28. Another reason Canada has a major grudge against Hawkinson: Secret War, Chapter 1

He likes to write nonsensical stuff that for the most part makes fun of all that is Canada, and such an activity is likely to displease and provoke a whole lot of people.

The title says it all . . .

The Secret War between Canada and the United States and Alaska, Too, and other Misadventures too Numerous to
go into Here or even Summarize or even Begin to Discuss . . . because, let’s
face it, it’s all Just a Little Too Confusing . . .

Chapter One

I awoke with a start, sweating, yet cold, sensing danger all around me. The phone was ringing—seven, eight, nine times. I resisted answering. The voice on the other end almost always meant another dangerous assignment. And the paperwork afterward was just a chore. There were, unfortunately, the practical consequences of not answering—including having the power cut off frequently, which is sometimes a bad thing in Squamish, a little coastal village north of North Vancouver because it gets cold and raw and overly foggy in the winters . . . and sometimes, unfortunately, not answering meant a personal visit from the voice on the other end of the phone.

The fog was particularly opaque on this early morning in February, as it was most mornings in the waning months of winter, in a little village north of North Vancouver. It was like leftover pea soup, only with the addition of 100% unpasteurized whole cream and a little eggnog thrown in from last Christmas. (Coincidentally, the nearby “canning” factory was, as long as I had lived in Squamish, redolent of stale eggnog and poorly distilled rum manufactured by a clan of corrupt Jamaicans, who substituted imported rhubarb for the locally grown sugar cane, but that’s a story for another chapter.) 

After coffee and three aspirin, I looked out the window leading to the driveway and saw a blank page. Not even the garbage can next to the front door was visible. Yet something tugged at me. Information was waiting for me. Urgent information.  How I knew, I didn’t know. I just knew I had to check the mail.

From my years of extensive covert training, I knew enough to tie a fishing line to my wrist—borrowed from the local fishermen, who always complained that they sensed the constant danger of an Inuit attack from, by rough and twisting road, about 3500 miles away, though they had  never had so much as a threatening or unpleasant phone call, email, or letter from any of the Inuit,

Ravens--bigger and smarter than crows, although
slightly less musical  and  substantially less choosy
about roadkill they're willing to pick at (should be
considered the national bird of Canada)

except for an 8-year old girl named “Walrus Stains.”  Addressed only to the “peepel of Skwamis,” her letter read in part, “Wite man stinki.” It was handwritten, and so did not enjoy the benefits of a spell checker. The rest of the letter would remain a mystery until many years later—when it could actually help rescue the scrubby Squamish fishermen, whose reluctance to smile hid their lack of even a basic dental plan.

The fishing line tied to my wrist, I carefully felt my way out to the mailbox, designed like a large Seahawk, painted fire engine red and sold to me at a moving sale by a little girl who would only refer to herself as W.S. She was a brutal negotiator. I ended up paying more than the price scotch taped to the label. Over the years, my Seahawk mailbox had been routinely defiled by the droppings of ravens and Arctic Terns. Sometimes a good insult is worth more than a hopeless frontal attack.

Letting the fishing line go slack, I unlatched the Seahawk and reached inside. In the distance, a raven caw-cawed. Or was it a crow?