I'm thankful, thankful for the local farm family that gave me the

Host: The autumn evening settled over Ottawa like a warm quilt stitched in orange, amber, and smoke. The sun sank low across the Rideau River, its reflection trembling on the slow water like a heartbeat between seasons. Inside a small country diner on the outskirts of town, the smell of apple pie, coffee, and hay filled the air.

The walls were lined with black-and-white photos of farmers, tractors, and children in overalls, their faces smiling with that quiet pride of people who grow things from nothing. In a corner booth, Jack stirred his coffee, his grey eyes thoughtful, while Jeeny sat across from him, her hands cupped around a mug, her cheeks flushed from the chill outside.

It was one of those moments when politics and philosophy met in the dust of the real world.

Host: “Pierre Poilievre once said, ‘I’m thankful, thankful for the local farm family that gave me the idea for the Children’s Fitness Tax Credit.’ And in that simple sentence lies something larger than policy—a reminder that inspiration doesn’t come from offices or speeches, but from the humble rhythm of life itself.”

Jeeny: Looking out the window. “You know what I love about that quote? It’s gratitude in motion. A politician, of all people, admitting that the best ideas don’t come from power—they come from people.”

Jack: Sipping his coffee. “Or maybe it’s just good marketing. Gratitude plays well in the polls.”

Jeeny: Smirking. “You think everything’s strategy, don’t you?”

Jack: “Because it usually is. You really believe a farm family inspired a tax credit? Sounds more like a convenient anecdote cooked up between speeches.”

Jeeny: “You sound jaded, Jack. Not every story has to be cynical. Maybe it really happened. Maybe a farmer said, ‘My kids work hard every day, they should get some help to stay healthy.’ And Poilievre thought, Why not? That’s how democracy should work—one real voice inspiring policy.”

Host: A waitress passed by with a tray of pie slices, the aroma of cinnamon and butter filling the air like the memory of home. Jack watched her go, eyes drifting to a framed photo near the counter—two children chasing chickens, barefoot and laughing.

Jack: “I’ll give you that—it’s a nice story. But stories don’t feed the system. People want results. You think gratitude builds nations?”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps them human. Gratitude reminds us that government should serve life, not the other way around. A policy that starts from a farm, from a family, from children playing in the dirt—that’s real leadership.”

Jack: “Leadership is compromise, Jeeny. You can’t run a country on nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “It’s not nostalgia. It’s roots. You can build towers as high as you want, but if you forget where the ground is, the whole thing topples.”

Host: The light shifted, the gold of sunset spilling through the window, catching the dust in midair. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed, the color of wet earth; Jack’s reflected the fading daylight, like a mirror of skepticism softened by warmth.

Jack: “So you think rural values can fix urban problems? That the answer to childhood obesity, depression, screen addiction, lies in a farm?”

Jeeny: “Not in a farm. In the idea of one. In the connection between work, play, and meaning. The farm family reminded Poilievre that health isn’t just medicine—it’s movement, laughter, dirt under your nails. That’s what the Children’s Fitness Tax Credit was trying to honor.”

Jack: “You really think a tax credit can teach gratitude?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can encourage a culture that values effort over ease. And maybe, just maybe, it reminds parents that letting their kids run outside is worth more than the latest gadget.”

Host: The diner door creaked open, and a young farm couple entered, their boots muddy, their faces bright from the cold. They carried a kind of honest exhaustion, the quiet nobility of people who end their days with the satisfaction of having done something real.

Jeeny smiled at them as they passed. Jack noticed the gesture.

Jack: “You always admire that, don’t you? Simplicity.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not simple at all. It takes courage to keep showing up to the same field, the same work, knowing it may all fail and still believing it matters. Farmers teach the same lesson life does: effort doesn’t guarantee success, but it makes you worthy of it.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith isn’t always about God. Sometimes it’s just about trusting the cycle—the seasons, the soil, the human spirit.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, soft and rhythmic, tapping against the window glass like a slow applause for her words. Jack stared at the ripples forming in the puddles outside. He took a long breath before speaking again.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father made me work in our neighbor’s field one summer. I hated it. The sun, the bugs, the blisters. But at the end of the day, the farmer’s wife gave us fresh bread and milk. I’d never tasted anything like it. It was… honest. Real. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: Softly. “Exactly. That’s the kind of moment that builds policy worth keeping. Not the corporate meetings, not the think tanks—but a loaf of bread shared after work.”

Jack: “So gratitude is the seed of governance.”

Jeeny: “Of everything, Jack. Gratitude is the soil. Without it, nothing grows right.”

Host: The waitress returned with two slices of pie—one apple, one blueberry—and set them down without a word. The smell of cinnamon filled the space between them like forgiveness.

Jack took a bite, chewed, and smiled, his first real smile of the evening.

Jack: “You know what? For once, you might be right. Maybe the best ideas don’t come from parliament—they come from kitchens and fields.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Poilievre thanked that family. Because behind every good law is someone who never meant to make one.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the rain softened, and the diners began to close. Jack and Jeeny sat in the golden quiet of after-hours, their words fading into the hum of the old jukebox.

Outside, the fields stretched beyond the town—wet, dark, eternal. Somewhere out there, a family was probably finishing chores, their children laughing in the mud, unaware they had inspired something that would touch a nation.

Host: “Perhaps,” the narrator whispered as the scene faded, “the truest ideas are not born in power but in gratitude. Perhaps progress begins not with ambition, but with the humble thanks of a man who remembers where the seed came from.”

And as the lights went out, the only thing left was the faint smell of earth and pie, and the feeling that somewhere in that small moment, something good had quietly taken root.