A Hip Trip

There was no aux cord in the car in 1991. Air conditioning wasn’t even a standard feature, at least in the class of sedan my parents could afford. As such many of my summertime childhood memories revolve around daydreaming in the backseat, window down with a breeze through my hair, as we listened to songs on the radio. The lyrics of which I was too young to comprehend or understand their lasting imprint on my life.

AM was a mixed bag of golden oldies and angry citizens calling into conservative talk radio shows that claimed to give a voice but aimed to cause dissent. These stations were reserved for long-haul road trips throughout Western Canada and the Dakotas when radio signals were weak and they were the only thing we could pick up.

FM was much better to my ears, as it featured songs that seemed relevant to the energy of the times. And it was through these stations that artists I didn’t naturally gravitate towards provided the soundtrack to my life. Artists like The Tragically Hip, who are so engrained in Canadiana lore (and radio playlists) that it’s sometimes taken for granted how woven their work is into the tapestry of our lives. I can still see my father behind the wheel, arm relaxed on the driver-side window, with their music playing through the speakers as the heat of the sun guided us down Highway 9 to a day in lake country.

At the time, I didn’t know that Bobcaygeon was a township. Or that I would one day cross the 100th meridian to live in the Paris of the Prairies where Wheat Kings reign. Now that I’m older, these lines hold deeper resonance linking lyric to memory to sense of home. I seek them out for comfort, as nostalgia often provides in abundance (albeit with a shot of sadness for what once was). I may not have the carefree spirit I once did, unaware of the ways of the world and the people who inhabit it, but I now fully comprehend that it’s a good life if you don’t weaken. Soldier on.

A recent news story brought together the appreciation of these lyrics with my love of design and vintage travel artwork. A Hip Trip is an absolutely beautiful set of limited edition posters featuring Canada reflected through their music. Graphic artists John Belisle and Adam Rogers did a phenomenal job of bringing them to life and also inspiring me to elevate my own game as a designer. This is the type of work I would like to create; work that is artistic, meaningful and showcasing a refined sense of craft and skill.

In the meantime, these are going to look amazing framed on my walls.

1st Annual Corgi Race

Small town entertainment at its finest, in support of the SPCA.

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

First annual running of the corgis in Martensville, SK (©Deborah Clague, 2022).

The Life I Once Knew

We walked down St. Mary’s Road. It was Autumn and the trees were slowly changing to a gold-tinted colour palette, leaves languidly falling and crunching on the ground beneath our feet. I pointed out a familiar apartment. It belonged to a former boss, Ed, a small business owner that carved out a niche in the Winnipeg advertising community with his partner Richard. They were two of the most honest, down-to-earth individuals I had ever had the privilege of knowing and collaborating with in my life. Looking up at the residence, nostalgia flood my memories. Without their support and encouragement, I never would have started my own business. My father knew this as well and asked if we could stop by and say hello.

I paused, not knowing how to address it with him.

Both Ed and Richard had passed away years ago. But if I told my father this, I would also have to tell him that he did too.

I woke up from this dream and had to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for a bit before fully consenting to the day. This isn’t the first time my father has visited me in a dream but it was the first time in a long while. It’s always a bit jarring; the warm comfort of a familiar embrace shattered by the reality that you’ve lost that presence—and that life you once knew—forever. I knew my day would be thrown off kilter as I increasingly searched for meaning during a time in which everlasting sleep seems like a welcome respite.

I feel this dream was a result of the continued, relentless stress and anxiety of the ongoing pandemic. I try to limit overexposure to the news and social media, however, it’s hard to escape the current ripple effects of a society divided. Just in the past week, I’ve born witness firsthand how emboldened certain segments of the population are to freely express their hate and discord. As I ran an errand at a local mall, an angry white man yelled obscenities and told the South Asian taxi drivers parked at front to “go back to your own country”. It is disgusting. It is deplorable. I never thought I would live during a time where this and nazi flags being flown in broad daylight would be acceptable in Canada, where the perceived consequence from one’s personal choice are compared to the rape, pillage and genocide of an entire race of people.

But I suppose it’s always been present.

Just hidden.

Many have said that 9/11 was the defining moment of a generation but that seems so long ago (I actually remember watching it with Richard on the small office TV as it happened). The dual pandemic of COVID-19 and social media, and how different our lives and perspective will be moving forward is well surpassing it with everything from everyday safety protocols to personal relationships forever altered. I feel that I may always long for my previous carefree life. That bitch didn’t know how good she had it.

Meeting my father again in a dream, leaves crunching under our feet as we breathed in the crisp, Autumn air, was the momentary escape I needed. The life I once knew is there … if I close my eyes.

Egg Nog Season

When I was a kid, I knew Christmas was approaching when I’d see Lucerne Egg Nog on the shelf at Safeway. The bold colour combination and design of its packaging stood out amongst the regular milk cartons and signalled the start of the holiday season.

During the eighties, grocery shelves didn’t have as much variety as they do today. Food was obviously in abundance but the full impact of capitalism and globalization weren’t as visible. There was only ever one flavour of Oreo, for starters, and winter was the only season Canada would import mandarin oranges. If this sounds like I’m about to say I walked to and from school in -40 degree Celsius weather … well, yes, I did that too. Never uphill though. I was raised on the plains. Fact is, times have changed a lot over the decades and the wide-eyed wonder and delight at the debut of Lucerne egg nog each November has now been replaced by fatigue at choosing amongst dozens of types of egg nog all with their own festive branding and social media presence.

Alas, as an adult I don’t even really like eggnog but continue to buy one 1L carton each holiday season for tradition and nostalgia. If Lucerne brought back their glorious terracotta retro packaging, I would feel like a kid again.

Vintage Lucerne eggnog packaging illustration (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Eighties Vintage

After moving out of province over a decade ago to build a life of my own, it can feel strange returning to my childhood home. While some things have changed, others seem stuck in time; a nostalgic connection to my younger self (and all the hopes and dreams she harboured). From random tchotchkes that caught my mother’s eye over the years to a rotary phone I remember cradling in my tiny hands while talking to my father as he worked on the road for Canadian Pacific Rail, these relics of a bygone era feel like they represent a museum of my life.

A ghost of me lingers in that home.

A rotary phone, issued by Manitoba Telecom Services in the early eighties, remains the main method of inbound and outbound communication at my childhood home. As my elderly mother ages, she appreciates simplicity and familiarity, refusing to use a smartphone.

A set of Funk & Wagnalls New Encyclopedia rests on the shelf in my childhood bedroom. In an era before computers and the internet, these were a fountain of knowledge. My father purchased them for me while grocery shopping at Safeway in the eighties. As part of a promotion, a new volume in the series was available each week for a discounted price with purchase.

Cleaning Out the Closet

When I visit home, my childhood home, I sleep in a room with wood-panelled walls and a window facing East. The floors are cool as it’s in the basement. The bed frame is old with new mismatched sheets. A dresser and closet contain artifacts from another time. A time when my father was alive.

It’s been seven years since my father received news that he needed to get his affairs in order as he had mere months to live. And then he was gone. Throughout that short period, my life felt like living in the eye of a hurricane. There was a million things to do. A million things to say. A million tears to cry. It is only recently that I’ve been truly reflecting on his life, impact and legacy. I’m sure the pandemic played a role in this pause.

In those seven years, his possessions remained untouched. Pairs of eyeglasses rest in cases placed on the dresser. Socks and belts are rolled up in the drawers. The closet is filled with XL-sized sweatshirts and the garish Hawaiian shirts he loved to wear. There are even old pairs of shoes. It never crossed my mind to get rid of these items because preserving them meant a part of him was still present. I didn’t want to lose that, nor lose the memories these inanimate objects held. But seven years is a long time. I struggled with the decision to clean and donate what could be salvaged but finally decided it was time.

Filling several bags with his clothes, I sorted between clear refuse and something that someone might need. There was a leather jacket that appeared good as new. A retro bowling shirt from one of his favourite television shows, Corner Gas, that a collector might have interest in. And, of course, all those Hawaiian shirts (Halloween is just around the corner)! I searched pockets for hidden treasure while taking in the moment. I was officially letting go. I felt sadness but also a sense of calm. There’s more to our being than the material possessions we leave behind. Love is the true legacy of a life well lived.

My bedroom at my childhood home is now filled with different signs of life, such as Monty’s squeaky toys and books that I dip into before slumber.

I kept one item after cleaning out the closet. Something that I rarely saw my father without. A hat always covered his head and while I sorted through his collection containing the emblems of a variety of random companies and sports teams, I decided to keep the one most well-worn of all — a Saskatchewan Roughriders cap that he bought, and proudly wore, after I moved to the province.

Wearing the one item I kept, my dad’s well-worn Saskatchewan Roughriders cap (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Wearing the one item I kept, my dad’s well-worn Saskatchewan Roughriders cap (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Philly Melt, The Nob

I never really thought of myself as a sandwich person. Throughout my life, the thing I most associate with bread is peanut butter and maybe raspberry jam as that is what I ate for lunch 95% of the time as a kid. But sandwiches as an adult are worth so much more exploration and, upon reflection, have provided some of the greatest gastronomic delights of my life—honestly, the best thing I ever ate was a cajun chicken sandwich from La Grande Epicerie in Paris that consisted of just three simple ingredients: cajun-seasoned chicken and guacamole on authentic French bread.

There is a sandwich in my hometown that is also worthy of high praise and ranking on my personal “best of” list. The Philly Melt from The Nob in Winnipeg is sheer perfection. Generously portioned roast beef topped with onions and peppers smothered in cheese resting atop a toasted pretzel bun. I’m salivating on my keyboard just typing about it. A visit home is incomplete without eating it at least once.

The Nob itself is a hidden gem in the historic south Winnipeg neighborhood I grew up in. Located on the side of a motor hotel, bar and beer store, the cafe might be unnoticeable to those passing through to the city proper. But eat there once and I guarantee you will return. Everything I’ve had on their menu has been delicious. The Nob is totally worthy of being featured on “You Gotta Eat Here” or “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

Yes, the name of the restaurant is ridiculous.

Yes, this is one of the first things I ordered when visiting recently.

Yes, I am going to eat the whole damn thing.

Monty eyeing my Philly melt from The Nob, Winnipeg (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty eyeing my Philly melt from The Nob, Winnipeg (©2021, Deborah Clague).

365

It’s been just over a year since the pandemic was officially announced. The last three hundred sixty five days have been a rollercoaster of panic, worry, depression, anxiety, boredom, solitude, hope … and now with misguided (or non-existent) lockdown procedures and a terribly mismanaged roll-out of vaccines in Canada combined with an increase of deadly variants of COVID-19, the cycle has started anew.

I still consider myself a lucky one; I’ve been working at home for the entirety of the past year, converting a sunroom with a westward view that I once used as a reading area into a cozy 9 to 5 space with lots of natural light. My active social circle has decreased to only one—my partner—but remains a source of elation. Being around someone 24/7 through sickness and in health, Doritos stress-binging and green smoothie regret, can lead to issues—and I predict an increase in divorce in the aftermath of the pandemic—but our companionship has been nothing but enriching. I haven’t tired of the conversation or silences in between.

I also don’t venture out much. With this newfound expansive pool of free time, I daydream, I read and I catch up on a long streaming list that I’m behind pop-culturally. I’m a natural introvert, so this hasn’t been hard. In some ways, this pause on life has been beneficial. But that statement is not universal; I have not lost someone. I have not been sick and am not experiencing long-term health issues as a result of it. I have not been economically devastated. I have not been undervalued for my contributions to society by being labelled “essential” and sent to the frontlines with no recognition beyond pacifying words. While this event has been a monumental provocation to our collective mental health, wellbeing and structure of community, it has also been a time to step back and reframe perspective. Things cannot - and should not - remain the same moving forward.

It is my hope that the blinding glow of unsatiated capitalism is dimmed through realization of the importance of community and a renewed respect for nature, and how having those work together in concert is the only way to navigate our current global crises. It is my hope that your family (by birth or by choice) has all of the supports they need to live a life safely unencumbered by the whims of those who choose chaos. I also hope we eventually understand that we make the world a little bit better (or worse) through our actions, however minimal.

It’s been my observation throughout life that people don’t like change, no matter what they say when there’s a colleague from HR in the room. The majority do not like altering their comfortable, familiar behaviours unless there is an immediate reward that they deem worthwhile. We’re at a crux in the pandemic where I still encounter those living in their own self-centred world of delusion including one in my own building that takes down mask signage and vandalizes supplied sanitizer, as well as politicians that could really make an impact on the disease with shorter, more restrictive lockdowns while providing business supports but choose instead to bury their heads in the sand at all costs. Including human life. How do you influence those that don’t see the forest for the trees? What type of reward works for them? Is it even worth considering?

I’m not sure on all the solutions. But I do have all the time in the world to contemplate them.

Peripheral People

It is not natural for me to be this sedentary. The innate desire to wander and explore comes as natural to me as my sensitivity towards animals or my predisposition to foods heavily flavoured with garlic. But here I am, on my couch—the very same couch that I’ve been sitting on for nearly a year reading, writing, watching Netflix—and while I’m bored, it’s become the new normal of my life. The sun rises. The sun sets. My only escape is through a screen.

Another aspect of “the good ol’ days” I’ve recently come to miss are the peripheral people who’ve been in my life. People that I’ve never formally met or held conversation with but who played as background actors in the scenes of my day. There is the Somali man, slight in stature, who stood on the corner of my block each morning enjoying a cigarette while observing traffic through eyeglasses perched half-way down his nose. He’s performed this daybreak ritual for years. We’d occasionally nod our heads at each other in recognition of being neighbours of sorts but I don’t know his story and he doesn’t know mine.

There were the people employed at a coffee shop across the street from my office who crafted one of my favourite sandwiches (saskatoon berry-turkey with arugula and brie on toasted ancient grains). Within the past year, it has sadly shut its doors. I never got to know their names. Besides being a familiar face, they never got to know mine.

The time I’d walk up to the entrance of my condo at the end of each workday would occasionally be mirrored in commute from the opposite direction by a bearded man who lives on another floor in the building. We would make convivial small talk while checking our mailboxes. I learned he worked at the nearby hospital. He would learn that I was involved in the arts. But it was just a slight connection. Enough for acquaintance but not enough for anything more meaningful outside the confines of an elevator. I never learned his name. He never learned mine. I haven’t seen him in over a year.

While I lament their absence, these characters have been recast for the current season.

Most people in my building now work from home and while I have not met a lot of them, I do get a sense of their day through the sound filtering from the hallways and above. One of my neighbours plays an instrument. I can hear the muffled output from their amp every morning around eleven a.m.. They also have a small dog. I’ve never seen it and wouldn’t be able to identity breed but can hear the faint pitter-patter of its paws walking across the laminate floor. There’s a family at the other end of the hallway that moved in just before the start of the pandemic. Their child, perhaps feeling bored and caged, spends most of the day screaming in frustration at the top of her lungs. Her parents—and their immediate neighbours—are often in my thoughts. And then there’s the contractors I occasionally pass. I wouldn’t be able to recognize their faces but I do remember their masks.

As the pandemic forces us into a second year of distance and isolation, I’m starting to feel sadness at the loss of the seemingly unmemorable interactions I had with strangers in the past. Their presence was familiar where nothing in this current world is. They offered a form of stability to my days and I genuinely miss them … even though I didn’t know them.