During March and April it’s Roll Up the Rim to Win time and, as I watch local people going into Tim Horton’s and coming out with bright red cups in their hands, it takes me back to a time when I nearly wrote off a minivan—and my family—just for the sake of a cup of coffee.
We were visiting family in Southport, near Portage La Prairie, Manitoba, in the spring of 1990. Our three boys, Paul, James and Ryan, were six, five and three respectively. My mom had come from Winnipeg to visit with the boys and Dan’s infant daughter, Katie.
Winter doesn’t hang on in southern Manitoba the way it does in northern Newfoundland, mainly because the prairies are flat and there’s really nowhere for the snow to collect. So, once winter has blown herself out and the mercury has eased up above the zero mark the sun gains strength and the snow melts in record time. Snow gives way to crocuses, breezes blow softly across the prairie sands, and fragile blades of grass begin to brighten the colourless landscape.
Coffee-drinking is in our family’s DNA. I don’t know if it comes down through my Pennsylvania Dutch ancestors or through the English ancestors on my dad’s side, but it is certainly well-established. We also like tea, but coffee is the beverage of choice, especially if there’s a Tim Hortons nearby.
One Saturday morning we all piled into the van: Len, Mom, my brother Dan, Paul, James, Ryan, Katie, and me. We drove from Southport to Portage La Prairie to do a little grocery shopping. On the return trip we stopped at Tim Hortons to pick up a tray of three large coffees, a tea for Len, and a box of donuts, and I got behind the wheel to drive. Dan got in the front passenger seat while Len and Mom sat in the back seat to keep an eye on the squiggly-wiggly children. I carefully placed the tray of beverages on the console between the seats and buckled my seatbelt.
It takes about ten minutes to drive from Portage to Southport, and as we drove along we all chatted and laughed and looked out the windows at the farmland scrolling by on either side of the road. As we approached Southport, row-on-row of military housing emerged from a mirage of heat waves.
One of the boys began to whine, “I have to pee. I have to pee now!” and began kicking the back of the driver’s seat in desperation. Simultaneously, a bumblebee drifted in through an open window and made for the back of the van, where the children began to scream and flail their arms and legs in panic.
And that’s when I made the decision that nearly cost us our lives.
With only a minute to go till we reached the house, I pressed down on the accelerator and sped up, thinking it would be quicker and safer to get home and get the kids out of the van rather than stop on the side of the road. I thought surely the child in need of a potty could hold it for one more minute and surely the bumblebee couldn’t inflict that much damage in a matter of a few seconds. Then I remembered that my brother Dan was dangerously allergic to bee stings.
Down went the gas pedal as the screams in the back grew louder.
I took the next turn a little fast—on two wheels I think—and the bright roll up the rim to win cups in the tray slid towards the floor. I guess you could say everything tipped at that moment and, in a flash, I reached over and grabbed at the tray of coffee, hoping to save it. Dan yelled, “Watch the ditch!” I let go of the coffee tray and spun the wheel so that the van righted itself, barely staying on the road. I lurched to a halt in the driveway, shut off the ignition, and drew in deep breaths.
Dan looked across at me, deadpan, and said, “You grabbed at the tray of coffee—willing to sacrifice a $20,000 minivan, your mother, your brother, your husband, your children, and my daughter—for four Tim Horton drinks?”
I suppose there is something to be said for the Newfoundland tradition of having tea at the kitchen table, even if you don’t win a prize.
It could save your life.