(EDITOR鈥橲 NOTE: Samantha Karikas (nee Routley) was born in Winnipeg and moved to Kamsack just shy of her ninth birthday. She grew up in Kamsack and graduated from the Kamsack Comprehensive Institute in 2003. She moved to Regina to attend university and after several years in communications and public relations, she now works at Phoenix Group Advertising where she鈥檚 a senior writer. She spends her days writing advertising copy and puns and reconciling her 鈥渂ig city鈥� attitude with her love for wide open spaces.)
I was alone, unknown, and brand new, the first time I was given the Small Town Salute.
In the days before Kamsack, sitting in the backseat watching the zoetrope through the window beside me was one of my favourite things to do. We lived in the part of the city called 鈥淲est K.鈥� I didn鈥檛 know what that meant other than that when we had to visit someone, or go somewhere it meant time in the back seat of the car, and the gift of more to look at and more to notice.
As an eight year old with an already too developed sense of self, I prided myself on the little compliments I knew were truly a part of who I was; who I鈥檇 grow up to be. 鈥淥bservant鈥� held the top spot. I鈥檇 preen with every change in the familiar along our routes. Billboards, storefronts and gas prices offered the biggest pay-off because it meant I was both noticing and reading 鈥� a double whammy. If I could spot the difference in the cost of a litre I was almost certain to get the ultimate in affirmations 鈥� a simple 鈥淰ery good, Samantha,鈥� from my dad.
Thanks to a particular billboard on Main Street I developed a loose concept of the distance of two kilometres. From Ronnie鈥檚 massive clown grin to the golden arches was exactly two kilometres, which meant that from the arches to grandma鈥檚 house was about two more. Or, at least it felt as much. But, time proved to be a harder concept to grasp than distance, especially without the help of the familiar, smiling mascot with a blazing red mouth. 聽
In what felt like just two brief introductions and one Christmas morning, we were stuffed into a dusty farm truck with all of our belongings and our new step-dad, watching the landscape of buildings, signs and people dwindle with each passing click.
We moved into a trailer on a modest farm in the basin of a valley. The only other farm I had ever seen outside of the pages of a textbook or the TV had a massive yellow barn, a quaint summer kitchen and grass pens of pigs upon pigs. Our farm had a house of feral cats and a small creek devouring an ancient and sagging building.
There was little to see there 鈥� or so I was committed to believing. Save for the odd highway sign (which were almost always about a hotel鈥oring), there was no way 鈥� finding in the fields of eastern Saskatchewan. The zoetrope now just deceptively alternated between what I would eventually learn was canola (yellow), and flax (purple).
鈥淕oing鈥� and 鈥渧isiting鈥� lacked all of the same opportunity the city held. In the expanse of fields I was sometimes treated to a wooden plow or broken down tractor. These relics of long forgotten homesteaders were the new landmarks, and they didn鈥檛 interest me in the slightest.
On one of our first nights on the farm my new stepdad made popcorn for supper. Leaning over our bowls we listened to him make jokes about how newcomers needed to know words like 鈥渂abushka,鈥� 鈥減erishky鈥� and 鈥済uido.鈥� We closed the night with greasy fingers, my head swimming in 鈥淯krainianisms.鈥� As our new step-dad threw wood into the stove he turned to me, crouched. Deliberately, he said 鈥淢y name is Jack Koreluik 鈥� Vicky and Johnnie鈥檚 son, okay?鈥�
This struck me as a bizarre and belated introduction, given that he now made my breakfast and pulled my boots on in the morning as a matter of daily routine.
Main street, Kamsack was a far cry from the Main I was used to. It followed the same standard template of most prairie towns. A few blocks of a doublewide street lined with the salon, the dollar store, the restaurants (one Chinese), the insurance place, the credit union, and the memorial, all overlooked by Town Hall.
The first time I went into town was on my ninth birthday. One day after a year of eight, and the irony wasn鈥檛 lost on me; a birthday celebrated amongst complete strangers, in a town where everyone knew everyone. 聽
The day was unsuitably warm after what had already been a long winter. I hopped out of the dollar store, being sure to land squarely in the puddle of slush forming under the door. Beside the dollar store stood a large brick building. It was stately and federal looking 鈥� definitely a police station, or post office, I decided. I considered this to be another benefit of being an observant city kid: along with distance, I learned the language of buildings at a young age. City kids learned to identify diners from galleries and from government buildings; museums from department stores, and rich houses from normal houses. With the exception of this one, here it seemed the only type was simply 鈥渂uilding.鈥�
Determined to prove myself right, I walked through the front doors, which led directly into a small hallway of metal faces 鈥� post office boxes and their owners alike.
The post office was just one stop on the 鈥渟hootin鈥� the shit tour鈥� that most people made daily: coffee shop, hardware store, post office, back to coffee shop. The post office was where the peripheries met to corroborate stories from the morning milk and sugars.
The hallway went silent almost immediately. Even the rustling of the weekly fliers stopped.
鈥淲hose are you?鈥� a voice came from behind the small forming crowd of tiny ladies and wide, hunched men.
鈥淧ardon me鈥� I said, feeling hot and stupid.
鈥淲hose are you, dear?鈥� a petite lady in a frayed, blue plaid jacket emerged from the now murmuring crowd. I looked back at her, blankly.
In a flash of understanding, I remembered what my new step-dad told me on that early night in the trailer in the valley.
鈥淛ack鈥ore-lee-uuk,鈥� I stammered in what I thought to be passable Ukrainian pronunciation.
The woman reached for my hand in that thirsty way that misty-eyed women do, grasping for the feeling of the flesh of youth against their paper palms. There we stood, my hands in hers.
No one in the perogy gallery made a peep.聽 The woman pressed again, squeezing my hands as if to will the answer out of me. 聽
鈥淲ho do you belong to? Do you live in town here?鈥� she asked.
鈥淣o, a trailer,鈥� I spoke up, just a bit. 鈥淭wo kilometres past Five Mile Corner.鈥�
The squat men searched each others faces. A hidden man鈥檚 creaky chuckle swelled to a short phlegmy cough. After a brief fit, a voice arose somewhere in the back.
鈥淲ell how did you figure that?鈥�
Still not sure of what I was being asked, I answered: 鈥淚 read it, on the sign鈥ight before the turn-off.鈥�
The ringleader responded with one staccato nod--a salute that was both confirmation and approval. Her eyes softened and a smile spread across her face.
鈥淥hhhhh, Jackie Ray; Vicky and Johnnie鈥檚 son. And aren鈥檛 you bright!鈥�
The familiar feeling of satisfaction and reward rose up wild inside me.
Being a bright farm girl felt just as good as being an observant city kid.
