Richard Grahn
Oh, Canada
Steve has never been to the Midwest and remarks, “the Midwest is very green.” I can imagine why he would say that, having lived his entire life in the drought-stricken hills and valleys of California we left behind two days ago. Grandma is at the cabin in northern Wisconsin, up near Lake Superior. We hitchhike our way there, arriving in the pitch-black night, walking on dirt roads through the woods, me telling bear stories from my childhood to set the stage.
no moon . . . sound of footsteps for a guide
We spend a week there, fattening ourselves on Grandma’s cooking and traipsing around the woods where autumn leaves command the canopy. When the time comes to leave, Grandma drives us back to Deerfield where she gives me two boxes of possessions she has been storing in the attic for me for years. Steve and I say goodbye to her at the Columbus Amtrak station. With our backpacks, sleeping bags, and two boxes in tow, we board the train for Montreal, Rachel, waiting for us there.
heartbeats in sync with the clacks on the rails . . . fluttering leaf
We’re riding coach, so the sleeping arrangement becomes a ritual of rolling out our sleeping bags in the observation car behind some tables after the sun goes down. The rails on the eastward route are bumpy. Our glimpses of Upstate New York fade into darkness as we approach the Canadian border.
key in one hand candle in the other no welcome mat
The train stops at the border after dark. Two longhairs with backpacks and boxes draw the border patrol’s attention as they go from passenger to passenger. When they finish their rounds, they return to our seats and ask us to leave the train—more of a demand than a request. We disembark, my two boxes carried by the officers.They sit us on the patrol-station steps, and we watch as the train pulls away. We dump our drugs under the stairs and wait. One officer comes out and tells us to follow him in. We watch as they search our backpack and empty the contents of the boxes onto the table. The questioning begins.”Where are you going? What is your reason for entering Canada? How much money do you have? Credit cards? How long do you plan to stay?’ They grill us like criminals. We explain that we’re visiting a friend and show them we have round-trip tickets. They go as far as calling Rachel, who confirms our planned visit and even offers to come pick us up.
chain gang . . . no more candy at the corner store
It takes two hours of questioning and deliberation before they announce that we cannot enter the country. They accuse us of coming there to live and to steal jobs. Nothing we tell them will convince them otherwise. When morning comes, they deposit us on the side of the road with our cargo and tell us a bus will come by in a few hours. We decide to hitch a ride. But first, we have to contend with those boxes. I open them up and spread the contents along the apron. All I can take is what will fit in my backpack. We walk south with our thumbs out, a wind from the north at our backs.
pick-up sticks . . . waking up day after day
About the Author
Richard Grahn creates sculpture, painting, music, photography, poetry, and prose from his apartment in Evanston, Illinois. Creativity is his peace.