Glenn Kubish

Russia has tugged at me for a long time. As a boy in a house with a Bible and an Edmonton Journal subscription, I followed the acts of a small number of characters in the bigger world: the Apostles, the NHL stars, and Russian and American politicians. My young imagination was peopled by, basically, St. Paul, Phil Esposito, Bobby Orr and Ken Dryden, with room for Nixon, Ford, Brehznev, Gromyko, Chernenko, and, later, Reagan, Andropov, and Gorby. Kharlamov The Canada-Russia hockey series in 1972 captivated us. We watched games in assembly in the school gym on giant TVs that sat on wheeled legs. After school, when a friend in net made a great save during a road hockey game on 67 St, someone would invariably yell "Tretiak!" It was the highest compliment. Indoors, we spent hours and hours playing Coleco table hockey. My friend across the lane, Brucey Straka, spray-painted red a squad of plastic players. We replayed the 1972 series until some time in late 1979. Valer...

Here we were in Red Square five days ago in a photo composed by our friend from Saskatoon, Felipe Gomez. The rest of the photo, namely Saint Basil's Cathedral, was constructed around 1555 on orders from Ivan The Terrible. We stopped for the pic during the Moscow Bike Parade, which drew a few thousand bicycle riders onto the closed streets of Russia's capital city. Here is some of what I saw: Nena was in my head for a lot of the trip, actually. I have realized how big a role Russia played in forming my imagination as a late child of the Cold War. In those good old days, I knew two categories of public figures: NHL players and politicians. Esposito, Orr, Dryden, Nixon, Ford, Trudeau, Gromyko, Brehznev. With her 99 red balloons, and her "this is it, boys," Nena walked onto that landscape. I still see red balloons. Moscow subway station