Roger Pires April 22, 2010
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Heaven or ...?
It caught my eye out of the gloom. A fluorescent orange sign pegged to a hydro pole along one of the local concessions. On it, hand-written in big, block letters was a warning: “HELL” with an arrow pointing straight ahead. Apparently, I was headed straight for the netherworld where, I figured, I would encounter bumper to bumper traffic long before I reached the gates. Looking around though, I saw only endless corn fields dotted with the occasional farmhouse and the odd clump of evergreens. Even in the half-light of a steady drizzle, this pastoral scene possessed a certain muted glory. It was hardly an indication I was approaching the land of fire and brimstone.
Perhaps the poor devil who made the sign wished to announce to the world that his mother-in-law had moved into the basement. But since I found neither police tape nor anyone screaming hysterically on their front lawn, I knew the sign wasn’t a declaration of one man’s personal Hades. In reality, there could’ve been countless reasons for the sign’s existence. Directions to a frat party. A gathering of the Brotherhood of Disgruntled Crossing Guards.
It may very well have been intended though, as a shot across the bow to those people who chose to live in the country over the city. People like me. It may’ve been a not-so-subtle reminder that not everyone equates rural life with Heaven’s waiting room. This latter group believes anything north of the 401 is uncharted wilderness. The “country” is where milk comes from and from whenst their favourite steakhouse sources out its prized strip loins.
My old buddy Don is one those people. Don and I go way back. We worked for a bank until our jobs were permanently exiled to India. Big Red, as he is known, is a devout city dweller who resides in a tony, uptown Toronto neighbourhood. You know when Big Red enters a room, usually because he has to duck to do so. His ample frame is eclipsed only by his voluble opinions. Hell, as he once put it, is not living within walking distance of a four-star restaurant. So I wasn’t entirely shocked that when I informed him I was moving to Udora, he stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns and a tail.
He warned me about the perils of living in the hinterland. The lack of fine dining. The evils of grass cutting. Not to mention the packs of wild animals lurking in the darkness beyond the fence line. Not even the mighty Don however, could’ve foreseen the greatest evil attending those unfortunates who share an area code with Sudbury: the absence of high-speed Internet. On the morning of Hell’s sighting, I logged on to my computer to alert my colleagues I’d be late for work. Unfortunately, someone had tried to send me a copy of the Magna Carta in the form of a Word document, crippling my dial-up service and leaving me in a state of cyber-silence. Had Big Red found this out, he would’ve let out one of his deafening roars.
“Serves you right for moving to the tundra,” he’d bellow. The big fella wouldn’t be interested in the explanation for my prehistoric means of communication. He wouldn’t care that whoever built our house, 130 years ago, did so without consulting any of the various Internet providers that allegedly service our area. So he couldn’t have foreseen that the lot in which he built his grand abode would be in what is known in industry parlance as a “dead zone”.
We’ve tried everything: USB sticks, routers, and every flavour of wireless technology. Trucks have pulled into our driveway and their drivers have raised antennae to the heavens looking for signs of life. They find nothing but weak glimmers of reception - and mosquitoes. The giant pine tree in our yard does nothing to help the situation. Go figure. We can clone sheep but we can’t steer Internet signals around dying conifers. “Karma,” Donny would say.
It’d been awhile since I’d heard from my buddy. Cruising down Hell’s Turnpike, that sign hung on a pole reminded me of the big guy with the shock of red hair and the enormous laugh. I’d heard through the withering grapevine that he’d undergone a hip replacement a couple of years ago. And that he’d mellowed a little. Still, even with failing body parts and advancing age, it was hard to imagine a kinder, gentler Don. I could, however, see him taking a wrong turn on the way to one of his beloved rounds of golf, ending up on a secluded back road, and putting up an orange sign in God’s country.
