Small Town News

Every week a very special gift comes shooting through the mail slot in my apartment door with a thwack. It topples from the tarnished brass chute and lands on a muddy slab of linoleum with a thud. I hear the thwack, topple and thud all the way from underneath the flannel sheets in my bedroom and open my eyes with eager anticipation. Most mornings it's nothing more than a utility bill or an advertisement for Lasik surgery so cheap that it's probably performed with a laser key chain in some Mexican shanty town; however, on others I'm treated to a calm sigh of relief disguised as newsprint.

The Oxbow Herald is my hometown newspaper and has published a new issue nearly every week since 1903. As a kid, I remember my dad would stop each Monday on his way out of the Bow Manor Cafe and put down two quarters for the latest edition. He would roll it up tightly and, before climbing into the cab of his pick-up truck, shove it into an empty cup holder. The paper would stand upright in its perch and I would watch it slowly unfurl as he drove on the bumpy gravel road out to our farm. He always left his copy in the truck because we, like every other family in the small town of Oxbow, had a subscription delivered to our mailbox. I have no idea what motivated him to purchase a back-up Herald, but I never thought to ask because it was just a part of his routine that didn't strike me as odd until much later. He's long since gone, so now I can only imagine the reason. It's probably as simple as wanting something to read during the long hours he spent waiting at oil patches for whatever happens at oil patches to happen, but he could have just as easily been leading a secret life that somehow involved the newspaper. Maybe he had a secret family down some other gravel road and they spent long hours together lining birdcages or making masks out of paper maché. Whatever the reason, it was a weekly event that remains lodged in my memory bank, right next to the face of my first grade teacher whose name only ever travels to the tip of my tongue.

At the top of the Herald is a masthead that boldly declares Oxbow as the place "where oil and agriculture meet." This always seemed to me a rather thinly veiled euphemism for sex. Surely it refers to the many farms and pump jacks that keep the local economy alive, but I like to think whomever wrote it knew what was also going on in rural Saskatchewan; especially on those long winter nights with sub-zero wind chills. Perhaps I just have a dirty mind, but I thought this even when I was younger and had a squeaky clean cranium. It always takes a second to wipe the smirk off my face every time I read it. And it is infinitely more catching than the mottos of yore: "Progress with Pride" or "Queen of the Scenic Souris."

As with all newspapers, below the masthead is a headline in big capital letters. No paper I know has headlines with quite so big or quite so capital letters. An aggressive or shocking headline will certainly boost sales, so I can imagine all of the following headlines managed a healthy circulation:

18,000 COYOTES KILLED
MOOSE CREEK TALKS GARBAGE
BIG BIKE TOURS OXBOW
FLOWER SHOW AT ALAMEDA

And my personal favorite, from July 5th, 2010:

TORNADO!

Once you open the paper, there is a myriad of information for perusal. Much as we all have different morning routines - in my case, I shower before breakfast - no two persons read a paper in the same way. I always skip ahead to page four and read the witty observations of the Herald's editor in his weekly column "Here and There." The article is adorned with an illustration of a dog sleeping on a fire hydrant who, quite frankly, appears to be neither here nor there, but never mind. I have found some of my best jokes in this column and repeat them frequently to strangers I meet in drug store lineups. While far from becoming the next Jay Leno, I can boast that these jokes have rattled the dentures of many elderly men; their laughter resulting in plumes of Polident up my nose.

Once I've had my ribs tickled, I search for what I refer to as "cheque relays." Without fail, you can browse The Oxbow Herald on any given week and find a picture of someone making a donation to one charity or another. In these photos someone plays the role of Ed McMahon, passing a cheque to a lucky recipient. Unlike the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes, these cheques are never in the millions, but they are certainly substantial enough to save whomever is in need and keep the relay alive. One week the health auxiliary donates to the skating rink, then the skating rink donates to the elementary school, then the elementary school donates to the Credit Union, until finally the Credit Union donates to the health auxiliary. I have no documentation to back this up, but I gather that the same $200 has been passed around Oxbow for twenty years.

My next stop is the "Bow Valley Villa News." Here I am able to keep tabs on the Villa's residents and find out who is the most popular senior citizen in town. From the outside, the Villa appears to be a pleasant and low key apartment complex for elderly tenants; however, upon reading the paper it becomes crystal clear that it is Oxbow's liveliest hot spot. Jigsaw puzzles are completed in record time, visitors fill the parking lot to capacity, and my Aunt Anne's unit is always abuzz at tea time. Whenever I go home to visit, I have the best of intentions to stop by the Villa, but I usually chicken out at the last minute in fear that I make the newspaper and offend others in town I did not make a point of seeing.

Over the years I have made it into the paper several times, as evidenced by the faded and yellow clippings collected by my Grandma Davidson. When she passed away, these clippings were piled into a shoebox that turns up whenever I am searching for batteries or a roll of tape. Invariably, I set aside the dead remote control or sheet of wrapping paper to leaf through the clippings. Staring back at me are black and white photos of myself in various figure skating costumes made of spandex and ruffles. Were I to have grown up in the era of color newsprint, these costumes would have been loud neon smears on the page. Blessed am I that my embarrassment remains monochromatic.

My most recent appearance in the paper came to me as quite a surprise. I never had much interest in another of the Herald's weekly columns entitled "Do You Remember?" Printed there are headlines from 25, 50 and 75 years ago. This is ancient history, I always thought, so I would skip over it in favor of "Basic Black" or "Alameda Tidings." Much to my horror, this past fall under the heading "25 Years Ago" I came across the following headline: CLASS OF 1998 ENROLLS IN KINDERGARTEN. Oh my god. That's me. Am I really that old? The answer is, sadly, yes I am. Now I watch the column regularly, not because I'm on the edge of my seat to find out who won what curling bonspiel in 1986, but rather to see if my name pops up yet again. I have now decided that they should really do away with this column because "Do You Remember?" is really a passive aggressive way of saying "You Are Going to Die."

Speaking of death, I recently picked up a copy of The Toronto Star. After flipping through ten pages, I had yet to find an article that did not feature some sort of death or disaster.

DOZENS KILLED IN AIRPORT BOMBING
SNOWPLOW DEATH
LOTTERY FRAUD
WAITRESS FIRED AFTER CANCER HEAD-SHAVE
TRAFFIC BOOSTS RISK OF STROKE
POLITICIAN ON BREATHING TUBE
JIMMY BUFFETT COLLAPSES

What the hell? I don't need to know all this, nor do I want to. While it's safe to say I will never gain notoriety in the Star for embezzling millions or stabbing random victims in the Scarborough Towne Centre food court, it's comforting to know that somewhere in the world I can still make the news for taking my Aunt Anne out for tea. But in this age of instant digital media, I fear that publications like the Herald are quickly becoming extinct. Apps used to mean Buffalo Wings at Applebees's, but now they're downloadable programs that keep every corner of the world in your pocket. I can log on to Facebook at any moment and find out all the bad things that are happening in Oxbow. The people on there seem to know the news before it even happens, so it seems crazy they would shell out money for twelve pages of information they already have, even if it means bare space on the fridge where clippings of kids in frilly figure skating frocks used to hang.

My mom bought me a subscription to The Oxbow Herald and it is one of the best gifts I have ever received. Nothing quells homesickness quite like the smell of small town news on the printed page. Whenever I see it rolled up on the coffee table, I'm returned to the cab of my dad's pick-up truck. When I crumple it up around fragile Christmas ornaments, I'm just a boy in my grandmother's sitting room. And when I read it from the comfort of my flannel sheets, I'm reminded that I grew up knowing good news is better than bad news. Mom didn't merely give me a newspaper, but rather a weekly trip back home. And there's no downloading that.

Til Ikea Do Us Part

I give Jake and Kristen five years, at most, before their marriage ends in divorce. I came to this conclusion as I stood before them in line for over an hour at Ikea. It was a Saturday and all twenty five cash registers were humming at warp speed, accepting huge wads of cash from couples looking to outfit their homes with prefabricated coffee tables and floating kitchen islands. I was there for a couple of shelves to complete a book case I bought ages ago, but in addition I got a marital spat that passed the time waiting in line far more rapidly than any album on my iPod. At first I tried to drown out their argument by turning up the volume, but when Kristen launched into an operatic assault on Jake's inability to choose a five dollar pillow, I turned off the music and settled in for a matinee performance of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I did not eavesdrop simply for the pleasures of free drama, but rather to validate a belief I have had for years; the couple that goes into Ikea is not the same couple that comes out.

If Robert Redford and Jane Fonda, wide-eyed and slim hipped in Barefoot in the Park, ventured into Ikea after a night of passionate MGM love making, they would emerge from the store as venomous and blood splattered as Michael Douglas and Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Mark my words, there is no faster way to decimate a marriage than subjecting it to a furniture labyrinth made of deals that are truly too good to be true. If you have ever left the toilet seat up or so much as looked at another person, don't even think about going to Ikea with your spouse. It will all be dredged up before you even hit housewares.

The idea of Ikea is an endlessly appealing one. Founded in 1943 by a Swedish man named Ingvar Kamprad, it has become known for selling attractive furniture at bargain prices. When you first step foot into one of their stores, the smell of particle board in the air is intoxicating and the excitement palpable. Arrows on the floor direct you from one snazzy show room to another, each adorned with price tags that make you believe it's possible to transform your four hundred square foot shit hole into a trendy urban loft ready to grace the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. It would best be advised for couples to get out while they are ahead and simply choose one of these rooms to emulate and back up a U-Haul van to the loading dock immediately. Problems arise when one half of the couple, Jake for instance, likes the zebra rug in the swanky bachelor pad, while the other, let's say Kristen, has her eyes set on the credenza in the country cozy bungalow. How easily the smell of particle board is defeated by even the faintest whiff of marital woe. As Jake and Kristen trek from one side of the show room to the other, making decisions while getting dizzy amongst the sea of contrasting textiles, that whiff of woe quickly becomes a stench. I know this because, sadly, I've smelled it.

When Andy and I moved to Toronto we took our limited budget to Ikea in search of cheap furniture that did not appear to be cheap furniture. As many have before us, we marveled over the plethora of modern furniture pieces just waiting to be assembled. We swooned over a glass top coffee table and cooed as we sat on a squishy swivel recliner. For a brief shining moment it seemed that anything, and everything, was possible. However, by the time we hit kitchen accessories, I was bundle of nerves in desperate need of a mallet to the forehead. Andy, on the other hand, remained extremely calm, much in the same way a tea kettle sits peacefully on a coil burner before steam spews from its top.

I consider myself a patient, sane and level headed individual. Very little gets to me, including commercials that are ten times louder than the show I'm watching or any quantity of spilled milk. Yet on this particular day I have no idea what got into me. It was as if I had been bit by a rabid interior design bug and was foaming at the mouth. I was not unlike Kathy Bates in Misery, so it's a good thing Ikea does not sell sledgehammers or I would have used one. I was a total raving psychopath, unable to decide between area rugs. This dilemma had no where near the gravity of Sophie's Choice, but it may as well have. Poor Andy had the unenviable position of remaining positive around a crazy person, all the while taking notes with a miniature golf pencil. Just when I was at the end of my exceedingly taut rope, I met Billy.

Billy was extremely handsome. He was tall, sturdy, dark and gorgeous. He also came close to breaking up my marriage. I'm not sure who came up with the idea, but all of the items in Ikea are given human names. People name their children, their pets and often times their boats; however, it never occurred to me before Ikea that my ottoman might look like a Doug or my shoe rack a Rachel. Yet that is exactly what the clever executives in Stockholm have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to do. Bernhard is a kitchen chair, Karl a futon, Ingrid a cheese grater, and so on. Billy is a book case. I was so enamored with Billy that I decided we simply must have him and, if my tape measure allowed, perhaps two or maybe even three. No matter the cost, I wanted Billy in my bedroom. Thankfully, Andy was also attracted to him. It was impossible to deny his charms. But did we really need three?

"He only costs $40," I said. "Just think of all the storage!"

"But what about the shelves?" Andy exclaimed. "They are sold separately, you know."

And so they were. As it turns out, everything in Ikea is "sold separately." Add the shelves (and the legs, I might add) and Billy suddenly transformed from a $40 bargain into a $150 investment. And so it goes with the rest of their inventory. Agnes the table top is sold with Edvard, her legs. Astrid the lamp is nothing without Orvel, her shade. Billy appeared to come with nothing but insurmountable expectations and a lifetime of regret. I'm not sure how I managed to come out of there alive because I'm sure Andy was ready to grab the nearest coat hook and stab me with it. And I would not have blamed him. In fact, I would have thanked him for putting me out of my misery.

As it turns out, we were not alone. Scattered around the show room were other couples in various states of madness. One man frantically rummaged through a bin full of spatulas as if he were searching for the holy grail, while his bride lay in the fetal position on a huge chunk of shag carpeting, crying her eyes out to the point of hiccups. Another couple could be heard snapping at each other like giant turtles.

"What do you think of this lamp?" he asked.

And she fired back, "You hate my mother, don't you?!"

After we finally settled on what to buy, it came time to actually find the bloody things in the enormous maze of stacked boxes underground. I'm not sure whose maniacal brain is behind what I refer to in a spooky voice as "the warehouse," but I picture him to be a sadistic bastard named Sven, who twirls a long blond mustache and gorges on meatballs. Shopping in Ikea is only half the battle; finding what you have painstakingly picked out is a nightmare of epic proportions. The couples who have thus far managed to avoid divorce proceedings are in for another hurdle entirely.

I knew exactly what I wanted and it seemed easy enough to find Billy. He was hiding somewhere in Aisle 5, Bin 4. To Aisle 5 we went and there he was. But where were his shelves? And his feet, for that matter. We paced up and down Aisle 5 to no avail. I finally found an employee, although what they really need are marriage counselors, and he was outfitted in the colors of the Swedish flag. The shelves were not in Aisle 5, I found out, but rather in Aisle 2. And if I wanted his legs, which I obviously did, I would find them in Aisle 9. Billy was becoming more of a headache than I had anticipated. I mean, how hard would it be for him to keep it together? We zigzagged through "the warehouse" in search of a few legs here and a few shelves there until we were nauseous.

Eventually our cart was piled high with boxes of miscellaneous parts that were going to miraculously become the scenery of our lives. As I looked up at the mountain before us, I realized it was not going to fit into our truck. Not even close. That's when my knees buckled and I collapsed to the ground in a heap. I couldn't bare the thought of making any more choices and was reduced to pouting like a five year old who was denied a Popsicle. What happened, I now see, is that I turned into a "man" in every horrible sense of the word. I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it all and I wanted it now. Andy wisely suggested that I relax, put down the table leg I was inadvertently wielding, then purchase one or two items now and come back for the rest later.

"I'm never coming back to Ikea!" I proclaimed, as if I were Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes. "EVER AGAIN!"

This is when Andy knew just what to do, and his actions are the sole reason we survived Ikea. I needed a drink. Not a stiff vodka tonic or icy can of beer, but a paper cup of flat Diet Coke. My poison. He whisked me away from "the warehouse," abandoning our cart of furniture appendages, and into a safe cocoon that is the Ikea cafe. As I sipped my drink like Julia Roberts does her orange juice in Steel Magnolias, I looked around. Not only did I see a cafeteria tray heaped with salmon, a stray piece of overturned Daim cake on the floor, and some splattered mustard from a crushed condiment cup, but there they were - my god, they still existed - happy people! Gone were the cries of bickering couples, the beeping of fork lifts in reverse, and the low drone of fluorescent light bulbs. In their place were the sights and sounds of a tropical oasis. Natural sunlight poured in from the picture windows, light 80's pop escaped from the speakers, and refreshing diet soda gushed from the fountain. It was so wonderful in there that I honestly wondered why anyone would ever want to leave such a magical place.

After I was plied with a sufficient amount of Aspartame, I was able to calmly return to "the warehouse" and pare down our selections. We left that day with a kitchen table, four chairs and Billy. I did return for the rest at a later date, but this time I went alone. For the sake of our relationship, we vowed never to shop at Ikea together for as long as we both shall live. We do, however, visit often for pleasant dinner dates in the enchanted cafeteria. The fish and chips are delectable. We also find that that standing outside the exit doors is a highly entertaining way to spend the afternoon. Why pay $14 admission to a crappy Anne Hathaway movie when we can sit outside Ikea with a $1 bag of popcorn and watch once-happy couples pour into the parking lot? By this point nobody is speaking to anyone, so the action plays out like a Charlie Chaplin comedy. They maneuver their dollies of boxes, heaped high in Tetris formations, over speed bumps and through truck doors that are eventually slammed.

If your relationship can survive Ikea, it can survive anything. If he takes off to Vegas for a weekend with the guys, just say to yourself: "We made it through appliances. I can handle anything." Or if she finds a lump where a lump ought not to be, you can comfort her other thusly: "Remember closet solutions? You can beat this."

Somehow the argument between Jake and Kristen had escalated into a fierce disagreement over dinner. "Would you like pizza?" he asked.

"That means you want pizza," Kristen barked. "If that's what you want, just say it! Stop playing these games!"

I wanted to pull them aside and share with them my wisdom. Just as the luster of Ikea wears off in the first hour, so does the sheen of their product. It's simply not worth all the trouble. Our coffee table sags in the middle, the kitchen chairs wobble dangerously throughout dinner and even Billy has turned into a massive disappointment. I was back for more shelves that should have come with him in the first place. But I suppose this is a lesson every couple has to learn for themselves. I couldn't bear to listen anymore, so I turned up the volume on my iPod, paid for my shelves and walked out the door. I considered waiting outside to see if Jake and Kristen left together, but I somehow knew the outcome and was in no mood for a sad ending. So I hopped on my bus and wrote for them a happily ever after fit for a Hollywood movie. As it turns out, Jake is every bit as thoughtful as Andy and got down on bended knee to invite Kristen for dinner in the cafeteria. There they rekindled their romance over Diet Cokes and a plate of Swedish meatballs. Sauce sold separately.

The Trouser Dilemma

I need pants. My wardrobe presently consists of one pair of blue jeans, one pair of khaki trousers and one pair of pin-striped slacks. None of these pants are fit to be worn in public, yet I do on a regular basis wear them in public, fit or not.

The jeans are about six inches too long so I have to cuff them over three times to avoid them dragging underfoot. After a long day of walking in the city, it's incredible what may turn up in the cuffs; leaves, twigs, gravel, gum wrappers, gum, bottle tops, pizza crust, Fig Newtons and other edible or non-edible marvels. You'd be amazed the many treasures that are beholden a city sidewalk.

The khaki trousers were an impulse purchase that ought not to have been made. They were hanging under a retail tombstone. That is to say, a 50% off clearance sign. The offer too good to pass up, I nabbed them from the rack without trying them on. I'm not sure if it's the design or that the sewing machine responsible had mechanical arthritis, but they bubble awkwardly at the hip so that it appears I am sporting a Huggies diaper.

The pin-striped slacks are made of wool and by far the most expensive article in my closet. I fell in love with them immediately and, despite the hefty price tag, whipped out my charge card for a rare treat to myself. As love so skillfully has a knack, I was blinded. The pants do not fit at all, nor did they back in 2003 when this stupid purchase was made. And, yes, I tried them on. But I was in love, so what was I supposed to do? I continue to move them from one apartment to another, across thousands of miles, because I still love them and I'm not about to ditch my $200 lover at the Salvation Army. It's not that I have to lose weight or gain weight to fit into them, but rather Ashton Kutcher would have to donate his torso to me in order for this relationship between me and my pants to continue.

I do not need T-shirts. I repeat, I do not need T-shirts. I have more T-shirts than I know what to do with. It seems whatever dresser drawer or closet door I open there is a T-shirt staring me in the face. If I had as many pants as I do T-shirts I could go at least three months, maybe four, without doing laundry and still be able to outfit the entire cast of High School Musical. Despite my abundance of T-shirts, they are the first thing I look at when I go shopping, which is surely the reason I have so many to begin with. I always intend to come home with a new pair of pants, but the allure of V-neck message tees is too much to resist and I end up cramming my bag with new ones that are super cute and say things like "Keepin' it Rural." Why do I do this? Like I said, I need pants. I do not need T-shirts. Particularly ones with pictures of tractors on them.

As a child I remember the opposite to be true. It was all pants and no shirts. Although it could be photographic evidence that makes me believe this, since what I'm actually recalling are the pictures from my childhood. I'm finding this to be the case more and more as I grow older. For years I thought I remembered attending my cousin Warren's wedding to Allison, and the elaborate conversations I had with my cousins, and the beautiful flowers on the dais, and the way Allison's dress had tiny beads that rubbed up against the palm of my hand as we danced. But when I think about it, there's actually nothing to think about. I know I was there and the rest of these "memories" are probably somewhat true, but in actuality I am making it all up; assembling a history of sorts that sounds true, but is in all honesty a fictional account of events. What I'm actually remembering is a photo from the wedding. There I am with my cousins, the beautiful flowers on the dais, and Allison in her dress with the tiny beads, looking more breathtaking than a photo usually permits. Whether or not we danced is debatable, but I like to think we did, therefore I put the event into this particular concocted memory.

My favorite childhood shirt was, apparently, a blouse. I barely grew until I was ten so I'm wearing this blouse in a catalog's worth of photos that chronicle a big chunk of my formative years. The blouse is made from velour in a shade of blue that is about as awful as it gets when it comes to shades of blue. The hideous color is given an exclamation point by virtue of it being long sleeved and high collared. It also cinches at the wrists with four inch elastic cuffs and again at the waist, resembling a cummerbund. Short of shoulder pads, it looks an awful lot like something Joan Collins would have wore on Dynasty.

It is truly an 80's nightmare, yet it appears more frequently in my family albums than either of my dogs or, oddly enough, my little brother. Perhaps he had sense enough to stay away from the lens because, as luck would not have it, he had the exact same shirt in a putrid shade of mauve; although it must be said, not as putrid as the shade of blue I got stuck with. I don't recall his matching version making any appearances in these photos, which means I actually must remember it. Seeing as I wore the shirt ad nauseum for years, it's pretty clear I remember his because I loved my own so very much. I'd like to believe the opposite is true, and I remember it for being so awful, yet I find it hard to believe I would agree to wearing something so frequently that I did not love. Therefore, I most likely remember the mauve duplicate because I was jealous and wanted mine in another color. The only other explanations I can come up with that I wore it so often are that we were poor and it was all I had or my mom only laundered one piece of my wardrobe; neither of which would be true. So I just have to buckle down and face facts. I have no discernible fashion sense now and, if the proof is in the pudding, never did.

This is why I need pants: I really don't care what I'm wearing. Aside from buying heaps of T-shirts over the years to make up for the fashion mistake I repeatedly made in my ridiculous velour get-up, I don't pay much attention to the clothes I put on. So long as my private parts are covered and I'm not uncomfortable in whatever weather lurks outside, I'm good to go. I also pay little attention to what others are wearing. Were I to witness a crime, I would be useless to authorities.

They might ask, "Was the culprit wearing pants or shorts?"

And my only honest reply could be, "Yes."

"What color was his shirt?"

"I don't know," I'd say. "But wouldn't it be ironic if it was the same one I'm wearing now?" That's when I'd peel off my jacket and reveal a Terry Fox tee that reads: "I'd rather be sprinting."

I suppose it's time I develop a fashion sense that includes more pants, fewer T-shirts and some sort of style that does not completely exhaust my mental faculties. I love bright colors, as evidenced by the rainbow of tees from one side of my closet to the other. I should probably find a suitable color palette that best reflects my skin tone and stick to it, but I like the thrill of opening my closet and seeing all the colors you'd find on a kindergarten cork board or in a gay pride parade. As for pants, I don't think the style matters so much as the quantity. I simply need more.

My plan is to go shopping this weekend and put some recently acquired gift cards to good use. I'd rather spend these gift cards on something more exciting than clothes, like a new iPod or the complete fourth season of Rhoda. Face it, nobody likes to fritter away Christmas money on necessities like shaving cream or Drano. Yet that is exactly what pants feel like to me - a necessity. I would rather not waste my time and money on acquiring pants, but just like whiskers and a clogged drain must be dealt with, so must my trouser dilemma.

Come hell or high water, I will try on as many pants as it takes. From boot cut to loose fit, from low rise to mid rise, from dark blue to acid wash, from khaki to black, I will find what I'm looking for. And I promise you one thing and one thing only: I will come home with a T-shirt. And it will be cute. And it will be colorful. And it will say something that, no matter the actual words, screams "Bradley." So in that respect, I guess I do have a fashion sense. Sure, it's strictly above the waist and maybe a little childish, but you don't need a picture to remember it. Just a pair of pants to go with it.