We were sitting in IKEA eating some undelicious fish and chips when the professor looked at his phone. ‘Hmmmph, so that Canada Day party is today, not Monday. And we’re supposed to raise the flag.’
My less than administratively inclined better half has a colleague who hosts a Canada Day party every year. It’s usually on July 1, but this year – for reasons unknown – they changed the day of the party. And the professor couldn’t remember if it was the day before or the day after, but he knew it wasn’t on the day.
After dropping my mom off at the airport earlier that morning, we’d headed south to Deerfoot Meadows in an attempt to expend some of the day’s 24 hours. And also to avoid facing the hovel that had become our home.
We’d spent time looking at kayaks in Atmosphere, bought glowsticks in Michael’s and shorts for the boys at the Gap Outlet. The professor had reluctantly [inadvertently] agreed to a day of errands in exchange for an uninterrupted viewing of Sunday’s Euro Cup Final.
And then he dropped the Canada Day party bomb just as I had visions of continuing the Saturday, house-avoiding fun at the Farmer’s Market. And Costco. And Winners. And we couldn’t even skip the party or go late because we had to raise the flag.
We’ve attended the party for the past three years and every year, they have non-Canadians raise the flag. The first year it was an Australian family who’d spent a year or two in Calgary. Last year it was the professor’s other American colleague. And this year it would be the Johnsons.
Or Percy, with some assistance from his dad.
Yes, rather than endure the spotlight, the older boys and I stood to the side and ‘allowed’ our bonafide Canadian family member to do the hard work.