The fool that far is sent,
Some wisdom to attain,
Returns an idiot, as he went,
And brings the fool again.
G. Whitney
I tried to count the number of times either alone or with Anna, I travelled between Ontario and the west, but lost count above 20. By the west, I mean Saskatchewan, Alberta, or British Columbia.
I’ve done it by train, sitting up in a day coach all the way. Similarly, I’ve made the trip in a bus, getting off only to change coaches and eat. Things got better when we travelled by van, sleeping on a mattress in the back. When we journeyed west with a house trailer behind another van, we battled a defective hitch, a broken chassis, a disintegrating gearbox, and an exploding tire.
We’ve done it in various cars, old and new, stopping at cabins and motels, and later at hotels. Some of the cars broke down along the way, others crashed into things, seriously bending their bodywork and sometimes ours. And of course we’ve done it by air, the first time in a North Star with thundering big piston engines that belched noise and fire from exhaust outlets aimed toward the cabin.
On each trip I learned a valuable lesson.
As a kid on the early train trips, I got a rolling lesson in Canadian geography. Through the coach windows I saw deserted prairie farms, buildings empty and dust blown, and machinery abandoned in yards and fields. Leaning from the window between the coaches, I wondered at the rocks, forests, and lakes of the north and the rich farms and thriving cities of southwestern Ontario. I breathed in the rich smells of the forests and fields – when I didn’t choke on the smoke and ashes billowing back from the engine.
Right then I made a major life decision; I chose Ontario over the prairies.
During a car trip in the early 1950s, I learned a major lesson. When a big Oldsmobile entered my lane, I locked up the brakes on my brand new Chevrolet. Yes, I learned to appreciate the helpful police officers, ambulance drivers, and hospital workers – even the representative from the insurance company. But most of all I learned to pump my brakes or take evasive action before braking – a technique that later saved me from other crashes.
About three decades ago, we flew to Alberta for my brother’s funeral. When it came time to return, Air Canada had a strike. We did everything we could think of to get home, and when all else failed we opted for the bus. We learned at least two things on that trip. We discovered middle-aged people don’t respond well to long bus trips.
The inconvenience of that trip also went a long way in hardening my attitude toward unions that strike at times designed to cause maximum hardship.
Guess what? It almost happened again. Eight years ago, the pilots threaten to strike just as we planned to visit a millennium homecoming in the Alberta town of my youth. We had seriously considered abandoning our tickets and driving so we wouldn’t miss the celebration if a strike occurred. We did fly and Air Canada and the union remained at the bargaining table and settled things, saving us another bus trip.
As you read this, Anna and I have flown west again, but this time by WestJet. They don’t have a union because the employees own the airline. I have picked up a degree of wisdom, proving the poem above wrong in my case. I’m not quite as big an idiot as some people think.