My Redford story, which is really my mother’s story.

A woman who worked for her lived in North Vancouver, and in the early 80’s it wasn’t as built ip as it is now. There was basically one highway that everyone took to get to the bridge to Vancouver. She’s driving to work at 6:30 one morning and her car breaks down. It limps to the shoulder and she gets out and pops the hood, as one does in order to stare quizzically at the engine, understanding nothing.

A zippy little sports car pulls up and a gorgeous man gets out and asks if she needs help. She says she can’t tell what’s wrong and does he know engines?

He does not. BUT! he does know a really good garage not far from there and he can drive her if she’d like. They open soon.

She ponders for a moment and decides that if she IS going to be raped and murdered by this total stranger, hey, what a way to go, or words to that effect. She gets in his car.

As they drive, they chat. His kids go to the same school hers do. Is working in medical records interesting (it is)? Is her family from here? He moved up from the US a couple of years ago and loves the lifestyle.

And she begins to think he looks familiar. That perfect jawline. The flawless blond hair. Those gentle blue eyes…OH MY GOD THIS IS ROBERT REDFORD!

DONT BE STUPID, IT CANT BE ROBERT REDFORD. WHAT WOULD ROBERT REDFORD BE DOING IN NORTH VAN AT 6:30 IN THE MORNING???

She begins to have difficulty keeping up her end of the conversation, preoccupied with IS HE OR ISNT HE?

They arrive at the garage. She gets out of the car and thanks him profusely for the ride. He leans over to close the door and says, “You’re welcome. By the way, I am exactly who you think I am.”

And he drives off.