Carry a red flag

     As the blog will receive its millionth visitor today, I'm hosting a live chat party in the Party Room— the upper right hand side of the page — at 7 p.m. It's BYOB, but there will be music and conversation.  Dress is casual. 

    When automobiles first appeared on American roads, more than a century ago, they were considered unacceptably dangerous—too loud, too fast, apt to frighten the horses and run down pedestrians. Certain towns, in an attempt to minimize the hazard, enacted ordinances requiring that any horseless carriages traveling within city limits be preceded by a person holding a red flag, to warn of the approaching peril.
    Such laws were soon swept aside in our rush toward the future. But knowing about them left a lingering notion of a red flag, as a safety device, as being quaint and antique, firmly ensconced in what the great James Thurber once called "the halls and parlors of the past." A way to express caution that is rarely found today, perhaps at the occasional construction site, or maybe on a lifeguard stand to convey beach conditions, or planted, probably due to some arcane law, at the end of an extra-wide trailer truck.
     We were heading for the Lakeshore Arts Festival in Evanston's Dawes Park early in August when I was stopped dead in my tracks, while scooting with my family across Sheridan Road at Clark Street, by this singular sign. I told them to go on without me and I'd catch up after I marveled at the wonder.. 
     Under the sign, a cylinder to hold the flags.

     Empty, of course. There were no flags, though there used to be. A web site called "Legal Insurrection" posted this picture from a correspondent claiming they went up in 2012 as "a recent addition in a series of 'improvements' to this crossing where, to my knowledge, there has never been a mishap."
     A little research tells us the flags were featured in the Pedestrian Safety Evaluation Report delivered at a special Evanston City Council meeting on Aug. 6, 2012, recommending the city "Place crossing flags at all of the park crossings to alert the drivers when pedestrians are crossing the street." 
      About half a dozen intersections have them in Evanston, according to residents.
      Claire Zulkey, writing about the flags on the WBEZ blog, pointed out that pilferage by "hooligans" is a drawback to the system, though not the only one.  
     There is also mockery. The Daily Northwestern noted that a budding NU comic ridiculed the flags during his routine though, in amateur journalist fashion, did not detail what was said.  
     There is an exhausted carelessness to the flag idea, almost a kind of paradox: any crossing dangerous enough to require that pedestrians vigorously wave flags over their heads in an attempt to save their lives probably needs a stop sign or a streetlight, if not an overhead pedestrian bridge. The flag strategy smacks of cheapness and intellectual failure. It's something you would expect to see in North Korea, in lieu of expensive traffic lights.
     That said, the flag system is not without charm. I have never strode across a busy intersection madly waving a red flag over my head, but imagine the experience has a certain frisson, assuming you aren't run down by a truck in the process. You really need the aforementioned James Thurber to convey the feeling, which he conveniently has already done, in his 1939 illustration of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's chestnut "Excelsior." 
     I left the intersection with conflicting emotions. One, that I wished I lived in a society where people wouldn't steal the flags—college students are prone to pranks, and a bucket of red flags is an invitation to midnight theft if ever there were. You'd like to think that even sophomores drunk on punch and grain alcohol would pause before undermining even this sadly inadequate, fragile, jury-rigged yet somehow quaint system of pedestrian safety, but obviously they don't.
     Two, Evanston should stock the white cylinders or remove them. I felt positively naked, crossing flagless. If the flags are necessary, keep them supplied. If not, take down the signs. 
     Third, I know Evanston is a different sort of a town. But really, this is daft, a piece of performance art that somehow drifted into serious traffic management. It's something I'd expect to find in Oak Park.

But it's my right!

When in Chicago, Col. Ellsworth led a
famed group of Zouave soldiers.

       Americans are justly proud of our liberties.  Alas, over time, that pride has swelled to such an enormous size, it blocks our vision, and causes confusion between what can be done and what should be done.

     For instance. 
     My column Monday juxtaposed an Evanston woman confronting a group displaying a Confederate flag—on a towel, adding that low comedy touch—at the beach there, with Col. Elmer Ellsworth, the first Union officer to die in the Civil War after taking a stand against what he had called the "Secession Flag."
    Reaction, as you can imagine, was heavy and all over the place. Mostly positive thoughts from readers, I should point out. But also some who seemed more keen to highlight the right to display banners of treason and hate—as if I were unfamiliar with the Constitution—while ignoring the aggressiveness of the act.
     A prime example—and surprising, since it came from a regular reader—was this:

     Today’s column misses an important point, i.e. the Confederate flag displayers' First Amendment right to free speech. Like you and so many others, especially as an Evanston resident, I found the flag display was disgustingly racist. Still to be devil’s advocate, how is this any different than when Nazis marched years ago in Skokie and We’re defended by the ACLU?  Imagine the frustration if everyone at the beach just ignored the yahoos and their racist banner.  Just sayin’...

    I replied this way:

     Your email puzzles me. Of course I didn't "miss" that the oafs displaying their Confederate towel are within their Constitutional rights. What of it? That point seems a red herring. You are waving [the] 1st amendment when it comes to traitorous bigots advertising their creed. Yet urging silence upon decent patriotic Americans whom, last time I checked, enjoy the same 1st amendment rights. Are you certain you've thought this opinion through?  Thanks for writing.

    A number of people stressed this aspect.

    I agree with you about what the flag represents but it’s also there [sic] right to hang it and that’s the bottom line ?

     I replied:

     No one argues that. The losers displaying the flag have the right. Just as the patriotic Americans have the right—I believe the obligation—to pause and pour contempt upon them. Thanks for writing.

     Maybe the unspoken part is this: bigots are broken, frightened people. Airing their prejudices, as if they were a reason to be proud, is the closest they come to strength. Prejudice is a kind of philosophy for morons, and pushing back can seem like setting New York theater critics loose to pick apart the acting in a kindergarten play. 
     Thus silence is not only easier, it can seem kind. The problem is that the haters aren't satisfied. They take everything they can get and a little more. Today's beach towel becomes tomorrow's flag which becomes next week's new law. Having lost the Civil War in 1865, the losers inched back, until it almost seemed like they won. They're inching still. We see the result in the White House and all around. Hate is on the rise. Time to stamp it back down where it belongs, back into the sewer of shame from whence it came and must inevitably return.

‘Be brave for 30 seconds’ — and 159 years

Col. Elmer Ellsworth

     Elmer Ephraim Ellsworth and LaShandra Smith-Rayfield do not know each other. Yet. But I would like to introduce them. Well, at least I would like to introduce Col. Ellsworth to Ms. Smith-Rayfield.
     Sadly, I cannot likewise introduce Ms. Smith-Rayfield to Col. Ellsworth, time’s arrow being what it is. But I fancy he would have approved.
     Smith-Rayfield confronted a group displaying a large Confederate battle flag towel on the beach in Evanston last week. She didn’t just happen by. Those who just happened by did what most people do when just happening by something wrong: nothing.
     Smith-Rayfield hurried there and made a stand.
     ”It makes me uncomfortable in a place that I pay taxes and rent,” she told those sprawled before the rebel flag. “That right there is a racist symbol of hate.”
     Someone else at the beach — a “man of color” in Smith-Rayfield’s words — who later said he had hoped to have a private word with those displaying the flag, on the video says he’s a vet, he fought for free expression, the flag’s fine.
     “It’s not fine,” Smith-Rayfield replied. “It’s not fine. You teach your children to speak up about this kind of thing ... You fought for a flag that had 50 stars. They lost the battle.”

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Book man

Roger Carlson at Bookman's Alley (photo by Marc Perlish)

    Roger Carlson died earlier this week, at age 89. For decades he ran Bookman's Alley, an oasis of used books tucked in the alley behind Sherman Avenue in Evanston. He was an amused, twinkling presence, and I loved his store, and found some of my favorite books there. 
    Maureen O'Donnell gave him a fine send off. 
    I wrote about him a number of times, first in the Daily Northwestern, most recently when I had a signing at the new bookstore in the old Bookman's Alley space in September. This story ran over 30 years ago, and captures a little of his spirit, I hope. Then again, it should: it's very long. That's how we did it in those days. Ironic, now that the internet allows stories to run as long as we please, we keep them very short, because attention spans have shrunk, stunted by the siren call of the infinite variety awaiting us. 
     Notice toward the end how the 26-year-old me handled the fact that Mr. Carlson—as I always called him—was an alcoholic, who began the store as a way to get himself away from the temptations of the magazine ad industry and start life anew. I suppose I thought I was being subtle. 

     A young couple once wandered into Bookman's Alley and spent a half hour or so looking at the shelves filled with old books, walls covered with art and etchings, and displays of antiques, curios and collectibles. On their way out, they stopped by the cluttered desk of owner Roger Carlson and asked if he would ever consider selling any of his books.
     "They must have thought I was some low-rent museum run by the city of Evanston," laughed Carlson.
     Carlson does indeed sell his books, though it's easy to see how the store could be mistaken for something else. Part of the confusion comes from its unusual location. Bookman's Alley is not just a colorful name designed to evoke images of Paris bookstalls. The store actually is in an alley, off Sherman Avenue just north of Evanston's shuttered Varsity Theater. Carlson puts out a green flag in the alley to let people know when the store is open.
     Another reason Bookman's Alley might be mistaken for something else is its decidedly unstorelike atmosphere. Unlike most bookstores, Bookman's Alley has plenty of places to sit: 23 chairs, four couches and three stools, to be exact, not counting the stacks of folding chairs to handle the excess crowd when Carlson hosts occasional live musical events—usually string quartets or ensembles from Northwestern University's music school. Bowls of gumdrops and mints are set out for those who might be taking their lunch hour to pore over "many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore," to quote Edgar Allan Poe.
     The ambience is no accident nor an act of eccentricity, but part of a carefully thought-out plan.
     "It makes me feel comfortable; I like to work in attractive circumstances. I'm doing it quite consciously because I want people who are in here to feel comfortable. I want them to know that I enjoy their being in here. I don't want them to feel pressured. I want this to be an oasis for them. The end product of all this benevolence is I want to make a living and that requires some of them sometimes to buy books."
     The bookstore's location is the result of a compromise between Carlson's vision of what a bookstore should be and his severely restricted financial situation when he opened the store six years ago.
     "I wanted a lot of space. I envisioned using space essentially in the way I've done it - an open space, uncrowded, with lots of opportunity for people to sit down and think about things. I had, in essence, no money; that made it certain I had to find a garage or warehouse building where the rent was in my reach."
     What Carlson found was an old, windowless warehouse that was, ironically, completely isolated and within a half block of Evanston's central business district.
     "There are disadvantages to the location. The kind of person who needs to leave a trail of birdseed to get home has trouble finding this place and, beyond that, being in an alley is not good in a time when people have fears. Alleys do not conjure up the best associations. I once thought of putting an insurance machine at the entrance of the alley, for the small percentage of persons reluctant to enter an alley."
     Interspersed among the rows of books is a Victorian clutter of antiques, collectibles and near-junk plucked from Carlson's collection and cleverly tied in with the books' subjects. Near the shelf marked "Adventure Books" is a snowshoe, a harpoon, an antique model of a kayak, an Eskimo doll, a compass and a framed map from a Byrd Antarctic expedition. In the "Old West" section is a full-sized saddle resting on a sawhorse, along with chaps and several Stetsons hanging from hooks. An old map of Africa and a zebra skin watch over the African books. A detailed model of a three-masted ship, a wooden pulley and an iron double pulley act as bookends on shelves devoted to ships. An ancient Corona portable typewriter holds up books on the Paris Herald, Villard and Chicago press. Tucked in among books in the crafts section is a miniature loom.
     Not all the tableaus are connected to books. Some are just pleasant to look at. Near the blue piano is a small oval empire table. On the table is a silverplate Champagne cooler, filled with fresh-cut flowers, a Japanese enamel bowl, a carved wooden Mexican statuette and an eight-volume set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, published in 1825.
     Carlson says he does not expend any particularly great effort assembling his little displays. "They just sort of happen. They're constructed of things either that I was seemingly born with or that I ran into at estate sales or auctions."
     Carlson's personal opinions also manifest themselves in displays. For years, while James Watt was secretary of the U.S. Department of Interior, Carlson hung a sign that announced the expected arrival of Watt's The Endangered Species Cookbook. At the back of the store he posts a "Best Seller's List." It is not the standard list made up of what Carlson sneeringly refers to as "all these popular things on how to make money and analyze yourself." Rather, it is a list of authors Carlson would like to see as best sellers among today's public, names like Hemingway, Wodehouse, Jung, Dickens, Twain, Thoreau, Churchill, Mann, Joyce and Dinesen.
     With all the interesting distractions in Bookman's Alley, it would be a mistake to overlook the books—Carlson estimates he has around 18,000. The vast majority are hardback, with an emphasis on American history and 20th century literature. Carlson also carries a good selection of rare books, autographed volumes and first editions. A glass case displays rarities like a signed 1874 copy of Mark Twain's The Innocents at Home and an 1850 first edition of Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. But most of the books fall into the $5 to $10 range, with the most expensive item being a five-volume set of The History of England, published in 1732, selling for $1,200. The cheapest is a bin of books offered free for the taking.
     Adding to the ambience at Bookman's Alley is Carlson himself: a tall, jovial gray-haired man of 58 with an impish grin and twinkling eyes. Except for infrequent occasions—a wedding or an emergency—Carlson is there, usually sitting on a comfortable chair at the front of the store, reading a book.
     "I'm afraid I tend to think I run the place better than anyone I could hire. That's not entirely ego. I know where everything is since I bought it and priced it and shelved it. I have 80 classifications, and sometimes a book could fall into several categories. I know where something belongs. If I'm not here and a person inquires about something, he may well walk out empty-handed, even though the book is here. I would have been able to find it. I have some good friends who play guest host. But I enjoy it enough I don't feel the need for a day off."
     Carlson has been a fan of books for as long as he can remember. As a child he would go to his room at night and, tossing a carpet in front of the door to prevent the light from shining underneath, regularly read until 4 or 5 in the morning.
     Despite his love of books, Carlson did not set out to be a bookseller. His dream was to be a writer, but when he found he lacked the ability, he drifted into advertising sales, a profession that didn't suit him, and which he languished in for years. "It didn't start out being terrible. But it got that way."
     In the late '70s, Carlson took a sobering look at himself, and decided to change his life as an ad salesman. He always had enjoyed reading and collecting books, and began selling them from his home. "I sold by mail and by appointment, rare books and collectible things. But it was clear to me quickly it was no way for me to make a living. You have to spend your day selling books and I didn't want to sell books—I wanted to read them—so I knew I had to have a shop."
     When Carlson first opened his store, he had so little money that he was forced to stock the shelves with several thousand books from his own collection. Carlson takes a pragmatic view of the loss. "It was something I was able to face without any particular problems because I was so close to the wall. It was really sell or die. I could comfort myself with the thought that at least I had the chance to see the books and handle the books."
     Ironically, though he is able to part with first editions of Hemingway and signed copies of Fitzgerald without regret, Carlson does wish he held onto a particular volume —a book by Willard Schultz.
     "It wasn't especially valuable, but the inscription was so great. He was a white man who was raised by the Indians in Montana, I think. This was a book published in the '20s and his inscription was, `So few of us left who lived upon the buffalo.' I thought that was a very sad inscription. I only sold the book for $50 or $60, but it seemed to have a meaning far greater than its monetary value. But at the time I needed the $50."
     Nowadays, things are not quite so tight for Carlson. Business is good, and a poster and framing store has moved into the other building sharing his alley. Carlson can do what he loves most, read books, supported by his friends who stop by to chat, browse, rest, ponder and, occasionally, buy books.
     "A lot of really interesting people come into bookshops. A bookshop can be a nice kind of social center, if that's the way you want to operate, and I do."

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 17, 1986

When you stumble out of that bar, at least cross at the corner

     In 2015 I looked at the red crossing flags of Evanston, a charming 19th century practice that somehow popped up in the 21st century. But only here on the blog. It seems something worth sharing with the Sun-Times readership, and this study of pedestrian fatalities seem the perfect opportunity.

     Seldom in modern society do you engage in an activity where anyone makes the suggestion: You know, this might go more smoothly if you wave a flag over your head.
     Celebrating patriotic holidays, perhaps.
     But if you attempt to cross the street at one of 11 busy locations in Evanston, you will find a white cylindrical container holding wooden dowels bearing red flags — unless delinquents have swiped them — and a stark sign warning: LOOK LEFT & RIGHT WHEN CROSSING — FOR ADDED VISIBILITY CARRY RED FLAG ACROSS WITH YOU." The concept is, you pluck a flag out of one container, cross in safety, then deposit it in the cylinder attached to the sign across the street.
     A little unsettling, isn't it? If the crossing is dangerous enough to demand flags, why not install a stop sign? Then again, perhaps being unsettled as you walk around town is a good thing.
     Pedestrian traffic fatalities are soaring in this country, up 25 percent between 2010 and 2015, according to a report issued Thursday by the Governors Highway Safety Association. Which means pedestrian fatalities are rising four times faster than auto deaths.

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Squirming on the fat man's chair

     There’s Facebook and there’s real life, and no confusing the two.
     Right? Your Facebook friends aren’t real friends, in that they won’t loan you $20 or help you move in return for pizza. They’re more like a Greek chorus, echoing your comments, emitting an occasional “Woe!” or hurrah, sharing photos of their grandkids and of their lunch.

     But the two worlds, Facebook and real life, do collide. A reader of mine in Norway, a nurse, announced in 2009 she was coming to Chicago, to the consternation of my wife. Until it turned out she was arriving to pitch woo with some guy she met on my Facebook page — as soon as they met, they decided to get married, and I tossed them a wedding atop the Willis Tower.

    That was real, sort of. The marriage only lasted a couple weeks. Real for a short while.

    Or the time my boys and I found ourselves stranded in Salt Lake City. "What do we do now that we've seen the Mormon Temple?" I appealed to the "hive intelligence," as I call it.   
     "Go to Ruth's Diner," a Facebook friend suggested. So we did. Twice. Red trout and eggs. Chocolate malt pudding.  Yum. That was real, too.

     Last week, another collision between Facebook and tangible reality struck me as so odd, it qualified as some kind of augury, a glimpse into the future.

     I went to Evanston Hospital to escort my wife to a medical test which, while routine, would render her unable to drive home. Thus my job was to take her there, wait, and take her back. Simple. I brought a newspaper.

     At the hospital, a jumbo chair in the Gastroenterology department caught my eye. Not quite a love seat — room for one and a half people. Or one really big person. 

     “What is this, for really fat people?” I asked aloud, knowing the answer.

     “It’s for bariatric patients,” the receptionist said, diplomatically.  The surgery where they cut part of your stomach out to help you lose weight. I had never seen a chair like this before, so I took a picture and, almost automatically, posted it to Facebook. Other people might not have seen a chair like that either. Share the wonder. I like sharing with my Facebook pals. I like Facebook. It is, to quote Luna Lovegood, "like having friends."

    My wife went in for her test, and I wandered toward coffee. On my way, I encountered a few other curious sights — a sign listing, along with “Fetal Dianostics” and “Center for Women’s Health” the decidedly non-Marcus Welby “Spiritual Care and Music Therapy.” What could that be? “My God, this man’s soul is in shreds! Administer 25 cc of healing crystals and 15 minutes of whale song STAT!”  A sign for "Epic Training" "No, no, no! Strum the lyre after you chant, 'Sing to me of the man, muse, the man of twists and turns...” I shot pictures of those, too, and posted happily away. I did this without fear or reservation, almost without thinking, the way you'd pause to drink from a water fountain.

    Sated, I took a seat by the self-playing grand piano in the hospital's three story lobby with the wall-sized waterfall (a thought: maybe if they didn’t make hospitals look like swanky resorts, then health care wouldn’t be so damn expensive).  I rattled the newspaper and dove into the news.

     The lobby was empty. The occasional doctor or visitor or patient. And guards. One guard, then two, conferring. A third guard. More guards than seemed warranted. Walking back and forth. Calling to each other, words I couldn't catch. Something was up. I studied my paper, harder, sank a bit in my chair. The slightest knot of dread formed in my stomach.

     “Mr. Steinbock?” said a solid, clean-cut Jack Armstrong kind of guy in a navy blazer with an American flag pin framing a little gold star. Behind him, a guy in purple shirt and tie hovered,  looking vaguely official. Backup. 

      “Yes?” I said. Steinberg, Steinbock—close enough. 

      “Our PR department hears you’re posting pictures of the hospital to Facebook,” he said.

     I told him I wasn't trespassing — I had business at the hospital, and of course wasn’t including any patients in the photos — a chair, a couple signs.

     “This is a public place,” he replied. “We just wanted to make the connection.”

     Well, ho-ho, that's what we're all about, right? Making connections. We chatted a bit. I stressed my bottomless goodwill toward Evanston Hospital — both my sons were born here, we were patronizing the place right now. Steady customers. He went away, wishing my wife well on her test — sincerely, but I was so rattled it almost sounded like a threat. He did not say, "I hope nothing UNFORTUNATE happens to your WIFE." But I sorta heard that. I went back to reading, or tried to.

     I’m not sure what the encounter meant — maybe nothing. But there seems a vague welcome-to-the-future aspect I can't quite put my finger on, heralding a more seamless union of online and physical spheres. Facebook flashing upon the land of the living.

      Will we like that world?  Posting a picture of a fat man’s chair shouldn’t send security searching for you in real time. Or should it? Just to be defiant, I took a shot of the lobby — it has trees, and a concierge (a thought: maybe if they didn't make hospitals ... no, I've said that already) and added one more update: "Less than an hour after I started posting to Facebook, Evanston Hospital had the guards scouring the place for me," I noted. "Were I their PR flack, I'd have gone down myself and said hello, before I called out the muscle."

     That was designed to sting and did. When I got back to my office, there was a very nice phone message from Jim Anthony, senior director in public relations at North Shore University Health System. 

    "I wasn't sure if you were there as a member of the media or a visitor or a patient or what have you," he said.  

    I wasn't sure either, now that I look back on it. That's the thing about this world we're entering into — what's public? What's private? None of us are sure anymore.    

   

O doughnut chain! U.S. snatches Canada's sweet round heart

     Brand loyalty is a funny thing.
     Because it’s a kind of love.
     And love is a funny thing.
     Take Burger King.
     I do not love Burger King because I’ve never loved Burger King. McDonald’s, all shiny white and red tile, showed up and won me when I was a wee lad. They didn’t offer seating, and you ate in your car, itself a thrill for a 6-year-old. McDonald’s lodged in the spot in my heart—metaphorically, though it probably lodged in an actual spot in my physical heart as well, though I try not to think of it—a place reserved for cheap, fast, alternatingly repulsive-and-attractive food.
     But Burger King? The first one I remember is on Orrington Avenue in Evanston across from what was then the Northwestern Apartments. Eating there was a sign that I had absolutely nowhere else to eat. And the odd thing is, I’ve always believed that Burger King burgers, flame-broiled on toasted buns, taste better than McDonald’s predigested mash of a burger. No matter. I still prefer McDonald’s, the way you love your mother and not the more fun and more interesting neighbor lady down the street.
     Love is a funny thing.
     So had the news Tuesday been that Burger King was going out of business, except for sincere sorrow at the loss of jobs; I’d be indifferent. Ta-ta, BK Lounge.
     But instead the news is that BK is buying Tim Hortons, the Canadian doughnut chain, and while we barely note it in passing here, north of the border it is a huge deal.
“Why not just cancel hockey while we’re at it?” The Globe and Mail editorialized.
     The name Tim Hortons might not resonate with you if you’ve never been to Canada. (Although, really, never? It’s a five-hour drive. Go. They have the metric system and different colored money and everything).
     The word people tend to use over and over to describe Tim Hortons is “beloved”
     “Extremely beloved,” said Robyn Doolittle,  star reporter at the Globe and Mail and author of “Crazy Town,” a new best-seller chronicling her city’s doughnut-larded mayor, Rob Ford. “It’s as much a part of our culture as hockey is and we do love our hockey.  It’s such a ritual part of life, especially small town life. You drop you kid off at hockey and grab your Tim Hortons.”
     Tim Hortons was founded in 1964 by a famed Toronto Maple Leafs defenseman named - wait for it—Tim Horton. It has 4,000 stores, and a staggering 8 out of 10 cups of coffee sold in Canada are sold there.
     The BK news echoed across Canada.
     "It's a huge deal," Doolittle said, "front page of the paper, the lead story on the national news."
      But what is it about the place? The United States has its own big chain, Dunkin' Donuts. It's not part of our national identity. A Tim Hortons doughnut is practically on the Canadian flag next to the maple leaf. Why?
     "We talk about it," Doolittle said. "We're conscious of how odd it is. We ask, 'What is up with Tim Hortons?' The best I can come up with is its consistency."
     "It's kind of mysterious," said Patricia Cormack, a sociology professor at St. Francis Xavier University in Nova Scotia. "I've been trying to figure this out for 10 years."
     She cites "quite aggressive marketing."
     "They have this very confident positioning of themselves," she said. "It's more than just hockey, but collectivism, statism—Canadian values. They're very unpretentious, even though we're very pretentious about our unpretentiousness."
     Of course, whether the chain's popularity says more about Tim Hortons or more about Canada is an open question. My family sought refuge there from time to time during our trips across the country, and I couldn't decide if we went there because the doughnuts were good or simply because we were in Canada and had to do something to pass the time.
     Given Canadians are prone to crises of the soul over anything involving the United States (the Globe and Mail editorial suggested the government block the sale), I imagine that an American company buying their national icon might be a source of some angst. Though perhaps not so much, since the plan seems to be for Burger King to shift its headquarters north, for tax purposes. So Canada is not so much losing a doughnut chain as gaining a burger giant.
     Or to put it another way: Iconic Canadian beer company Molson's has been headquartered in Colorado since its 2005 merger with Coors. They still drink the stuff up north. And lest we be too smug—an American trait for sure—our red-white-and-blue national beer brand, Budweiser? For the past five years owned by InBev, a Belgian brewer.