Coronation: A Century of Almost
written by
jaron summers (c) 2011
Thank you for inviting me to the Coronation Curling Rink to reminisce about our last hundred years.
Ten short decades ago, our town was founded on a dream. We were an obscure railway crossroads, destined to become the breadbasket of Western Civilization and the center of a billion-dollar petrochemical industry.
Our forefathers bet their lives that they could create that dream — this tiny frontier town would become a megalopolis.
And now, as we examine the present, we must ask:
Who covered Coronation in shrink wrap and left the vacuum pumps running far too long?
What went amiss? Some say terribly amiss.
Today not even gypsies in busted microbuses stop here… unless their GPS malfunctions.
What really went wrong?
Nothing.
Yes, tragically absolutely nothing of any real consequence has happened here in the last 100 years.
But please, don’t despair.
Let’s look forward to our next centennial, except by then we’ll all be dead.
Something to think about.
Meanwhile, it’s a beautiful prairie summer. The air is fresh, the gophers are jumping around — and I’m thankful I’m here now.
If it were winter, I’d be off-balance on a sheet of ice, dodging 40-pound granite curling rocks hurled by many of you, drunk out of your skulls, tripping over your brooms.
And heaven only knows what your husbands would be doing.
We Coronationites like to play hard and celebrate harder. That’s why, among our world records, we hold the title of:
Liver Replacement Capital of Canada.
Had we just tried a tiny bit harder, we might have snagged world records for Commonwealth murders and suicides too.
As it stands, we are merely third and fifth in those categories.
The town fathers tried, bless them.
They almost got us global fame when it was discovered that our water was toxic enough to wipe out most of the population.
Had they kept it a secret, we could have enjoyed global media coverage — “Deadly Water Horror in Coronation!”
Instead, they had to blab, shut down the old water tower (which I loved), and start piping water in from Stettler — 60 miles away.
Another opportunity lost.
But do not despair. (Again.)
Time, quantum mechanics, and sheer dumb luck produce all sorts of probabilities.
I’m confident that sometime soon, something apocalyptic — like a comet, avalanche, or tsunami — will finally put us on the map.
In fact, this very curling rink, where you sit now listening to the self-propelled combines moving in and out the rear door, could become Ground Zero for multiple catastrophic events.
Imagine it:
Over at the coffee bar, American stealth bombers mistakenly bring down Chinese thermonuclear warheads. Instant fame! CNN trucks! Coronation would be on every map — in bold red letters!
So please, continue to be optimistic about our future.
Time is on our side.
Of course, predicting the future is hard.
Even harder if you’re a dog.
Pretend you’re a Weimaraner pup. Think in dog years.
In dog math (1 dog year = 7 human years), we’d have a Centennial every 14.29 years.
That is, if you could get your paws on a pocket calculator.
I mention Weimaraners because I was the first person in Coronation to own one.
Actually, I didn’t own the dog — my uncle gave me to the dog.
Everyone knows: a dog, especially one with pedigrees, owns you.
And frankly, even mutts know how to train humans better than humans train them.
Dogs patiently coach you:
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When to feed them
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When to rescue them from a blizzard
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When to share your bed (if you’re lucky)
Not everyone in Coronation was owned by dogs.
4-H Club kids were owned by their prize calves — at least until they turned into sides of beef.
Sleeping with a calf during a blizzard might keep you warm, sure.
But it could also lead to a visit from the RCMP vice squad.
(There are children here, so I’ll leave that one alone.)
Now, about birds.
Before Cloudy the Weimaraner, I had a crow named Betsy.
Betsy could talk and — like the dogs — pretty much owned me.
I never considered eating Betsy, though I’ve eaten a lot of crow figuratively.
Betsy had a starring role in my childhood:
In the early ’50s, we rented our first house in Coronation (later bought by Ed Stokes, a man who loved bananas so rotten they walked to him).
Our rented bungalow had no indoor plumbing.
Each morning, my father would sprint for the backyard privy — or as he called it, “the head.”
“I’m heading for the head, pray for me!” he’d yell, newspapers flapping as he bolted out the door.
And right on cue, the morning sun would flash off his bald head like a signal mirror.
Betsy the crow would dive-bomb him, trying to scalp him like a shiny human trophy.
Makes sense when you realize the real Crows (the Indigenous ones) learned scalping from white bounty hunters — another little historical gem not taught at Coronation Junior High.
People wondered why Dad always ran for the outhouse clutching a newspaper to his head.
Now you know.
Dad tolerated dogs.
Crows? Not so much.
In my humble opinion, dogs are the best companions.
You remember them with fondness.
A cow? Not so much — unless it’s a particularly tender porterhouse.
And unless the cow had a really outstanding personality (or sauce), you’ll eventually forget even their first name.
Crows? Well, they poop on your head.
Hard to bond after that.
Which brings us back to Cloudy, my dog.
Cloudy was big, gray, friendly, and just a little dopey.
He took longer to train me than some of the other neighborhood dogs trained their humans, but he got there.
By the time I was 15, Cloudy had trained me to feed him twice a day.
By 16, he had taught me to build him a hunting blind ten miles south of town — where he’d lounge while I shot ducks for him to watch.
Cloudy is probably the finest teacher I ever had.
So today, gathered here in this old curling rink, let’s raise a toast:
To Coronation.
To our dogs (and even our crows).
And to the next 100 years.
If we’re lucky, and the right disaster strikes, we’ll finally make the big time.
