Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Hardware Stores – Fireworks & Margaret Gets Married

Episode Date: February 20, 2026

“There is nothing like a wedding to addle people’s minds.”Today on the pod we’re celebrating one of Stuart’s favourite stores: The good old hardware store. We’ve got two Dave & Morley stories to illustrate the point.Ad-free listening is here! Listen to the pod ad-free and early, PLUS a whole bunch of other goodies – like virtual parties, Q&As, listener shout-outs & more. Subscribe here: apostrophe.supercast.com 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 have two Dave and Morley stories for you today, two stories about hardware stories. And I'm not talking about the big box kind of hardware store. I'm talking about the other kind, the small town kind, the kind with uneven floors and one guy who knows everything. the kind where you can walk in holding a broken piece of something you can't name, and he squints and he nods and he disappears into the back,

and ten minutes later, he's back with exactly what you need. And probably also like a story about his neighbor's fence. It's a place that smells like wood and paint. It's a place that sounds like screen doors and local gossip. It's a place that feels like competence. Like you might actually be able to fix the thing. There's a place like that at my dad's cottage in Port Sydney. It's a home hardware, but nobody calls it that.

No one calls it home hardware. They call it Deans. Because until recently, that's who owned it. Dean. He owned it my entire adult life. And before that, I might be wrong. But before that, I think his dad owned it. Dean doesn't own it anymore, but that does not matter.

Everyone, myself included, everyone still calls it Dean's. That's the kind of hardware store that we're going to talk about today. Dean's kind of hardware store. Both of today's stories start in a hardware store, kind of, like in a way, in a sort of round the back kind of way. You'll see what I mean. Let's just get going. Let's start with this one. This is Stuart McLean with Margaret Gets Married.

On the last Saturday in March, a gray and woolly day, if there ever was one, Sandy Rutledge of Rutledge's hardware store on River Street in Big Narrows, Cape Bret, and stayed after everyone else had left for the day so he could organize the hardware store's first ever window display. Sandy graduated from business school last year, the first in his family to go to university. ever since he's been bugging his father to let him make some changes. Willard Rutledge finally relented. Sandy stayed late and by Monday lunch, pretty much everyone had heard about Rutledge's new front window.

People were making trips to town just to check it out. What Sandy did was clean out the mess of doorbells, the bags of bird seed, the towers of toasters and kettles that accumulated in the front window over the last 70, years, and he replaced the entire jumble with a solitary mannequin. It, or more to the point, she, was wearing a bridal gown. Sandy picked up the mannequin and the gown secondhand from a shop in Sydney. The idea, it being just a few weeks until spring, was to encourage the brides of

Big Narrows to register at the hardware store. By the end of the week, much to Sandy's delight. they had two brides, and a third, Becky Michelle of Fletcher's Harbor, wavering under pressure from her fiancé cliff, who'd wanted a nail gun since he was seven. Dave's mother, Margaret, was one of the last people in town to see the window. Smith Gardner picks Margaret up every Thursday afternoon, and they go to the Elks meat raffle. On Thursday, as they pulled into Carrigan's parking lot, Smith said, do you want to see the window? Well, Margaret said, sure. As Margaret peered at the wedding dress, Smith said, I wouldn't want to go through that again. Margaret nodded. And then they stood there awkwardly. That was the first time Smith and Margaret talked about marriage. When she got home, Margaret stared in her bathroom mirror. Uh-oh, she said. It was the middle of April when Smith decided to propose. He drove to Sydney to get the ring.

His late wife, Jean, had hated her wedding ring. She said it irritated her finger. Eventually, she took it off and wore the ring around her neck on a chain. Smith didn't want Margaret to hate her ring. So all he bought was a diamond. The jeweler said they could come back together and choose a setting. It was a modest stone. But it has good color, said the jeweler, holding a.

it up to the light. Smith dropped the bag on the passenger seat of his pickup. He pulled off the road as soon as he crossed the Seal Island Bridge. He shook the diamond into his rough hand, took a deep breath, and held it up in the sun. Didn't look like it had any color to him. Looked as clear as glass. On his way through town, Smith stopped at Kerrigans and bought a tubba ice cream, Margaret's favorite flavor, maple walnut. He took the ice cream to Margaret's house for Sunday lunch. He set the diamond on top of her ice cream. And then he set the bowl in front of her.

He sat waiting, his heart, pounding as she picked up her spoon. Margaret polished off the entire bowl and sat back. That was good, she said. Not knowing what to say, Smith didn't say anything. He drove to Sydney the next morning. I want another diamond, he said. A bigger one with more color, so it stands out. The jeweler put a blue velvet tray on the counter and showed him the stones.

That one, said Smith. But this time put it in a ring. What kind of setting? asked the jeweler. Comfortable one, said Smith. What size? asked the jeweler. medium said Smith the first warm weekend in May they went to Ignish to visit Smith's son on the way home Smith said let's go back the long way

through the bay Irish Bay where Margaret grew up Margaret almost said it's getting late instead she said that'd be nice Smith they pulled off the highway at the gas station and came into town at the South end, past the Stinson farm and Dr. Sandberg's old place. It had been dark for an hour when Smith pulled up in front of the house where she grew up. Margaret said, so long ago, Smith said, let's go see if the iris are up. Margaret felt anxious. She didn't know the people who lived there anymore, city people. But Smith was already walking around the front of his pickup. Smith said,

there's no one home, just a peek. Against her better instincts, Margaret followed Smith across the damp lawn, the dew, chilly on her feet. She was nervous, but she was also intrigued. She heard the click as he slid the gate latch in the darkness, and she followed him into the yard, the yard where she and Elizabeth had played when they were girls. It was so strange to be there again. She sighed. Then she smiled at Smith and turned to go. Smith didn't move. Slipping a ring on Margaret's finger, under the moon, in the garden where she had been a girl and had probably dreamed of such things, had seemed like a good idea.

In the abstract. But here in the garden, it didn't seem like a good idea at all. Smith was feeling light-headed and woozy. His legs were shaking. speaking. Smith, said Margaret. Smith had slipped the ring out of his pocket. He lurched forward and grabbed Margaret's hand. And Margaret, who hadn't seen the ring, could sense his unsteadiness. But it was his face that gave him away. It was written on his face. It was as clear as day. Smith was about to tell her that he was dying. Oh, Smith, she said. No, no, said Smith.

Margaret glanced down and saw the ring for the first time. She started to laugh. Smith had gone over this moment many times in his mind. He'd imagined many responses, but never laughed her. Margaret said, oh, Smith, but before she could say anything else, a light flicked on upstairs and a window banged open. Smith swore, and he tugged her, and Smith and Margaret ran out of the back garden and tumbled into his truck like a pair of teenagers.

They ripped down the street, around the corner, and all the way to the church before they stopped. My heart, said Smith, resting his head on the wheel. Margaret waited for him to saddle. When he did, she said, Smith Gardner, did you just ask me to marry you? Smith didn't lift his head. He said, yes. Did you just refuse? And Margaret said, no, Smith.

The ring was too big. So they went back to the jewelry the very next morning and they had it sized. On the way out of the store, Margaret stopped, took it off her finger and slipped it into her purse. Smith said, why'd you do that? Margaret said, Smith, people are going to see it if I keep it on my hand. Smith said we certainly wouldn't want that. For a week, Margaret didn't tell a soul. She fretted instead.

Truth was the whole thing embarrassed her. In her heart, she wished that she and Smith could do what the young kids do and move in together. After a week of fretting, she picked up the telephone. It was a Sunday afternoon. Smith had already told his kids. She couldn't delay any longer. She had to phone her daughter, Annie in Halifax. And David.

Hi, she said, how are you? She had been working in the garden. She was wearing her gardening slacks and an oversized cardigan that used to belong to her late husband, Charlie. She was standing by the kitchen window. Her hands still had dirt on them. She took a deep breath.

She said, David, I have something to tell you. Your sex, said Dave. Worse, said Margaret. Smith asked me to marry him. Dave shouldn't have been so surprised. He knew that this was coming. Smith had as good as asked his permission that afternoon in the graveyard. When was that anyway, two years ago?

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. So when Margaret blurted it out, Dave was not his best self. Margaret said, Smith asked me to marry him. And the very first thing Dave said was, where will you be buried then? There's supposed to be a spot beside dad. Margaret said, I honestly hadn't considered that.

Dave was as amazed as she was at what had just come out his mouth. He said, I suppose the fact that it doesn't really matter to me where you're buried won't stop you from telling everyone that that was my first reaction. And Margaret said, probably not. Dave didn't really want to talk about it, which was fine because neither did she. They talked about her garden instead. And then they said, goodbye.

When Margaret hung up, she shrugged. It was the first time she'd said it out loud, I'm getting married. That wasn't so bad, she said. She waited five minutes before she phoned Annie. Oh, my God, said Annie. Where will you be buried? There was a stunned silence. And then Margaret said, David called you.

And Annie snorted, and they both laughed and laughed. When they stopped laughing, Annie said, oh, Mom, I'm so happy for you. How did he ask? And Margaret said he asked me under the moon in the garden in Irish Bay. And Annie said, I want to know every last detail. Now that she'd spoken the words out loud, Margaret figured she might as well keep going. Next morning, she went to Carrigan's grocery store knowing that she'd bump into Winnie. Winnie always shopped Monday mornings. They met in front of the lunch meets. Margaret took a deep breath and said off-handedly,

we're thinking about having the reception at the curling club. When he said, what reception? Margaret said, oh, didn't I tell you? She suspected that would do the trick. And she was right. Everyone in town knew by lunch. And it didn't go as badly as Margaret had imagined. It went worse than she had imagined.

When you're 84-year, old, don't want people treating you as if you were cute. Everyone thought it was cute. Everyone thought it was sweet. Makes me wish you had some sort of problem, she said to Smith as they were walking his dog along the gut. Couldn't you start drinking or something? And that was before Bernadette and Winnie were warmed up. That was before Bernadette and Winnie started up about what Margaret should wear. I don't want it to be a big fancy thing, said Margaret. I'm not advising a floor-length gown, said Winnie.

Bernadette nodded in agreement. In fact, said Winnie, I'd advise against it. You need a proper dress and jacket. I know a lady in Halifax who does a lovely job with seed pearls. They were at the post office. They were in front of the mailboxes. While Winnie was talking, Bernadette had pulled a tape measure out of her purse. Before Margaret knew what was happening, Bernadette was wrapping it around her middle.

We are not, said Margaret, pulling the tape measure from her waist, going to Halifax. There is nothing like a wedding to addle people's minds. Especially, it turns out, if those people have spent too much of their recent years planning funerals. As April opened into May, everyone in Big Narrows, everyone of a certain, age, that is, was fussing over the first big celebration that had come their way in decades. Patty Ann Madigan called to tell Margaret about a hybrid rose that she had read about in the Reader's Digest. It was named after Diana, the Princess of Wales. It has such a beautiful scent, said Patty Ann, who had never actually smelled one. George McDonnell from the Legion

ambushed her in the parking lot at Carrigan's. We best be nailing down the reception, said George. Lots of other events happening that month. The sausage festival is on the 12th, you know. Now, have you been to book on the music now, Margaret? Said Alf McDonald, when he zeroed in on her in front of the roving library. Sid should be home, you know. Alf's son, Sid, who DJs at a hip-hop club in Yarmouth.

He'll be in Halifax the week of the wedding, said Alf. He's getting his tattoo worked on. Sid has been slowly adding to his art, as he can afford it. When it's finished, his tattoo will cover his entire body and tell the life story of Celine Dion, with a lavish wedding scene covering most of his back. Margaret began to dread going out. Wherever she went, there was someone hovering with her.

some sort of unwanted advice. She didn't leave her house for three days. On the fourth, she phoned Smith. She said, I can't do this. We can't get married. She expected he would come over and try to talk her out of it, or more to the point, into it. He didn't try to talk her into it. He said, that's okay, I understand. That night, Margaret went up to the attic with a box of winter stuff. She wasn't planning on bringing any summer stuff down, but once she got up there, she began poking around. When she climbed into the far corner, she came face to face with Charlie's uniform from the war. It was hanging on a post. It was wrapped in a plastic dry cleaners bag. According to the tag, it at last being cleaned in April, 1963, there was a shoe box beneath it.

She knew what was in it. It was filled with letters Charlie had written her from England. She flicked on an old lamp and sat in its orange glow for the longest time reading those letters. Dear Juan, we arrived here at 7 p.m. And I half thought there might be a wire. It's observed to think I have only been away for a week. Her eyes flicked to the bottom of the page. Now, my dearest love, I might.

say good night. It's nearly 12. God bless you, my dear, dear girl. There was a box of photo album somewhere. When she finished the letter, she took the first photo album and settled it in her lap. Pictures of the kids. David, maybe five years old. And there was their first car. It looked so ancient. She ran her finger across the page as if she could reach back through time, as if she could touch the past by touching the little black and white photos, the white borders, the serrated edges. There were titles under each picture, printed in white ink on the black paper in Charlie's hand. Annie at the beach, hungry Dave, bath time. She opened the next book. It was her wedding pictures.

She slammed it shut. She stood up and started for the stairs, and then she took a deep breath, and she sat down, and she opened the book again. It was past midnight when she left the attic. She drove to Smith's house first thing the next morning. She let herself in through the side door. I was getting worried, said Smith. I'm sorry, she said. That's okay, he said, no apology necessary.

She was carrying a pile of books in her arms. She dropped them on the kitchen table, the photo albums. Sit down, she said. I'm going to tell you everything about me. And that is what they did. They sat in the kitchen and she told him the story of her life. He already knew most of it, but he never heard it all in one piece like that,

from the very beginning to the end. They looked at the pictures. They read the old letters from Charlie. When she was finished, she said, Now you know everything. Now I have no secrets from you. You know it all from beginning to end. Not quite to the end, said Smith.

There's still a bit more laughed. They were married on July the 10th. There were only 20 people at the ceremony. but most of the town came to the reception. Many of them were kids that she had taught. They held the reception in the school gym, Smith's idea. Dave gave the toast to the bride. He said the nicest things.

Oh, the dress. Margaret finally agreed to go shopping in Halifax. She got the ivory suit from the lady who did the pearl detailing. Well, she didn't exactly get it. it. Winnie and Bernadette did. Winnie said it was perfect. Bernadette agreed. Margaret thought otherwise. Makes me look like one of those real estate ladies from the city. She said that to Dave one night on the phone. I'm sure you look just fine, said Dave. And he was right. She did look just fine, but she never liked it. And so, on that Saturday, on their way to the church as they were

driving down River Street, Margaret turned to Dave, who was driving her and said, pull in there and park. Dave glanced at his wristwatch. Margaret frowned at him and said, you don't think they'll start without us, do you, David? Dave knew better than to answer that. So he parked Smith's truck, which he was driving, and he followed his mother into Rutledge's heart. And he followed his mother into Rutledge's hardware store without saying a word. Margaret winked at Dave as they marched up to the counter together. Sandy Rotledge, she heard her say. How much for that wedding dress in the window? She paid $29 for the dress. Tax in. She changed in the staff washroom. They were in and out of the hardware store in under 15 minutes. When they pulled up to the church, Dave put his hand on his

mother's arm and stopped her from getting out of the car. He smiled at her and he said, I'm happy for you. Margaret said, me too. Smith threw his head back and laughed when he saw Margaret in the dress. He was beaming as she walked down the aisle on Dave's elbow. Winnie and Bernadette looked horrified, but they got over it. How could they not? Margaret looked very, She barely left the dance floor. She danced with all the young men she had taught all those years ago. And she danced with Dave and with Sam and Arnie Gallagher and Rodney McTadale. She even danced with Smith, who told her when they had finished dancing that he loved her dearly, but that would be the last time you'd ever dance with her. Or anyone, he added, never again, he whispered in her ear. She just laughed and kissed him on the

cheek and whispered we'll see about that as he left the dance floor laughing she danced the night away it was her wedding after all she'd already had for better or for worse for richer or for poorer in sickness and in health this was the part that she had given up on this was happily ever after that was the story we call margaret gets married we recorded that story we recorded that story in Georgetown, Prince Edward Island in 2008. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another Dave and Morley story,

so stick around. Welcome back. There's another fantastic hardware store in this story. This is Stuart McLean with fireworks. They were bumping along the ones. 104, heading west, in Willie's one ton. Willie behind the wheel, Dave riding shotgun, Dave's son, Sam, sitting on a milk crate between them. They crossed the causeway in the late afternoon, and they were already past New Glasgow, which meant they were making good time. Willie said we could stop

in Sackville, take the kid to Mel's for dinner. Dave said her to the inn, we could take him to the Marshall and show him a little class. Dave winked at Sam. Willie was wearing a black deaf leopard t-shirt, ripped jeans, not exactly a paragon of class. Willie said, food's better at Mel's. Sam said, is it really called Sackville? They were supposed to fly, Dave and Sam were.

They'd flown down to help Margaret and Smith with fall chores, putting the windows up and the garden frames away. They had tickets to fly home. But Dave ran into Willie in Kerrigans, and Willie said, I'm driving if you want. It was early autumn, the loamy smell of leaves in the chilly air. Leaving Tuesday, said Willie, meant they could stay two days longer. Also meant Sam would miss a couple of days of school. I'm okay with that, said Sam.

So there they were. Sam on the milk crate, his eyes glued to the road, sliding into his father every time Willie took a corner too fast, which was most of the corners. The cab of the truck already filling up with empty takeout cups, used paper napkins, spare change, and Willie's maps. It was, in other words, perfect. Or as perfect as any 22-hour road trip can be. Working out just as Dave had hoped. As they rolled past the spider web towers of the old CBC short wave service, Dave said, we could go the long way, you know, through Maine.

Not crossing the border, said Willie. Might be fun, said Dave. Stop and see Big Al and Bangor. Can't cross the border, said Willie. Willie jerking his head toward the back of the truck. Can't risk it. Willie used to haul cable in the old days. a grunter, salt of the earth.

But he wasn't a big man, and as the road cases got bigger and heavier and he got older, the work got too hard. Don't get me wrong. Willie could still scramble up into the rafters of any arena just like a monkey. Just everything got too heavy. He learned the lightboard from freaky bottoms.

Got into pyro a couple of years later, early on in the pyro game. I have stuff back there, said Willie. Meaning in the back of the truck. Dave glanced at his son. Sam was lost in a head-phone fog. He frowned at Willie. Willie laughed, shook his head on, not that kind of stuff.

What Willie had back there were boxes of pyro left over from the tour he just finished. Well, not exactly the tour. It's complicated, said Willie. They'd been up and down the eastern seaboard, the Carolinas, Virginia, Kentucky. We stopped in this little town, said Willie, back in the hills. There was a hardware store. You wouldn't believe this place. Screen door with a little bell, a wood stove with a little bucket for chew.

Guy lived over the store, just him and his dog. And he showed Willie around. Willie loves that sort of thing. And there were boxes of stuff, boxes of it from the 40s and 50s. What kind of stuff, said Dave? Pyro, said Willie. Never seen anything like it. From a carnival or something, big stuff, show stuff.

The problem was it was sort of past its due date. But only by a decade or two, said Willie. Then he said, I could lose my license. He didn't seem too worried about it. One hand resting on top of the steering wheel, the other riding the air currents out the window. But I'm not risking the border again. They stopped in Sackville.

Willie pulled into the gas station by the highway. Willie said, I'm going to gas up before dinner. Then they drove into town and ate at Mel's. chicken sandwiches on sliced white, real chicken, real fries, real shakes. This is good, said Sam. Back on the highway, back on the road. Dave undid his sneakers and put his socked feet up on the dash. He glanced at Sam.

Sam was fiddling with a radio. Sam said, I'm trying to find some good music. Dave looked over at Willie, who had been humming along to the radio. Willie shrugged and smiled. Willie was cool. Dave pressed his face against the side window of the truck and gazed out into the dusk. He hadn't thought of firecrackers for years. They were a huge deal in big narrows when Dave was a kid,

not the fancy ones, not Roman candles and things like that. The little red one. the ones that looked like dynamite. You light the fuse and they explode and nothing else. No stars, no sparkles, just a flash and a good old utilitarian boy-like bang. You got them at McDonnell's. Macdonnell's General Store. They came every autumn.

They were like apples. You dreamed in them all summer and they came in the fall. So when fall came, boys' wives. watched over McDonnell's the same way they watched over the quarry pond for signs of ice. Are they here yet, Mr. McDonnell? When are they coming, Mr. McDonnell? They came all the way from China, from the port city of Macau, and they came by boat in a New York city, or so Mr. McDonnell said, slow boat from China, boys. We have to be patient. No one, or no boy anyway, ever suspected that Mr. McDonnell might have stock left over from the previous season in his basement.

Or would have understood, had they figured it out, what a favor he was doing for them by making them wait. There is abundance in scarcity. And the day the firecrackers finally appeared, there was an abundance of joy. The thought of it made Dave smile. The day they finally appeared was as good as Christmas morning. Each package, they only cost a nickel or maybe a dime, was about the size of a deck of cards, all crisp, waxy, and red. Red inside and out.

Each cracker was not only dynamite red itself, the package came wrapped in red paper, firecracker paper. There was nothing like it anywhere, crispy, like tissue paper, gone Dale. The instructions printed at the bottom of the label in English were identical on each pack. Lay on ground, light fuse, and move away. Yeah, sure. The little ones, lady fingers, they called them, were maybe half an inch long and boys like Johnny Flowers actually held them in their hands when they went off. Dave had seen this with his own eyes, but had never had the guts to try it himself. Cherry bombs were the biggest, two inches long, two feet loud, guaranteed to blow the head

off a Barbie doll's neck. The best, like so much in life, were the ones in the middle, the one-inchers, the inch and a halfs. They came in packs a 12, or sometimes 16s, and the wicks were made a gray paper and were woven together. So they came in strings, designed for the Chinese practice of letting off the whole string at once for a celebratory round of pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pops. No boy in the narrows would do that.

For boys who counted their money by the penny, that would have been the most. monstrous frivolity, a waste of explosive proportions. Mostly the firecrackers were set off at night. For what could be better if you are between the ages of eight and sixteen, the prime firecracker demographic? What could be better than to be out after dark with a smoldering string and a pocket full of black powder? Dave said, what was that string called. Sam shifted on his milk crate and said, what? Dave said, I was just thinking. We used to use string to light firecrackers. I can't remember what we called it. Sam said,

I have no idea what you're talking about. Punk, said Dave. We called it punk, and I'm talking about firecrackers. They were like a storm in a tube. They were both. They were both. thunder and lightning. And the boys lit them and threw them as if they were born for stormy nights. Billy had this idea you could take a bunch of packs and break the sticks open and collect the powder and pack it into a pipe and make a rocket and launch a hamster

into space. He had the hamster and he built the capsule. He took his grandfather's old mailbox and covered in tinfoil. They spent a weekend training the hamster, getting it ready for the rigors of re-entry by sealing him in the capsule and lowering it off the bridge. But Billy could never convince enough kids to pool enough powder to pack the six-inch copper pipe that he had stolen from his father's woodshed. So that never went any further than talk. Of course, firecrackers were dropped down chimneys by older boys, but mostly they were

just lit and chucked in the air. Mostly it was just a Friday night in October, three boys in Snakers and Windbreakers. There were accidents, of course. Kids were burned every year, but no one was burned seriously. No one lost an eye or any of those things you read about. And when October came, even eight-year-olds were allowed out at night, unsupervised, with a pack of matches, a piece of string, and their... pockets full of mischief. That was the way it was back then. Everyone did it and everyone knew

what they were up to. How could you not? Nearly every night in October, the town was punctuated by the ratat-tat-tat of boys. Dad? Sam was poking him. Dad, Willie said, do you want to stop? What? Do you want to stop? Dave glanced at Sam. His son had given up. He said, on the radio. He was head-phoned and glowing. It made Dave sad to think that Sam wouldn't have firecracker memories. Close as Sam had ever come to the explosives racket was the summer afternoon David found him sitting on the sidewalk with a small hammer and a roll of caps, sitting there banging out little sparks. Someone had brought the caps from the states, maybe even willy. Dad, said Sam again.

And you want to stop? Dave looked over at Willie. Willie was grinning. They were somewhere past Moncton, away still to Fredericton. There's a stretch of highway there where there's not a lot going on. There's a little town with a service center and a little further on a chip wagon and a farm stand and a motel. And then about five minutes further, on the right-hand side, if you're heading for Fredericton, there's an old quarry.

Remember? said Willie. When Dave spotted the quarry road, he said there. And Willie pulled in. They drove to the end of the road and they got out. Sam said, what's going on? Willie said,

It's showtime, son. Sam helped Willie and his father unload the truck. Seven boxes and all. each one with a hand-painted label that looked like a circus poster. Dave put his hand on Sam's shoulder and said, You sit over there. And Sam sat down on the lip of the quarry. Willie on his knees, opening boxes and pulling stuff out, said,

This stuff is amazing. It's amazing. Dave said, be careful. And Willie smiled his gap, tooth smile and said, As always, bro. And then he stood and called to Sam, you ready, son? And Sam shrugged and Willie bent over and he lit the first one. For a moment there was nothing. Dave said nothing and he took a step towards it.

Willie grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him back. Willie said, patience, brother, patience. And neither of them moved. And suddenly there was a whiz and a silver flare and then an explosion of indigo. And the entire sky, or all of the sky they could see from the quarry floor, was full of indigo diamonds. And Willie said, oh yeah.

And he lit another, and then another. The explosions ricocheted off the quarry walls and flashed and flowered on the rocks, turning everything blue and red and yellow, but just for an instant, for a flash. Beautiful, said Willie again. It's beautiful. Stars and flowers and diamonds. The sky, telescoping in and out.

After 20 minutes or so, Dave noticed the flicker of headlights along the quarry left. A car had pulled off the highway and was bouncing down the gravel road. Five minutes later, he saw another and then another. Before long, there were maybe 15 or 20 lining the shoulder of the quarry,

and Dave could make out the silhouettes of people standing there, watching. Well, he said, Golden Orbs of Pluto's Fire! And golden orbs flew up into the night. And in the light of the orbs, Dave saw upturned faces and pointing fingers. A dad with a child hoisted on his shoulders.

A young couple, their arms around each other, their heads together, but tilted back. He saw them in the flash, and then he didn't. Willie said, waterfall of the fire cauldron. And Dave stopped watching the sky and began watching the people instead. Some sitting, some leaning on their cars. And then he said to Willie, year show, and he climbed back up the hill, and he found Sam and sat on the ground beside him. This is awesome, said Sam. This is the best night of my life. And Dave put his arm on Sam's shoulders,

and there was a wush and a flare, and Dave saw his son's face, this time in the golden glow, and he thought this is how he would like to remember his son. When Sam grew up and left home and he wanted to remember him, he wanted to remember him just like this. Sitting there on the edge of the quarry in the middle of the night, his head back, his eyes wide open,

and a smile on his face. The darkness around them, but also the whiz-bang joy of explosion and the smell of the smoke, the ooze and the oars, and now from the people all around the applause. That was the story we call fireworks. We recorded that story in Vancouver, British Columbia back in 2012. All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with more from Dave and Morley.

Dave was in grade one when he was fully initiated into this world. somebody was getting married and Margaret and her friend Winnie who were hitting the outlet store in the mill in Lincoln, Maine. Margaret told Dave he was coming with him. Wear your hockey sweater, said Margaret. It was a strange request for June morning.

But you did what you were told back then. While his mother and Winnie went to the mill, Dave wandered around Woolworth's basement, staring wistfully at the hamsters and the budgies. He was waiting on the sidewalk like they told him an hour later. About 15 miles before the border, Winnie pulled off the highway into a wooded picnic ground. She parked right at the back, out of sight of the road.

They barely rolled to a stop, and Winnie was out of the car and was ripping their packages open. And while she did that, Margaret unbuttoned her blouse. Dave watched all this. in astonishment. His mother taking her blouse off, tying sheets around her waist and stuffing pillowcases into her bra. When she finished, she motioned to him. Take off your sweater, she said. That afternoon, in his first true act of citizenship, Dave wore five lacy bras across the border. 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 the golden orbs of Pluto's fire, 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.