July 1st– 2nd

“Mercury Forecast Edmonton 22 degrees, Calgary 22 degrees, Mesa 42 degrees”

This Canada Day carried a noticeably different tone. There was a heightened sense of national pride — not loud or performative, but genuine and quietly confident. Even in Alberta, where separatist conversations have been simmering, it felt as though many people had paused, reconsidered, and concluded, “Actually, we’re quite fond of being part of Canada.”

I won’t wade into politics, but it’s hard not to observe that a few thoughtful gestures from the federal government would go a long way toward easing the current restlessness.

We were out the door by 7:30 a.m., heading south toward Lethbridge. Corey joined us for the trip, with Tor and Jackson already there from the day before. The drive was smooth and uneventful — the kind of easy morning highway run that feels almost meditative. If only they would raise teh speed limit on all highways.

Naturally, we made the obligatory stop at Tim Hortons. At this point, grabbing a Tim’s coffee on Canada Day feels less like a choice and more like a patriotic requirement.

Calgary’s forecast looked questionable, but Lethbridge delivered exactly what we hoped for: warm temperatures, clear skies, and that reliable southern Alberta sunshine that seems to arrive on command. And hopefully dry for a few days to dry out the girls backyard which is close to a lake.

Raymond was buzzing with activity. The town of roughly 4,000 residents swells to more than double its size for the parade and rodeo, and the atmosphere is remarkable. I’ve seen many parades over the years, but this one remains among my favourites.

Large city parades often feel over‑engineered — heavy on marching bands and horses, impressive but predictable. Raymond’s parade strikes a perfect balance. It offers a thoughtful mix of floats, families, local groups, horses, and a lineup of beautifully maintained classic cars that would make any enthusiast pause for a closer look. Even a 1969 Beaumont done up right just like Jackie used to own. The floats like the Creepy Hollows which had two were amazing.

And then there’s the candy. Raymond may very well be the unofficial candy‑distribution capital of Canada. Every parade entry seemed determined to ensure that no child left without enough sugar to fuel a small carnival ride. The streets were so thoroughly covered that at times it looked as though a confectionery truck had overturned.

Crowds lined both sides of the road for what felt like miles, creating an atmosphere that was lively, welcoming, and unmistakably community‑driven. It was, once again, one of the most enjoyable parades to watch — charming, energetic, and refreshingly authentic.

We had the perfect place to sit right at a corner and on the street to watch. It was long parade which was timed about right. Loved it.

Back to Jessica’s place for a sit down and then people were heading to a ‘cousin” of Penny’s. You need to understand Penny has 3999 cousins living in Raymond out of the 4000 people.

Not knowing many people — and faced with what I would politely classify as a less‑than‑inspiring lunch selection — I decided to stay behind and make progress on the irrigation system. When we built the “PLACE,” I had to relocate the control panel box, and we’d given Jess and Penny a four‑zone automatic timer as a gift. It seemed like an opportune moment to finally bring the whole setup into proper working order.

Corey and Jackie stayed with me. Corey jumped in to help, while Jackie took charge of lunch and prepared a round of burgers left over from the previous day. A simple meal, but unquestionably superior to the options I had declined.

The irrigation system, however, proved determined to challenge me. Parts were missing, fittings refused to line up, and every adjustment seemed to reveal a new complication. I made a quick trip to Home Hardware, only to discover they were closed — apparently Canada Day is not the preferred time for plumbing emergencies.

With no new supplies available, Corey and I continued working, adjusting what we could and coaxing the system into some semblance of cooperation. After wrestling with the existing layout, I’m increasingly convinced that converting the entire setup to PEX is the most sensible path forward. Its flexibility, combined with the ease of elbows, crimps, and clean alignment, would likely save a great deal of frustration in the long run.

We wrapped up the propane project with a tidy little improvement, shifting the BBQ line to a much safer spot. Drilling through the floor and rim board and fishing the line through felt like the kind of practical fix that should have been done from day one. At least now no one will be doing acrobatics over a hose just to get a burger.

After that, it was off to the Raymond Rodeo, which delivered exactly the kind of polished, well-run event small towns seem to specialize in. Every part of the program moved with crisp timing — bareback riding, bull riding, calf roping, bronc riding — each one sliding right into the next without a hiccup. The grounds were packed to the rafters, and finding seats felt like a competitive sport of its own, but we eventually managed to wedge ourselves in. Literally, but we had backs on our chairs and semi shaded so big win.

I should also acknowledge that my so‑called lucky charm made another appearance. Admission was twenty‑five dollars per adult, kids free. I stepped up to the booth, said “three adults and one kid,” and the two ladies looked at each other, smiled, and quietly said, “Three for the price of one,” complete with the universal “shhh” gesture. I’m not sure what force I tapped into, but I’m certainly not arguing with a fifty‑dollar savings. Sometimes it pays to simply show up with a friendly face.

We stayed right to the end of the rodeo, and it truly was a pleasure to watch. The events ran smoothly, the timing was sharp, and the whole production had that polished, small‑town confidence that makes you think they’ve been doing this for a hundred years. It is Alberta’s oldest rodeo. I did stretch the truth a little when I said it was “exceptionally well organized,” because the moment the show ended, the parking lot transformed into a slow‑moving sculpture of headlights and impatience. A couple of officers directing traffic would have turned the half‑hour shuffle into something civilized, but instead we all crept along at the pace of a polite cattle drive. Fortunately, the weather was pleasant, and no one seemed in a hurry to get anywhere.

We headed back to Jessica’s place to regroup and consider the rest of the evening. They still had a wrestling match and fireworks lined up, but with my early men’s league and Jackie working in the morning, we decided to make a graceful exit before the next wave of excitement rolled in.

Jackie and Jess settled into a quiet game of crib, and that’s when the evening took an unexpected turn. It was as if someone opened the gates at a concert — people began streaming through the door one after another. No knocking, no hesitation, just straight in like it was a public lobby. I’d estimate sixteen or more showed up, half of them “cousins,” none of them expected. This kind of spontaneous social parade would drive me absolutely mad, but the girls seemed perfectly content with the revolving‑door hospitality. Small towns operate on a different rhythm, and apparently the rhythm is: if the door isn’t locked, it’s an invitation.

A good drive home and surprisingly Daisy who we know was extremely exhausted did not fall asleep. A whack of bugs on the windshield.

I try to keep a positive outlook, but this year’s weather is making that a full‑time job. Once again, we were out on the course getting soaked — not the refreshing kind of rain, but the steady, morale‑dampening variety that makes you wonder if golf should come with hazard pay.

And while I’d love to pin my score entirely on the weather, Turner Valley refuses to let me off that easily. The fairways sit exactly at my driving distance, narrow as a small cave. There are no friendly bail‑outs, no gentle rough, no “we’ll let you stay in play this time.” Two feet off the fairway and you’re in underbrush dense enough to qualify as protected habitat. It’s a beautiful course, and I’m beginning to suspect it enjoys watching me struggle.

I absolutely love it — the scenery, the challenge, the layout — and at the same time, I’m developing a refined, professional level of disdain for anything that pushes me into the plus‑90 range. It feels like the course and I have entered into a polite rivalry: it keeps beating me, and I keep showing up anyway.

I am going to try a test with Jackie next week. No music, no competition and see what happens. I can’t figure it out.