Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - The Arthurs

Episode Date: October 11, 2024

Our Thanksgiving tradition: The Arthur Awards! Two more of our favourite Vinyl Cafe Arthur Awards. 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 Café. Welcome. Thanksgiving weekend is coming up here in Canada, and at the Vinyl Café, that can only mean one thing. The Arthur Awards. Every year on Thanksgiving weekend, Stuart used to hand out the Vinyl Café Arthur Awards.

These were a set of awards designed to honour the things that, too often, go unnoticed. Because it's the little things that are often the most important things of all. We're going to start with this one. Here's Stuart McLean from back in 2011. We're going to start today's show with a nomination for an Arthur Award that comes from Tom Glover of Toronto, Ontario. Tom writes, Dear Stuart, My father bought our family cottage when I was four years old. For 46 years, we drove countless times back and forth from the city to and from the cottage. Every time we made that trip, we'd always declare we had arrived in cottage country when we drove through the small village

of Cooper's Falls. The key moment was when we passed under a string of Christmas lights that spans the road. On the way home, we'd always shout, Goodbye, cottage! Though not when we drove out the cottage driveway. We shouted goodbye when we passed under that string of lights. It marked the beginning and the end of each trip for decades. My father sold the cottage this year, and just recently, my wife, my three children, and I visited to say goodbye. After our visit, we started our last drive home, and there wasn't a dry eye in the van when we drove under that string of lights for the last time. I don't know who originally put those lights up, and I don't

know who maintains them to this day. Oh, there's occasionally a burnt-out bulb now and then, but through all these years, they've been there to brighten our comings and our goings. We'd like to thank whoever took the time to do this. That letter came in from Tom Glover and his family, Teresa, Madison, Alexander, and Elise of Toronto, Ontario. Well, we spent the past few weeks trying to track down the owner and operator of those Christmas lights, and it has been an adventure. Coopers Falls is pretty much a ghost town these days,

and we weren't able to find anyone to call and ask about the lights. So we did what we often do here at the Vinyl Cafe. We hit the lights. So we did what we often do here at the Vinyl Cafe. We hit the road. We drove to Cooper's Falls, about 90 minutes north of Toronto, to see what we could find. You can't miss the Christmas lights. They are, as Tom said in his letter, strung right across the main road. They hang from an old general store on one side of the street to what looks like an abandoned house on the other side. The store was closed the Sunday we were there, so we knocked on the door of the house. No one answered. We wandered around town trying to find someone, anyone, to ask about

the lights. We didn't see anyone at all. Eventually, we left town. All we took with us was the name we saw written on the mailbox of the old house, the Frank Coopers. The name rang a bell. It took us a couple of days to remember why. Five years ago, in 2006, we gave an Arthur Award to a man named Frank Cooper. Frank won the Arthur Award, along with his pal Mo Falloon, for playing the longest ongoing chess match that we knew about, a match that started in the 1940s, during World War II, when Frank and Mo were stationed together in Burma, and continued until Mo passed away a few years ago.

We remembered that Frank lived near Cooper's Falls in Washago, Ontario, and we wondered if it could possibly be the same man. It seemed unlikely that one man would be nominated two times for an Arthur Award by two different people for two completely unrelated acts. But not having any other road to follow, we called our old pal Frank Cooper and asked him if he knew anything about the Christmas lights in Cooper's Falls. Frank said, of course I do. I strung them up. We told him we wanted to call him today to talk about the lights, but we didn't tell him why. We're going to get him on the line

right now, and we're going to present him with his second Arthur Award. It's a Vinyl Cafe first. ... ...... Hello? Frank Cooper? Yes.

Frank, it's Stuart McLean phoning. Oh, Stuart, how are you? I'm very well, thank you. How are you? Just very good, thank you. Yep. You were expecting our call? Yeah, we were expecting a call. Jessie said that you might be calling. Jess Milton, the Vinyl Cafe's producer.

Yes. But did she tell you why we'd be calling? Well, she said something about the lights. We have the lights from one side of the road to the other. We have had for years and years and years. But she mentioned those. I don't know. Had you seen those lights?

Yes, I have, Frank. But it's not because I saw them that we're calling. We got a letter from a listener about those lights. Oh, yeah? You remember you won an Arthur Award five years ago for your chess game with Mo? Oh, yeah, yeah, I sure do. Well, you've been nominated again. Oh?

This time for the Christmas lights that you keep up at Cooper's Falls. Oh, for heaven's sakes. I know that people, it's amazing how people coming up to the cottages like those lights there. We started doing them, and then they would sometimes get down to, you know, quite a few out, and I would hear about it. And you'd think, how many people dropped off a box of bulbs? But anyway, yeah, we had them going for years.

It used to be that we just turned them on ourselves. And so they did get missed sometimes. And that's when people would notice it. But then we have it now automatically, they just come on on a timer. So, well, isn't that funny that somebody mentioned that, eh? They wrote a long and lovely letter, Frank, and they said that for 46 years they'd been going to their cottage, and that every time they made a trip, they didn't feel like they were there until they passed under the lights. Isn't that nice? Well, I know a lot of people have commented on them to me, like, you know, and I...

How old are you now, Frank? I'm in my 90th. Your 90th year. Yeah. Do you remember what... Why did you put them up? Do you remember putting them up the first time? Yes, I put them up. I had my cousin of mine who was an electrician, and I had him put them up

because we wanted to get power over to the sheds across the road for my business, like for repairing trucks and stuff. We wanted light, so we had to get the power over there. And I guess my cousin probably would like to mention, why don't we put lights across when we would like to mention, why don't we put lights across when we have this wire anyway? Why don't we put lights on? I don't know. I can't remember exactly how it happened. Do you remember how old you were when you put them across the road? No, but it would be after the war. I took over the store after I was in Burma during the war. So sometime in the late 40s or the 50s?

It would be, yeah, very late 40s or early 50s probably when I put them up. So something like 60 years they've been there now? Yep. Now, when a bulb goes out, who changes it? That was a bit of a problem for quite a while. I got into dump trucks in construction work along with the store business for quite a while. I had dump trucks, and I know that we would put a ladder in the back of a dump truck and in the back of a dump truck, and then raise the box. Oh, my goodness.

And do it from the top of the, from the ladder just in the top of the box, when the box was up. Sometimes without the ladder, just put the box up and stand on the top ridge of the dump box. There's a protector shield on the guard. Oh my goodness. But I do remember one time my brother, there were some bulbs out and he said, oh, you've got some bulbs out. And I said, yeah, I've got to get at that. And I said, it's not that simple without a truck here. He said, well, if I held the ladder straight up, you could probably climb up and do it.

And that was a little tricky, but we did that a couple of times. You're kidding. Yeah. In the middle of the road. There's quite a bit of history with those silly lights. You're talking about a single-run ladder here. Yeah, yeah. He just held the ladder, and I bounced it.

Like a circus act, yeah. He just held the ladder, and I bounced it. Like a circus act, Frank. Yeah, but now we do it with a machine and just put the guy up in the bucket. You know, it's so funny, the little things that touch us, the things that become important to us. It's often the smallest things, the echo in our minds over the years. That's interesting that you got that letter, because I know I've had letters like that and phone calls, and they say, oh, we're so glad to see those lights when we get up to the falls. And then sometimes it would be, but three or four of them are out and we've got company coming this weekend there's no chance of having them

so yeah, there got to be a sort of a thing there that they have been there for I would say a good 50 years Listen, the last time you won an Arthur Award it was for your chess game Yeah, chess game with Mo Floun. We think you're a pretty special guy at the Vinyl Cafe.

Well, I sure have got a lot of pleasure out of going to that first Vinyl Cafe. That's when Mo came, too. Yeah. Two of you sitting right down on the front row. Right on, right at the front, yeah. Frank, we'd love to have you at a show again.

Well, I sure appreciate that. I think I'd like to get there. We've got shows coming up in Barry and Huntsville. Barry would be the best bet for me. Well, then we'll get you there. On what date? October 27th. We'll be in Barry, and we'll arrange tickets for you.

Okay, well, thank you very much, Stu. I sure appreciate this. I love talking to you. Yeah. We'll see you then. Great. We'll get you to stand up and say hi. Okay, wonderful. Well, thank you. I appreciate that. Appreciate the call.

Okay, thanks, Stu. Bye-bye. Bye-bye. And Frank, on behalf of everyone who loves those lights, thank you. Well, thank you. Okay. Yeah, okay. We'll keep them going.

Bye-bye. Okay. Thank you. That was Stuart McLean with an Arthur Award from 2011. We have to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another Arthur Award. So stick around. Welcome back. We're playing Arthur Awards today on the show. These are the awards that Stuart used to hand out every year at this time. Thanksgiving awards to recognize everyday people for everyday acts of kindness that too often go unnoticed.

Here's another one. This is Stuart McLean back in 2011, recorded in studio. We have three more Arthur Awards to hand out today. The award winners are brothers Paul and Philip Griffiths and their friend Chad Sampson. They'd be nominated for a feat of bravery that took place last January in a remote area of Algonquin Park. Here's the story. Rob McDonald of Toronto and his wife Leslie Ann were staying at a northern resort where they were planning to go dog sledding and snowshoeing. But on their first day there, they rented a snowmobile and decided to travel 48 kilometers to another resort just to see what it was like. Riding slowly through beautiful scenery,

they made their way to the Spectacle Lake Lodge, where they stopped for some hot chocolate and to sit by a roaring fire. After warming themselves and finishing their hot chocolate, they decided to get back on the trail and retrace their route back to their resort. It was 20 to 4 in the afternoon. They figured they'd be there before dark. Fresh snow was falling on the trail, and on trees that were already heavy with snow, the boughs of the evergreens were bent right over, in some cases causing their tops to touch the ground.

With Leslie Ann sitting behind him, Rob started the snowmobile and they set off. It was extremely cold, minus 30 before the windchill, but they were dressed for it, wearing many layers. About 20 minutes north of Spectacle Lake, they came to a small hill, a slow incline through deep snow. Rob opened the gas to get them to the top, and that is when disaster struck. At the crest of the hill, as Rob tried to let out the gas, the throttle stuck wide open. In seconds, the snowmobile went from 30 kilometers an hour to over 85 and climbing. They immediately found themselves airborne, riding over bushes.

Rob was doing his best to dodge trees on what had become an alarmingly fast and fishtailing mechanical bull. He saw Leslie Ann fly off the machine to the left of him, and seconds later, he went cartwheeling through the air with the machine bouncing and biting along beside him. As he tumbled head over heels, the snow rode up inside his jacket, soaking his back, his stomach, his chest, and his arms. He could hear the machine buzzing just beside his head. He came to rest on his back and watched the snowmobile buck and cartwheel violently toward him. It took one last lunge in his direction.

It was like an enormous belt sander in midair, its studded track coming at him like five or six circular saws. It was just about to land in his lap when he kicked up his feet. The studs grabbed his boots and pant legs, and his legs disappeared into the machine. He could feel it ripping and tearing at his flesh and bones as it pulled him in up to his knees. Leslie Ann scrambled through the snow, found the kill switch, and pressed it. And suddenly, it was quiet. Later, Leslie Ann would say how scary and cold and completely quiet things get

when you're in a fix you can't get out of. This is the fix they were in. They were completely alone and far from civilization, just the way they had wanted it. The only thing around was the silence of the forest, blood, and many, many chips of bone. Rob was in unimaginable pain. They had a GPS, a GPS they'd rented with the machine. It had a help button on it to send a distress signal to their resort. They sent the signal.

Rob reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Remarkably, he had reception. Leslie Ann called 911, but 911 had no real idea where they were. They had to stay calm. They had to think. But Rob, who was too wedged in the machine to release himself, was losing a lot of blood and was soaked and starting to freeze. Staying calm and thinking were not going to be easy. Leslie Ann continued talking with the dispatcher, and Rob sat up on his elbows. He looked into the machine.

This is what he saw. His right leg was wrapped entirely around the left and had three major wounds. The toe of his right boot was nearly sawed off. He could see right through the foot itself. The inside right ankle was horribly chewed, and the right shin was not only severely shredded, it had one of the many studs embedded right into it. He was certain, given the way the right leg was wrapped around the left,

that he had suffered a compound fracture. He lay back in the snow. He told himself to breathe, to hang on. But he knew they hadn't seen anybody else on the trail. How long before Leslie Ann would have to set out on foot, back through the deep snow in the direction of the lodge. Rob told her he was sorry. I am so sorry, he said.

It was supposed to be a nice weekend, a weekend away together. He told her he loved her. She told him the same. He told her he loved her. She told him the same. The cold and the pain were overpowering. It was close to minus 40 with the windchill. Ten agonizing minutes passed.

They knew they had to make a decision. Leslie Ann would try to make it to the highway six and a half kilometers back through the deep snow. She reached down to cradle Rob's head, and as she did, they heard the sound of snowmobiles. The Griffiths brothers and Chad Sampson, on a 1,100-kilometer four-day trip of their own around the perimeter of Algonquin Park. Their paths had somehow crossed. Philip approached them, his hand outstretched. He introduced himself, his brother Paul and their friend Chad. Together they looked for a branch they could wedge into the machine to pry Rob out,

but they were surrounded by evergreens. There were no branches big enough. So they made a decision. Chad would race ahead to find help, while the Griffiths stayed behind to figure out some way of releasing Rob's legs. Chad said, you get him to the highway, boys. You get him there. I'll have an ambulance waiting. It was the only way the rescue could work. The brothers decided the one thing they could do was slice through the snowmobile's track with the serrated blade on Paul's utility knife. The hope was that cutting the track might relieve enough tension to free Rob. that cutting the track might relieve enough tension to free Rob.

As Paul began sawing, Philip took his jacket off and wrapped it around Rob. You hang on, he said. The serrated blade appeared to be doing the trick. They were a third of the way through the track, and then the blade snapped in half. Paul held it up in two pieces, and a cold silence fell upon them. Phil said, Plan B. Rooting through his saddlebags, he pulled out a box cutter. Its blade seemed tiny, minuscule.

Now Paul would pull on the track, tearing it as Philip did the cutting, a quarter inch at a time. Paul's beard had become a solid block of ice. The brother's hands were blue, almost black. Leslie Ann held Rob's head in her hands. Hold on, she said. As the brothers were about to cut through the last portion of the track,

Philip leaned over Rob and said, This is all we got, Rob, and the time may come when we have to hurt you a bit, but I want you to know you're coming out of this bush with us. He sliced through what was left of the track. Nothing changed. There was no movement, nothing. As they handed part of the track to Leslie Ann to pull toward the front of the machine, Paul pulled the other half toward the back. Suddenly, Rob felt his legs move. Philip reached in to grab them with his horribly frozen hands. He worked Rob's shredded limbs this way and that,

and out of the wheels, the gears, and the studs. He pulled them up and out and gently placed them beside the machine. Rob grabbed his arm and pulled him close. Thank you, he said. And then he started to cry. It had taken over 40 minutes, 40 minutes of complete dedicated focus, everything they had in the deep snow and dangerously cold temperatures. With his legs now unraveled and the circulation no longer cut off to his feet,

blood began pouring out of Rob's saturated boot. There was so much blood, so many pieces of bone. What should have been excruciatingly painful was entirely blunted by shock. Rob could feel himself slipping into oblivion. The two brothers picked him up and sat him on the back of Paul's machine. Leslie Ann jumped on the other machine with Philip. Meanwhile, Chad had made it to the Spectacle Lake Lodge, where the owner had contacted EMS to tell them precisely where they'd be coming out of the bush.

And 20 minutes later, they did exactly that. When they did, there was an ambulance waiting, a gurney, and warm blankets. Chad had delivered on his promise. Leslie Ann thanked the brothers over and over again. Then she jumped into the ambulance. As the paramedics lifted Rob up and in and fixed the oxygen mask to his face, he saw a shivering Paul lighting a cigarette for his frozen brother. It was growing dark. Philip turned to face Rob. He bowed his head and then he started to cry. Paul put his arm around his brother and pulled him close,

while Chad stood quietly by their side. They had saved Rob's life. And Rob is on the line now, and he's been on the line listening as I read his story. Rob, what does it feel like to listen to that? Well, Stuart, thank you. First of all, thank you very much for telling the story. You can imagine, after all these months, when hearing the story, I still have very mixed emotions. It brings back very scary imagery,

both for Leslie and for myself. But at the same time, it reminds me of the tremendous kindness of these three gentlemen and what they did for us out there. What do you think would have happened to you if the brothers and Chad hadn't come along? I think we all know what would have happened, and we've since spoken to Chad and Paul and Philip many, many times about it. There's no question I wouldn't be talking to you on the phone today. They saved your life. They did. What was the worst moment? I'd have to say the worst moment was when Leslie and I had finally decided that she would have to try to make it back to the highway. Just the realization that this could very well be the last time I saw her.

What do you say at a moment like that? What do you say at a moment like that? We repeatedly told each other that we loved one another and tried to convince each other that it was going to be okay. But we were in trouble. We were in serious trouble, and we both knew it. Not many of us go that close to the edge and come back again. Has that changed you in any way? It certainly makes me appreciate those around me. I've always had a great appreciation for my wife, Lesley-Ann, but even more so now. My love is stronger for her now than ever before.

And you can imagine when you're in a situation like that, you desperately want to see your children again. So I appreciate them more. And when you experience that kind of human kindness, when three individuals put everything they have on the line, Philip taking his jacket off, Paul's beard frozen solid, when you see these two gentlemen working in their bare hands for over 40 minutes, in their bare hands for over 40 minutes,

you get a new appreciation for all of humanity. You get a new appreciation just for your family and friends, for the people that you meet on the street. And you're very thankful that you get a second chance to spend some time with them. I think when you come that close, and when you have these characters go above and beyond for you, a complete stranger, I think it changes you, and I think it would change anybody. Thank you so much for sharing the story today.

You're very welcome. Thank you, Stuart. Bye-bye. Bye. That was Stuart McLean with an Arthur Award from 2011. What an incredible story. All right, that's it for today's episode, but we'll be back here next week with two Dave and Morley stories. When he opened the door, Warren was standing in his crib holding onto the rails. Dave walked in and smiled.

Hi, he said. My name's Dave. I'm the babysitter. Warren let go of the rails, dropped down onto his mattress like a stone, and started to scream. I'm sorry, said Dave, but Stephanie couldn't make it. She's your favorite, right? Getting an angry baby out of a dirty diaper may be one of the cruelest jobs in the world. Dave looked like a mud wrestler by the time he had Warren cleaned up.

Standing with one hand on the squirming baby's chest, Dave looked desperately around the room for clean diapers. Couldn't see them anywhere. He put Warren back in the crib and he ran downstairs. Jade, he said, where does your mommy keep the clean diapers? Jade didn't even flinch. Her determined little eyes never strayed from the television. It was as if Dave didn't exist. Dave ran back upstairs and he lifted Warren out of the crib. They were halfway across the room when Warren started to pee. And I'm not talking about polite little tinkles. I'm talking about a geyser of urine squirting around the room like water from a loose fire hose. Dave did the only thing he could think of doing under the circumstances. He grabbed the fire hose and clamped the nozzle shut.

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 like to give an Arthur Award to in the category of loyal and supportive friend, Greg DeCloot. Theme 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.