My wife and I had a bit of an unusual day this Friday. Since Sarah and I both belong to the Woodstock Farmer's Market; we go there every Friday morning to sell her bakery wares, mouth-watering sticky-buns, whole-wheat bread that makes you go fart in the dark, Nanaimo Bars (the original recipe) and Unicorn Bars, so sweet they'll make your teeth ache and pumpkin pies, which anyone who eats one will tell you, it's a real Thanksgiving Day treat - just add a massive glop of whipped-cream to the pie and on a quiet night, it's possible to hear your arteries clog-up or was that my stomach crying out for more? But hey, regardless, the delicious taste of all Sarah's sweety-delights far outlives the worries of a massive dose of calories and a sugar-rush that could enable a three year old kid to continually tear across the floor, climb the walls and then run across the ceiling again and again for five or six hours straight without taking a deep breath. However, there was nothing unusual about going to the farmer's market - it was much the same as every Friday beforehand. Nor was it unusual that we picked up some groceries, had lunch at Tim Horton's, bought bags of food for the livestock and then drove off to the American/Canadian border crossing to go to Houlton, Maine and then drive through the States to the Orient border crossing, which is about a five minute drive from there to our home in Fosterville, New Brunswick. The unusual part of the day began when we were waiting in the line-up to cross into the States and I reached into my brand new, $8.00 pair of blue jeans, only to discover my wallet containing all my ID was missing. I wasn't worried that my new pants didn't contain my wallet because I immediately realized when I put them on, I had forgotten to take it out of my dirty jeans back pocket; what I was more than a little concerned about and hoping, was that the wallet wasn't revolving around inside the sudsy washing machine, destroying photos and my ID.
"Buddy", our big old Silverado-green diesel, 3/4 ton truck was running on empty at the border crossing and at this point, impossible to back up or turn around, we needed to get across; not have the guards send us back to Woodstock. With all the terrorist threats occurring since 9/11 and the border crossinga tightened up tighter than a virgin's chastity belt, we were almost positive that we wouldn't be allowed across. Sarah was hoping, at the very least, that they would let her cross and there would be a nice waiting room where I could wait until she continued to and from Houlton after doing some shopping and fueling up the truck. Fueling up the truck wouldn't take long, but knowing how Sarah loves to shop, I would have most likely needed a sleeping bag and a weeks worth of food before she came back to retrieve me - I would have been long forgotten as soon as she arrived at Walmart and began shopping - gotta keep the Chinese economy booming. At the border on several occasions, we've had the German Shepard drug-sniffing dogs go through the truck and the guards search through everything - they just knew we had a rocket-launcher and 1,000 kilos of drugs hidden behind the tailgate. So, what we found very unusual about today was getting across the border; after being asked my date of birth and that my wife obviously actually knew who I was, within a couple of minutes we were happily on our way driving down the highway to Houlton.
Since the Canadian border guards often ask for ID when we re-enter Canada, Sarah and I were wondering what might happen to me when we reached the Orient border crossing. With no identification, I may not have been allowed to cross; a man without a country in the wrong country. However, thankfully, we were asked for our ID, the Canadian guard recognized us from the many times he's greeted us on our way back home from the States. When he asked us the usual questions about our purchases and if we had any liquor or firearms inside the truck, I wondered what would have happened if I had said, "Yeah, we've got a rocket-launcher and a thousand kilos of drugs." Don't worry, I learned the hard way, a long time ago, mum's the word; it's not a good idea to make jokes to the border-crossing guards - cheers -eh!
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