I Dream of Weetabix

Growing up on the Minnesota- Canada border, the only television channel we received was channel 5, CBC, short for the Canadian Broadcast Company, out of Winnipeg. Looking back it was a good thing, having been brought up on bilingual Sesame Street and such shows as Chez Helene and Mr Dresshop. Mr Dresshop was the northern version of Mr Rodgers with his trade mark expression of "Oh Gahrue!" The only downfall, however, to this diverse programming, other than being only exposed to news from a totally separate country, was their commercials. The advertising, was similar to the American versions, I'm sure, but they taunted exotic and unavailable merchandise that could not be had here in the states. Bubbly Areo Chocolate bars, Arco coffee, and the one thing I lusted for most in life, at the age of eleven, Weetabix.

Weetabix cereal appeared to be wholesome, fun, and exotic all at the sametime, that combination very appealing to restless young diabetic. Although we lived very close to the border, my parents had never ventured the short distant across the river, figuring they had traveled all the way from Scandinavia, and did not need to go any further, especially a country that had even less Nordic population. I, on the other hand, was driven by my stomach and reckless abandon.

With the help of my cohort Valerie, I hatched a plan. I was not allowed to ride my bicycle on any paved roads, my family not only being wary of forien countries, but also tourists who might abscond with the likes of me. I could, with the prober amount of pleading, make it to Val's house, six miles to the west of me, via back roads. I lead my overly worried parents believe that is were I would spend the day. I made it to Valerie's house fine, but then with her in tow, doubled back, on our ten speeds, the fifteen miles to the town of Baudette and it's border bridge. Val would be my scape goat, my accomplise and my guise. Valerie was a quarter Chippewa Indian. With the heavy French and Native American population in the town of Rainy River, Canada, I figured we would be less likely to stand out as run always. Rainy River was considered a bad town. It was, after all ,on the wrong side of the tracks. All this planning for the taste of cereal.

We were both relieved and somewhat disappointed when all it took for us to get across the bridge was a quarter each. No proof of identification or alibi was needed. We were ecstatic if not tired as we peddled across the river into unknown territory. Our excitement soon pasted once we discovered the town of Rainy River to be smaller and even more desolate than what we had come to expect. As a matter of fact, the town had basically nothing, other than three bars and a gas station. The gas station did not even sell food stuffs we soon found out. We should have turned back at that point. But our quest and hunger was fueled by our strenuous ride.

Rainy River, did however, hold a restaurant on it's far outskirts edge. The Beef Hut was a relatively new building owned by Asian immigrants. Our plan b was to simply order a bowl of the much desired cereal at the cafe. Unfortunately, to our disappointment, after much confusion with our non English speaking server, we were brought hamburgers. Naturally there was no Weetabix on the menu. We barely had enough money to pay our bill, with the different currency rate and had to scrape up enough money by assaulting the penny dish by their cash register.

The disappointment of our unfulfilled hunger lessened once we realized, not only were we in a strange country when we were not supposed to be, but we now did not have the funds needed for the bridge fee to return home. As much as we wanted to throw down our bikes and blubber like the nieve little school girls we were, Val and I could not create a seen and be discovered in our ruse.

The adrenaline it took for the two of us to push our bikes along the dizzyingly high railroad tracks across the river and back into the states, got us most of the way back home. Val's mom, a tuperware dealer returning home from delivering plastics, spotted us on the side of the road, doubled over with leg cramps. We caught hell for being on the highway. We let our parents believe we were on our way to my house. The whole trip into Canada was never brought up.

I have since been back into Canada many times since that first time. I had just plain forgot about Weetabix.

I was in my local grocery store the other day, doing a fast power shop. I cut through the health foods isle because it always has less congestion while on my way to the bakery department. Midpoint in the isle, out of the corner of my eye, at ankle level, I glimpse a yellow and blue blur of a box, with a W in it's title. Yes I was going that fast. I grab the handle of my cart and screech to a halt, causing my pretzel rods to to slide off the top of my loaded cart (weight in motion, resistance-force in effect). "Mom!", yips Y2 in startled protest as he picks up the broken snacks, and turns to look at where I have kneeled down on the floor in front of the organic foods.

I could not believe that they had my elusive cereal in my very own grocery store. How long had it been here? Was it the real deal or just a bad watered down version like so many American made copies of an original? There was only one box on the shelf. I hugged that box tightly to my chest all through the check out line and home.

As I ate the entire box of nectar like weatyness, I could feel my leg muscles convulse with joy. An aura of adrenaline warmth filled my satiated body. The food was somewhat bland in my mouth, but the flavor of the memories were exquisite. What tasted so good to me now, would have only been a disapointment at the age of eleven. Yes, it was worth the trip. Now.