Westward Ho

To Vancouver, there to cement a certain land purchase that had come to my attention in the Okanagon valley. Put simply, a winery had gone bust, but after some research I discovered that the terroir in question, while unsuitable for growing any grapes that would result in a potable wine, could support sugar beets perfectly. A sum of money was made available, and the acreage was mine.

This was of great relief to the previous owners, a nice couple who had high hopes of becoming world famous vintners only to have those hopes crushed by an unforgiving soil. Now, I was informed, they were going to take the money from the sale and invest in -- ginseng. I tried to explain that ginseng was a difficult thing to grow (it aims to commit suicide from the very moment the seed sprouts) but to no avail. Off they went, and Blake's words surfaced in my mind: "If the fool persists in his folly, he will become wise." One can but hope.

I got in touch with Bohdan, who supervises my largest sugar beet holding in Ukraine, and he agreed to take some time away and set up the Okanagon enterprise. "Besides," he said, "now that Yuliya was no longer in power, things are in the process of sorting themselves out with Victor, and this is slowing things down a bit. So a little break would be timely."

Hmm. I guess a trip to Ukraine will be necessary, and he was right about the fair Yuliya. My information had it that she had taken up with Vladimir Putin. Well, if anyone can get her to lose that silly braid, it will be him.

Then the Premier of British Columbia called.

Apparently news of this just-formed sugar beet holding was very well received, and the Premier would like to offer his congratulations. This did not surprise. The enterprise would employ a goodly number of people, and politicians are always attracted to good news that can possibly impress the electorate. Transparent government and all that. Unless the news is not so good, in which case transparency tends to be non-existent.

I found the Premier, Gordon Campbell, to be warm and accommodating. We got along well, and I complimented him, and also his province, for handling the Olympics so well.

"I particularly liked the closing ceremony," I said. "Took guts, that did."

His curiosity piqued, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Those idiotic beavers. The insane Canada geese. The lumberjacks. The whole thing was a hoot, and made me proud to be a Canadian. Not every country has the ability, or the will, to laugh at itself."

"Yes, although the RCMP were not exactly delighted. Those uniformed girls in mini-skirts, you know. Got a communication from the brass that this portrayal hurt the image of the force, as well as demeaned Canadian womanhood."

"Really. Bloody nonsense in my opinion." And I immediately made a mental note to send a blistering letter to the RCMP Commissioner. I'll give him Canadian womanhood in spades.

After a small toast to the wonders of the sugar beet, we parted good friends. As I left his office, I thought again of the closing ceremony, and recalled the words of a wise rabbi I had once known when stationed in Tel Aviv: "It may be to laugh in the face of death is courageous, but to laugh in the face of life is absolutely heroic."

Got that right.