A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Canada

I can laugh about it now... sort of.  If I think about it too deeply, I get pissed all over again.

Here's our side of the story...

The windshield wipers slapped in time to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald as our family approached the Canadian Border.  Our history lesson was finished for the day thanks to Gordon Lightfoot.  
Greg rolled down his window as we pulled up to the border’s drive-through window.  Sliding our five passports into the extended metal drawer, he greeted the guard with a smile.

 The guard recited as she flipped through our passports, “Do you have any alcohol, tobacco or weapons in your car?” 

We had driven eighteen hundred miles up the east coast from South Carolina to Maine with three kids.  Of course, we had alcohol in our car. A cigarette might have helped, but I didn’t smoke.  Weapons?  Last week, Wyatt fashioned a slingshot out of two pencils and his sisters’ ponytail holders. Did that count?  Just yesterday, Emma beat Anabel into submission with her Teddy. Should we declare her stuffed animal as a lethal weapon? Whenever an authority figure asked me a question, I panicked regardless of guilt.  I assumed they could read my mind to uncover some past indiscretion.

Sharing my thoughts, Greg responded to the French-Canadian border guard with his best poker face, “We have some blueberry beer from Maine and a bottle of gin. No tobacco or weapons.”

Frowning at the overflowing rear compartment of our Ford Excursion we affectionately called, the family truckster, she said, “Pull over just ahead.” 

No photos of our story after this one... I was afraid of confiscation. 

Two guards, armed to the teeth, approached our vehicle with clipboards in hand and said, “Please vacate your automobile leaving everything inside.”  A family of five Americans entering Canada on an October morning seemed to be subversive stuff. Unfazed, the kids bickered as they scrambled over notebooks and travel games exiting the car.  Greg winced as two cans hit the ground and rolled toward the guards’ feet.  He was more embarrassed by our mess than fearful of possible contraband.

Smiling as the chilly northern wind hit my face, I turned on the Southern charm. “How are y’all?” No response.  “We’re so excited to be in Canada!  We’re on a family sabbatical…traveling America to teach our kids first hand about history and geography and different cultures…” I rattled on about our one-year radical lifestyle change while one Francophone guard- a man wearing ladies’ glasses- wrote down our make, model, tag number and passport information and the other began searching our car.  They spoke to each other in French, so I moved closer to put my twenty-year-old college French into practice.  

Threatened by a woman in mom jeans and a knotted scarf, the armed guard stopped my progress with a brisk flash of his clipboard in my face. “Step away from zee vehicle!” 


I prepared to push aside the papers of the rude officer and teach him some manners- fifteen years in public education taught me how to deal with impertinence-  when the other guard (a man sans glasses – see, I know some French) unfolded himself from our car holding a carton of bullets in his hand; So much for my indignation. Our kids, silent for the first time in eight hundred miles, huddled against the cold as their father was frisked on top of the family truckster.  The guard in little girl glasses demanded to know where the gun was. He yelled loudly to be heard over the swooshing sound of other cars smoothly crossing the border. 

“At home, locked in a gun safe in Georgia,” Greg answered to the hood of the car.

“Sir, we don’t have a gun with us; we are traveling with children.” I reminded him little eyes were watching with a glance towards our traumatized kids. The other guard gestured for Greg to stand. Seeing the look in Greg's eyes as he put his wallet and change back in his pockets, I began to explain. “We have used the bullet box for years to keep the glove compartment’s light off.  It is heavy and just the right size.” They ignored me and began stripping our ten-year-old car.

Lost something in your car?  Cross the US/Canada border from Maine to Quebec, and the Canadian Gestapo will find it for you.  After pulling out three weeks’ worth of luggage and laundry, home school projects and portfolios, along with Skittles and empty Coke cans, they gleefully discovered a three-inch butterfly knife covered in sticky-kid-crumb debris under the backseat in the crack between the loose carpet and the rusty seat frame.  Greg owned the knife when I met him 24 years ago.  It was like the one Emilio Estevez flipped out in a flash of light in the movie, The Outsiders- you know the knife was cool if it made Emilio Estevez look tough. We had not seen the knife in years, but because they dug it out of our car twenty-feet past the border’s drive-through window, and we had “not declared that we were carrying weapons,” that once cool, now Fruit Loop-encrusted knife was costing us five hundred bucks. 

Southern graces gone, I pleaded, “How do we declare something we didn’t know was there?” I tried to appeal to their sympathy by sharing how we quit our jobs to take a life break and travel with our rapidly growing kids.  After inspecting every inch of our car, they should have surmised that we were not the Rockefellers. “We don’t have five hundred dollars to give you.” 

Without a hint of irony, the guard in pink, bedazzled glasses said, “We take Veeza and MasterCard.” 

Greg said I blacked out at this point.  He feared my arrest as I began speaking in tongue from the darkness of my anger and quickly returned me to our car with the kids before he followed the guards inside the building. I couldn’t believe how calm he was. 

Signing the receipt, Greg couldn’t resist asking, “What? No line for a tip?”  The French Canadians stared.  He left before they arrested him for having a sense of humor.  

Strangers on a Train

Like the characters in Hitchcock's classic, I fell into an intimate conversation with a complete stranger on a train.  Unlike the characters, we did not plot murder, but instead, shared life affirmations.

The retired gentleman's name was David.  (I called him "Sir" and he explained that you don't use that term in the UK unless you're speaking to a knight.)   Although, he has lived in the UK all his life, he traveled the southwestern United States a few years before and we compared our experiences.  From Hollywood and San Francisco to the Grand Canyon and the deserts, his trip and ours covered much of the same territory.  We discussed his prior prejudices to Americans, thinking them loud and greedy, but how his journey changed his mind.  Time and again, ordinary Americans went out of their way to help him.  I was so proud that my fellow countrymen performed well!  I told of the many people we met during each of our trips and how (with the exception of French Canadian border guards) helpful they were to our family.

Next, we discussed our careers.  He spent most of his working life in customs and anti-fraud for the British government.  After retiring from a long and successful career, he wanted to give back to society and became a intermediary for the the British child welfare system interviewing parents and children in need of assistance.  Learning I taught school for 15 years, he asked about my current employment and I described our year.  His reaction gave me back confidence that was waning.  He thought our plan of spending one year of retirement with our kids "a most excellent idea."  When I confessed to my worries of pulling them so far away from their friends for a year, he pointed out that this year has given them much more than they have lost.  Having raised three children of his own and seen needy or neglected kids for years, he gave me the greatest compliment a parent can receive.  Looking at my three kids who were happily interacting and entertaining themselves, he said, "You can tell your kids know they are loved; look how confident they are."

I noticed he was reading a memoir, and without my saying a word, he suggested that I write up the details of our experiences this year into a book.  He actually asked if I had ever considered writing.  I smiled and replied, "I've thought about it."  Once or twice...

All year, I have been plagued with worry and doubt as we quit our jobs to home school and travel with our children.  I have waffled back and forth between confidence and insecurity like a fragile Broadway actress.  Normally, I am not this high maintenance, but I'm finding that changing your life can wear on the nerves, especially since learning further government budget cuts forgo my return to teaching and the security of a paycheck. Like Gandhi once said, "Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into."  While I have grown, I sometimes flashback to my adolescence and need the support of a more mature person to guide me.  I believe providence has sent me reinforcement for my faith in many forms this year... even a stranger on a train.

Scottish Relaxation and Imagination

Helensburgh, Scotland

Soaking in the tub with a whisky in one hand and a Poirot mystery in the other, I felt myself really relax for the first time in weeks.  Listening to a small garden party just outside the bathroom window, trying to decipher the words hidden in deep Scottish brogue, the realization that we were here finally sunk in.

Anabel and I love the "too cute" laundry room!

The kids adore cooking in our new kitchen.

Our view over the River Clyde

Scotland is unbelievably gorgeous!  I wished my sister were here so we could wax on about the rolling hills, the lonely cry of the sea gulls, the tiny gardens with their wee flowers, the efficient laundry room overlooking the garden, and the cooker (sadly, no aga, but I would never know how to navigate one anyway.)  Isabel, the owner of Tolsta Self-Catering in Helensburgh, Scotland, met us just after we got off the train and showed us around our flat.  We were delayed by 2 hours so she kindly offered to drive me to town to run in a shop for a few supplies.  She took me to the farm co-op which was stocked with all things local.  Scottish butter and eggs!  Fresh thick sliced bread!  Wyatt helped me gather our few things for dinner and the next day's meals while Isabel patiently waited by the check-out; she even helped bag our things. After the exhausting day of travel on the National and Scottish Rail, how comforting to be welcomed so warmly!

While the kids explored our cozy three bedroom apartment, Greg and I enjoyed a whisky (grabbed at the co-op) while our British Hunters' Chicken (they also had ready to cook items) roasted in the cooker. Anabel said the blessing as we sat around the table of our first meal in Scotland around 9 PM.  

We retired around eleven, opening our windows to the sea breeze.  I fell fast asleep, but woke around 1 AM.  I tossed and turned for a while, and then, decided to go to the WC (short for water closet which is the British term for toilet.)  As I opened our bedroom door, another door slammed shut.  I froze.  Was that an apparition standing in front of my children's door? Had I really traveled all this way to have my kids attacked from the hereafter?  I swear I stood there believing in ghosts and cussing every writer of all the ghost stories I had ever read.  My mind was actually envisioning the wispy specter from my favorite ghost movie, The Uninvited. Why, oh why, had I watched that over and over with my niece and nephew?  What is entertaining at 8 PM is down right scary at one in the morning.  Somehow, I found a light, which revealed.... nothing in the passageway.  I crept to the bathroom, splashed my face and willed myself to be rational.  The only solution I could come up with to combat my imagination was a giant bowlful of chocolate Krispies.  It was the perfect antedote for wakeful imaginations; it put them where they belonged: in my nightmares.

Aren't imaginations fun until they take control? When Emma served me Earl Grey and toast in bed this morning, all the night terrors faded to a silly memory... unless they return tonight. 

Going With the Flow

Love you, Wendel Family!

While winging our way across the Atlantic, on our way to Mother England, I reflected on the whirlwind of the last three days that I still can’t process without the ensuing panic attack.  Not the fear of flying panic. Once I climb onboard, I realize I’ve given up all control so it’s easy for me to let go. My panic attacks come from too much control and responsibility; in short, I panic when I have too much to do.  Between packing up our temporary home on Fripp Island in preparation for the summer rentals (which included packing up our home school, our dog, and our love of the low country) and temporarily shelving Greg’s new business plans and my curriculum book ideas, we were eager to let someone else take the wheel and just sit back and enjoy the ride. 

As most travelers know, preparing for a trip overseas is an overwhelming venture.  As most home owners know, preparing your home for guests, much less paying guests, is enough to send wannabe Martha Stewarts into the fetal position.  Combining the two would normally have seemed an insurmountable task, but if this year has taught me anything, it’s that “All things are possible through Christ who strengthens me.” (Phillipians 4:13) Though wanting to collapse, Greg and I had hatched a plan months ago of finishing our field trip year in the United Kingdom and we were determined to see it through, “Come hell or high water,” as my grandfather used to say.

So we, once again, packed up all our belongings.  I had piles and piles, which only a mother could possibly know their meaning: This pile goes to the UK, this pile- the basement, the storage closet, the Canton House, Florida, and Goodwill.  As I culled and delineated, I was living for the moment we would pull out of the driveway, being clairvoyant enough to know it was coming, but completely daunted by the prospects.

When we finally drove off the island at 8:25 AM, Tuesday morning, I had two questions running through my mind,:  Do I have everything? and How long do I need to talk to Greg while he is driving before I can fall asleep?  (For the past week,, I had averaged 3 hours sleep a night.  Not a good start for jet lag.)  By the time we dropped our beloved dog, Ginger at the Dempsey Farm, I felt the weight of preparation lift and the exhilaration of  the journey engulf my mood.  Like Jack Kerouac, I felt the thrill of luggage packed and was ready to go to London via… Tampa.

Being ever budget minded, I had searched the Internet for the best fares to the UK.  I varied my entry and exit points, but between the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the 2012 Olympics, tickets were at a premium.  It became apparent that airfare was going to break our budget.  Thinking of a bonus visit to my cousin Wendy’s home, I searched for airfares out of Tampa, FL and struck gold.  For a family of five, we could save $2000 flying out of Tampa rather than our hometown of Atlanta.  Taking a chance, I messaged Wendy on Facebook about our plans just moments before booking our flight.  She was family right?  Surely, she would take us in…

Cut to a lovely home in Semiole, FL that has (unknown to me) just sold after being on the market for seven months.  My cousin didn’t convey her mixed feelings (at least not to me…) of having to vacate a house the same week we asked to spend a one-night layover between Fripp and London.  Being the well-bred Southern girl, she messaged me back, “Come on down; We can’t wait to see y’all!”  (Between you and me, I think arriving on her doorstep at such a time may be the rudest thing I have done this year.)

Best Laid Plans... Again.

But arrive we did.  After a seven and a half hour drive through low country landscape and a classic Florida thunderstorm, we pulled into her driveway between a Packrat’s self storage container and a sold sign just as our power steering blew.  It was a miracle the family Truckster made it!  Without flinching, Greg and Wendy’s husband, Donny, determined the problem and the solution.  A year ago, we had lost our cool after breaking down on the way to Disney, but this year, we rolled with the punches. 

Comfy Cousins in the Condo

Relaxing later, we felt right at home sitting and talking among boxes filled to the brim and counters covered with dishes.  I apologized for our spontaneous (and uninvited) visit, but Wendy said that packing the house actually made it easier on her because she didn’t feel the need to clean or have the house “just right.”  Sometimes things being out of control can be good. Thanks to letting go and “thinking outside the box,” I finally reconnected with a cousin after years full of good intentions, but no follow-through.  And our kids got to know each other faster than two dogs in a park; however, no bottoms were sniffed (to the best of my knowledge.)  One of the lessons I have learned while moving around the USA was to let go of trying to control everything; going with the flow can open up endless possibilities. 

It didn’t take Wendy a year to learn this lesson; she had called to see if they could move in to their temporary rental condo early and received a resounding, yes!  You never know what is possible until you try…

Like spending a month on the other side of the Atlantic with your family.

Canadian Gestapo?

I admit we took the crossing over into Canada very blasé.  I did not research all the wrongs and rights.  We all had passports and Greg knew not to bring any guns (he has a pistol carrying permit in Georgia.)  That’s as far as we went preparing for our border crossing.  Plenty of prep as long as you don’t run into the Canadian Gestapo.

We have traveled to many countries: Mexico, Bahamas, Jamaica, Cayman Islands, Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay and all through Europe.  Customs is not new to us; however, we have never traveled via our own car to any of these locations. 

Lost something in your car?  Cross the border into Canada and have the agents find it for you. We discovered the hard way that when you drive a car for 10 years, it can take a border guard to find some long missing item you didn’t even know was there. 

Imagine this scenario: 

We drive up the to the border window on the Maine Road into Canada and hand them our passports.  The female agent behind the window asks if we have any alcohol, tobacco or weapons in the vehicle.  We declare some alcohol, but no tobacco and no weapons.  Please pull your vehicle over for the agents to check.  Many cars go straight through while we wait for two guards to pull out every piece of luggage, bag, container, etc. and go through every compartment and check every seam, carpet and chair for illicit materials.  We stand at the front of the car, freezing, but not worried at all.  We are a family of five on vacation.  No worries, right?

Wrong.  Next thing we know one guard walks up with bullets in his hand and asks, “Where is the gun?”  “At home, of course,” is our reply.  One frisking later…It is not illegal to have bullets.  No worries?

Wrong, again.  To the guard’s shear delight, somewhere in the bowels of our enormous Ford Excursion, he pulls out a butterfly knife that I haven’t seen in years.  “If this is a weapon and you did not declare it, you will be fined.”  “How do we declare something we didn’t know was there?”    “You are responsible for knowing every article in your vehicle…” (This guy obviously is not married, does not have children and has never traveled across the country with five people in one car and I honestly still have no idea what is in our car, but I know there is no knife.)

 

Cut to Greg sarcastically, but calmly, paying the $500 fine (So glad Canada is safe from this 2 inch knife.  When prompted to sign the credit card receipt, Greg remarked, “What, no line for the tip?”  He had an even wittier line, but decided against it after gauging the agent’s response to the ‘tip’ crack.) and me, steaming, back in the car.  

I know this is small potatoes, and budget-blowing fine aside, the part that bothered me the most was the no excuses, no understanding, and the coldness of the whole event.  While planning this year, I imagined seeing the world and traveling as a world citizen, not just United States.

Driving away, finally, all I wanted was to be tucked into my own bed back in the good old U. S. of A.  

Mommy Dearest?

OMG!  My youngest shared with me tonight that she's frightened of home school!  She never cried before the first day of public school, but tonight she is actually in tears.  Am I as scary as Joan Crawford?  Am I the Mommy Dearest of the 21st Century?

It all started after church today.  We enjoyed a wonderful service followed by a nice family lunch.  However, within ten minutes of being home, the kids were at each other's throats.  Too hot to send them outside, I sent them to their individual rooms instead- a luxury I won't have when we move to Fripp.  I decided too much free time and too much television was eating away at their brains and patience with each other so I went out to the garage and started pulling out planned activities for our first week of school.  I didn't want to start school this early, but all our neighbors going back tomorrow and the lack of structure of summer was making my kids turn into a pack of hungry wolves. A little pretesting and geography activities might be just what they needed.  I spoke to each child individually and told them we would start our school tomorrow and then sat down to make sure I had all my materials ready for our big day. (I'll explain my curriculum in another post, if you're interested.)

I thought this would be the most stress-free school opening we have ever had; until bedtime, when Wyatt came to tell us that Emma was crying.

I should have known something was up when she came to me earlier with her journal and asked me to write down review questions for her to study before she went to sleep.  Stupid, Mommy!  I dismissed her by saying, "Don't be silly!" and "Brush your teeth!"

I went to her room and there she was in her Cinderella nightgown, curled around her teddy, crying.  Crying because she said she knew she would fail my class.  Crying because she thought she would disappoint us.  Crying because we might yell at her if she misspelled a word (we never have and never will.)  And she cried and cried.  And, honestly, I cried, too.  I cried because I had started this whole sabbatical home schooling thing and now I was traumatizing my baby over it.  Who wouldn't cry?  Joan Crawford, probably.

Anyway, we lay together in the dark with her turtle light throwing stars on the ceiling and discussed the exciting new things we would do in our very own school.  I assured her I would not be mad at her if she misspelled a word and that I would always love her no matter what.  She said her prayers and her big brother came in to sleep with her.  I stood in the door and prayed that we were not making a big mistake and messing our kids up for life.  The same prayer I have prayed since our children were born.  They say the only constant in life is that change is inevitable, but some things in a family never change.

Now, I've got to go to sleep.  For better or worse, I've got school tomorrow. (BTW- It starts at the sensible time of 9:30!)