Day 35--June 1, 2013

Before I start my blog for today, I want to send our deepest sympathy to my dear friend, Janet Kimmell on the loss of her sweet, loving daddy, Don Buckley.  He is loved and will be missed.  Sorry I’m not there, but you know you and your whole family are in our thoughts and prayers.  

Since we crossed the border from New York into Canada today, I would it might be a good time to remind those who have heard my border stories before and to tell those who have never heard them what it is like to cross the US and Canadian borders, at least for Richard and me.  We have crossed the borders at many different places, and every time, learn something new.  I can’t remember when most of them happened, but that really isn’t important.  It’s what happened that counts.

                One time we were going into Canada on our way to Alaska, and we were going to enter on the western side of the US.  Well, it was early in our traveling time and we hadn’t been well educated on what you could and couldn’t take with you into Canada.  Well, we soon discovered pistols are a no-no.  We could take a shotgun, but we had to register it for $50.00.  This was a trip where we had parked in the airport parking lot in Vancover, British Columbia.  We drove a van, which we had towed, with the intention of giving it to a family member up there who could really use the van.  We would then do our trip through Alaska on a train and then a bus and then we would sail on the Princess Cruise Line back to Vancover where we would get back to our bus.

                We went through so much to get the gun registered.  But, also, we had to figure out what to do with a pistol Richard had.  “Oh, oh,” he said, “I have a brilliant idea.”  Those 5 words always drive me into a fetal position.  Mr. Wilson put the pistol under his jacket and went into a local bank and rented a safe deposit box and put the pistol there.  He can do things like that because he is . . . well, Mr. Wilson.  I on the other hand would have tripped, fell face first, the gun would have slid across the floor.  Several security guards (none of which would look like Patrick Swayze) would bounce on me.

                But Richard got away with it.  It was several harrowing hours later when we crossed the border, parked the bus, and then loaded our tired bodies into the van and took off for Alaska.  As I said we were tired, so Richard decided to stop at a rest area and take a power nap.  He opened the van doors, folded down the seat that turned into a bed and soon was asleep.  I took my book and coffee to a nearby picnic table.  It was a beautiful day with beautiful flowers.  Suddenly, two cars loaded with many people pulled up on both sides of the van.  I watched in amazement as about seven small Oriental people emerged from each car and began to talk very LOUDLY in their native tongue—whichever Asian country has the highest pitch to their sounds.  It was loud.  I just sat there and watched the confusion that ensued.

                Let me add this-Richard spent 10 years in the USMC and served in Viet Nam.  He doesn’t have PTSD, but I saw that day that he would react quickly if he was under attack.  He was rather shaken; I was all but laying on the ground rolling around in hysterical laughter.  He decided the nine and a half minutes he had slept was all he needed.  So, we were back on the road.  About an hour later, we were talking about all we’d been through that morning with the pistol and getting the gun permit.  Suddenly, he slammed on the brake, and he said the funniest thing I think I’ve ever heard him say.  “I forgot to get the shotgun out of the bus.”

                When we got back to the states, Richard went back to the bank and got his pistol.  He couldn’t understand why I chose to sit in a nearby café while he went to retrieve the pistol.  I told him one of us needed to be able to bail the other one out and that I was too pretty to go to jail. 

Second Crossing of the Border

                We were going into New Brunswick from Maine.  John and Wanda Givens were with us in their own motor home.  We had learned about leaving pistols behind and about getting permits for the shotgun.  All under control.  They asked if we had any weapons.  Yes, we have a shotgun.  We were told to pull over and John and Wanda were also told to pull over.  They had a huge (2 ½’ high) stuffed dog.  Please remember that.  The STUFFED is important.  They checked all our papers and then brought out the dog.  Real, not stuffed.  They asked Richard where the gun was and he told them in a cabinet over the bed.  They brought on the hounds, I mean one hound.  He ran straight to our bedroom, jumped on the bed and sniffed the cabinet.  The handler brought him back out and told the other customs agent that it was right where we told him it was.  He then moved over to Wanda and John’s coach.  He took one look inside, turned around and told the other guy that they had a dog in there and he wasn’t going to take his in.  Richard searched northeast Canada and the US for a stuffed dog like that, but never found one.

Third Crossing of the Border

                We were going into Canada from Maine, I think.  Anyway, Jack and Jeannie Dickson were with us in their motor home.  We had found a really nice winery and had bought a couple of cases.  When we got to the border, we found out we couldn’t take the wine in and out.  My sometimers has kicked in and I can’t remember the exact details, but it involved more pistols that had to be shipped and wine that was left somewhere, for a minimal amount, and we retrieved it coming back into the States.  Richard and I refer to this as our Border Dance.  We actually feel like the border patrol is shooting at our feet like they used to do in the western movies.

Fourth Crossing of the Border

                This also involved Jack and Jeannie Dickson.  Richard and I made it through without a scratch.  Jack and Jeannie?  Not so much.  Somehow, in the conversation they had with the little man in the customs booth, the subject of Wolf Chili came up.  They had had some in their motor home and the patrol man moved them over to the side and went through and through and through their coach in hunt of Wolf Chili.  They said they had to inspect it.  I think they were just wanting lunch to go along with the oranges and bananas they had confiscated from the coach ahead of us.

Today’s Crossing of the Border

                To set this up, Richard and I did everything we could to make sure we didn’t have anything we shouldn’t have.  No oranges.  Our pistols were illegal to carry in New York, so we stopped in Pennsylvania at a licensed federal firearms dealer and shipped the pistols to a licensed federal firearms dealer in Fairbanks, Alaska.  We still had a shotgun, which you are allowed to carry through Canada if you have a permit.  We had a permit for it from several years back (refer to crossing #1), but it was expired so we expected to have to stop at the border and renew it.  No, problem.

                Problem=When we stopped, a couple of agents came to the door and ordered us out of the bus.  I had just gotten out of the shower 30 minutes before.  I was dressed, but had no shoes on and  my hair was still wet.  I turned to put on my shoes and they yelled get out of the bus.  I’ve lived a good life, and if it is my time to go, so be it.  I put my shoes on and THEN got off the bus.  We were ordered to go across the parking lot and stand against the wall.  Richard told him where the gun was, which was at the foot of our bed, unloaded.  The agent didn’t like the idea that Richard told him he was going hunting in Alaska.  So, this brought on a full-fledge search of our bus.  I don’t mean peeking under bed.  I mean take apart EVERY inch of space inside our coach, the bays, the engine compartment, our car, under spare tire, under the hood.

                It was then I got the opportunity to cross something else off my bucket list—I was frisked by a uniformed officer.  Although, I must say, SHE wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I put that on my list.  I was ordered to turn around, put my hands behind my back, she grabbed my thumbs.  I was ordered to take off my shoes, spread my legs, point my toes out (yeah, easy for her to say).  My arthritic knees objected violently.  She then proceeded to rub her hands all over my body in places Richard hasn’t even touched in years, if ever.  I was okay with all that, but I was highly offended when she kept asking me if I had anything in there and she would dig under my rolls of fat.  Now, I have been guilty of sticking napkins under some of those rolls, and lose them until I stand up from the table and they all jump out of their hiding places, but nothing of importance.

                To this point, we still didn’t know what they were looking for.  We had told them everything they asked.  I did catch whispers of us carrying more cash than we were allowed to.  Several people asked us the same questions over and over again.  They kept asking what we were doing there.  I bit my tongue to keep from saying—you mean other than having our property destroyed and our bodies violated.

                By 1:30, I was feeling lightheaded because my sugar level was dropping and I hadn’t eaten since early this morning.  We had been there approximately 3 hours and a half.  We still didn’t know exactly what was going on.  Richard was in the office and I was on a bench outside.  A female officer (different from Happy Hands) came out and asked if I was okay.  Richard had told them I am a diabetic and she came to check on me.  I asked her if I was allowed to ask any questions.  She said sure.  So I asked what they were looking for.  Well, Richard didn’t realize he had to ship the magazine clips with the gun.  Past experience had told the patrols that if there were clips, the pistols were hidden somewhere on the bus.  I told her we shipped them to Alaska, but we didn’t realize the clips had to go too.  Turns out not shipping them with the gun was against the law.  She asked if I had proof we had shipped them.  I told her yes.  She told me I could go to the bus to take my meds and get some crackers.  She didn’t mention drugs, but I needed some badly.

                They asked how much money we were carrying.  He told them and it turns out we were a few thousand over the limit to not be declared criminals with ill-gotten gain.   They opened our safe.  After almost 5 hours, we were fined $500 for the citation for the clips.  We were also told we 

could have been fined $25,000 for having too much money, but they were going to be nice to us and let us go.

                We have never had a problem going from Canada to the US.  (We probably will now that I mention it.)  It appears the US isn’t as picky about who comes in.   I need to lie down and put an ice pack on my throbbing head.

Until next time,                                       My Mug Shot

Dolores