The Zucchini Story

This is a mostly true story that actually happened. It has been slightly embellished over the years, and parts that didn’t actually happen have been added to improve on reality.

En route to visit a friend in Montreal, we stayed at a bed and breakfast in Essex Junction, Vermont. Essex Junction is an important location because it’s near Burlington, and it’s near the first curved girder bridge design that I worked on. The inn was a beautiful old farmhouse atop a hill. The August sun was shining brightly, and like everyone else in Vermont, the innkeepers had grown too many zucchinis. After we had stayed overnight, the hosts became comfortable with us and they asked us a favor—would we please take some zucchinis? The inn was overflowing with zucchinis and the keepers wouldn’t take no for an answer. So we said yes.

Mind you—these were not ordinary zucchinis. These were huge vegetables—giant, bulbous zucchinis, of a weight and girth not normally seen in New England. They must have been six feet long—huge green monsters. They were big zucchinis. Really big. The innkeepers didn’t just walk out the door with a bag of vegetables. No bag would have been big enough or strong enough to hold these zucchinis. Our hosts had to carry each one individually, and as if carrying a set of barbells or a large family pet. You could see the exertion and strain on their brows as they lugged these giant squashes. Back in the garden, the other vegetables probably quivered in fear at the sight of these monstrous, gargantuan zucchinis. They were big. Very big.

It was in the days before minivans and SUVs, and we drove a little compact car that couldn’t fit many of these zucchinis. We would have to leave our luggage at the inn to make space. So after some negotiation, we agreed to take two. The innkeepers were a little bit disappointed at not having dispatched more of their massive zucchinis, but eventually they were satisfied with the transaction. We did some rearranging in the trunk and stuffed the zucchinis in back, covering them with a blanket so they would be comfortable for the trip. The car tipped back a bit on its rear wheels from the weight of the extremely large zucchinis, but otherwise everything was about the same. We bid adieu to the beautiful inn and made our way across the border to Montreal.

It was on the way back, driving south in Quebec toward Vermont, that we started to wonder. Lauren had heard that it was not lawful to transfer vegetables across international borders. What if it was illegal to import zucchinis? We had gotten away with it once crossing into Canada, but would we be so lucky crossing an international border for the second time? Besides, crossing the border to Canada at that time seemed a little bit more relaxed than the reverse trip. Going to Canada, you waived to the Mounties and that was about it.

Returning to the United States, it seemed a bit more serious. As we drove south, the highway started bunching up, an infrastructure tightening of the throat. We were about to leave friendly Quebec for the serious Etats Unis. We approached the border barrier structure, which looked like a tollbooth but was actually the check station for customs. Cars queued up at different lines. The line I picked seemed to be moving very slowly. In comparison, cars were zipping through on the adjacent queues. After it was too late, I realized why. Agents at the adjacent lines were more casually checking cars and quickly moving them through back into the United States. My line, however, had a more diligent agent. He was going over each car inch by inch with a flashlight. He asked some people to open their trunks. Some drivers were even asked to leave the main queue and drive over to a separate, special line for a much more scrupulous inspection.

Lauren looked worried—what was the penalty for carrying illicit zucchinis? All over the gate were signs with red, threatening letters. They probably said things like “Welcome to the United States,” but we imagined that they said “We Check for Zucchinis” (“Nous Controlons les Courgettes”). Slowly our car crept up to the gate. An impeccably dressed agent with a large flashlight approached our vehicle and its hidden contraband in the trunk.

This is a story of the distant past, circa 1985. Decades later, infrastructure design at the borders is still dealing cautiously and uncertainly with issues more serious than large zucchinis. The customs gate at the Vermont border, along what has been considered the longest and friendliest unguarded border in the world, must now provide space and capacity for all sorts of searches not considered relevant in 1985.

The impact is most noticeable and immediate at airports. For example, T. F. Green Airport in Warwick, Rhode Island, was subject to a complete overhaul in the 1990s. The fifties-style airport was beautifully redone to become a spacious, comfortable satellite hub to Boston’s Logan Airport. The single-terminal building features convenient, easy access, soaring rooflines with plenty of light, and in general, comfortable surroundings.

Yet what was redesigned only a few years ago has in some ways become outdated. New, massive security lines are required to snake back and forth in unplanned queues, covering open areas formerly designated for waiting and greeting. Sometimes the lines are so long that special attendants direct the queues down the stairs to the baggage handling area below. As people have adapted to the new inspection requirements, the lines have become shorter and more efficiently managed. But the problem remains that T. F. Green’s terminal now must deal with new demands and requirements that were unthinkable and not rigorously considered only a few short years before during the airport’s redesign.

Engineers are struggling with new design requirements in all areas of infrastructure, not just airports. Discussion focuses on topics that would have seemed ludicrous a decade ago—for example, what are the practical and required measures for tall buildings designed to withstand impact from large, fully loaded jetliners?

During a simpler time, we anxiously waited at the Vermont border in 1985 for the agent to discover our illicit vegetables. Slowly the gentleman walked around our car, gently poking and prodding. He had some questions:

“Where are you folks from?”

“Boston,” I said. My wife just smiled. She couldn’t talk.

“How long were you in Canada?” he asked.

“A few days,” I said. “We were visiting a friend in Montreal.”

“Montreal. That’s a nice city, Montreal. They speak French there. Do you have anything to declare?”

I cleared my throat. Maybe now was the time to come clean. Tell the truth now, and they would go easy on us. We had transported giant zucchinis across an international boundary. The truth would get out one way or another.

“We have some vegetables in the trunk,” I said.

“Oh. OK. Welcome back to the United States,” he said, seeming to wave us through. I started to shift to drive. But then the agent motioned me to stop. “Wait,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I responded, freezing at the wheel.

“You seem like nice folks,” the agent said sternly.

“Thank you,” I said. Lauren just looked at the ground, tears in her eyes forming at the prospect of our upcoming incarceration. I prepared to drive to the special line for additional inspection.

“You can do me a big favor,” the agent said.

“Certainly,” I said, a bit confused. “How can we help?”

“You say you have vegetables in the trunk? Would you like some more? I wouldn’t normally ask this of strangers, but I’m getting a little bit desperate and I’m not sure what to do. I’ve got these zucchinis here in the booth. I’ve got way too many of them. The growing was really good this year. I’ve got to get these off my hands. Can I give you one?”