Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange

by Stuart McLean

  Being new to the city, I didn’t have anyone who fit the bill. But there was a young lady named Sachiko whom I’d seen several times at a restaurant close to my residence. She spoke English well, so, the next time I saw her there, I asked if she’d like to accompany me to meet the Queen. She readily agreed.

  On the day of the party, I picked her up at the train station. She looked lovely in a fashionable spring outfit. While we managed to stand close to the Queen herself during the afternoon event, we were actually able to exchange a few pleasantries with the Prince during their walkabout.

  Following the garden party a number of Canadians in attendance got together and went for dinner at a restaurant.

  About a week later I received a phone call from one of the Canadians who’d joined us for dinner. He asked if I was watching television. I said I wasn’t. He urged me to tune in to Channel 10 and a program called Ginza Night Night. It was a late-night show that was definitely for adult viewers. As the TV warmed up and the picture came into focus, I saw a young woman in an advanced stage of undress.

  “Isn’t that Sachiko?” he asked.

  I had to admit, it certainly looked a lot like her.

  It turns out that it was her. And I soon learned that she was one of Japan’s leading stars of adult entertainment.

  Thereafter, I became known as “that young diplomat who introduced the Queen of England to the Queen of the Night.”

  West Vancouver, British Columbia

  TALL ORDER

  It was the first summer of the new millennium, and in Halifax there was a gathering of tall ships. Dozens of them arrived from around the globe for “Tall Ships 2000” as part of a spectacular race. The next port of call after Halifax was Amsterdam. Hundreds of thousands of people came to the city that summer to admire the white sails, the forest of masts, the crews, and the crowds. It was an awesome sight.

  My wife, Michele, and I had become familiar with one of those beautiful ships—a fifty-seven-metre barquentine.

  Michele is a sailmaker. She’d made a couple of the large square sails for the ship, and had accepted an invitation for both of us to be part of the crew on the Boston-to-Halifax leg of the race. We had the time of our lives. After the ship docked in Halifax we drove to our home near Lunenburg, got on board our own not-so-tall ship, and sailed back to the city. We picked up our daughter Amy so that she too could get a waterfront view of all the excitement. At the time, we had no idea just how exciting it was going to get.

  Amy was between boyfriends then, and her part-time job was boring. Her life—she wouldn’t mind me saying this—was in a rut. As we sailed around the busy harbour, she said wistfully, “Dad, there are times I wish I could just hop on board one of those ships and sail away.”

  A long moment of silence followed—then a totally crazy thought entered my mind:

  Michele and I knew the captain. We knew the ship was seaworthy and safe. And we knew that if we could put Amy on that ship, the trip to Amsterdam would be something she’d remember for the rest of her life.

  We figured there was no harm in asking. We sailed over to the pier where it was docked and asked to speak to the captain.

  Frankly, we weren’t expecting a yes, but that’s what we got. Amy’s eyes widened and our hearts pounded. What about her job? What about this? What about that? How would she get back to Canada? Amy said her employer would understand. We figured we could deal with the other things.

  There was one other major obstacle: Amy would need a passport. She’d never travelled outside the country, and so didn’t have one. The captain was adamant about this: “No passport, no Amsterdam.”

  It was Saturday afternoon. The ships were scheduled to sail Monday morning. It usually took weeks, if not months, to get a passport.

  For those who haven’t experienced it, let me tell you, being a crew member on a tall ship is special. The ship becomes your community. All members of the community must play a part in making everything work. It’s magic, especially for a young person. And only a passport—or lack thereof—stood in the way of getting our daughter onto that ship and into the magic. We decided to go for it.

  We knew Amy would need a professional photograph for the passport, so we docked our boat and ran through throngs of spectators to a well-known photography shop in the city. It was close to closing time, but we got the photo.

  The next day, Sunday, a friend of ours who worked in the Lunenburg Post Office went in and got us an official application form. We filled it out, and the mayor of Lunenburg, who knew Amy, kindly signed the document and wished us luck. That night I barely slept as I rehearsed over and over what I was going to say to the people at the passport office.

  Monday morning, July 24, 2000, dawned sunny in Halifax with white billowing clouds, a blue sky, and a light breeze. It was a perfect day for the huge Parade of Sail and the start of the race. CBC Television was live on the waterfront, with Peter Mansbridge broadcasting the sights and sounds across Canada. Halifax had rarely seen anything like it. The harbour was dotted with hundreds of boats, large and small. You couldn’t get near the waterfront with a car.

  I was at the passport office before eight o’clock with the application, references, photographs, telephone numbers, and every imaginable piece of identification. Amy, with a hastily packed duffle bag, walked down to the waterfront with Michele, hoping for the best. I was the first person at the wicket. I solemnly told the lady who waited on me that I was going to make a very unusual request. I told her the whole story—about how I came to be there before eight, and about how our daughter, as I spoke, was waiting on the wharf with my wife, praying that her dad could do the impossible—get a passport on the spot.

  After I’d finished, she looked straight at me without saying a word for at least thirty seconds. Then she rolled her eyes as if to say, “So THIS is the kind of day I’m gonna have!”

  Without a word, she took the documents and disappeared into a back office, where a conference of some sort resulted. Fifteen to twenty precious minutes went by before she came back out. I held my breath.

  I’d give anything to know what was said in that back office, or who was called. All I know is that they agreed to do it. But I’d forgotten one vital detail: the guarantor who signed the passport application also had to sign the back of the photograph. This couldn’t be done electronically, by fax, or by any other method. Our friend, the mayor, was in Lunenburg, normally about ninety minutes from downtown Halifax. By now it was after nine o’clock.

  With the photograph in hand, I jumped in my car and headed back to Lunenburg. After all these years, I hope it’s safe to confess that I was there in one hour flat.

  Our good friend, the mayor, was waiting on his doorstep to sign the photograph. I thanked him again, did a U-turn, and headed back to Halifax, listening to CBC all the way. As I neared the city limits I heard that the ships were beginning to leave their berths to assemble for the beginning of the Parade of Sail.

  Traffic was heavy. I parked my car at the first parking place I found and ran the rest of the way to the passport office. I found the woman I’d talked to earlier. I got the passport. I headed for the waterfront.

  When I got there, the ship was gone and so was Amy. Michele said they’d had to leave.

  The Parade of Sail required all the ships to circle Georges Island so that the media and spectators could get one last good look at them before they headed out to sea. We found a police security boat nearby that had docked for a few minutes. We tearfully asked if they would please take the passport out “to that big blue barquentine.” They said they’d make sure it got to the ship.

  Michele and I then walked to a lovely, if crowded, public viewing location not far from there. What a spectacular sight, as those ships—led by the Bluenose II—slowly made their way out of the harbour.

  We shared our story with some people standing around us, and when Amy’s ship came by, Michele and I were joined by at least a dozen other people, complete strangers to us, all shouting, “
A-MEE, A-MEE, A-MEE!”

  And out there, somewhere on that blue ship, was the daughter I had missed my chance to say goodbye to. Her life was about to change course—for the better. She had her passport.

  Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

  AWAY IN A MANGER

  I’m a veterinarian, so my family’s used to my being paged, alerting me to animal emergencies. One such disruption, on Christmas Eve some years ago, was particularly memorable.

  It was a perfect Christmas Eve. Snow was falling gently, and we were in church waiting for the service to begin. I sat back to listen to the music. Almost immediately, I got a call. A Mennonite farmer, who lived out of town, needed a veterinarian to help with a difficult calving. As quietly as possible I crawled out of the pew and headed into the night.

  When a farmer calls about a calving, it generally means it’s not going to be easy. The cow, I knew, must be in a bad way for me to be called out on Christmas Eve.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The snow was falling heavily now; the wind was angry. Christmas Eve on a backcountry road and the plows probably not at capacity— the drive was going to be difficult at best.

  Before long I could hardly see the road; I had to roll down the window to get my bearings. What should have been a forty-five-minute drive turned into an hour and a half, and as time passed my chances of helping the cow deliver her calf were diminishing. I finally made it to the farm and turned up the lane. The farmer had no snow blower, indeed no vehicle, so the lane was almost impassable. I made it partway up with the four-wheel drive but then I got stuck.

  When I finally reached the barn door I was puffing heavily.

  The farmer greeted me quietly, but from his expression I could tell that he thought I was too late. We made our way to the pen. The cow was down, trying in vain to deliver her calf. I examined her: it was a breech birth. She was exhausted with the effort and turned her head away in defeat. But I’d come such a distance on this terrible night. I was determined to help her.

  Half an hour later, stripped to the waist, covered in sweat from the exertion, I pulled out the baby calf. At first, nothing. He wouldn’t breathe. But then his mother nudged him gently and his chest rose. The little fellow struggled to get up in the deep straw.

  The farmer nodded to me in gratitude, and then asked if I’d like to dry off with some clean towels before we headed out into the night to dig out my truck. He hooked his lantern in the window. The barn door thudded softly behind him as he went to fetch the towels from the house. Exhausted, I sat down on a hay bale beside the stall and smiled at the calf’s first attempts to nurse.

  I’d been so preoccupied with the difficult labour that I hadn’t noticed the absolute silence in the stable. All the other animals were staring in wonder at the newborn calf. He was staggering around the pen on wobbly legs, investigating his new surroundings.

  And that’s when I realized how intensely peaceful it was in that barn at that moment.

  I sat there, in the golden glow of the lantern, feeling blessed to have been part of this birth, on a Christmas Eve, in a remote stable.

  Sechelt, British Columbia

  (told to her by her friend, Dr. Reg Reed of Mitchell, Ontario)

  STEPPING OUT

  In 2002 my sister Clare, her husband, Terry, and their two teenage daughters came to visit us from the U.K. We arranged to rent an RV big enough for all of us, fully equipped with on-board kitchen and bathroom. The plan was to drive to Chicago, where we’d take in the sights and listen to some blues. So with my husband, Ben, and I sharing the driving, and Clare’s family plus my one-year-old son and the dog safely in the back, we set off.

  We crossed the border at Windsor, entered Detroit, and promptly got lost. By the time we found our way out to the I-94 we’d driven the thirty-foot RV through some of the less salubrious sights of the city, insults had been hurled about navigation and driving skills, tempers were frayed, and an unpleasant hush had descended.

  We stopped at a rest area to switch drivers. I announced that I was going to use the washroom. I slammed the door and stormed off. When I came out a few minutes later I was greeted by the sight of the rear end of the RV hurtling down the slip road and back onto the interstate. I ran, screaming at the top of my voice, telling them to stop—to no avail.

  They disappeared from sight, leaving me with no money and no cell phone.

  At that moment, the driver of an eighteen-wheeler, about to leave the rest area, pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted to try to catch them. Any sane person would, and should, have said “No thanks,” but the earlier insults and irritation over my map reading drove me to hurl caution to the wind. I hopped into the rig. The driver accelerated through the gears and the huge vehicle shuddered in pursuit. I sat back and immediately realized two things: I didn’t know our RV’s plate number and I couldn’t remember my husband’s cell phone number!

  Back in the RV, my sister Clare had volunteered my brother-in-law Terry to drive. My husband was engrossed in directing Terry’s driving when my niece began to wonder why I was taking so long in the RV’s toilet. She got up and opened the door to the empty stall.

  “Where’s Margaret?” she cried.

  At the same moment, a car drew up next to them and flashed a piece of paper against the window with the word “LADY” written on it and an arrow pointing back to the rest area. Pandemonium broke out. My brother-in-law, who was not at all confident driving the thing anyway, pulled over and practically jumped out of the seat. My husband took over.

  Meanwhile, the trucker and I had spotted them up ahead. But just as we were about to catch up to them, they pulled off the highway and took the overpass. They headed back to the rest area just as we blew under the overpass in the eighteen-wheeler!

  The truck driver pulled over as quickly as he could and got on his CB radio to ask truckers in the area for assistance. Some of them asked my age, my marital status, and whether I was pretty, but others told him they’d look for the RV at the rest stop and, if they found it, would tell my family where they could find me.

  Back at the rest stop everyone was frantically searching the washrooms. A torrential rain had begun to fall. My husband’s mind was spiralling out of control; he was imagining terrifying possibilities of where his annoyed wife—on a mission to prove that her map-reading skills weren’t as bad as he’d suggested— might turn up.

  The American trucker and I, still waiting on the side of the highway, filled the time by chatting about Canada, and how he often listened to French-Canadian truckers chatting in French over the CB radio. After half an hour we decided that the RV wasn’t coming to get me. He radioed his dispatcher. They said they’d send a state trooper to pick me up.

  The state trooper eventually arrived and drove me back to the rest area, where I found my family. While I stood there forlornly, he told my teenage nieces never to do what I had done: never jump into a vehicle driven by someone you don’t know!

  Nevertheless, when we all got back into the RV, all the bad blood over our Detroit detour had vanished. The dog and my one-year-old son had slept through the entire affair. My brother-in-law never drove the RV again.

  Kitchener, Ontario

  TREED

  At the age of sixty-two, my father-in-law, who’s had a lifelong affinity for impractical and highly entertaining adventures, decided to go tree planting. He’d always wondered what it was like. Three of his own kids, plus two kids-in-law, including me, had a combined total of nearly twenty summers of planting; together we’d planted close to two million trees, a small forest with our fingerprints all over it. Walter had heard more than his fair share of planting stories. He figured it was time to repay his ecological debts—forty years ago he’d worked as a logger. So when Paul, his youngest son, started recruiting for his own planting crew, Walter was first in line.

  Paul and Walter left the flat acres of Kola, Manitoba, for the clear-cut patches of British Columbia’s interior in early May. They joined a camp of eager rookies an
d seasoned vets whose mean age was roughly a third of Walter’s. Walter won every one of them over right from the start, not just because he was the only guy in camp who looked like Walt Whitman, Karl Marx, or (let’s not beat around the bush) Santa Claus, but because his true vocation in life is storytelling, and twenty-year-old tree planters love a good story as much as a classroom of kindergarteners.

  Walter was the best of planters and Walter was the worst of planters. His technique was flawless—perfect depth, perfect spacing, and perfectly straight lines—but perfect tree planting requires a glacial pace, and that meant he wasn’t making very much money. Add to that the gruelling intensity of the work, the solitude, the sub-zero nights, and the rainy days, plus missing Anne, his wife, and that grand adventure took a toll. His letters home were weary with discouragement.

  At my wife’s suggestion, I hopped the Greyhound and headed for Prince George to offer Walter some moral support and spend a few weeks planting some trees of my own. Walter gave me a big hug when we met at the camp. After he ate his supper, we sat under the tarp by his tent and he talked about how all of this was taking so much out of him. He’d decided he would stay until the end of the spring contract, another week or so, then go back to Kola. He felt that was respectable.

  In my brief time there, I could see the important role Walter played, even if he was consistently out-planted by everyone else. He told great stories, of course, but he also listened— carefully—and had a deep well of empathy and encouragement for the others who struggled alongside him.

  So, the day before the final week of Walter’s tree-planting career, I wrote a letter to each of the crew bosses and asked if they could read it to their planters. I thought that, as a way to let Walter know how much everyone appreciated his presence, we could send him off with a big final-day tally. I invited everyone to chip in with whatever they could: a bundle of trees, a hundred, a thousand, or—why not?—a whole day’s tally. I hoped that together we could come up with ten thousand trees for him—more than $1000. I knew everyone liked him, but still, I knew I was asking a lot.