I've been under attack much lately, if not for the past three months. And that's OK, as I finally recognize what all of this is.
For years I've been a huge believer in spiritual warfare: being attacked by the things we cannot see and so forth. Unfortunately, the handful of christians I am surrounded by (mostly my wife's family) don't know or believe in too much of this subject. So seeking prayer, counsel, and help is dismal for the time being.
In the physical: I have no income, no local identity as of yet (except maybe as 'that guy from Texas'), we are living on the resources we brought with us from a couple of house sales in Texas last spring, and I am making our basement livable space by remodeling it top to bottom.
So in other words, we're spending a lot of money with nothing coming in. I've sought the lord on this numerous times, both before and during this remodel process. So far I hear silence. But all arrows point in the direction I'm going in. I a) have the time and b) am gaining massive experience in building/remodeling techniques in Canada (ie: moisture prevention and insulation techniques).
Add christmas mayhem in the mix and you have one guy like me going nuts. I haven't felt this much stress in my life.
But I trust all has a purpose. Hell, back in 2006 our life was dryer than dry. And The Creator still provided. Go figure.
These attacks have had me doubting my abilities, character, and purpose. I often wonder if moving to Canada was the right thing, being that this is a damn expensive place to dwell. But coins show up in fishes mouths on occasions, so I've seen.
I finally recognize these as attacks and not a 'huge mistake' on my part.
I request prayer back up. Thank you
I recently had a short dream where my cousin Mark and I were sitting at the Reach Out. There, someone had donated an airplane, one of those small, two-seater prop job types. "Oh good", said Mark. "Now we can fly over the Reach Out and get a good view of the entire region."
I really thought this was significant in a way only a dream can be to the individual who received it. I've been wanting to know exactly why the Creator brought us to this remote location to raise our family. And I've been wanting to know what was going on beyond what my eyes could see.
As mentioned before, in the native communities there is a huge blanket of distrust between them and white people. There is also much suicide and depression.
But within many white people throughout Canada, there is general unhappiness. I have met very few who truly enjoy or appreciate their job, career, and overall life. I know this is common throughout the US as well, but it seems more so in Canada.
Canadians enjoy higher wages and more benefits (health coverage, etc) than the average American. But there's no incentive within their jobs to work better. There's no joy in their life as evident to more smoking and drinking than I've ever seen. People are always looking for escape of some sort.
In Texas, I knew many who earned $7 - $10 an hour with no benefits yet were so full of life.
It seems like there is a huge void for Jesus around here.
It began snowing about an hour before my plane from Texas landed. And it's been white ever since.
For obvious reasons, the cold has changed the social dynamics of River Dog. Everyone is holed up in their heated dwelling or something. There's no chit chat on the streets, scant words on the way to school, and so forth.
I am extra thankful for my ongoing friendship with Giovanni across the street as social gatherings must be intentional in an arctic environment. And we still gather over various beverages.
Otherwise, in my life I still peck away at the basement renovations. It is getting exciting as major change is happening, which totally floats my boat. Transformation is one of the primary reasons I got into house flipping and remodeling.
I have a new truck. It is identical to my old one (year, make & model, engine size) with a few exceptions. I got word that my truck left in Texas had sold about a week after I left it there. Then this replacement one shows up. Now I'm learning to drive a two-wheel drive pickup on ice. Not too practical.
The recent trip to the fair mo' city was the weirdest, most emotional week of my life. I have absolutely nothing to compare this to. Everything set my emotions off like a four year old girl.
I am still trying to process it. And I don't know if I will fully ever understand that whole week and my time bomb edginess.
On one hand, I was 1) leaving my culture shock in River Dog, 2) re-entering reverse culture shock in Texas, 3) being forced to get rid of a truck I both love and need right now, 4) seeing old friends and neighbors who meant a lot to me, and 5) getting to see Obi-Wan again and thus, having to say good-bye to him again.
That last part about Obi-Wan: I am beginning to accept that maybe I shouldn't anticipate his passing. Or anyone's passing. He's 93. And he could very well live to see 100. Maybe I'll see him again. Several times.
But part of my emotions came from seeing my life from a brand new perspective. That perspective can best be related to the Jimmy Stuart character in It's A Wonderful Life. Kind of like I received a rare glimpse of how one's own life has influenced a person, people, or region. It was mind blowing and I couldn't handle it well.
The creator made an appearance at a Sanford BBQ (my former neighbors) that I was invited to. He spoke boldly through me as if he had unfinished business with this family I had grown with over the years.
I don't know if I'll ever get a full grip on what the creator was showing me during that trip. I don't know if I'll ever understand it's full purpose either.
But I do know: I have been renewed. I am back in River Dog as a fully restored and renewed man. Depression fully gone. Confidence back. Basement renovations full force. Hope and vision for the future restored.
That alone was worth the whole trip.
(several cast of characters from the agent b files): Bulldog, Tiger, and Frieda Sanford, Obi-Wan, and the Jedi Master house flipper)
I am headed up Mount Moriah in the am to deliver Isaac to Texas. With no functional CD player and only crappy radio stations from North Dakota to Kansas, I should be able to hear the creator loud and clear...should he choose to speak. I hope so.
I expect to be renewed over and again during this trip. I didn't realize how bad I need it.
My new friend Giovanni called to wish me well. We have been through a fair bit together recently.This weekend I was doing insane labor on my basement with my cousin Mark. We were cutting out concrete for two new windows. So loud noise and dust were had by all. Gio stopped by to drop off a belated house warming gift: two six packs from my favorite Saskatchewan micro brewery. He left them in the back yard where he and his daughter had a bad encounter with my dog.
Gio was trying to get his daughter to pet our nervous dog. Our dog bit her face and she required three stitches.
We're seriously considering getting rid of our dog of seven years. It's a hard decision.
But Gio is adamant that this was his fault: being in our fenced yard and pushing a nervous dog and kid. Meanwhile, he's giving me beer and inviting us over for dinner when I return. I guess he's not harboring bitterness over this.
Last week we had coffee at the building he works at. It's the coolest building in River Dog. I am convinced he is ripe for change with the creator.
He's looking for a change.
Lord, I am a willing vessel. This is in your hands.
Things are moving ahead in terms of knowing and meeting people in the River Dog area. It's much slower than compared to the fair mo' city (our last assignment), where getting in with a particular religious group can instantly win you dozens of allies.
My accross the street neighbor Giovani and I have continued our Saturday night gatherings over a beer or three. Recently we met in my heated garage - the greatest man cave ever.
And last week I was hired by Ron to assist in installing a deck. It was only a three day job but better than nothing. And the good news is that I'm pretty sure Ron liked me. It sounds as though I will be his right hand man on any future jobs that require two people.
Although Ron is probably the most micro-managing human I've ever worked for. It makes sense as he's a very meticulous carpenter that usually works alone. But I was having flashbacks of working for Son and Dad Tree Service, Inc in the fair mo' city...
And speaking of, I will soon be making a trek back to the city of our first assignment. It is a reluctant homecoming, one that will be celebrated beyond measure. But the purpose is to deliver my truck to TX to be sold. And I'm not overly smiley about that. So it goes.
Suicide is a huge dark cloud that covers over remote native regions. I believe there are very real historic and spiritual reasons for this, mostly thanks to Euro-colonization of the North American continent and all of its ills. It's just a fact: the natives were given the raw end of the deal.
But the hopelessness lives on for generations, or so it seems.
I had no idea we would be faced with this level of despair. It's almost tempting to believe that living in the comfort of the fair mo' city (TX) forever would have been a good idea. Almost.
I trust the creator knew what he was doing when he sent us here. Lord, strengthen us. We will stand firm.
Again, thanks for the prayers on my loneliness and progress in this new assignment. Slowly but surely, I am meeting a few folks. So, thanks very much!
My new request is: I need work. Now. I need to get out of the house or something. It could be a long while before I get into a house flip project again.
But Saturday night my across the street neighbor Giovanni Tuscannini invited me out to get a beer. Or three. We walked to some local joint down Main Street, a few blocks from our houses.
We actually knew of Gio and his wife Cher before we moved to our new house two months ago. Cher and my wife's cousin Trina are close friends. Cher gave us all the inside scoop on this house. We thought it'd give us ammo to win a low bid. It worked a little.
I hear through the grapevine that Gio's father committed suicide a couple of years back. After that, he shut most people out of his life. So according to Trina, our outing the other night must have been his first moments out of his shell. I'm honored to be reached out by him.
Gio grew up in the Big City with his Italian immigrant dad. Cher grew up on a native reserve in northern Saskatchewan and actually experienced the horrors of residential schools. I'm told they both don't care for the creator. Or at least, if he's referred to as "god". Trina's husband Mark conducted their wedding ceremony a while back where he was instructed not to use the word "god".
This is a very different environment from what I'm use to, on so many levels.
Gio was the most down-to-earth intellectual type of guy. I really appreciated his invitation out.
I needed that. Bad.
I met Ron at the dump. The River Dog sanitation ground is about five minutes out of town and up the hill. That place is run by the Dump Nazi. I haven't had any grief from the Dump Nazi yet, as I learned how to kiss his ass by observing how my cousin Mark pissed him off once (no tarp over the load, arrive five minutes before closing, no exact change). I follow all the rules and turn on the Southern charm, so the Dump Nazi likes me OK.
But Ron is a piece of work in his own right. I've always been attracted to intense, strangely counter-culture people. I seem to be a magnet for them. Ron pulled up next to me to unload debris and immediately struck up a conversation due to my Texas plates. I have met more new people due to that truck than I would have imagined. Too bad it will come to an end soon (another story).
Ron is an independent carpenter/handyman. I asked him if he ever looked for helpers, then handed him one of my cheesy homemade business cards. He didn't look interested at the moment.
But he slowly warmed up to me as we unloaded our trucks and I asked all of the questions I had accumulated for basement renovations, my current project on our own house (keeps me busy but pays zero). He loved sharing info and quickly warmed up to me. I've learned over the years to bow down to people's experience, even though this carpenter was missing a finger. We must have sat against our trucks and talked for 45 minutes out in the dump. He's quite the racist, having left his native Toronto because of all the "blacks, browns, and foreigners". I have met more racist rednecks in Saskatchewan then I ever knew in 39 years in Texas. Who knew.
Ron has several internet friends in Texas, so he became interested in me. I've since run into Ron several times (typical small town stunts). He's seen me walking down town once and just pulled over and got out to talk. He likes to talk but I suspect it's also his excuse to smoke cigarettes. Hey, whatever works.
Ron has a job coming up building a deck, which requires two people. I'm hoping he'll use me. I'd love to work for him. There's a chance I'll soon be working with a home install crew out of one of the local hardware stores. But I'd rather work for an independent guy like Ron.
He's pretty interesting.
* Big thanks for all of those who have been praying for my adjustment. It has really helped. I had a very rough week last week. And the blahs finally broke about friday afternoon. These blahs still come and go. But things are looking up for now. I would appreciate continued communications to the creator on my behalf. And it doesn't hurt to hear from you either. Thanks!
Poverty generally has some universal traits. Trashiness is a good example. While many exceptions abound, most stuck within a poverty culture care little about cleanliness. This slaps the middle class in the face. I have many spiritually laced theories for both littering and anti-littering, both sides have positives and negatives.
My personal bent is if Jesus cared for others and we should do likewise, then maybe keeping ones property neat or not destroying someone elses environment would serve them. But enough of me.
In the fair 'mo city, Texas, 9 out of 10 of the poverty culture were trash throwers. But the religious culture would influence the poverty culture to do it when no one was looking. Or with malicious winks and cute smirks.
Here in River Dog, the first nations (native) people, who are by far the poverty culture of Canada, have no shame in throwing trash on the streets. It's blatant. I've seen it more than once.
It's like they hate the history of white culture and its oppression. So in any small way they can piss someone off they will.
I'm kind of indifferent. I do my best to observe and blend into this culture and not judge and so forth. But Canada has a pretty fair recycling gig going on. I probably collect $5 in trash a week just walking the kid to school and the dog in the evening. So it's win/win for me!
But I'm not use to this blatant-ness.
Last week I witnesses a native guy walking with his gal across our street carrying an open beer in his hand and drinking in broad day light. I mean, he wasn't even TRYING to hide anything. Like he has a death wish with the RCMP down my block or something.
Fair 'mo city: hide your ills. Keep the outside of that cup polished.
River Dog: Be honest.
I think I will like it here.
It's been hard to meet people and such. But not hard to meet kids. I think that goes in every culture.
Our oldest started school earlier this month. And conveniently two or three of his classmates live on our street. There are several other kids on the block, most of whom remind us of the kids we knew on our old street back in Texas. And like there, our house has once again become the 'kid' hang-out. Cool.
I wouldn't be surprised if this is how the creator has us get into various people's lives.
***************
Meanwhile, I am having an extremely difficult time re-entering into the atmosphere. I have been having painfully strong culture shock/loneliness/depression attacks. I've been doing well for several weeks.
But this latest bout started last Saturday on a trip to The Big City to see Arcade Fire, a popular rock outfit. I have been peculiarly enamored with their music for about nine months. And their newest recording is fully dedicated to the subject of suburbia, a topic I've critically reflected on for fifteen years. Most every song reminds me of some awkward or painful childhood memory I had in the Houston suburbs.
Moving to another country, moving to a very small isolated town, approaching age 40, and hearing songs that speak painfully to me has been a tough mix to drink.
Culture shock is much like depression. Except no drugs are necessary as it will end eventually. The question is when. Some say it takes a full year to get comfortable in new surroundings.
I don't think May could come any sooner.
I covet your prayers for release from this depression related ordeal. And for a friend or two. Thank you.
We've slowly been meeting the locals. Most of these meetings happen through our kids. Our son started school a while back and is getting to know some kids, several of whom live on our street. The weather is still nice so we've been getting to know a few kids.
I am bombarded with basement remodeling. And some of it comes from my lack of experience with basements, dealing with insulation techniques and moisture and so forth.
And it is getting time to work for an income. I have met a few folks who make remodeling labor sound promising. There's much work to go around.
Lord - give me knowledge, confidence and peace on the changing times ahead.
My family is pretty much settled in our new undisclosed location we call home. The long limbo summer is over. Settlement is sweetness. Time to start finding an income...
Meanwhile, our local neighborhood culture of non-communication is as foreign to me as it gets. And I'm not that chatty of a social person. But for next door neighbors to blatantly avoid eye contact just rubs me so wrong. I'm trying to get used to it, but I feel so lonely.
Our trio of neighbors to the left, the New-Sanfords (mom, teen daughter and teen son), drove up into their driveway the other day when I was about ten feet away hacking up our long neglected cedar bushes. Just cold shoulders. I'd say hi. The mom would return the hi without looking back. I didn't know how to take that. Oh well.
Meanwhile, I'm hacking up this trio of long over-looked cedars knowing good and well it was going to take a few years before they would fill out and actually resemble desirable foliage.
Then the Creator aloud me to realize that my neighbor trio was no different. It could be a few years before any semblance of relationship ever exists. That's just the culture in River Dog.
Today I accidentally met the mom. She was working the check-out at a local grocery. Thus she was forced to acknowledge my presence. But only because it was her job. I tried not to take advantage of the situation too harshly.
"I think I'm you're next door neighbor", I said.
"Yes"
That was about all I got out of her other than her work related communications.
Tonight while picking up a couple of donated refrigerators for the Reach Out, my cousin Mark educated me slightly more on the spirits running this region: Distrust.
Distrust between whites and aboriginals. Distrust between aboriginals and christians. Distrust between wealthy and poor. And so on.
And the rumors are true: my neighbor (her name is Dana. I got that from her name tag) did lose her husband to suicide last year. Thus her kids lost their dad. Mark knew all about it as everyone in a small town would.
I can't imagine her pain.
The distrust is starting to make sense.
My cousin Mark and I have been dreaming out loud as we worked on a house project for a wealthy retiree.
When I moved to River Dog, I was shocked at how few places there were for a family to rent. Amazingly, the need is there but nobody seems to be doing much about it. Most of the former low-end apartments have been bought up and are now being turned into condos. Kick the poor out, move in the rich. Same story, different town.
I asked around with the Reach Out crowd where they or their friends lived and how much they were paying. It was easy to investigate as they all knew we were homeless ourselves at the time.
Most of the folks lived in run down shacks on the various reserves surrounding River Dog. The government gave them the reserve houses somehow. But the ones in town were paying around $750 a month for a crapped out single wide mobile home in the hood (two streets over from where I now live).
$750! We ain't in the fair mo' city no mo'. Some of that is just Canada, with its higher cost of living. But then some of that is supply and demand. In River Dog there's much demand and little supply.
Mark and I were dreaming about buying one or two of the numerous empty town lots for sale and building a decent apartment building, like a quad-plex or an eight-plex if double storied. All two-bedroom, maybe some three, etc
This is real do-able. I am sure my father in-law would love to invest in something like that. So I think the money is there. But I'd need to have some plans drawn up by an architect, get a bunch of bids and numbers together, etc. I'd like to charge fair and realistic rent while making the entire project paid off in 5-7 years. I assume that's possible. We'll see.
Other ideas were to get our feet wet and build our capitol up by flipping a house or two. Those possibilities were limited in River Dog. We might have to do that in the nearby Capitol City.
It's fun to dream. Especially when the dreams seem so realistic. And it could help out the locals with a fair shot at housing.
Rumor has it that our new next door neighbor (to the right of us) had lost her husband/boyfriend to suicide. I'm told she has some teen aged boys that sometimes live with her, or at least I've only caught a glimpse of one of them.
This is what we're up against. Suicide has a strong presence amongst the first nations people. There is such a level of hopelessness that you can actually see it - on people's appearance, people's houses, their cars. Just dreary hopelessness.
It's weird because this neighbor has the worst looking, most depressing house of the block. It's just like our former neighbors to the right of us back in the fair mo' city, The Sanfords. Except The Sanfords were full of life somehow, in a disfunctional sort of way.
It has been difficult to meet any neighbors. And we've been here a week. This seems wrong. But the locals are so stoic or jackasses or whatever.
Creator, please give us some ideas or inroads.
Earlier this week my family moved into our new house. We are now settled in the new undisclosed neighborhood we call home in River Dog.
That first night was rough. I have gone through a sea of emotions that can only be attributed to culture shock and general change. But I get better each day.
I feel very lonely though. Yes, I have my wife, our kids, even her cousins like Mark & Trina. But I have no friend. Maybe someday.
The culture for Canada in general is quite different from the southern US. Back home, if a person as much as stared at me for more than a second that gave me open rights to say hi. Maybe start a conversation. Not here though. People are more stoic or something. Or maybe assholes. I'm still figuring it out.
Seven years ago when we moved into our first undisclosed location we had neighbors practically coming over to meet us, kids hanging around, and friendly smiles. Here, my wife and I have barely seen who lives on either side of us. The neighbors across the street are best friends with Mark & Trina. But we've hardly seen them too.
I'm not in the fair mo' city anymore, that's for sure.
We are here in River Dog for good. Closing on our house should be Monday with moving and etc to follow. This is it: the moment we've been waiting for since crossing the border almost three months ago.
Some of the culture shock I deal with revolves around being in an extremely small town. Everybody knows everyone. Almost literally.
Keeping one's mouth shut is probably the best practice anywhere in life. But living in River Dog it is essential. If I blow up at the local government run insurance outlet (as I most certainly deserve to, so I think) word would get around that I was a difficult ass or something.
I am also shocked to learn that most of the Reach Out crowd knows the guy who we are buying the house from. I probably shouldn't tell them what a sneak he is as he didn't disclose some vital legal info on the property until after my end of the deal was signed and paid for. (Closing in Canada involves the buyer doing all the legal work 10-14 days in advance of possession).
I suppose a better discipline would be to not have an evil heart towards anybody. But keeping my mouth shut is a good start. Maybe nothing will haunt me.
Two of the major characters in our lives within this new assignment are Trina and her husband Mark.
Trina is the second cousin of my wife. I first met her and Mark at our wedding in The Big City almost twelve years ago. They took photos for us and became our official wedding photographers. We kept up with each other ever since.
Trina and Mark are both school teachers by trade. She: mostly high school English and writing, but also music and maybe some drama. He: used to have a "store front" school aiding the local troubled youth until the district did away with that. Now he teaches shop and whatever else they give him. He is excellent with rowdy kids.
They are both very talented and creative people. Trina is a published author and attends various writing seminars throughout the province and such. Mark is a fair builder. This summer we have worked on a house project together.
They both have backgrounds within our church heritage and they have a love for the creator. They fell in love with the poor during a five year teaching assignment in a remote northern Saskatchewan community...so remote there are no roads to get there. One must fly in. Although I think there is a dirt road to that place now.
They have both been very active in the local Reach Out joint. And they have been instrumental in our transition period (living with them) as well as our overall being here.
I really look forward to how the creator will use the four of us within this poverty context of Small town Canada. I think we are learning to listen. Together.
Our last weekend in The Big City was relaxing. I took the day off (Saturday) from my work-a-holic in-law's to run errands and hang out with my family.
We went to a city park where there was a play ground and water jets that shot out of both the cement and little statues for kids to run through.
I was sitting there watching my three kids in the distance, my wife napping next to me, wondering why everything looked so "perfect". The whole vibe was upper middle class. Nice shade trees. Manicured grass. High-end playground equipment. Yuppie-looking supermodel moms in high dollar sun dresses pushing BMW strollers.
This was slightly off from the environment I was use to in our former TX assignment. Where were the panhandlers? Why was there no graffiti on the playground equipment? What about the foul-mouthed kids perched on top of the monkey bars swearing at everything walking by? What is this place?
Then suddenly this native-looking guy strolls through scoping out everybody. "Here comes the panhandling!" I thought. Finally, some REAL action.
I watched this guy pull up on a park bench next to one of the moms and start talking. She seemed fine with him, even smiling and laughing. Like maybe they knew each other.
Then twenty minutes later he stalked us out. And my wife says, "I met this guy last week here with my sister. And my sister has met him before".
His name was Telly. Or maybe Kelly. He had a speech impediment. Telly was a 17-year old mentally handicapped kid who lived around the block from the park. "Isn't this a great day?" he kept asking enthusiastically.
Telly would go on and on about his excitement over some local parade and carnival happening next week. He'd ask what our favorite parts would be. His was the fireworks. Then he'd get up to hit the button for the kid's water sprayers so they could keep playing. He rambled on a few more minutes before leaving to help push some kids on the swings.
Here's a young man with the mentality of a five-year old. Happy as can be about everything. And an upcoming parade.
And I have the gall to wonder what Jesus meant by "to enter the kingdom, you must be like this guy".
If it wasn't for the saving grace of busting concrete out of a wall for new window installation or crawling around a muddy trench drilling holes into cement, I would have a tough time with the culture adjustments.
I am ashamed to admit that. I had hoped I'd be tougher.
Things are not that bad. And I trust the creator laid before me these brutal manual labor jobs for family members in order to survive the limbo/culture shock adjustment. Overall I am faring well.
But one thing about Canada that is really hard for me to grasp: here, you truly ARE what your employment is.
It's not that career or job isn't an idol in the US or the rest of the world. But in Canada it just seems more so. Every form I've filled out or interview I've endured involving immigration, auto registration bullshit, bank account set ups, or house buying all asks "who am I" as a means of saying "your employment?"
We barely got a mortgage due to my lack of being employed. Self employment isn't worth shit here unless you've built up a huge business over time. Thankfully there was one bank who'd work with us. And I have an established father-in-law in the Big City willing to co-sign, etc.
All of this is part of the culture in the US too. But in Canada, you really are a nobody if you're a secret agent.
Humbling. A nobody. Seems like something I should embrace...
Our limbo period will end (or begin to end) two weeks from this writing. We are scheduled to close on a house very much akin to the old undisclosed neighborhood we called home in west Texas.
I am appalled at housing prices here but maybe I'll get over it.
Meanwhile there is little to report as I spend almost all of my time doing construction or remodel work with a cousin in River Dog or in-laws in The Big City. We are currently in The Big City for what plans to be our last stay of the limbo period.
And for those interested in dealings of the past, Ben Kenobi is en route the the Fair Mo' City as of this minute. A trusted agent who has diligently replace my duties with Kenobi is in the process of transporting him to a new care home from the one in Waco. Ben was really unhappy in Waco. So it goes.
But new reports and adventures to come soon. Stay tuned...
I recently received a letter from Ben Kenobi. I forgot that we had left our cousin's PO Box with him. I am happy and surprised it came as his hand writing is difficult to read, the address is long with a wacky Canadian postal code, and it was under postaged.
He wrote no less than five times how he no longer has a home to return to. He's pretty unhappy in the care home in Waco. And the thought of no longer having his own space and property is distressing him.
I was shocked that he volunteered to sell his place and move somewhere new.
I can assume some of his distress is akin to my own culture shocks and dealings with lack of home space. But thankfully, we will be in a home within three weeks. So it goes.
Steve and I live parallel lives in and around River Dog. I met Steve at a kid's playground near the waterfront one evening.
My 5-year old son, Offspring #1 (or O1), had spent a couple of days in kindergarten at River Dog Elementary. The school teachers were testing him out to see if he would do well next year to start his school career in grade one. He passed, so O1 officially skips kindergarten and enrolls this fall. On the waterfront playground, O1 recognized a kid from his class that week and began playing with him. Eventually I met this kid's parent's near by.
Steve grew up on a farm outside of River Dog. He left in the 1980's at age 18 never to return (until recently). He met a japanese gal while living in japan and married. They raised their three kids (all the same age as mine) in Taiwan until he decided to get a MBA at a school in Edmonton this fall. His family immigrated back to Canada and are currently living on the family farm until their move for his schooling this fall.
We have since run into each other at the grocery store, post office, and a school carnival. But that's typical small town antics.
Same age. Married to women of different nationalities then ourselves. Three kids in the same age range. Living with family in a limbo period in River Dog. Even discovered we both have an affection for 1960's-70's psychadelic prog rock.
I hope to have coffee with Steve when I return to River Dog this week.
After being in the new country for eight weeks I finally called an old friend, mentor, catfish nugget fry-cook and Red Fox stunt double.
Ben Kenobi moved away from the city of our last assignment the exact same month we did. He is now 93 and has been living in a care home in Waco, TX with two nieces nearby.
We bitched and laughed about adjusting to our new lives and surroundings. Me: how Canada won't let me legalize my truck and the ridiculous expenses here. Him: how the care-home workers won't let him get out of bed by himself or dress himself. He claims that he's losing strength every day by not doing basic necessities for himself anymore.
I'm thinking Ben Kenobi has the rougher deal than me.
God, bless him and keep him sane.
During this limbo period my family has been living with my wife's parents at their acreage outside of the Big City. It's been both wonderful and oppressive at the same time.
Wonderful, in that there's plenty of space and privacy, plenty of remodeling work either with my father-in-law or at my wife's sister's house, and plenty of get-away/retreat like environment.
Oppressive, in that my in-law's are steeped in mine and my wife's church heritage and religious culture. They mostly associate with other church people. And there's many unwritten rules and cultures which they seem happy to indoctrinate my small children with. Most of these have to do with keeping that damned outside of the cup polished. But I digress.
So after being in the Big City and away from the wonderful environment the creator is brewing in River Dog, I feel lonely. And stuck in a church-only world
But then I meet Wally. He's the 50-ish basement dwelling next door neighbor to my sister-in-law where I do work most of the week. He offered me coffee one day while watching me tear out a deck. How could I refuse.
Wally use to do contract work as well as trucking. He seems to be impressed with my skills. He's given me great advice when I was removing a defunct chimney flue and has even given me a pocket sized book on Canadian building codes.
He seems like an aged neo-hippie intellectual. Right up my alley. I don't think my in-laws would have ever associated with him.
Funny. The guy the church people never noticed has become my friend.
Wally is the only guy I've ever met in Canada that's reached out to me and acts like he gives a damn.
Thank you creator.
This is too early for culture shock to set in. It's only been seven weeks since our arrival.
In my thorough preparation for this move, culture shock wasn't supposed to hit until the dead of winter when the sun hasn't shown in a month and I craved spicy mexican food.
Culture shock wasn't supposed to come in the form of insane amounts of money paid to the government owned auto insurance to cover a vehicle...or any other auto related legalization.
I'm getting mildly depressed. I was hoping we wouldn't go broke before we settled in to our new house. So it goes.
It's been six or seven weeks since my immigration and thus new assignment change. No big deal.
Despite all the smart-ass talk friends back home made of Canada, and the comment my father said about this move being "the biggest mistake" I'll ever make, I'm confident we are suppose to be here in River Dog, Saskatchewan.
But opening the mail today at my new PO Box was sobering: I received my new driver's license/photo ID. It hit me to see my face on a ID that said "Saskatchewan" and not "Texas".
I guess it's settled. I'm not on a summer long holiday at the in-law's.
I'm here.
For those not in the know...
The basic gist of our new assignment has something to do with this local Reach Out ministry. It is basically a hang-out joint with coffee, clothing, and occasional lunch throughout the week. It serves the local poverty culture which in River Dog, Saskatchewan if not all of Canada, revolves around native or aboriginal people.
This is a society and culture I am still gathering info on. Gathering as in submerging myself and observing. But a few books doesn't hurt either.
Amazingly, the Reach Out is not run by any church. It was formed by an alliance of churches in town (six maybe) and is loosely affiliated with them today. The hands on operation is run by Auntie, the matriarch of one of the local native bands. She is utterly amazing. Just a simple aging woman who is related to half the town and somehow fell in love with Jesus during her life. She is an undercover agent, yet one of "them" as well. A strategic positioning by the creator in my view.
My wife's cousin Trina and her husband Mark are very associated with this group. They have been on its board in the past and so forth. These cousins have been instrumental in our being here. And when we are in River Dog during this limbo period we live with them.
I haven't had much chance to hang at Reach Out. But I suspect it could become a fair part of our lives soon.
I have been battling a mild depression for the past week. It's part culture shock, part limbo phase doldrums, and part being bent over and raped by the Canadian Register of Imported Vehicles.
My beloved black ten year old Ford pickup (formerly know as "back-n-black", currently renamed "the outlaw") cannot pass both provincial and federal inspections due to lack of air bags. It was originally equipped with airbags but a previous owner wrecked it and I bought it as is. Hey, I got a good deal.
But after $700 of trying to make this truck legal, I learned of this dead-end air bag fate. After pleading and begging for mercy to the federal outfit in charge to no avail, I have resolved to sell the outlaw back in the good ole US...where safety standards are second fiddle to getting a good deal.
The RIV wouldn't accept my request to refund the $200 inspection form fee. So it goes. I am not a victim. Time to cut my losses and move forward.
Mental note Canada: there's a Texas hornet nest in your midst.
But on a positive note: this morning we not only got a positive inspection report on the house we are buying, but we somehow managed to jump all 49 hoops and get our Sask driver's license. It's much more difficult to get a driver's license or anything related to driving in Canada than it is to receive health care or govt insurance number.
This was a huge positive note. I'll take all the encouragement I can get these days. Thank you creator.
Greetings all. I debated whether to blog ever again or not. I think I need it, personally. Join me on this ego-parade, will you?
As you may know, the family and I have recently joined the agent relocation program and have been assigned to a new place approximately 1600 miles away from our last assignment. We have been placed in River Dog, Saskatchewan - population 1900.
Since our border crossing (and my immigration) in late May, we have been in a major limbo period of our lives. And honestly, we're dealing with it well. It's getting old. But as of this writing, we are under contract for a house. And if all goes well, it looks like the creator of the universe (COTU) is placing us in a neighborhood very similar to our last assignment in the southern US: border-line poverty, lower income, blue collar etc.
With the price of houses even in small town Sask, no wonder people around here are broke. Six-figure prices my ass. Never knew how good I had it down south.
We have been traveling back and forth from River Dog and three hours away in The Big City (not to be confused with the nearby Capitol City). We stay with cousins in River Dog and with my in-laws in The Big City. And we travel based on my work opportunities and who can stand to keep us at the moment. It's getting old.
One of our main reason for being here is to join in with the local Reach Out center. It is run by an elderly native woman who I am in slight awe of. I think I really respect her. Unfortunately I haven't been able to be there much due to the limbo era, etc. More to come.
In future episodes, I'll introduce the new cast of characters such as my wife's cousins, the folks at Reach Out, the locals I've met on the street, etc.
It's good to be back in the defunct blogosphere. I think.
I've been under attack much lately, if not for the past three months. And that's OK, as I finally recognize what all of this is.
