“What’s Canada like?”

The neighbor girl, Lady Liberty, is sharing a cup of coffee with me at a nice little donut shop called Tim Horton’s. If you’re from my city called World you might have heard of it. Everyone who is anyone from the west side hangs out there.

“Canada?” I query. Slow of wit, it takes me a while to reply to a seemingly easy question. We are chaperoned by her uncle Sam, so the date is slightly dampened for me by his presence. I can’t say exactly what’s on my mind, just answer her question.

“Canada is the knight in shining armor of the twenty-first century. The poor can run to him when they’re in trouble and the rich generally respect him for being the chivalrous gentleman that he is. Women love him for giving them respect and foreigners claim he tries to see the color of their skin in no different light than the color of a man’s eye.

Canada resides in that place full of moose, deer, elk, and caribou. A land overflowing with streams of salmon and trout. A land of foxes, bears, ducks, and wild geese. A place of wheat fields and maple trees, mountains and plains, as well as metro areas like Toronto. Canada’s property is a diverse land containing a diverse people.

Canada has sired some very successful children. Famous athletes such as Donovan Bailey, Bruny Surin, Lennox Lewis, and Steve Nash. Scores of swimmers and skaters belong to her. The standard Canadian athlete’s mentality is that it’s how you play the game, not how you win that counts in the final score. Writers, actors, and artists such as Farley Mowatt, Gordan Korman, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Celine Dion, Mike Myers, Jim Carrey, and John Candy reflect on the fact that his sons and daughters have not been lacking in creative talent. Canada’s land is the home of hockey, basketball, the telephone, and Molson.

In times of war Canada has historically been the doctor on the battlefield, giving life to men instead of taking it from them. He volunteered because he wanted to know that he left here a better place.”

My breath is now coming in short bursts, I’m so excited. I hadn’t realized it until now, but everyone is listening to me. Uncle Sam the chaperone is trying to be comedic and asks:

“Canada who?”.

The nearby tables chuckle, but I am not done yet, for my cup is still scorching.

“You might say “Canada who?” If you live in that big red and blue house across the street from me or if you never glance across your white picket fence but ask your neighbors beside you if they know Canada. You will see them first look at you as if you’re crazy, as if to say, “who doesn’t know him, are you cuckoo?” Then as they glance at your Tommy Hilfiger, gaze at your Cadillac, and notice your three hundred dollar Nike’s made in a sweat shop in Taiwan by some poor kid who got paid thirty cents a day for labor, you will see revelation pump through their brain as a radiant smile slowly spreads across their face and finally sparkles through their eyes.

Almost as beautiful an experience as catching the aurora borealis on a clear night or viewing Niagara Falls on a misty summer morning. Their face will glow as they relate to you how Canada is the hospitable neighbor across the street from you who throws those neighborhood barbecues for charity. The ones you choose not to attend. He will tell you how Canada is the father who volunteered to coach your son’s soccer team after everyone else refused, and though it interfered with his schedule, he did it because it mattered to the kids.

Canada is the Good Samaritan who bandaged up that lippy teenager after you taught him a lesson with your fists. You didn’t understand it at the time, since the punk had said he was going to destroy you and you thought you had set an example to all others who might test your authority. See when the day comes that you get beaten up and are left for dead by a bully who has become bigger than you Canada will be there for you too.

The respect and appreciation you will then have gained for him will cause you to ask despite your arrogance “What do I owe you?” and “How must I repay you?” His reply will be as simple to him as it is confusing to you:

“Owe you for what? I treat everyone in World like this.” And you will be ever confused, bewildered as to where his profit is being made.”

Exhaustion from all the emotional energy being sapped from the heart of my being has me overcome. This tongue is dry from flapping too much and the head rush has left me drained, my brain lacking the mental capacity to force my legs to rise. My sole existence is surviving off of the coffee aroma wafting up from the Tim Horton’s mug. My head moves forward and the cup comes up, compromising with each other just before the coffee spills over and down. Then the triple-triple hits me.