Most of my friends are considerably younger than me, as in, “I am old enough to be their father” younger than me. Our age difference is not an issue. It is not apparent in our conversations, at least from my perspective. My friends, of course, see what I do not: a white-haired man talking. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Occasionally, however, like a poker player’s tell, I will say something that instantly marks me as from a different generation. Usually, it is me quoting some iconic, funny line from a television show I grew up watching. Not only are my friends unfamiliar with the iconic line, but they usually have never even heard of the television show.
Two little boys, ages 8 and 10, were very mischievous. They were always getting into trouble, and their parents knew all about it. If any mischief occurred in their town, the two boys were probably involved.
On my recent visit with family in Canada, I was not surprised when one of my brothers called me “Pasquale.” He has called me Pasquale as long as I can remember but I don’t remember why. He has nicknames for other family members, their origins more easily recognized, yet, I am Pasquale, and we are not Italian.
Labels can get you into trouble if you don’t know fully what it is to which they refer. A case in point: I was born and raised in a part of Canada where all Americans, northerners and southerners alike, are called “Yankees.” You can imagine the firestorm that ignited when, after I moved to South Florida, in ignorance, I called a native Floridian a Yankee. His eyes blazed, his body went rigid, his face blossomed red, and his nostrils flared to accommodate the building steam. I was grateful that all I received that day was a short, very intense lesson in American history with extra emphasis on what my friend called, “the war of northern aggression.” The label “Yankee” no longer resides in my vocabulary.
Have you ever had to write letters of recommendation for someone? They are often needed for academic purposes like scholarships or entering levels of higher education. They are often needed for seeking employment.
My wife and I just spent a week in Canada visiting my family. Gasoline in Canada is sold by the litre (that is how Canadians spell it), and it is expensive – north of $1.30 per litre, over $5 per gallon. The gas prices turned out not to be an issue for us because, following my sister’s advice, we did not drive our vehicle while in Canada. With the increased tariffs and our president’s talk of annexing Canada, there has been a surge in national pride and an increased dislike of the United States expressed in the vandalizing of cars bearing American license plates.
I frequently hear, and often said myself that our society has become more and more selfish when it comes to personal matters. It seems to have become every person for himself or herself, becoming the focus of all their attention.
We have had some beautiful sunsets of late on the Florida panhandle courtesy of drifting smoke from some Canadian wildfires. On behalf of my fellow Canadians, “You are welcome!”
