I just finished reading "Wigfield," a satire of small-town life, and couldn't help but reflect on my own small-town upbringing. No amount of electro-shock therapy can take away the fond memories of Small-Town, Okie-land (STOL).

I wasn't born in STOL but rather, Small-Town, Missouri. But, on my fourth birthday, my parents made the decision to move to STOL, for which I am forever grateful.

Our grand city had a wonderful cast of characters. There was the town arsonist. I don't know her given Christian name, but everyone referred to her as "Cindy Cinders." She was a polite arsonist and always made sure the building was abandoned before setting it ablaze. She was friends with the town psycho, who recently made the front page for defecating in a police officer's car. Our mayor's name was "Speedy" and he grew up in the town orphanage.

Yep, we had an orphanage. It actually remained opened until I was in the fifth grade. One of my school chums lived there and I'll never forget visiting her after school. There was a group of nuns who not only asked about our day but actually listened to the answer, a plate of hot cookies and, probably the most important piece in early childhood development, they had their own swimming pool. I never wished to be an orphan so much in my life (okay, the precending sentence isn't entirely true....there are been plenty of times since that I've wished to be an orphan...but I digress). There have been recent reports of abuse but, this is important to keep in mind, they had their own swimming pool.

Entertainment during my young years consisted of going with my parents to the drive-in. Finding a spot that had a working speaker, honking the horn so "they'll get the goddamn movie started," both my parents smoking in the front seat, wandering all by myself across a dark, gravel parking lot to get to the bathroom, passing cars with darkened shapes that maybe were humans, all the while The Exorcist playing onscreen....ah, good times, good times.

I went to the same elementary schools as my dad. This meant going to crumbling buildings, their lack of air-conditioning creating their own special hell in the Oklahoma heat. These were the innocent days of corporal punishment. You would be given the choice, "Do you want licks (paddling) or do you want me to call your dad?" Hell, I was no fool...I always chose a paddling at school. The school paddling had two distinct advantages: 1) they wouldn't hit too hard for fear of Child Services, and 2) they always set a limit ("you're going to get five licks, missy."). This was a huge improvement over my dad's theory of punishment. Dad treated spankings much like a jazz maestro treats music. There was no set system, but rather a flow of random body shots, an ebb of profanities, and only he knew when we had reached the crescendo and I had "learned my lesson." Pairing the heat with the "necessary" hot tar put on the roof of every single school building I attended, the elementary school years are a bit hazy, so let's move on to...

High School! High school had two distinct advantages; 1) air-conditioning, and 2) gym was no longer a required credit, so I was able to wander my fat ass down the corridors being a band and drama geek. All of us had piece o' crap cars. I, myself, proudly drove a '74 Pontiac Ventura, burnt orange exterior and green interior. We would purposefully run into the back of each other's cars while at stop lights.

It was during this time our illustrious city leaders decided that abandoned downtown buildings with "Keep Out" signs weren't making them any money. They determined, through a task force I'm sure, that tourists are always more willing to give up money than residents. So, in a stroke of bureacratic brilliance, they gave everything a fresh coat of paint and called the downtown area "historical." Now, the downtown is filled with art galleries, coffee shops, and antique/junk stores. There's really nothing there for the actual residents of the town, but the town's not really about them anymore. The real estate market, seeing this success, tacked the word "historical" in front of every house for sale. You can now purchase a "historical" ramshackle dump, complete with historical plumbing and electrical wiring for well above fair-market value. Also, this grand city hosts many festivals. Why, there's the International Bluegrass Festival, the International Jazz Banjo Festival, and, a couple of weeks ago, the Inagural Apples and Quilts Festival. I'm not sure what apples and quilts have in common, but there are obviously enough similarities to warrant a festival. And, no matter what the theme, there's always a car show, which means that anytime I go to visit my parents, I can be found on main street giving the finger to a Model T.

As I reached adulthood, all these wonderful memories came flooding back, mostly in a series of scream-inducing dreams and I did the only thing I could...

I moved the hell away.