It is very easy for even the new-comer to see how Mr. Anderson, supposedly an advocate, actually holds his constituents in great contempt.
Ed Note: The following essay is a result of D. Grant DeMan rifling through his files lately, after
your editor told him of a couple of recent letters between the same David Anderson and yours
truly. Since the time of DeMan's letters to Anderson, Anderson has dined at the
public trough in the guise of more than one Cabinet Minister. D. Grant DeMan got his money back, but not before our tax dollars were spent in the thousands chasing an illusion Mr. Andersons hired guns at the border could only have conjured up after reading a lot of Joseph Wambaugh. For that, DeMan is one up on me, as I have yet to collect a dime of the money promised to me, but the lawyers working on my behalf and being paid by Mr. Andersons party-in-power-government have collected in excess of 35 million dollars! You got yours Mr. DeMan...the Feds have paid off the lawyers, now it's my turn! - - or is it?
.....by D. Grant DeMan
September 1994: Seizure 84022569 File CS 99890 PS-840-22569Dear Right Honourable David Anderson, Sir:
They hit our van like bluebottle flies at a carrion convention.
A flock of your customs officers were really giving the Blue Babe, as we affectionately call her, the Royal Canadian rape of her fifteen-year life. To my aged eyes there seemed to be hundreds of blue-shirted youngsters in and out and crowding around, but - to be accurate - there probably were fewer than a dozen. They must have figured they'd caught a major player in a smuggling franchise; and I could see that we were in for it - Officer 6374 kept feeling his hip for the sidearm that wasn't there denoting that he was an ex-cop.
You might ask, as I have many times myself, just how two old patriots such as my beautiful wife, Diane, and I - grandparents of six - found ourselves in this pandemonious predicament. Even if not the least bit curious, completely uninterested in fact, I feel behooved to reveal the story to your Right Honourable Office. Though fifty years ago my granddaddy told me: "Never complain, never explain." I now make exception to that generally sound old saw. No, its NOT the principle. It is the two Robert Bordens, the two hundred smackers, you snatched from us.
About three months ago we were happily crocheting and painting in our modest Royston-On-Vancouver-Island home, when we received an invitation from Cousin Gene in Seattle. She was excited, "It's my ninetieth birthday. And Harold and I will celebrate our anniversary at the same time. Kill two birds....yuk, yuk."
"A big affair?" I queried."
"No.......none that I can think of since Pierre - 1965........Oh! You mean the party? We're keeping it small, at our age just two or three hundred of our closest friends and relatives."
"We'll be honored to be there." This would be a major voyage for Diane and me.
In preparation, we had Babe greased and oiled, and I painted the celebrants a picture of Royston Bay from the memory of their visit here.
Since we had made only two trips in the past ten years, we were ecstatic about this adventure, though getting busted was not part of our plan. A mighty good thing that I neglected to make that payment on the house insurance before we left or I'd be writing this from the poky, and Diane would be stranded with our little dog Freddy in front of the Peace Arch. As it was, we had an extra $200 for our mutual emergency, but that's a lot of money to pay for the entertainment that you were about to provide.
As the old Blue Babe roared south, our artistic eyes appreciated the array of flora in golden autumn sun. The big hall in north Seattle rang with music and laughter, fiddling and dancing, hugging and kissing. There were folks from all over, and even a chorus line of octogenarian follies girls doing the Big Red Rose, so naughty even Diane, a dancer in her own right, blushed, holding a place card over one eye like a coy Spanish virgin. There were more bands and acts than a Burlesque Palace, in fact I think that had been the origin of most of them. Gene and Harold really had a whoop-up. We could see them still dancing at 4.00 PM when, as the party wound down, we took our leave. The motel bed had left us with suffering sacroiliacs and we welcomed spending that night in our big old comfy bed at home.
Northbound, savoring the flowers of our international park, we encountered the first customs officer. We may have been a few minutes short of the forty-eight hour stay, so we were told to fill in a form at the office declaring the two pair of pants and two books we'd picked up in the United States.
We parked adjacent to a building that was about three hundred feet long, and Diane exited with the piece of paper she'd been given, only to return ten minutes later, exasperated: "I can't find an open door in this building!" There was no one around to help; must have been coffee break time.
A walk around the building, the rattling of doors took some time; but when I finally found an open door a throng of people materialized in front of us miraculously. Leaving poor Diane at the end of the line, I returned to see what Freddy had been up to, poured a cup of coffee, and waited a few minutes until she jumped into her seat and said, "Okay. Let's go."
I had just backed up the Babe and put her in forward when my dear innocent and naive bride explained, "I just couldn't wait any longer. I'll mail in the form when we get home."
When we get home?? !! That ominous feeling crept up my spine. Like when the Pastor says, "You'd better sit down. I've got something to tell you." I somehow knew something nasty was about to happen.
I hit the brakes and pulled into another parking slot just as the sirens went off. A bevy of your inspectors waving like gulls in a gale, blocked my path. In a flash they gutted poor babe like buzzards on a shit wagon. No offence intended in my use of this vulgaris ruralis expression, meant only to enhance the scene, and not your officers who had their job to do. Perhaps, chickens on a June Bug, would be more apt. We noted that despite the probing search, they failed to find our hidden magnetic extra-key holder - you know the one that the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia warns us about. Every car thief knows its location, they say.
Maybe it was because I thoughtfully handed them the extra keys they missed; perhaps because we had no contraband: at first hey seemed mighty disappointed, then increasingly irate. Whatever - I nearly cried when they cruelly seized the Babe. Diane was of course bewildered.
Officer 6374, face ripening like an eggplant, informed me that it would cost $200 to retrieve our van or I could go to jail. "We can arrange that." He explained with gusto.
Quickly I remembered the insurance money and decided to pay. Couldn't leave Di and Freddy stranded. Neither drives. And neither would speak to me ever again.
Officially sir, our offence: "That the said vehicle was removed from a Customs office without having been released by an officer." just ain't so. I hadn't gone thirty feet, and could have gone another sixty or more without leaving the Customs parking lot. Can't you see how respectfully squirming, and saintfully innocent we are? Merely babes in the jungle of Government Land.
On the other hand, I would not for one moment accuse your officers of mendacious conduct; merely youthful exuberance, possibly errors in judgement. Upon hearing that I was an aspiring writer , (You may see my piece Why I fly our Maple Leaf in the local press. Yes, I desperately realize...patriotism, the last refuge...etc.) one officer even tried to console us: "Think of the great material this will give you."
Oh sure. Among the customs scandals: trains, boats and trucks full of criminals, drugs and dirty little books, this expose will be truly front page stuff: CANADA CUSTOMS SEIZES RUSTY VAN - Pries $200 from Tight-fisted Pensioners to Aid the National Deficit! Couldn't you just see some editor paying me 200 oysters for that one.........a good idea though.....
Now the insurance wolf is howling for his due, and you have its money. I appeal to your wisdom and compassion, and - just to emphasize once more what kind of a prostrate posterior petter I am, I do not hesitate to remind you that the good cheer season is upon us. You did us wrong; please make it right for Christmas.
May I humbly expect my refund by return mail?
Your servant and etc.
PS - February, 1995The season of good cheer is well past. This mater has been in the hands of your Ken McCarthy 613 941-6133 for months. I really feel screwed. Please send back my $200. I do not wish to hear how your Deputy's people were acting legally. Perhaps they were. But I am ashamed that members of your department, acting as MY servants, behaved in this maliciously predatory manner. This matter probably has cost far more than the $200 you seized from us. Just where is the GAIN in all this rigamarole?!! How about some justice, Sir.
Post Script: Three registered letters arrived in succession, and then one government refund check for $200. My estimate of tax payer's money spent on this little episode was about five thousand dollars, considering the high cost of legal fees involved. One need not possess a bold imagination to quiver with shock at the sums piffled down the drain over the more integral and logistically significant disputes that roll through governmental offices daily. 30
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