Glenn Kubish

Let's quickly rewind how I somehow managed today to kind of get invited to Ethiopia. I am just back from Rogers Place in downtown Edmonton. I walked there with Averra to make sure he got to the proper entrance. He works housekeeping at the arena. He has been in Canada for just a few weeks. He wasn't sure where to go. This might have been his first day on the job. We got to the staff check-in after some good directions from a friendly face at the arena information desk. On the way to the arena we had talked about the weather. It's a windy evening in downtown Edmonton. Minus seven. But it feels colder. He said he was from Ethiopia and had come to Canada to join his wife. I said I don't know much about Ethiopia, but I know Addis is the capital. "a-DISS," he said, gently correcting my ADDis pronunciation. He told me the city has four million people, is inexpensive, has great food and, then, laughing, that it's always summer there. Averra and ...

Canada happened to me this morning at a red light at about 7:46 am on the corner of Jasper Ave. and 101 St. in the rain in Edmonton. "Do you need help getting somewhere?" I asked. 9700 Jasper Avenue? She had been standing on the corner while others shuffled by. She was holding a white sheet that had a Google map printed on it, and she was looking down, looking up, stepping, stopping, unsure. I was on my bike, stopped at the curb by the traffic light, waiting to pedal the last two blocks to work. I had been thinking thoughts that sometimes invade me at red lights. Petty grievances. Imagined conversations with real and imagined adversaries. Things I should have said yesterday. Or 15 years ago. A holiday next week. That oil slick in a puddle on the road. Michael Walters taking his instructions from Lorne Gunter in leading the charge to remove bike lanes. Still the wrong time on the clock outside Starbucks. "It's 9700 Jasper Avenue," she said, snapping ...

I think we can now get a better picture of what Canada's unknown solider might have looked like. The tomb of the unknown soldier is a feature of the National War Memorial in Confederation Square in Ottawa. The tomb holds the remains of an unidentified Canada soldier killed in France in the First World War. The idea is powerful: this soldat inconnu represents the Canadians who have served—army, navy, air force, merchant navy—and died, in the past, in the now, and in the future, in the name of this country. Reading those engraved words—The Unknown Soldier Le Soldat Inconnu—summons a foggy image. I hear the words and I see a featureless soldier wearing a steel helmet and for some reason I imagine I see hills. Or, do I somehow see the idea of that soldier and the idea of those hills? I can keep these wispy images framed for only a few seconds before they vanish. My experience has nothing else to anchor them in anything more solid. But the murderous events of October 22, 201...

( Quick Note From Me : This is an article written by Ottawa writer and friend, Margaret Baer-Opazo. It's about her cousin, the brilliant Patrick Anderson, the star of the Canadian men's Paralympic basketball team. But it's also about heroes and sons and figuring out who is worth looking up to.) In our cynical age of tainted athletes, doping scandals, and corruption, anyone watching the coverage of the 2012 Paralympics from London can see that disabled athletes have become our true heroes.  Huge crowds have been thrilled watching exciting performances by athletes showcased by the host British media as powerful and strong, “sexy” and “cool.” What the world is discovering now, my family has been watching for some time now. My cousin, Canadian Patrick Anderson, is widely considered to be the world’s best, most complete wheelchair basketball player.  Combining power, speed, pinpoint shooting, and vision, he is the LeBron James of wheelchair basketball,...

It's early August, and there is a message in the air that summer is about to fall. It seemed to happen overnight, but everything seems to happen overnight. Part of our birthright in this part of Canada is to bemoan the coming cold. We will throw all of our powers of engineering and poetry and denial at the fact that winter is a tough sled. It changes who and how we are. There is alchemy available. Water on the lawn can make a rink. But there is no denying that it's death, and death is not the best companion. How best to approach the looming verdict? I want to think about this this time around, because there may be some surprises. It certainly was surprising to hear myself singing along, even singing proudly, maybe, as Blue Rodeo's Greg Keelor sang, and we sang with him, Hasn't Hit Me Yet. It was 25 degrees, it was July, and there we all were belting it out into the mosquito-laced sky: I stand transfixed before this street light Watching the snow fall on this ...