I stood freezing in the long line, at the Toronto Greyhound Terminal, for over two hours at Bay 6 with my bag beside me. The bays were outside, and the wind and snow were blowing directly into us.
Being just a few days before Christmas, everyone appeared tired and ready to board their bus and sleep. The time was closing in on midnight, but I was wide awake and anxious to see my six grandchildren in Ohio and their beautiful mother, my first-born daughter.
Finally, the bus had arrived. I won’t have to change buses until we cross the border in about two hours and enter at the Buffalo Terminal. I’m excited, and sleep doesn’t come. I look out as the night has changed to a bright full moon and millions of stars. As we go south, the snow is left behind us.
I envision the scene, I’ll hopefully see, in the next few days. Getting to watch the kids open the presents I shipped down. There will be joy on their faces along with a lot of noise as the children range in age from two to thirteen.
As we arrive at customs, the driver says, “Make sure you take all your belongings off the bus. Pick up your bags from under the bus and take them with you through that door to the left. Make sure you have all your identification ready.”
I grab my backpack and a small bag from under the bus and make my way into line. A customs agent calls up one person every twenty minutes. At this rate, I’ll never make my connection in Buffalo. After about forty minutes it’s finally my turn.
“ID please. Where are you going and for how long?”
“To visit my daughter and six Grandchildren in Dayton, Ohio and will be there for five days.”
“Are you declaring anything into the country?”
“No. I already sent my gifts to their house a couple of weeks ago.”
“Okay move on to the other officers to get your bags checked.”
Customs hadn’t started using screening machines yet, so our bags were checked manually. This process always left a mess inside.
“Okay, you’re good to move on. Take your bags and go back to the bus and wait with the driver.”
I was overjoyed that was over. There were others, though, who didn’t get through as quickly. One lady had packed sliced meat and oranges, both items not allowed to cross the border. This caused a delay for over an hour while one of the customs agents searched for an interpreter because this lady, nor anyone in her family, spoke English.
After several more transfers along the way, I finally arrived in downtown Dayton. I was so relieved to see my daughter and son-in-law sitting in the waiting room. After a short drive, we arrived at the house. All the children came up and gave me a big hug.
My Christmas in 1999 was the first I had spent with my family in many, many years. It will always be the one I treasure the most. It was the beginning of many more years of special occasions with them.
