I have been crossing the Canadian/American border for 45 years.

As a kid I remember trips to the USA from Canada where standard interviews at border crossings dealt mainly with the subject of where you were going, and how long your visit would be.

I was born and raised in a hockey town north of the border where hockey was a religion, and baseball was a myth played in a foreign country.

During the summer of 67, at the age of 5, I spent the summer by the New Hampshire coast exploring the shoreline during the day and breathing in the deep fried seafood and salted taffy nights.

I used to meet with a group of people from all over New Hampshire a few times a year and enjoy evenings of Karaoke and clowning at the Shalimar Pub across from Lake Winnesquam.

Two weeks ago, I found myself roaming around a mall in Nashua.

My soon-to-be-married daughter was in a bridal store trying on dresses with her bridesmaids.

After an hour long parade of white silks, chiffon, and the glint from a million little pearls, the missus noticed the snowblind look in my eyes and gave me permission to step outside and go for a walk.

On Super Bowl Sunday I put on my well worn Patriots jersey expecting an exciting evening filled with fumbles, touchdowns and food.

Before marrying the missus and moving to the United States I had a lifelong preoccupation during visits to America. This was the desire to eat certain foods not available in my homeland. My cravings included Lays potato chips, Mountain Dew, Three Musketeers Bars and anything between two slices of Wonder Bread.

In January of 1998 I lived in Montreal, a city that slowly seemed to become a lifeless ghost town after five days of freezing rain. By the end of that ordeal I had memories of a crippled city with closed bridges and a completely shut down downtown. I had memories of listening to countless tree limbs snapping for days and seeing infinite piles of wood littering every inch of the local landscape.