To the Republic, Laddie!!

"Oh, Africa, that's the country that speaks with clicks?"

One of my greatest delights is hearing misinformed stereotypes. I think that they are funny because they are simply an example of someone voicing their lack of knowledge either of their audience or of a subject.

For instance if I met someone from Idaho, I might ask them if the rain was going to hurt their family's potato crop this year. Now, from what I know of Idaho, that might not be too wild of a guess, but it is still somewhat uninformed.

The other night, upon hearing that I was of distant Irish descent, my host at a Christmas party offered a toast to the Republic. He felt a bit sheepish when he found out that I am from County Antrim and that my family was Protestant--not likely Catholic Republicans.

Stereotypes are funny because they often voice ideas that we have about groups of people in their most extreme form.

If you ever get the chance to ask my roommate from Redeemer, Dave DeVries, about where I am from, he will instantly light up at the opportunity to fill the world at large in on Hastings for the next fifteen minutes or so. I will begin to loosely quote Dave here.

"Hastings is just so proud of Rosy. I hear that when he graduates from University they are going to throw a parade for him. That will be the second parade in the history of Hastings. The first one was when Dave graduated from high school and got accepted into university.

Yup, Hastings sure is proud of Dave. They are putting a plaque up for him in the town centre (between the Beer Store and the hockey arena). Hastings' very first literate person. Did you know that Dave is planning to start a program to get electricity run from Toronto into Hastings? It's true. They are even thinking of getting running water so that they can have a communal indoor heated bathroom instead of the traditional squatting igloo.

Once that gets underway Dave will be inaugurated as honorary mayor because of all the fame that he brought to Hastings.

I bet that you didn't know that when Dave drives home for the holidays Hastings is transformed from a one-horse town to a town with automobiles...well automobile.

When Dave goes home they blow the yearly welfare budget on a parade with fireworks, a marching band(one old guy with bagpipes and a kid with a drum) and icecream(only in the winter so that it stays cold).

When Dave goes home they have to snowplough the one road from Toronto to Hastings so that he can drive home. They normally don't otherwise, because the sleighs ride on top of the typical 6-8 feet of snow...although in the fall and winter they do have to send the horses out to pack it down some since it is higher.

Did I ever tell you about the time that Dave won the Noble award for overcoming childhood adversity in the form of growing up in the stone age?

Dave has to write home a month in advance before he plans to head out there. Two days for the mail to reach Toronto. Fourteenish days for the mail to get through the snow to Hastings. And two weeks for the hunters to shoot enough turkeys for the week long feast that will happen when he gets home. If it is winter he has to write home twice as early. That way the mail men can deal with the hazards of winter pony riding."

That is more or less a direct quote from numerous occasions when Dave has recited his knowledge of Hastings by memory. The interesting thing about it all is that Dave has never been to Hastings. The first time that Dave told this story in 2005, he said that not many people in Hastings were literate and that it probable started snowing in October. I would hate to take Dave fishing once and then have to hang out with him in fishing  crowds for years to come. Think of the snow sharks that he would claim to have pulled out of the Hastings river by the time he tells the story for the fifth time.

I do pity the person who tries to disillusion Dave about Hastings. They may die in the attempt. I guess that it is true what they say about the Dutch--Wooden Shoes, wooden head, wouldn't listen.

Tot Ziens.

Put a price tag on that...

Have you ever felt guilty when you woke up on Christmas morning and saw all the presents stacked under your Christmas tree?

I remember as a small child, with a strong Baptist influence, trying to suppress the feeling of greed on Christmas morning as I wondered what was under the tree for me. I think that even then, I was aware that things had somehow run amok in the two thousand years that people have likely been celebrating it for. I was fortunate that before the presents or stockings were opened my father would read the Christmas story in one of the gospels (Matthew or Luke-hopefully Luke so as to avoid the genealogies).

I think that it all came home to me one Christmas in a way that I will never forget. My father, while waiting for the growing line in front of the shower to get moving so that he could begin his traditionally bacon and egg/who-knows-what-else breakfast, had turned on the TV and was watching a World Vision ad in which they were handing out Christmas gifts to children in an impoverished area of Africa. As the camera moved through out the village, I realized that Dad was glancing from the TV screen to our mounds of gifts and treats that were stacked throughout the living room and spilling into the kitchen.

Now, before you get the idea that I was spoiled rotten at Christmas time, let me clarify. I have five brothers, and I think that at least one was married with a child at this point. With ten people in the house, even one or two gifts each amounted to a substantial stack under and around the tree.

I will never forget the look I saw on my father's face that Christmas morning.

As I left home and eased into my twenties, I would often catch myself doing things very much like my father. In fact so much so that I often cringe when I hear myself answering the phone, observe my social diplomatic policy and so on. I cannot go home for a reunion without someone commenting on my collared plaid or polo shirts that are just like Dave Sr. always wears. Needless to say, I have begun working very hard to revise my life to become more unique.

Right, Christmas. So as a result of nature and nurture, I can often guess fairly accurately what Dad is thinking, because I am having the same thoughts myself.

Having six sons, all of whom are hockey players was a source of great pride, exhaustion and, at times, chagrin for my dad. Every September we would have a great equipment sorting. Dad would open up hockey bags and boxes of gear and begin the tedious task of ensuring that everyone had equipment that fit and was in decent shape. The financial impact of outfitting us every year would have been enormous otherwise.

That's the way that my parents ensured that all six of us would have a wealth of experiences within the budget of our family. Road trips to Nova Scotia, weekend backpacking into Pine Lake for fishing and watching Bryce put fishing hooks through his appendages, family football games complete with cousins, uncles and numerous sprains and bruises. Volunteering in bottle drives, as Minor Hockey Treasurer, as coach, trainer, manager and in so many other aspects to ensure that his sons and other peoples children would always have a place to play were just some of the ways Dad would do this. Mom was often in the canteen serving food and organizing other fundraisers behind the scenes.

My mom once told me that my dad would have loved to give each of us brand new equipment every year and take us to Habs', Jays' and Patriots' games, but it just wasn't an option.

I think that is why I was so surprised to see the look on Dad's face that Christmas. He was embarrassed by how much we had. He felt almost guilty that we were blessed with so much when others had little or nothing. He was maybe wondering if his sons would feel the same excitement if, like the children in the village, we were only given a ball between the six of us.

My father never rushes anything except the puck up the ice and I can guarantee you that he definitely didn't skim read the Birth Story that Christmas morning.

They must have done a good job in some respect. My brothers and I now plan months in advance of an opportunity for some or all of us to get together. With eager anticipation we organize fishing trips, football games and family gatherings. Because we learned that, even if there are no presents under the tree, we all still get something at Christmas.

So don't feel too guilty about the gifts. Just don't let them distract you from the Birth of Jesus, from helping others and from spending time with family and friends.

Gingerbread and indigestion

It has been a quiet week in Peterborough.

Brad and Brielle came over to our place last night and we made the most ridiculous gingerbread house in the history of the world. Complete with a flower garden, lake, flagstone pathway, unfortunately shaped trees and strangely tinted snow, this stained glassed house was truly a work of art. Once our states were sufficiently altered from too much candy, eggnog and coke we settled in to watch A Muppet's Christmas Carol. For those of you who do not know me well, I am a very great fan of Charles Dickens and an even greater fan of Christmas. Therefore, starting Christmas festivities on the third day of December guarantees that this will be a joyous holiday season indeed.

Peter, who I always want to call Sven, in my masters program broke his foot two weeks ago in an attempt to minimize the wear and tear on fire escapes. As a result I was asked to lead his seminar on Wednesday night. In the process I found out that I really do enjoy teaching about history and I also get a great deal of enjoyment out of listening to the students' sweeping generalizations about history. As an example, a student told the class that it was common practice for Europeans to pass out smallpox-infested blankets to indigenous groups in North America as a form of biological warfare.

I can only conceal my facial expressions up to a point here, people.

The interesting part of my job in these discussions is often listening to such statements, trying to draw a grain of truth out and discount the myth, all without making anyone look bad. But at times there is only so much truth that they give you to work with. Brad, another TA, had a student tell the class that all kings in world history are direct descendants from King David in the Bible.

All I can say is that, if that were to happen in my class, my usual barely distinguishable "Ahe-idiot-em" would become a whole lot more audible.

This does raise an interesting point about the world. I've often found that you do not have to travel very far from your safe little bed in the morning before you encounter someone else's poorly founded belief systems, which they are perfectly allowed to accept for themselves, being shoved down your throat.

I don't know about you, but at that hour in the ante-meridian, I am more interested in cheerios and coffee, with a touch of milk and sugar in both, than I am in being invited to an ambiguously themed "festive holiday party".

All of the Scrooges out there can "humbug" all they like, but I am definitely going to follow Nephew Fred's example and toss a "merry Christmas to you too, Uncle Scrooge!" in their direction.

That being said, outside of my classroom, I will smile politely as you tell me about the time that Santa Clause instructed King David to hand out Smallpox blankets to the indigenous people in

the North Pole in order to clear space for his toy building elf empire as it heralded in the capitalist, consumerism driven, market economy. I could rant for a little longer about the market economy but, for the sake of the season, I'll end it here.

God Bless Us, every one.