by stabbing me in the leg with a pocket knife. Thanks for not hurting me too much this time buddy.

And to his lovely photo-taking, quilt buying, shoe hauling Mary-Anne - old whats-his-name from the back seat thanks you for making us your first major trip. I hope to see you drinking tea in the kitchen again before too long.

So here's to my friends from north of the 49th, both those who have visited and those who have yet to make the trip. All y'all warm my old Canuckian cockles.

Which really is not as disgusting as it sounds.

Fifteen Months Later

When the steel door near the front of the room swung open, sixty-three pairs of eyes turned toward it. A woman appeared. Relaxed, short black hair, a smile on her oval face, her body leaning into the space, hand on the door handle.

“Boo,” she said.

She wasn’t the least bit scary. Well, maybe a little.

The waiting room at Homeland Security in Memphis held rows of office chairs. Two columns, five rows, seven chairs per row. They all faced a TV, much too humble for the size of the room, which hung from the ceiling and broadcast CNN’s latest non-news about Obama and McCain.

Waiting in those chairs for their U.S. immigration interviews were a rainbow of citizens from all over the world. E and I were the palest of the colors. Even paler because of the open sewer breath of the old man sitting next to E.

The garb of the group ranged from semi-formal to ethnic to American casual. E and I had complied with the instructions for the interview, indicating that applicants should wear their Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes. On the other end of the spectrum, one Chinese fellow was wearing an underwear shirt, flip-flops and jeans, looking like he just crawled out of bed. If those were his best clothes, I’d hate to see his casual look.

“Boo” the woman called again, her voice a little louder.

I guess she wasn’t trying to scare us after all. Another better-dressed Chinese man jumped to his feet, and nodding, beetled toward the door. He held a file folder, not unlike the one in my lap. It was no doubt filled with the heaps of paperwork and records and correspondence and all of the papers to prove to the rest of the world that he was indeed Boo.

The woman at the door smiled warmly and invited him into the outer-inner sanctum. E and I turned to each other.

“She seems nice. I hope we get her,” she said. I nodded in agreement. She reached over and rubbed my ear. Like a big ole yellow lab, I’m always up for an ear rub.

Logically, there was no reason to be apprehensive. My Mom once told me that I am the best boy ever, and she was an excellent judge of character.

But you never know, do you? It had been a year and three months of jumping hurdles, filling out paperwork, passing medicals, shelling out five grand, getting shots, being fingerprinted and photographed and vetted, writing Canada for records and waiting and waiting with no real indication of how long we would have to wait. And I know I'm lucky. I waited in comfort, surrounded by people who cared about me. And in all fairness, the wait is justified, given the horrors of 9/11 and the other atrocities happening around the globe. Still, allow me a small whine. Fifteen months of waiting is no picnic.

It all boiled down to this interview. So maybe, just maybe, I was a tiny bit apprehensive.

An hour and a bit later, a young man appeared at the door and called my name. I put on a pleasant face and strode to the door, shaking his hand and wishing him a good day. I liked his demeanor. Smiling, affable. This wouldn’t be so bad.

He ushered E and I through the door and led us to one of many offices. Where there waited another man. Mature, stern looking, glasses, bald. Like one of those guys on TV that always plays an FBI agent. You know, like Muldar and Scully’s boss from the X Files. Apparently he was training the younger guy. When you are training someone, when a trainee is watching every move you make, every question you ask, you always try to be a good role model.

He was.

He did not introduce himself. We simply called him sir. We were sworn in and provided all the necessary documentation from the file folder. No questions about what kind of toothpaste E uses (Crest but sometimes Colgate – I enjoy kid’s fruity tasting toothpaste myself) or her middle name or her birthday. He did not want to see the wedding album, and told us that we would be surprised at how many people faked wedding photos.

He shot from the hip and we shot answers right back. When did you come into the country? What did E do for a living? What did I do? What’s our story?

And in the end, after not all that many questions, he simply said, “Congratulations and welcome to the U.S.A. Your Green Card will be arriving in a couple of weeks.”

Just like that.

That was October 9th. The card has not yet arrived. I’ve heard it isn’t actually green but I don’t care if it’s purple with pink polka dots. I AM grateful that the U.S. is letting me stay. They won’t regret it. I am, after all, the best boy ever.

So my friends, the next time y’all hoist a tall, cool beverage, whether it be beer or milk or maple syrup, think of me sitting down here with my polka-dot card and send a little toast my way. I like toast.