My son, Sam, and I recently took a road trip to
Canada. Actually, he had hoped to take a
friend or two, but it turned out they all had prior commitments. So I convinced him to let me come. He enthusiastically agreed, particularly
after I offered to cover most of his expenses
The reason for the trip was to return a lambeg drum to
its owner in suburban Toronto.
Wikipedia
defines lambeg drum as “a large Irish drum beaten with curved Malacca canes . .
.used primarily in Northern Ireland by Unionist and the Orange Order.” The operative word is large. It had been used in a play produced by PICT
Classic Theatre – the company that employs my son as master carpenter. When one of PICT’s staff drove to Canada to initially
pick it up, he had to return to the States empty-handed because the drum was
too big to fit into his Kia Soul. So my
son made sure the drum fit into his Subaru Outback, though it didn’t leave much
room for anything else.
A few days before our departure, I began to think about
the two of us trying to get into Canada with a huge drum in plain view in the
back of his car. I knew that border crossings had become a bit more dicey since
security was tightened in the wake of the 9/11 attacks.
“How do you plan to explain the drum to the border
guards?” I asked him.
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Why should it be an issue?”
“Well, a drum that size could contain quite a bit of
contraband. Drugs, guns, a small family
of migrant workers. It would be a good
idea to be prepared with an explanation.
Maybe if we had a playbill or some pictures from the production.”
Overhearing our conversation, my wife, working at her
computer, went to the theatre company’s website.
“I don’t see any pictures of the drum, but I can download
the playbill from the show. It contains
a special thanks to the man who loaned the drum.”
“Does it mention the drum?”
“No, it just lists the owner’s name, and lists Sam’s name
as master carpenter.”
“Great, print it.
We’ll also take that playbill from Macbeth, which we saved from
the other night. That will make our
story sound a bit more authentic. I’m
probably just being a worrywart, but like I always say, better to have it and
not need it, than to need it and not have it.”
A few days later as we drove toward the border, we
briefly considered ignoring the drum, and saying we were just coming into
Canada for a day of sightseeing. I
imagined the guard’s first question would be, “So why are you bringing that
huge drum into Canada?”
“What drum?” would probably not be the best response.
We decided that honesty would be the best policy. If that should fail, our back-up plan was to
lie like hell. As we got close to the
guard booth, it occurred to me that we probably should have switched
drivers. My son is in his early twenties,
has longish hair and a beard that had gotten a bit shaggy. I, on the other hand, have the appearance of a
delightful and charming older gentleman – in other words, a harmless old geezer. But it was too late. Changing drivers while waiting our turn at
the crossing would just draw additional suspicion.
We pulled up, and my son handed our passports to the
guard. She studied them for what seemed
a long time.
“So what’s your business in Canada?”
Sam explained that we were representatives of a theatre
company in Pittsburgh that had borrowed the drum in the back of the car for a
recent production, and that we were traveling into Canada to return it to its
owner.
She gave us a skeptical stare. “What sort of play is this?”
Sam handed her the playbill we had printed from the
website. “It was called Observe the
Sons of Ulster Marching Toward the Somme.”
“It was about an Irish battalion preparing to fight in
the First World War,” I chimed in.
“And who are you?”
She gave me a cold stare.
“My dad is on the theatre company’s board,” Sam replied
as I leafed through the Macbeth playbill, unable to find where the board
members are listed.
She riffled through the papers in her hands. “What’s in the drum?” she demanded.
“Nothing!” we simultaneously responded, perhaps a bit too
quickly.
“Why did you need a drum from Canada?”
“It’s a very unique drum.
You can see the way it’s painted.
It had to look authentic to the period and this is the closest one we
could find.” OK. I didn’t know that for a fact, but thought it
sounded pretty good. I felt the ice
getting thinner under our skates.
“Do you have any paperwork showing it’s a Canadian drum?”
“I have an email someplace,” Samuel said looking around
his seat, but desperately hoping she wouldn’t ask him to produce it.
“And whose drum is it?” she asked.
Sam gave her the name of the owner.
“Where does he live?”
“Clarington,” I replied.
“Clarington? I
thought you said you were going to Toronto.”
“Well, we’ll be staying in Toronto after we drop off the
drum in Clarington.”
“Good save, Sam,” I thought to myself.
“Will you be coming back to get the drum again?” she
asked.
"No, the play is finished. We won’t be doing it again in the foreseeable
future,” Sam replied.
She paused, leafing through the pages of the
playbill. We waited, wondering if her
next move would be to have us take the drum out for her inspection or phone for
back-up. We put on our friendliest faces
as we continued to wait for her to decide what to do.
“All right, you can go,” she said. “But if you ever do this again, you need to
make sure you have paperwork showing the drum is a Canadian good.”
“Thank you. We’ll
be sure to do that,” I said.
She handed back our passports and the playbill
printout. We quickly drove off, feeling
like we had just gotten away with the crime of the century.
“Wow, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that by myself,” Sam
said, sighing with relief.
“I guess having your old man along for the ride was good
for something,” I said as we took the on ramp for the QEW.
We agreed that after we dropped off the drum, there would
be no need to mention it on our way back into the U.S.A.
