Sorry, Canada. Uncle Fister’s off his meds.

Iused to live near the Canadian border. The northern boundary of the folks’ ranch was a stone’s throw from the 49th parallel. There was a switchback road you could drive up to see the border itself – a 20-foot swath in the timber that stretched out to the horizon (that’s my son and brother-in-law in the photo).

Even back in the ’70s I remember thinking it was pretty incredible to have such a long, totally undefended border between two sovereign nations. Not even a fence, then. Sometimes, hiking or hunting, we’d stroll across the border just to say we had. Other days we’d drive through the border station at Roosville to pick apples or buy Labatt’s. Each way, the guards would make small talk and wave us through.

Then 9/11 happened. Then, 15 years later, so did Trump. Then Covid. And now, an older, meaner and more disordered Trump, who no longer seems to be kidding when he raves about annexing our more civilized neighbor to the north. Plus the tariffs. Don’t get me started about the stupid fucking tariffs.

Oh, Canada: I know things can never be the way they were. You’ve got every right to loathe us.  That lovely border might need defending now. All those years of quiet, stalwart friendship and now our Dollar-Store Mussolini has decided Putin's a better beau. This is the thanks you get. We may never know how or why – or even if – so many Americans came to vote for this singular loon, but the damage is done. 

You want to stop buying U.S.-made goods? Me too! Clear those shelves. Much of it is shit anyway. A lot of us down here – I suspect a small majority – would like to see a wide swath of corporate America pay a steep price for kowtowing to Trump.  

Meantime, I’ve still got half a jug of Canadian maple syrup in the fridge. I’m trying to make it last. And each time I deploy it to a pancake, I’ll say a benediction for our good neighbors to the north. Here’s to better times.