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It’s actually fun, in a way, watching football with them. And sitting around afterward is okay, too. I only have to remind myself once to relax and enjoy myself.
The day after Christmas is Boxing Day, a holiday in Canada, and Scott and I cross the border to visit my dad and Pat in Fort Frances. I drive us across, and tell the Canadian Customs officer that we’ll just be spending one night in the country.
“Any alcohol or tobacco on board?” he asks.
“No.”
“Any gifts or anything else you’ll be leaving?”
“A few Christmas presents.”
“Total value?”
It flashes through my mind to tell him the total value is a hundred thousand dollars. I could say it with a straight face, I bet. But, of course, I don’t. “Less than a hundred dollars.”
He returns our IDs. “Welcome back to Canada.”
I smile as I pull away from the border and drive us through town. There’s the Red Dog, where we first met. It looks the same. Except, I note, there’s a Canadian flag flying in front.
“Was that flag always there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I remember looking at the maple leaf.”
“I never noticed it before.”
I turn right and pull into my dad and Pat’s driveway. They come out to greet us and help carry our things inside. We spend the day exchanging presents and eating appetizers, which Pat lays out on the counter. They ask about school and I tell them about the books I’m reading and the essays I’m writing.
“I’m getting straight A’s,” I tell them, and they both nod in approval.
“Well, good for you,” my dad says. “Who would have thought you’d ever be a straight-A student?”
I could be insulted by his statement, but I’m not. Three years ago I wouldn’t have thought I’d be a straight-A student either. I used to be too wrapped up in traveling and experiencing to care about studying. When I met Scott I was registered at the University of Victoria, but I doubt that I would have taken it seriously if I’d gone then. I wouldn’t have gotten straight A’s, that’s for sure.
We leave in the morning, our car packed with gifts. Scott drives us across the toll bridge and pulls in line for Customs. We inch our way forward toward the booth, with the officer standing there in his uniform, checking each car, one by one.
My palms are sweating. I take a deep breath as Scott rolls up to the booth.
“Citizenships?”
“I’m American and my wife’s Canadian.”
“IDs.”
Scott hands our passports and my permanent resident card over. The officer doesn’t recognize Scott, and runs through all the questions. Where do we live, how long were we in Canada, what are we bringing back? Then he hands our IDs back and Scott puts the Grand Am in drive and rolls into the country, under the waving American flag.
Routine
When we get home, we spend the afternoon putting our new stuff away. Some of it replaces old things, but a lot of it goes directly into the attic because our apartment is simply getting too full to hold it all. Closets are overflowing and bookshelves are jammed. There's simply no more space.
When I bring home my books for the spring semester, I end up stacking them on the computer desk because there’s nowhere else to store them. It’s okay, I suppose, because I use them every day. Before class, between classes, and late at night while Scott plays computer games, I read and review and consult my books.
My class schedule is the same as last semester: day classes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and evening classes Tuesdays and Thursdays. I work the opposite: evenings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and during the day Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every week is the same, a series of routines. I used to promise myself that I’d never let that happen because I thought routines trapped people in complacency. But now I realize they can save time and energy, so I might as well make use of them. Routines, I find, just make things easier. All I have to do is wake up and remember what day it is and the rest is already set up and planned out for me: go to class, study, go to work, study, go to bed. Tomorrow I’ll go to work, go to class, study, go to bed. Simple.
Year Four
Changes
In flies by in a blur of waitressing shifts, and in September school becomes my main focus again. Work is pushed again to the back burner, something I do just to get by. I go in, serve my tables, collect my tips, and get out as soon as I can. I’m always rushing in after my day classes or rushing out in order to make it home in time to shower before my evening classes.
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