Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Cape Breton Christmas - Morley’s Christmas Present & Dave’s Christmas Parade

Episode Date: November 29, 2024

“Genius should never be confused with desperation.”Woohoo! It’s time to play some Christmas stories. This week, two stories from Dave’s hometown of Big Narrows. In the first, Dave tries to find the perfect gift to win Morley’s heart; in the second, his homemade float causes chaos in the Christmas parade! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. I've told you before how much I love Christmas. It's a bit of a deal at the Vinyl Cafe, and it's almost December, so we're just going to start with it. Right away. The festivities, I mean. And where better to start than the place where Dave started, Big Narrows. Today on the show, it's a Cape Breton Christmas. This is Stuart McLean with Morley's Christmas present. It was Dave's idea to take Sam with him to Cape Breton. Just a long weekend, just to visit his mom and her new husband, Smith, to give Morley a break.

They left on a Thursday night. They had a two-hour layover in Halifax. For supper, they bought sandwiches in the airport and they watched a group of carolers as they ate. Dave said, it's a nice place to be. Sam frowned Dave waved his hand in the air an airport he said at Christmas time it's a nice place to be

he was watching a little girl running away from her father squealing Sam said you should give mom an iPhone for Christmas mom's phone sucks Sam had a notebook open on the table in front of him You should give Mom an iPhone for Christmas. Mom's phone sucks. Sam had a notebook open on the table in front of him. The word Mom was written at the top of the page. Underneath, there was a long list of items.

Each item was crossed off. It was coming on Christmas, and for the first time in his life, Sam was as obsessed with the gifts he was going to give as he was with the ones he was going to get. Oh, he had written up a list for himself, written it and revised it and presented it. But this year, what Sam was really taken up with was the impulse to splurge on his family. No macaroni-decorated pencil holders for Sam this year. Sam wanted to buy stuff, good stuff. He'd already bought a scarf and a Coldplay CD for his sister, a book and a turkey baster for his father.

But he was having trouble with his mom. He wanted to get her a new laptop or a food dehydrator or a deep fryer or an ice cream maker or a massage chair, but everything was far too expensive. Sam put his sandwich down and picked up his pan. He wrote new toaster at the bottom of the list and then he frowned and shook his head and he scratched it out. Smith said he'd pick them up at the airport. Dave said don't be crazy Smith we'll rent a car. So off they sat, into the cold Cape Breton night, along the 125 and then on to the 223, through Barishwa and Beaver Cove, through Big Beach and Christmas Island. Big inflatable Santas swaying in the wind. LED icicles hanging from all the eaves. Everyone has lights up here, said Sam.

Well, it's darker around here, said Dave. It was a perfect weekend. On Saturday morning, Dave took Sam and his cousin Margo over to Macaulay's woodlot to get a Christmas tree. They hiked up the long, sloping trail through the maple bush, their breath puffy and white. It was just like when Dave was a kid and he went there with his father. That night after supper, the guitars came out.

Dave's sister Annie had her fiddle, everyone playing and singing along, everyone except Sam. Sam was sitting in the corner, writing in his notebook. They left on Sunday afternoon, the sky gray and heavy with snow. They were about 40 minutes coming through the highlands, twisting and turning through the forests and the farms. After a half hour, Sam said, I can't seem to find a suitable present for Mom.

Dave said, she really liked the pencil holder you made her last year. Maybe you could make her something. Sam said, I want to buy her something. Ah, said Dave, as they drove out of the hills, it's hard to shop for Mom. Yes, said Dave, as they drove out of the hills, it's hard to shop for mom. Yes, said Sam. She loves everything you give her. Exactly, said Sam.

And you want to give her the perfect thing. Exactly. That's hard, said Dave. And expensive, said Sam. There may be no better place in the world for a father and a son to have a heart-to-heart conversation than in a car moving through the night. First off, they don't have to look at one another. Second, and most importantly, they both know that if things get awkward,

the ride will eventually come to an end, and with it, the awkwardness, too. Dave reached out and turned down the radio. Did I ever tell you about the Christmas I met your mom? Sam kept staring at the road. Sam said, in the States, right? Dave said, that's right. I was working in the States, traveling with a show. You met her at a skating rink in Memphis, said Sam. Close, said Dave. Providence, Rhode Island. Dave smiled in the darkness of the car, in the glow of the dashboard. They both sat quietly for a moment. Dave lost in the glow of memory. Then Sam said, you ran into her on the skating rink and you had to take her to the

hospital for stitches. Well, said Dave, yeah, that's right. I think I made a pretty big impression. I think I made a pretty big impression. What happened, said Sam. Well, said Dave, I'm trying to tell you. Dave and Morley corresponded for six years. Letters and some phone calls back and forth, but they hadn't managed another collision since that fateful night in that skating rink in Providence. The year I'm telling you about,

the Christmas Dave is telling Sam about, they had arranged to get together on Boxing Day. Dave hadn't told anyone in his family about Morley. He didn't want to jinx anything, but he thought about her obsessively. And now, about to see her after six long years, what he thought about mostly was that he had to win her love. And one of the ways he thought he could do that was by getting her the perfect Christmas present. Dave didn't have the foggiest idea what that present could be. What he thought was that he would find

something for her when he got home to Big Narrows for Christmas. It was only when he got home that he realized the foolishness of that. He wandered up and down River Street on the day before Christmas in growing desperation. There was a limited number of choices in town. Frenchies used clothing. Angus Macdonnell's post office and general store, Rutledge's hardware, and Arnie Gallagher's forest travel agency gift and tackle shop. By mid-afternoon, Dave was buying things out of sheer desperation.

A fruitcake from Kerrigan's, a crocheted toilet paper cover at the church bazaar, and a fishing lure and a box of frozen minnows from Arnie's. He stumbled home on Christmas Eve in a state of despair. There'd be no shopping on Christmas Day and he was leaving the morning after. Morley was meeting him at the airport. He couldn't show up empty-handed. Why not, said Sam. What, said Dave? Why couldn't you show up empty-handed? Well, because he had already told Morley he'd got her a present, hadn't he? And she had gone and got one for him. They had talked about it on the phone.

She seemed quite excited about the idea. Dave decided his only hope was that his sister or his mother would get something on Christmas morning that he could borrow. His mother got oven mitts and a crocheted toilet paper cover. His sister got a box of frozen minnows. It was only when everyone was getting ready for bed that the solution dawned on Dave. He would leave early. He would stop in Sydney on the way to the airport. He would get something at the Sydney Boxing Day sale. That was a good idea, said Sam.

Ah, said Dave, genius should never be confused with desperation. They were still in the car. They were pulling into Sydney themselves. Dave turned onto George Street and drove downtown. When he got there, he pulled over in front of a little store on Charlotte. Sam said, why are we stopping? Dave said, I'm going to tell you. When Dave had pulled into Sydney on that desperate boxing day that I'm telling you about, there were exactly three cars parked on the street where he had stopped. One was his. The other two had six inches of snow covering them bumper to bumper. There wasn't a soul to be seen and not a fat chance of any Boxing Day bonanza. David expected hustle and bustle.

He'd been away too long. Sidney was shut up tight. He had three hours before his plane left, so he took a long, slow drive around town. He was looking for any store that might be open, dreading what he might find. The world's largest Toblerone just wasn't going to cut it. And then, when he had given up all hope, while he was waiting at a red light right on the edge of town when he was heading to the airport, he glanced into his rearview mirror and saw a woman step up onto the sidewalk

and move out of the falling snow under a large storefront awning and disappear through a door into a store, an open store. How could he have missed it? Dave did a U-turn. He wheeled over to the curb and he parked. I say parked. He only parked in a manner of speaking. He fishtailed over to the curb and he jumped out as the car was coming to a stop. As I said, it had started to snow. Dave stood there for a moment looking around and then he followed the lone set of footsteps across the street onto the sidewalk and up to the door. The lights were on, spilling out the store window onto the snowy sidewalk. And there were people inside. Dave pressed his face to the window.

There was a man and a woman in there. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it. It was locked. Now, the ability to knock at a locked store door after hours and convince who's ever in there to throw the door open is an underappreciated art. Dave pulled out all the stops, knocking and smiling and nodding and benign encouragement.

But in the end, it was honesty that won the day. I'm in a jam, said Dave, smiling and nodding. The woman cracked the door open just enough so he could talk to her. I'm picking up my girlfriend to take her to her parents for Christmas and I haven't. He hesitated for a moment and then he let it all out in a rush. I haven't bought her a present. The man who was standing behind the woman walked over to the door and said, we're only in here to tidy the shelves. We're getting ready for tomorrow. We aren't supposed to sell things. It's against the law, actually. We could get in trouble. The lady turned and looked at the man and then at Dave. Dave said, I know I shouldn't have left it this long. I just thought I could get something at the Boxing Day sales.

Today, he put it out there. And when he did, goodness demonstrated one more time that it is often just looking for an opportunity to reveal itself. How can we help you, said the woman, stepping back from the door so he could come in. The display beside him was piled high with heavy woolen sweaters. Coats hung on the wall to his right, and there was a jewelry case by the cash register. Dave headed right for the jewelry case.

He cast his eyes over silver rings and strands of pearls and brooches of various shapes. And then he saw it, glittering and sparkling on a stretch of black velvet, the most beautiful bracelet he had ever seen, a delicate band of gold links studded with tiny diamonds. That one, said Dave, it's perfect. The lady glanced at Dave's soggy running shoes, his frayed bell-bottom jeans, the tennis bracelet, she said. Now, David never bought jewelry before in his life.

He didn't know anything about jewelry. He looked at the lady. It's perfect, right? He already had his wallet out. He was counting his money, but she didn't take it. Instead, she picked up the bracelet and held it in the light. It is a pretty bracelet, she said. Does she wear a lot of jewelry?

Well, said Dave, not that I remember. Play tennis? Dave sighed. If Dave had walked into that store today and walked right over to that jewelry case by the cash register and picked that bracelet up, the woman, whose name is Alice, would have been delighted to sell it to him, as she has been delighted to sell bracelets and brooches to countless men over the years. But the Dave who was standing in front of her on that Boxing Day evening all those years ago was not the man who would stand in front of her today.

That was 27-year-old Dave clutching that bracelet. And Alice, he looked every month his age. Young, lost, confused, bewildered, and not a little desperate. Leonard, said Alice to her husband, don't just stand there staring. Pour this young man a mug of tea. Alice plunked the mug of tea onto a table,

which she would later pile with scarves. So, she said, tell me about the girl. And Alice and Leonard drank their tea, while Dave told them all about Morley and his hopes and his dreams for her. The things you can tell perfect strangers that you can't tell your family. Almost an hour passed. The snow fell gently outside. Alice got up and started walking toward the cache and then she turned and came back you know she said and she looked over at her husband who had a box open on the floor

and was filling a display with women's socks you know she said one year Leonard gave me a pair of pinking shears for Christmas best present ever when Dave left the store a half hour later he was carrying a little bag best present ever. When Dave left the store a half hour later, he was carrying a little bag. There was a pair of soft, suede gloves in the bag.

The last thing the woman said to him was, I think she'll love the gloves. I think they're perfect. Dave was smiling. Me too, he said. It was dark outside. The snow had already covered over the footprints he had made on his way in. I can still remember exactly what it looked like, said Dave, sitting there in my rented car and looking along the street.

He pointed at the awning on the store that he and Sam were parked in front of. Come on, he said. And he and Sam got out of the car and walked up to the window. The store was closed. Dave said, remember I came down here a few years ago to help Grandma in the fall? On the way home, I dropped in. Alice was still here, but the husband had died. She remembered me, though.

She made me tea. I told her all about you and your sister. I told her all about you and your sister. Two days later, back at home, just a few days before Christmas, Dave went into Sam's room. Sam was in bed. He was reading. Dave was holding a large shopping bag. This is for you, he said, to give your mother. There's wrapping paper downstairs. You should wrap it yourself and make a card. Sam said, it's okay. I got her something myself. Christmas morning at Dave's house followed its normal routine. They got up early and Sam and

Stephanie came into Dave and Morley's bedroom, and they opened their stockings. And after that, they had breakfast, and after breakfast, everyone still in their pajamas went into the living room and opened presents. Somewhere in the middle of the mess of the morning, Sam presented his mother with her gift. This is for you, he said. A small rectangle wrapped in red paper with green ribbon that looked like it had been

tied by a tiny rodent. It was a photograph in a black frame, a picture of Dave taken from behind. He was peering into a store window under a big awning. It's lovely, said Morley, and she passed it to Dave. Dave stared at the photo and then at his son. How did you get that, he said. Sam smiled, chily. With your phone, he said. I took it with your phone when you

weren't looking. Dave said, I didn't know I had a camera in my phone. Sam said, do you like it? Morley passed the picture to Stephanie. It was Stephanie who said, I don't get it. Morley looked at her son and then at her husband. Dave seemed to be tearing up. Morley said, I don't think I get it either. And they all sat there while Dave told the story all over again. Everything I've told you so far, plus one more small bit.

When I told Alice about Mom, Dave said, I told her that that night Mom and I met at the rink, she didn't have gloves on. He looked at Morley. Do you remember this? In the car on the way to the hospital, I asked you if your hands were cold. Then he turned to Sam and Stephanie. She said, yes, they were cold, but that she rarely wore gloves. She said she felt bad buying new ones because she lost them all the time. felt bad buying new ones because she lost them all the time. And I thought just because she loses gloves doesn't mean she doesn't deserve new ones now and then. Morley had never heard the story of how Dave had bought those gloves before. When Dave was finished, she looked down at her tea and smiled and then without a word, she disappeared upstairs. She reappeared a few minutes later. She was holding a lump of stiff brown suede in her hands. The gloves are old now.

The fingertips almost completely worn through. There's small tears in the palm. Morley held them up proudly. The only pair of gloves I never lost, she said. Then she put the gloves on the mantelpiece beside the picture of Dave peering into the store window. And that is the story of Dave and Morley's first Christmas. There have been many since. Dave hasn't always been that successful with his gifts. But there have been lots of memorable Christmases. The year he decorated the pear tree in the backyard. The year he assembled the snowmaking machine. backyard. The year he assembled the snow making machine. The Christmas at Polly Anderson's when he spiked the kid's punch by mistake. The year his tongue froze to the TV antenna.

The year he cooked the turkey. And that very first gift, the gloves, when Dave managed to tell Morley how he really felt about her and to tell her everything she needed to know about him. Sam has given his mother many wonderful things over the years. This was his first grown-up present. It'll be hard to top because he didn't only give her the picture or the frame he bought to put it in. He also gave her the story that went with it. He also gave her the story that went with it. It's a story of a coming together, a looking back for sure,

but most importantly, a looking forward. A looking forward to all the stories that are yet to come. Thank you. applause That was Morley's Christmas present. We recorded that story at Convocation Hall at the University of Toronto back in 2008. There's a line in that story that I love. It's kind of buried. It's a subclause of a sentence. That's how unimportant it is. When the couple goes to open the shop door, Stewart says something like, it is. When the couple goes to open the shop door, Stuart says something like, goodness once again demonstrates that it's just waiting in the wings, ready for its cue to walk on stage and reveal

itself. I love that so much, and I think it gets at the heart of so many of Stuart's stories, and really the way he moved through life. If you enjoyed that story about Morley's Christmas present, you can find it on our mini-album from 2022 called Vinyl Café Christmas Gifts. We had sold out of that CD initially, but there are some copies back in stock now, and you can find them at vinylcafé.com. But move fast, because there's only a few. And while you're there, you can check out our brand new Vinyl Cafe album. It's a collection of stories that have never been released on CD before. It's called So Long For Now. And it's called that because, well, because I'm pretty sure this will be the last Vinyl

Cafe album that we ever release. I'm pretty sure this will be the last Vinyl Cafe album that we ever release. These are the final three stories, the only three stories that aren't on another album. So this is it. You can find both of those albums over on our website, vinylcafe.com. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Dave's Christmas Parade. Dave and Morley watched this year's Santa Claus Parade from the very same spot that they have watched the Santa Claus parade for the last 22 years,

from under the front awning of their friend Kenny's restaurant, Wong's Scottish Meat Pies. Dave and Morley keep going to the parade every year, even though both their kids have stopped, and even though year in and year out you can count on the weather to be challenging. They still go every year because it's a neighborhood thing. Kenny closes the cafe to the public, and a group of about 10 families show up, some with kids and some without. Kenny lays out a buffet lunch, and everybody pops in and pops out to use the bathroom or grab a bite or just to warm up. When this year's parade began, Dave was standing beside his wife, Morley, peering over a sea of children's heads when a big Buick convertible rolled by with a woman sitting on the back.

She was wearing nothing but a bathing suit. The woman looked frozen, and she stared right at them, and she waved gamely, morally waved back, and then she turned to Dave, and she said, I would never want to do that. Me neither, said Dave, shaking his head. But Dave once knew a girl who wanted to do that. Dave once knew a girl who wanted to do that more than anything in the world. Her name was Megan Lorius, and she grew up in Dave's hometown of Big Narrows, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Dave thought Megan Lorius was the most remarkable girl in the world. His sister Annie hated her. All the girls in Big Narrows hated her,

but not the boys. So there was Dave standing in front of Kenny Wong's cafe a few Sundays ago, and the woman in the bathing suit waves at him and Morley. And before you know it, Dave is thinking about Megan Lorius, thinking about a Sunday in another December long ago and far away when he and Megan had been in the Big Narrows Santa Claus parade together. Well, almost together. Back in those days, back in the 1960s, the Big Narrows parade was the most spontaneous and unstructured Christmas parade in the country. was the most spontaneous and unstructured Christmas parade in the country. Not much has changed. Anyone can still march in it.

People muster in the parking lot of Kerrigan's Foods at the south end of town, and the order they arrive in the parking lot is the order they go out. There's always a marching band from Sydney or Glace Bay who come in a bus and are paid for by the optimists. And they're the brownies and the scouts. And if the township has a new piece of equipment, like a fire truck or an ambulance, or like last year, a new dump truck, often there are more people in the big, narrow Santa Claus parade

than there are watching it. Last year, there were only seven people watching it. Dave was only in the parade four times. The three years he marched with the Cubs, and then that year he was 16. The year he was remembering when he saw the lady on the convertible. The year that Megan Lorius was in the parade too. The year Dave made his own float. Now, making a float for the Big Narrow Santa Claus parade is not as big a deal as you might think.

That's one of the big pluses of the Big Narrow Santa Claus parade. It's a one-sided parade. It's a one-sided parade. First year of the parade, Richard Boisclair showed up an hour before anyone else, and he set up a lawn chair on the north side of Main Street. Leonard and Eve Patterson were the next to arrive, and of course they joined Richard, and so did everybody else who showed up. Same thing happened the next year.

And it only took a few more years for someone to figure out they only had to decorate the north side of their floats. So everybody watches from the north side of Maine, except the teenagers, of course. Teenagers always watch from the wrong side of the street, walking that narrow teenage tightrope between the permissible and the punishable. Now, when Dave set out to make his float that Christmas, the Christmas he was 16, it was teenage spirit that propelled him, but not the spirit of teenage rebellion. Far from it. teenage rebellion, far from it. It was teenage heartache that moved Dave. Dave's heart was aching that Christmas with hope and joy and great love, an ache that was totally centered on Megan Lorias, who so far had displayed no feelings for him, none whatsoever. Well, some feelings. feelings for him. None whatsoever. Well, some feelings. Disdain, for instance.

That October, Megan had told Dave that she couldn't go to the New Year's Eve dance at the community hall with him because she was waiting for an invitation from, so what else was new, Stephen Kerrigan. This after Dave had spent two torturous weeks working up the courage to ask. Stephen's father ran Kerrigan's Foods, and that meant Stephen had a future. Well, that's what Megan said. Stephen has a future, she said. Stephen's in charge of produce. His dad says he's going to run dairy this summer, or maybe meat. And once you've run meat, the sky's the limit. At the beginning of November, Dave asked Megan if she wanted to watch the Santa Claus parade with him. I'm going to be in the parade, said Megan. going to be in the parade, said Megan. Stephen is driving his dad's convertible. I'm going to be the sausage queen. And that's how it began. It was as simple as that. Dave decided he was going to be in the parade too. Dave decided he was going to build Big Narrows'

first two-sided, self-propelled Christmas float. The rest of the floats were all pulled by tractors. When Megan saw it, she'd see that he had a future too. Now, like any great artist, Dave decided to work in the medium that he knew best, the only medium he'd ever worked in, paper mache. He started with a chassis of his grandfather's 1943 Ford flatbed truck. He built a frame on the back and then covered the frame and the entire cab in massive amounts of paper mache. He fashioned an igloo on the back and at the front over the cab a monstrous head with a curly gray beard. Beard flowed over the front of the cab and even over the front bumper. Old man winter, said Dave. He cut a tiny window in the middle of old man winter's beard so he could see to drive.

Looking out the window was like peering through a pair of swimming goggles. In the bowels of the float under the igloo and out of sight from the street, Dave attached his sister Annie's swing. He rigged it up complete with a harness and he hung it in front of a set of pulleys that ran from the top of the float. On parade day, his assistant, yet to be named, would sit in the swing and work the lever that would operate the mechanical polar bear on the float above, tilting the bear's head up and down, up and down. His pièce de résistance, however, was hidden in the igloo, a tennis ball machine, a machine he had borrowed from the YMCA, a machine with enough compressed air to fire a tennis ball out the door of the igloo at 80 miles an hour on high speed. On the low setting, and filled with ivory snow instead of tennis balls, Dave was going to use the tennis ball machine to create a fountain of ivory snow

that would envelop his float in its own private snowstorm. Dave wired the tennis ball machine to the truck's accelerator. wired the tennis ball machine to the truck's accelerator. That way the machine would stay in sync with him. When he sped up, it would speed up. When he slowed down, it would slow down. Dave was going to cream Stephen Kerrigan. His sister Annie kept bugging him to let her in the parade, too. So he made Annie a huge paper mache head. Annie's job was to walk in front of the truck. Dave's father, Charlie, didn't think Dave should drive the float on the highway. Dave's father, Charlie, didn't think Dave should drive the float on the highway,

so on parade day, Charlie drove it to town and lined it up in the parking lot, right in front of Megan and Stephen Kerrigan. Now, when Dave got there, he crawled up onto the float and into the driver's seat, hidden behind the beard. When he settled himself behind the wheel, he had no peripheral vision, none whatsoever. He had no view of anything behind him either. It was like he was wearing horse blinders. He took a deep breath and he started the engine. Suddenly his dad's face floated up and filled the tiny front window. He was moving his lips like the huge catfish in the dentist's aquarium.

Dave couldn't hear a word he was saying. He crawled back up on top of the float. He said, I can't hear you. I can barely see anything. You don't have to, said Charlie. Just follow Annie. Dave slid back towards his seat. Sorry, he said as he bumped past his mother.

Margaret was sitting in the swing. Margaret was going to run the bear. Someone was banging on the side of the float. Go, said the voice. So Dave depressed the clutch with his left foot, and he pushed down on the gas with his right, and ever so slowly he began to ease the clutch up. The float bucked forward.

Mercy! screamed his mother from the swing just behind him. Dave looked over his shoulder. His mother had turned half a somersault. She was hanging upside down. Sorry, said Dave. And he put the float in gear again, and the float bucked again. Mother of God, groaned Dave's mother. This time the float kept going, lurching down the street like a kid on a pogo stick. Margaret rocking back and forth, bouncing off the walls. Dave glanced over his shoulder, worried. It's okay, sweetie, said Margaret.

Then she vomited. Then she apologized. But Dave didn't hear that. Dave was staring out the tiny window at his father and Annie. They were no more than five yards ahead of him, sprinting down the street. His father looking over his shoulder with fear all over his face. his father looking over his shoulder with fear all over his face. The float was gaining.

Dave slammed his foot on the brake. And in the sudden and deafening silence, Dave looked over his shoulder. The swing was creaking back and forth. His mother was hanging upside down again, hanging from the swing like a possum, and repeating something over and over, Hail Mary, Mother of God. Dave eventually figured out the clutch, and after the initial bumpy start, things went more or less smoothly. Puffs of ivory snow floated gently up from the igloo,

and the polar bear nodded benignly at everyone they passed, until it began to rain. Paper mache doesn't do well in the rain. By the time the parade was half over, Annie's paper mache head had soaked up a good 25 pounds of water. And Annie had begun to stagger, weaving back and forth down the street, heading straight one moment and then straight into the crowd the next, Dave following her every step. And then she stumbled and fell,

falling completely out of Dave's field of vision. He would have run right over her if her dad, who was walking along beside them, hadn't sprinted out and picked her up. As it was, Dave scooped the two of them up in the beard. Annie and Charlie clung to the front of the float like figureheads on some disintegrating ghost ship. Because it wasn't only Annie's head that was decomposing. The entire paper mache float was coming apart in the rain. Dave was too busy trying to figure out where Annie

had gone to notice any of this. The only thing that made sense to him was that he had fallen behind her. Only thing he could think of doing was to speed up. Now, the biggest crowd at the Big Narrows Parade is always waiting around the corner of Main and Railroad in the community center parking lot. Dave slid around that corner just barely in control. From a distance, the decomposing float looked like a giant garden slug. The ivory snow that Dave had used to cover it was beginning to bubble and froth.

And just like a slug, Dave was leaving a dangerous slime on the road behind him. As the float closed in on the community center, the horrified crowd spotted Charlie and Annie clinging to the giant slug's mouth. As it got even closer, they could make out Margaret's outline through the decomposing paper mache. Margaret was still gamely pushing and pulling the polar bear levers.

It looked as if she was fighting for her life in the slug's churning stomach. But as menacing as all this appeared, the float didn't become a true spectacle, not a true spectacle of horror until it pulled up to the crowd. When the rain began, the ivory soap in the tennis ball machine had begun to congeal. The soap had turned into a sticky goop that completely plugged the barrel of the gun. Pressure had been building all the way down the street.

As Dave passed the storefronts on Railroad, the laws of physics asserted themselves, and there was a horrifying explosion. The gun launched a wad of frozen goop that looked like the slug had given birth. Or worse. The frozen glob of soap flew across Main Street just above the crowd. There was a stunned silence as it shattered the window of McLeod's Bakery.

And then pandemonium as mothers and fathers flattened their children to the ground. As Dave roared past the community center, the only people left standing were the teenagers. And they broke into wild applause. Dave was followed a few seconds later by the Kerrigan's Buick. Stephen, who was struggling to keep up with Dave, spun out on the soap slick as he came around the corner. The Buick passed the community center backwards, with Stephen gripping the steering wheel in terror,

and Megan Loria spread-eagled on the hood. wheel in terror, and Megan Lauria spread-eagled on the hood. Megan clinging on for dear life with one hand and swinging a string of giant bratwurst with her other. Big, greasy globs of soap dripping from her face. Megan Lorius married Stephen Kerrigan right after high school. She was right about him. He was going somewhere. Within a year of graduation, they opened a branch of his father's grocery store in Little Narrows, which is about, what, 20 miles down Highway 6. Then they hired someone to run that, and they moved to Sydney, where they opened two more stores, which were very successful.

And now they live in Sydney in the summer and Florida in the winter. Megan hasn't seen a Santa Claus parade in 27 years. And that's what Dave was thinking of on that damp, gray Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago when he was standing in front of Kenny Wong's place and the convertible came by with the woman in the bathing suit sitting on the back. He was thinking about how long it had been since he left the small

town where he had grown up, a place he had once said he would never leave, never ever. Morley looked over at him when he was thinking this and caught him frowning, and she said, where are you? Dave shook his head and he smiled, and he pointed at a clown coming down the street walking on his hands. He was right there. He was right where he should be. He was with his friends and his neighbors and most of all with his wife. He had left the small town where he grew up, but he had built his own small town right in the heart of the city. He reached out and he put his arm around Morley and he smiled at her. There wasn't anywhere else he would rather be. There wasn't anything else he would rather be doing. There wasn't anyone else he would rather be doing it with.

Thank you. Thank you. That was Dave's Christmas Parade. We recorded that story back in 2005. Alright, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more festive Dave and Morley stories. Yep, we are in full holiday mode

here at Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. We'll be playing Christmas stories all the way through December. Stories like this one. The plan was simple. Both Mary and Polly would be told the other party had been canceled. But in fact, everyone in the neighborhood would attend both parties simultaneously. How are we going to do that, said Carl, captain of squad one. You each have four families, said Dave. In a minute, Jim is going to hand out your maps and schedules.

At their assigned times, each captain was to slip their four families out the back door of whichever party they were at and rendezvous with the designated teenage drivers who would be standing by. The driver said, Dave, will ferry you back and forth. If everything went as planned, the squads would hop back and forth from one party to the other, and neither Mary nor Polly would be the wiser. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us.

In the meantime, it'll soon be time for one of my favorite festive things, the Vinyl Cafe Advent Calendar. You know how this works, right? You can find it on our Facebook page at Vinyl Cafe or on our Instagram page at Vinyl Cafe Stories. And if you don't have either of those, just head over to our website. You can see the calendar there, too. You'll find us at vinylcafe.com. There's something new every single day, all the way up till Christmas. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is sausage queen Greg DeCloot. Theme music is by my pal Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me,

Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, enjoy the sausage, and so long for now.