Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Childhood - The One and Only Murphy Kruger & The Great Train Adventure

Episode Date: June 13, 2025

“When are you supposed to let your children march off alone? When are you supposed to let them learn from their mistakes” On today’s episode, two stories about childhood. And Jess talks about how one of her own childhood dreams has recently come to fruition - with the making of the upcoming Vinyl Cafe: The Musical!  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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That's R-A-K-U-T-E-N, rakuten.ca. You know, here at Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe, we believe in the power of stories to transport you. But let's face it, nothing beats actually getting away and creating your own story. Whether you're dreaming of a sun-soaked beach, a cruise through the Mediterranean, or exploring a quiet corner of Canada. Sell-off vacations has your back. They've been helping Canadians travel happy for over 30 years with unbeatable deals and a team of experts who've actually been to

the places you want to go. It's not just about booking a trip, it's about finding your perfect escape with help from people who get it. Happy travels start with the experts at Sell-Off Vacations. Visit selloffvacations.com and start planning your next adventure. From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Music Welcome. Today on the podcast, two stories about childhood. In our first story, Sam's best friend Murphy struggles with an important decision at the bank. In our second, Dave's neighbor Jim Schofield reminisces about a grand childhood adventure while Sam and Murphy prepare for their own trip. But we're going to start with this one. This is Stuart McLean with the one and only Murphy Kruger.

The bank branch where Murphy had his account closed. It wasn't really his account. It was an account his parents opened for him when he was born. The notice came. He withdrew all his money, all of it, all $74.58. And he and Sam headed off to the bank nearest their school. Murphy was going to open his first real account. It was a bank of the old kind on a corner heavy of limestone built back when money whispered instead of shouted. I'd like to see the manager said Murphy. People who work in banks

are taught not to make assumptions. They're told apocryphal stories about clerks who have insulted shabby millionaires, about huge accounts that have walked in and then just as quickly out of a branch. The lady at the desk inspected Murphy. It was possible the boy had an inheritance. One could never be certain. She pointed at a couch. The boys waited for ten minutes for the manager to appear. She was a stylish woman, more pearl than limestone. My name is Moira, she said, holding out her hand.

Murphy Krueger, said Murphy. Krueger with a K. The manager smiled, but under force of habit, said nothing more. Stood there and waited for Murphy to speak. It is a power technique. You make your visitor speak first. But the silence was getting uncomfortable. How can I help you? she said, a little bewildered why the technique which always worked with adults wasn't working with this odd-looking boy. Murphy looked around self-consciously.

Perhaps you'd like to come to my office, said the manager, who always tried to do her business out front. So she was in control. But she wasn't in control now. Murphy sat down, smiled, and got right to the point. If I open an account in your branch and do my banking here, will you throw in a safety deposit box? The manager blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. Murphy was peering at her through his black framed glasses, his ears, and his shirt tail,

both sticking out. The manager said, why do you need a safety deposit box? Murphy took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt tail. Do I need to tell you that? he asked. Are these not private matters? The truth is Murphy was unsure why he needed a safety deposit box. Murphy wasn't even certain he knew what a safety deposit box was. I need a place for my stamp collections," said Murphy, and certain other valuables.

That he only has one stamp in his collection seemed unnecessary to bring up. As to the other valuables, they were as follows. A ticket stub from the worst movie he has ever seen, Sharknado, his first pair of glasses, and a check from his grandfather for $25 that he didn't want to cash until he knew for certain his grandfather was solvent. He wasn't about to tell a manager about his sketchy grandfather or about his ticket stub. So Murphy sat there waiting. And for reasons that she didn't fully understand, maybe it was simply that she found Murphy completely charming. The manager asked Murphy for his address and typed it into her computer.

Murphy for his address and typed it into her computer. This is a little out of the ordinary, she said, as she fished for something in her drawer. I hear that a lot, said Murphy. She found what she was looking for, an index card. And she said, you'll have to sign this. And she slid it across the desk toward him. And suddenly Murphy was off stride. Murphy's heart began to pound. Murphy didn't have a signature. An hour later, Sam and Murphy were sitting at one of the cast iron tables at the back of Harmon's fine foods,

back by the briny tubs of feta and olives in the grocery store where Sam works. They were drinking a spiced coffee concoction that Sam had run through the blender and topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce. Murphy's had the benefit of the tiniest shot of grappa that he had snuck from the bottle in Mr. Harmon's desk drawer. The boys had been sitting at the table for half an hour. Murphy had not stopped talking. I can't believe I let this happen, he said.

To be precise, he meant not happen. What he could not believe was that he had arrived at this stage of his life without a signature. It's such an oversight, he said. When the manager had pushed the little index card across her desk and asked him to sign it, Murphy had realized the significance of the moment right away. She wanted his official signature, and he didn't have one. He'd only ever printed his name, but he knew he couldn't print it now, and he knew something else, something earth-shatteringly

important. The way he wrote his name on that little white card would stick with him for the rest of his life. He looked at the manager, and then he looked at his watch. Oh my goodness, he said, I have another appointment. I'll come back and sign another day. It's not our fault, said Sam to Murphy. They should have taught us in school.

Signatures, said Murphy. Curse of it, said Sam. They used to teach it, said Murphy, but they stopped. How come, said Sam? It's used for writing, said Murphy. They use it when they're writing about us. It was the next morning. First period was social studies. Murphy was hanging over his notebook all

period with his tongue poking out the side of his mouth, the picture of concentration. But Murphy wasn't concentrating on social studies. He was writing his name over and over on the back pages of his notebook. At recess, he showed Sam what he'd done. He had hundreds of versions. He tried versions with his middle name and versions with just his initials. He had even played with a spelling. Murphy. M-U-R-P-H-E-E. It's good, said Sam. I think it makes me look like a dog, said Murphy. And that, of course, was the nub of the problem, the whole mess of the matter.

Because Murphy wasn't just writing his name. If that was the case, he could have put an X on that index card and be done with it. It was far more than writing his name. His signature was a declaration, an opportunity to tell the world who he was. The problem, of course, was that Murphy had no idea who he was. They were in the library, in their favorite study room, the one at the far end of the corridor with the window that overlooked the park. They had set up camp.

Look at this one, said Murphy. I like the way it goes below the line, meaning the tail of the Y. Murphy had accidentally written a version where the tail of the Y dove down and back like an underwater swimmer and underlined the whole of his first name, before it circled around and bisected the bottom of the P on its way, and then swooped up and looped over the line again to begin the K. It makes you look like a president said Sam and

there they were again. Back at the heart of it. Was he a president or was he a dog? The problem with the opportunity of choice is that it affords you the opportunity of choosing wrong. Then you change it, said Sam, who was lying on his back on the floor under the table. You can't just change it, said Murphy, who was lying on the table top.

If you change your signature, he explained, rolling over and peering over the table's edge, you can be denied the necessities of life, things like health care, even education. The back pages of all his notebooks were covered with all sorts of attempts. Look at this one," said Murphy, sticking his open notebook over the table. What do you think of this? Sam, who was beginning to tire of all this, grunted. I don't know why this has to be so complicated, he said. What if I'm famous? said Murphy, dropping off the table.

What if I have to sign it over and over? What if people collect it? You can never read autographs, said Sam. If you get famous, you can just scribble it, like that one. He was pointing to a black scribble on the corner of a page. That one was if I decided to be a psychopath, said Murphy. The next afternoon, at the end of last period, Murphy was standing by his desk, shoving books into his backpack when Mrs. Bailey, the school secretary, came into their room.

Mr. Kennedy, she said, I need you to sign the attendance form. Murphy stopped what he was doing. Everything going on around him faded from his awareness, All the kids, all the clatter, until all there was was Mrs. Bailey walking in front of the chalkboard holding the attendance record in front of her and Mr. Kennedy picking up his pen, everything moving in slow motion, until Mr. Kennedy signed. He signed with a flourish. Did it take a second? Maybe less. No more. The pen hit the paper, things speeded up, a wave of his arm, and it was done. Murphy caught up to Sam by his locker.

Did you see that? Did you see that? I hadn't even thought of that. It never occurred to me. Sam said, I have no idea what you're talking about. It wasn't only what you wrote. It was how you wrote it. It wasn't your official signature unless you could do it at the speed of light. It was way more complicated than Murphy had ever realized. He was never going to figure it out.

He would never have a signature. But he kept practicing over and over and over. On Saturday afternoon he called Sam. I'm coming over, he said. He sounded panicked. They went up to Sam's room. Shut the door, said Murphy. I want to show you something.

Murphy sat on the bed and held out his hand. There was a lump just below the first knuckle Nothing. Murphy sat on the bed and held out his hand. There was a lump just below the first knuckle on his middle finger. A lump and a valley and then another lump. It's where I hold the pen, said Murphy. I think I've given myself a tumour. It went on like this for weeks. And then, out of nowhere, there was the one that was perfect. This is it, said Murphy, until he turned up the next morning

and pointed out the fatal flaw. It would be impossible to forge, he said. Isn't that what you'd want, said Sam? If you only think of yourself, said Murphy, dismissively. he said. Isn't that what you'd want? said Sam. If you only think of yourself, said Murphy, dismissively, I have to think of others. I have to consider my unborn children. Good point, said Sam. He was back at square one. Finally he got it.

And finally he went back to the bank on a Tuesday, this time by himself. He appeared at the manager's office and stood by her door. I'm ready, he said. The manager smiled and pointed at the chair. She had been afraid that she wasn't going to see him ever again. They talked for a while and then she opened her desk drawer and got out an index card and he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old fountain pen. He had found it on his father's desk. I have been practicing my signature," he said, and he inhaled and closed his eyes, and then

he opened them and signed on the exhale. Truth be told, it was a piece of graphological thievery. He had stolen the M from his mother and the K from his dad. He had taken the P from an author's signature he saw on the web. The Y was his. The swooping tail that swam back and underlined everything, the one that came by accident in math class. He signed and he sat back and he looked at it. It wasn't

his best. He'd done way better at home and he wanted to ask for another card so he could do it again. But before he could, the manager reached out and picked the card up and said, that's a very nice signature. I know, said Murphy. It became Murphy's habit to go to the bank every Friday. Whenever he earned money or was given money for his birthday or whatever, he'd change it into five dollar bills and put them in the box. He fastened them together with a small black clip. He loved the seriousness of it. The long metal blackness. The ceremony of the opening and the closing. First the bank's key and then his. But what he liked best was the

signing of the card. His signature stacking up upon itself week after week, gaining gravitas as the weeks passed. When he was done, when he had put what he needed in or taken what he needed out, he would visit with the manager. They would sit in her office. She kept a bottle of grappa in her bottom desk drawer, especially for these Friday meetings. You understand, we really shouldn't be doing this," she said. Don't worry, said Murphy. People are always saying that to me. It was Murphy who told her about the Blue Nile app. This is maybe six months before the company went public.

You should buy stock, he said. And she did. And she did rather well buy it. Their ritual continued for about two years until she was transferred. The week before she went, she went into the computer and fixed his account so he would never be charged for his safety deposit box. With her gone, however, Murphy slowly lost interest in the box. He had a debit card by then, and eventually he forgot all about the safety deposit box altogether.

It will come back to him years from now. He'll be telling someone about his early adventures with stamps. And he will remember how, for a brief while, he kept his very first stamp at the bank. In a safety deposit box, he will say. He'll go back to the branch a week later, fully expecting it to be closed, or if it was open, fully expecting them to look at him quizzically. Instead, a woman younger than him will examine his ID and open the gate and lead him behind the counter into the little room at the back where she will pull out his index card from the grey metal box where they keep these things and hand it to him.

And he will stare at what he wrote on that afternoon so long ago, the swooping Y and the borrowed M, his mother and father suddenly present in the quiet room. He will pull a pen from his pocket and sign again a quick flourish no more than his initials, really, M.K. and a little squiggle. He will hand the card back to the young woman, and she will peer at it. Your signature has changed, she'll say, and he will laugh. That was a long time ago, he'll say,

referring to the signature on the card. Things were more complicated then. Or I was, anyway. The young woman will stare at the card for a moment, and Murphy will say, It's okay, it's still me. And he will take the box into the little cubicle where he used to sit, and he will open it. The only thing in it will be the check from his grandfather, and he will pick it up and stare at the signature, Murray Kruger, with a swooping Y. He will stare at it and then he will fold it and drop it back

into the box, thinking to himself as he hands the box back to the clerk that even simple things are never as simple as they seem, that there is a connection to everything, that nothing comes from nowhere. Thank you. That was the story we call the one and only Murphy Kruger. We recorded that story in Tofino, British Columbia back in 2015. We've been talking about childhood today on the podcast, something that's been on my mind lately. If you listen to the show regularly, you know that earlier this year we had a big announcement. We're making a musical. Vinyl Cafe, the musical. The musical is having its world premiere at the Citadel

Theatre in Edmonton, Alberta in November 2025. And side note, right now the only way to get tickets to the show is if you are a subscriber to the Citadel's season. But all of that changes very soon. Mark July 4th on your calendar. That's the day that single tickets for Vinyl Cafe the Musical go on sale. Making a musical was a childhood dream of mine. I've always loved musicals.

Stuart did too. It was one of the very first things that we bonded over, our shared love of musicals and the way they connect us to our biggest feelings. The way they help us process those feelings and make sense of them. That's the thing about musicals. If the emotions are too big to talk about, you sing them. And if they're too big to sing about, well, you dance them. I love how musicals help us process those feelings and help us understand the characters. There's so much more we can know about a character when we hear them sing or when we see them move. The sound of their

voice, the things they choose to sing about or dance about. They help show us who they are. After Stuart died, I thought a lot about Dave and Morley and how much I missed them. How much I wanted to spend more time with them. And I wondered, how can I do that without Stuart? He created these characters, but they belong to all of us now. So how can we continue to get to know them? How do we continue to keep talking to them? A musical felt like the answer. It gives us a way to know the characters even better. I mean, what does Dave sound like? How does he move? How does

he dance? Is he a baritone or a tenor? A musical allows us to get to know the characters better, but it also protects the vision we already have of them. The thing about a musical or any stage play is that it's not forever. We've cast Dave and I will tell you about that later. Holy, that was a trip figuring out who would play Dave. So we've cast Dave and he's incredible. But the thing about live theatre is this. The incredibly funny, incredibly talented, amazing human being who will play Dave at the Citadel Theatre at Edmonton this November isn't going to play Dave forever. Not necessarily. I mean, he's Dave for that run of the show. He's not the definitive Dave. And I kind of like

that because Dave and all of these characters belong to all of us. We know him. And we all see something different in him. We all see him differently. My Dave probably looks different than yours. And that's okay. That's better than okay. That's great. I like that live theater leaves room for that.

That the interpretation of the character can evolve over time. Sure, from production to production, but even in small ways, from night to night. Making a musical has been a childhood dream of mine, and working on it over the last five years has reminded me of my own childhood. Not just my love of musicals, but my whole experience. I started in performance as a child. I sang in a touring choir, stopping in so many of the same towns and even some of the venues that I would later visit with the Vinyl Cafe. And I went on to sing opera with Opera Hamilton for four years and the Children's Chorus.

I don't really sing anymore, but I still live in that world, the world of stories and music and performance. And it's interesting to realize that the parts of me that I've built my career around, the things that have shaped my life, were there even when I was a child. I mean, when I was six, seven, eight, nine years old, I used to put on shows. I'd go door to door selling tickets and recruit my friends and set up a stage and put on costumes and write songs and choreograph dances. That's what I did and it's what I still do. I think a lot about that with

my own kids. I wonder about the things they love now, which parts of their childhood will stay with them forever and which will fade away to make room for new loves, new passions. And I wish I could go back in time and tell seven-year-old Jess that it might take 40 years, but one day this dream, this musical dream, it's gonna come true. It'll happen. You'll do it. An interesting thing happened at my local hardware store yesterday. I was buying something and mentioned to the owner that I was glad the product was made

in Canada. And he said, you've got to get this new app called Maple Scan. You just take a photo of any product and it instantly tells you if it was made in Canada and it even gives you the history of the company. Now the funny thing was I had just used Maplescan to choose that product. Clearly, everybody's using it. Here's how Maplescan works. Open the app, snap a photo of any product and let Maplescan do the rest.

Not only will it tell you how Canadian a product is, it will tell you where to find a local Canadian alternative if it's not Canadian and it will even tell you about hidden parent companies. In the first two months alone, Canadian users scanned over 450,000 products. Maplescan makes shopping Canadian easy and takes the guesswork out of your decisions. Download the free Maple Scan app today and keep your dollars close to home. Time to check on the skies! It's another sunny day in Calgary. Forecast calls for high levels of economic activity.

Late afternoon, we've got a burst of potential in a place ranked North America's most livable city. Tomorrow, blue sky thinking in the Blue Sky city should hold steady. And the outlook remains optimistic throughout the week. So come grab your dreams and enjoy watching them take hold. It's possible in Calgary, the Blue Sky city. For the full economic forecast, visit calgary economic development dot com welcome back time for our second story now this is stewart mcclain

with the great train adventure the summer night can settle on the city with the softness of the snow. The rustle of the leaves, the hum of garden hoses, and the buzz of insects summoning neighbors to do what suits summer best. Absolutely nothing. On a night at the beginning of this summer, Dave's neighbor Jim Schofield was sitting on his front porch with nothing to do. Dave wanders by.

Beer calls Jim from the shadows. Tea? It's Jim's habit on summer evenings to sit like that. He knows it's unlikely he'll be spotted through the shadows of the railings and the ivy. Mostly he sits and watches the summer parade. Occasionally he waves it in. Not sure I have time, said Dave, meaning time for a tea or a beer. But he wandered up the walk nonetheless. Sam's going to the movies said Dave.

I said I'd drive him. Once on the porch however the idea of summer conversation overtook him and he sat nonetheless and said let me check let me see what time he wants to leave. Jim picked up the phone from the arm of his chair and threw it softly across the porch. Dave dialed the number. It's me, he said softly. And then something that Jim didn't hear.

But the next bit he heard. The next bit said with surprise. But I said I'd drive him. And then okay, okay, I know. And he threw the phone gently back to Jim. Sam had already left. Took the subway, said Dave, and then he said it again, making it the third time. I said I would drive him. And so it was. Dave settled on the railing, And so it was, Dave settled on the railing, and Jim said, I'll get the tea. It had been happening more and more often, these moments with Sam. He hadn't noticed them at first, Dave, I mean, but now he was noticing the moments

were adding up. One morning in the spring, right out of the blue, Sam had said, don't make my lunches anymore. I'd rather make my own lunches. Why, said Dave? He and Morley had been making Sam's lunches for years. You don't know what I like, said Sam. And then exactly the same thing with the laundry. Dave wandering around collecting clothes for a load and Sam said, I don't have anything. Well you must have something said Dave. I'm doing darks. You shrunk my t-shirt last time said Sam. I'll do my own. And now said Sam. I'll do my own. And now Dave was fretting, thinking that he should have said something right at the start. If he had said something right at the start,

maybe he would have nipped things in the bud. Nipped what in the bud, said Jim, who had reappeared carrying a couple of glasses. Your tea, said Jim, handing one to Dave. I shot a lag of vulin. Sixteen years old. Neat. Dave fell into the chair opposite Jim, took a sip of the whiskey inside. He wasn't planning on mentioning it to anybody, least of all to Jim.

He had already decided against asking for advice. He had already made up his mind anyway. He didn't want anyone changing it. But there they were, night settling. And Jim wasn't the advice-giving type anyway. Jim didn't have kids of his own. He once told Dave it was his one big regret. Jim would be neutral. Dave could tell Jim and he wouldn't have to take his advice or worse, ignore it. So he took another sip and said, I'm pretty sure it wasn't Sam's idea.

I'm pretty sure it was his friend Murphy's. Murphy, the kid with the glasses and the ears. Of course, it didn't matter whose idea it was. Important thing was to put a stop to it. They wanted to go to Nova Scotia for the summer. To Cape Breton again said Dave. Visit my mother. For a number of summers now they had been going, Sam and Murphy I mean. They stayed with Dave's mother, Margaret. First few summers Dave had driven them down and hung around. The past few they had gone by themselves. So what's the problem said Jim?

few they had gone by themselves. So what's the problem, said Jim? Well, they flew, said Dave. They flew to Halifax. I put them on the plane and my mom picked them up. And, said Jim, they want to go by train, said Dave. It's a two-day trip. Jim said, did I ever tell you about the summer I was 11? And then he said, let me top up your glass.

Now you probably should have some background here. To understand Jim's 11th summer, you need to know something about the ones that came before. Jim's father left when Jim was a baby. He grew up with his mom, Irene, though back in those days everyone called her Sparkle. Before she was born, someone gave Irene's soon-to-be older sister a book about a cat who was having kittens. "'I'm having a baby just like the cat in the book, explained Irene's mom. The cat was called Sparkle. Irene's sister got everything muddled.

When their mother came back from the hospital with Irene, Irene's sister said, where's the kitten? Where's Sparkle? She thought her mother was having a kitten too. Irene grew up to be a nurse. Well, made her living as a nurse. And Irene and Jim lived in the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia, one of the prettiest places you can imagine. All a little town strung out along the river like beads on a necklace. We lived on the South

Mountain, said Jim, more in the country than in town. Dave said, I'm worried about Sam. I think I should call and make sure he made it. This time Jim didn't offer Dave the phone. This time Jim kept going. One day, said Jim, I was maybe five. I missed the school bus. It used to stop right out in front of the house, and I missed it.

And I came in crying. I said, I missed the bus. Sparkle shrugged and said, you're going to have to walk then. She made you walk, said Dave. Well, we didn't have a car, said Jim. And we had walked before, so I sort of knew the way. How far, said Dave. Two or three miles, said Jim. I had to cross the river and cut through the Patterson's farm and then through town. That's pretty impressive, said Dave. I impressed myself, said Jim. The fields at the back of that farm felt as wide as the ocean. Dave was only half listening. Dave was sitting there on the porch staring at the phone, wondering

if he should call Sam quickly on his cell. Jim, who could apparently read minds, slipped the phone under his chair. He's fine, said Jim. So his 11th summer. Winter came first. In the winter that Jim was 11, there was a school trip to Quebec City. Jim missed the trip. I'm not sure why, said Jim. I think we couldn't afford it.

To make up for the missed trip, Sparkle suggested Jim should go to Winnipeg that summer. Sparkle had a sister in Winnipeg. And I had cousins, said Jim. To tell you the truth, said Jim, I think she had a boyfriend. I think she was happy to have the summer alone. Anyway, I was excited to go. I had a paper route, said Jim, and I paid for half the trip,

and I made all the arrangements myself, bought the tickets and everything. Tickets, plural, because you have to take three separate trains to get from Halifax to Winnipeg. Jim bought the tickets and packed his own suitcase. Sparkle packed the food. I had enough for a few days, said Jim, some fruit, some cheese, a couple of bottles of Sussex ginger ale. I can still remember what my bag smelled like. Peanut butter and jam sandwiches don't travel well when you pack them against an orange. A peanut butter sandwich turns into a baseball mitt when you pack it beside an orange. The trip still takes four days and three nights. You cross two time

zones. The time zones were my first problem, said Jim. I switched my watch when we crossed the New Brunswick border, and then I forgot I'd done it and switched it again when we got to Montreal. He had a couple of hours between trains in Montreal. His plan was to go see the Montreal Forum. He thought he would meet Rocket Richard. He put his suitcase in a locker at the station and set off. When he got to the forum he checked his watch, which was an hour off. It said quarter to five.

I nearly blew a gasket said Jim. I was sure I'd missed my train. I thought I was going to be stranded in Montreal. He ran back to the station in a panic. He went to the ticket counter and jumped up and down to get the guy's attention. He was pretty dismissive, said Jim. He told me I still had plenty of time. Of course, Jim didn't have a berth. We couldn't afford a berth, said Jim. He had to sleep in the coach, in his seat.

It's not so bad said Jim. One night he snuck into the dome car and fell asleep in the very front seat. When he woke up the sun was coming up and it was so beautiful except there was a lady sitting beside him and he had his head on her shoulder. He didn't know what to do. He was terrified and so he sat there. He didn't know what to do. He was terrified and so he sat there.

He didn't move a muscle. Eventually she said, you awake? Like it was perfectly normal. And then she asked him where his mother was. I lied said Jim. I told her my mom was downstairs. I was afraid she was going to have me thrown off. Whenever I saw her, I'd hide in the bathroom. Once I saw her coming through the cars and I sat down beside another lady and presented she was my mother. There was a soldier. He bought me a bag of chips at the snack bar, said Jim. I was scared to take it, but I was also hungry. Somewhere in northern Ontario, a boy his age got on the train. I saw him on the platform. He was travelling with a lady. I thought it was his mother. She turned out to be his aunt.

I just knew he was going to be trouble. And that night I came out of the bathroom and he was waiting for me. I didn't want him to know I was alone. I told him I was the conductor's son. The next morning when I woke, he was standing by my seat. He said he knew I was lying. He said he had asked the conductor. And then while we were looking at each other and I was waiting for him to do something,

the soldier came by and asked if we wanted to finish his bag of chips. We shared the chips and we became best friends, that kid and I. We hung out for the day, ran all over the train. He stole a chocolate bar from the snack bar and we went into the washroom and ate it. I never shoplifted because I didn't want to get caught and I didn't like taking stuff that wasn't mine but I liked it when others did. When the boy and his aunt got off the train, Jim watched them from the window. I remember them standing on the platform

and then his aunt pointing the way. And I remember thinking, I had no one to tell me the way. You had to look after yourself, said Dave. Jim sat there on the balcony in his checked shirt and his straw fedora. Jim smiled and pushed the hat back. That's right, he said. And so Dave changed his mind.

And Sam and Murphy went to Cape Breton by train, alone. On the day they left, Dave packed them food and drove them to the station. Sam didn't complain about the food. Dave's plan was to park and go in with them and make sure they got off on the right foot. At least if they got off on the right foot, he would have done everything he could. When they got to the station he had another change of heart. He pulled up to the sidewalk instead of into the parking lot. Well, he said, they got out and they stood by the car the boys with their packs at their feet. Well, said Sam, well said Dave. Murphy rolled his eyes looked at the two of them

and he picked up his pack. Well said Murphy and that was that. Dave hugged Sam and then he said come on Murphy you're as good as family give me a hug. It was an awkward hug. Murphy's glasses fell off. But Dave was glad he hugged them. And as he stood and watched them walk under this huge stone arch at the station's front door, watched them joining the river of other travelers, he felt as if he had done the right thing. And then disaster struck. They were just about out of sight when he saw something fall out of Sam's back pocket. It was hard to tell, but he was pretty sure it was his

train ticket. Uh-oh, said Dave. He stared at the white envelope lying on the ground and at his son walking blithely on. Surely this was the hand of God. Surely this was God's way of telling him that this enterprise was doomed. A disaster waiting to happen. Surely this was God begging him to put a stop to it. He spun around and held out his keys and locked the car doors. And then he whirled back and he headed off.

His eyes on the envelope or the ticket or whatever it was. Everything in his being telling him to hurry up, hurry. He didn't run but he was moving. He only took three steps. Something stopped him. Jim Schofield's voice. I remember coming home, said Jim. And I remember how excited I was to see my mother.

She came to meet me at the station. I saw her before she saw me. She was standing at the end of the platform scanning the crowd. And at that moment, when I saw her and she hadn't seen me, I knew that I was coming home a different person than I was when I left. It was like I'd been away to university or maybe to war. That stopped him. Dead in his tracks. When stopped him, dead in his tracks. When are you supposed to let your children march off alone? When are you supposed to let them learn from their mistakes?

Now or never, said Dave. And so he stopped. He stopped and he waited until he could barely see them, their backpacks bumping in and out of sight, just about killed him. Took every ounce of self-control he had ever asked of himself, but he stayed. He stayed put as they disappeared. I wish I could tell you that as he stood there he saw them stop suddenly, saw Sam reach and

pat his back pocket and then retrace his steps and retrieve the ticket. I would love to tell you that but that's not what happened. In Dave's imagination it went like that and then he imagined this. He waits. He waits until he knows they aren't coming back. And then he waits a little longer. And only then does he walk tentatively towards the paper, still lying there in the crowded station entrance. When he gets to it, he realizes it isn't a ticket. It's an envelope, a letter or something. He looks down at it, and as he stands there looking at it, a man with a briefcase bumps him and then a woman with a suitcase brushes by, and he can feel their annoyance, him standing

there in the way in the middle of things, so he bends over and he scoops up the envelope. There is one word written on it. Dad. It doesn't open it until it gets back to the car. It's a handwritten note. Hey'll be fine. You don't have to worry. Love, your son, Sam." And as he sits there in the car with a note in his lap, he tears up. Tears of relief. He reads the note and his worries evaporate just like that. That's what he imagined as he stood there staring at the entrance to the busy station. But that's not how it ended. How it really ended wasn't as good. But it was good enough. As Dave stood there imagining the ending about

the envelope addressed to him, he watched a man with a briefcase, the man he had imagined bumping into him, bend over and pick the paper up. It wasn't an envelope. It was their train ticket. He didn't know that for sure, but it sure looked like a ticket from where he stood. And from where he stood, he watched the man hold the paper thing he was pretty sure was their ticket up in the air and call out to them. And then he watched Sam stop, turn, pat his pocket, and run back. He watched him say something to the man, nod his head, point at Murphy, take the ticket,

and then shake the man's hand. And then he watched him turn and run and catch up with Murphy and disappear. They had made it over their first hurdle, from the car through the door of the station. And they had made it by the skin of their teeth. It had been a close call, but they had made it nonetheless. And they had made it the way Dave had made it over so many of the hurdles that he had cleared over the years. They had made it through the kindness of a stranger. That is the way of the world. It is full of kind strangers. They would be fine. He wouldn't. But they would. And that would have to do. That was the great train adventure.

We recorded that story at the Old Town Hall in Almonte, Ontario, back in 2013. Your door to big deals is on DoorDash right now. Sign up for DoorDash and enjoy a free Big Mac on your first McDonald's order of $20 or more. Only on DoorDash now until June 15th. Terms apply. Calgary, also known as the blue sky city. We get more sunny days than anywhere in the country,

but more importantly, we're the Canadian capital of blue sky thinking. This is where bold ideas meet big opportunity, where dreams become reality. Whether you're building your career or scaling your business Calgary is where what if turns into what's next? It's possible here in Calgary the blue sky city learn more at Calgary economic development.com

Alright that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more David Morley stories, including this one. He's considered many things, worked through many scenarios, though never what he would do or should do if he woke up in a tent eyeball to eyeball with a skunk. That's next week on the podcast and next week will be our last episode of the season. So I really hope you can join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is a man who always has time for a cup of Jim Schofield's kind of tea, Greg DeKlote. Theme music is by Danny Michelle and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeKlote

and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now. Time to check on the skies. It's another sunny day in Calgary. Forecast calls for high levels of economic activity. Late afternoon, we've got a burst of potential in a place ranked North America's most livable city. Tomorrow, blue sky thinking in the blue sky city should hold steady. And the outlook remains optimistic throughout the week.

So come grab your dreams and enjoy watching them take hold. It's possible in Calgary. The blue sky city. For the full economic forecast, visit calgaryeconomicdevelopment.com.