August 18, 2016
We left our hotel in Saint John,
New Brunswick, this morning around 8:00.
Verna spoke about her appreciation for the welcome and care she feels
from everyone on the bus. It’s not
difficult; she is much-loved by us all. Her sense of humor and sunny disposition
with the occasional spice of sarcasm makes her enjoyable company.
We reached the border in short
order. Everyone seemed subdued and we all wished we’d be finished with the
crossing. I’ve had easy interactions and rough interactions with border
guards. As a rule, entry into the U.S.
is more difficult than entry into Canada. Paul being the naturally friendly and
outgoing sort sometimes says things that are unappreciated by the people who
decide whether he gets in or out of the country. We, on the bus, encouraged him not to speak
unless absolutely necessary and then with one-word answers. He took all our ribbing in stride and agreed
with us.
The first place we found to cross
was not a place that takes buses so one of the guards crawled aboard and
stayed there until Dave had driven through, turned the bus around and back into
Canada. Then we drove a few miles to the
crossing meant for us. Sometimes they
gather all the passports, take them inside, and, after doing whatever it is
they do in there, wave us through. More
often than not they make us fill out a form, after which we all get off the
bus, are asked a few questions, and then curtly told to leave.
Today was different. The first guy had the typical “I have all the
power and you have none” attitude. He
snapped at Dave, telling him to turn to the right then getting testy when he
did. We were told to all get off the bus
and file into the building. No cell
phones or other electronics allowed.
Once we were all in line like a bunch of convicts waiting for our turn
in the showers, the atmosphere changed. One of the three men interviewing us
looked and sounded like he’d be more at home on the Tonight Show. He was friendly, telling us with all
joviality to “step right up, step right up!”
He then asked a question or two and motioned people to the bench along
the wall. The guard that interviewed
Paul and I was less jolly but still friendly, none of them showing the hostility
we’ve come to expect from border guards.
After we’d all been interviewed
we were motioned out the back door by Friendly Guard. He cracked jokes, welcomed us back home, made
favorable comments about the OSU Buckeyes, and told us they’re glad to have us
back. It was disconcerting. And scarier than if he’d been a jerk. I saw water-boarding potential in his eyes.
After we were back on the road,
the mood lightened and everyone was talking and laughing again. I enjoy visiting Canada. But I love the USA. It has a whole different feel. It’s home. I’m guessing Canadians feel the same about
their homeland.
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| "water heater" in Roosevelt Cottage |
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| Hubbard Cottage Dining Room |
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| Roosevelt Cottage playroom |
After driving a few hours we
stopped at Roosevelt Campobello International Park on Campobello Island in New
Brunswick’s Bay of Fundy. The summer home of Franklin Roosevelt from the time
he was one year old, the island remains a beautiful setting to this day. Considered an international park, U.S.
history preserved on Canadian soil, we were surprised to find that we’d have to
do the whole customs thing all over again.
This time the guard checked us all out individually on the bus,
comparing our passport photos to our faces.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted that he recognized me
from my picture. He asked a question or two along the way. It took a long time. We spent less than two hours there, touring
the Roosevelt cottage (with eighteen bedrooms and six bathrooms, cottage might be
a misnomer) and the Hubbard Cottage, both of which are set up much like they
were when Roosevelt lived there.
Roosevelt was only thirty-nine when
he contracted polio and after being almost totally helpless for five weeks, was
finally carried off the island and taken to New Yord where he worked to regain
his health. He recovered in large part
but was never fully without physical disability again. Proving that one can do whatever one is determined
enough to pursue, he was elected President of the United States. He served longer than any other president:
twelve years. He was elected to a fourth
term but died before he could serve more than a few weeks of it. After his presidency the law was changed to
prevent anyone from serving more than two terms.
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| Antique Blueberry Sorter |
Situated beside a body of water,
whether a lake or yet another bay I could not say, the restaurant was an
attractively decorated building. In
addition to the many tables inside, a balcony was visible outside through a
wall of windows; there were more tables situated there, each with its own
colorful umbrella keeping the hot sun at bay. It was lovely. I love to eat outside.
The hostess was efficiently seating
our crew, four to six at a time at various tables inside. I looked covetously at the veranda and said
to no one in particular, “I wish we could eat out there.” Wouldn’t you know when it came down to the last
eight of us, she took us outside! It probably
thrilled me far more than the situation warranted, but I do love to eat outside!
The day was perfect weather-wise. The food was amazing. I ordered their soup special: seafood
chowder. Large chunks of mild white fish
in a milky, buttery broth, seasoned to perfection. Helen’s is also known for her home-made
pies. We all ordered our slices before our
meals, for fear they’d run out. I
enjoyed the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever tasted and Paul was
equally
impressed with his blueberry pie. This is blueberry country and the wild Maine
blueberries are superior to other blueberries, or so I’m told. 
After lunch we drove to a local
blueberry farm. The owner said he has
forty-five acres of wild blueberries. As
he explained it, 85% of the plant is underground and needs to rest every other
year, during which time they are pruned or burned to stimulate healthy
growth. He told us he harvests half and
rests half each growing season. And he stressed that these were not planted but
are wild blueberries. An important
distinction, I take it. We watched the sorting of the berries on conveyor belts
and heard about how mechanical gathering devices are more gentle on the plants
than manual picking would be. Everyone
so inclined bought boxes of fresh berries and stored them in the large coolers
under the bus.
The rest of the day was spent
driving south. A brief stop for supper at a truck stop and then back to a hotel
we stayed at last Tuesday in South Portland, Maine, when this adventure was
just beginning. We each found a small
bag of chocolate covered blueberries in our rooms; they were yummy. But then I’ve never had anything covered in
chocolate that wasn’t.
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