Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Dave on the Roof - Dave on the Roof & Christmas on the Road

Episode Date: December 5, 2025

“Eustache was bracing himself for a long and lonely Christmas”It’s December so we’re going the full festive from now until Christmas! This week, two classic Dave & Morley stories of seasonal shenanigans, plus a story exchange about a very special Christmas Eve.  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. We've got two Dave and Morley stories for you today. two hilarious Christmas stories, plus a beautiful listener story about a magical Christmas Eve. Let's start with that. If you listened to the Vinyl Cafe on the radio back in the day, then you'll remember we had a segment where you wrote the stories. It was called the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange, and it was one of the most popular segments on the show. We used to ask you, the audience, to send us your stories, and Stewart would read them on the

radio. There were only two rules. The stories had to be true and they had to be short. Other than that, it was up to you. We read every single story that came in. There were thousands. We received several thousand stories in that very first month when we put out the call. In the 15 years that the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange aired on the Vinyl Cafe, I bet we would have received over 10,000 stories. We read everyone, and Stuart read some of our favorites on the radio. This is a story sent in by Marlene Leeper of Seychelt, BC. It's a story that was told to her by her friend, Dr. Reg Reed, a veterinarian in Mitchell, Ontario. As the veterinarian in my town, my family and I are used to me being paid.

to deal with animal emergencies. One such disruption on a Christmas Eve some years ago is particularly memorable. It was a perfect Christmas Eve. Snow was falling, and we were in church waiting for the service to begin. I sat back to listen to the music. Almost immediately, I got a call.

A Mennonite farmer who lived out of town needed a veterinarian to help with a difficult cat. having. As quietly as possible, I crawled out of the pew and headed into the night. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. Before long, I could hardly see the road. I rolled down the window to get my bearing. What should have been a 45-minute drive turned into an hour and a half. I knew that as time passed, my chances of helping the cow deliver her calf were diminishing. I finally made it to the lane, and I turned up the drive. The farmer had no snowblower, indeed no vehicle, so the lane was almost impassable. I made it part way up with the four-wheel drive, but then I was stuck.

When I finally reached the barn door, I was puffing heavily. The farmer greeted me quietly, but from his expression I could tell he thought that I was too late. We made our way to the pen. The cow was there down, trying in vain to deliver her calf. I felt dismayed after I had examined her, a breach birth. She was exhausted with the effort she had made. She turned her head away in defeat. I'd come such a dish. distance on this terrible night, I was determined to help her. Half hour later, stripped to the waist, covered in sweat from the exertion, I pulled out the baby calf. At first, nothing. I thought he wouldn't breathe. But the mother nudged him gently, and he took the tiniest intake of air.

I watched his struggles to get up in a deep straw. Although I'd delivered many calves before, I was ecstatic about this little fellow. The farmer nodded to me in gratitude and asked if I'd like to dry off with some clean towels before we headed out into the night to try and dig out my truck. The barn door thudded softly to a close as he left to fetch the towels from the house. when he left he placed his lantern in the barn window I'd been so preoccupied with what I was doing that I hadn't noticed the absolute silence in the stable all the other animals were staring in wonder at the newborn calf

and that's when I realized how intensely peaceful it was in that barn at that moment I felt blessed to be part of this event and I knew that I would not forget the intensity of this birth on Christmas Eve in a remote stable cast in the golden glow of a lantern. That was Stuart McLean reading a story by Vinyl Cafe listener Marlene Leaper. Let's hear one from Stuart now. This is Stuart McLean with Dave on the roof.

For those of you who are regular listeners to this radio show, you probably know about Dave who runs the world's smallest record store, the vinyl cafe. We may not be big, but we're small, their motto. And I just thought in the next half of the show, I'm going to tell you a little bit about Dave's Christmas, but I just thought I might tell you to warm you up and to get you ready for that

and with a view for what is coming in the next half, a little bit of something that happened to him last week, Thursday of last week, actually, when Dave climbed up on top of the roof of his house to put up the Christmas decorations. And he came home early from work last Thursday, hoping to be up and down before dark, but he had to go to Jim Schofield's house,

who just lives Kitty Corner, to him to borrow a ladder, and then they had to have a beer, and then they had to find the ladder, and then Dave had to replace all the burned-out balls, and suddenly it was dusk, and you know how fast it gets dark at this time of the year. So it was dark when Dave finally got onto the roof and colder than he expected it to be. But all the same, it was kind of nice, in a wintry, cold kind of way. And Dave stood by his chimney holding onto the TV antenna,

wondering why he only got up there on his roof at the worst times of the year. He could see all over the neighborhood, and he thought, I should come here more often. And then he sat down with his back to the chimney and began to untangle the lights that he had already untangled before he climbed onto the roof. And it took him about a half hour to string them up onto the antenna and down onto the chimney. And when he finished, he looked up at them and he thought that they didn't look half bad. The antenna actually reminded him of the clothesline in his backyard from when he was a child. They had that kind, you know that kind of clothesline with a one metal pole that looks like an umbrella. with the fabric removed.

And you hang your clothes up in a circle around the arms of the umbrella. Dave was brought up in Cape Breton, and a lot of people have that kind of clothesline down home. And he stood there on his roof for a moment, thinking about his home and his sweet mother and the old clothesline. And he remembered those winter mornings when his mom would push him into a snowsuit and then stick him out to the backyard like a blimp.

And suddenly he could hear his mother's voice, filling his head, and she was saying, Dave, don't lick the clothesline. Sometimes you do things just because somebody tells you not to. And sometimes you do things because you've never done them before, and you want to see what would happen if you did. And sometimes it's hard to figure out why you do some things at all. Dave looked at the TV antenna. He had never put his tongue on a TV antenna on a cold night in December.

And although he knew perfectly well what would happen if he did, the moment his mother's voice came into his head, he could feel himself drawn to the antenna. And as he moved across the roof, towards the chimney to which the antenna was attached, he was saying to himself, this won't happen. I won't do this. why would I do this?

I'm not that stupid. I'm just trying to scare myself. Yet he felt as if he was outside of his body, as if he was a car skidding out of control. And although everything was moving in slow motion, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Part of him was saying, I don't want to put my tongue on that TV antenna.

But another part of him, the part which seemed to be in control, The part which his tongue seemed to be listening to anyway was saying, just do it, Dave. You're an adult. You can do whatever you want. You don't have to listen to your mother anymore. He was surprised by how unequivocably his tongue grabbed onto the metal.

It was not at all uncertain about what it was expected to do. Dave himself was uncertain that he was. he had even touched the metal. He thought there was still some space between him and the antenna, and then suddenly he was adhered to it. At first, he was intrigued by the way it stuck. It was kind of proud of it. It was as if it was an accomplishment of some sort. And then he noticed it hurt a bit, but not really hurt. It hurts sort of the way melted wax hurts when you put your finger into the rim of a candle. And then it hurt a bit more. And Dave thought, okay, that's enough and he tried to pull his tongue off the antenna and it didn't come and he leant forward because

it hurt when he tried to pull off and then more of his tongue was stuck to the antenna and he felt a wave of panic rushed through him as if he was alone in an elevator and the power had gone off and the elevator was stuck between the floors and it was dark in there between the floors and maybe the power had gone off because the building was on fire and he had to get out of there which is when his mother's voice filled his head again. And she said, I told you not to do that. And Dave said, so why didn't you stop me? Except it sounded different. It sounded more like, and when he said it, his top lip brushed against the antenna. And then his top lip was stuck as well as his tongue, and he knew he was in serious trouble. And he stopped moving. And he was very

still. And he thought, I've really got to get it off now. And he tried to lean back just a little bit at a time, and it hurt. And his tongue didn't seem to want to let go. And he thought, maybe it's like taking a Band-Aid off a kid. You have to do it fast and hard and be sure about it. So he began to count. Moom? And just as he's about to say, his mother said, Have you thought maybe you could pull your entire tongue out of your mouth? Could leave it on the antenna?

And he stopped and he thought, no, that's impossible. And then it occurred to him, if he didn't actually lose his entire tongue, maybe he could lose a layer of it, the one with the taste buds. And it'd never be able to taste anything again ever in his life. And for the rest of his life, he might as well eat tofu, and it wouldn't make any difference at all. And that scared him so much. He didn't move a muscle for a good 15 minutes.

He stood on his roof motionless. He could see his neighbors walking up and down the street. He saw the Kelman stop and look up at him. And he began to flap his arms up and down. And the Kelmans just stood there and looked at him and said something to each other, and then they walked away. and Dave realized they walked away and they weren't going to come to his rescue

because what they had been doing was admiring him. They thought he was part of the display hanging from the antenna in the middle of all the lights. And then Dave could hear his family moving around the living room. Hear their voices as clear as day floating up the chimney.

Heard his wife say, I think I'll put a log on the fire. No long, said Dave. His face frozen in place over the top of the chimney. Heard his son say, let's put on two logs. Dave and Morley, they burn those synthetic logs, the ones made of wax. And the moment that sickly waxy smell hit Dave, he needed to pee. And he thought the fumes must be poisonous.

And I'm being asphyxiated, and my body is trying to clear the toxins out of it. And he imagined his family finding him, probably not until the next. morning, and he'd be frozen solid, and what would they think? Would they think that he had gone up there on Christmas and hung himself by his tongue on purpose? And would he make a spectacle of himself and his death? Would the whole neighborhood come up and be there to watch them carry him down? And he couldn't remember when he had had the chimney cleaned last, and what would happen to him if the chimney caught fire, and he needed to pee so badly now, and if the fumes were stinging his eyes, and what if spring never came, and what if there was never a thorn? Did he pay

the hydro bill? And what would happen if he peed on the antenna? Would that warm it up enough? And what God helped him would happen if his penis touched the metal? And then, why didn't he take one of the Christmas lights and hold it against his lip, and the warmth from the light would melt his mouth free? It only took five minutes. In five minutes, he was down the ladder and in the house and into the bathroom, peering into the bathroom, mirrored his tongue. which was red, but not too sore, and Sam and Stephanie were snuggled up on the couch watching a Christmas movie,

and Morley, his sweet wife, Morley, was watching two and sticking clothes into an orange. And he thought they didn't even know I was in trouble. I could have been in such terrible, terrible trouble, and they didn't know all that time. They were down here safe and warm, and they looked so happy, and he was so happy, and he loved them so much.

and then there was a commercial and Sam said, what were you doing up there anyway? The picture was real fuzzy for a while. Now all of a sudden it got better. And Dave said, I don't know, I don't know. I was just fooling with the lights. That was a story we call Dave on the roof. That was recorded at the very first,

vinyl cafe Christmas concert ever back in 1996. There were two stories in that show. Dave cooks the turkey and that one. It's wild to think that that was almost 30 years ago now. Wow. All right, we're going to take a short break now, but we will be back in a couple of minutes with another story. So stick around.

Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Christmas on the road. Late on the night of December the 23rd on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, on a black and largely lonely stretch, a highway 132. Not far from the New Brunswick border, not far from the village of Saint-Germain, Eustace Bois-Claire stood in the empty parking lot of the motel he has owned for 27 years, La Vash-Keeri.

Took the last drag of his home-rolled cigarette and reached up to the big lever on the outside wall of the motel office. He muttered Saint-Esprit, then he pulled the lever and the lights in the motel's road sign flickered, dimmed, and snapped off. And except for the ringing in Eustace's... years, the night was suddenly and profoundly quiet. There were no guests left in the motel except for a trucker from Pizziki in Room 9, who had the flu and who Eustace hadn't seen for 13 hours. Anyway, he was paid up and would probably leave somewhere in the night unannounced, good riddance. Eustace didn't want any guests. He had turned off the heat in all the empty rooms. Eustace was bracing himself for a long and lonely Christmas.

Ever since his wife, Marie Claire, had passed on, God rest her soul, Christmas was always long and lonely. He would do his best to avoid it. He had a case of beer and a case of cheesies, and he was going to go on the Internet and play poker until it was safe to come out. He wasn't going to Mass, and he wasn't going to watch Rockvozine sing Silent Night one more time. Tabern Noosh. Little did he know what was heading his way

From the east, from La Labrador blowing already over the Gulf Saint-Aaron, a winter storm of a magnitude that hadn't been seen around Saint-Germain for over a decade. And from the west, heading towards the motel and into the storm, a dark blue station wagon a day and a half out of Toronto. Coming from the east, the mother of all winter storms. coming from the West, Dave and his family. They had left Toronto in a last-minute panic.

They were heading to Cape Breton to Big Narrows to spend Christmas with Dave's mother. Packing was a nightmare. Dave standing in the driveway with a pile of boxes and suitcases stacked around him. He had rented a roof carrier, but none of the boxes would fit into the roof carrier. He made everyone unpack.

He made everyone put their things at a plastic bag. He stuffed the plastic bags into the roof carrier like he was stuffing a turkey. The turkey, however, went in the back with the dog on ice

in a cooler. When they pulled out of their driveway, the car scraped the curb. They looked like they were fleeing a war zone. They looked like refugees. But they were on their way. At least we got the turkey in, said Dave, to no one in particular. It was a 27-pound organically raised

free-range turkey. Cost him over $145. He wasn't about to leave it behind. What he didn't say was what he had left behind. When the roof rack was full and it looked like there mightn't be room for the turkey in the back, Dave had removed what he believed to be a non-essential item. Stephanie had brought it out to the car at the last minute. Is the room for this, she had said, nonchalantly holding up a blue athletic bag? Dave assumed the blue bag was extra Stephanie stuff. When no one was looking, he carried it surreptitiously back into the house. They wouldn't notice the bag was missing for hours. For now, they were on their way. The kids in the back, Stephanie in the middle, between her brother Sam and her boyfriend, Tommy Nolan.

Stephanie's been dating Tommy Nolan for over a year now. She said, if we're going to Cape Breton for Christmas, can Tommy come? Tommy's an only child, and he has never been on a family road trip. Don't be getting ahead of me now. He climbed into the back seat with great expectation. I love this, he said. As soon as they were out of the city, as soon as they were on the highway, Dave barked highway like this was important news.

Highway barked Dave and Sam slapped the back of the front seat and Morley said, okay, okay, and she reached under her seat and she started passing out bags of junk food. Chips, Cheezys, Pop. Tommy chose Cracker Jacks. I hate Cheezies, he said quietly to Stephanie. Before he opened his Cracker Jacks, he took out one of the same. little black notebook from his jacket pocket and at the top of a fresh page he wrote things I love about this trip he wrote cracker jack and labeled it number one he wrote

number two you sitting beside me and then he nudged Stephanie so she could read what he had written five and a half hours passed before he started his second list Things I hate about this trap Number one was dog farts Tommy had underlined the word dog and written I hope in the margin It had begun just outside of Cornwall The air in the back seat

Suddenly frosty and unpleasant So thick Tommy almost gagged He had reached for the window instinctively But then his social self asserted itself And his hand froze in mid-air If he was the first to acknowledge this event could be misinterpreted as an admission of guilt. He couldn't believe he was the only one who had noticed this,

but no one else had reacted. Maybe this happened all the time in their family. Certainly didn't happen in his family. This family didn't even have a word for it. In a desperate attempt for fresh air, Tommy began to inch toward the door. soon his face was pressed flat against the cool glass he began to tug at his turtleneck pulling it over his chin

up over his nose everyone seemed so oblivious he began to doubt himself maybe he thought it was him he almost said excuse me he almost copped a plea he almost said excuse me I'm sorry I didn't mean it I'll open the window And that was when it occurred to him that maybe it wasn't the dog. He studied the car carefully.

Dave in the front seat scratching, morally dozing restlessly beside him. More likely Sam, he thought. Grubby little Sam stuffing himself with those greasy cheeses. And then with horror, he looked at Stephanie. Impossibly, he thought. not Stephanie please God not Stephanie the car which had less than an hour ago seemed like such a boisterous happy

family kind of place was beginning to disturb him there were chip wrappers all over the back seat and cheesy crumbs and empty pop cans on the floor and seedy cases wherever you look the whole thing seemed unpleasant and crude his head sunk lower in his turtleneck he looked like a ninja Garbage, he added to the list of things he hated about this trip.

Next thing he knew, they were standing on the edge of the highway. The entire family standing in a circle around some sort of rodent, though it was hard to tell exactly what kind of rodent because it was a flattish sort of rodent. Flatter than an otto-a bean anyway. It might have been something from the hedgehog family, something like that, whatever it was, it was flat, it was furry, and it was dead. and Stephanie was having hysterics

because she had been driving when this thing had bolted out in front of their car that's what she said anyway like it was trying to commit suicide or something at least that's what she said when she could still talk now she was just sobbing hysterically all Tommy could understand was that she wanted to give it a decent burial and her father standing there pointing at the frozen ground

she made him take it with them we can bury it later she said Dave double wrapped its flat furry little corpse in a plastic bag and then he placed it in the only sensible place he could think of in the cooler with the turkey when they're back in the car Tommy added roadkill to his list when Stephanie leaned over to try to read

what he had written, he closed the book and slipped it in his pocket. It was after nine when they pulled into a motel on the far side of Montreal. Boys in one room said Dave, girls in the other. As soon as they settled in, Dave called his mother. She sounded so excited, he said, when he hung up. She said she's put up a tree for the first time in years. She was baking shortbread. I'm so glad we're doing this. Five minutes later, Morley knocked on the boy's door. Have you seen my stuff? She I packed it in a blue athletic bag. When Tommy caught the look on Morley's face, he reached for his notebook.

The snow began the next morning at midday. It was the second day of Arthur the dog's upset tummy. Everyone had their window cracked, and it was cold as well as rank in the car. First, it was just a scatter of snow, nothing at all or nothing worth mentioning. Thin trails and strands of snow, whispering and dancing on the black top like powder.

But an hour later, Dave was hunched over and gripping the wheel, peering at the road, and the road was all white except for the two black tire tracks that he was peering at. The snow driving at him, on the horizontal almost. It was like he was driving his way across a snow planet through a snow galaxy. He had the feeling that it was going to go on for a while. He turned to Morley.

It's snowing, he said. But Morley was in an unspeakable mood. Finding herself without clothes of her own, Morley had had to borrow clothes from Stephanie. She was wearing one of Stephanie's tummy t-shirts. She was wearing a pair of underwear that was too small in every way you could imagine. She had been scratching and tugging all morning.

Tommy had spent the morning trying to keep his eyes off, Morley. But it was like driving by the scene of an accident. Stephanie was no longer sitting beside him. After lunch, Stephanie had announced she was feeling too squished in the middle. She had grabbed the other window seat. Tommy didn't mind. In fact, Tommy was happy for the privacy. This way, he didn't have to keep shielding his notebook from her view.

It would not have been a good thing for anyone if Stephanie had read Tommy's latest entry. He had started that morning after Stephanie and Sam had begun to squabble. The squabble which had begun over the last package of barbecue potato chips had escalated into all-out war. Tommy, sitting by the window like a United Nations peace observer, watching in horror as his beautiful 19-year-old girlfriend morphed into a whiny, snit-fitting, foul-mouth, thinking 12-year-old.

Tommy, pulling out his notebook, divides the page into two columns. He writes prose at the top of one column. Cons at the top of the other. It was December 23rd. They were supposed to arrive in big narrows that night. By four in the afternoon, they were still in Quebec, and it was apparent to everyone that getting to Cape Breton that night was getting to be out of the question.

It was getting dark. You could barely see the forest on the side of the road, just the blackness of the night, the whiteness of the snow. and Dave, driving and driving. They just passed a huge transport lying on its side in the ditch, flares burning pink around it. They were down to 30 kilometers an hour. A heavy silence had fallen on the car.

Tommy was working on several lists at once. Flipping between them as thoughts occurred to them. Ten reasons why you should always spend Christmas with your own family. 10 things to do if I don't die on this trip Last will and testament of me, Tommy Nolan Killed tragically in a car wreck on this the 23rd day of December Dead emotionally two hours previous And then Dave said, I haven't seen a car coming towards us for over an hour

And Dave knew they were going to have to stop they all knew they should have stopped already do you know where we are said Dave it didn't matter where they were they were going to stop the next place they saw and if that wasn't soon they were going to end up in the ditch like the transport they had passed however long ago that was

and that's when they came across Eustace Bois-Claire's motel it was Tommy who spotted it only the office light on that was a motel said Tommy desperately Eustace peering out the living room window watching them tumble out of the car

and the three, four, colique, five. And then to add insult to injury, Arthur the dog, jumping out the back. A chien, muttered Eustace, Mirda.

As if he understood him. Arthur, the dog, circled three times, squatted and seemed to stye. Dave, meanwhile, banging on the office door, Eustace ignoring Dave, watching the prodigious dump this dog was depositing in his yard, watching two of the kids, the girl and the younger boy starting to hit each other, the other boy, the third boy, taking notes like he's some kind of reporter. Eustace put them in room six, seven, and eight.

Tommy insisted on having a room for himself. No, said Eustace as they left the office. On the pas en restaurant, the restaurant is farmed. And no ice machine either. Before they go to sleep, Dave buried the turkey in the snow outside their bedroom door. When they woke up the next morning, the morning of Christmas Eve, Dave opened their bedroom door and then slammed it shut again, a drift as high as its thighs in danger of collapsing into their room.

He phoned his mother and he told her they weren't going to make it for Christmas. She started to cry, he said. She tried to put a brave face on it, but she was crying. I said she should go over to the carvers of the McLennan's, and she said she had told everyone that we were coming. She said, how can I possibly face them if you don't bother to show up? They spent the morning digging their car out, creating a mound of snow a good 10 feet high in the process.

Then they cleared a rough path to the highway, but the highway looked like a ski run. Eustace joined them beside their snow pile and spat on the ground, muttering Tabernush as he scuffed back to the office. Dave was hungry. He imagined the motel office to be a place of plenty, a place with plenty of food and drink, with a fireplace and plenty of wood. at least we have the turkey he thought sourly and then he was seized with a spasm of panic

they had buried the turkey when they resurrected their car the turkey was under a mountain of snow tabarnoosh said Dave Dave retrieved the shovel and began to attack their snowpiles digging like a mountain guide after an avalanche it was Arthur the dog who finally pawed his way through the far end of the mound and dragged the bird out. Arthur had hauled the bird 50 yards down the parking lot before Dave spotted him.

Eustace watching the bouncing chase from the office window. A smile playing on his face for the first Christmas in years. He appeared at their door 20 minutes later with a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a bag of cheesies. Thanks, Dave said. Tommy added cheesies to his left. It was Sam Grade 7 The only person in the room Still studying French

Who looked up just as Eustace was leaving It was Sam who said in a small but audible voice Merci The old man looked at Sam Sitting on the far side of the far bed And smiled for the second time in an hour An hour later When he came back

It was Sam that Eustace wanted to speak to If you'll reste here for Noel Vuzali have Besuend the shows, he said. Sam nodded. Yes. If they were going to stay for Christmas, there were things they would need.

There was an awkward silence. Then Sam screwed up his forehead. Petre. An arbe, he said. All right, said Eustace, pointing at the door. And Sam stood up and put on his coat. He turned and looked at his parents.

I'll be back in a minute. He said, Monsieur Bois-Clair and I are going to cut a Christmas tree. he was out the door before anyone could say anything he was gone an hour when he came back to the room he was beaming his cheeks were red come and see he said there was a pretty little fir tree leaning by the office door sam ran by it and into the office come on he said come on he led them around the reception desk and into the old dining room the fermika tables pushed against the walls the chairs stacked beside them eustace bois Claire on his hands and knees fiddling with the stove, an old propane affair that hadn't been run for five years. They never got it going. But they had one of the great all-time Christmas dinners ever. Everyone chipped in. Tommy fetched wood from the woodlot behind the office. Stephanie split it and built a fire in the dining room fireplace. Morley set up the dining room tables.

Sam stuck to Eustace like a shadow, and Dave cooked the turkey. he deep fried it in corn oil he used a stock pot from the kitchen for the turkey and an industrial burner from Eustace's shop to heat up the oil three minutes a pound his first turkey boil just before he lowered the bird into the oil Dave said well what are we going to eat with it

Eustace looked at Sam and Sam translated and Eustace said Je de Chos By the time they were ready to eat, the fermica tables they had pushed together were laden with food, miraculously produced from next to nothing. Eustace had unearthed a jar of Marie Clare's long-forgotten preserves, and in the absence of cranberries, Morley had fashioned a wild blueberry sauce. They made stuffing out of bread, bacon, and beer nuts. There was a turnip. They boiled and seasoned with orange pop. There's a big bowl of cheeses. And, of course, there was the turkey sitting on a platter at the head of the table,

golden and crackling and strangely delicious. They drank strong tea and homemade spruce beer. And for dessert, they passed around a plate of toffee. The Tommy had boiled up using hundreds of little sugar packages. At midnight, everyone was still up. The trucker from Pizzaki had joined them. his name was Yvonne, and he spoke about as much English as Eustace, but they had moved well beyond language.

Yvonne had his feet up on the fireplace, playing a harmonica. Stephanie and Tommy were snuggled on the couch, their arms around each other, listening. Out in the parking lot, Sam was sitting in the cab of Yvonne's truck, talking on the CB, a glass of Eustace's homemade spruce beer resting on the dash. And Eustace was sitting at the table with Dave, morally, picking at the turkey, and smiling. At midnight, Sam came in from the truck and sat down beside his father. You look sad, he said. I was thinking about your grandmother, said Dave. I feel like we let her down. Sam nodded. You wanted to make her happy, he said. That's right, said Dave,

and I think I made her sad. Eustace Bois-Clair walked by them then and ruffled Sam's hair. he said. We made him happy, said Sam. But Dave shrug, that doesn't count, he said. They sat quietly for a moment and then Sam stood up, he said it should count. He was sad before we got here. I guess you're right, said Dave. It felt odd to have his son talk to him like this and he liked it. Before he could say anything, Sam leaned over and kissed his father on the cheek, he said, I'm going to bed. I love you, said Dave. They made it to Cape Breton the day after Boxing Day. Margaret, Dave's mother greeted them at the door with shortbread cookies. They stayed four days. It was great fun. It was like a second Christmas. Margaret boasted to all her friends how her family had driven to see her through

the worst blizzard in 20 years. On their last night, while they were sitting watching the fire, Dave looked at Sam and said, I wonder what Monsieur Bois-Claire is doing tonight. They were planning to by the motel on the way home, but on their way home it was late, and the motel was dark, and they kept going. We'll write, said Dave, as they drove by. We'll write. And he will write, but not until June. Not until the afternoon he opens the picnic cooler and finds what remains of the flat and road. Thank you very much. Thank you. Christmas on the road. All right, that's it for today.

But we'll be back here next week with two more festive David Morley stories. Like this one. He put on a pair of plaid oven mitts and he unscrewed the door and wrestled it off the oven. The minute the rush of fresh oxygen collided with a splatter of grease. The turkey burst into flames. The turkey was glowing, the oven was pumping, the kitchen was filling with smoke, and before long, the smoke detector was ringing too. And that's when Stephanie and her family arrived.

The front door was. was open. And they stood there looking at each other uncertainly until Tommy's father ran by in his sandals and a bathing suit. Come in, come in, he said. It's a trifle hot. You might want to take off your tops. He was carrying a fire extinguisher. Eventually, Tommy's parents shooed everyone into the dining room, and they carved what was left of the turkey. The outside got a little crispy, said Tommy's father,

as he carried the platter in, but there's some nice pink meat in the center. Across the table, Stephanie was whispering to Sam, probably telling him he had to eat everything. Dave didn't notice. Dave was listening to the alarm that had begun ringing in his head, and it was getting louder and louder and louder, salmonella, salmonella, salmonella, salmonella. His stomach had begun to flutter. Could it be airborne, airborne, airborne, airborne, airborne. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the apostrophe podcast network.

The recording engineer is a man who would never keep a flattened rodent in his cooler. Right, Greg? Greg DeCloat. The music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.