I was all ready to write a pissy and rather bitter post this morning about people who chew gum and cut across lanes when they turn … until I found this link:

http://www.earthhour.org

I read about it and felt all warm and fuzzy and decided to sign up. Take a look and leave a comment if you think this is worthwhile.

It’s also worth noting that I made it back from Toronto in one piece, and I’ll share a few slices of my journey with you now.

The first shot is of the Uxbridge Trans Canada Trail pavilion. I bought a metre of this trail back in 2006 - and while my name still hasn’t appeared in the pavilion, it’s nice to have supported such a good cause. Someday I’d like to hoof part (or all) of this trail …

Next up is the new face of Yonge and Dundas. This is quickly becoming one of those “magical” intersections, and I think it’s really giving Toronto a cosmopolitan, metropolitan look. As much as I miss the dingy old buildings, I do have to say that this part of the city has a new energy I’ve never felt before.

The venerable Eatons Centre (or whatever they call it now) is still a magnificent edifice, and I enjoyed paying homage (and some hard-earned) to Roots and lululemon. I can remember coming here in the early 1980’s when I was just a sprout, and the place still dazzles me with its expanses of glass roof, art, and ever-so-polite hustle and bustle that epotomizes Toronto life.

Last is a shot of my beloved TTC. “Ride the Rocket” in Toronto isn’t just innuendo, and there’s nothing more enjoyable than riding a red streetcar after chowing down on a hot dog from a Toronto street vendor. This particular streetcar kindly took me across Queen Street.

3038 kilometres (1888 miles), 204 litres (54 gallons) of fuel, and many power bars later … and my trip to Toronto is complete.

I did a bit of a detour on the way back.  Normally I barrel down the interstates at supersonic speeds … but this time, I decided to take the scenic route through Pennsylvania.  I crossed the entire state on highway 219.

For those who have read William Least Heat-Moon’s book “Blue Highways”, you’ll understand exactly why I did this.  If you haven’t read that book, get it immediately.  Heat-Moon explains with alarming clarity why people should bypass interstates completely on road trips.

There was another ulterior motive here; my mother’s hometown of Lewis Run is just off 219.  Lewis Run is a tiny little blip on the map; the sort of place you don’t drive through unless you really need to.

My grandfather, Lebe, passed away in 1989.  It’s from him that I received my love of collecting and antiques.  Ironically, one of the things I brought home with me from this trip was an antique Sundstrand adding machine (circa 1918) that my grandfather used in his general store for many years.  It was only when I got home that I thought how appropriate it was that this adding machine return to its hometown - albeit briefly - on its way to its new home.

Most people will never have a reason in the world to hear of Lewis Run.  The largest “major” town to the north is Bradford - the home of Zippo lighters and Case pocketknives.  And you can bet that I stopped.

There’s something incredibly delightful about little trinkets like lighters and pocketknives.  I don’t smoke (in fact, I have never, ever smoked anything in my life), but I own two Zippos, just because.  One was made in Niagara Falls, Canada; the other (acquired on this particular trip) is a nice polished-brass model that I bought on this trip.

My reasons for owning a pocketknife are far more pragmatic.  Pocketknives can save lives; tragically, the residents of Cannington, Ontario learned this two weeks ago when a little girl drowned to death in a car accident.  The rescuers - valiant as they were - could not free her from her seat belt in time.  A pocketknife could literally have meant life for her.

(So there’s no doubt: I’m not disparaging anyone involved in that rescue.  It was a heroic attempt, and those people should be commended for braving the freezing-cold waters.)

I own nine pocketknives.  Seven of them are Case knives; the eighth is a Wenger Swiss Army knife, and the ninth is a Smith and Wesson number that looks a lot meaner than it actually is.  And while the Swiss blade is made with the usual fastidious Swiss obsession to detail, there’s something very “right” about the little Case knives that keeps them in my pocket every day.

I’m also proud to carry something from my mother’s hometown.

The most “valuable” of these knives is my grandfather’s old Case.  It bears the marks of many sharpenings, and having it keeps him a bit closer to me.

The last ditty I picked up is a set of Case steak knives.  I have never owned a proper steak knife set, and it seemed like the right time.  They come in their own little wooden case, and I can almost hear the “Andy Griffith” theme playing when I open the box.

Anyways, I’m back in Raleigh.  The temperature is in the high teens (in the 60’s Fahrenheit for the Yanks), and I can’t say that I’m not enjoying having all the windows open in my house.

On that note, time to throw some ‘burgs on the barbeque (grill).

Har, maties. Yesterday’s weather was just a warm up for ye sissies and complainers. This morning is the real thing - well into the “minuses” on both the Celsius and Fahrenheit scales.

Let me be unequivocally clear about these temperatures: this is fucking cold by anyone’s definition. Mel in northern Iowa Idaho will agree with me on this. The only people who don’t think this is frigid-ass cold are Eskimos - and even they would be putting a second pair of socks on in this weather.

The funny thing is - I’ll be doing the first leg of my journey home in this freezing weather. My car has never seen air this cold, and I’m sure it’s in the garage right now hoping that it’ll get to slumber through this. No such luck … and our adventure of driving through the snow on summer tires will continue, alas.

This is for my Southern friends.

THIS is what cold looks like.

Thank you.

I kissed the Stanley Cup.

Despite my admonishments to people who have hugged, smooched, caressed or otherwise brought the stinking silver bowl close to their anatomy (my favorite story is about the tradition of the winning team peeing on the cup), I was overcome with awe and planted my own puckers on the big dish.

In truth, I was kissing a faux cup.  The real Stanley Cup is in a little vault adjacent the main “display” room, in a glass case safe from peoples’ grubby lips.  Most people don’t know that the cup that gets tossed about now is a full-scale replica made in the 1960’s.  The replica is just as much a part of hockey lore as the real thing, and I revel delightfully in the fact that the real cup lives permanently in Toronto now.

Still - it was an honor to kiss something so revered in Canada.

And so ends one of the dares that I was challenged with.