For five years I toiled at engineering in university. I and three buddies started, but I was the only man left standing at convocation time. Armed with new knowledge and a new code of ethics, I set out to conquer my own destiny, while my high school mates worked for the post office, the Canadian Pacific Railway or laboured at the local mine. Guess who is able to retire now with a full pension? Yep, not me. “I said you, I are an engineer, so’s I must be some smart.”
I placed myself in Buffalo, New York for a four month training program. The company was run by a school of “old boys”, the kind that drank lots of scotch, wore white shoes, said goddam a lot and referred to the waitresses as “sweetheart”. My work mates were from Tonawanda, Cheektowaga and Lackawanna. Yet they still thought it was hilarious when I told them I was from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.
The bars didn’t close until 4 am and we lived on the Canadian side in Fort Erie. Often in the wee hours of Saturday morning we’d be greeted by the border guard on the Peace Bridge asking the proverbial, “Do you have any fire arms or alcohol on your person, other than what you have consumed?”
Border guard with a sense of humor. Go figure!
