Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Old Friends - The Wedding Dress & Jimmy Walker of Foggy Bottom Bay

Episode Date: May 9, 2025

“Dave was still a kid the night he and Jimmy met.” Stuart loved to write about old friends. This week we’ve chosen two of our favourite friendship stories – one will make you laugh, one might also make you cry.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Today on the show, two stories about old friends. This is something Stuart loved to write about. So we have lots of stories to choose from. We're gonna start with this one. Classic slapstick Dave. This is Stuart McLean with the wedding dress. Morley got Leslie's phone call early on a Saturday morning. I'm getting married said Leslie. Well that woke Morley up. Morley had been sitting at the kitchen table staring at a mug of coffee but now she was sitting there

with a smile stretching her face. That's great said Morley and then she paused to, she was madly hunting for a name. To Joe she said tentatively. Course to Joe said Leslie. Who else? Leslie and Morley have had a long, if not always consistent friendship. They met years ago when they were both starting in the theatre and their lives followed the same arc for time. Leslie got married the year after Morley and when their children were small, they spent a lot of time together.

But then life got busy as life tends to get, and they drifted apart. They came back in contact when Leslie's husband died. That was 12 years ago. Leslie and Joe had been seeing each other for about four months, but Morley hadn't met him yet. What's Katie think? said Morley. Katie is Leslie's daughter. Katie's really happy for me replied Leslie. Really happy. Katie loves Joe. And I can't wait for you to meet him. In the meantime, Leslie and Morley arranged to get together for lunch. They met in a little Italian place.

Now, I don't want you to be hurt, said Leslie to Morley as soon as they had ordered. I would have asked you, I would have asked you if it wasn't for Katie, but I asked Katie instead. I hope you're okay with that. Probably, said Morley. Morley didn't have a clue what Leslie was talking about. Made of honor, said Leslie. I had to ask Katie, but I'd like you to be the other bridesmaid. I'm planning a big traditional wedding, said Leslie, a big hall with dinner and music and

dancing. I wanted something completely different from my first wedding. It would be difficult, thought Morley, to have something that wasn't completely different from Leslie's first wedding. Year after graduation, Leslie and her boyfriend had quit their jobs and gone backpacking through Asia. They'd found a holy man, a Buddhist monk in a remote village in Nepal to marry them. Or at least they thought they had. They spoke no Nepali and the monk spoke no English, but with a series of exaggerated hand gestures they had managed to coax him into it. And they stood there, holding hands on a rocky mountainside, standing in front of the holy man

and beside their only witness, a confused sherpa guy. And they recited the vows that they had written the night before. And then the monk, in his wistful and sonorous voice, gave them what he thought they wanted. Directions to the market square in Kathmandu. And now, nearing the end of her forties, here was Leslie talking about seating arrangements and gift registries and wedding cakes and bridal showers. Morley found it sweet. As they were finishing their tea, Leslie leaned across the table and lowered her voice. We have to talk about your dress, she said.

Morley's warm feelings evaporated. If it is one thing Morley has learned about weddings, it is that bridesmaids' dresses are seldom kind to bridesmaids. Would you mind going shopping with Katie? asked Leslie. Few weeks later, Morley and Dave were sitting in a little pasta joint waiting for Leslie and Joe to arrive. Morley was nervous about meeting Joe, and when she spotted Leslie, she could feel her heart pounding.

Leslie was walking across the restaurant followed by a pleasant-looking young man in a dark suit. How nice, thought Morley. Leslie's daughter, Katie, and Katie's boyfriend must be joining them. Hope we haven't kept you waiting, said Leslie as she shed her coat and handed it to the young man. Joe, she said to him, this is Morley and Dave. Morley and Dave, this is Joe. It was as if a hinge at the back of Morley's mouth had given way. She sat at the table with her mouth hanging open. Luckily Joe and Leslie didn't notice. Leslie and

Joe were looking at the pool of beer pouring out of the bottle that Dave had dropped on the floor. Once they'd got the beer mopped up, everyone settled down at the table. Joe loosened his tie and took off his jacket. It's so great, he said to Dave and Morley, to meet Leslie's old friends. But all things considered, it was a pleasant evening. Joe, an investment banker, was apparently in his early 30s, although he looked a lot younger. Well, said Morley, as she and Dave walked home, that wasn't so bad. I'm so glad Leslie brought him along.

She had to bring him said Dave. If she had left him at home she would have had to have got a babysitter. Leslie's supposedly happy daughter Katie called Morley a week later to arrange their dress shopping trip. So you met Joe said Katie. Yes said Morley he seemed sweet. Sure said Katie if you like 12 year olds. We we went out to dinner said Morley. Sticking to the facts seemed like the safest tactic. Did you order from the children's menu, asked Katie? Katie and Morley met the next weekend to try on their bridesmaids' dresses.

And Katie, more or less, picked up where she had left off on the phone. I was counting on you to be on my side, said Katie, opening the door of the boutique where her mother had sent them. I think said Morley, it's um, Morley was trying to decide between lovely and difficult. She didn't have to. Katie decided for her. Katie interrupted. I think it's ridiculous said Katie.

He's closer to my age than he is to hers. It's like Lolita or something. Which by the way she didn't even let me read. And then she said she expects me to give a speech. I'm supposed to toast the bride. How am I supposed to say anything nice? I just want her to be sensible for a change. She's my mother. Yes, said Morley, she is your mother, but that's not all she is. And I don't think sensible is how love

works, even for mothers. They're both quiet for a moment, and in that moment, while Morley and Katie stared at each other, Morley saw in Katie the certainty of youth, certainty that she hadn't felt in decades. Leslie, meanwhile, was so happy and industrious with her wedding preparations that she was seemingly totally oblivious to Katie's opinion of the whole affair. As the weeks rolled by, Morley considered that a feat of extraordinary obtuseness. According to Stephanie, Katie had taken, at least

among her friends, to referring to her future stepfather as Joelita. And so it was that Morley made her way through Leslie's wedding day with trepidation at her side. Trepidation that would have turned to terror if she had known what was going on in the basement of the Big Pine Golf and Country Club, what was going on down there while she was storming around upstairs. But Morley was too busy to know. She and David arrived at the golf club hours before the ceremony. Morley had spent the morning running around looking after all the things that need looking after

when you're helping your friend on her wedding day. She was arranging flowers and arguing with a caterer and she was setting little name tags at all the place settings. Morley had her mind on so many things that she didn't notice that Dave had disappeared. Dave was just trying to do what he'd been told to do. What can I do? he'd asked his wife. You could stay out of my way, she said, as she stormed around.

Well, he couldn't just sit there while she worked like that. He helped a guy named Bruce hang a banner across the stage that said, congratulations. And then he helped with a P.A., which meant crawling under the stage, and it was pretty nasty under there. Then he horsed around with a little boy who was there while his mother delivered flowers, and the kid had a giant water pistol. So by the time Dave saw Morley struggling across the room with Leslie's wedding dress over one arm and a box of confetti in the other, he was both filthy and wet. He said, let me take that. He meant the box of confetti. Morley was about to hand him the wedding dress until she saw what a mess he was, and she took the dress herself and they went downstairs together. I can't leave you out of my sight for a minute, she said,

not without affection. They hung the dress in Leslie's change room, and Morley said, why don't you take a shower and I'll throw your clothes in the dryer? And Dave said, it's okay, I'll drip dry. And she gave him one of those Morley looks, and she said, it'll only take 20 minutes. I'll be back in 20 minutes.

And she went down to the end of the long hallway and she threw his clothes in the dryer. And then she went upstairs and when she got there the caterer asked her something about the meal and the florist asked her something about the flowers. And the fact that her husband was sitting downstairs with nothing on vanished from her mind. And twenty minutes became thirty, and when thirty became forty, Dave, alone in Leslie's change room knew he was in trouble. He knew what had happened and he knew what had to happen. He was going to have to make a dash to the dryer by himself. The dryer was at the other end of this huge clubhouse. David had gone through the change room from top

to bottom and everything he could possibly use to cover himself was laid out on the table in front of him. There were two linen hand towels each no bigger than a handkerchief. There was a hand embroidered decorative pillow and most promising his red sock. Which sadly had a hole in it. There had to be something else. It took Dave about ten minutes to wiggle himself into Leslie's wedding dress.

When he finished, he stood in front of the full-length mirror and stared at himself in horror. He was not only in another ridiculous pickle, he was also hairy and awkward and thick. He hauled the chair from the changing table to the mirror and he sat down and he stared at himself glumly. And that's what he was doing. Sitting in the chair, sipping his coffee, stalling. Part of him wondering vaguely if he was going to make it to the dryer without being seen. And another part of him horrified about how awkward he looked when the door opened.

It was Leslie's daughter, Katie. Dave was so deep in denial, so lost in his thoughts that he looked up at her absentmindedly Do you think this dress makes me look fat? Katie, who was standing in front of him, shook her head in disbelief. She said, no wonder my mother doesn't want to marry someone her own age. No wonder my mother doesn't want to marry someone her own age. And that's when Dave realized he was pouring what was left of his coffee into his lap. Don't worry said Katie, it's only her wedding dress. It took them ten minutes to get organized. Katie got Dave's clothes from the dryer and he changed in the bathroom and they laid the

dress out on the table like a corpse. The big brown coffee stain right in the middle. Dave circling the table like some kind of large, dim fish. trying to work out what they were going to do next. Twenty minutes later the dressing room looked like a kitchen pantry. There was baking soda and salt and soda water and a bottle of white wine. Is it any better said Dave? Dave was sitting on the floor in the corner with his head buried in his knees.

It's not as dark, said Katie, but it's quite a bit bigger. It took her half an hour to get it all out. How, Stephanie, by the way, said Katie, brushing a few stray grains of salt off the dress. I keep meaning to write her. Stephanie's fine, said Dave. She loves university. Is she going tree planting again this summer, asked Katie. I think so, said Dave. She had a great time the last couple of years. Katie was hanging her mother's dress on a rack in the corner. Katie said, I don't think I could do that. Well, I didn't think Stephanie could either, said Dave. I really thought her first summer was going to be a

disaster. I thought she was going to have a miserable, miserable time. Katie looked up, well why did you let her go then? And Dave looked surprised. Dave said, I don't know. I guess that's what parents do. We love our children, we hold them close, and then before we're anywhere near ready, we have to let them go. Sort of about love, but it's more about trust, I guess.

Maybe it's all about trust. I have to go, said Katie. I'm supposed to give a toast. I came down here to practice. Well, thanks for your help, said Dave. What are you going to say? Katie shrugged. I have this whole thing written out about how happy I am," she said, and about how much

I love Joe, but it feels weird. I don't know. I don't know if I can do it. What do you think I should do? She asked. I don't know, said Dave. I never know what to do. Do your best.

You'll be great. Dave didn't see Katie again until it was time for the photos. Katie was smiling gamely for the cameras, but it seemed like tears were never far off. While everyone was crowded around her mother on the steps of the church, Dave caught Katie standing by herself, off to the side, wiping her eyes. A week earlier, Morley had considered saying something to Leslie about having Katie speak at the ceremony. She had decided that it wasn't her place. Now she was having second thoughts. Joe's best man got up first and gave a brief but charming toast to the groom. The only awkward moment

was when he referred to the early 90s as the good old days. Then it was Katie's turn. Katie stood up and made her way to the podium unsteadily. Please God, thought Morley. And she reached out for Dave's hand, but Dave had gone to the washroom. And now Dave was standing by the door talking to Joe of all people, and they were both smiling. Katie was standing by the microphone. Katie had begun her speech, and Katie was standing by the microphone. Katie had begun her speech and Katie was saying,

three years ago I went away to university. I was pretty excited but I was worried too. My mom kept telling me how much fun I was going to have. Never occurred to me that me going away to school was going to be difficult on her. It was my grandmother who told me that she missed me so much that she cried every day for a month. Loving someone is easy. I have to love my mom. Sometimes trusting someone is harder. But in my whole life, I can't remember ever my mother making a mistake. My mom and dad lived their lives the way they wanted, and we were all happy. And then Katie started to cry, and she stopped talking, she stared at the floor, and the

room was completely silent. She looked up. I'm sorry, she said. This is hard for me. She glanced at Dave. I'm just trying to do my best, she said. And then she said, It's been hard for me to share my mom with someone else after all this time. But my mom has let me find my own way, my own happiness. And it's time for me to let her find hers too. Katie looked at Morley, and then she looked at her mother.

Mom, she said, I'm trying to say how proud I am of you. I'm proud that you have the courage to live your life the way you do. My mother's an extraordinary woman. I think we're supposed to toast her now. And everyone stood up and they raised their glasses to Leslie. And then they drank and danced and carried on late into the night. Morley and Dave took a cab home from the wedding that night. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi leaning up against her husband, Morley felt happy for her friend. As she and Dave laced their fingers together, Morley was thinking about how hard it is to predict how any marriage

is going to work out. People that you think are perfectly matched stumble and grow apart. Others who seem unlikely pairings at the outset end up celebrating their silver wedding anniversaries and then their gold. Morley closed her eyes and she rested her head against Dave's shoulder. She was thinking that what she wanted was that Leslie would enjoy the great good fortune in marriage that she had. She turned softly to Dave without opening her eyes. She said, that was fun tonight. Then she said, I love you. Dave shifted in the back of the cab, but he didn't say anything. Dave, she said, but it was too late. Dave was already snoring. Thank you very much. That was the wedding dress. We recorded that story in Rosebud, Alberta, back in 2006. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with

another story, so stick around. I have the best mother-in-law. Her name is Joni and I am so lucky to have inherited her as family. She's loving, thoughtful, supportive, and she's amazing at keeping in touch. Even though we live about seven hours apart, she has a great relationship with us and the kids. She sends little packages and cards in the mail just because. She's that kind of mom.

I try to do the same for her, but with two little kids and a full-time job, I don't do as good of a job as I'd like. And that's why I'm so excited about my Mother's Day gift for her this year. It's an Aura digital frame, a frame where we can share our family photos directly with her. I just send them from my phone and they pop up in her frame, another province away. Aura has a great deal for Mother's Day.

For a limited time, listeners can save on the perfect gift by visiting auraframes.com to get $45 off plus free shipping on their best-selling Carver Mat Frame. That's A-U-R-A-Frames.com. Use promo code VINAL. Support the show by mentioning us at checkout. Terms and conditions apply. And I was hoping this would be a surprise, but since I know Joni listens to the podcast, well, happy Mother's Day. I love you so much.

ACAS powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend. How did the internet go from this? You could actually find what you were looking for right away, by to this. I feel like I'm in hell. Spoiler alert it was not an accident I'm Cory Doctorow host of who broke the internet from CBC's understood in this four-part series I'm gonna tell you why the internet sucks now whose fault it is and my plan to fix it. Find who broke the

internet on whatever terrible app you get your podcasts. ACAST helps creators launch, grow, and monetize their podcasts everywhere. acast.com. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Stuart McLean with Jimmy Walker of Foggy Bottom Bay. The vast of yule between two cars on a passenger train is one of the few spaces in the world of transportation that has remained untouched during the last 50 odd years. We have flown to the moon, we can scoot around this old earth on the world wide web, but if we want to walk from the club car to the dining car, that is if we're lucky enough to find a train that has either

of those things anymore. We still have to lurch through the same accordion walled rattle trap that our mothers and fathers lurched through. More likely than not, past those same Dutch doors, ones that open at the top so the attendant can gaze out at the platform as the train we're on pulls in or out of the station. Or as Dave used to do, hang out himself as he rattled along, the prairie being his favorite place to do this, his head out the window and his mind in the clouds.

Weren't supposed to do that, of course, even back then. Even back then it was against the rules. Back then, conductors and porters weren't as fussed by rules as they are today. Today the lawyers have their hands on the throttle, so Dave, with a wary eye to time's heavy hammer, was trying to be circumspect as the train he was on swayed past the Prescott Golf Club in the adjacent village, a short 15 minutes by his reckoning to the town he was waiting for. The train wasn't going to stop there, or it wasn't scheduled to, so he knew he would have

to move fast. Ten minutes, he said, to the empty seat beside him. He sat there for an unbearable seven, with one eye on the wave of fields rolling by his window and the other on his watch. After seven minutes, he could sit no longer, and he stood up and he swayed to the end of the car as if he were going to the washroom. And when he got there he checked to see that no one was looking

and when he saw the coast was clear he opened the vestibule door and he stepped out into the rattle. They were coming up on the edge of the town already and they didn't seem to be slowing. He thought they would slow. He stepped close to the door so he couldn't be seen from either the car ahead or the one behind. And he reached up and he unlatched the top lever. It was exactly the way he remembered it. The door swung open and a gush of cool air rushed in

and he stepped back and he reached into his coat pocket and he pulled out a manila envelope. The kind they might hand you if you had a job that paid you in cash. On the front of it, in a neat blue hand, someone had printed Jimmy Walker, On the front of it, in a neat blue hand, someone had printed Jimmy Walker, Foggy Bottom Bay, Newfoundland. Dave opened the envelope and looked in.

The train blew its whistle and it was so startling, he almost dropped the envelope. Then he stuck his head out the door. For a moment he thought he was on the wrong side of the train. For a moment he thought he had remembered it wrong. And then he saw the red tiled roof and the gray wood building, the Brockville train station. It was just as he remembered. The whistle blew again. Okay,

Jimmy, he said. Here goes nothing. And he leaned out and he shook the envelope empty and then he let it go. Watched it disappear, flying away like litter from a car's window. See ya, he said. Jimmy Walker, foggy bottom bay Newfoundland. Dave was still a kid the night he and Jimmy met. They were both still kids. They had met on that very train. Well, almost that very train. They had been heading in the opposite direction.

They were heading east the night they met on the Montreal train. Dave had been heading home. In Montreal, you get the ocean limited, leave at supper, arrive in Halifax the next night, 24 hours, more or less. Jimmy, well, whenever they got together and one of them started reminiscing, neither of them could remember where Jimmy was going or what he was up to. No good, probably. It was a long time ago, of course. Neither of them were married yet, though Dave was into the touring and Jimmy working construction in Toronto. Maybe on the CN Tower, maybe something else. Dave

wasn't sure. Something high anyway. The point is they were both young and they both had money burning holes in their pockets. The moment they saw each other they knew they were kindred spirits. Two boys from the East Coast, one from Cape Breton, one from Newfoundland. They could just tell. Before they knew it they were sitting in the dining car together. This is in the days when there still was a dining car on the Montreal train. Prime rib and linen tablecloths, waiters and white jackets and those two sitting there like big shots clattering by all the same little towns, the same fields, the same little marinas.

Sun going down, the tables cleared and Dave and Jimmy still sitting there with a fresh round, which is to say it was as perfect a moment as moments can be. How often in your life are you aware that you are actually making a new friend while it is actually happening? As he closed the window, Dave remembered that long ago train trip as clearly as if it was yesterday. How perfect it had been sitting there with Jimmy. Now in those days when the train got to the Brockville station, it used to stop and it was split into two trains.

The front one would continue to Montreal. The back one would peel off to Ottawa. Somehow Dave and Jimmy, who had both taken this train many times before and should have known better, missed the announcement. And you got to know there was more than one. So when they finally got up and tried to walk back to their seats, they got about four cars along, opened the door, and instead of their car, all they could see was a mile of empty track.

Their half of the train, the front half, the Montreal half, had left without them. Only thing that seemed to make sense was to get off there in Brockville, and that's what they did. They got off and they went into the station. It was 9 o'clock at night. The station master told Dave the next train to Montreal, which was the overnight train, wouldn't be long until 4 in the morning. He said he was going home to bed but Dave and Jimmy could sleep

on the waiting room benches if they'd like. He'd lock them in. When Dave tried to explain that to Jimmy, Jimmy pointed at the guy he was talking to. This is Roy. We're going to Roy's house. Roy happened to be at the station buying a ticket for the next day. While Dave was dealing with the station master,

Jimmy had made friends with Roy and Roy had invited them over. You can watch TV in the basement, said Roy. They ended up in the kitchen. Roy's wife made chili. They drank beer, ate chili, and talked until just after three They ended up in the kitchen. Roy's wife made chili. They drank beer, ate chili, and talked until just after three when Roy poured them into a cab.

That sort of thing happened all the time when you were around Jimmy. You made memories. Now as I mentioned, or more to the point, as it was written on that envelope, the envelope that David's throwing out the window, Jimmy was from Foggy Bottom Bay. Which is to say, Jimmy grew up as a Bayman. His daddy was a Bayman too. And his mother. They were Bayman all the way down in Jimmy's family, which meant Jimmy grew up loving the gray salt smell of seaweed and the grinding crash of surf on gravel. That's how he used to describe it to people from away, the grinding crash

of the surf. Jimmy had a way with words. He'd tell you all about the bay and all about the town and the meals his mom would feed you if you came home with him. Fish and brews, moose and brews, jigs dinner and tur. Oh, Jimmy would say a tur in the oven is such a sweet thing. Which of course is something only a bayman would say, because if you've ever been in a house when there's a tur in the oven, you know it's not a sweet thing at all.

It is a gamey thing, nothing like a turkey. Tur does not fill your house with thoughts of Thanksgiving. Well, it fills my heart with Thanksgiving, Jimmy used to say, not to mention my stomach. Jimmy was a Bayman to the core, and though he did move around some, he loved nothing better than to sit down at a table with a black horse in his fist and tell stories. Now he'd say,

did they learn you about the Margin War in Upper Canada? Jimmy thought of himself as a student of history, but like everything else about him, Jimmy's take on history was not from the mainstream. Jimmy loved his history from the margins. The thing is, well well according to Jimmy anyway, well the thing is that margarine was outlawed across the Dominion of Canada soon after Confederation.

In 1886, Jimmy would say, except for a spell during the butter shortage of World War I, you couldn't make or sell margarine in Canada from 1886 until pretty much 1950. Because they wanted to protect your dairy farmers, Jimmy would say. But we didn't have no dairy farmers to protect at home, so we didn't have no margarine laws. And then Jimmy would sit back and tell the story

of his two uncles who used to smuggle margarine into Halifax. EverSweet or Good Luck or whatever the popular brands were back then. And when we come into Confederation, are we going to give up our EverSweet? Not on your life, Jimmy would say. Not on your life Jimmy would say not on your life my son so the business of margarine became part of the terms of confederation it's right there in the Newfoundland Act term

forty six if you care to check we could make it but we weren't allowed to sell it to the mainland and that was some good margarine my son, it was made of fish oil that margarine. Jimmy like most people who have a thing for history had a thing for trains too and it was Jimmy who long after it had stopped running hatched the plan for they could all take a ride on the Newfie bullet. The bullet was the narrow gauge railway that ran across Newfoundland and was shut down, torn up, and replaced by the hated road cruiser. Road cruiser, Jimmy would say rolling his eyes, that'd be a bus in English. Then he would cock his head and take a pull of his black horse and he would say, you know, you can read all about the bullet in the Bible.

And he would leave that hanging there for as long as he thought he could. Jimmy had excellent timing. And then he would smile real slow and he'd add, yup, right in the Bible, right there where it says, the Lord made all things that creep and crawl. Twenty-seven hours and twenty-three minutes, said Jimmy, St. John's to Port Obasque, average twenty miles an hour. It was Jimmy who found out that when the bullet was mothballed, they had sold the engines, the cars, and even

some of the rails to a scatter of South American dictators, Bolivia, Chile, and Nicaragua. It was Jimmy who organized the trip down there. Although in typical Jimmy style, something happened along the way and they ended up on a cattle ranch in Argentina and never saw a train. But that's a whole other story. Yeah, said Jimmy, there was a misunderstanding at the border. Which border has never been clear? Anyway, Foggy Bottom, the bay where Jimmy was born and raised. If you haven't been there, you've been to places just like it.

It's no more than a handful of houses strung along the shore road, odd lane drifting into the hills on the right or down to the water on the left, each lane connecting a few homes and then doubling back to the road along the way. There are no sidewalks anywhere, not even today, or numbers on the houses either. In the phone book everyone has exactly the same address, foggy bottom. Half the houses are the square flat roof twostory cottages you see on the postcards. Other half are new bungalows. When Dave met Jimmy on the train that night,

Jimmy had just bought a lot from one of his smuggling uncles for a dollar. That's what everyone would do in those days, get a cheap lot from someone in the family and then you'd build your bungalow bit by bit as you could afford it. Soon as it was finished, you got married. But not before. You might have a kid or two before. But you get the bungalow finished before you walk down the aisle. Getting married was built would be a sin. They were still fishing in the bay when Jimmy was a boy. Everyone

worked with the fishery. The men in the boats and the women and the kids and the plants. Anyone who grew up in Foggy Bottom could clean a cod so fast you'd swear the fish had zippers in them. So Jimmy built his bungalow and he got married, married a girl named Rhonda, and they had a couple of kids and lived pretty much like Jimmy's grandfather had lived. Put moose in the freezer, snared rabbits, went berry picking with the neighbors, baked apples and partridge berries. You don't need a whole lot more.

They fished in the summer, cut wood in the winter, and if times were hard, if the fishing was poor or you needed extra cash, you could work at one of the American bases. And then the Americans disappeared, and so did the Cod. And soon after that, all the men did too. Jimmy went to Toronto, worked construction, and he and Dave would collide from time to time. One night they were sitting outside a little club in the market.

Jimmy waved his beer in the air and said, you know, the roar of the traffic can sound like the sea. Then he added, but it's not the same. And then Jimmy headed west. And I don't want to say they lost touch because there's a certain kind of friend you never lose touch with. Doesn't matter how long it is since you last saw them. Could be years, could be ten years. You're still in touch. Because you're connected by something that's more fundamental

than touch, more basic than conversation. But there was a stretch, maybe 10 years, they didn't see each other. And then Jimmy and Dave ran into each other at the airport. Yellow knife, said Dave. Just for a year or two said Jimmy. Past three years said Jimmy, I've been working at Fort McNewfoundland. He was driving a truck, if you want to call it a truck, more than two stories high, more like driving a house. Weighed a million and a half pounds fully loaded.

Still boggles my mind said Jimmy every day. Twenty days on, ten days off. They flew him home and back. Bust from camp to a private strip about an hour away from the site where he had to wait on the bus with everyone else till his number was called. No running on the tarmac, no pushing, no shoving, no assigned seats and no one wants to sit in the middle. At first, Rhonda would

come and pick him up and then drive home to the bay, but that was crazy. An eight-hour flight across the country and then another five for the drive. Jimmy curled up in the back seat fast asleep, Rhonda blinking away behind the wheel. So they moved to St. John's. It's not so bad said Jimmy, but I'm only doing it for the money. He could make double what he could make at home. Jimmy tried to stay on Alberta time when he was on his week off. Said it made the transitions easier. Living in Newfoundland and Alberta at the same time. Rhonda would go to bed and he would stay up.

Go out walking around midnight. Take the dog with them down by the water. Stop in the Thames and hook the dog outside. Have a tea or a bun. There was a girl there that would slip my muffin for the dog. That's what they talked about the last time Dave and Jimmy had dinner.

About the traveling back and forth and how St. John's was prospering and how it was getting harder and harder to have one foot here and one foot there. Sometimes on those long nights, he said, he'd head up to Signal Hill for the sunrise. It can be awful pretty said Jimmy. The sun coming out of the sea, everything turning orange. That's the last thing they talked about, the sunrise. Because then he died two months ago now. Dave didn't even know he was sick. He went to the funeral. He'd been to Newfoundland before,

but that was the first time he'd been out to the bays. He had a lot of firsts on that trip. Saw his first iceberg and his first whale. Heard the grinding sound of the surf on the gravel. Just like Jimmy described. He spent his last night in St. John's, set his alarm for 5 a.m. and went for a walk down on water, stopped in at the Thames on Duckworth, and then up to Signal Hill for the sunrise. Was it beautiful? asked his friend Kenny when he got home. Was it all molten and gold and

pouring out of the sea the way he said? It was said Dave. It came up slow and beautiful just the way he described it. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, or I imagine it was. It was pretty foggy so I couldn't actually see it. But I imagine it was. It was while he was in Foggy Bottom that Jimmy's wife gave Dave the envelope. Everyone got one. Well, not everyone, but Dave saw more than a couple of guys with him. The envelope came with a letter.

The letter was from Jimmy. Instructions, said Rhonda. And then she said said open it later. Open Jimmy's first. So Dave put both envelopes in his coat pocket and opened Jimmy's back at the hotel. Take the train to Brockville it said and sprinkle them at the station. That was a sweet night and I am glad for it. Lucky to have known you. Love you bro. So Dave changed his flight and instead of going right home he went to Montreal and got on the train and just before Brockville he got up and he pretended to walk to the washroom and he

looked around and when he saw that no one was looking he went out into the vestibule and he opened the top half of the door and he scattered some of Jimmy Walker's ashes out onto the tracks. See you, Jimmy, he said. A true Bayman, and like all the Baymen before him, blown away by the wind of these so-called modern times. A little bit of him here, a little bit there. That's how he had lived his life and that's how he was taking his leave. The rocks and the rails, the sea breeze

and the train whistle were all mixed up now. A train clattering on the rails like surf on a stone beach. The train whistle blowing in the lonely night like a horn in a fog. Over and over, the foggy days and the long dark nights. Dave shut the door and stood there in the vestibule. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was going to miss him. That was the story we called Jimmy Walker of Boggy Bottom Bay.

We recorded that story at the Arts and Culture Centre in St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador back in 2013. All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was far more tense about what awaited him in the liquor store than he was about losing his credit card. He could see himself standing in front of the liquor store clerk, his cap in his hand, and then he did the only sensible thing he could think of doing. He picked up the telephone and he dialed the bank

and he said, I'd like to report a stolen credit card. Now he should have said lost. Lost credit card, but theft seemed to have more dignity to it. And Dave was feeling woefully low on dignity. Now, if he had remembered that at that moment, that if he had remembered at that moment that Saturday was Sam's birthday party, and that the reason he had wanted the wine in the first place was so when everyone was in bed, he and Morley could quietly toast the anniversary of the birth of their second child. If he had remembered these things,

Dave might have acted differently. But he had forgotten the birthday. He had forgotten that six of Sam's friends had been invited over for supper and sleep over that very night. The birthday and the party had just flown right out of his head. Forgotten that he had agreed to order pizza and a cake and get a movie. Forgotten that Morley was going shopping for presents on

her way to work. In fact, at the very moment, Dave was reporting his stolen credit card. At that very moment, Morley was wheeling a shopping cart towards the cash register at Toys R Us. Oh Dave, 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 someone I'd pay a lot of money to see wearing a wedding dress, Greg DeCloote.

Theme music is by Danny Michelle and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloote and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now. Acas powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend. How did the Internet go from this... You could actually find what you were looking for right away, bound to this...

I feel like I'm in hell. Spoiler alert, it was not an accident. I'm Cory Doctorow, host of Who Broke the Internet from CBC's Understood. In this four-part series, I'm gonna tell you why the internet sucks now, whose fault it is, and my plan to fix it. Find who broke the internet on whatever terrible app you get your podcasts. Acast helps creators launch, grow,

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