Still thinking here about Canada. Another solid point in Canada’s favor is my neighbor Kevin Wood, who calls himself “The Reverend” and has a sign outside his apartment door that says, simply, “The Woodshed.” He also runs a blog of similar name. Kevin is one of the most politically astute people I’ve ever met–in an age when most people consider politicians as trustworthy as a pack of alchemists–he outdoes most people and almost matches me in considering politicians as trustworthy as candiru fish–guaranteed to follow the scent of urine and stop up your urethra any time they catch you with your pants down directing your flow into the Amazon, or to mimic the actions of a certain crustacean that invades its host’s mouth, quickly gnaws away its tongue–and–without much fanfare–becomes a whole new tongue for its host! Anyway, Kevin and I often reminisce on Saturday afternoons while drinking coffee at the ‘Shed, and we both once swapped stories about how wonderful it was to attend great pig roasts–in fact, I had been thinking about a pig roast that my friend Bud threw for a huge number of family, friends, and associates way back when. Bud never really said the reason why he was giving the roast, but trust me (as Kevin says)–it was a good idea. One of the most pleasant things about the roast was the fact that a few of the guys sat up all night the night before the day of the get-together watching the pig cook and making sure it was done to the right turn. I, of course, was one of those attendants, and I recall sitting out under the late autumn stars sipping whiskey and listening to the men swap stories against a background of crickets and tree peepers, while that pig, in its bed of clay and embers, made itself more and more a meal worthy of the honest men and women of Carroll County. It’s not often that you get total agreement about these rather primitive feelings that well up concerning pig roasts and such, but Kevin (God bless him and hurrah for those Canadians!) not only agreed, but added his own all-night roasting story in which he actually turned the handle on the spit, so that the great hunk of meat was savory through and through by the next morning. Once in a while some obliging lady or gentleman would hand him a beer and Kevin continued on with the job like a long distance runner, or even that little Dutch boy with the finger in the hole of the dike, making sure that no disaster befell what turned out to be one grand bash for the carnivores.

Yes, Kevin, in validating my primal, pig-roasting feelings, again reminds me that Canada must be a pretty darned good place to be and even to be from!