It's Nice Being A Big Mouth Yank

In 1990 I was almost two years into my sales job. Since our company was in it's infancy and I was the fifth guy hired I had a large territory called the western hemisphere. My boss said if we had to fly then our territory would be cut and since nobody wanted to lose one dollar we drove and drove. It was also in 1990 that I noticed a very large monetary order come through from Brantford, Ontario, compliments of the Worthington Pump Company. I told my boss that I'd just struck the mother lode. His comeback was, "when you visit them you get the credit, aka, money. It's an eight hour drive to Brantford from my home in Ohio. I was there the next day. Isn't it funny when you hear about cities but have never been there. I knew it was the boyhood home of Wayne Gretzky and I was more excited to say I was going to be in his hometown town than I was to visit the pump company. True story about Brantford: In over twenty years I've stayed in more motels than the owner of Holiday Inns. I've stayed in the best and the worst. Brantford holds the record for least expensive. The room was pink and the TV had a coat hanger for an antennae. The kicker was the bill came to $8 Canadian money.
When I first started visiting Worthington I had to schmooze the purchasing agent. He's the guy who got me in the door. It's usually a waste with these guys. All they want to do is got to lunch, play golf and beg for a cheaper price for my product. This man was a nice guy but he and I didn't click. Even so, I continued to visit, talk with engineers and generally make a nuisance of myself. I don't know how it came about but eventually I came across one of the engineers and we did click. I know I gave him a Callaway driver early on. That's one way to make friends and it's called bribery. The reason I bring him up is I received an email from him this morning. I haven't seen him in four years but every once in awhile I'll contact him or, as was the case today, he'll email me. He told me he reads my blog. That was exciting for me to read. I feel I grew up with his family. When I was in Stoney Creek, a suburb of Hamilton, I'd be at their home. I watched their pre-teen son, Ian, grow from a sometimes smart aleck twerp to a responsible married man and now with a newborn daughter. I could be in their living room, watching TV with him(Rick Henry) and his wife Fay, while lying on the carpet in my stocking feet. We golfed together and I took his family to dinner. We went to their favorite restaurant, a place I can't remember by name, but it was the largest buffet of great foods I'd ever seen and was located just off the QEW east of Hamilton.
These folks had me at their dinner table more often I can recall for a period of eighteen years. I always tried to remember to bring dessert, usually ice cream, but there was this pie place a few miles east of Brantford. The pies were to die for. Rick's wife introduced me to Skittles but I think 'Up North' they call them something like Smarmies. No, wait! They're called Smarties. It doesn't matter because I'd never heard of them and they got a good laugh out of it. Oh, those Canadians and their sense of humor.
The wonderful thing about the Henry's was they'd do anything to help me out. Canadians, to me, were of two types especially in Ontario. When it came to Americans it was a 50-50 vote; love 'em or hate 'em. Around 2000 I was involved in an  horrific auto accident near Sudbury, Ontario. Sudbury is where the American astronauts practice for moonwalks. The best way to describe it is 'The Boulders'. Since my vehicle was destroyed the Henry's drove to where I was, God only knows where, and drove me across the border to the Buffalo airport. I can't remember where they picked me up but without them I'd still be in downtown Toronto, probably homeless and begging for walleye and seal blubber.
Rick is one of those guys who would throw barbs my way. Some people, who lack confidence and self-worth, might take offense. Not me. I thrive on that stuff.  It's fun to be able to exchange these 'comedic insults'. I knew I was Rick's pal when, one day on the golf course, he called me a 'Big Mouth Yank'. It didn't bother me and I laughed when he said it. He doesn't know this until now but after our round, while we were having a beer in the clubhouse, I put two Ex-lax in his brew while he was leaving a squirt in the mens room. Canadians, ya' gotta love 'em.