THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, July 7, 1995 TAG: 9507060182
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 93 lines
It was just about this time of year, the Fourth of July weekend in 1973, I believe, when I got my first and last look at FDR's beloved Campobello Island.
I had always known it was there, sitting on the Canadian side of the border just off the coastal Maine hamlet of Lubec.
Down east - way down east - even by Maine standards.
``If you stand in Lubec on a clear day and look east,'' my father used to tell me, ``you can see England.''
Squint as I might, Buckingham Palace never rose out of the ocean. But the view of close-in Campobello where the Roosevelt family loved to spend long summer days was a good second best.
I used to dream of getting an invitation to go over there for an afternoon of playing house or wading in the surf with the Roosevelt grandchildren.
Thirty years later I finally got an invitation to join the family at their summer place. Unfortunately three filthy kids, an illegally alien beagle and a fear of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police kept me from accepting it.
All of this happened when Bill was stationed in Washington and we decided that a family trip to Maine was in order. We packed up the kids and Ruff, our cantankerous beagle, and headed northeast across the 45th parallel and into a hunting camp owned by some cousins near the Canadian border.
For a week we read the Bangor Daily News instead of The Washington Post, listened to country music and announcements for Grange hall suppers and church picnics on the one available radio station, made daily trips across the St. Croix River to New Brunswick, swam in 50-degree water and were the primary food source for black flies the size of B-52s.
On the weekend we decided to make a day trip to Campobello, which by then had opened to the public and was connected to the U.S. side by a bridge.
Before we left Washington I had called the Canadian embassy to ask about taking Ruff across the border.
``Get a health certificate from your veterinarian and show it to the boys at the crossing,'' the embassy man told me. ``If they don't know what it is, just tell them that MacKenzie said it was OK.''
I had no idea then, nor do I now, who MacKenzie was, but each time we crossed I followed his advice about showing the health certificate
Until we got to the bridge over to Campobello, that is. With three kids fighting in the back seat and the beagle grumping back by the tailgate, we stopped for the obligatory border questions - destination, place of birth, business, etc. Things went well and once more we did not need to invoke MacKenzie's name, mainly because we forgot to mention the dog at all.
As we pulled away from the gate the guard turned to the rear of the station wagon and gave a little salute.
The beagle saluted back in typical beagle fashion: loudly. For a moment I saw the guard's startled face in my side view mirror. By the time we put everything together there was a half mile of road between us and the crossing.
``Oh good grief,'' Bill said, ``he thinks we're trying to smuggle the dog into the country.''
In the end we decided not to turn back to straighten the mess out. We went on to the Roosevelt cottage, certain that lights, sirens and gentlemen in red coats would soon follow.
Which they did, but not for the reason we expected.
Behind us over the bridge came cars carrying state and provincial officials, all of the surviving Roosevelt children and some of the grandchildren.
While the dignitaries went straight to a garden to the right of the cottage, Bill and I, the kids and the contraband beagle turned left toward the welcome center. Ours was the only car in the visitors' parking lot.
``Oh, we're so glad you came for the ceremony,'' the hostess told us. ``We had expected a big crowd but you're the only ones here so far. Except, of course, for the Roosevelt family and the governors and all.''
I never did figure out exactly what the ceremony was all about. The only thought going through my mind was that finally I was being invited to visit the Roosevelts but I was surrounded by filthy, bloodied kids (the back seat fighting had reached new heights that morning) and a dog who was believed to be an illegal alien. In addition, I was probably being pursued by the entire East Coast contingent of the RCMP.
The timing, I decided, could hardly have been worse.
I looked at Bill and together we made a silent, command decision.
We refused the invitation to the ceremony. I tend to think in terms of headlines at times like that and ``Bangor Native Apprehended at Campobello Ceremonies for Smuggling Dog Across Border'' did not thrill me in the least.
We made a quick tour of the lovely old cottage, then took our leave.
``Please stay, we have such lovely refreshments,'' the hostess said as we thanked her for the tour.
At the mention of food the kids made simultaneous U-turns. Bill and I collared them and led them back to the station wagon. Then we shoved the beagle under a blanket and made a run for the border, my final chance to play with Roosevelts gone forever. by CNB