"That's ridiculous!" I countered, "Surely it would be cheaper and faster to fly the parts!"
The tall foreheads who decide such matters replied that such was not the case, that a good driver could get the parts to Dallas by Sunday in time for their use on a stalled assembly line first thing Monday morning.
"Faster than flight" one trumpeted.
"How much?" I queried.
"$1800. $1.50 a mile. Take it or leave it" They don't mince words in the courier wars.
As it was November 19 and the usual Christmas expenses loomed, it was a no brainer. After faxing my border access documents, I picked up the load in Toronto and was on my way.
Within an hour, in the Daylight Saving darkness, I was cross-eyed with fatigue. By the time I got to London, I was forced to pull into a service centre on Hwy 401 for the first of many power naps. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the road, slightly more alert, pedal to the metal, heading for the always-under-construction Ambassador Bridge, scary Detroit and even scarier US Customs agents.
There was the usual half hour truck lineup while agents asked idiotic post-911 questions. When I got to the booth I was interrogated by a gun toting goon, a bully in uniform.
"Nationality"
"Canadian"
"Whaddaya got?"
"A 300 lb skid of coaxial cables for Chrysler diathermal units"
"Where you going?"
"Dallas"
You know you're missing paint on your roof?"
"Yes"
"What'd you say you had?"
"A skid of cables"
"Your tires are worn"
"I know"
"$10.75"
Relieved at finally getting into Michigan, I flew down Interstate 75 until midnight, when, overcome by hallucinations, no doubt assisted by the exhaust gases in my rusty 1996 Chev Astro Van that had a habit of cycling through my lungs before exiting the vehicle, I pulled into one of Ohio's rest areas, locked the doors, put a steel bar through the back doors which had no lock, pulled out my sleeping bag and slept until 4 am.
Thusly I progressed, state after state, as I did, idly wondering about the plight of Indians in Indiana, feeling slightly ill in Illinois, noting the misery in Missouri, wondering what Art saw in Arkansas and finally, at 11 pm on Sunday night, making Dallas and my destination.
To my vast relief there was somebody at the Chrysler plant on a Sunday, and a disinterested Receiver unloaded my skid, put it on a rack with 20 others just like it and signed my packing slip.
"I drove straight from Toronto with this. Had you been notified and were you waiting for these parts?" I asked.
"Don't know nothing about 'em. We're just mushrooms down here. Have a good day"
It was November 21.
I found a Wal-Mart, purchased mounds of junk food and celebrated my delivery in style, then, oblivious to squealing tires, banging carts and yappy shoppers, had my first decent sleep in 3 days.
When I awoke, it was Monday, November 22. I decided to acquaint myself with the City of Dallas, bought a map and drove to a spot that held consuming interest for me, Dealey Plaza.
Although it was only 10 am, crowds of people had already gathered in the shadow of the Texas School Book Depository, some weeping openly. When I saw the white 'X' on the pavement near the grassy knoll, I struggled to contain similar emotions, recalling working at a consulting engineering company in Toronto and hearing the devastating news exactly 40 years earlier. I remember it being a friday, and going to the barn on Lorne Park Road with my brother John where we were building our stock car. Depressed and unfocused, I cleaned and sorted while John, far more sensible, got roaring drunk.
Every once in awhile John would yell, thrusting his arm in the air for emphasis, "We must go to Cubar!" or, "Let me say this about that!" or, recalling a White House press conference, "Go ahead, the lady in the red hat!" or, "Let them come to Berlin!" and finally, "We must move ahead with great vigah!"
Distancing myself from the crowd, I walked along the fence which separated the grassy knoll from a train yard, thinking how easy it would have been for a marksman to make a killing shot from that range. Noting that the sidewalk on the railway overpass was vacant, I walked to it and stood at the railing.
As I was reminiscing about the charismatic president who brought a refreshing, youthful vigour to the White House, I was joined by an old man on my left, and, desperately looking for company after 3 days of seclusion, I said, "It's a sad anniversary. It's as vivid in my mind today as it was 40 years ago"
"Yes, he replied, "The world lost a person who sought peace, not war. Making clear his objectives was his mistake"
I thought his words were unusually prescient, and turned and looked at him. He was about my height, just a little over 6 feet, but much thinner at about 150 lbs, stooped, almost frail, with a tousled, unruly head of grey hair. A grey beard and mustache covered much of his face. He had sharp, penetrating blue eyes behind rimless glasses and although his slight smile was engaging, he carried an air of reserve, of distance. I estimated his age to be in the mid to late 80's.
"Yes", he continued, "Had the president not been such a macho-oriented person, he would have had the bulletproof glass bubble top on the Lincoln that day, but he ignored Secret Service warnings and placed vote-getting and personal popularity ahead of safety"
"You seem to know alot about it"
"I was in Dallas that day"
"Good heavens! What was your take on the events? Was it Lee Harvey Oswald or a conspiracy?
"The president never had a hope. It was a shooting gallery. There were two on the lower floors of the School Book Depository, two behind the fence at the grassy knoll, two at the Dal-Tex building up the street and one 'insurance' shooter right where we're standing.
They were all in on it - the FBI, CIA, Cuban rebels, mafia, Lyndon Johnson and the military-industrial complex"
Silence. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I felt that the old man bore a vaguely familiar resemblance to somebody I'd seen in the past, but I couldn't quite nail it down. The Boston accent. His hands in his suit jacket pockets.
"Sir" I said, "Would you mind if I told you who you remind me of?"
"Yes, I would mind"
"Would you mind if I tell you who you do not remind me of?"
"Not at all. Go ahead"
You don't remind me of Gerald Ford"
Slight acknowledgment with a curt nod.
'You don't remind me of George Dubya Bush"
Nod with a suppressed smile.
"And you definitely don't remind me of Barack Obama"
He turned to me and burst into laughter. The charisma that had worked on a thousand maidens in 1,000 days was finally unleashed!
"OK, dammit, I'm going to say it anyway. You remind me of some guy who was called Camelot"
He shook his head and then let loose, "I never liked that comparison. That was a result of Jackie getting together with Ted Sorenson and going over the top with rhetoric that bent history to suit the occasion. Camelot was a place, a kingdom, not a person. And I was supposed to have pulled a sword out of an anvil? Good luck with that, I'm lucky to be able to lift a teaspoon - and that's on a good day when my Addison's Disease isn't kicking up. On the other hand, I must admit to being attracted to Queen Guinevere...when Jackie dragged me to see the play that was the only time I woke up!" He smiled again, broadly, reflecting.
He sighed and continued, "I used a double. Poor Johnny MacPherson always boasted that he could step into my shoes and nobody would ever be the wiser, so Jackie finally convinced me to use him for the parade through Dallas that day. I watched the procession on local TV, and after it happened assumed his identity along with the disguises he always used. My God it cost alot to keep Jackie quiet - I thought she was going to bankrupt the old man, and her unrelenting demands led to his having the stroke. She even demanded her own personal stamps be minted, with our profiles superimposed and 'JFK JBK' printed underneath. No one but Jackie ever had access to these stamps.
Thank heavens Aristotle Onassis came along!
But I do walk by here almost every day, and wonder if I could not have changed the world as we know it by pulling out of the war in Viet Nam, making peace with Russia and with Castro."
"Why are you telling me this?"
He laughed again. The charisma and quick mind that had worked so well for him was not just reserved for the countless damsels!
"I have to talk to somebody. And you're no kid. If you ever open your mouth to talk about this they'll have you in the psych ward or nursing home so quickly you won't know what hit you!"
Was I talking to a looney? Or was I simply hallucinating because of too many miles driven in a stupor?
As my recently dubbed 'Camelot' turned to leave, he said, "My back is killing me. Oh how I wish I had that rocker from the White House"
50 feet away, something fell from his pocket and I yelled, "Sir, you dropped something!"
But whether it was a train shunting or the traffic chaos, he didn't hear, kept going and was soon swallowed up by the din, the crowds and the intrigue of Dallas.
I walked over and picked it up. It was a worn, shabby envelope addressed to a Mr John MacPherson in Dallas, Texas. I drew out the letter within which read, "Dear John, Caroline is excelling in Grade 2 and says she's going to be a lawyer like her daddy. John-John - well, I don't think he'll ever be a student, but he's a charmer and there's not a female from 8 to 80 that isn't gaga for him in our New York apartment building! Talk about picking up where his dad left off! Hope you stay safe. We miss you terribly. Love, Jackie"
Surely this was just an elaborate hoax so that an ancient schemer could have a laugh at the expense of a gullible Canadian!
I wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of engineering such an elaborate setup. Where was his vantage point - was he observing my anguish from the 6th floor of the Texas School Book Depository?
Fortunately, when I got back and recounted the story to my pal Dapper, he said, "You've been breathing too many exhaust fumes! Conspiracy? What conspiracy? Don't you read the papers? The Warren Commission concluded without a shadow of a doubt that JFK was killed by a lone gunman, Lee Harvey Oswald!"
I was so fortunate that I'd decided to discuss my experience with Dapper! I'll never tell my story to another soul!
But I'm still puzzled about one thing. The envelope of the letter dropped by the person whom I'd called Camelot, the envelope addressed to a Mr John MacPherson in Dallas, Texas, had Jackie's personalized JFK JBK stamp, a stamp used only by her and no one else.
Warren Haggard got up at 5:30 am, the morning after the snowstorm which had dumped 15 cm of powder snow on his beloved rink. A rink which had been devastated by the previous week's thaw, where plus Saltshaker temperatures had caused it to melt and water ran off the carefully groomed surface in torrents. 
