Smugglers, natch

 “The guard might ask you questions,” we brief the kids as we reach the U.S. border at Sarnia, Ont. “Answer clearly. Tell them just what they ask you for and always, always, always tell the truth.”

 We go through the regular routine: “Where are you from? What is everyone’s citizenship? How do you know each other? … Going all the way to Seattle? That’s quite a drive, isn’t it?” Then: “Do you have any citrus with you?”

I freeze, blanking on English for a moment. I just – just! – gave the little speech about honesty and yet here I sit at an international crossing with contraband in my trunk. Big, juicy breakfast contraband.

“I have some oranges,” I tell him meekly.

 He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m gonna have to take those from you.”

 Melani gets out because she’s the only one who can navigate the overstuffed, put-together-like-a-Chinese-puzzle trunk. She hands them over like a tithe. We watch morosely as they’re tossed into a huge bin and we’re waved on our way.

Also, I know I’m not supposed to be thinking of work while I’m away, but truly, if given six entire columns of 90 point, why not put a little thought into the main head?


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