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:
And my personal favorite, from July 5th, 2010:
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.
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.
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
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
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.
> there's no downloading that.
ReplyDeleteWait, just a second - yes there is:
http://www.oxbowherald.sk.ca/
(Though I'm also in favour of supporting the Herald financially, and am now trying to guilt trip my parents in to buying me a subscription.)
Man... this killed me! And Rob too! My stomach hurts a lot still from laughing! oww.. (I might have eaten a bit too much supper too which I'm sure also contributed to the pain)
ReplyDelete