“And they have the nerve to do it this weekend… BEFORE Halloween?”
“And so far away from Christmas?? Who the heck do those Northern wackos think they are???”
(I’ve bugged your phones so I know you’ve been muttering exactly that.)
Well, let me fill you in on our version of Thanksgiving. No, we didn’t have pilgrims in funny hats like the Yanks, but we have our own special history of this holiday.
It all started on a cold October night back in 1867, the year of Confederation … but also the year the official Royal Fur Trapper gave thanks for bagging an extra large beaver, which he promptly sold for two double-double coffees from Tim Hortons (yes, they’ve been around that long… but the drive-thru was for canoes only). He immortalized his catch on our nickel. For real.
Ever since that fateful night, Canadians from coast to coast to coast celebrate this weekend by gathering together for a traditional meal of roasted polar bear with a side order of moose antler jelly. Which we eat off the blade of a maple-smoked hockey stick. (Lacrosse stick, if you’re from Nova Scotia.)
It’s a time of reflection. Of giving thanks. For living in a land where love means ALWAYS having to say your sorry. A place where people look out for one another. Which is easy because there are so few of us. A place where surviving brutal winters hasn’t made us hard-hearted but soft headed.
All these things and more are remembered this weekend.
I am grateful for so many things, but wanted to say a special “merci” to all of you who drop by this twisted place, and to Mr. David Archuleta for, well, you know.