Fond Memoirs of Canada

Tuesday, May 2, 2006

[6:57am] Collette found herself working that Tuesday for Ivy, who was on vacation. It wasn’t exactly a relishing thought – discussing attendance, typing up summaries, preparing mailings, attending staff meeting (from which she hoped to be excused, but thought not likely), etc. However, it was a good job and she did not really mind taking over when Ivy needed a much deserved break from the church and office drama.

And so to finish up the days in Michigan… There was one occasion, one afternoon after playing in the sand and water, they decided to hop over into Canada through Detroit.

It was a bright sunny afternoon, and they were all packed inside the great green slug. Collette decided that she did not like Detroit. Perhaps it was an unjust conclusion after only having driven through, however, it was (in her recollection), fully gray, garbaged, and covered in graffiti and sludge and train tracks. The sun did not even sparkle off the sides of the buildings, they seemed to be so covered in drudge. But the ride past the city was not so long, and they soon found themselves ready to cross the border. Here was where the trouble began, and here was where Dad received the opportunity for his family to give him grief from then on out.

They pulled to the booth where they would receive their admittance and a Canadian patrol officer or some sort of country-guardian was administering passage. It wasn’t that he was necessarily unfriendly, but he was stern and somehow Collette still pictured him as a Canadian mountie.

“Vehicle registration, sir,” the guard asked crisply, yet somehow at the same time, deeply.

Dad did not realize that such a request would be given, and was thrown off a few moments as he looked to the glove compartment. He couldn’t find the vehicle registration.

“Sir?” The man asked again. “I need to see the vehicle registration.”

Dad explained that he did not have the papers with him.

“Sir, it is required that you have these papers.”

Dad continued to look, while attempting to keep the situation cool. All the while they continued the conversation as though they were officers at West Point addressing one another in starched voices, loud, clear, and direct:

“Sir, it is illegal not to have these papers inside your vehicle.”

“I don’t have them with me, sir.”

“Sir, what are you carrying in this van?”

“My family, sir. We’re on vacation, sir.”

“Sir, you have to have those papers.”

And he continued to chastise Dad for not having his papers with him while trying to see through the tinted windows of the van from his station. Perhaps he thought Dad was trying to cart a bomb into Ottawa (or wherever they were entering) or illegal tomato-picking immigrants, or weed, or whatever. After a long period of this getting-nowhere-banter, and Dad had passed over his license for viewing and other papers, etc., the officer allowed them through, reminding Dad once again that he had to have the papers in the vehicle at all times. Dad was seething, they could all tell. But the thing about Dad being angry, was that often, it was hard to tell just how angry. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t hit the gas or cut any sharp turns. They just knew he was angry. The humiliation of having one’s family, an angry line of cars, other passerby, (and probably half of Canada for that matter) see you chastised by a young chump in a Canadian uniform, just iced the cake of his day.

Needless to say, Dad was not highly impressed with his initial flavor of Canada and they remained long enough to exchange several American dollars for Canadian coin. They spent longer waiting for the officer to allow them across the border than they spent in the country. Although Collette vaguely remembered something about ice cream, a quick stop by the wharf, and an older gentlemen who struck up a conversation with Dad while they hung around, who was a rather odd-looking, mysterious sort of man. By that time, Dad was back to normal, and they could continue their vacation.

“The horribleness and the awfulness of it will never actually be forgotten.”

– Barney Fife, The Ghost and Mr. Chicken