| Image via L.L.Bean |
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When I worked at the BYU Laundry (a job that will be mentioned oft in my “Well, in my day...” stories when I’m an old crab-apple) I had a coworker that loved to tell me how great his life was going to be once he saved up enough money to move to Canada. As I wadded mesh bags full of stinky rags into the elevator-sized steel washer drums, this coworker — we’ll call him “Roberto,” because that’s what his name actually was — would prop up an elbow on the edge of the washer and tell me all about the life of leisure that awaited him in the Great White North. To hear Roberto tell it, the hard part was just getting to Canada, but once there, a man could pull on his warm, wool sweater and live out the rest of his days whittling on the front porch of his handsome log cabin. His only care in the world would be deciding whether to chop firewood now and build a birdhouse later, or the other way around. Gainful employment was never mentioned in these tales. My theory is that Roberto at one time saw an L.L.Bean catalog and decided it was actually a brochure put out by the Calgary Chamber of Commerce. His mind filled with idyllic possibilities as he imagined putting down roots next to the family on page 17. “Honey, the Parka family wants us to come stand by the pine trees with them at noon, but we’ll have to hustle over to the Waders in time to crouch on the riverbank at sunset.” “Let’s get a move on, then. Have you seen my mittens?” “The charcoal ones or the oatmeal ones?” “Baked clay. It’s Autumn, silly.” I’m not quite sure where Roberto was getting his information, especially regarding Canadian climate. I’ll never forget the betrayed look on his face when I told him many parts of Canada are quite cold and would probably warrant more than a flannel lamb’s wool scarf and windbreaker (Gore-Tex fabric and double-ripstop weave, notwithstanding). “But it’s not all cold,” I said, backpedalling. It wasn’t my intention to dash his dreams — although being up to my elbows in tablecloths smeared with butter and soggy bread might have hindered my full escape to Roberto’s halcyon descriptions. “No?” he said, his eyes resuming their blissful Canadian glaze. “Good, good.” And off he’d go again, dreaming up the 50-degree, partly cloudy meadow wherein he could sit on a felled tree and weave a Native American dream catcher for his children, who frolic in the fields nearby while Mrs. Roberto prepares her famous blackberry cobbler back home... I sincerely hope Roberto found his Canada, wherever it may be. |
