Have a really great Canada Day, eh!

In lots of countries, people hold doors open for other people. In Canada, though, we say “thank you” to the person holding the door. Not only that, the person holding the door says, “You’re welcome,” or “No problem.”

That’s the difference between Canadians and non-Canadians. We take politeness to the next level. In Canada, politeness is a two-way street — when somebody is polite to you, it’s proper etiquette to be polite in return.

How many times a day does someone say to you, “Have a great day!” Not just a nice day — that’s what they say in European countries. Not just a good day — you hear that south of the border.

No, in Canada, we want everyone to have a “great” day. And, when someone tells you to have a great day, you are required to reply, “You too!” with an exclamation mark.

That exchange, of course, is always preceded by the universal Canadian greeting: “How are you?” To which you answer, “Great!” (even if you’ve just been told you have a week to live) and you inquire “And how are you?” and receive the reply, “Great, thanks!”

We’re so polite we get into arguments over it. When two people go for coffee, they both try to pay the bill.

“I’ll catch this one,” says one. “I’m pretty sure you got the last one,” says the other. “Let me get it.” “Nope, my turn,” says the first. “Don’t worry about it.”

We are genetically engineered to be polite. When two lanes of traffic merge, we sit there waiting for the other guy to go first.

Elevator riders are polite. When the door opens, those who have been waiting for it to arrive don’t push rudely onto the elevator.

They wait for the people inside the elevator to exit first, then they jam an arm in the door to keep it from closing, and wait for everyone else to get on. Inside, the closest one to the buttons pushes the floor numbers for everyone.

Store clerks are polite, too. They’re helpful, but not pushy. So are customers. When a clerk asks us if we need help, we never take service for granted. We thank the clerk for taking the time out of his or her busy day to answer our questions.

“Yes, thank you,” we say when approached by a clerk, “do you have any flap doodles? Mine broke.”

If the store has no flap doodles, the clerk will politely direct you to a competitor.

“I’m sure they can help you,” the clerk will say, willingly handing the business to the other store.

I consider myself a polite customer. My son Jacob, however, sees it differently. Mr. Manners, as I call him, is a harsh critic, as he truly believes customers shouldn’t bother store clerks with their needs.

On our way home the other evening, we stopped to pick up some salami for his lunch sandwiches. Seeing two clerks standing behind the meat counter talking, I approached and asked if we might get some salami.

“Sorry, no can do,” one of them apologized. “I’m off shift and I’m going home.”

As the hackles raised on the back of my neck, I said politely, “Are you sure you wouldn’t be able to take just one minute to slice a bit of salami so my son can have a sandwich to eat during his lunch break tomorrow? He’s trying to earn some money to go back to university in the fall and it’s very hard for him to hold on to a job if he’s too weak from hunger to work. So if you delay your departure for just that short time, Jacob could get an education and you could enjoy the rest of your evening knowing you’ve helped him with his future.”

As if struck by lightning, she stared at me. Her cohort stared at me. Jacob looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock.

Another customer, having witnessed this exchange, her Canadian politeness antennae no doubt sensing a potential conflict, interjected to provide some instant Canadian-style peacekeeping.

“They’ve got some nice packaged salami right down here,” she said, leading the way in an effort to separate the combatants. And she politely showed us a selection of salami wrapped in cellophane.

The clerk, partially recovering, emerged from behind the meat counter and tried to take back the initiative. “This one is really good,” she said, pointing to an example.

Jacob, however, was by now too humiliated and out of sorts to deal with luncheon meat of any kind, and muttered that he’d changed his mind about wanting salami for lunch.

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk.

“You’re the one who should be sorry,” said Jacob as we retreated from the store. “That was disgusting.”

“I beg to differ,” I said. “I provided that clerk with some important training. She now understands something about customer service, though not quite enough to do what she should have done — which was to serve us.”

Jacob, of course, didn’t buy it, any more than the morning I stopped for a takeaway Starbuck’s on our way into town. “How did I do?” I asked him after receiving my venti decaf with room for cream.

“Not good,” he said.

“I said thank you when she gave me my change,” I said. “It’s my money, but I thanked her anyway.”

“You didn’t sound sincere,” he said.

Feeling I was being unfairly judged, I decided to consult the barista. “Did I sound rude?” I asked her, much to Jacob’s embarrassment. “My son says I was rude.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she pondered. “But then I’m a bit fuzzy this morning. I might not have noticed.”

“Told you so,” Jacob said as we headed for the car. “You were rude.”

It was then that I played the Canadian card. “I am Canadian,” I said. “It’s impossible for me to be rude.”

He didn’t have a comeback for that one.

Have a nice — no, make that great — Canada Day.