Memories of Slime

If  you jump to the two-minute mark of this video, you'll be treated to a vintage commercial advertising Slime: It's Alive, one of a handful of Slime products marketed by Mattel in the 1970s. "Comes in its own garbage can!"

Slime was a pretty unique toy back in those days - a mysterious oozing green compound sealed in a green garbage can, a perfect toy for little boys obsessed with snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Orange Slime quickly followed, then purple Slime with worms and finally the yellow Slime with eyes featured in the above commercial.

While I never owned any Slime, I had friends who did; it made an excellent trap for our Star Wars and Micronauts action figures.

One year our family travelled to Nipawin, Saskatchewan for Christmas with some cousins. My cousin Lawrence had apparently been begging for Slime with worms for some time, and he was initially gleeful when he unwrapped his gifts to discover the promised plastic purple garbage pail. Unfortunately Lawrence was quite squeamish, and when peeled back the lid to thrust his hand into the worm-infested mauve muck, he promptly vomited.

Slime - wholesome entertainment for the whole family!

Leaving Leaf Rapids

In March 1979, the Woods family packed up a U-Haul and left our home in Leaf Rapids, Manitoba to embark on the long journey to Edmonton, Alberta. Kelly Bear and Dave Doran, my best friends in Leaf Rapids, showed up just before departure to pose for this farewell photo.

Kelly and I shared a love of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica; we loved all things science fiction, really. I remember listening to soundtrack and otherwise SF-themed albums over at his place - the trippy Meco disco version of the Star Wars theme, Close Encounters, and even Boney M.'s Night Flight to Venus. Dave and I were both into the Micronauts toys; I remember being jealous of his giant Biotron figure. He was also the first to tell me about the "mirror mirror on the door, I wish my balls would touch the floor" joke - a little ribald for an 8 year old, and I didn't really get it, but of course I laughed like I understood the punchline.

I was pretty devastated when my parents broke the news that we were moving. We were just leaving the Town Centre, the indoor mall that served as Leaf Rapids' community hub. It was dark, and I believe it was Dad who gently informed me of the new situation. I wheeled about in a blind rage and wound up burying my little fists in the midsection of an RCMP officer who'd been walking behind us. He graciously yelped out a "Whoa there!" and returned me to the custody of my parents. Embarrassed, I quieted down, but I was heartbroken. Leaf Rapids was home; all my friends were here, all my secret places were here. It seemed utterly unfair that I had to leave it all behind.

Of course my parents were right to move to Edmonton, with its far vaster spectrum of opportunity. Had they not, I would never have wound up serving as a CBC television host (however briefly) or speechwriter to two Lieutenants-Governor and three Leaders of the Official Opposition. I wouldn't have met my new(er), enduring group of friends, or, most importantly, Sylvia.

Could I have prospered as much or more had we stayed in northern Manitoba? I suspect not. I probably would have attended university in Winnipeg, but if the job situation in the early 90s was bad in Alberta, it must have been worse in Manitoba. It may have taken me even longer to make writing my career. Everything would have been different.

Oddly enough, Dave wound up moving to Leduc not long after we did, and while we met once or twice, the friendship was never rekindled. I ran into Kelly (or Kelvin, as he styles himself now) via ICQ about ten years ago; we chatted briefly to catch up, and I haven't heard from him since. He seemed happy though, working in law enforcement, married with children.

Sometimes I still miss Leaf Rapids, which I suppose is obvious given how often I've written about the place. But in truth, I have few regrets. We learn and grow by taking chances and making hard choices. Mom and Dad did it back in 1979, and I'm grateful. Moving on is important.