Mr. “Not My Dad”

My old Marine Corps friend and I were stopped at the border crossing between Montana, USA and Alberta, Canada.

Now on that trip about halfway between home and the border I had noticed that I’d left J.B. and T.J.’s identification papers sitting on top of our file cabinet.  I knew that we were supposed to have them, but I’d crossed the border a few times and had never been asked for the information, so I thought I’d take a chance rather than give up the time and expense of going back home to get them.

Yeah.

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The border crossing agent was quite friendly as she asked me for my ID.  They always did that.  I handed it over and she nodded in approval as she returned it.  “Whose kids are these?” she asked.

“Mine,” I responded.

Then came the question the crossing agents had never asked before, “Could I see their identification?”

I explained, “I forgot it at home, but I can show you pictures of them from the time they were born.  That should prove they’re mine.”

She chuckled and looked at six-year-old J.B., “Is this guy your dad?”

My son smiled brightly and quipped, “Nope.”

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A little more serious now, the lady indicated that I should pull over in the parking area, where other agents made a mess of our vehicle while ransacking it, looking for contraband, I guess.  After they found nothing, they pointed us to another building.

One of them explained, “They’ll want to ask you some questions.”

Yeah.

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We spent two hours being questioned by Canadian authorities.  I knew the boys were mine, and I could prove it, but I was concerned that the bureaucrats might split us up during the questioning, and T.J. was only two.  

I didn’t want him to get scared.

My buddy was in his early forties and had never raised children or been married so he didn’t really understand kids.  He usually had a great time with my boys, especially J.B., but this time he wasn’t nearly as unperturbed as I was.  “I’d ‘whoop’ that kid if he was mine,” he commented, more than half seriously.

I referred to my son by his nickname, “Beezer didn’t know what he was doing.  He didn’t mean any harm. 

“Besides, it’ll be worth the trouble to me just to have the story to tell.”

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After the Canadians finished with me, they questioned my friend and, having found no reason to lock us up, sent us to the U.S. border authorities.

The officer on duty there reminded me of Barney Fife from the old “Andy Griffith Show,” both in attitude and the way he talked…and a little in looks too.

Among the questions he asked me was if I had Annie’s permission to have our kids with me in Canada. 

Now I’m not a total idiot but that’s when it first dawned on me that they might suspect I had kidnapped my boys.  “Barney” asked where and when Annie worked.  I explained that she worked nights and slept days.

Without taking his eyes off me, he suddenly leaned forward and his hand shot out to grab the telephone.  “So if I called now she’d probably answer the phone?”

I looked at my watch and hesitated…then nodded, “Yes sir, but she might be mad at you for waking her up.”

The look of disappointment on his face almost made me smile, imagining Barney Fife saying, “Dad-burn-it, I almost got to load my gun!”

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After another hour of questioning, we were released with the admonishment that we should go back to Shelby, Montana and spend the night, but we wouldn’t be allowed into Canada unless Annie faxed me copies of the boys’ birth certificates, social security cards, and a note from her giving me permission to have our boys in Canada.

Along the highway to Shelby, my buddy complained a bit about what had happened.  His attitude improved considerably as I checked us into the hotel and was told that they were out of regular rooms but would upgrade us for free.  His anger was gone completely when we walked into our room and he saw that, when the hotel manager said, “Presidential Suite,” he meant it.  Our room had not one, not two, not even three, but four king sized beds, a huge TV, and a Jacuzzi.

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The next day, with the required paperwork in hand, we returned to, and were allowed to cross, the border into Canada.

Later, talking to some of our friends in Longworth, British Columbia, I shared the story about our border crossing adventure.

As they laughed at our misfortune I pointed out that it could have been a whole lot worse.

My buddy nodded, “Yeah, they could have arrested us at the border.”

I shook my head, “Yeah, but it could have been worse than that.”

My friend looked perplexed.

I smiled, “Yup, instead of the presidential suite, the hotel manager could have upgraded us to the honeymoon suite.”

Yeah.

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