And in all fairness to the post I made below (since not only are Canadians blessed with a great sense of humour, they too are very fair), I must share a story that has haunted my mother for many years. And since it happened many years ago, the telling may include an element of embellishment. (She'll have stern words for me if she reads this. Sorry, Mum.)
Some years ago, in the earlyish nineties, my mother and brother were on a week’s vacation in the inland northwest of the US. For many years she had been in the habit of taking us both on 'vagabond vacations' wherein she would pack up her car and her two boys and go camping somewhere for a week. These treks normally took us to the interior of B.C., but this time, since she was minus one son (I was spending part of the summer with family in Waterloo), dear Mum decided to take Aaron south instead of west.
They did begin by heading west to B.C. with plans to start the US portion of the trip in Washington State and wend their way back to Alberta by way of Idaho. Much of the trip was uneventful, the two of them simply enjoying the pleasant weather and not spending more than a day or two in any one location prior to moving on to the next campsite. As the vacation progressed, they found themselves heading back north through Idaho as intended. In the Idaho Panhandle is located a lovely little town by the name of Bonners Ferry, nestled comfortably beside the Kootenai River, about 25 kilometers south of the B.C. border, near Creston. It was here that dear Mum came up with a wonderful idea.
As they drove through town, they noticed a tourist information booth and decided to stop for directions. My mother has always made note of how she was struck by the initial appearance of the woman behind the counter. (I’m reminded of Pearl Jam’s song, Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, but that doesn’t really bear on this at all.) She looked to be a typical 'blue-haired granny', with a tight coif of dyed curls, immaculately pressed clothing and sculpted makeup. She had particularly well groomed eyebrows. Even more striking about her was the fact that she had another set of clearly defined eyebrows penciled in above her natural ones. This was my mother’s initial impression of the residents of Bonners Ferry on her way back north.
Strolling up to the counter with a suppressed grin, Mum politely enquired of the lady the whereabouts and the cost of taking the ferry across the river. With a slightly confused look, the matron turned to the large map of Idaho on the wall behind her and began to describe that if she headed back south on I95, she might be able to find a ferry in Sandpoint or Priest River. Still amused, and taking on an air of patience, Mum elaborated that she would like to take the ferry here.
The granny renewed her efforts to lend aid by saying that if Mum were to head north and cross the border into B.C., she was sure that there were a couple of nearby cities, probably just north of Creston, where she could take a ferry ride. Again, a little frustrated, Mum looked the granny directly in the eyes and, speaking more slowly now, told her that she and her son would like to take the ferry here. In Bonners Ferry. They’d like to take the bonners ferry across the river.
Granny leaned across the counter at my mother, raised all four eyebrows into her blue hairline, clearly pointed her arm back the way from which my mother and brother had just driven and proclaimed loudly what had been obvious to her from the moment the two had walked in: “Well you just drove across the bridge!”
There is no ferry in Bonners Ferry.
