Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Connection - The Laundry Chute & London

Episode Date: April 14, 2023

“It’s time for Stephanie to see more of the world.” Stuart McLean talks about connection – to place, to each other and to history – with the stories London and Springhill (aka The Laundry Chute). And Vinyl Cafe producer Jess Milton describes a remarkable moment from the reading of that Springhill story at the Savoy Theatre in Glace Bay and their own special connection that began that day. 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 Café. Welcome. We're talking about connection today on the podcast, the dotted lines that we draw between one thing and another that give those things meaning, context, importance, the texture of life. We're going to start with this story, a story that we recorded at the Lighthouse Festival Theatre in Port Dover, Ontario. This is Stuart McLean with London. The ticket arrived like Dorothy always arrives herself, unannounced. It landed with a slap of presumption, along with the rest of the day's mail, right on the kitchen table. A return flight for Stephanie to London, England.

Booked and paid for. But I just got home, said Stephanie. I don't want to go away again. It came in July, just as Stephanie was unpacking from two months of tree planting in the north. It came when she was looking forward to summertime at home, looking forward to reconnecting with her city friends at sidewalk cafes, especially her boyfriend, Tommy. It's time for Stephanie to see more of the world, wrote Dorothy in her abrupt note. What sensible young tree planter wants to celebrate a return to civilization by spending two weeks with a geriatric aunt? Even if that aunt happens to live where civilization's heartbeat pumps like few other places. Morley said, you have to go.

Stephanie said, why do I have to go? It's my life. What has Aunt Dorothy got to do with my life? The next evening, Dave handed her a two-page type list of places she had to see. The Ad Lib Club in Soho's Ham Yard, the club where he'd had a beer with George Harrison. Well, okay, George Harrison was at the next table over. Just before he got there. There were also directions to where the marquee club used to be, the club where everyone except the Beatles played, where Jimi Hendrix gave his last performance.

You want me to go see where the club used to be, said Stephanie, scanning her father's list? She looked appalled. Everyone played there, said Dave. The Yardbirds, Manfred Mann, David Bowie, Cream, Pink Floyd, the who? But not the Beatles, said Stephanie. No, I mean, yes, said Dave. That's right, not the Beatles, but everyone else. And, said Stephanie, you want me to go to London so I can stand on the street where it used to be and where the Beatles never were. To see it, said Dave. You mean not to see it, said Stephanie.

I could go outside right now and not see it, and I wouldn't have to leave home. Aunt Dorothy picked Stephanie up at Heathrow in her 1967 Vauxhall Viva Dorothy in her Clark Wallabies and wool skirt and her Marks and Spencers cardigan Dorothy marching to the parking lot three steps ahead of Stephanie Dorothy rocketing out of her parking spot as if there was a national emergency, banging into the cars that were both in front and behind her on the way, which set off the alarm she'd installed to warn her when she was too close to cars around her.

They flew down the motorway with Dorothy pounding on the dashboard in vain attempts to silence the alarm. They were heading for the village of Hawkhurst, about an hour to the southeast of the airport. I have a little lunch going, said Dorothy, which it turned out meant a cow's tongue simmering in a crock pot, along with carrots and onions and cabbage. Stephanie's first text message to Tommy was frantic. It looked like a tongue. It tasted like a tongue. Worst of all, it felt like a tongue. Tommy texted her right back.

One word. Sweet. Sweet. After they'd finished their lunch, Stephanie, too excited to sleep during the long night flight over the Atlantic, fell into bed, exhausted and slightly nauseous. She woke the next morning sweating and disoriented. It was after breakfast that the real purpose of her trip emerged.

Stephanie was sitting at the kitchen table, stunned by the mallet of jet lag. Dorothy was wiping a commemorative teapot with a Mountbatten tea towel. I just have a few of these left, she said, referring to her once vast collection of Royal China. She held the teapot up. There was a piece of white adhesive tape on the bottom. She said, I've written your name on this, dearie. It belonged to my mother. While you're here, you can choose what else you want,

and you can help me go through the rest of it. Dorothy, an only child, never married, and now alone and over 70, was searching for the comfort of continuity. Dorothy was looking for someone to whom she could pass her life. She had settled on Stephanie. Stephanie stared at the commemorative teapot with its gold gilt royal carriages, and then around the room at the collection of porcelain hedgehogs, at a wire toast rack, at an umbrella stand with a Queen Mum's face carved in the facade. She couldn't see anything that she was remotely interested in possessing.

Nothing. Thank you, she said, uncertainly. We'll deal with my treasures later, said Dorothy. We have a lot to do. I have our itinerary here. We have to get going. Stephanie couldn't imagine anything Dorothy might want to do that would remotely interest her. I have a list of things my father wants me to see, said Stephanie, lamely. Never mind that, said Dorothy. And thus began Stephanie's British education, a tour of London that was more like a forced march than

anything. Turned out Dorothy wasn't only concerned with passing along her things. She wanted to pass on the glorious wonder of Britain. They drove into the city and took a small room on the third floor of a quirky and out-of-time hotel just off Marleybone High Street. They checked in and then marched right out again onto a series of red double-decker buses which they rode into Bunhill Fields. They stormed past the graves of Daniel Defoe and John Bunyan. They put pebbles on William Blake's grave in the Jewish tradition. From Bunhill, they headed for Hampstead Heath and the tottering and tangled eccentricity of Highgate Cemetery. Karl Marx never even lived in Russia, said Dorothy,

as they stood in front of the great philosopher's tomb. As evening fell, they wandered through the winding and hilly neighborhood of Hampstead. That's the house where de Gaulle lived during the war, said Dorothy. Stephanie had never heard of Charles de Gaulle. She wondered for a beat if this was something that she could admit and was about to, but Dorothy was already pounding down the street. Imagine, said Dorothy, as Stephanie scrambled to catch up. Imagine all those men and women waiting for their orders,

all those poor boys on bicycles. They were halfway down a hilly green street when Dorothy turned into a laneway. This is where John Keats lived, she said. Stephanie may never have heard of Charles de Gaulle, but she had studied John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn, Ode to a Nightingale. Some of the greatest poems of the English language, said Dorothy, waving her arm in the air, written right here in this very garden. That night back in the hotel, Dorothy collapsed into the only armchair in their small room, her mouth hanging open, her head thrown back, snoring rhythmically.

Stephanie texted Tommy, I went to Keats' house. There was a lock of his hair. Tommy wrote back immediately, two words, what color? The next morning, they stood in front of the historian Thomas Carlyle's house, and Dorothy said, has your father told you the story about Carlyle? Carl who, said Stephanie. Haven't they taught you anything, said Dorothy? It involves one of your ancestors. The idea that she had ancestors had never occurred to Stephanie. She knew her parents, and she knew her grandparents, but no one had ever said anything to her about ancestors.

Mr. Carlisle was a friend of Mr. John Stuart Mill, said Dorothy, and then she glanced at Stephanie. Stephanie nodded, the philosopher. Dorothy said, good, dearie. And then she said, Mr. Carlyle took the manuscript of his history of the French Revolution to Mr. John Stuart Mill. He wanted him to read it before he sent it to his publisher. Mr. Mill put it down on his desk. The maid found it and thought it was garbage. She burned it. What happened, said Stephanie. Mr. Carlisle had to write it again from the beginning. And I'm related to John Stuart Mill, said Stephanie. No, no, said Dorothy, not Mr. Mill, love. We're related to the maid.

They walked and they walked And everywhere they went There was something to see and something to do This is where Lord Byron was born This is the church where Graham Greene used to confess adultery Would you like to go in and light a candle, asked Dorothy. What does it mean, said Stephanie, when you light one? I don't know, said Dorothy, but they look very pretty when they're burning. And so they went inside and Dorothy picked up a taper and she started to light candles randomly.

I think you're supposed to pay, said Stephanie. I never pay, said Dorothy. The Catholics have plenty of money. They went to Westminster Abbey and they saw the graves of kings and poets. They wound their way along the Thames. Everything is so old, said Stephanie. Dorothy snorted. Old, she said? This was all built after the Norman invasion.

They wandered past rows and rows of Georgian houses. The houses on one side of the street, the mirror image of the houses on the other. Stephanie pointed to a faded letter S and an arrow painted on one of the foundations. I saw one like that yesterday, she said. That's from the war, dearie, said Dorothy, when Mr. Hitler was dropping bombs on us. It showed you to the shelters. And then she said, we used to sleep in the underground.

The subway station, said Stephanie. They rode the northern line to the Camden Town station. This is where I slept, said Dorothy, right here. She was pointing to a little alcove off the north line. Stephanie stood on the gritty platform between the tile wall and the tracks, and she shivered. It was damp and chilly. tile wall and the tracks and she shivered. It was damp and chilly. And even with the lights on, even in the middle of the day, it was dark down there or it felt dark. She wondered what it would have felt like to lie there at night and try to sleep with bombs raining down outside.

Mother was working at the hospital, said Dorothy. My job was to come in the afternoon and save a spot. How old were you, said Stephanie? Oh, I don't know, said Dorothy, turning to go. It was a long time ago. I was just a little girl, maybe seven. Where was your father? Father went to the war, said Dorothy, but I don't know where. He didn't come back, so I never asked him.

She looked at her watch. Oh dear, she said, we have to get up to Kensington Gardens and pay our respect to Prince Albert. On their way to see Prince Albert, they stopped and they paid their respects to George Orwell, and later in Trafalgar Square to Charles I. They bought a bag of chestnuts. square to Charles I. They bought a bag of chestnuts. Now this, said Dorothy, digging into the bag, this is my favorite statue. They sat and they stared at it, and as they sat, Dorothy finished the last chestnut, scrunched the paper bag up, and dropped it on the ground. It's been here since 1675, said Dorothy, licking her fingers. Stephanie waited until Dorothy wasn't looking, and she bent down quickly and picked up the chestnut bag. I come every January, said Dorothy, for the wreath laying. On his birthday, asked Stephanie, pocketing the paper bag.

His execution day, said Dorothy, marching off. The days passed in a whirl. They were up early. They went to bed late. Dorothy never stopped moving. They walked through parks and gardens. They sat in squares. They waited out rain showers and bookshops. They bought light lunches at little fruit markets. Stephanie eventually gave up trying to work out whether she was hot or cold, or if it was about to rain or clear. She was constantly putting on or taking off her new Marks and Spencers cardigan.

They went to the royal stables and saw the carriages and to the tower and saw the jewels and to Hampton Court and to Runnymede. They also went to see where the Marquis Club used to be, where Dave hadn't seen the Beatles. Your father's a good man, said Dorothy. And then to herself, she muttered, a little off perhaps. And their last night in London, they had dinner in a small pub, a potato and steak and turnip and onion pie. My grandfather, Charles, loved these, said Dorothy.

He took me to the parade on VE Day. VE Day, said Stephanie? Victory in Europe, said Dorothy, the end of the war. And then she reached out and she said, you don't eat that part, sweetie. The half moon-shaped pie had a thick, rippled crust. Dorothy said, the Cornish miners used to take these for their lunch. Sometimes they had meat at one end and fruit at the other. The crust was so they could hold them without washing their hands.

The crust is just a handle. Stephanie put the crust down on her plate. You were telling me about VE Day, she said. We were on the mall, said Dorothy, right across from the royal stand. Could you see the queen, asked Stephanie? You mean the king, said Dorothy. We could see him very easily, very easily. And Mr. Churchill, too.

We got there at three in the morning. We had a thermos of tea. We sat on the curb drinking tea and eating oat cakes. By the time the bands came, the crowd was so big, you were just moved along with them. It was like swimming in the ocean. I was swept away by the crowd and I lost my grandfather. Were you scared? Oh no, it was the end of the war, love. Everyone was so happy. Dorothy reached across the table and picked the pie crust off Stephanie's plate. Are you finished with this, she said.

And not waiting for a reply, she finished it herself. They waved down a cab to take them back to their hotel. It was dark now. And as they bumped along, Stephanie asked Dorothy about the years after the war. We won, said Dorothy. But you wouldn't think it. There was nothing to eat. We were on rations. We got one egg a month, one each, so two eggs. Mother used to put them on the mantle and we'd talk about how we were going to cook them. Stephanie was peering out the window. They were going by Buckingham Palace, but Dorothy didn't seem to notice. Dorothy was saying, we were better off than most. We used to get packages from my Aunt Betty in Canada, tins of butter or meat. Once they

sent eggs sealed in lard, but they'd gone bad. You had an aunt in Canada, said Stephanie. Cape Breton, said Dorothy. That's where my grandmother lives, said Stephanie, staring across the dark cab. Your grandmother, Margaret, said Dorothy. How did you know, said Stephanie? Because Margaret's my cousin, said Dorothy, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Stephanie looked dumbstruck. She said, that means we are related. Dorothy snorted.

I mean, closely, said Stephanie. The taxi had pulled up in front of their hotel. Stephanie stood on the street while Dorothy paid the driver. Stephanie's head was spinning. She called Dorothy her aunt. But she knew Dorothy wasn't really her aunt. She knew there was some connection, but she always thought it was distant and dubious. It had never dawned on her that she and Dorothy actually shared a past. They went into the hotel, but not to their

rooms. As they stood in the lobby, Dorothy said, I think we should have a whiskey, don't you? As they stood in the lobby, Dorothy said, I think we should have a whiskey, don't you? The hotel bar was almost as small as their bedroom. Three tables, maybe four. Stephanie said, I can't believe you know Grandma. Of course I know Margaret. I got a letter from her last month. What are you thinking?

Of course we're that closely related. You were my first cousin cousin I am, said Stephanie Twice removed, said Dorothy And she waved at the barman for another whiskey She leaned forward and she said I think we should drink these until we fall over Stephanie felt a big wave of emotion wash over her. She thought she was going to cry for a moment.

She didn't want to cry. So instead of crying, she picked up her drink and she said, you were telling me about after the war. Oh yes, said Dorothy, I was going to tell you how gray everything was. Mother used to wash my clothes in the sink and it used to turn the water black. Stephanie frowned. It was the coal dust, dearie, said Dorothy. It was everywhere.

Even your underwear made the water black. Did they ever tell you about the fogs? Stephanie shook her head. No, no one had told her about the fogs. Dorothy sighed. Dorothy said, I have to do everything in this family. It was 1952, said Dorothy, the coldest winter we ever had. The fog came at night. It was so thick. I remember one night, Ellen MacDonald came for supper. When it was time for her to go and my mother opened the door, Ellen stepped outside and she was completely swallowed by it.

She just took one step and she disappeared. You have no idea, love. You've never seen anything like it. I was afraid Ellen wouldn't be able to find her way home. It lasted for four days. You've never seen anything like it. I was afraid Ellen wouldn't be able to find her way home. It lasted for four days. Later we learned it was from all the coal fires and it was toxic. But we didn't know then.

And people were so cold they kept burning their fires. No one knew. And then people started to die. That's how Charles died. My great-grandfather, said Stephanie. Great, great-grandfather, said Dorothy. He went to the hospital. He had to walk because you couldn't see to drive.

If you were driving, you had to have someone walking in front of you. The hospitals were full. They sent him home. He turned blue. It's true, said Dorothy. I was your age. I saw it. Stephanie flew home two days later. She sat in a window seat with a porcelain hedgehog in her lap. That night in the hotel bar,

Stephanie asked Dorothy to put her name on the entire Hedgehog collection. Dorothy made her take one home. She stared out the window the whole way. She didn't watch the movie, and she didn't say a word to the man in the seat beside her. An uncommon melancholy had settled upon her, like a sorrow from long ago. It was the oddest feeling, as if there was something she was supposed to remember. About four hours into the flight, the pilot announced they were flying over Cape Breton.

She was full of questions. Where would she be today if her great-great-grandmother hadn't gone to Cape Breton? What if she'd gone to Australia instead, or South Africa, and Charles, who had turned blue and died of fog? She wished she could meet Charles. She felt if they could meet in that little hotel bar, there was something important that he'd tell her. She'd never thought about the web of influences spinning around her, the long line of connective tissue. The bigness of it all diminished her and filled her with a sense of wonder at the same time.

For the first time, she felt a connection and responsibility to other generations, those who had been, those yet coming. When the plane touched down, she handed her hedgehog to the man in the seat beside her. As they taxied towards the terminal, she pulled her sweater off and wrapped it carefully around the hedgehog and then gently tucked it into her knapsack. It's very old, she said to the man beside her. It used to belong to my great, great aunt. Three times removed. Thank you very much.

That was the story we call London. We recorded that in Port Dover, Ontario. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another story and a backstory about Stuart's very favorite Vinyl Cafe memory of all time. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is a story we recorded in Halifax, Nova Scotia. This is Spring Hill.

Spring comes later to the Cape Breton highlands than it does to other parts of this country. It came this year to Dave's hometown, the village of Big Narrows, as it always comes, on the sudden cry of a crow flapping over the hill behind the Macaulay's farm. The sound of the crow brought old man Macaulay sprinting out of the barn, as sure a sign of spring as anything. He stood in his muddy farmyard, squinting into the pale sun, his dog beside him, tail wagging, head cocked, staring into the sky too. Overnight, the snow on all the hills turned granular and little rivers began appearing everywhere. All the kids in town got wet and pretty soon everything smelled of damp wool. By the weekend, even the adults had joined in the festivities. On Saturday afternoon, it seemed everyone in the Narrows was out in their

yards trying to hurry spring along, chipping away at stubborn piles of snow with shovels, hoes, and axes. On Monday, Dave's mother, Margaret, struck with spring fever, decided it was warm enough to walk downtown to get the mail. She stopped at McDonnell's grocery and picked up a pint of milk for her tea, and that was when the most unexpected thing in the world happened. Margaret was chatting with Julie Doucette about something for the life of her. She can't remember what. Maybe about the weather.

Maybe about how nice it was to be warm again. When Margaret turned and saw the man sitting at the table by the door, there was a sign taped to the table. The sign read, Big Narrows Volunteer Fire Department. Home safety inspections. table. The sign read, Big Narrows Volunteer Fire Department, Home Safety Inspections. It wasn't, however, the sign that caught Margaret's attention. It was the man. He was adorable, said Margaret when she was telling the story to her friend Ruth. He was wearing a soft plaid shirt, cotton, and a beige windbreaker. He had thin gray hair and large ears. And before Margaret knew what she was doing, she was talking to him. His name was Smith Gardner. He told Margaret he was new in town,

used to be the fire chief in Port Hawkesbury. Margaret, 27 years widowed, signed up for a home inspection. I'll put you down for Thursday morning, said the adorable man. Margaret went right home and started cleaning. Deep cleaning. She dragged the scatter rugs into the backyard and drooped them over the clothesline. She beat them with an inch of their lives. She mopped and waxed the kitchen floor. She polished the silver.

On Thursday morning, she was waiting in her kitchen when Angus MacLeod pulled into her front yard in his red pickup and walked up to her front door carrying a clipboard. Hello, Margaret, said Angus. They sent me over to do a safety inspection. Margaret was expecting the adorable man in the soft plaid shirt. Angus MacLeod, she heard herself say, you're not inspecting my house. I want someone with a little more experience than you. And then Margaret, who's known throughout the Narrows as one of the kindest and most sensitive women in the village, slammed the door in Angus MacLeod's face. Oh my, she said, her back to the door, her hand to her mouth.

She watched Angus through the kitchen curtains as he drove away. Leonard Milton showed up two hours later. Margaret sent Leonard away, too. Leonard Milton, she said, not you. On Friday afternoon, Arnie Gallagher called. Arnie is big narrows as one man band. From his storefront on Water Street, Arnie serves big narrows as florist, funeral home director, gift store manager, and travel agent. Arnie is also fire chief and mayor. Margaret said, Arnie, I have been thinking on things.

I've been thinking that I've been sending you men who aren't as experienced as you might require Margaret there's a new gentleman in town he used to be the chief of the Port Hawkesbury fire department I think he might have the sort of experience necessary to inspect a house like yours Margaret Margaret said, that would be just fine, Arnie. Smith Gardner arrived at Margaret's house the following Tuesday, just after lunch. He was wearing a gray fisherman's sweater with a rolled neck. He said, I'll start upstairs and work my way down. He smelled of Old Spice. and work my way down. He smelled of old spice. Day's father, Margaret's late husband, Charlie,

he was an old spice man. It took him 20 minutes. When he was finished, he walked into the kitchen. You need a smoke detector upstairs, he said. The cord on the big lamp in the living room should be replaced. Otherwise, you're in good shape. I'll write it up. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave. Would you like a muffin, said Margaret. He sat down. He nodded at the baseball hat hanging by the back door. You a Yankee fan, he asked. Margaret told him all about her trip to New York City. Charlie and I had always planned on going together, she said. And she told him how she had gone by herself, how she had met Ruth in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel. Ruth bought me the hat, she said. I wear it in the garden. She was warming her hands on her mug of tea. Going to New York, she said, meeting Ruth, it changed my life. They sat silently for a few moments, and then she said,

When your wife died, did people stop including you? Smith Gardner smiled. Then Margaret said, My friends would only have me over on the nights their husbands went out. I was okay for girls' nights, but not for the nights people really got together. Like you would upset the balance, said Smith. He stayed for two hours. Margaret told him about her grandchildren, Sam and Stephanie in Toronto, Margo in Halifax. Smith had just finished telling Margaret about his grandchildren when she picked up a towel and wiped at the table absentmindedly.

She stood and walked across the kitchen. She opened a tiny door in the wainscoting of the kitchen wall and she threw the towel in and shut the door. Whoa, said Smith, rising out of his chair. Is that a laundry chute? He was so alarmed that it scared Margaret. I'm sorry, he said, but it's a huge fire hazard. If you like, I could come back and seal it up.

He said he could fix the lamp cord, too, and bring a smoke detector. Margaret said, that would be nice. He said, well, I better be going then. But he didn't leave for another hour. After he left, Margaret picked up her New York Yankees baseball hat and she fiddled with it. She put it on and she went into the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She twirled the hat around so the peak was facing backwards. Play ball, she said. Then she phoned her friend Ruth. Sounds like you're falling in love, said Ruth.

Don't be ridiculous, said Margaret. I'm too old to fall in love. How old are you, said Ruth, who had been dying to ask. There's an eight in it, said Margaret. That afternoon, Margaret wandered around her house aimlessly, walking between the parlor and the living room in a daze until she was standing beside the laundry chute with her hand on the laundry chute door, not at all sure how long she'd been standing there.

When she realized what she was doing, she went and fetched a flashlight from under the sink. If Smith Gardner was going to board the laundry shoot up, Margaret wanted to see the little piece of leather hanging halfway up it one last time. It got there in 1959, the year after the last big bump at Spring Hill. Dave was still a young boy. Annie was even younger. Margaret had gone out to take food up to her sister, who had lost her Donnie when the mine went down. And Dave, nine years old, alone with his little sister Annie, was all about playing Spring Hill Mining Disaster.

disaster. They began a mine for coal in Spring Hill, Nova Scotia in the 1800s. So by 1958, the coal mine in Spring Hill was one of the deepest mines in the world. The number two colliery, the colliery that collapsed, was a labyrinth of tunnels and caverns. At the face of the mine, it was over 14,000 feet deep. It was a couple of hours after supper on a Thursday evening near the end of October when the mine face collapsed. People who lived in Spring Hill knew what had happened right away. It was like an earthquake when it went. Phones bumped off tables. Pictures fell off walls. And off-duty coal men dropped what they were doing and ran for the mine. There were 174 men trapped underground. By dawn, they had 75 of them on the surface. That's when the real work began. Soon Soon men were heading for Spring Hill from all over

Nova Scotia to help. Dave's dad, Charlie, drove five miners from Glace Bay. They drove all night. It was one of the biggest mine disasters in North American history. On Thursday, a week after the collapse, they brought 12 miners up alive. On the Friday, when men were still missing, Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, visited the site with Premier Stanfield. They brought the last living men up on the Sunday. Seventy-five men didn't make it, including Dave's Uncle Donnie. And like I said, it was about a year after the bump that Margaret said,

I'm taking this roast chicken up to your Aunt Elizabeth. It was about 20 minutes after she left that Dave called Annie. I need your help, he said earnestly. I'm pretending this is a mine shaft. I have to climb to the bottom of the shaft. You can't do that, said Annie. You're not allowed. I have to, said Dave. Why do you have to, said Annie? There are men trapped down there, said Dave. Annie frowned. She was only five years old. She wasn't tall enough to see into the chute, but she was pretty sure there weren't men down there.

I don't hear them, she said. Dave was wearing a windbreaker and a toque. He had a flashlight stuck in under his toque. He was climbing into the laundry chute. You aren't allowed, said Annie. Dave looked at his sister earnestly. Look, he said, Mom doesn't know everything. We do lots of things we aren't supposed to do. We aren't supposed to stand up on toboggans.

We aren't supposed to play in the creek with our clothes on. We aren't supposed to ride cows. I don't do any of that stuff, said Annie. We aren't supposed to go outside in the winter with wet hair, said Dave. You do that, that's because I like the way it freezes, says Annie. You're not supposed to do it, said Dave. You do that. That's because I like the way it freezes, says Annie. You're not supposed to do it, said Dave. I have to rescue the men at the bottom of the shaft. I need you to hold the rope. Dave handed his sister the end of the rope that was tied around his waist. He crawled into the laundry chute. He began to work his way down, bracing himself by pushing his feet and his arms into the wall in front of him

and his back into the wall behind. It was harder than he'd imagined. He'd wormed his way down about eight feet before he realized he wasn't going to be strong enough to make it all the way to the bottom. There and then, doubt seized him. And then, as doubt always does to the weary, it overtook him. And Dave felt a rush of fear. He called his sister's name, Annie, he called. Before she could answer, Dave was dropping down the chute like a stone. The rope burned through Annie's hand and then it jerked to a stop. Ow, said Annie, looking at her hands.

And then she said, Dave? There was no answer. Annie put the rope down and went into her parents' bedroom. She dragged the chair they kept by the bedroom window into the hall. She pushed the chair against the laundry chute. She climbed up onto the chair. She peered into the chute. Her brother was about halfway down. I'm stuck, he said. It serves you right, said Annie. She got off the chair and she disappeared. The wall was squeezing Dave around his waist. His left arm was pinned against the wall and he couldn't move it. Pull on the rope, he called. Annie's face appeared at the top of the chute. Mom's going to kill you, she said.

Then she threw her end of the rope into the chute. her end of the rope into the chute. Pull on the rope yourself, she said. And she disappeared again. Dave could hear Annie walking down the stairs. Then everything went deadly silent. Then everything went deadly silent. What are you doing, called Dave. There was no answer. It was pitch dark in the shoot. Annie had closed the door upstairs. Dave had dropped his flashlight.

He held his hand out in front of his face and wiggled his fingers. He couldn't see them. He couldn't see anything. He was all alone. He was scared. Suddenly there were beams of light shooting from below him. Annie had opened the door in the kitchen. What are you doing, said Dave. I'm making chocolate milk, said Annie. You're not allowed, said Dave. Stop me, said Annie. She closed the door and the chute went pitch dark again.

Annie! She ignored him. She sat in the kitchen and she drank her chocolate milk. Dave banged on the wall with his free hand. Annie! he called. Fifteen long minutes passed before she appeared at the top again. When she did, she could hear a strange snuffly sound coming from the chute. She peered down.

Her older brother was crying. Don't cry, Davey, she said, surprised. Mom and Dad are coming home soon. They'll get you out. But what if they don't, sniffled Dave? What if they can't rescue me? They'll save you, said Annie, but this time with less certainty. Then she said, just wait a minute. I'll be right back.

And her head disappeared from the chute. A few minutes later, the chute door opened again, and Annie lowered a little brown lump of something from the chute. A few minutes later, the chute door opened again, and Annie lowered a little brown lump of something down the chute. It was attached to a string. What is it? asked Dave. It's the ears from my chocolate Easter bunny. I hid them in the bottom of my toy box so you wouldn't eat them. Dave grabbed the chocolate with his free hand.

It was covered with lint. He brushed it off as best he could, and he took a bite. You can eat as much as you want, said Annie. After a few minutes, however, Annie could hear her brother sniffling again. Dave, she said, remember when dad won the pie eating contest and he barfed in the car? She went on like that for an hour and 20 minutes. She reminded Dave of all the funny things that she could think of. And when she ran out of funny things, she told him every knock-knock joke she knew. And then she launched into the story a Hansel and Gretel, the way her father Charlie told it, where the witch's house was made of Cape

Breton shortbread. When she couldn't think of anything more to say, she started to sing. She sang, Jesus loves me, this I know. And Diana. And her favorite, Splish Splash, I was taking a bath. When Margaret finally walked through the door, Dave was humming along with Annie to the theme from the radio show, The Shadow. An hour later, Dave's dad, Charlie, was standing in the basement, peering up the chute and poking at his small son's bottom with a broom handle. It was Charlie who guessed that Dave's belt was snagged on some rough piece of the wooden chute. It was Margaret who carefully lowered Dave her pair of sewing scissors and told him how to cut the belt loops off his pants.

And it was Dave's father standing at the bottom of the chute with his arms outstretched who caught his crying son and held him tight to his chest when it was all over. Later that night, as Margaret was tucking Dave into bed and kissing him goodnight, Dave asked his mother about the Spring Hill miners. Do you think they talked to each other when they were trapped down there? Do you think they sang? Yes, I do, said Margaret. I'm quite sure they sang.

And now, some 40 years later, Margaret was shining her flashlight up the dark chute and telling Smith Gardner her rescue story. What's the matter with me, she said. I'm getting all choked up about a laundry chute. She turned and she began to shut the door. Anyway, she said, that's the whole story. Smith Gardner didn't say anything. Instead, he reached out and he took Margaret's hand. And they stood there for several minutes more, looking up at the small bit of leather belt still hanging in the chute. Then Smith moved over to his toolbox. Are you sure it's okay for me to start, he said.

Margaret smiled at him and nodded. You get going, she said. I'll go upstairs and make tea and fix a snack for when you're finished. Thank you. That was the story we call Spring Hill. We recorded that story at the Rebecca Cohen Auditorium in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Most of you probably know that the mining incident in that story, in Spring Hill, is based on a true story. Actually, there were three mining disasters in Spring Hill over the years.

The one that Stuart refers to in that story happened in 1958. 174 men were trapped underground. 75 didn't make it. My grandmother was from Spring Hill, and I remember hearing about the bump. That's what they called these underground seismic shifts. I remember hearing about it when I was a kid. It's the kind of thing that affects a town and families for generations. Stuart stumbled across that story while researching something entirely different. As soon as he read about the miners trapped underground and about the way people around the world rallied around them, he wanted to write about it. So we did. We had a

tour coming up in the Maritimes, and we thought it would be the perfect story to tell down east. We felt good about the story, but we were also nervous, especially in the Maritimes. People used to come to our show to laugh. How would they feel about this? The story you just heard, would it be traumatic? Did we get it right? I remember Stuart pacing anxiously backstage before the show, particularly the show in Glace Bay. He said something like, can we really tell the story to a room full of coal miners and their families who have lived through this? There was a lot of hand-wringing.

We talked about it endlessly, and we nearly pulled the story. We nearly swapped it out for something safer, funnier, but we didn't. I don't remember why. Maybe we were brave. Maybe we were lazy. Maybe we were both. Let me paint the picture for you. We were both nervous the entire show. show. Spring Hill was the final story in the show, the last one before the finale. Stewart starts the story and he's feeling super self-conscious. I mean, I sat in the wings and watched him every single night. I knew how he was feeling always by his mannerisms. And I could feel his anxiety from like 25 feet away. He was, well, I'd never seen him like that. He was nervous. He was super nervous. He was not himself. And that made me super nervous and made me feel not like myself. The room is dead silent. I think they're with us. It's hard to tell for sure because I can feel Stuart's nerves all the way from stage left. We get to the end of the story, and there is no applause, nothing. There's just silence.

And I can't tell if it's my favorite kind of silence, the silence of connection, or if it's my least favorite kind of silence, the silence of horror. And then, in the silence, right there in the theater, an old man's voice rings out in the darkness. He says, Stuart, I worked in that mine. Stuart didn't miss a beat. He said, tell me about it. What was it like? And he did. They talked for a few minutes in the darkness, two people sharing a moment, unaware of the audience around them and the darkness and the distance between them. I'm sure I was not the only one with a lump in my throat it was a remarkable moment

and a reminder of the power of story the man's name was Cubby Cuthbertson and he and Stuart kept in touch for a few years writing back and forth until Cubby died and then Stuart died too. I'll never hear that story, Spring Hill, the one we just heard,

without thinking about those three beautiful minutes on stage at the Savoy Theatre in Glace Bay, and of that voice reaching out in the dark, wanting to connect. We're going to take a short break right now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with a sneak peek from next week's episode. Stay with me. Well, that's it for this week. We'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one.

I was in our basement, said Murphy, finally. I was looking for Christmas presents. I found my father's old chemistry set. Why were you looking for Christmas presents in April, said Sam? I sweep the house every spring, said Murphy. Every year at Christmas, my parents buy stuff and they hide it. And then they forget about it. That's next week.

Keep in touch until then. You can find us on vinylcafe.com or Facebook or Instagram. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. The show was recorded by Greg DeCloot and produced by Louise Curtis and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week.

Until then, so long for now.