Gratuitous Nationalism, Part 1

I'm not one to ruminate too much on American/Canadian differences, partly because it's really hard to generalize either country (do I really know what the "average" Canadian is like? Um, not really). However, it is hard to miss one difference: the levels of nationalistic displays are way higher South of the border.

Now, I have yet to meet anyone here who raves in person about their country, but flags are everywhere, as well as bumper stickers, posters, lawn signs, etc.--to a degree unheard of in Canada (except maybe around about July 1; I'm bracing myself for July 4).

Having been here for over half a year, all the flags have kind of faded into the background; occasionally, though, there are nationalistic displays that cross the line deep into Ameri-kitch. When I see 'em (and have a camera nearby), I'll post 'em as part of a "gratuitous nationalism" photo-series.

Here's one to get started, fresh from Colorado Springs:

It's not just a snowball, it's an American snowball

Assimilation, Part 2

I came home last week, and Sam met me at the top of the stairs and immediately began belting out this song, from memory.

The horror! The horror!

Assimilation

Children live in an eternal present, which can be a little disconcerting for those of us who don't (anymore).

The week before last, I visited Toronto in order to re-enter the U.S. and obtain my work visa, and in some ways it felt that I had never left; five months disappeared in a flash. G and I often remark how we still feel like long-term tourists here, rather than residents.

Not so the boys. Ben, I am sure, has no recollection of Canada at this point. Sam still remembers snippets, but the memories are fading fast. Even more disturbing, he is quickly acquiring a Boston accent. For those of you who don't know, the Boston/Massachusetts accent is quite distinct—r is pronounced ah, and there's an overall drawl. It's a great accent; think Cliff Claven.

I thought I caught a snippet of it at the aquarium, a couple of months ago, when Sam pointed at the gift shop and asked: "Pat, can we go to the sto-wah?" Of course, I was horrified, and asked him "What did you say? What did you say??" and he repeated in a perfectly Canadian accent, so I wrote it off as an aberration, or the delusions of a paranoid ex-pat.

But last week I asked him how school was, and he showed me a sculpture he had crafted of cotton balls, a dixie cup, and a piece of paper. "What is that Sam?", I asked. Sam told me "Pat, it's a beyah." Before I could even begin to panic, he added: "And it's hibahnatin' in the wintah." I nearly spat up my coffee-crisp-and-maple-syrup latté.

Of course, the kids are right. Starting over inevitably means simultaneously giving up and acquiring. It's just a bit surprising to see your own kids moving on so much faster than yourself, but I have to remind myself: I am now living in a different country, I am starting to make good friends here, and I have a great job here. And one day soon, this will feel like home.

In some ways, Sam is just openly expressing the changes that we are all inevitably going through—even though some of us aren't quite ready to admit it, even to ourselves.

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P.S.—G says that I sound "depressed" in this posting. I'm not! "Still in transition" would be a better term; on the contrary, life is good these days.

In the playground – note

As a follow-up to the post about Massachusetts health care, I came across this quote from Mitt Romney, the former governor of Mass. that is now running for (Republican) president:

We solved the problem in health care in our state not by having government take it over, the way Hillary Clinton would, with private free-enterprise approaches. My approach, I believe, is best for our nation

Take a left where?—Part 2

How could I have missed this? In my review of local place names I hadn't come across Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, Massachusetts (I'm not making this up). I read about it in a cycling book—it is a Nipmuc name which translates to "I fish on my side, you fish on your side, and nobody fishes in the middle".

Oh, and the English name for this same lake? Webster Lake. Jolly good—let's not get carried away, wot?

Waterfire

Since moving here we have been discovering the pleasures of Providence, Rhode Island. Small, complex, old, it's a fascinating city that we've really come to appreciate. And we'd really never heard of it before moving to the area.

One example of the city's charming quirkiness is the event called Waterfire. It's an annual tradition that runs every Saturday night throughout the summer. The webpage calls it a "work of art" (I'm not sure about that), but the concept is simple: 100 metal hearths have been installed in the middle of the river that flows through the downtown, forming a daisy chain down the river. At dusk, small barges carrying a pile of firewood and a group of people dressed completely in black slowly cruise up the river. The hearths are loaded with firewood and lit, turning the river into a giant bonfire:

At first, I didn't quite get it—ok, so the fires burn, so what? But then, as Providence came to sit along the shore to chat and eat and hang out and watch the fires, I got it: it's about turning the downtown core into a giant campfire, at once large-scale and intimate. The city literally comes out and cozies up next to the fire.

Along with the fire, there is piped-in musical accompaniment (it could have been awful, but thankfully somebody at Waterfire has good taste, so it works). Also, there are food stands set up and a variety of performance pieces on the shore. You walk along the shore, eating, talking, enjoying the night and the crowds, and taking in the culture—all alongside the glowing, crackling, smoking river-hearth.

Amazing!

Thanks to Jessie for the pictures!

Ohhhh tanenbaum!

Last night we were picking the boys up from school, and among the usual treasures of abstract impressionism that they were bringing home there were two Christmas-tree-shaped gingerbread cookies. They looked good, and smelled like deep, dark apple cinnamon. A piece had broken off and so, making sure that no one was watching, I popped it into my mouth.

Frankly, it wasn't very good. The cinnamon was there, but the texture was off, and it wasn't sweetened enough. I forced it down and swore I would never again eat anything baked by toddlers.

Well, this cookie was really not settling well, and I began to have suspicions. I asked "Gab, are those cinnamon things in the back seat cookies, by any chance?"

"You didn't eat them, did you? They're Christmas ornaments! Sam will be so upset!"

For the record, here's the recipe:

• 1 part ground cinnamon
• 1 part applesauce
• 1 part Elmer's white glue

Mix, flatten, punch out cookie shapes. Bake at 350° until done.^*

^* Note: do not eat.