By CHRIS RIDEOUT
And That Was When columnist
A long time ago, when I was in my teens, there weren’t any barbecues. At least I don’t remember seeing any. I never heard anyone talk about them either.
Now that may be because my parents were communists, but probably it was because barbecues had not been invented in Canada. Canadian bowling alleys were still using pin-boys, for heaven’s sake.
But America was in the air, all around us. Made in the U.S.A. was everywhere because China didn’t exist, at least to us. The cars were American, the popular music was decidedly American and we loved it. We sat in front of the radio at lunch to listen to the new invention — rock and roll. We waited in suspense for the daily Top Ten and cheered or groaned at the ever-changing rankings. We hardly knew that we were Canadians, immersed as we were in American culture. I mean, sure, we sang O Canada in the morning at school, but we didn’t really associate it with us.
The only time we ate outside was when my dad made a little fire in the backyard and we toasted hot dogs and marshmallows. All the families on my street cooked inside in kitchens. So, as I pointed out, barbecues, barbecue coals and barbecue lighter fluid were way in the future and you can’t miss what you’ve never had.
In my title I mention an American girl. This is not meant to overlook all the Canadian girls. No way. Of course there were girls in my school, playing soccer, taking ballet lessons and just being normal, everyday, nice girls. But somehow they weren’t American girls.
Shows like American Bandstand proved this. As I said, there were girls in Canada, but the girls on American Bandstand were, well, American.
Around about that time I joined a so-called “youth group,” which was part of my dad’s church. It wasn’t a communist church, it was Unitarian, which, if you know it, is close. I didn’t want to join, but my dad insisted. What I had not known was that there were girls in the group. Actual girls who were smart and well-dressed. I don’t know why that was important to me, but at the time it seemed to be.
Unitarian in Canada was called Unitarian Universalist in the U.S.A., similar but less communist. Universalists had real churches, with pews and stuff, while Canadian Unitarians held services in abandoned movie theatres and basements. But for me, the best part was that our group got to go on exchange conferences with our American counterparts. I am getting to the American girl, hang on.
Compared to the young people we met in the states, we were innocents. The Americans were cooler, more sophisticated and richer. We kids from Toronto were hopelessly outclassed. They were far more aware of politics, current events and — they had pizza. There was no pizza in Toronto, nor would there be for a few more years. American pizza was just sauce, cheese and 22 round slices of pepperoni. But to us it was wildly exotic and we ate it whenever we could. Sure our group had girls, but the American girls knocked us out with their awareness and sophistication.
One American girl in particular that I met at one of these conferences lived in Ithaca, New York, and her dad was a professor at Cornell University. We wrote heartfelt letters back and forth. Then she surprised me by inviting me to attend her high school graduation. I really wanted to go. My mother couldn’t understand why I would want to go visit a girl in a foreign country. My dad said nothing.
The border guards were startled when I walked across the Peace Bridge to Buffalo, New York, which, if you know it, is long and not really designed for pedestrians. They demanded to know where I thought I was going. I said to see a girl and they nodded. Like my dad. I had to hitch-hike to Ithaca from Buffalo (you could look it up). I often wonder what her parents felt when they saw me. I wasn’t very tall, I was covered in pimples (or that’s how I felt), and I was Canadian.
American high school grads were unlike any we had in Canada. The phase “over the top” comes to mind. Gowns and coloured cassocks, degrees framed like priceless paintings, speeches that went on forever, photographers, well, you get the picture. My newfound friend posed beside her proud parents, with her dad sneaking furtive looks at me, wondering what I was doing there. Had she not told him, I wondered? But back to the barbecue.
To mark his daughter’s triumphant graduation (it was only high school, for heaven’s sake!) he was going to cook chicken for supper. He was going to cook it on a barbecue. Can you see where this is going? Of course you can. Her dad asked me if I would keep an eye on the chicken. Well, sure, sir.
In the backyard there was a round thing standing on three legs. It was a barbecue, the very early kind. It was heaped with raw chicken. Not only had I never seen a barbecue, I had never cooked anything. But I wanted to be polite to her dad, so I stood there and kept an eye on the chicken.
The heap of chicken began to smoke a bit and I thought, good, it’s cooking. It wasn’t until I saw the flames that I thought maybe something was wrong. Fortunately, her dad made everything alright after he scraped the cinders that had been the first layer of chicken off the grill. And gave me a look I can still remember. I got much the same look from the American girl.
He was a nice man and I really liked his daughter and had a good time there, but after a couple more days he took me aside and offered to drive me to the bus station. It won’t take long, he said. It’s not far.
Editor’s note: The writer emphasizes that he wrote this column long before the advent of the Trump U.S.A.