I thought I was prepared for yet another Green Bay winter. I knew it would not be easy, despite Elise. There was the question of what people would do after the first of the year when anyone who had 2 sous to click together headed south like any sensible person and found some sun. South now meant traveling into Louisiana and an unknown -- but probably hostile -- reception. Would Green Bay residents actually reside in Green Bay in January? Would I? Ouch.
What I wasn't prepared for was my first fight with Elise. Before I describe that, let me reassure you I will describe the latest incidents in the civil conflict underway in Canada, and I also want to describe the early efforts at westward explorations. You will recall that Marquette had told the world that just up the Missouri was a short path to the Pacific. That led to all kinds of problems worth describing, especially since they had ramifications in the current conflict. But, trust me here, the fight with Elise matters. Of course it matters to me, but I think it may also help my fellow Americans better understand Canadian culture.
It started with a hammer. You will recall that I bought a house for us in October. It was just behind her parent's home, and actually a pretty attractive place. But of course it had been build by the French, so it had a furnace that ran when the mood struck it, lights that dimmed whenever the refrigerator compressor came on, plumbing that rattled whenever the toilet was flushed, and, my favorite, wind that blew through the place at about 5 mph -- on a good day. In short, it was a paragon of French workmanship.
I started working on the place as soon as I could. Where could I start? It didn't matter. There wasn't anything in the house that didn't need to be redone. One weekend I insulated the attic. I discovered that old newspaper had once been the insulation of choice. Much as I might have liked reading up there, I decided maybe it was time for some fiberglass. Another weekend I caulked. I started with 5 tubes of caulk, went back to the store for 5 more, and then just gave up and bought a case. I am sure the place had been caulked once in the last century, but I am sure no one could pinpoint the correct decade.
All these things I could do largely out of sight of Elise. She knew I was having some work done on the house, and we had even worked through floor plans and alternative layouts for bedrooms, closets, and the like. She knew I was doing something. But maybe the key here is she knew I was having something done. Then one Saturday afternoon she came home and found me with a hammer. I was in the midst of knocking out a wall so we could have a larger master bedroom. I was covered with dust, the room was covered with dust, the air was filled with dust, you get the idea. I was also hot and sweaty, but pretty excited about how the room might turn out. So I was not ready for her question.
"What are you doing?" Even though it was a Saturday, she was still putting in long hours at the ministry, so she was dressed well and my first thought was that the house was no place for someone dressed as nicely as she was
"I'm taking out the wall we talked about. Don't come in here, but can you see how the master bedroom will now extend along the south wall? We can put our new closets in here, while the bed goes here..." I went into tour guide mode, pointing out where the new walls would go. It all seemed pretty good to me, but she still seemed confused.
"But what are you doing?" Now I was confused.
"I am taking out the wall we talked about. Remember the plans we drew up a couple weeks ago?"
"I remember the plans, but why are you knocking down the wall? Where are the workmen?"
"I thought it would be simpler if I did it myself." Being culturally sensitive I didn't say that I would no more want a Canadian contractor in my house than carpenter ants.
"But you will need help for this."
"Not really. It will make a bit of a mess, but I can haul the old plaster out, and then rebuild the walls where we had planned. It's not that complicated."
"Are we poor?"
"No. The university pays me well, and I also get money from my father's business..." Was I supposed to show her my checking account? We hadn't compared finances yet. Maybe I should have somewhere along the line. But now didn't seem the right moment.
"In Canada, successful people have work like this done by contractors." How could I respond? That successful Canadians have really low standards? Probably not.
"I am an American. In America, it is a point of pride for men to do their own projects."
"You're in Canada now."
"But I am still an American." In retrospect, I could see the conversation could have gone is so many directions -- her being angry and maybe shouting, or maybe her nodding her head in acceptance. Either of those would have been preferable. Instead, she just stood looking at me, the expression on her face saying she was hurt - really hurt.
"You are American. I am Canadian. What will the children be?" All this from knocking down some plaster? This might have been a good time for a hug, but I was far too messy to even come near her. What could I say?
"They will be ours." She nodded. I hoped that was some sign of acceptance, but how could I tell? She slowly backed down the hallway and out of sight. I put down the offending hammer and headed for a shower. I had repair work to do this evening, and it involved more than pipes and plaster.
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