Curling Ice

Recently I read on Twitter that salt and pepper shakers are manufactured with ridged bottoms so that if they clog up, rubbing them--the bottoms--with an object encourages the contents to pour out smoothly. A Torontonian tweeter explained: "The pebbles on bottom of shakers...like curling ice...rub against pepper for the proper delivery."

"Like curling ice"? That's supposed to clarify the issue? Hmmm. File under: 'Only in Canada'.

Canadians do like playing with ice, there is no doubt. I know multiple people who follow curling or are passionate curlers themselves. But mostly what Canadians do with ice is skate on it at the rinks that pop up everywhere, parks, plazas, backyards. People corral any puddle of water and encourage it to freeze, which works as entertainment because nearly everyone seems to have their own skates, just as they have their own shoes. When I was a child we skated too, but indoors at the rink in our local shopping mall, Topanga Plaza, and we rented skates by the hour; only the very posh or the very competitive owned their own. (The mall is still there but the ice long gone, replaced by a department store.)

When we moved to Canada, the whole family bought ice skates, one of the many 'winterizing' tasks accomplished in a manic frenzy, along with acquiring thick coats and snow boots and snow pants and  long underwear and hats with earflaps and gloves. I was a woman obsessed, nesting like an expectant arctic tern. In the chaos of acquisition I ended up possessed of skates rejected by eldest child when he discovered they were too small; he got new ones that fit correctly while I, worn out, simply adopted his cast-offs rather than going through the kerfuffle of returning them. They were hockey skates, not the figure skates I had rented, but how different could they be?

Very. It turns out that I really dislike hockey skates. I hate their thick, rigid construction. Getting them on and laced up is a full-body workout that ends in scraped knuckles and aching fingers. Probably worth it if you're going into battle with your team for the gold medal, but totally out of proportion for a few laps round the rink. Since I used them only two or three times each winter,  though, it didn't matter enough to bother replacing them.  I suffered through and just enjoyed the relief of taking them off.

Then early this month daughter got invited to a Santa Lucia skating party by a new school-friend. "It's for families, too," she reported. With high-school kids it is rare to get to meet the parents of new friends; I didn't want to miss this chance but I could not face the embarrassment of wrestling at the rink with my bulky, recalcitrant hockey monsters. The time had come to get new skates. Where?  I wondered. The answer, which should have been obvious to me by now, was Canadian Tire. It's always Canadian Tire. And Canadian Tire came through, with a sale to boot, so to speak. The Santa Lucia party was delightful, complete with good company and hot chocolate on tap. The ice cooperated (it only hit me once) and the skates fit perfectly.

I've yet to examine closely the bottoms of pepper and salt shakers--ours are grinders--but next time I'm at a cafe or a diner, I will take a look and think of ice. Curling ice.

Committing Democracy

"Your polling place is...Mexico Fire Station"

"There's too much democracy," says Kyle as he drives through the gray rainy morning, following yardstick-straight Highway 401 along the northern shore of Lake Ontario. It's November 6, the day of the US mid-term elections, and four of us, all Americans living in Toronto, are heading for New York State.  "We should have philosopher kings instead," Kyle continues. I rather agree, though I fear that's exactly how our current president regards himself. 


Our destination for today is Mexico, New York; our mission, which we chose to accept, is to get out the vote for Democratic congressional candidate Anthony Brindisi. He is challenging the Republican incumbent in New York's 22nd district, Claudia Tenney, a rampant Trumpista (or Trumpette).   


In this ever more electronic world, ironically, it's face-to-face knocking on doors that has become the best way to get out the vote. Because, truly, who answers the phone to an unidentified number or heeds a text or an email from an unknown sender? I ignored my own inbox on November 6:

All right already.

Our destination is somewhere north of Syracuse. Kyle, through the Democrats Abroad Canada, has determined that in the 22nd district, four hours' drive away, our little team of ex-pats might make a difference. "It's a really narrow margin," he says. Who knows? 

Also in the car are Bart, who, like Kyle, is a colleague of my husband's, and Anne-Marie, a friend of theirs who works at SickKids,Toronto's bluntly-monikered children's hospital. Halfway to Mexico, we pull into an 'ONRoute' motorway services to refuel with petrol and sugar. Queuing for Timbits, what should be playing on the speakers but Jimmy Buffett's "Mexico"? A good omen.

OOOOHHHHHH MEXICO

I'VE NEVER REALLY BEEN

BUT I'D SURE LIKE TO GO 

WOOOOHHHHHH MEXICO

I GUESS I'LL HAVE TO GO NOW

The border at the Thousand Islands Bridge, where the St. Lawrence River turns into Lake Ontario, is a new one to me. There's a stunning view in spite of the mist, of dozens of islands fringed with autumn-colored trees.  The border agent asks, "Why are you going to New York?" Kyle tells her we are helping with the election. This telling of the truth is a calculated risk. We have nothing to hide, but you never know at a border. She nods us through. "Have a nice day." 

Score one for democracy.

The four of us agree that the US side is somehow more scenic. We pass a man in a horse-drawn wagon plowing up a field. Then we overtake a prisoners' bus from the state penitentiary. We zip by Watertown; Kyle tells us he once attempted to buy bear spray there en route to a camping trip with his small daughter, and instead was shown racks of guns. 

Mexico Town Hall 

Mexico greets us through a drizzling rain. It is not difficult to find our headquarters in the tiny town: the home of Michael and Dorothy, who live next to the tiny Mexico Public Library and across the street from the Mexico Town Hall. Dorothy, I learn, works at the library. The couple have provided a spread of food to make us weary travelers glad: mac and cheese, soup, bread. Cake, cookies and chips.  

Colleen 'Two-Glasses', our chauffeur

Replete with carbs and coffee, it is time to get to work. Kyle and Anne-Marie head off in Kyle's car, with several sheets of addresses and a GPS. Bart and I are driven by Colleen, a local volunteer. Colleen wears two pairs of glasses at the same time ("see my bifocals?" she laughs), and she knows the roads. She knows them particularly well, she tells us, because her autistic grandson Conor loves to cruise the county with her and to read the road signs. Colleen spends a lot of time with Conor because his mother is disabled. This remarkable woman has her hands full but has still found time to volunteer for the Democratic party. She tells us about campaigning for Obama, in Ohio, years ago. 

Oswego County

The clouds roll away and sunlight floods through the windshield. Bart and I get out and do the door-knocking. At this time, mid-day, many houses are empty and we can only hang our 'Brindisi' cards outside. "Have you voted yet?" we ask those who do open their doors. Most people say yes, and are friendly, which makes sense since our list includes only registered Democrats and anyone else who has at some point indicated support for our guy, Brindisi. The aim is not to tell people how to vote, but rather to convince them to go out and vote.

"I voted all Democrat," one woman tells us. "Where there wasn't a Democratic candidate, I wrote in "Hillary." 

Houses of Oswego County

We encounter numerous dogs, many of them roaming free. At one home with the smell of wood smoke rising a man opens the door and attempts to block the escape of several hounds. He catches one with his knee and says "You get back. You're the biter." He is unkempt and uncombed; he squints at Bart and me. "I've already voted," he tells us. "But do you wanna bring in some firewood for me?" We decline, politely, a bit nervously.

Door hangers

A pink-haired woman with a gaggle of kids pokes her head out the door at us. "Nope," she says. "I'm not voting. I don't even know what it's about." We try to persuade her--such a close race, your vote counts, we can help you get to the polling place--but she shakes her head. She agrees to take one of our "Vote Brindisi" door-hangers.

Almost everyone is white. We encounter only one African-American, a man who tells us he would like to vote but that Child Protection Services have confiscated his driving license for non-payment of child support. He is worried that without government ID, he will be turned away. We worry about that too, and contact HQ for further instruction. Michael tells us to inform the voter that he does not need to have his licence, but that it might be helpful to bring along an unopened piece of mail addressed to him. A utility bill, for instance. We offer to find the man a ride to the polling place. "No, it's fine, I can get there myself," he says, gesturing to a battered paint-less car parked on a patch of soil. "But thank you." Bart and I tell him that's great, and look at each other as we walk away. Maybe there's an exemption for driving without a license if it's to go vote? 

Addresses are difficult to spot. Sometimes Colleen asks, "What's the name?" and when Bart tells her, she says, "Oh I know them. It's just over here."

Colleen's front porch

Colleen returns home to look after Conor, who is unwell that day, and her husband takes over as our chauffeur. Off we go on Round Two. At this later hour, more people are home and we do more talking than knocking. One of our last calls, an hour past sunset, when we can barely read the house numbers on the dark country roads, is at the home of a man who is 87 years old (our paperwork gives us name, age, and gender of our targets). He throws open his door and fulminates; there is no other word. "I hate Trump," he froths. "And I knew Trump. He's a brown-nose. I spent four years in the Navy. But I'm not going to vote and I'll tell you why: it's that damned Electoral College. You're too young to remember but before they put in that Electoral College, your vote counted. Not any more. So I'm not voting." We nod and express sympathy, slowly retreating. Bart, the historian, whispers, "If he remembers a time before the Electoral College he must be a lot older than eighty-seven." 

Finally we collect Colleen, who has been relieved of grandchild-care, and head for headquarters where we meet up with Kyle and Anne-Marie, as well as Deborah, another volunteer, and stuff ourselves with scrumptious chili and pasta and salads and bread (is Mexico perhaps the culinary capital of the 22nd district?) before starting the long trek back to the True North. The polls won't close until nine, so there are no results available when we say our goodbyes and hit the road. We're exhausted and happy to let the radio do the talking.

Aftermath at HQ

Before we reach Toronto, Colleen calls me to announce victory: 52% to 48% for Brindisi, she reports jubilantly, with 60% of the vote counted. We cheer. Prematurely, as it turns out:  by 2 a.m., just before I fall into bed, his lead has narrowed uncomfortably and Tenney declares that she will not concede. The next day's New York Times says: "With 100 percent of precincts reporting, Mr. Brindisi scored a razor-thin victory over Ms. Tenney, 49.5 to 48.9 percent, or a margin of about 1,400 votes. Ms. Tenney said she would refuse to concede until absentee ballots were counted, telling supporters, “I’m certainly not going to give up the fight”."

Early results... 

And there are 17,000 absentee ballots to be counted, by hand. It takes half a month, until November 20, when at long last, Brindisi is declared the winner and heads for the Hill. We exhale and allow ourselves to feel that we--Kyle, Bart, Anne-Marie, Michael, Dorothy, Deborah, Colleen, her husband, me, our counterparts across the 22nd District, across the country--perhaps we made a difference. Who knows.

Victory at last

CONCLUSION: democracy is, after all, the least worst option. Long may it rule. Unless, of course, the world wants to nominate me as its Philosopher Queen. 

Home again, home again