Borderline Stress Test

Early Tuesday morning, May 2, I left home with Hershey, my constant companion, to spend a few days with my family in Michigan. While driving, I called my sister-in-law. Her granddaughter answered. We had not talked in ages, so we gabbed a long time, then I had my usual lengthy chat with my sister-in-law catching up on each other’s activities including my current trip. After we said goodbye, I realized that the 401 had narrowed to two lanes on each side, thus I had not even seen London plus missed my exit for Sarnia. I was on my way to Windsor, and stuck with driving through Detroit.

As I pulled up to the US customs booth, the agent said, “Hello. How are you today?” I thought that was a rather cheery greeting especially at the Detroit border crossing where they are known for their officious inflexibility. I replied, “Fine.”

He took my passport. “Do you know your license plate number?”

“1 N..,” I hesitated because my husband had bought new personalized plates for me in April using my middle initial instead of maiden name initial, so I had to think. “MW, I think. They are brand new.”

“Have you seen a doctor recently?”

“Yeeeees,” as my mind was swirling with outrageous thoughts: Good grief! Why would he ask that? Is my health record connected to my license number? Is Big Brother watching? Were the results from my SPECT Cardiolite stress test yesterday so bad that they think I may have a heart attack while driving and have notified the authorities to watch for me on the road?

“Did you have a bone scan?”

“Yeeeees.” Then I added, “My bone density is very good for an old lady of my age.”

“I am sure it is.”

Another agent walked up to me. “Have you had a stress test lately?”

“Yeees, yesterday.” Unsettling thoughts were exploding in my brain! “How would you know that?”

“You are radioactive. Would you please pull up to that man over there. You will need to fill out some paperwork inside.” The indicated individual waved me in his direction as the second agent walked my passport over to him. I was directed to drive between two posts and make a tight circle around back to him. I still had not figured out what was going on. After completing the loop, I joked, “I can do it faster. Do you want me to drive around again?”

“No. That was good enough. Will your dog bite me?”

“No, but he will lick you.”

After he directed me to accompany the second agent into the building, I confessed, “My stress test yesterday was very stressful, but this is too.” They concurred. As I walked in, he drove my vehicle between the posts. Later I deduced that they were verifying that it was me, not my vehicle, which was radioactive.

Inside, they offered me a chair as three agents surrounded me, one with a Geiger counter-type machine which he held close to my body and backed away. I asked how long I would be radioactive. “Usually about three weeks.”

“Three weeks! I have to cross the border again on Thursday! Aah, but the Canadians don’t care. They usually don’t even ask my citizenship.” The female agent explained that Canadian border agents receive the same training that they receive. I remarked, “I guess I don’t look much like a terrorist threat to them.”

One of them questioned where I was going and why. I explained, “I am on my way to my brother’s in Rochester Hills, and my dog is going to see my nephew who is a vet. He is the only vet who understands his allergies.”

The door opened, and the agent returned my car keys, stating, “You were right.”

“You mean he licked you?”

“He sure did.”

I was then given my passport and released. The female agent continued chatting about dogs and canine allergies as she escorted me to my car.

I wonder what my blood pressure was during that episode.

Three days later, while driving toward the Port Huron/Sarnia crossing, I was feeling unsettled about what might happen at the border as I recalled an incident from the previous month. It was blizzard conditions as I approached Customs. The Canadian officer asked for my license number. “I don’t know it!”

“Why don’t you know it?”

“Why should I? No one ever asks for it.”

“Then get out and tell me what it is.”

“If I do that, I will have to pull either forward or backward. Which would you like me to do?”
In a huff, she stormed out of her booth, and went to look. “Is the storm preventing you from seeing my plate with your cameras?” No answer. But she released me.

I pulled into the stall at Sarnia. The customs officer queried where I live and how much I was bringing back. Period.

The Putnam Family Myth

My mother told me many times that she was the favorite grandchild of her maternal Putnam grandparents. It only stood to reason. She was the first grandchild, and she, Etha L. Moses, was named for her grandmother, Etha V. McCoy Putnam.

My great grandfather died before I was born, as did my great grandmother – by only three days. Her death was Christmas Day, and I was born on the day she was buried – December 28. She was the only person who was told what my name would be if I were a girl – Nina May, making me the namesake of my grandmother, Nina May Putnam Moses, the daughter of Etha Putnam. That was a significant piece of information to ruminate in my young mind as I grew up in Etha Putnam’s world.

Nina Moses, my grandmother, inherited her parents’ home. She sold it to my parents and held the mortgage for them. We moved in when I was an infant. The furniture, knickknacks, linens, dishes, and carpets in my childhood home were a mix of my parents’ purchases and the items the three Putnam heirs relinquished. I used Etha Putnam’s insulin bottles, which I found around the house, as milk bottles in my play kitchen.

Repeatedly, my mother related stories of her wonderful, loving grandparents and the special things they did for her. For Christmas one year, the Putnams had purchased Lane cedar chests for their three granddaughters. Grandma and Grandpa allowed my mother to have a peek at the gifts before Christmas as they wanted to see her reaction privately. They gave her a loving note, which she saved in the bottom of her chest, explaining where to look in their house to find her gift, and reminding her to keep it a secret until Christmas Day. They privileged my mother in many ways, warning her not to mention anything to her siblings or cousins. My mother adored these grandparents. Who wouldn’t love grandparents who made you feel special above all others?

Following my mother’s death, the genealogy bug bit me. As part of my research, I asked living relatives their memories of our family. While reminiscing a few years ago, a cousin told me some suspicions of family dealings. This cousin surmises that Great Grandpa Putnam made a special monetary gift to their family, because, as this cousin said, “My [parent] was the favorite grandchild.” I was shocked! I declared that my mother was their favorite.

None of the grandchildren were alive at that moment of discovery, but I was constrained to ask the other great grandchildren if they had been told that their parent was the favored grandchild. They had! Frank and Etha Putnam had succeeded in convincing each grandchild that he or she was the most special one without their ruse being discovered before all of the grandchildren were gone. Plus, each grandchild was so convinced that they were the favored one that they passed that information on to their children.

My initial reaction to this knowledge is that they were appalling grandparents to have lied to their grandchildren. That was a dangerous game to play with young emotions. Their fib compelled their grandchildren to have more love and respect for them. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if the grandchildren had found out the truth – that they were all loved very much, but not exclusively. I am quite sure that if I had been told that, I would have taunted my brother in our regular disagreements with, “Naaa naa n’na na… I am Grandma and Grandpa’s favorite grandchild!” And then, when the truth was discovered, my internal explosion would have destroyed my love for and my faith in them.

The real truth is that they told each grandchild that they were the favorite one, because they were! I am sure that they loved each grandchild individually. All six grandchildren died knowing they were the favorite. Now that is a beautiful story.