Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - REWIND WEDNESDAY: Summer Things - Dave and Morley, Dancing

Episode Date: August 19, 2026

"Dave said: 'You're thinking about dancing, aren't you?'"We’re looking towards summer on today’s episode. We have a script Stuart wrote about a magical evening spent in pursuit of fireflies. And a story of summer evenings in Dave and Morley’s neighbourhood.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. Just a few more weeks of school to go. The kids are excited, that teachers are exhausted, and we seem to be busy every single night with one party or another. and like 17 different end-of-year school concerts. The end-of-school emails are so intense. The other day I sat down to organize our family calendar

and I pulled out all of the emails from Annabelle's preschool and all of the emails from Eloise's grade one teacher and all of the group chat messages from various parent groups and sport groups. It took me two hours, two hours to organize my kids' social calendars. They're five years old and seven years old. I am so ready for things to slow down. I am so ready for summer. So today on the podcast, it's summertime. First, a script Stuart wrote about a magical summer evening spent in the company of the quintessential summer bug. And before you say it, no, not the black fly. And not the mosquito either. In the second half of the show, we're going to play a summary Dave and Morley story. But first, this. This is Stuart McLean. From the Piggery Theatre in North Hatley, Quebec, it's the Vinyl Cafe with Stuart McLean.

Well, I received a phone call from my friend Peter Sybil Brown the other day. Peter heard that I was coming here to the eastern townships, and he called to tell me about a friend of his, a photographer who was a farm not far away. called to tell me I should go and meet his friend and watch him work. He takes pictures without a camera, said Peter, of things we cannot see. Takes photographic paper outside at night and floats it in his pond and exposes it to the light of the moon.

Well, who could pass up something like that? So last Friday night at twilight, I found myself driving along a warm, washed out dirt road, about an hour south of here, a dirt road off a dirt road, driving up a mountain to the farm where the photographer Michael Flomann spends his weekends and does much of his work. You're in luck, he said when I arrived. The fireflies are back. I'm taking pictures of fireflies tonight. Well, maybe. Because Michael Flomond doesn't take pictures the way you or I For 20 years, Flomann was a street photographer.

He worked in the style of Cartier-Bresson, taking pictures of people, no editing, no cropping. It was a good discipline, he said. And then one summer evening, he was sitting on the balcony of his farm where he and I were sitting last Friday night, and fireflies started to emerge in the fields in front of him, one by one.

As the darkness settled, they filled the field in front of him in full firefly orchestra. And Michael Floman had one of those moments. He wanted to take their picture, but he didn't want to do it in the traditional way. He ran inside and he got himself a piece of film. He came back out and caught a firefly in his hand. He placed the firefly on the film and watched to see if it might explain. the negative with its pulsing light. It did.

And so began his grand adventure. Flomans' firefly pictures are unlike anything you have ever seen. First off, they're huge. Four by eight feet, some of them. And at first glance, indecipherable. You have no idea what you're looking at. Don't know where you're standing in relation to what you're looking at. at. There's no horizon, no up, and no down. What you do see are white dots of light against a

gray background. But when you understand what has happened, when you understand that a firefly has placed those white dots on the film by dancing across it and leaving a record of their dance, well, then the pictures become magic. They're called photograms. said Michael, because they're taken without a camera. He uses big negatives, eight by ten inches, because the big of the negative, the more details you get. This is big boy film, says Flomond. This is the stuff that Karsh used.

Well, night is fallen, and Flomond is getting ready to work. He's going to take ten pictures tonight, and he's putting each of the ten negatives, he's going to use into light-sealed boxes. We're going to take the boxes of film into a field several hundred yards away. Before we leave, however, he runs around the house,

turning off lights and blowing out candles. Doesn't want to risk even the faintest light, the dimmest of light, bleeding out of the house across the field and onto the film. Doesn't want any light polluting the pictures. Good night to work, he says, as we cross the lawn and set off for the field behind the old barn. A field of tall grass that is already glowing with fireflies.

Shimmering twinkles, little lanterns flying here and there, as if he's farming stars. You should see it on a starry night, says Michael, when you have the stars above you and the fireflies below. You feel as if you're flying, floating in space. We stepped into the tall grass of the field to begin the night's work, and as we push through the rustling grass, we lower our voices. Soon we're whispering. I can't tell if we're doing this because we're worried we might scare the fireflies away, or because we've

entered the world of the night, a world that asks silence of us all. Sometimes it scares me, says Michael, softly. Sometimes I'll be lying down in the dark, working with the grass all around me. I'll be buried in the grass, and I'll hair rustle, and the hair on my neck will stand up. Probably it's only a vole. Generally, they're not things out here that would eat me. But it reminds me of my place in all of this. I may be human, but out here I'm not on the top of the totem pole anymore.

I'm reminded that I'm in a relationship with everything on this planet. And I like being reminded of that. His voice is becoming even softer, but more intense at the same time. There is an urgency now to our conversation. I sense a familiar boy-like quality saddle upon. on us. We are, after all, chasing fireflies, and Michael is carrying a child's butterfly net. But this intensity, too. A combination of work brushed with the intensity of play. And now Michael has sunk to his knees. He has caught his first firefly. He's holding it in his hand,

and he's reaching for his first negative. He's forgotten all about me. He opens the box in the dark of the night and fumbles the negative out. He pushes it down on top of the bug, trapping it between the grass and the film. The firefly is on the ground with a film roof over it.

And Michael is lying on his stomach using his body to shadow the negative from the faint ghost of moon. The bug blasts the negative with its bioluminescence. It's like a dance, says Michael. I'm involved in the event. I'm holding the film and how I hold it affects what happens. It's like a silent conversation.

We're like a pilot and a co-pilot. We may not be talking, but we're working together. After three, maybe four, maybe four minutes, Michael puts the negative back in the box. He stands up. The firefly floats away. I'm mindful, says Michael, that I am interrupting them. Mindful that they're not out here looking for me. They're looking for mates. That's what the light's about. They're looking for each other. A fine. Firefly lives for a year, two at the most. They spend nearly all of their life underground,

living as little beetle larvae. And then, after living underground for so many months, through the summer and the fall and the winter, they emerge on a warm spring night for their fairy dance. They come out of the ground with wings, and they twinkle like stars in the grasses and in the fields and in the ditches along the sides of the roads. Their dance lasts for two or three weeks, and when it's done, so are they. If you asked him, Michael Flowman would tell you that he's trying to answer the big questions with his photographs.

sometimes he might say the biggest questions are answered by the littlest things that was Stuart McClain at the Piggery theater in North Hatley, Quebec. We recorded that back in 2011. 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. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Stuart McLean with Dave and Morley dancing.

On warm summer evenings, like last night, after dinner was done and before there were kids, sometimes even after there were kids, back in the summers when the kids were still young and the world was too, Dave and Morley would often go for a walk after dinner, sometimes to the park, sometimes to the bookstore, sometimes even on, on, muggy nights for ice cream, or even just around and about, round and about the neighborhood, into the church of the trees, through the cathedral of comfort. They would inevitably run into someone, they'd inevitably stop and chat.

We don't do that anymore, said Morley. Why don't we do that? We lost the habit, said Dave. Or maybe Arthur. It was such a lovely habit to have. To leave the dishes in the sink or better to get them done. So when they came back from their walk, there was nothing to do. Or nothing pressing.

To put the dog on the leash, Arthur, said Dave. It was gone now. How many summers? Still miss them, said Dave. Well, they all did. but it didn't mean they shouldn't walk. And so on a warm night a few weeks ago, they did the dishes and they went for a walk. Which way, said Dave, as they walked out the door.

That way, said Morley, pointing up the street. And up the street they went with no destination in mind. They came across the birthday party on their way home. A squeal of little girls flying around a front yard with sparklers. Little fairies in gauzy-tool tutus. Neon and pastel, satin trim and ribbons. Little girls and tutus writing in the sky with fire. They stopped and watched.

Dave talked to one of the fathers, but they didn't watch long. They left before the tears, before someone grabbed a hot sparkler end. And as they walked, the sparkling girls still sparkling in their heads, Dave said, you're thinking about dancing, aren't you? And Morley laughed, that's exactly what I was thinking. How'd you remember that? How could he not? It was another summer, a summer long ago and far away. The summer Morley was seven.

An only child. Her dad, Roy, was a policeman. Her mother, Helen, stayed at home. Under the watchful eye of the policeman and his wife, Morley grew up in a home of order. The mornings belong to Roy. Roy got up first. By the time Morley and Helen came downstairs, he had coffee in the pot and oatmeal on the stove. He'd make the coffee and set the oatmeal simmering, and then he'd sit at the table and open the morning newspaper.

Helen would serve what he had made, oatmeal with brown sugar, toast with jam. Roy read the sports. Morley read the comics, and Helen stood by the stove. dinner was at six meat, potato and veg except Saturdays when Helen would let loose with a casserole or if she was feeling wild macaroni and cheese

Mondays was laundry Tuesdays ironing Fridays Helen vacuumed and dusted they lived a life of routine that extended into civilities and leisure Roy would compliment each meal you've outdone yourself again.

Helen would ask if you'd like dessert. But why she asked was a mystery. He always wanted dessert. Morley never heard her father decline. Morley was unaware things worked differently in other homes. Until she went to school and began her independent life. Staying at a friends for dinner or even overnight. Entering the knockabout world where children chasing.

each other from room to room and hair is pulled and toys fought over, where beds are left unmade and clothing piles up on bedroom floors, the world where mothers shout at children and fathers bark at mothers. None of these things happened in Morley's house. In Morley's house there were no siblings to squabble with, no parents to divide and conquer, arguing and never occurred to morally. The rules in her house were unassailable, immutable, because they weren't rules. They were the way of the world, the way things were done. Her world was peaceful and quiet. Her parents, a united front. And then came the election. City Hall. The four-term mayor was standing for his record setting fifth term, and the police union was lined up behind him.

The son of Greek immigrants, who had a car dealership, he was a salesman by birth and a glad hander as mayor. His father had made a name for himself driving a 1928 Cadillac town sedan, once owned by Al Capone. The mayor booted around in a vintage thunderbird he claimed to be Marilyn Monroe's. For the first time, however, he had a challenger, a university professor, a good-looking man, like a young Jack Kennedy, toothy smile, thick hair. Helen knew his family. Without asking, she let them put a sign up on the front lawn. Without asking Roy, I mean.

That evening, Morley draped over the back of the living room sofa, saw her father pull into the driveway, get out of the car, walk across the lawn, and stare at the sign with his mouth hanging open. While he stared, the car which he had just leapt out of began to roll slowly back down the driveway toward the street. Morley knocked on the window and pointed. Roy waved back. Morley waved frantically. Roy glanced over his shoulder. He ran back to the car, a car instantly.

He had bought from the mayor's dealership. Roy ran back to the car and leaned on the back fender, as if he could stop its roll with his body. Then he hopped back to the driver's door and he jumped in. The car shuddered and stopped. Morley watched him get out of it a second time, wave at her a second time, march back to the sign a second time, and then pull it from the ground and carry it. towards the house. He walked right into the kitchen. What are you thinking, he said to Helen, holding the sign up. He is going to close down the department. You want me to lose my job?

How are we going to survive if I lose my job? It was a point of pride for Roy that he was the breadwinner. More than once, he had told Morley, your mother's never worked a day in her life. It wasn't meant as a criticism. He loved her dearly. What he was trying to say was he looked after her, and he always would. It never occurred to Roy that Helen might like a job, but then it never occurred to Helen either. What had occurred to Helen was that young John Chazarella would be a better mayor than the glad-handing cigar-smoking four-term car salesman. He won't close the police department, she said to Morley as she put her to bed. That is just foolish nonsense.

She called the Chasaralla Campaign Office the next morning and told them to put up another sign. Mine was vandalized, she said. We'll report it to the police, said the people from the campaign. Good idea, said Helen. You are being ridiculous, said Roy, when he came home that night. Do you want the city to fall apart? Do you want our taxes to go up? Do you want me to lose my job, criminals running free in the street?

Morley's mother didn't want any of those things, but she didn't want to take the sign down either. Morley saw the flush rise in her mother's cheeks, and then she watched in amazement as her mother heaved the watermelon she was carrying across the kitchen at her father. You cut this, said Halif. She threw it in anger, in frustration, but it was a friendly throw to him, not at him, underhand. He should have caught it. But he wasn't expecting it. Who would expect that?

And anyway, the throw was short. Morley stared in disbelief as the watermelon exploded on the kitchen floor. The three of them stared at the pink juice. juicy mess of it for a silent moment, and then Helen stormed off. Morley, who was sitting at the kitchen table, looked at her father. Why is mummy so mad, she said. And so, the sign stayed up. Roy knew when to retreat, but he wasn't happy about it. It's embarrassing, said Roy. The next day he came home from work with a bigger sign for the other guy, the incumbent. Morley watched from the living room as he pounded it into the lawn. A certain tension settled on the house. Morley was seven years

old and she had never seen her parents like this. She lay in bed at night and she fratted. She had no one to talk to. If she'd had a brother or a brother or a friend. a sister, they could have talked about it, but she was all along. And it was clear to her that just like Kathy read its parents, her mother and father were about to get a divorce. And just like Kathy, she would be called into a courtroom, where she would have to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then make her declare which of them she wanted to live with.

Or worse, the authorities would find out about the watermelon. And they would take Morley away and she would have to live in a foster home. She'd have to be careful not to mention the watermelon in court. Or maybe she could run away. A week before the election, Roy went to Niagara Falls. It was the annual Police Association convention. Usually Morley's mom packed her father's suitcase. Pack your own, said Helen.

I don't know what I wear, said Roy. Morley sat on the end of her parents' bed while her father pulled clothes from his dresser. Do these go with brown pants? asked Roy, holding up a pair of white socks. Morley shrugged. He left on Friday morning. On Friday night,

a giddy carnival-like atmosphere settled upon the house. Morley and Helen ate dinner in front of the television. They had never done that before. Not only that, they each had a frozen TV dinner. Breaded chicken, mashed potatoes, and frozen peas in an aluminum tray. Each food group with its own little compartment. Morley had dreamed having a TV dinner, but she'd never imagined her dream could come true.

On Election Eve, the reality of what was about to happen hit Roy like a ton of bricks. The three of them were about to walk up to the school. where Roy and Helen would cast their ballots when Roy, who was sitting on the hall chair, tying his shoes, had a revelation. Helen was about to cancel his vote. Wait a minute, wait a minute, he said. Morley could see her father trying to stay calm. He led her mother into the kitchen and began to explain it to her. This is a democracy, he said.

If you don't vote for the mayor, my vote isn't going to count. You're going to cancel my vote. Morley saw her mother shrug her shoulders. Don't you know how important it is for each vote to count? Said her dad. Finally, he stormed off by himself. Is he coming back? asked Morley. They watched the election results on television.

The incumbent won. See, said Roy, I told you. But your vote didn't count, said Helen. It took a few weeks, but things slowly returned to normal, though not in Morley's mind. As far as Morley was concerned, everything had changed. She could see things were better, but she knew it had been a near miss. And Morley didn't know that near misses were possible. She didn't even know that shots could be fired.

She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. She kept waiting for the end of the world. And then came Saturday, July 1st, Firecracker Day. In the morning, Morley went over to Sarah Lockhead's house to play. As soon as she got there, Sarah took her into the kitchen and showed her the box of fireworks on top of the refrigerator. Darkness comes slowly when you're seven years old and you're waiting on fireworks. The morning dragged. The afternoon dragged.

Supper dragged. Morley, way too excited to eat, was finally allowed up from the table. She ran outside and saw what she feared in her heart. The sky not yet dark. Once again, there she was, pacing in the lobby of the Church of Delayed Pleasure. Slowly the huddle of dads and the cluster of mums formed. And the kids jumped around them until Sarah's father caught Sarah's mothers raised eyebrow and he said, okay everyone.

And it began. The cobalt cannon, the sky storm, the screaming banshee. Everyone stand back, said Sarah's dad. Little explosions on the driveway, some of them even reaching as high as the second floor windows. They ended with sparklers. The kids dancing around like pixies, fountains of little stars, following them like that night would follow them for the rest of their lives. And then to bed. And that was that. except it wasn't.

Helen tucked her in, but Morley was too excited to sleep. She lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. When she heard her parents' voices in the backyard, she got out of bed and went to her window to see if she could spy on them. The sky was black now. All she could see of the yard, through the leaves of the maple were shadows.

All she could hear was the murmur of her parents talking to each other over the kitchen radio. The murmur of their voices and the music drifting through the branches. It was Bing Crosby. He was singing, I've got a pocket full of dreams. Suddenly, there was a flare.

It scared her, and she got. And then she leaned forward and she saw her mother in outline sitting on the porch holding a sparkler. As she watched, a second one flared. And then she saw her mother who was holding the two sparklers get up and walk over to her father, who was standing by the tree. He took one of the sparklers in one hand and wrapped his other around her mother's waist. And they began to dance right. there on the lawn by the sandbox, each of them holding a sparkler in their hands. Her mom was laughing,

except it didn't sound like her mom. It sounded like someone younger. Her father was saying something, but she couldn't make out the words. She heard her mother's laugh and her father's murmur. And then she saw Helen put her head on Roy's shoulder. And Bing Crosby was on the radio. And the sparkles from the sparklers fell about them as if they were comets. And they were floating in the sky. It didn't make sense to her. How could they dance like that? Didn't they realize how upset they were? Didn't they know about the divorce? Morley fell asleep in the chair she was kneeling on, the chair by the window,

curled up with her little stuffed hippo, her popo, she called it. She woke a few hours later to see her mother and father standing in the doorway staring at her. She pretended she was still asleep when her father picked her up and carried her to her bed. He laid her down and her mother tucked the blankets around her and kissed her on the forehead.

She pretended she was asleep the whole time. And she always thinks of that night whenever she sees fireworks. The flares, the flashes, all the floating bits, and Bing Crosby and her mother and father dancing on the lot. How could I forget that? said Dave. They were home now. I'd never forget that, said Dave. And that is when he reached into his back pocket and pulled out two sparklers. Where did you get those? said Morley, laughing like a younger version of herself. Back there, said Dave, nodding up the street. Back at the party when I talked to the father. And he said, wait, here and he ran inside and he got a match and he lit one of them and then he lit the second one by holding the tip of the unlit one against the tip of the other and when the second one flared he gave it to her and then he held out his arms and he said may i have this dance

and so they danced on their lawn and while they danced he hummed the I've got a pocket full of dreams, quietly and endearingly off key. And that was on a night a few weeks ago when the cicadas were humming, and Dave and Morley had just come back from the first walk they had taken for years. That was the story we called Dave and Morley dancing. I love that ending. We recorded that story at a wonderful old dance hall, Danceland, in Manitou Beach, Saskatchewan. We had such an incredible time there, and if you want to hear more about it, you can. Just scroll back in your podcast feed to June 23 and listen to our first Postcards from Canada bonus episode. Stuart talks all about Danceland and about his own experience dancing.

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 so Dave changed his mind. And Sam and Murphy went to Cape Breton by train alone. On the day they left, Dave packed them food and drove them to the station. Sam didn't complain about the food. Dave's plan was to park and go in with them and make sure they'd gone. off on the right foot. At least if they got off on the right foot, he would have done everything he could. When they got to the station, he had another change of heart. He pulled up to the sidewalk instead of into the parking lot. Well, he said. They got out and they stood by the car, the boys with their packs at their feet. Well, said Sam. Well, said Dave.

Murphy rolled his eyes, looked at the two of them, and he picked up his pack. Well, said Murphy, and that was that. Dave hugged Sam, and then he said, come on, Murphy, you're as good as family. Give me a hug. It was an awkward hug. Murphy's glasses fell off. But Dave was glad he hugged them. And as he stood and watched them walk under the huge stone arch of the station's front door,

watched them joining the river of other travelers. He felt as if he'd done the right thing. And then, disaster struck. They were just about out of sight when he saw something fall out of Sam's back pocket. It was hard to tell, but he was pretty sure it was his train ticket. Uh-oh, said Dave. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe as part of the apostrophe podcast network.

The recording engineer is Twinkle Toes Greg DeCleut. The music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.