Just A Gal From Glidden: Twelve albums for a penny, and what could possibly go wrong?

By Kate Winquist

Apparently, Columbia House is finally calling it quits.

My first thought when I heard the news was, Columbia House is still around?

My second thought was: Boy, do I have some memories of that place.

So naturally, I did what any respectable newspaper columnist desperately searching for next week's topic would do. I put it on Facebook.

I got some pretty good reactions, which convinced me I might be onto something. Then I started texting friends and acquaintances who I figured were in the appropriate age bracket to remember the glory days of Columbia House.

The response was somewhat mixed.

Either they didn't remember Columbia House, didn't have anything interesting to contribute, or simply recognized the danger of becoming part of my weekly musings and wisely chose not to respond.

Heather Beane did. Heather runs the pressroom at StarPress in Wainwright, the plant that prints these papers."Pat Benatar, Crimes of Passion," she replied. "I cranked that for days. It was my get-ready-for-going-out cassette.”

Now that brought back memories.

Crimes of Passion was one of my very first albums, too. And suddenly I could almost see that Columbia House catalogue again.

For anyone under about 40, Columbia House was basically Amazon for music, except it came through the mail, took considerably longer, and somehow involved buying 12 records for a penny and then spending the next three years trying to understand what exactly you had agreed to.

At least that's how I remember it.

The deal always sounded incredible.

GET 12 ALBUMS FOR ONE CENT!

Twelve!

For a penny!

What could possibly go wrong?

You'd pore over that catalogue, carefully choosing your albums. Pat Benatar. Journey. REO Speedwagon. Foreigner. Loverboy. Fleetwood Mac. Kenny Rogers. Maybe a little Air Supply, although admitting that today may cost me whatever credibility I have left.

There were little numbers beside every album, and you had to write those numbers down on the order form. This was serious business. One wrong number and instead of getting Joan Jett, you might end up with Barry Manilow.

Then you mailed the whole thing away.

And waited.

And waited.

Because there was no clicking "Track My Package" every 20 minutes to see if your order had made it from Regina to Saskatoon, to eventually show up at the Glidden Post Office.

One day, it just showed up.

A BOX OF MUSIC.

There was something incredibly exciting about opening that package and pulling out album after album, or later, cassette after cassette, and eventually CDs.

Of course, Columbia House wasn't giving away all that music out of the goodness of its heart.

There was a catch.

There was always a catch.

Every month, Columbia House would select an album for you. If you didn't want it, you had to remember to send back the little card saying, essentially, "No thanks. I do not require this month's selection.”

This required organization.

I was a teenager.

You can probably see where this is going.

Forget to send back the card and, surprise, you were now the proud owner of whatever Columbia House had decided your musical collection was desperately lacking.

And then came the bill.

Somehow that original penny was starting to look a little less impressive.

Still, when I think back on Columbia House, I don't really remember the bills.

I remember the music.

I remember albums that you listened to from beginning to end because you had actually invested something in getting them. You knew every song, not just the hit on Side A.

And apparently Heather remembers getting ready to go out while cranking Pat Benatar.

Which, quite frankly, sounds about right.

After our little trip down memory lane, Heather mentioned that Columbia House shutting down reminded her of another ending. The theatre in Wainwright had just announced it was closing.

"End of an era," she said.

She's right.

Although I had to admit something.

"I actually thought Columbia House was defunct years ago.”

"So did I," she replied.

And with that, our nostalgic tribute to Columbia House, the company neither one of us realized was still operating, was complete.

I told Heather I had finally messaged her about something that wasn't a complaint or a question about press runs. I just knew she was in my age bracket.

Then I suggested she go crank some Pat Benatar.

I think I might do the same.

Because somewhere between those Columbia House catalogues, rotary phones, cassette tapes and waiting six weeks for something to arrive in the mail, we managed to have a pretty darn good time.

And if Crimes of Passion starts playing, I may even remember how we used to get ready for a Saturday night out.

Although these days, getting ready for Saturday night usually means finding my reading glasses and deciding whether 9 p.m. is too early to go to bed.

Just a gal from Glidden, remembering when 12 albums cost a penny and somehow still weren't free.