Saturday Night Cool
written by jaron summers (c) 2024
Recalling the disco fever of “Saturday Night Fever,” which immortalized Brooklyn and made John Travolta a global sensation, I’m taken back to a different time and place—Coronation, Alberta.
This small Canadian town, twenty miles from where k.d. lang grew up, held its own kind of Saturday night ritual.
Inside almost every truck, a farmer’s wife waited and shivered, bearing the weather’s bite and the wear of life’s trials. These women, much like the vehicles they sat in, bore the marks of hard use.
The men often drank to excess and, in a nasty twist of fate, chastised their wives for the very act of keeping warm, accusing them of wasting gasoline for their comfort.
It was a scene of stark contrasts: the escapism offered by the flickering images of The Avalon and the sobering reality awaiting those women in their trucks.
That’s what Hollywood turned out to be for me. Stark contrasts. Sobering reality. Flickering images.
But I’m pleased to report I never bought my wife a truck and left her to shiver in the cold.
Memories are locked in my memory of Coronation and Saturday nights after the only movie theater closed.