Americans who live in northern New England have wonderful neighbors to the north and east, and should be more cognizant and appreciative of that. There is no better country with which to share a border than Canada. The only thing more admirable and likeable than the nation to our north is its citizens. On more occasions than I can count individual Canadians, many of whom were utter strangers to me, have helped me or done me a good turn simply because they chose to do so. I try not to generalize, but make an exception when it comes to positive stereotypes. In my experience Canadians have consistently been friendly, kind, helpful, welcoming, and inherently decent.
Spending a few days in the dominion used to be an annual ritual for me. A year didn¡¯t go by in the 1990¡¯s when I didn¡¯t spend at least a bit of time somewhere above the international boundary. I¡¯ve been to eight of the ten provinces, and am still kicking myself for not finding the half-hour or so necessary to cross the Saskatchewan border from Medicine Hat, Alberta, a city I was visiting on business 14 summers ago.
Thanks to an uncertain economy and the responsibilities involved with being a father to three young children it¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve taken a full-fledged vacation, but recently an opportunity arose to visit some friends in Quebec. It was subsequently determined that the time was right for such a trip, and for me to take our seven year old son and his five year old sister along for the ride. My wife agreed to stay home with our two year old, both to care for him and also to determine if or when he noticed that his siblings and their father were gone.
Some things have changed a great deal since I last drove to Canada. Ten years ago I stopped in Houlton to swap some currency. On that occasion I gave the lady at the bank one hundred American dollars, and received 154 Canadian dollars in exchange. Last week I went to a local bank, gave the teller $100, and in return got 100 Canadian dollars, plus three quarters with George Washington on them.
Accompanied by a friend with the patience of Job who agreed to serve as our navigator, we departed last Friday at 9 AM, and after stops in Skowhegan, Jackman, and at customs, arrived in Quebec City at around 4. Our host genially welcomed us, then handed us tickets for the baseball game he had arranged for us to see. The Canadian-American League-leading Quebec Capitales were hosting the cellar-dwelling Ottawa Rapidz that night.
Much of the crowd was still settling into their seats at Stade Municipal when starting pitcher Karl Gelinas, who once toiled for the AAA affiliate of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, fired a first pitch strike to Jared Lemieux, Ottawa¡¯s centerfielder and leadoff hitter.
At that point time out was called. The manager of the Capitales popped out of the dugout. Why was Michel LaPlante, the tall, youthful looking Quebec skipper who once played for minor league teams affiliated with the Pittsburgh Pirates, Atlanta Braves, and Montreal Expos, headed for the mound? Was Gelinas injured? Had he thrown a pitch other than the one called for by catcher Patrick D¡¯Aoust? Was LaPlante angry at the home plate umpire after just one pitch?
The answer was ¡°None of the above.¡±
LaPlante called his infield together to let them know that they had just made history. Gelinas, D¡¯Aoust, first baseman Patrick Scalabrini, second baseman Jean-Michel Rochon-Salvas, shortstop Israel Gonzalez, and third baseman Patrick Deschenes are all from the province of Quebec, and for good measure, so was home plate umpire Yves Lamontagne. It was the first time that an all-Francophone infield (including the pitcher and catcher) had ever been on the field together in a professional baseball game at any level. The Capitales went on to trounce the visitors 9-3, and one of their 11 hits was a home run by Scalabrini, a former Baltimore Orioles farmhand.
Saturday we drove up the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, making numerous stops along the way. We re-crossed the border at Fort Kent, spent Saturday night at a hotel in Madawaska, and stopped by Hartland, New Brunswick en route home Sunday morning to check out the world¡¯s longest covered bridge.
Ordinarily I love talking about my experiences, but in this case it¡¯s far easier for me to write about our just-completed three day, 882 mile whirlwind trip than it is to discuss it. My friend, my children, and I all had a blast, but how can I tell anyone about what we did in Montmagny, Riviere-du-Loup, Pohenegamook, and Saint-Honore-de-Temiscouata when I can¡¯t even pronounce the names of those places?
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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