HORNBY ISLAND, BRITISH COLUMBIA – Every small town has its kaffeeklatsch – a gathering of geezers who devote an hour of their morning to solving the world’s problems over a cuppa joe.
In Jamestown, California, where I got my start in the news biz in the 1980s, the gents at the Jimtown Diner humbly called themselves the Table of Knowledge.
In Marshall, Missoura (as the locals pronounced it) in the 1990s, when my ex’s uncle introduced me as a professor at Penn State, the response was, “How’s that ol’ Joe Paterno?”
Here on Hornby Island for the past couple of mornings, I’ve emerged from my tent at sunrise, walked the length of the beach in the company of an army of tiny sand crabs and a solitary heron, then drank my first coffee of the day in the company of a half-dozen islanders.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling brave and reportorial, I insert myself into these confabs and am asked why I want to waste my time listening to a pack of lies. On this occasion, groggy from a night in a sleeping bag on a sleeping pad, I merely eavesdrop. The conversation ranges from truck motors to electric ferries to what the Finns will do if the Russians invade (!?).
A late arrival lashes three dogs to my picnic table. Knowing I’ve been listening, one of the fellas tells me not to be surprised if the dogs drag me down to the beach. “Beats walking,” I say (the best I can do, quip-wise, on short notice).
I’m used to the participants in these gatherings wearing ball caps and blue jeans and western shirts. One of the Hornby Islanders has a long white beard, tie-dyed shirt and socks and shiny yellow shoes — the kind of guy who looks like he went to a Grateful Dead concert a half-century ago and never came back.
His presence, combined with the long-haired, long-skirted girls twirling to the music at a local festival; the flyers for yoga, pilates and message; the vegan this and gluten-free that; and the daisy-decorated sign at the campground gate that tells us “it’s nice to drive slow,” suggest that we are visiting an outpost of latter-day counter-culturalism.
Canada had its own homegrown hippies back in the day — the tie-dye guy in the yellow shoes could very well be one of them — but with so many Americans talking of waiting out the Trump regime north of the border, I wondered how many of the Hornby old timers, their kids and grandkids are the product of that earlier wave of Vietnam-era resisters. “Lots,” I was told.
From the Maritime provinces to British Columbia, tens of thousands of young Americans waited out the war in Canada rather than fight in it. The town of Nelson, British Columbia, became known as Resisterville.
To this day, the emigres are condemned by some as shirkers, celebrated by others for following their conscience and, like today, criticized by still others for not staying home and fighting the good fight. Even Joan Baez thought opponents of the war should have been willing to go to prison for their beliefs, as her husband, David Harris, did, rather than flee the country.
Most of today’s talk about escaping to Canada is just talk. For one thing, it’s not as easy to move here as one might think, even for my wife and me, who, as grandparents of a Canadian-born child, are eligible for permanent resident visas. The soonest we could apply is next year. Whether we would be accepted would be the luck of the draw. So if a quick exit is called for, we’re out of luck.
For now, it’s just something to think about. One thing’s for sure: As lovely as it is – sandy beaches here, tide pools there — I couldn’t live on Hornby Island. You think State College is remote? It takes two ferries to get to this place, plus another three hours to get to the first ferry from Victoria.
The Big Island, as Vancouver Island is called, is another story. I’d move there in a heartbeat if we get to the point where we’re living under martial law and Trump’s perceived enemies are being rounded up and sent away — at which point, of course, it will probably be too late.
Not that Canada is paradise. One of the resisters interviewed for a story in Canada’s National Post, children’s book writer and musician Eric Nagler, offers this take on the differences between the U.S. and Canada:
“The United States government is run by a bunch of big-time criminals, and that’s more true now than it ever has been. In Canada, it’s run by small-time criminals. You know, you can get along here.”
But you can’t move here in a heartbeat.
