Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Embracing Winter – Holland

Episode Date: January 9, 2026

“It was the greatest skate of her life.” Happy New Year! Welcome back to Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe! Light a fire, get a bowl of soup, and a cozy blanket and settle in, because we’re celebrating the season today on the show. We’ve got a story exchange for you, plus an essay Stuart wrote for the radio show about walking on ice. And we have a Dave and Morley story for you about their trip to Europe to skate on the canals.  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 and welcome back to a new season of Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Season seven. I cannot believe that. It's been three years since we started this show. We started it, well, to be honest, We started it because I'd had a rough few months, a rough few years, and I was longing for joy.

I was longing for work that filled my cup. I was longing for connection and humor and, I guess, for work that didn't feel like work. I was lucky enough to spend 15 years doing something I loved, producing the vinyl cafe. I've done lots of interesting things since the vinyl cafe ended, but I wanted to, I don't know, more. I missed working on something that really felt like an escape. I missed disappearing into my work. I missed Stewart, but not just him. I started to realize that I also really missed Dave and Marley and Sam and Stephanie. I even missed Mary Turlington. I missed work that made me happy and work that made other people happy. I missed creating things and putting them out

into the world. And all of those feelings were swirling around inside of me every day. And then one day, in the middle of COVID, I realized, wait, I can do something about that. And so we started this podcast, Louise Gregg and I, to try to fix that. And when we did, we weren't sure anyone would listen. But here you are. And we are so glad you are. So welcome back to another season. Welcome back to the warm and wonderful world that Stuart created and that the rest of us keep tending. We are stewards of Stuart McLean's world. So thank you for being here. And if you're new, a very extra special welcome. Let me tell you what we do on this show. We play stories written by Stuart McLean.

They're fictional stories about the fictional world of Dave, the owner of the world's smallest record store, called The Vinyl Cafe, and about his family, his wife Morley, and their kids, Sam and Stephanie. We'll also be sharing some of Stuart's other writing, too, essays and scripts from his many performances at venues across Canada. We've got a great season lined up for you.

Some old favorites, of course, plus some new finds from the Vinyl Cafe archives that you may not have heard before. So let's get to it. If you've been listening for a while, you'll know that I am one of those crazy people who loves winter. And I know, I know, I say that every year, but it is still true. In fact, I think it's even more true this year than ever because winter is peak Canada. I can't imagine loving this country the way I do. do without loving winter. Without winter, there'd be no backyard hockey rinks, no snow shoe trails,

no maple syrup. There's a quiet pride in enduring. No, that's not quite right. Not enduring winter, but embracing winter. We don't endure winter. We, Canadians, have made it part of who we are. There's stillness on a snowy morning. There's the freedom of skating on a frozen lake, the thrill of toboggining down a hill. I haven't always liked winter. I sort of just decided I had to. I moved from downtown Toronto, where there really isn't a huge winter, to Chelsea, Quebec, nearly 20 years ago now. In Chelsea, we usually get snow sometime around Halloween, and it often lasts until April. So you kind of have to work with it, or make it work for you. And that might be what I love most about winter, the contrarian nature of loving a season that, let's face it, it's kind of hard to love.

It's just so easy to hate it to stay inside and say, no, no way, I can't. But by deciding to enjoy winter, I have reclaimed ownership over half of my year. I now actively look forward to winter, to cold, to snow, because so many of my favorite things, things are winter things. Downhill skiing and apprae ski, cross-country skiing with friends on a cold night under the moon, skiing deep into the woods and cooking dinner over a fire, skating parties on the frozen lake, all of those things and the moment after those things, when you come inside with cold toes and rosy cheeks and you light a fire and get into your cozy clothing when you eat something warm out of a bowl with a spoon. So wherever you are, light a fire, get a bowl of soup

and a nice cozy blanket because we're celebrating the season today on this show. We've got a Dave and Morley story in the second half of the show about the time when Dave and Morley went to Europe to skate on the canals. But we're going to start with this. This is an essay that wrote about walking on ice. This is Stuart McLean, recorded in studio in 2010. So I want to say something here about my job as a writer, not just here at the Vinyl Cafe, but sort of generally. Most of my serious writer friends are always going on and on

about how hard it is to concentrate on their work because of all the lucrative freelance contracts that come along to distract them, annual reports, government speeches, book reviews, that sort of thing. I always commiserate with them. I know what you mean, I say. It's such a bother. I can never turn those things down.

But the sad truth is, I don't know what they mean at all. Those sort of offers never come my way. So you might understand how tickled I was last week when I got a call from a guy in some department in Ottawa asking if I would consider writing a pamphlet for new Canadians. I'm not sure I have the time, I said, coily, which of course is what you're taught to say in writer's school, and loosely translated, that means you bet, when do you want it? I took the assignment a little piece to address the serious problem faced by many newly arrived Canadians during the winter months. How to walk on ice. I finished my first draft yesterday, and I thought, with your indulgence, I would read it now.

I just want to put my very best foot forward, and I was thinking one of you might have suggestions, which I could incorporate. So here's what I've got so far. How to Walk on Ice, a user's guide. Congratulations. You're now the inhabitant of a country covered in snow and ice six months of the year. While we understand how unsettling this might be to many of you, especially those of you who have arrived here from the sub-Saharan and similar climes, it's imperative to understand that when approached with the right attitude, snow and ice can be a wonderful addition to an active lifestyle.

Yes, I know sometimes winter can be painfully cold, and on some of the coldest days you might find yourself beseeching God in unfamiliar ways. This is normal and not cause for concern. The alchemy of winter summons all of us to prayer at one time or another. Often these prayers are best said silently. especially in the presence of children and the elderly. And to answer your first question, yes, you do have to go outside in the months between January and spring.

Have you seen the movie March of the Penguins? Many new Canadians have found this film helpful. You never see a penguin slipping on ice. Perhaps when you walk on ice, it would be a good idea to walk like a penguin. When you're faced with a patch of ice, think to yourself, what would a penguin do? Let's start with your feet. A penguin would point them slightly outwards to increase the center of gravity.

What about your hands? Maybe you have them in your pockets to keep them warm. Before you walk on ice, ask yourself, what would a penguin do if he had hands? The answer should be obvious. He'd do the same thing with his hands as he does with his flippers. That's what you should do, too. Hold your hands out to the side, like a penguin.

It's probably hard to tell by watching the fifth. that a penguin also tightens his body when he's walking on ice. Tightening all the muscles below your waist is a helpful thing to do. Point your feet outwards. Hold your hands to the sides. Tighten your muscles. Shuffle. Pretty soon you will have conquered walking on ice and you can move to skating on it.

And better consuming it, preferably in beverages that have a warming quality to them. That was Stuart McLean with a short piece he wrote for the powers that be as a guide for new Canadians. Funnily enough, I don't think they ever used it. All right, we've got a listener letter for you now. It's kind of the reverse of the piece we just played you. This is a letter sent into the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange by Blair Henry in Botswana. Hello, Vinyl Cafe, writes Blair.

First of all, thank you for podcasting your show. Here in Botswana, my family listens regularly. My wife, kids, and I have been to see some of your live shows and have come to feel that Morley and Dave are really neighbors of ours rather than fictional characters. I am writing, however, with a story. When I was a child in Canada, my father called a family meeting. It was a serious discussion with a purpose

that would shape our recreational activities for a lifetime. He had a question for us. The question was skiing or hockey. Dad told us we couldn't do both, and he wanted us as a family to do what we wanted to do. As the baby of the family, I really didn't have much input. I was still pushing a chair around the community rink. I had not even arrived at hockey age.

The year before this discussion, the family had started to ski. We all loved it. So the decision was made. No hockey for us. The Henry family were skiers. And so for the next 20 years I drove right past hockey rinks, and while I never played, I did notice the plywood boards and great snow piles around the perimeters. Images deeply embedded in my memory. But I had a misspent youth shooting moguls instead of pucks. I didn't put a pair of skates on after that meeting until after I'd bought a house for myself

and found it had a skating pond in the front yard. And so I finally came to understand the excruciating pain that travels from toes to heal and experience the ecstasy that comes when you take off your skates and slip a steaming foot into a snow boot. After some time, I became a decent enough skater, and I took up inline skating. I even got an inline instructor certification.

Sure, I skated a lot, but I had a dirty little secret. I'd never held a hockey stick while on skates, in line or ice. Often I felt like I was the only Canadian who had never played the game. This August, my wife Jude, my son Will and I, arrived in Mon, Botswana. This is a town on the edge of the Kalahari Desert, and it's as hot as it comes. Today, the temperature should reach about 42 Celsius. It is hot here, so hot that it's difficult to get ice in your drink, so forget about a skating rink. But they do have one thing that I hadn't expected.

I was driving with a son of a friend on a series of errands one day. Madison's a confident 12-year-old who's grown up in the bush tracking wild dogs and other predators. One of our stops was to pick up something from a local carpenter. As we approached, Madison said, you're going to like Sandy. and being a Canadian, you're going to love his place. I asked why. Madison said, I'd have to wait and see. And then we pulled up to Sandy's,

and I saw a set of bleachers and the unmistakable four-foot wall that makes up the boards of a hockey rink. I got out of the car and went to check out the rink and found a regulation-sized cement pad with nets at each end. You could see it had been built and added. to over the course of many years. The cement was riddled with cracks, and the lights not quite bright enough, though probably more because of the swarms of mosquitoes around them than the

intensity of the lamps. Nevertheless, it was perfect. And if you didn't think to bring inline skates to Botswana, well, Sandy and his wife Ruth have been collecting them, and they have a size that will fit you. And so this past Tuesday I joined a group of men and women from Canada, the United States, South Africa, England, and France for my first ever game of hockey. Spouses and kids cheered from the stands. Finally, I was a real Canadian. And to think, it happened in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. That letter came to us from Blair Henry of Mon Botswana. That was Stuart McLean recorded back in 2009 with a letter from the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange.

We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with a Dave and Morley story. So stick around. Welcome back. Story time now. This is Stuart McLean. with Holland. I mentioned earlier that we wanted to get Dave and Morley here tonight. They come to Ottawa every winter to skate on the canal.

And as I said, Dave and Morley met on an ice rink. It was in Providence, Rhode Island, in the autumn of 1970. Morley was working in summer stock, four plays, two months. Dave came through town with one of those cavalcade of rock shows. He was the technical director of a Dick Clark production. Eight acts in two hours, including question mark and the Mysterians, the Archies and Bobby Goldsboro. It was a hateful tour.

The musicians hated the music they were playing, and they hated the venues they were playing in, and a sourness descended on the whole enterprise before the first week was over. It was the rock and roll equivalent of a Ford Pinto. The only salvation, the only salvation was the most hated moment of all. The last number of the show, when Bobby Goldsboro sang, honey. About two weeks into the tour, one of the Mysterians bought a Fisher-Price, battery-operated megaphone, and every night a group of musicians would huddle just offstage and try to distract Bobby Goldsboro by singing alternative lyrics during the number.

They'd sing just loud enough so he could hear them, and the audience couldn't. And in Saratoga Springs, they rigged up. a microphone behind stage so they could feed their version of the song through Goldsboro's monitor. And somehow the feed got re-rooted. It was never clear how. And their version which involved honey doing unspeakable things with a shaved, greased goat, got routed through the arena's PA system. And everyone in the audience, it seemed as if the rude version was actually coming out of Goldsboro's mouth. The next morning he kicked up such a fuss that they had to stop their antics,

and instead every night when it was time for Goldsboro's big number, the Mysterians would move into the audience where Bobby Goldsboro could see them, and they'd put on these big construction ear protectors, and they'd smile evilly and wave at them. Things got so bad that Dave left the show and began to advance it, which meant he would have to arrive in town a few days, ahead of everyone else to check the arena out and then thankfully to leave town before anyone else got there and that's how he met Morley at the end of

August 1970 in a 3,000-seat arena in Providence Rhode Island it was a Thursday evening and Dave was leaning on the arena boards waiting for the free skate to end so they could start laying a temporary floor over the ice and the lights were dim and they were playing laying waltzes over the arena's PA, and everyone was paired up and holding hands as they skated around and around. Dave got a coffee and a styrofoam cup, and he watched the skaters. He was transported back to the arena in his hometown in Cape Breton, to the annual Valentine

weekend ice waltz. They used to put lights in the arena ceiling that would twinkle, just like stars, and the big face of the moon. the moon would wink its eye every so often, and there was a live orchestra suspended on a plywood platform over center ice. Musicians would have to climb a rope ladder before the show began. Haller instruments up there. And Dave's mother made him promise he wouldn't skate under the platform during the Pocus. Because when the orchestra played Pocas, the platform would swing back and forth.

And Margaret would light a cool and say that she didn't mind if the cigarettes got her, but she was damned if she was going to become an item on the TV news because she was the only woman in the history of Cape Britain to be squashed to death by a polka band. That's what Dave was thinking about when Morley skated knew it was life. She had long chestnut hair, cutting bangs that were no more than an inch below her eyebrows. She was wearing a poncho over a blue army surplus turtleneck sweater.

She had bell-bottomed jeans on with embroidered cuffs. and granny glasses. Dave was bewitched. Dave had sideburns that nearly met at his chin at the time. She was the only person on the ice who could really skate around and around all by herself. One leg crossing over the other in the corners, and every so often she would glide to center ice and get up on her toes and spin around, and Dave watched in awe, and he thought,

she must be Canadian. And he had to meet her. So he rented a pair of skates. and he got out onto the ice, and he couldn't catch up to her. So he slowed down to see if she would catch up to him. And she did, and she just kept going. And Dave was getting frantic as he watched the clock at the far end of the arena,

and then suddenly she was standing right in front of him at the blue line. But Dave was going so fast he was going to shoot right by her. And without thinking, he reached out in desperation, and he grabbed a hold of her. And she screamed, and then they were suspended in mid-air, clutching at each other, and for a horrible moment, face-to-face, and Dave said hi. And Morley said, hi, back, like a question, hi.

And then they landed in a heap, and then Dave insisted on driving her to the hospital, where she had three stitches just below the chin. And then they went out to dinner, and then he drove her back to the arena where she had left her car, and he invited her to come to the concert, the next night. They didn't see each other again for five years, but they did keep in touch by mail. Just occasional letters, and Dave's never said much, but he always sent her quirky things.

The week after she and Dave had met on the skating rink, Dave sent her a package of silly putty in the mail, and when she opened it, she knew he was the man for her. Another time, he sent her a pair of glow-in-the-dark skate laces. and once a newspaper from Thunder Bay. Morley, who was back in Toronto by then, and had left the theater. She was teaching at the time. She read every page of the Thunder Bay paper obsessively,

looking for the significant article. Why had he sent it? She finally decided it was her horoscope, which said, Your love life is on thin ice. Don't let distance cloud your judgment. No, said Dave, years later, there was nothing special. I was finished with it and I just thought you'd like to see it.

They were so young, they still thought life had a purpose. They still believed what they were doing was important. When they finally started to see each other eight years had gone by, it was 1978. Dave was sick of life on the road. He wanted to come in from the cold and Morley seemed so normal. When he told her these things, Morley was overcome with observable. She was tired of being polite. She didn't want to be normal. She wanted to lose control. But she loved him.

She had hope. They got married before the summer was over and they moved into an apartment near the Grange and on their very first night together when they were getting ready for bed, Dave said, do you want a little snack? And Morley said, you go ahead. Dave came back from the kitchen with four pieces of bread,

slathered with mayonnaise. mayonnaise. And there were four slabs of cooking onion on a plate and a glass of buttermilk. Morley stared at him and he said, it's okay. I haven't brushed my teeth yet. A week later, he had a sore throat and Morley said, you should gargle with salt. And Dave said, no, no, just throw me one of those socks. Morley said, what? And Dave said, one of those white athletic socks, the wool ones. And Morley said, what are you going to do with a sock? And Dave said, you just soak it water and faceted around your neck with a safety pin. Morley just stared at him. Dave said, you ring it out first. Morley was thinking, what am I doing here? But she wasn't about to quit.

She was determined to keep trying. Ever since he was a child, Dave loved scrambled eggs. Sometimes when he was a boy, he could hardly wait to get to sleep on Friday nights because he knew he was going to get scrambled eggs for breakfast on Saturday morning. I make the best scrambled eggs you've ever had, said Morley. The next morning, she squeezed fresh juice and got out there two matching coffee mugs and carefully folded their one pair of linen napkins laying them out side by side.

And she whisked up six eggs and brought them to the table, and Dave stared at them in horror. They were full of green stuff. There were little green flecks all through his scrambled eggs. Pieces of chives that Morley had snipped from the back garden. I live in Cape Britain. You don't put anything in your scrambled eggs, except maybe ketchup. But this was his bride, and she had made these eggs, and Dave ate them, and he said,

I love your scrambled eggs. The next weekend, the eggs came with chopped up mushrooms, and then with tomatoes and cheese, and then with spinach, and on the fifth weekend it was olives. Dave had begun to hate Saturday morning. He had lie in bed grinding his teeth while Morley chopped olives. And he'd think, how did I get mixed up with this person? By the time that first winter came, the winter of 1978, 79, they were both thinking this marriage was a big mistake.

It was a gloomy January, all the gloomier because January was once Morley's favorite month. When she was a child, Morley's father Roy used to make a skating rink in their backyard, their backyard just for her. That wasn't always the easiest thing to do when you lived in Toronto. Some winters Roy had to take Morley's wagon late at night and steal snow from the neighbor's yards in order to have enough to make a rink, but he was happy to do it because she loved to skate. She used to lie in bed at night while her father was out in the backyard, frozen to the hose.

And she'd imagine her ceiling was a frozen lake. She'd fall asleep, dreaming that she could sleep. skate on her ceiling forever. Her all-time favorite book was Hans Brinker. Her all-time favorite dress was the burgundy chiffon costume that her mother made for her in 1956 for the skating club's Christmas pageant. She was a plum. And now, and now she hardly skated at all, maybe three or four times since that night in Rhode Island when she had met Dave, and here it was the gloomiest January of all. Less than a year married, and she felt like she'd been given a sentence of solitude, she was unhappy.

And then one night on the television it said that the canals of Holland, the canals in Holland were frozen over for the first time in 10 years. And it showed pictures of people skating on the canals and Morley said, I always dreamed of doing that. And Dave said, really? That was your dream? And Morley said, yes. And Dave said, we should go.

and Morley said, don't be silly. And Dave said, maybe this is our only chance. Maybe the next time it happens we'll have kids and we won't be able to go. It was a Wednesday night and he went to the phone and when he hung up he said, was it really your dream? We could leave tomorrow and be back on Monday.

The next morning they went and they bought Dave a pair of hockey skates and when they got home Morley held out a present, wrapped up a newspaper, she said, it's almost finished. I was going to give it to you for your birthday. I can finish it on the plane. It was a heavy wool sweater. This is a beautiful sweater, said Dave.

I love this sweater. When the plane landed in Amsterdam, Morley had her face pressed to the window. She wanted to see everything. She wanted to make sure the canals were still frozen. She couldn't believe this was happening to her. The man at the hotel said, you have to go to Friesland.

So on Saturday, they rented a car and they drove into the country. they parked at the end of a road and left their boots and coats under a long row of willows that stood bare and wispy along the bank of the canal. And when Morley climbed down

onto the ice, it was like her dream. She felt like she was a little girl again, and she had stepped onto her ceiling. She was standing on a narrow swath of ice that kept going as far as she could see, like she could start skating and she could go forever. it was the greatest skate of her life. They skated past farmhouses with roofs so low

that they looked like wool hats pulled almost to their eyes, past huge, creaking windmills that Morley said reminded her of herons trying to take off. For an hour they saw no one, and then suddenly they went right through a village and saw an old man leading a donkey with panniers, and a dog pulling a cart, and a family pushing a baby carriage on a little.

wooden runners. Once in the middle of nowhere, an old man passed them going the other way. He was sitting on a contraption that looked like a wagon on blades, and he was rowing it along the canal, with what Dave swore were cross-country ski poles with toilet plungers fastened to the end. There were foot bridges to duck under and frozen intersections with signs that said, laden, 50 kilometers, with an arrow pointing down the branch that ran off their canal. It was like being in an earlier time. It was like being in the 19th century. They didn't see a car all day.

They ate lunch on the ice at a cafe on a boat that was frozen under a leafless elm. No one could speak English, and they ordered by pointing their red fingers and shrugging. Instead of getting what they thought they had ordered, they each got a large meatball covered in gravy, and a mug of hot chocolate and a huge. huge square of gingerbread. The waiter smiled at them as they ate. It was delicious.

Morley hardly let them stop. She wanted to keep moving forever. She was thinking, this is why people dance. Dave, who had been having trouble keeping up to her right from the beginning, was wondering how you said cardiac arrest in Dutch. Finally, an hour after lunch, Morley stopped and turned, and Dave puffed up to her, and he flopped on the bank. And he flopped on the bank, Morley said, stand up. He struggled up and she made him cross his arms over his chest and she skated behind him and she said, lean back. He tipped his head back and she said, all of you. She said, trust me, I'm here. Dave leaned back into her arms and she caught him and she pushed him along the canal as if he were a statue. It started to snow and it was like they were skating

through a painting. Dave leaning back, Morley, pushing. the snow on their hats, their mittens, their sweaters, everything white, above and below them, the white sky and the white ice, like they were floating. They had waffles and hot cheese for supper and they bought a wooden toy for their balcony that would move in the wind. Dave carried the toy home in his lap. He's being so careful not to knock it as he stood up to leave the plane that he snagged the sweater, Morley had knitted for him, on the side of his seat. he'd taken four or five steps before he realized what had happened. The wool had caught where Morley had dropped a stitch

and the sweater had begun to unravel behind him. So there was a strand of blue wool hanging from his waist that almost reached the floor. When he caught up to Morley he was clutching the wooden toy and the line of wool was dangling behind him like a tail. He didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything. He just thrusts the,

the toy into her arms and he turned around and they stood in the middle of the walkway staring at the hole and the man behind them said, excuse me, and people started to push past them. So Morley reached down and gathered up the line of the wool and they started to walk through the airport. Dave, a step ahead of Morley, like a kid on a line. And they walked that way to the luggage carousel and they walked that way out to the taxis and they I walk that way out to the taxis, and they're still walking like that today. Attached together, drifting apart sometimes, but never so far apart that one can't reel the other one in.

That was one of my all-time favorite Dave and Morley stories, that ending. Oh, my God, it gets me every time. It gets me so weepy every single time. Such a perfect description of marriage, or any relationship, really. A number of you have written in over the years asking permission to read the end of that story at your wedding. That part in the airport with the wool and the sweater unraveling. And Stuart was always delighted that people wanted to have it read on their special day. All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with another Dave and Morley story.

No one. Well, certainly not me anyway, is ever going to recognize. to anyone's satisfaction, the many and conflicting opinions about which of the thousands and thousands of hockey games ever played on ice was the greatest game of them all. Although if you ever had the chance, as I have, to raise that question with any of the old-timers who live in the town of Big Narrows in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, you would be told that the matter was settled, over a half century ago. For they'd tell you, as they have told me, that the greatest game in hockey history was played in the autumn of 1945.

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 penguin who's had a few years of learning to master the art of Walking on Ice, Greg DeClute. Theme music is by Danny Michelle,

and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeClute, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.