Moose Jaw: birthplace of Canadian civilization

When I was 12 and turning wild right before my parents' eyes, before I knew what was happening I was shipped off to boarding school to become a lady. I arrived, 82 pounds, 4'9", and so unsophisticated, so hopelessly a child, I was kicked around the quad daily and teased until I broke down in tears. At Christmas, I came home with a list. I had to get this haircut from this stylist, the following shoes with the following features, and three dresses for movie nights on Saturdays. A day at Holt’s and it was done. Duly equipped, I returned, and while I never had enough status to kick anyone around the quad, all kicking of me stopped. Therein lies the awesome power of expensive fashion. I went on to use this power as a very effective weapon for the next few decades, finding my way into designer sales and showrooms, discovering the about-to-be-hot designer, and filling closets with beautiful things. It was an abiding passion. Until I discovered the art of the bargain, and far more satisfying that has turned out to be: “90% off” is the phrase which will send me tearing up island to demolition yards, sorting through old beams from torn-down warehouses or doors from a decommissioned hotel. Or, better, find the supplier who makes the doors for the door supplier, and get into his warehouse sale. That purchase of 20 Douglas fir doors two summers ago still gives me pleasure. But even saving $1.20 on a half gallon of skim milk can make me happy, and inspired enough to go to Winners and find some Italian throw-away for $30 that started out life retailing at $300. Saving money while shopping is my current recreation, inspired, I have to say, by my two closest companions: my mother and Jamie, the most egregious penny pinchers on the West Coast, whom I duly mocked until I realized they were two things I was not: rich and calm. Now, the two of them have little in common but the love of moi, except for the Moose Jaw connection. Mother was born in Moose Jaw, and so was Jamie’s father. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, half way across the country, is, I believe, the fulcrum of Canadian civilization. It is where our values were birthed in their starkest of forms, and no doubt where they are nurtured, a bit like a village that protects the Holy Grail. Prudence, frugality, commonality, intense pragmatism ― are these not the fundamental Canadian values, almost certainly birthed in Moose Jaw, easily among the most inhospitable terrains in the country? Furthermore, I happen to know that the mother of the Weston empire, the young woman who married the Weston patriarch who made it all happen, was born in Moose Jaw. And the Superstore, owned by the Westons, happens, because of its artful discounting, to be my new favourite store. So I’m fine with the new bad economy, at least for now. All that hedge fund money spending, the 40,000 square foot houses, the $40,000 dresses and the let-them-eat-cake attitude of Bay and Wall Streets was disgusting ― admit it ― and so far out of the path of the virtues which make Canada and the U.S. the most egalitarian and stable countries in the world. That ghastly sub-culture should and must die, and Moose Jaw can once more rule the land. Moose Jaw’s #1 fan is a Canadian freelance journalist.