Border Tales Part One

Shouldn't there be more?

 

I have lived my entire life on or near borders. I spent my formative years in Pennsylvania, just a dozen miles from the Maryland border and just 40 from West Virginia. I recall how disappointed I was the first time my parents drove into Maryland and there was just a stupid sign. In my childhood head, I wanted a major demarcation: columns, an arch, or at least dotted lines like those on my maps.

 

Later I moved to northwestern Vermont and lived hard by the US/Canada line. I was on a border of sorts even when I lived in Wellington, New Zealand. It’s at the tip of the North Island, a ferry ride from the South Island. These days I’m in Western Massachusetts, a half hour from three states– Connecticut, New Hampshire, or Vermont–depending on which direction I point my car.  

 

I’ve had lots of chances to muse over which borders matter and which ones don’t. The Pennsylvania/Maryland border was inconsequential, though Hagerstown, Maryland, was/is more diverse and, back then, racial tensions were high. Crossing into West Virginia was more of a jolt. Its state slogan used to be “Wild Wonderful West Virginia.” The first part was decidedly true; the second a matter for debate. It was/is a place of played-out mining towns, deer-jackers, rough bars, rusted pickup trucks, and a higher percentage of poor folks than any state should have.

 

In 1978, I moved to northwestern Vermont. New York State was just 12 miles away, but you had to cross or go around Lake Champlain to get there, so I seldom went. Most of my border crossings were between Vermont and Québec. Montreal was just over an hour away, which made it the go-to city. My French was rudimentary, but uttering the phrase “J’habite au Vermont” usually unmoored English that Québeçois refused to waste on anyone from Ontario. Separatist sentiment remained high in the early 1980s, though Montreal had shed much of its old skin and had become a major global city. I enjoyed Expos games, despite Olympic Stadium's earned reputation as a terrible place to watch baseball. One of the first things one notices crossing into any part of Canada is that civic and personal pride exist at higher levels there. There is little litter in evidence, most people maintain their properties, being stupid is nothing to brag about, and in Québec Les Habs (Montreal Canadians) have more followers than the Catholic Church. But you can take Montreal drivers. Please!

 

Some of my Canadian border experiences involved alcohol. As a high school teacher, I often chaperoned events. In Vermont, you had to be 21 to buy alcohol; in Canada it was 18. On Friday nights, some students crossed the border to buy booze, with Molson Brador a perennial favorite. Smuggling wasn’t hard to pull off, as so many families had relatives across the border, could drop by to say hello, and could truthfully tell the Border Patrol they were paying them a visit. At events, I was of a see-no-evil disposition, but I needed to watch those ducking in and out of school events, as it often meant that students were pounding down Bradors in the parking lot. Not everyone handled it well, especially since Brador has an ABV of 6.2%. On a few occasions, I had to rat on someone for safety’s sake. 

 

You might think there’s not much difference between New Zealand’s North and South Island, but you’d be wrong. Crossing the Cook Strait from Wellington took me from a hilly city to an island whose spine is dominated by tall mountains that earn their nickname: The Southern Alps. The South Island is more rugged, less populated, and has its micro climates, which is why most New Zealand wines are produced there. North Island cities like Wellington and Auckland are international in character, whereas Christchurch is quite English and Dunedin is Scottish. The Maori presence is heavier in the North, and scattered small South Island towns often evoke the Wild West.

 

It’s surprising how much borders matter where I now live. Hartford is just an hour away, but the moment one drives into Connecticut, 28 miles distant, the traffic grows heavier and faster in pace. Frankly, Connecticut drivers terrify me, though I live in a state whose motorists are called “Massholes.” The opposite occurs when I travel the same distance north and cross into Vermont. It feels relaxed and residents of southern Vermont towns such as Brattleboro take themselves way less seriously–in a good way. To me, Hartford is harried, Northampton political, and Brattleboro as comfy as an old flannel shirt.

 

Until one gets to Keene, a drive into New Hampshire via Northfield, MA is not a Granite State tourist brochure. It’s one of the few places in New England where one finds auto racing, but don’t think Darlington. Most of the towns along Route 10 have seen better days, and their stately official buildings stand in marked contrast to battered commercial districts and dilapidated homes. The only reason to live in them is that most taxes are lower or non-existent in New Hampshire (though real estate taxes are higher). New Hampshire has some stunning landscape and picturesque towns, but not near my border.

 

Tune in next time to see what others have said about border experiences.

 

Rob Weir