Sorry, eh?
After seeing on The National that this is the worst winter we’ve had in 35 years, I feel compelled to apologize to Joel Enyart. Not that he hold me personally responsible for the weather. But responsibility is a moot point for Canadians, who have a longstanding habit of apologizing for things we didn’t do. We say “sorry” when people bump into us, or spill drinks on us, or step on our toes. Flying home from Toronto today, I watched as the flight attendant dropped a sealed snack package on the aisle and said, “sorry,” to no one in particular.
So it seems only appropriate, with a winter of such ferocity, to grovel a bit to Joel. A year ago he left a job he loved in the Los Angeles area to pastor our church in Thunder Bay. Yes, he actually chose to leave southern California for the Great White North. It might have been due to a poor sense of direction or geography on his part, but he and his family have traded their sandals for Sorels and been putting on a courageous front.
When I think of Joel these days, I am haunted by the immortal lines of Robert Service’s poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee:
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the south to roam
Round the pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell
Though he’d often say in his homely way
That he’d sooner live in hell.
Unlike Sam McGee, Joel isn’t complaining about the cold. He leaves that for us locals. After all, we do it so well, having had so many years’ experience. But under that stoically calm exterior, he must have his moments when the Land of Endless Winter gets to him. So, Joel, on behalf of myself and all Canadians everywhere, I would like to say I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for the relentless deep freeze. I apologize for the snow that replenishes the driveways as rapidly as they are cleared. I’m sorry for the blizzards and whiteouts and icy roads. I ask forgiveness for the perilous sidewalks and slushy curbs. I crave pardon for the morning routine of scraping your windshield in the dark. I beg your indulgence for the short hours of daylight and the windchill that rivals the temperature of Mars. I apologize for the salt on your car and the gravel in the entrance of your home. I’m sorry for the 20 minutes of pulling on enough protective clothing for an Arctic explorer every time you step outside.
And most of all, I apologize for the sheer, stubborn, unremitting length of the season that breaks even the most hardened among us, reducing us to whimpers and tears as we raise our chapped, frozen hands to an implacable sky and pray for spring to come in our lifetimes.
Apart from the “W” word, Joel, this really is a great place to live. Thank you for choosing it. And, um, sorry, eh?
We good now?
