Bang the Drum All Day

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.