"THERE'S ALWAYS AN OPTION"

 

Penticton, BC

As a native of Seattle, just 180 miles from the Canadian border, I've known and interracted with numerous Canadians.

Malcolm Tuocula, my best friend in 6th grade, migrated from Canada with his mom, but, regrettably, I'm unable to locate him now.

Mr. Hansen, a Canadian of Eskimo ethnicity, entertained me and Joe Mallory in his fine, self-designed and built home in Maple Valley, Washington. 

Hansen was one of those people with so many skills, it was hard to settle on just one.  In addition to his great job at Boeing, he carved out wooden fores for ships and transported hunting and fishing groups to Alaska with his personal plane. 

On my 16th birthday, after getting my license at the Washington State Department of Licensing, I drove my '59 VW straight to Penticton, British Columbia to see what the "other half" of the world looked like (I'd already been to Vancouver many times).

While I tend to get along with western Canadians, that is British Columbians, eerily similar to western Washingtonians, and those from the cold, windy central provinces, French Canadians and I generally don't see eye to eye.  French superiority?

Since my mother was born in Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canadian citizenship would be a mere formality for me.  It was something I contemplated if Ana's immigration from the Philippines had been slowed substantially.

Sure, we could establish ourselves somewhere in that huge, sparsely populated country if things didn't work out here.

But, we ended up on the southern border across from Heroica Matamoros in the city proud of being "on the border, by the sea."