It All Started When RCA Stoped Making TVs In Barrie...

Good luck buying Canadian

March 15, 2010
Joe Fiorito

Here's the problem.
People need work but there are no jobs, or at least not enough of them, and certainly not enough full-time jobs.
Before you read any further, bear in mind that, although I have modest means at the moment, we had beans instead of means when I was growing up.
I say beans, I mean pasta fazool; much of the trouble at home was about money.
The lingering effect: I don't live high on the hog.
I know that any one of us is only three steps from the street. I know that I have the luxury of choice. I know that something good lasts longer than something cheap. Okay, so here's why there aren't enough jobs: We don't make much here.
My espresso pot – I am Marcello Mastroianni in the morning – was made in Italy, as was my cup.
The toaster? Made in China. The cast iron frying pan on my stove was made in the USA, as was the stove, as was the fridge. The damn freezer bags are imported, for pete's sake.
The tomatoes on the counter – oh, hell I was in a hurry – were grown in Israel. The thyme and the tarragon in the fridge are from, of all places, Colombia and Costa Rica. I have some rules. I won't buy anything Mexican but avocados, razor blades and shoes; see below.
My computer and my cellphone were made wherever computers and cellphones are made, which is somewhere in China.
My pencil – the mechanical one, with which I have taken notes for every column I've written for this newspaper – is German.
When I dial 411, someone overseas tells me the phone number of the guy down the street. I'm sure the people who live overseas are very nice people, but my friend down the street could use the work. My razor blades – see above – used to be made in England but are now made in Mexico; some habits are hard to break.
Skip the next bit if you are chemically sensitive: my aftershave is French, English and Italian.
The rug in the living room is from Afghanistan. The camera in my jacket pocket is Japanese; the jacket is English. The clock on the wall? China. The other clock? China. The third clock – you guessed it – Chinese.
My shoes were made in Mexico. My shirt was made in Sri Lanka. My sweatshirt was made in El Salvador. My good strides were made in Hong Kong.
My jeans were made in Jordan, of all places.
None of this stuff is luxe.
We don't even have our own department stores any more. No more Eaton's. The Bay is not ours.
I go to Home Hardware, even though I am not handy and most of the hardware is made elsewhere. I do my best at the supermarket.
I just can't buy Canadian as often as I'd like.
The Canadian things in my house include: the light fixtures in the bedroom; the quilt; the bed; the couch in the living room, my maple syrup, my beer, my apples and my spuds.
Here's a thesis:
I know people who have as one of their souvenirs an ancient toaster that was made in one of the little towns near Lakefield; in those old days, I am told, all the little towns around there had something they made, some principal industry, a little economic lifeline.
Today? Nope.
I know nations prosper with trade, but we don't make much here any more, and we don't grow enough; certainly not as much as we could or should.
We've sent our jobs away in order to save money we no longer earn.
I'm just saying.