What makes a Canadian?

Merry Canada Day to you -- and you, and you. I love this land of the free, home of the brave, and I hope you do, too. I have spent almost every hour of my 54 years living and loving this country that runs from sea to shining sea, and I hope to spend the next 54 years doing the same.

I have travelled it from Sooke on BC's West Coast to St. John's harbour in Newfoundland. I have snacked, sneezed, and slept in every province, except for Prince Edward Island. And as soon as I get a role playing Matthew Cuthbert's father, I'll be there.

Defining Canada is like defining truth. You may recall the parable of some blind beggars who were asked to describe the elephant that somehow crossed their path. "Thick, like a tree stump," one said, as he grabbed its leg. Another responded with: "Long and twisty," as he caressed its trunk. There were other versions of the elephant, as each man in his own way touched and described it.

Like the parable, how could I describe Canada? Like the parable, we can really only describe parts of it. Flat, like a prairie? High, like a mountain? Frozen, like a tundra? Well, yes and yes and yes.

That's geography. The same can be said about our history; that is, we really only know small bits and pieces of it. History buffs (and buffettes) realize that early colonists were French, then British, nearly American (Patriot-style), then British and French again. Or was it the other way around? And what about First Nations, Metis, the Black Loyalists, the Chinese railroad workers - all builders of this great land? (I need to remember that this is a column, not a History 20 course.)

For me personally, my roots follow the Irish Protestant path: My paternal grand-parents were part of a wave around 100 years ago, ending up in Winnipeg in the early 1900s. Then they saw the light and moved west in the mid-forties.

Just prior to Thomas and Anne Funston's foray to Manitoba, there were waves of immigrants that flocked to the prairies - perhaps some of your own people, many generations ago - created much of what we call Canada today. They filled up the prairies with their claims to 160 acres of "free" land, and turn what Palliser thought was a veritable wasteland into one of the most productive and fertile regions of our country.

So much for Canada. Let's figure out what a Canadian is. Are they white or black or red? Do they speak English, French or Mandarin? May I wade into the religious fray to ask: Is a Canadian Protestant, Catholic, Muslim or simply an atheist? (I'm not sure, either.)

The heroes and heroines that become Canadian citizens tomorrow afternoon must certainly be included in this long list of Canadians - no matter that they were born in Cambodia, have a different religion, and eat "funny" food. They have made significant sacrifices to emigrate here, making this land their land, these people their people.

The irony is not lost here: There are many things that identify us as Canadians, yet, in many ways, I am not sure if we can actually define the word "Canadian" any longer. In the former case, I speak of the beaver, the maple leaf, the RCMP, Hockey Night in Canada, and the natural resources of British Columbia's logging, Alberta's farming, and Newfoundland's fishing industries. I see those things, and I think "Canadian."

The past is, well, past. But we live in the present, that defining dot on the continuum of culture. A brief investigation of history (the past) will reveal that Canada was easily as diverse, different, and divided then as it is now. The ethnic pockets, the baseless biases, the out-and-out racism -- just for starters - were as prevalent then as it is now.

I think I know what Canada is. I 'm just not sure if I know what a Canadian is, however. What I do know is that, as a lifelong Canadian, I will do my best to make this country a better, safer, stronger country.

That may be the best present we could all bring to her party.

Endangered....

The three women across from me the other night represented thirty-six children. That, you say, would be an average of twelve children per class. Yes, it would be – if these women were classroom teachers. But the women weren't teachers, they were mothers (including my own wife); and the children weren't students, they were offspring – their respective offspring. (Most of those kids and their parents were at our house for a weekend wedding.)

Trouble is, I don't know if either one of the other families is finished having kids.

Shocking, you say. Over-population, you quickly add. These people aren't being responsible, you finally hiss. Well, let me tell you a thing or two about shocking over-population responsibility issues. Simply stated: Can you spell M.Y.T.H?

Are you aware of a documentary called "Demographic Winter"? It is a treatise on the fabrication of over-population; its premise, in fact, is that there will be a very, very serious population crunch in the not-too-distant future. And the population crunch will translate into an economic crunch. The writer concludes that at least forty nations in the world are operating at a below-replacement birthrate.

These studies have documented patterns in such far-flung countries as Mexico, Iran, Latvia, Sri Lanka, and many others. Iran, for example, possesses one of the most rapidly aging populations. Forty years ago, Mexican families produced an average of seven children; now they produce 2.1 – the same as the USA. China, with its ridiculous one-child policy, is realizing now that its low birth rate will undo its recent economic prosperity - sooner rather than later. (These are not my thoughts, people; these are indirect quotes from my source.)

To be sure there are pockets worldwide where there has been devastation that couldn't be helped – AIDS, drought, cyclones, tribal warfare, for starters. But in the main, populations are going down generally due to one of two reasons: artificial birth control or abortion. (And I won't touch the possible motives for those decisions.)

This is not a polemic about turning women into baby factories. Far from it. Those who read this column know me better than that. This is about simply reproducing ourselves, and then some. This is about the generation of consumers that is diminishing and will continue to diminish. This is about the morality of economics.

Communities are dying right across Canada and the States because there is no one to replace the present and previous residents. Some of their kids are flocking to the city, to be sure, but the problem is there are simply fewer and fewer kids to flock to the city. Babies grow up to become consumers. And consumers, well, consume: They buy food, houses, cars, and clothing; they rent DVDs and motels; they attend schools, recitals, and grand openings. Limited kids ultimately means limited consumers. It also means limited workers, but, as usual, that is fodder for another column.

Do you sort of get the picture? This is simply not a moral decision whether to have kids or not. This now becomes an economic stability issue for our future.

The double income, no kids policy of many Generation X'ers has been a bust. Sure, it's easy to have just two adults in the house, money to burn, nothing to tie you down, but at what cost? If we are hardly reproducing ourselves, we are setting up ourselves for a significant financial vacuum on a national scale.

If couples are willing but unable to conceive, there is a huge opportunity for adoption. While this does not address the chronic shortage of new babies in the world, it most certainly alleviates other manpower (childpower?) problems.

I suggest to you that the "stork" is an endangered species.

Golf Clubs, Starbucks, and a Red Tie

Father's Day. Hope you enjoyed your new golf clubs, Starbucks gift certificate, and red tie. I think it is appropriate that we celebrate Father's Day just before the summer holidays. You know how it goes: Get the old man feeling happy, then spring some weird summer plan on him. My taste in gifts ranges from restaurant gift certificates to 'Canes' tickets to a night or two away at a hotel. A new van would be nice, but that may be a tad more than people want to spend on me. (As a side note, I need to make sure the big spenders in my house proofread this thing before they head off to their weekly shopping spree in Lethbridge.) Seriously, folks: I think it is great to honour the fathers of our households, even if it is only once a year. Like motherhood, but for other reasons, fatherhood can be a thankless task. The demands of putting bread on the table and the challenges of daily leadership in the running of the home, can be overwhelming at times. In addition to that, every man has his own fight with survival to contend with.

I am aware of certain sit-comes that make the father look like an idiot. While some dads may be incompetent, useless, and abusive, not all dads are. In fact, I believe few dads are. My own observation is that most dads are keen to make their family life work; that is, they want to have successful marriages and responsible kids.

What actually makes for a good dad? Well, 100 respondents would give you 100 ideas, so let's shelve that one. Just look at your own dad or a friend's dad. Space forbids the list of adjectives (words that describe a noun, chill'un), but let me suggest some for you: gentle, patient, funny, and considerate; a good listener, a good worker, and a good sport.

My own father has gone to his reward and probably celebrates Father's Day everyday up There. (I'm not sure about the golf, Starbucks and ties, but...oh, forget it.) He was forty-years-old when I was born, so it's not like he was a young man while I was growing up. However, as I do remember him, three things stand out in my mind as to what made him a good dad:

1. He loved my mother and that was evident every, single day;

2. He raised me in a culture of faith, morality, and Scripture;

3. He was consistent in his views, convictions, and lifestyle.

I don't know about you, but I find myself saying and doing things as a father that he said and did, yet I don't recall him ever training me along those lines. As someone once said, more things are caught than taught.

Come to think of it, I would love to play a round or two of you-know-what with him, then hang out over coffee at you-know-where. I'd even wear a red tie to celebrate the occasion.

Stanley Cup - Big Whup

I sit here in the brave privacy of my quiet little office, contemplating the events of the past twenty-four hours. By the time you read this, it will be the past one hundred, sixty-eight hours. The so-called events involve a hockey game, the last one of six: One team beat another one, and now all is at peace with the world.

Or at least you would think so by the outpouring of joy that is coming from many quarters of the civilized western world.

Or, just in case you had your head stuck in a paint can for the past little while, the guys in red and white, with that wheel and wing, have just finished off the guys in black and yellow, with that goofy-looking penguin and a stick. I would agree that it was very exciting, right down to the last second, literally.

As other fan(atics) respond in varying ways, I find myself strangely removed from much of the mindless ecstasy around me.

Newfoundland is bursting the pride with having its first Stanley Cup Champion in one, Daniel Cleary. The Conn Smythe winner, Europe's second, is none other than Henrik Zetterberg (the other being teammate, Tomas Lidstrom, a few years back). Manitoba is rolling out the red carpet for its local hero, Darren Helm. (Who's heard of Darren Helm?) Where else and who else is out of their mind with glee, I do not know.

On the other hand, Tiger Woods, arguably the greatest golfer ever, said something to the effect, "I don't think anyone watches hockey much anymore." (Uh, Tiger, some free advice here from Dr. Fun: Stick to holes-in-one, not foot-in-mouth. You're welcome.)

I didn't watch one second of one game (no teevee, no watchee), but I did follow it on the radio. Sort of. My struggle is based partly on envy, I suppose: I see millionaires playing sports for a few months of the year, travelling all over North America at the team's expense – eating in restaurants, staying in hotels, commuting in jets. The good life, you might say.

Me? My itinerary includes Bow Island, Foremost, and Lethbridge.

To be sure, there is still something gut-wrenching about the group hugs, the tears of joy at drinking from Lord Stanley's mug, and the endless tales of how long it has taken some the get to this point in their career. (That alone is quite a feat: I heard that one in a ten thousand kids make it to the NHL.)

Again, I am not quite sure what I am saying here. It's great that two of the top three teams in this year's NHL squared off in the grande finale. That's the way it should be. I just fail to get as excited as my "friends" throughout the western hockey world. Despite the apparent enormity of the events of the past twenty-four hours, my world and my lifestyle hasn't changed one iota.

My muted joy lies somewhere between Mr. Woods's and Mr. Williams's (Newfoundland's premier) polar opposite responses. To the Woods's camp, I remind them that a lot of people took this game in; ratings were very high for the last two games, and that was stateside. And to the Williams's type, I wonder out loud if the Avalon Peninsula will now be called Cleary Peninsula.

Okay, okay, I slip into the deep end of the pool on that one. Sports is sports; it is not life. In fact, it may be more business than sports, but it is not a normal, daily reckoning for the millions that take it in. None of us will ever see the millions of dollars that these players "earn" in a hockey career.

That being said, it was a great diversion, a great run, but now it it is back to the irrigation ditches. Just wondering if I can get Helm's autograph...