Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange

by Stuart McLean

  Just the same, the miracle of a nest captured my imagination. Every day I’d watch the to and fro of the birds, and then secretly peek in on the nest to see—first, four impossibly tiny eggs, and then four dandelion-like fuzz balls with beaks. It was a wonder.

  But the predictable happened. One day, as I prepared a snack for our five-year-old son, Dean, we heard the cacophony of cawing crows and shrieking sparrows. I raced out the front door with a pot in hand to scare the vandals off. But as we looked up at the nest we saw a crow swooping into the sky, a chunk of the nest trailing from its mouth. I was too late.

  “It’s the natural way,” I cautioned myself, trying not to become too sentimental about this heart-wrenching event. Little Dean, much closer to the ground than I, suddenly pointed out, “There’s a bird!” And, indeed, there was a tiny bird. A miniature feathered dinosaur, sitting on the grass, dumped from its nest in the raid. And then we found another and then another. Three tiny birds, untouched by the predator crow. Only one had become lunch. The remaining small sparrows appeared unharmed by their near-death experience.

  As I sadly reflected on the fate of the fourth sparrow, my glance settled on our old dog, Mica. Mica’s nose was angled downward toward the ground while her eyes were cast upward toward Dean and me. She looked guilty—there’s just no other way to describe that expression. Two little sticks poked out of her mouth.

  But wait. They weren’t sticks. They were legs. Bird legs!

  “Drop that bird!” I commanded. Mica’s obedience-school days were long behind her, but my tone must have communicated something, because that dog slowly, reluctantly, spat out Bird Number Four. Expecting the worst, I gathered up the tiny body in my palm. The sparrow was perfectly fine—just a bit wet.

  Little Dean and I quickly reconstructed the busted nest, using some cotton batting and a few well-placed branches. We set all four little birds back into their renovated home.

  And we waited.

  I must admit that I worried we might have condemned those small creatures to a more grisly death in that nest than if we’d left them on the ground for the next cat that passed by. But by dinnertime the parents were back, busy feeding their hungry brood.

  That family of birds survived and left the nest on their own accord.

  Sometimes things work out just as you hope.

  Victoria, British Columbia

  STANDING, PROUDLY

  This story takes place twenty-five years ago, at the beginning of my public service career. I was working in Calgary for the federal government, interviewing immigrants who were applying for Canadian citizenship. It was a job that reminded me, every day, how lucky I was to be born in this great country.

  During my four years, I met many courageous people from around the world who had sacrificed so much to come to Canada. There’s one family that I think of often.

  In the early 1980s, many of the “boat people” from Vietnam had spent enough time in Canada to qualify for citizenship. One day I interviewed a young Vietnamese woman who wanted help for her father. He was in the hospital. He was dying, and he didn’t want to die stateless and be buried as a refugee. He didn’t want to die without a country to call home.

  Time was short. Could we help?

  I’m proud to say that we did. We pulled out all the stops to get the paperwork processed quickly, and then we arranged to go to the hospital to give this man the gift of belonging.

  When we arrived at the cancer ward of the Foothills Hospital, we were greeted by a nurse who told us that our soon-to-be citizen was a very proud man. He was not about to become a Canadian while lying in bed. He’d struggled into a wheelchair and was in the lounge waiting for us. Well, that wasn’t all that was waiting for us. The nurses had decorated the lounge in red and white: streamers, balloons, flags. Patients from the ward, all dressed in hospital garb, had crowded into the room. The citizenship judge said a few words, administered the oath of citizenship, and presented the much-cherished certificate.

  And then a young man standing in the back, bald from chemo and hanging on to his IV pole, started to sing “O Canada.” One by one the people in the room joined in. By the second verse, everyone in the room was belting out the national anthem.

  I often take for granted the life I have here in Canada. I complain about small things. But when I catch myself doing it I think back to that man in the hospital and the hundreds of other people whom I had the privilege of meeting. And when I do, I thank my lucky stars.

  Ottawa, Ontario

  BIRTHDAY SUIT

  Our family has always enjoyed camping. My husband and I tented on our honeymoon twenty-six years ago. We upgraded to a hard-top camper when we had kids. Then, about fifteen years ago, we opted for total luxury: a twenty-four-foot travel trailer with a pullout couch for us at the front and bunk beds in the back for our children.

  We were on our maiden voyage with the new rig at one of our favourite campgrounds. It was Canada Day weekend. We were lucky to get a spot.

  We were located right across from the tents and trailers occupied by the young campground staff. Summer holidays had arrived.

  We were enjoying the time together as a family and the conveniences of our little home on wheels. Life was good. We were still campers, just a little less rugged. We still hadn’t caught on to locking the door.

  One night I was awakened in the wee hours of the morning by my husband’s voice saying, “This isn’t your trailer.”

  In my sleepy state I thought to myself, “Well of course it’s my trailer … what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is … mine.”

  Then I opened my eyes.

  There was a young man standing next to our bed, an inebriated young man. A naked, inebriated young man. My husband was trying to direct him to the door, telling him that it wasn’t his trailer.

  After a few minutes of discussion our intruder left. We quickly locked the door.

  Our eight-year-old son had slept through the whole event, but not our five-year-old daughter. A little voice from behind the curtains near the bunk beds called out, “Is he gone?”

  In my most reassuring mother’s voice I told her, “He’s gone, you don’t have to be afraid.”

  She said, “I’m not afraid. I just didn’t want to miss anything.”

  Then she asked, “What happened?”

  Since she’d been shielded by a curtain I tried to explain as best I could. I told her that the man had made a mistake and come into our trailer because he was, well, ah … “sleepwalking.”

  After a moment’s thought she asked, “Did he have his arms out in front of him?”

  “No,” I replied, “not his arms.”

  In the morning a sober and embarrassed young man came over to apologize. He explained that he’d celebrated his birthday a bit too much and had become disoriented when he wandered out of his trailer in the middle of the night. I told him I’d known it was his birthday by what he was wearing.

  As we parted on good terms he said he hoped that someday I’d be able to laugh about the incident. Well, that day did come, very quickly, and this story continues to be our camping favourite.

  Fredericton, New Brunswick

  A PROPOSAL OF HOPE

  In movies and on television, whenever someone meets a married couple, it seems—or at least it seems to me—the question “How did he propose?” comes up. Fifteen years ago I proposed to the woman I loved. But in fifteen years, not one person has ever asked the story of how I popped the question. Being a typical American, despite not being asked I’m going to tell the story anyway: not because I’m full of myself, but because I think it’s a good story.

  In September of 1996, my lovely girlfriend, Kim, and I had just graduated from college. We’d both studied biology and were making plans for graduate school. We had the world at our feet. Our grand plans came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt when Kim was diagnosed with leukemia. I don’t think I need to elaborate on what a diagnosis like that can do to a twenty-two-year-old who thought she was jus
t beginning her life as an adult.

  Kim immediately began receiving treatments, which at times felt more dangerous than the disease itself. For the next six months she spent over half her time in the hospital, stuck on the cancer floor. Kim very rarely complained about her condition or her circumstances. She was the doctors’ and nurses’ favourite patient. The most heartbreaking one, too.

  I spent those six months driving to the hospital, sitting by her bed, watching TV with her, and pacing the halls. And I worried about her. Whether it was denial or stubbornness or pigheadedness I’ll never know, but I had a deep belief that she’d be all right.

  Unfortunately, that belief wasn’t shared by her physicians. After three aggressive rounds of chemotherapy, the leukemia kept coming back. The treatment wasn’t working. Kim needed a bone marrow transplant, but a donor hadn’t been found. Time was running out.

  When the disease came back the fourth time, Kim was hospitalized for more chemotherapy. Her father caught me on my way into the hospital one day and took me to a waiting room. Looking exhausted and defeated, he shared dire news: Kim’s physician didn’t believe she would survive this fourth round of chemotherapy. She needed the transplant now.

  He suggested we all prepare for the worst.

  I sat back in the chair, stunned. My deep belief that Kim would be fine didn’t jibe with this news. I looked at Kim’s father and repeated that time-worn phrase many men have uttered before me: “Sir,” I said, “I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Kim’s father, being the big, strong, macho man that he is, immediately began to cry. I’m not sure what he was thinking, but I can only assume he felt some relief that his daughter would have a little happiness in all the gloom.

  The next morning my mother took me to the jeweller where she and my father had bought their wedding rings. My mother, the jeweller, and the jeweller’s wife spent hours with me finding just the right one.

  That afternoon I began the hour-long drive to the hospital, practising the perfect speech. My heart was racing and my hands were shaky. When I entered Kim’s room, my heart fell. She was sitting by the window, crying. This was not something she did often.

  When I asked her what was wrong, she said that the case manager had just left. The case manager had shared the opinion of the medical staff with her: the end was near.

  I went over to my jacket and pulled the small box from my pocket. I walked back to the chair she was sitting in, knelt down beside her, and gave her the little box.

  I took off the surgical mask I was wearing, that was meant to protect her from my germs. I looked deeply into her eyes and said, “I believe in you.”

  So much for my practised oratory.

  When she opened the box, Kim began crying all over again. But this time, just like her father, the tears were mingled with smiles and laughter. For the first time in what felt like ages, we kissed. The nursing staff discovered our happy news within about a nanosecond. Joy, which was not a common emotion on their floor, spread through the unit.

  I’d like to be able to tell you that everything worked out okay. That a donor for Kim was found. That she got her transplant. That she got better. That we married, went to graduate school, bought a house, and started a family.

  So I will. Because that’s exactly what happened.

  When looking back at that time in our lives, some folks like to say that Kim’s survival and recovery was due to divine intervention, the result of some unimaginable number of prayers said and whispered on her behalf. I mean no disrespect to anyone, divine or otherwise, but I politely disagree.

  I believe the turning point had more to do with that modest, pretty ring than anything else. Not because of me or what I did or didn’t do, but because of what that little ring represented: hope.

  Hope, Maine

  NIGHTCRAWLER

  In grade two, my beloved teacher Mrs. Hossack taught the class a unit on worms. We read How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell. We wrote a story about a construction-paper worm that coiled around the classroom and out into the lobby. We made worms out of clay. My creation, a Cyndi Lauper worm with a red beehive and red lipstick, still sits on my father’s desk.

  One of our final tasks was to keep worms as pets in the classroom. Finding a worm to bring into class was delegated to my father; I was too squeamish to dig for it myself. And so, one Sunday night, there was my father, hunting through the grass in our side yard, flashlight in hand, worm hunting.

  I have no doubt he did his share of grumbling while he was out in the dark, getting mud under his fingernails and a crick in his neck, all in the name of primary education.

  He was probably remembering the many other times he’d “volunteered” his services—adopting the classroom gerbils during the previous summer, playing the Sultan during our dance studio’s production of Aladdin. He might have been thinking how thankless a job being a father is and hoping I’d appreciate him more when I was older. Most of all, he would have wanted to get back inside where it was warm and dry so he could put his feet up and watch some TV with my mother before bed.

  He was probably thinking all of these things when the police cruiser rolled by.

  The officer slowed down when he saw the suspicious-looking flashlight moving in the dark. He turned on the strobe light, made a U-turn, and pulled up at the sidewalk. My father felt a brief moment of panic. He realized what he looked like, skulking around on someone’s property in the middle of the night. Painted in the cruiser’s red and blue lights, he felt like a criminal.

  The officer stepped out of the car and strolled toward my father, who was desperately trying to figure out the simplest way to explain what he was doing without embarrassing himself. Before he could say anything, the officer spoke.

  “Looking for worms?”

  Apparently fathers all over the neighbourhood were out worm hunting that night.

  I hope their children are as grateful for their dads as I am for mine.

  Mississauga, Ontario

  A CATHEDRAL OF FENCE POSTS

  As a Canadian Forces chaplain, one of the more pleasant duties I perform is officiating at weddings.

  I’ve had only two rules to guide me in which weddings I do and which I turn down: I need to be able to meet with the bride and groom first, and I don’t do weddings in unusual places (like parachuting or underwater).

  I broke both rules once, and it was the most meaningful wedding I’ve ever celebrated.

  I’d agreed to do this wedding on two days’ notice, as the minister who was to officiate was called away on a family emergency. I had the location (out of town, on a farm), I knew the names of the bride and groom, and I knew that they’d completed pre-marriage classes with the other minister.

  I also knew something about their wedding guests and the particular setting they’d chosen for the celebration of their union. One hundred and forty bikers had come to spend the weekend. The wedding was to be a bonus—a surprise to all but a handful of the guests.

  I confess to misgivings as I turned off the highway onto the property and caught my first glimpse of the venue. Dozens of motorcycles were parked in one section of the field. Most were Harley-Davidsons. Loud music filled the air from a refreshment area in the centre field. Tents dotted the landscape. It looked like a heavy-metal Woodstock.

  Mine was the only Jetta in sight. I parked it and headed up to the house.

  To my relief, things seemed to be in order. I was introduced to the bride’s parents and the groom’s parents while the bride was getting dressed. It didn’t take long: she wore jeans and a black T-shirt and a few flowers in her hair. The groom was introduced to me as “Bear.” It wasn’t hard to know where the nickname came from—Bear outweighed me at least two to one. His beard was thick and bushy. His arms were heavily tattooed.

  We checked to see that the licence was in order, and when everything was ready I headed to the main tent. I don’t push through crowds very well, meek and mild sort that I am, but I manag
ed to get to the front and asked for a microphone. I waited for the music to stop, introduced myself, and announced that I was here for a wedding. I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I would get.

  Several of the bikers immediately headed to the parking area. The air was filled with the throb of powerful engines revving. Then, with almost military precision, the bikes pulled out and streamed toward the centre field. They were heading toward me. A few feet away, they turned off to form a double row facing each other—an honour guard to create an aisle for the bride. With engines at full throttle, their roar echoed across the valley.

  As the bride walked slowly and gracefully down this aisle, each bike she passed switched off its engine. As she passed the last pair and all the engines were stilled, you could have heard a pin drop. She walked shyly up to Bear.

  His eyes were overflowing with tears.

  The couple were surrounded by a congregation of friends: members and families of the Sober Riders, each one a recovering alcoholic, each one a biker. Each one bowed in prayer as we entered a holy moment.

  The bride had given me only one instruction for the service. “Make sure you have a sermon,” she said. “These people want to hear a word from God.”

  I stood in the middle of the field, in a congregation of T-shirts, jeans, and tattoos, in front of a groom and bride who knew exactly what they were doing and why, in a cathedral of fence posts and Harleys, and together we gave thanks to God.

  Courtenay, British Columbia

  PLUS ONE

  In May 1975, I was a young, single Foreign Service officer who’d just been assigned to the Canadian Embassy in Japan. Shortly after my arrival in Tokyo, Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip paid a state visit of five days to the Land of the Rising Sun.

  In celebration of this momentous occasion, members of the Commonwealth were invited to a party in Shinjuku Garden to meet the Queen and the Prince. When my official invitation arrived at the Embassy, it said, “and guest.”