Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange

by Stuart McLean

  New Westminster, British Columbia

  THE WEBS WE LEAVE

  Over dinner a few weeks ago our older son, Ian, told us a story.

  Ian is in his late forties, a big, burly motorcycle rider. In fact, most of Ian’s stories are about his motorcycles. He owns four BMWs. All significant models, he tells us, all with complicated model names. I just refer to them as the red one, the white one, the black one, and the blue one.

  Ian was heading to Vancouver on business. He would usually ride one of his motorcycles, but because of the nature of this trip he’d decided to take his car. So, he had to open the seldom-used door on the car side of his garage.

  When he did, he saw a large, magnificent cobweb.

  Ian’s garage faces east, which means the early morning sunshine was glinting off the web. Ian was staring at a dazzling display of spider craftsmanship. The web covered not only much of the upper part of the opening, it continued beyond, toward his front door.

  Ian could see the spider. He could also see that she had at least three meals lined up. Her diet for the day, he presumed. He figured that if he was very careful, and moved some motorcycle pieces, he could manoeuvre his car out of the garage without destroying the web. When he reached the end of the steep driveway he stopped, parked, and went back to check. The web was intact. He was pleased with himself.

  When he returned home that evening, there was a UPS package on his doorstep. The cobweb was gone. Ian chuckled, somewhat self-consciously, as he told us this story, but I was transported back about forty years. Because I knew why he’d taken such pains to preserve the web.

  I remembered a much younger, smaller Ian, maybe seven or eight years old. It was a spring afternoon. Ian was lying on his bed, finishing what was probably the very first “real” book he’d read himself. He reached the end of the second to last chapter, lay there in complete silence for a minute, and then said, in a choked little voice, “My throat feels funny.” He didn’t recognize that he was on the verge of tears.

  The book was Charlotte’s Web.

  Charlotte, the spider, was going to die.

  Ian said the UPS driver probably didn’t notice the spider’s web.

  But I think the driver just hadn’t ever read Charlotte’s Web.

  I am reading it again.

  Bellingham, Washington

  THE GIFT OF GOODBYE

  I was born in a small mining town in northern Quebec. Over the years I’d often thought about going back. When the subject would come up with my dad, he’d often say, “That would be a great trip. Wish I could go.” Or, “You’ll have to give me a full report when you get back.”

  Finally, motivated partly by my guilt about things left undone and partly by my dad’s declining health, my wife, Jen, and I decided to make the trip. We would ride our motorcycles. It would be a road trip in pursuit of my past.

  It was perfect riding weather, and the winding roads through the rural north were smooth, scenic, and free of traffic.

  After about two and a half days on the road, we rounded a familiar bend. I could see “the stacks.” Two of them, exactly as I had remembered. Beacons, guiding me home to familiar addresses: Grandma and Grandpa’s house, the local drugstore, a wooden sidewalk, a poisoned lake, the Anglican church where I was christened and, of course, the mine.

  As well as being the only significant employer in the region, the mine had been the centre for social activities. My mom and dad met while working at the mine. My grandpa was an engineer there.

  Jen and I went to the mine office to see about a tour. The receptionist politely excused herself and returned with a lady who worked in the personnel office. She was interested in my historical connection. She requested names and dates. She left us for about ten minutes, and when she returned she was holding three employment cards: 3 × 5 originals handwritten with fountain pens and complete with employment dates, home addresses, supervisor names, positions, rates of pay, raises, name changes from maiden to married, and employment end dates. I was astounded. This was a solid connection to the past and, for me, more valuable than the gold extracted in the smelters. I was anxious to share them with my dad.

  When we got home I phoned to tell him about the trip and to let him know I’d mailed him a surprise package. A couple of days later my brother contacted me to say that Dad hadn’t been feeling well and had been taken to the hospital for tests. I decided I should tell him about the trip and the cards in person. I hopped on my bike and headed east down the highway.

  In his hospital room my dad and I shared the memories of my trip and his memories of days gone by. The employment cards stirred up stories of meeting, dating, and then marrying my mom; of winters so cold if you spat on the ground the glob would bounce; of a boyhood prank where he climbed one of the stacks; and of the two huskies that used to pull him and his sled across the lake to school and back.

  Although we had a good relationship, I never felt as close to my dad as I did when he painted those pictures of his life in the north. It was a connection for both of us. Father to son; man to man; friend to friend. The memories and stories continued pouring out over the next two days.

  And then Dad’s test results came. His kidneys were failing fast. His bladder was infected. His lungs were operating at only ten percent. It was clear he wasn’t getting out of the hospital. The rest of the family was called as the doctor reviewed his findings with my dad. Realizing his situation, Dad made a decision not to resuscitate. And he resigned himself to the wait. The next day, with his family at his side and an Anglican priest guiding his soul, Dad let go and passed away. The employment cards were sitting on the bedside table.

  Don Mills, Ontario

  MISDIRECTION

  I work on the east side of Vancouver’s Gastown. It isn’t quite the Downtown Eastside, but it’s close. My office is near the new Woodward’s Building, the statue of Gassy Jack, and an ever-increasing number of coffee shops, restaurants, and furniture stores that have opened in the last while.

  A couple of floors in the building are being renovated for a high-tech movie company; fibre-optic cable is being pulled and the old warehouse space is being updated. During the work, a security guard has been hired to watch the front door of the building. He’s about five-six and may weigh 140 pounds on a good day. He wears a black-and-white uniform that hangs on him and military-style black leather shoes that are always polished and proper.

  It’s a little unclear to me what form of security he provides. The door to the building is locked and people either get in with a security swipe card or they’re buzzed in by a tenant in the building. I guess he was hired to watch out for people who may sneak in after others swipe or get buzzed.

  Our security guard soon became a welcome addition. He brightened up those moments as you rush to get out of the rain and into the warm. He offered a smile, commented on the weather, and wished you a good day.

  After a few weeks, he took it upon himself to open the door for people. I think he liked this progression from security guard to doorman. He took to it as though this was really what he was there to do. He started by opening the door for people who were getting their swipe card out of their pocket. And then he started opening the door for people he recognized. And then he started opening the door for the construction workers, or the people who looked like they may be construction workers.

  Before long there were complaints that people were being let into the building willy-nilly, people who were just trying to get warm.

  Someone spoke to our security guard. I don’t know who it was, but it became obvious when I came to work this morning that something had changed. Instead of standing by the door, he was back on his stool. And he didn’t get up to open the door for me. He still gave me a smile, but it was clear that things weren’t the same.

  He seemed slightly hardened. He carried himself in a way that said he now knew what was and wasn’t expected of him. And that he’d lost something he was looking for.

  North Vancouver, British Col
umbia

  A CHRISTMAS PRAYER

  In 1955 I was a Mountie in charge of an RCMP detachment in the Interlake area of Manitoba. We received very heavy snow in November and December of that year, and travel in some rural areas was difficult. Nevertheless, on December 24, true to a commitment we’d made, we went around the area delivering clothing we’d gathered, wooden toys we’d made, festive food, and turkeys.

  Most of the houses were easily reached by car, but there was one that wasn’t. It was on a little-used bush road about four miles from town. It was home to a single mother and four children, ranging in age from one to eight. They had no telephone.

  I had one of the junior constables with me. We drove to the closest store to inquire about the exact location of the home.

  The storekeeper drew a map for us and said we’d be able to drive about three miles north, but that the family lived on a side road that hadn’t been plowed, so we’d have to walk from there. He was concerned because he hadn’t heard anything from them for two weeks. He gave us some candy and nuts to add to our gifts.

  It was nearly seven o’clock. It was dark and it was cold. But there was a bit of a moon.

  We managed the three miles without difficulty, but at the side road our hearts sank. The road was filled with snow; there wasn’t even a trail.

  We started out. The snow was over our knees in most places, and it was hard going. We could scarcely see, and we were afraid we would miss the house. We considered turning back.

  I guess the thoughts of my own children kept me going. Finally we saw a light through the trees, and a short time later, a small cabin.

  Exhausted, we struggled through a gate in the wire fence and stumbled our way up to the house. Inside we could hear children’s voices. We knocked. There was complete silence for a few moments, and then the door slowly opened.

  It must have been a shock for that little family to see two burly policemen dressed in buffalo coats. They looked apprehensive, but when they saw our sleigh and the box of presents, their expressions changed to amazement and joy. One little voice cried, “See, Mama, Santa Claus did come!”

  The mother burst into tears. She threw her arms around us and kissed us soundly.

  “You are an answer to our prayers,” she said.

  Through her tears she told us she’d tried to explain to the children that Santa wouldn’t be able to find them this year with all the snow, and there wouldn’t be any presents or Christmas dinner. The children didn’t believe her. The oldest boy said, “We can always pray.” And he insisted they all kneel down. The mother agreed, but she dreaded the disappointment they would suffer when their prayers weren’t answered.

  “We had hardly said ‘Amen’ when you knocked on the door,” she told us.

  With joy in our hearts we laid out the big turkey and other food and gifts. We were smothered with hugs and kisses from the four little kids. Everyone shed tears of joy.

  The trip from the car to the house had been a struggle every step of the way. But we were so overwhelmed by the Christmas spirit that we floated back to our vehicle.

  The next day, Christmas with my wife and three little boys was made even more joyful by the memory of the four little faces in that humble cottage way out there in the bush. By that, and by their faith in the spirit of Christmas.

  Brandon, Manitoba

  (submitted by his son Bruce Palmer of Brandon, Manitoba)

  AND THE BAND PLAYED ON

  When I was a boy, I felt a strong sense of empathy for the old folks at Sunset Lodge. Twice a day, on my way to and from Queen Charlotte Junior High in Charlottetown, I rattled past the motel-like seniors’ residence in a big school bus.

  There never seemed to be much action at Sunset Lodge. The west-facing picture windows were draped, even at dusk. The facade was tired and worn.

  In grade seven I was a proud new trumpeter in the school band. My musical career was inspired by my preacher grandfather, who’d learned to sing and play from his father in the coal towns of central Wales. I was happy to carry on the tradition and excited to be in the concert band that Christmas. In those years I was a quiet and sensitive young man, but I had good chops. And one day, around the middle of December, I figured I had an idea for how to bring empathy and my new-found talent together.

  I assembled some band members and proposed a pre-Christmas mission: we’d put together a grade seven ensemble to play for the residents at Sunset Lodge. It seemed like the right thing to do—to bring our youthful Christmas joy to the old folks! Within a day, our little troupe had gelled. Melanie would play clarinet; Helen, the French horn. Lance volunteered to be our trombone, Zoe would add the perky piccolo. I, of course, had my shiny new trumpet.

  It was perfect.

  Late in the week I snuck out of class early to drop by Sunset Lodge and pitch my plan. The management embraced the idea.

  A few days later, when we arrived for our evening performance, a ragtag gaggle of residents had assembled in anticipation. The crowd was fanned out around a little stage— on stretchers, in wheelchairs, and propped against the walls, gripping IV racks. It was very quiet. We were scared stiff.

  We set up our folding stands and sheet music, and selected our first piece.

  “Deck the Halls” seemed like a good choice to get things going—a rousing carol, celebratory, and familiar to all. I tapped my toe to set the 4/4 time. We began. In absolute silence. Silence, which was followed by two foghorn honks from Helen, which was followed by more silence, and then more, and then a whimsical piccolo peep from Zoe, and then three of us in unison playing the last four “las” of “Fa-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-la.”

  In horror, we realized that the grade seven kids are rarely assigned the melody in junior high concert band. That was the sacred space for the seasoned older grades. The melody notes for all the tunes we planned to play were missing. Our parts were all harmony: the flourishes. In my haste I had assembled a band made up of my friends, all of them backup players. Collectively, we represented the animal sounds of “Away in a Manger,” the cracking whip of “Jingle Bells,” and those last four “las” in “Deck the Halls.”

  Nevertheless, we soldiered on, red-faced at our own short-sightedness.

  Amazingly, the seniors didn’t seem to mind. They clapped and rocked and smiled. They encouraged us. To fill in the gaps, we began to sing and hum the melodies. Soon, everybody was singing. Over the next forty-five minutes of honking, and tooting, and singing, we played our repertoire of Christmas favourites. More than once. More staff and residents shuffled by and joined in. Our spirits soared. It was a Christmas miracle! It ended with hearty applause, hugs, date squares, and sugar cookies. Our mission was complete.

  Ottawa, Ontario

  PUDDING IN THE POST

  In 1984 my sister Elizabeth followed family tradition and took to the road.

  Having covered most of Europe on a previous adventure, she and a friend headed for India—the first stop on a year-long adventure that was to end, finally, in England.

  We had all begun in England, and were, in some ways, still English to the core. And never more so than at Christmas. Christmas in our house was mincemeat pies, fruitcakes of all different weights and colours, and of course plum pudding, hot and slathered in brandy butter. My mother always began her preparations in early fall, never deviating from the recipes, tried and true.

  That year, as a special surprise for Elizabeth, Mom decided to make an extra pudding and mail it to India. To Bombay to be precise, where Elizabeth thought she’d be for the holidays. Before the days of email and Facebook, leaving forwarding addresses was the only way that longed-for news of home could find you. Phone calls were only for emergencies.

  The pudding mix was prepared as always, though to ward off tropical bugs my mother mixed in a triple dose of brandy. She also used extra wrapping: she doubled the cheesecloth, the cotton, and the tinfoil. She placed the cake in a sturdy box, wrapped it in brown paper, tied it with string, and carefully printed the addresses:
a return one for Victoria and an exotic outward-bound one for India. Into the mail it went with crossed fingers and a stunning amount of postage.

  Elizabeth didn’t get it.

  Rude words were muttered that Christmas about the efficiency of post offices everywhere. Evil thoughts slipped in of someone in a dead-letter office enjoying a wayward Christmas treat.

  The New Year came, Elizabeth returned from her travels, and the pud was forgotten.

  And then, almost a year later, I looked out the front window to see my mother, a package in her hand, laughing her way up the driveway. The outside wrapper was clean, marked with only two addresses: my mother’s here in Victoria and her sister’s in England. Inside was a wonder. The box with the Christmas pudding had followed my sister for a year, every forwarding address clearly written, every missed address carefully crossed out: New Delhi, Kathmandu, Christchurch, Sydney, Darwin, the Cook Islands, Tahiti, Fiji, Honolulu, and more, until it had reached England with not an inch of space left. My aunt, intrigued, had rewrapped it and sent it once more on its way, new postage attached.

  The pudding, though completely desiccated, was still in one piece. My mother, firmly of the waste not, want not generation, tucked the pudding into the cupboard: Christmas was coming around again. Sure enough, on Christmas Day, she steamed it for an extra long time, both to rehydrate it and to dispatch anything untoward that might have survived the desiccation. Then she served it, with great flair and fully aflame, to a very skeptical table.

  It was delicious.

  Victoria, British Columbia