Border Officer
After nearly twenty years dealing primarily with pukes, punks, puss-heads and assholes—the four principal classifications of homo sapiens who regularly run afoul with the police—it was time for a change. I had been thinking along this line for some time without taking any definite steps. However, fourteen months as Police chief in Hartland, NB, convinced me that a new occupation was no longer a possibility, but a distinct necessity. It's one thing to deal with society's misfits, but a town council is something else.
In retrospect, it wasn't really the job that got to me; it was stress. In mid-April, 1978 when I decided to resign, I was two years into a separation and trying to maintain a semblance of sanity keeping four youngsters, an ex-wife and a new live-in from tearing each other apart. Stressed?! Becoming a hermit looked darned enticing at times. The next best thing seemed to be a job where contact with people didn't always hinge on a I-win-you-lose mentality. Working with the public service for the Government of Canada beckoned.
I hadn't any great determination to become a customs officer although the thought had crossed my mind from time to time over the years. I lived in a small community in Southwest New Brunswick which straddled the border—Forest City— with the Customs office about 75 feet from our front door. It was a one man out port of McAdam some 50 miles away. Otty Boone, a first cousin of my father, worked the port from about 1931 until 1956. A succession of relief officers manned the place until Wally Knox came there permanently in 1957 or 58. Day in and day out traffic crossing the border consisted of a few cars and a few pedestrians, nothing too demanding. Wally lived about 100 yards up the road, walked back and forth, cleared a few people during his mealtime or even after hours on occasion. Yeah, I thought. I could go for that. Being basically the lazy sort that I am.
Early April 1957 saw a poster circulated inviting applications for a summer job as a customs officer at Fosterville, a community about 13 miles from Forest City. Normally the Port was open from 8 until 5 during the late Fall and Winter but extended the hours to midnight May until October. Hence the need for an extra body. Neither the summer officer nor Paul Gardiner, the regular officer, were over worked being only slightly busier than Forest City. Mostly locals making their weekly trip to Houlton to the drive-in, or a quick trip over to Lester Dunhan's corner store/garage in Orient, for smokes and what not. Smuggling a carton of cigarettes, or a case of beer, happened now and then. It was always a game trying to outthink or outsmart the officer. More often than not, smugglers were successful largely because the officer didn't try all that hard to find contraband, the nearest store for booze was Woodstock, fifty some miles away.
And so, armed with all my knowledge of how the system worked, I applied along with a number of others including Carl Higgs and Charles Graham. I also pumped Wally Knox for some insight into the selection process. He was about as helpful as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. Read the newspapers, he said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Came the big interview day at the customs office in Fosterville. At the appointed time, was invited into a side room occupied by three men who would conduct the interview. I have no idea now who they were, but quite likely managers within the McAdam District. They asked a number of questions, but three really stood out; so much so, that I never forgot them. (1) One man rattled off a series of numbers—like 3, 5, 7, 9, only not so simple—then asked what came next. I made a wild guess. (2) The next guy wanted to know who was going to win the Stanley Cup that year. Dunno, I said. I don't follow hockey much. (3) Right on the heels of that one, the third guy said, "What do you think of Joey Smallwod?" At that time the Newfoundland loggers were on strike and Smallwood, premier, called in the RCMP to break up the picket lines and restore order. Did I take Wally's advice and read the newspapers? Nooooo! My response? "Who the hell is he? A hockey player?" Well, I mean, right after the question about the Stanley Cup, what would any logical person think?
Carl Higgs got the job. That summer job for Carl eventually turned into a full-time position, one he held until he retired 35 years later.
I didn't mind all that much about not being successful. We had a good laugh at my answers and a year later I joined the Fredericton Police Force (See Walking the Beat)
The second time I made an effort to join Customs was in Oakville, Ontario, around 1970. I stopped in at the local customs office to make inquiries about the process from an officer sitting at a desk with his feet up looking as bored as a teenager counting flies on the wall. And such a wealth of information. Apply to the public service he said, waving his hand in dismissal. I quickly pegged him under Classification 4 (useless) and left without any more idea of the process of getting hired than before.
But here I was now, 20 years after my initial interview in Fosterville, ready to try again. And I did apply through the Public Service. The forms were more or less generic, so I didn't specifically state any particular job; just listed my background and qualifications letting them decide if I qualified for anything. Amazingly I actually got a response in about two weeks. The letter stated I qualified for both Immigration and Customs, that a board of interviews was being established for each department. All I had to do was confirm my interest in attending one, or both of them. I chose both.
The interviewing techniques had not changed any during the past 20 years, still the three-man board, but the questions were not quite so much about current affairs. For example, one questioner said, "Give me an example of an open-ended question." My answer? "You just asked me one." (it is any question that cannot be answered by a simple yes or no, but requires some detail)
Being 20 years older and a tad wiser must have had some effect for a couple weeks later I received notice that I had placed first on both boards along with an offer to take a term position as an Immigration officer at Woodstock until September 1978 at which time the regular officer would return from French language training. I officially entered the Public Service of Canada at the end of May at the magnificent salary of $12,100 per year.