The Sandwich

The power of a conversation

We are living in interesting times. Before today’s story, I’d like to acknowledge something new from my trusted collaborator. As we enter these interesting times, the notion of what it means to be a Canadian is being tested. Catherine’s response to recent events was to put her coding skills to work. Within ten days she has created a new iOS app that gives Canadians the opportunity to identify Canadian products, to help the many who want to be buying Canadian right now. Creation of the Android version is underway, thanks to her son Ryan.

I would really encourage you to download the app, try it and pass the link along to friends and family who might be interested. Find O SCANada on the Canadian App Store.

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Now, on with the story . . . In the spirit of Ground Hog day, here is a story that was previously published by CBC. Again, I would encourage you to pass it along to anyone who might be interested.

Well, elections have come and gone in North America, and will be coming soon once again. Democracy has made it through some sensitive heart operations, but we may find ourselves transferred to the ICU shortly. There certainly may be some concerns about who holds the knife.

The poor patient, our proud and vibrant Canadian culture, once happy with our innovative policies, our caring programs, our robust economy, our vital cities and world class rural advantage, is now coughing up some bad juju every morning as we face the daily news.

Like hearing our neighbour threatening us with a Ukraine moment.

So, every morning, my partner and I drink our black coffee, yell at the radio and count our daily losses. Sadly, for so many of us, those losses are an old friend or a family member, who now sees us as an enemy instead of just a weird thinker. We feel deeply the loss of respect for beloved institutions, the loss of the open conversation and the loss of finding each other while working together in the once cherished middle.

We ache for a time when an argument was just a difference of opinion, not cultish dogma and speaking points. For a time when religion and politics were just a choice, not a lifetime and one true belief system. We miss the time when both religion and politics were kept away from the dinner table and the possibility of ruining good food.

So, it came as a real surprise when one day, a while ago, a patio table, a root beer, and a sandwich conspired to lead me into a little insight for the cure, or at least maybe a little good medicine, for that intensive care patient.

It was a very warm day and as I walked through my inner-city neighbourhood, I came upon a new little back yard coffee shop. I believed I well deserved a sit down and a root beer.

And so, I did.

As I enjoyed my drink at the table, a young man with a bagged sandwich sat down at the table next to me.

He dug in.

I had yet to eat at this café and as I am a random talker by nature, I asked him how the sandwich was.

Fine sir, he replied.

I was not done. I asked a few more questions.

He answered.

Polite kid.

I suggested that perhaps instead of talking across the tables that he might consider joining me at my table.

He agreed but was careful to let me know that he had maybe ten minutes before he needed to get back to work. That’s just fine, I said, and we began to have a visit. As custom would have it, the conversation started biographical, before becoming more personal and interesting.

I believe we both became intrigued with how quickly we recognized our somewhat glaring differences. There were the clearly obvious contrasts. I was 76, he was maybe 36. I am white bread, he was rye. That was easy. Then we had to probe.

He was a business guy, I was a public servant.

He was a conservative. I was more liberal.

I was agnostic, he was Muslim.

I was a carnivore, him not so much.

I appreciated the vaccination, he was more sceptical.

He was a child of a strong old-world culture. I was a mutt.

I was a father and grandfather, him neither yet.

He was digital, I was analog.

As we talked, our voices changed, our guards let down and little smiles emerged.

Soon we danced a bit . . . let’s see where this old man stands on vaccines and let’s see where this kid sits on religious dogma.

It was not at all a conversation of trying to convince, trying to bait or trying to score points. It was just curiosity on a stick. We had a conversation around our politicians that would jump from hey, I never thought of it that way, to you know that’s a good point you have there.

As we boogied around our diversities, we stumbled over something we had in common, marriage. To him it was still new and mysterious. To me it was getting old (56 years) and frankly, even more mysterious. All of a sudden, the conversation got close and personal. We realized that both of us were struggling with being men trying to be better with women.

To perhaps overuse the metaphor, we were two ordinary guys stepping into our contrasts, but for one sweet moment we were in perfect pitch in the sameness of our simple coffee shop humanity.

I am sorry sir, he suddenly says, but I really need to get back to work. Ten minutes had turned into over an hour.

“Thank you, young man,” I reply.

We shake hands and to my regret, we will probably never see each other again.

I would like to believe that I discovered something unique that afternoon, but I did not. Turns out that others have discovered the same power of conversation moment and there is a “take the other to lunch” movement out there.

Good.

Sometimes the world needs big changes, I guess, but sometimes maybe it just needs some genuine curiosity around a sandwich.

Emotionally, these days, I feel like there’s bad people out there. But that memory of the sandwich made me realize the scary bits are not the people or the parties, but more the rigid beliefs and pretty scary ideas creeping in.

There's this one scary idea these days. It’s that the police, the journalists, the politicians, the scientists, hospital staff and teachers are somehow corrupted. Well, I spent fifty years in that territory and I saw a lot of things that could work better, be fixed and improved. However, I never wanted to tear down the places I worked for, wrote for, or championed for.

Even that old saw from my grandfather about throwing out the baby with the bathwater is lately stuck in my head. It seems like many folks feel the babies are just collateral damage in their fight over the water.

Maybe I still have too much hippie juice in my veins but I would rather fight bad ideas, not people.

I want to believe there's still hope and common ground in my country for tough conversations and flexible positions.

I still want to imagine the possibility of two differing politicians, two differing nationalities, two differing spiritual beliefs, two differing siblings, on an afternoon finding that one common point together over a smoked meat sandwich.

I would buy that sandwich.

Pardon my hope.