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.  

Road Scholars- Fear of Boredom in Salem, Massachusetts

Kierkegaard said, “Boredom is the root of all evil.”  In the case of the Salem Witch Trials, he was correct.  Historians have debated the cause of the fanatical witch hunt for ages, but after one visit to Salem, Massachusetts I knew boredom started it all.

  Our morning leaving Boston began in the most irksome way: a dead battery.  The family truckster died of boredom sitting in a hotel parking garage for two days.  We joined Triple A auto club for this supposition, so Greg made the call and a mechanic was duly dispatched.  Greg stood by our vehicle while the kids and I sat on the curb waiting.  

Triple A called. “Traffic on I-90 is shutdown.  The mechanic is looking for side streets to your location.  It may be another thirty minutes.”

Wyatt leaned his head on my shoulder.  Emma sprawled over the curb with her head in my lap.  Anabel paced with her dad.  We waited.

The mechanic called. “Wheh is youh cah pahked?  I can’t find the entrance.”  Greg explained the back alley/underground entrance to the Hyatt Hotel.  We waited. 

(Are you bored yet? I fell asleep while writing this.)

Finally, the mechanic found our vehicle and assessed that we needed two new batteries to the tune of $350.  

“Aw, you’re kidding me!  I had those replaced last year.  They can’t be dead yet!” Greg said knowing three hundred and fifty dollars was not in our budget.

“Wheh’d you get ‘em?  You can return ‘em fa a refund.  If you got’em at a Triple A affiliate, I won’t chahge you.”

Greg couldn’t remember, but called our hometown mechanic to find out. Suddenly, Greg’s ennui was relieved by the slowest Southern drawl in one ear and a Southie’s   rapid dropping of Rs in the other.  I kept the kids out of the way while Greg’s brain tried to translate. 

Georgia mechanic: 

“Hey, Greg.  How’re you?  Yeah.  Heard y’all were traveling.  Where’re y’all at?  Boston, you say.  Well, how bout that. What’s that bout your car? Yeah. We replaced them batteries for you… let me see… seems like it was last year.  Where’d we get the batteries?  Let’s see… seems like it was that place down the road…”

Boston mechanic:

“Wheh’d he get ‘em? Wheh’d he get ‘em? We got a Auto Zone ‘round the corneh can deliveh them a sap.”

Georgia mechanic:

“Well, Greg.  I’m trying to think.  Most times we get our parts from that Auto Zone up the road in Macedonia. You know the one just past the church there.  Yeah.  Down by the Ace Hardware.  But now I’ma thinking we might of got‘em at that other place.”

Greg to the Boston mechanic while still listening to our old mechanic:

“Order them.  I’ll take the dead batteries with me and sort it out later.”  Boredom cost us $350 bucks; evil, indeed.

Two hours later, we arrived at the village of Salem in time for the noon tour at Salem’s Witch Museum.  Walking up to the door I pointed to a statue in the street.  “Look kids! They have a statue of a witch.”

“Mom, that’s a pilgrim man.” 

“Oh. Yeah. I see that now. Roger Conant- first settler of Salem, 1626.  Never mind.”

The Salem Witch Museum tour began with a interactive show that took us through the entire witch trial drama.  We were led into a church/court-like room and sat around the edges of the stage on benches. The lights were dimmed and only a circle of names glowed in the middle of the room. I had goosebumps.  Then, a curtain opened and an animatronic pilgrim came out to tell the story.  My goosebumps receded. 

Seventeenth Century New England’s Puritan culture demanded that children be seen and not heard- and I thought waiting for a mechanic was boring.  In January of 1692, Salem Village wanted to get rid of their new minister, Reverend Samuel Parris, having become disenchanted by his greed.  Parris’s nine-year-old daughter, Betty, felt the stress in the household and sought release.  It was the dead of winter with the entire village covered in snow.  What can a girl do to fight stress and boredom? Gather your girlfriends for some fortune telling with the family’s Barbados slave, of course.  Betty and her friends, Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam delighted in the devilish entertainment of Tibuta’s tales.  What could make this more fun?  Pretending to be afflicted and possessed, obviously.  Soon Betty began writhing on the floor and speaking gibberish.  When Ann and Abigail saw the great diversion Betty was having, they joined in.  Each cowered under chairs, frightened of unseen specters.  They convulsed in fits and flung themselves against walls and furniture.  The honorable Reverend Cotton Mather said upon witnessing their afflictions, “The girls’ agonies could not possibly be dissembled.” Without natural causes, the Puritans declared the girls to be under supernatural control… bewitched. 

In March, the girls pointed their undulating fingers toward three of the town’s lowest folks: a beggar- Sarah Good, an infirm- Sarah Osburn, and Tibuta- the slave whose tales first broke the boredom.  Osburn declared her innocence, as did Good, but Good declared Osburn to be a witch.  Tibuta, thanks to the lashes of her master- the good Reverend Parris, sang like a bird.  She confessed to being a witch and enchanted the entire village with her stories of Satan’s army of black dogs, red cats, yellow birds and a white haired man who made her sign the devil’s book.  She claimed there were several undiscovered witches living in Salem whose primary goal was to destroy Puritanism.  Ironically, the Salem Witch Hunt almost did just that.

Within six months, hundreds were arrested and twenty-two were tried and convicted of witchcraft. The bored girls put on an entertaining show at each trial:  Ann suddenly goes limp.  Abigail and Betty shriek in response.  Ann jerks awake and begins flying about the room flapping her arms as wings and screeching an ungodly sound. The overwrought judges implore her to name her tormentors.  She silently points another finger. Puritans from near and far came to witness the nineteen innocent villagers hung till their deaths at Gallows Hill. Five more- including one infant- died in prison awaiting their trials.  One man, Giles Cory, refused to enter a plea of innocence or guilt and was pressed to death with massive stones added atop him- one at a time- by his neighbors hoping to make him confess.  

At this point in the multimedia show, Emma climbed in my lap.  The mannequin Giles Cory grimaced in great pain as the stones lowered onto his body.  This was not part of her elementary school’s reenactment of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.  It was our children’s first exposure to the dour side of Puritan life.   Between the stone pressing and the grotesque statue of Satan, I hoped Emma didn’t have nightmares due to this history lesson. But reservations aside, what a way to learn about history!  We had witnessed the positive effects of the pilgrim spirit with the American Revolution, and we were seeing what happened when that Puritanical work ethic turned into fanaticism. 

After reading the names of the twenty-five people who died in the Salem Witch Hunt, we were guided into the second phase of the tour: the history of witches and the devastating results of witch hunts around the world from the Middle Ages to present day.  From midwifery to the Wizard of Oz, the transformation of women healers to wicked witches with green skin and pointy hats would have been comical if it wasn’t so disturbing.  Then, the museum’s attempts to promote an understanding of the Wicca religion today would have been moving if it wasn’t for the comical pandering of Bewitched items for sale in the museum gift shop.  I loved Samantha, but the old episode- the one where she was chased around Salem by an enchanted bed warmer from Nathaniel Hawthorn’s House of Seven Gables- playing in the background as we shopped for a Christmas tree ornament of a witch made the whole thing feel silly.  But at least, I wasn’t bored.

Before leaving Salem, we discussed hysteria and false accusations over a delicious lunch of comfort food at the Scratch Kitchen.  

“I think teenagers blow everything out of proportion,” said the girl who would be turning thirteen in six months.  Anabel gleaned another reason not to grow up from our tour of Salem.

Downplaying age as a factor, I said, “I think the lesson is: beware of bored people.  Now finish your grilled cheese and let’s head to Maine!”

Book Club- Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd*

The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club- Episode 2- Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd

Fade in theme music. Roll opening titles. Cue Host.

Host- Welcome to The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club!  On this show, we explore books that inspire and uplift the desperate and downtrodden. Please welcome my guest, best known as the author of the New York Times Bestsellers, The Secret Life of Bees and The Mermaid’s Chair, Sue Monk Kidd!

Pause for audience applause.

Sue Monk Kidd- Hello, Everyone!  Thanks for having me on your show, Jenny.

Host- I am so pleased to have you here to discuss your latest work- Traveling with Pomegranates: a mesmerizing memoir of a mother and daughter struggling with transition- you turning 50 and realizing you needed something more in your career and your daughter, Anne, leaving the security of college, unsure of her future, and facing failure for the first time.  How was it working with your daughter?

Sue Monk Kidd- It was fantastic when she wasn’t depressed and I wasn’t self-absorbed in my own fears of failure in writing my first novel.

Host- Wow!  Thanks for being so honest, Sue.  We don’t often get that on television. As a career woman and a mother, I gleaned motivation from both of your mêlées with life.  I related to Anne’s crippling uncertainty of her life’s ambition and your all-consuming need for more substance in your career.  How did traveling Greece and Turkey facilitate your choices?

Sue Monk Kidd- Traveling puts relationships in a pressure cooker.  You can’t hide your emotions for long on a three-week tour; eventually, your inner thoughts come out.  Although difficult, it is cathartic. Also, traveling allows you to explore new facets of your soul.  I have always gravitated to the spiritual and seek out locations that feed my chi. Greece and Turkey are teeming with transcendent locales.  Put family and spiritual journeys together and you have a recipe for change.

Host- So if someone was burned out and bored with her life, would you recommend traveling with her family to facilitate her deep-seeded need for change?

Sue Monk Kidd- I would tell that woman to set forth on her journey and not look back.  As Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”

Host- So you're telling me to do it- quit my job and spend a year traveling with my family and searching my soul for answers to what to do during my next stage in life.

Sue Monk Kidd- I didn’t say…

Host- That’s all the time we have today. 

Sue Monk Kidd- But, I…

Host- Thank you so much, Ms. Monk Kidd, for being my second guest.  Her life-altering book is Traveling with Pomegranates. If you are seeking a new life, The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club also recommends Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, my debut guest- don’t cheat yourself by just watching the movie; Julia Roberts is great, but it glosses over her spiritual search- and Under the Tuscan Sun by Francis Mayes - if you’re pressed for time, this one is okay to just watch the movie; the film demonstrates three-act life renewal better than the eloquent, but elongated Mayes memoir.  (I mean she goes on and on about renovations and Etruscan tombs and never shows us her life.)  Tune in next time when my guest will be the ghost of Jane Austen.

Fade in music. Roll end credits. Fade out.

* The author wishes to be truthful and admit that although she met Sue Monk Kidd at an author’s luncheon at the University of South Carolina- Beaufort, she did not conduct an interview with her about her book.  The actual conversation went something like this:

Author- I loved The Secret Life of Bees!

Sue Monk Kidd- Thank you, I’m so pleased to hear that.

Author- (Handing Ms. Monk Kidd a new copy of Traveling with Pomegranates for her to sign) When I was a girl, I had bees in my closet, too.  Sometimes at night, I can still hear their buzzing.

Sue Monk Kidd- (Smiling as she hands the signed book back) Small world; I hope you enjoy my new book.

Author- Thank you, I’m sure I will.

Pelican Plunge Redux

The 5th Annual New Year's Day Pelican Plunge marked two members of the Brooks Family going off the deep end... literally.  Wyatt, age 11, joined his insane dad, age old enough to know better, in plunging into the fifty degree Atlantic waters as a symbolic way to ring in the new year.  Last January first saw Greg celebrating our sabbatical year with a groovy group of like-minded folks dunking themselves for fun and fundraising for the South Carolina parks system. This year, my guys and about 300 other nuts brave individuals did their part for silliness and charity.  And I thought I was proud last year! (See my New Year's Pride post from last year.)

Pre- Plunge

The Brooks girls were not as stupid courageous as our men.  When asked if they wanted to do it, the answer, in stereo, was a resounding no.   Honestly, we didn't think Emma was even coming along to watch.  As Greg and Wyatt dug out their bathing suits, Emma sauntered through saying, "Can I stay home?  I'm just not in the mood to watch people run into cold water."  My question: When is anyone EVER in the MOOD to watch people run into cold water?  Regardless, we all piled in the minivan and headed to Hunting Island for the one o'clock event.

As the onlookers lined the beach, the swimmers counted down. Wyatt and Greg were front and center and prepared to go all the way under the water.  Greg warned Wyatt that some participants wimp out by only going in knee deep, but the Brooks' men would go in whole hog-meaning a complete, full body dunk.  Wyatt agreed... it was all or nothing.  I videoed as they ran, but soon lost my men in the mob.



I scanned the shore searching for them amid the splashing and shrieking, and suddenly, Wyatt emerged victorious:

Super (Cold) Wyatt

Greg, being a repeat offender, stayed in the water and swam around a bit longer, but joined in Wyatt's victory lap (searching for Anabel and Emma with the towels) a couple of minutes later.

My Fellows: Post-Plunge

As we drove away, I commented since one Brooks took the leap last year, and two plunged this year, there must be three Pelican Plungers for next year.  Looking at the girls, I asked, "So who is going next year?"

Without missing a beat, Wyatt said, "Daddy, Anabel and Emma.  I'm never doing that again!"  As with everything, time will tell...  He seemed to recover quite well in the hot tub:

We hope all have a Happy New Year 2013!

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis Ultimate Solution

Could a year of traveling save my sanity?

Greg made me lose my original train of thought after nixing my Eat, Love, Pray reenactment, but the seed of the idea took hold in my mind and I began watering it carefully and bringing it out for a little sun now and then.  I capitulated my fantasy of following Elizabeth Gilbert’s exact steps.  We didn’t have to travel to Italy, India and Indonesia to change our lives; nevertheless, the more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that something drastic must happen. Just taking the kids out of activities couldn’t turn around our lives. 

I searched phrases like “taking a break”, “getting away”, and “life break” online.  My first two searches resulted in 50 ways to leave your lover and 101 ways get away with murder- no help, but I bookmarked those for future reference.  When I searched life break, I struck gold.  I discovered there were other people who wanted to take a break from life; so much so, there was a link to an actual life break coach.  I thought, “You have got to be kidding me! Who needs a life break coach when you have girlfriends and martinis?”  So I decided to run my brainstorm by my friends.

     While Greg taught a night class, I threw mac and cheese at the kids, slung some applesauce their way to include the fruit group and got everyone to shower, finish homework and prepare book bags and lunches for the next day.  All accomplished by 8:15!  Wearing a supermom glow that resembled a sweaty sheen, I was shaking the martinis as Bridget and Jane arrived.  Anxious to share my ideas, I tossed back a pink drink and launched into my plan.

     “Greg and I want to take a family sabbatical.” Of course, Greg didn’t know it yet.  I used “sabbatical” as a nice term for “quitting” our jobs- it sounded better to me and was part of the psychological game I played to convince myself I wasn’t a complete slacker.

     “What’s a family sabbatical?” asked Bridget as she sipped her cocktail.

Would you travel with these kids?

     I gave my rehearsed answer in one breath.  “Basically, we quit our jobs, rent our home and road school our kids while traveling the highways and byways of the great USA and abroad for one year.”

     They laughed.  Maybe I did need a life coach. 

      “What?  That’s insane," Bridget managed to say between giggles.  "Drop everything and see the world?”

     “That would be nuts," interrupted Jane.  "Not work? Not send the kids to school?  Not participate in a thousand activities, committees, or sports?” She finished her drink in one gulp. 

     I realized they weren’t taking me seriously. Looking each one in the eye, I said, “I’m dead serious.”

     “Holy cow, you are," said Jane.  “Take me with you!"

     “Lord! Me, too.”

     “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

     “People may call the doctors and carry you to Milledgeville faster than your head can hit a pillow, but personally, I think it’s the sanest thing I’ve heard in a long time!” said Bridget.  The martinis were kicking in.

     Fueled with my friends’ approval, I expounded on my rationalized plans for our one-year off the grid. "We could rent out our house- furnished, of course.”

“You would leave all your stuff?” said Bridget.

“Who would rent this big house- furnished?” asked Jane.

“There must be some business people that will only be in town temporarily,” I said.  “Or a family relocating, but don’t know where they want to buy yet.  Our house would be perfect for them.  We have our retirement savings, but if we rent the house it will help cover the loss of my paycheck which goes to the home’s mortgage and utilities anyway."

     “Jenny, you’ve obviously thought this through, but can you really afford to take a year off from work?  Would they hold your job for you?”

     “This has been my obsession for months.  Public Ed teachers sign an annual contract so there’s no guaranteeing my job.  If I don’t sign next year’s contract, they won’t hold my position.  But you know what? I’m okay with that.  I desperately want to change careers. Sitting in the faculty meeting last week, I looked around at the dead stares on most of the faces.  They looked like prison inmates- all serving out their thirty years.”

“I know,” said Bridget.  “I’m one of the inmates. Only eight years to go.”

“I’m only at the halfway point! I have fifteen more years till retirement,” I said.  “I don’t want to spend that time constantly doing the math: ten years and twenty-six days till I can retire- if I use sick leave days- only nine years and forty-eight days to go... I love the kids, but I am sick of the government mandates and being treated like a sheep in a herd rather than a responsible professional.” 

“I am sick of teaching to the almighty test,” said Bridget.

“Me, too,” I said.  “The prospect of another fifteen years of this motivated me to write up my Interest Projects curriculum and try to get it published. I never imagined I’d actually get an offer. It felt so good to finally follow through with something. Since I signed the contract for my resource book last month,” I held my glass high in the air for a toast. “I believe in dreams again.”

We all gave a little “Whoop!” 

I continued, “I’ve always fantasized about writing for a living. If we take a family sabbatical, I could use the time off to finish writing and editing the book, and then, hopefully, write more.”

     “But you said you wouldn’t see a penny of royalty money for two years.  Can you still afford to quit?” Ever practical, Jane always grounded me.

     I shrugged. “I could sell my car to help with travel expenses.  We’d only need one car anyway, if we were all traveling together.  Our two rental houses are leased so we’ll have some income.  We’ve always wanted to spend more time at the Fripp Island rental home; it really needs fixing up, so we could stay there when it’s not rented and work on the house in-between trips. The kids can help with the renovations and are the perfect ages for home school and travel- old enough to remember everywhere we go, but young enough to not need to be surgically separated from their friends.  Plus, I’ve always wondered what home schooling would be like.”

     “School at the beach would be a dream!” said Bridget.  “You’ve got a plan; I say go for it.”

     “Greg’s mother died when she was only forty-five years old.  I turn forty-four next month. The older I get the younger she gets.  Emily worked hard all her life, but never lived to enjoy one day of retirement.  If this is going to be the last year of my life, I want it to mean something.  Even if it’s not my last year- which I sincerely hope- I am running out of time to change my life.”   

“Grandma Moses started painting in her eighties,” said Jane. 

I smiled. “True. But let’s be real… I’m no Grandma Moses.” I paused to take a breath and another sip.  “I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t shake this feeling of: it’s now or never.”

    “I would toast to that, but I’m out of drink.” Bridget waggled her empty glass at me.  We enjoyed another round or three- honestly, I was so drunk on their approval, I stopped counting.  With a green light from my friends, I was ready to unveil the final plan to my husband.

Greatest Husband Ever!

     I expected a long list of arguments against the possibility of our taking a family sabbatical and it taking months to win him over, but Greg loved the idea. Since our discussion, he had been thinking of chucking it all, too.  After hours of talking, Greg summed up our stream of rationalizations with, “We take one year of our retirement now while we are young and healthy enough to enjoy it and spend it traveling with our kids while they are still young enough to want to be with us.” (I ask you, how is that crazier than divorce and drugs?)