Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - The Congregation of Adults - Sam’s Predictions

Episode Date: September 13, 2024

“I made predictions. They are all coming true.”This week, we’re talking about kids and independence. In our story, Sam gets guidance from an unexpected source: a fortune teller named Madame Nina. And we have a very special script: about trust, and hope, and goodness. 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. I love this time of year. I find the cool air invigorating. I find the early dark nights make sleep come faster and easier. And I find the return to the rhythm of routine comforting. I even like fall food, soups and stews. I'm done with forks and salads and cold plates for a while. I'm craving warm things eaten in a bowl with a spoon, all set to the soundtrack of a crackling fire and the scent of wood smoke. But I know not everyone feels that way. scent of wood smoke. But I know not everyone feels that way. I know there are some people listening who feel the anxiety of autumn. As the days get darker, so can the mind, the encumbrance of

expectation, the burden, or is it boredom, of routine. And maybe there's some anxiety about sending your kids off too, away from the comfort of your arms, the softness of summer, and into the ocean of others. If that's how you're feeling, today's podcast is for you. we have two pieces, a story and an essay that remind us our kids may get tossed and turned out there in the ocean of others, but they're not alone. None of us are. Today on the show, stories about the congregation of adults waiting to attend to our kids. A reminder that sometimes comfort is found in the most unlikely of places. And a reminder that while we may be a lighthouse in their storm, there will be other beacons too. Teachers and bus drivers, yes, but also relationships they forge themselves. And they will be buoyed by the most important of life preservers, their own perseverance, their own resilience,

and those relationships they forge independently. That's where we're going to start today, with this story. This is a story we recorded in Huntsville, Ontario, back in 2005. This is Sam's Predictions. Every child's life is attended by a congregation of adults. Adults who teach him or her important things about this world in which we live. If the child's lucky, the lessons add up in a positive way, and the child grows up to be an adventurous, outward-looking soul. A soul who

trusts the universe and believes good things of the people who inhabit it. I'm not speaking here of school teachers or scout leaders, hockey coaches or ballet instructors. I'm talking about the pilgrims on the periphery of a child's life. Men and women who in the best of all possible worlds, the child chooses for him or herself. I'm talking about private relationships that parents know little or often absolutely nothing about. Might be a friendship with a school janitor who offers a kind word and a smile or moments spent with a crossing guard who takes the trouble to learn a child's name, or best, the owner of a corner store where a kid buys candy and who one day offers the kindness of credit.

These relationships, because they belong to the child alone, are the first cautious steps of independence in adulthood. Child alone are the first cautious steps of independence in adulthood. Dave watched his son, Sam, take his first tentative steps in the spring that Sam was in grade four. It was a Saturday morning in April. Dave looked out his kitchen window and he saw his neighbor, Eugene, perched on top of a ladder, pruning his fig tree. And there was Sam, Dave's son, grade four, steadying the ladder. Dave spent the whole morning peering

through his kitchen window. But to his credit, in a profound moment of neighborly compassion and parental wisdom, he spent the morning on his side of the window. Morley and Dave know all about Sam's friendship with Eugene, but, and this is the important part, they don't know half of what goes on between them. Like any thoughtful son, Sam skims over most of the interesting stuff. He has, for instance, neglected to tell his mother and father of the times, often, that Eugene has offered him one of his cigars or a glass of his homemade wine. I don't drink, said Sam the first time that

happened. Too bad, said Eugene. I'm not going to be around to make it forever. It's good stuff, so you might want to hurry up about changing your mind. Sam has tried smoking, though not one of Eugene's cigars. It was at a party and it took an older woman to weaken his resolve. Sam was 11. The seductress was a 12-year-old girl from Saskatchewan. Sam left the party early, feeling sick. He quit smoking the next morning. It's not as hard as they say, he told his friend Murphy.

Whenever I feel like a cigarette, I just eat candy. Well, they don't know half the details. Morley and Dave approve of Sam's friendship with Eugene. But they don't know about all of Sam's adult friends. They don't, for instance, know a thing about Madam Nina. They've never even heard of Madam Nina. Sam met Madam Nina a few summers ago. The meeting arose, well, as all great adventures, the beginning of the story is hard to figure. Unlike endings, beginnings are often foggy affairs.

But if you were looking for a beginning, you could say it was the summer afternoon that Sam and his best friend Ben were cruising around the neighborhood on their bikes, half-heartedly looking for their friend Alan. They had bought popsicles from a store near their school. They had hung around the wading pool in the park, and they were checking out the arena when Sam said, I bet Alan's at the park. We were just at the park, said Ben. I bet, said Sam. So they went back to the park, and sure enough, Alan was there. Now, there was nothing that would mark that as an auspicious moment, not until there was an accumulation of other moments like it, and by then, of course, the first moment was long gone.

But there were little moments like that all summer. Sam bet Ben that it would rain the night of the corn roast and won. How'd you know that, said Ben. I don't know, said Sam, I just knew. And later that night, the night of the corn roast, Sam won the guess how many jelly beans are in the jar contest. Which is when Ben said, what's going on with you? And that was when Sam began to believe that something was going on. I don't know, said Sam. Maybe I'm psycho.

That night before he got into bed, Sam sat at the desk in his bedroom. It was the first time he had sat there since school got out. He picked up a pencil. It felt odd to hold it. He hadn't written a word for over six weeks. He wondered if he would remember how. He wrote the number one on the page. Then he stared at it for a moment and he crumpled the page and he began again. He wrote, number one, Ben will call me before lunch. Under that, he wrote, number two, number two, my mother will make me eat breakfast. Then number three, Stephanie will sleep in. Then hardly without thinking, he wrote, number four, I'll make my bed. Then he frowned. None of what he had written seemed extraordinary enough.

Anyone could predict any of those things. He chewed on his pencil. He bent over and he carefully wrote number five. There will be aliens. The next morning when he woke up, the first thing he did before he went downstairs was to make his bed. Then he went over to the desk and put a check beside number four. I will make my bed. Then he went downstairs. Morley was sitting at the kitchen table. I made my bed, said Sam.

My goodness, said Morley. I never would have predicted that. Exactly, said Sam. It's strange, isn't it? Morley said, there are strawberries in the fridge for breakfast. Sam stared at his mother deliberately. He said, I'm not hungry. Morley said, you're not hungry for strawberries? Why don't you try a few? Strawberries are Sam's favorite. He went upstairs and put a checkmark beside number two. Ben phoned at 9.30. Sam said, I made predictions. They're all coming true. I'll be right over, said Ben. Sam showed him his list. You made your bed, said Ben. I predicted it last night, said Sam.

It was just a feeling. Wow, said Ben. There was a checkmark besides everything. Except number five. What do you mean, said Ben? Aliens. Aliens, said Sam. Just aliens. When will they be discovered, said Ben? I don't know, said Sam. Today. These are today's predictions. how will we know said Ben Sam frowned Sam said maybe it'll be in the newspaper and so they headed for the door the two of them standing as they peddled their bikes wildly around the corner swaying left and then right heading for Snyder's about to do something that they'd never considered doing before, about to buy a newspaper. They locked their bikes together and they ran into the store. Mr. Snyder was standing where he always stood, behind the fogged glass counter at the front. He already had a cigar clamped in

his mouth. His shirt sleeves were already rolled. The boys bumped into each other as they bounced past him. Bumped to the long wall of magazines, the newspapers fanned out on the shelf beneath them. There were newspapers from all around the world, from New York and Boston, Washington and Paris, London and Rome, Dublin and Huntsville. London and Rome, Dublin and Huntsville. Sam and Ben studied the front pages carefully.

Holy, said Ben, there it was, as plain as day, splashed across the top of USA Today. U.S. campaign aims to stop illegal aliens. Why would they want to stop them, said Ben. Aliens are so cool. A moment later, when they were standing on the sidewalk astride their bikes, Ben said, We should phone the police. I didn't do anything wrong, said Sam, uncertainly. I know, said Ben. You could help them.

You could predict where the bodies are. What bodies, said Sam? The missing bodies, said Ben. That's what police do. They look for missing bodies. Sam was beginning to feel anxious. The days of that summer chunked by like telephone poles along a country road, like they would go on forever. As July folded into August, Sam's powers seemed to be growing. He predicted Ben would get a bike for his birthday. He predicted that the Blue Jays would rally and win a game they were losing by seven runs. And sure enough,

they came from behind in the ninth. Sheesh, said Ben, it's so weird. By the time September snuck up on them, by the time the first day of school leapt off the kitchen calendar, landing on them like a cat landing on a mouse, word of Sam's special powers had spread. Not everyone believed in them, of course, but some kids did. Some kids believed that if Sam predicted something, it was guaranteed to come true. Gregory Hanover believed. Gregory cornered Sam and Ben one afternoon as they were walking home, their backpacks hanging from their shoulders.

Predict that I'll pass spelling tomorrow, demanded Gregory. I never pass spelling, said Gregory. That's because you never study, said Ben. That's why I want him to predict that I'm going to pass, snapped Gregory. Staring at Sam, suddenly all serious. Sam, staring back, Ben watching like a corner man at a fight. What's the big deal, said Gregory? Just predict. I predict, said Sam slowly. I predict, said Sam, furrowing his brow, thinking about this. I predict that you're going to study. Huh? Said Gregory. I can't study. It's my prediction, said Sam. Gregory caught up to Sam the next morning at recess. You were right, he said breathlessly. It happened. I studied.

I know the words. It's really weird. I know, said Sam. That afternoon after school, Jeff Braymore came up to Sam and Ben on the ball field. Can he predict how tall I'll be, asked Jeff. What, said Sam. Can you predict that I'll be six feet, said Jeff. I can't do that, said Sam. It would be unethical. What, said Jeff. Jeff was the shortest kid in the class. How about 5'10", said Jeff. Would that be unethical?

And then Deirdre Simpson cornered him. Deirdre with her hooped earrings and her shiny lip gloss. Deirdre who smelled like a basket of exotic fruit. Deirdre got Sam all alone and Deirdre said, I have a problem. Sam shrugged. Deirdre said, there's a boy I like. Deirdre said, I want to kiss him. Sam said, so? Deirdre said, can you predict I'll kiss him? Okay, shrugged Sam. What's his name? Deirdre said, his name is you. Me, said Sam. Yes, said Deirdre. You. Deirdre's eyes were closed. Deirdre was floating softly towards him. Sam looked around to see if anyone was watching. And then Sam leaned forward. Sam's lips brushed Deirdre's ear. I predict, he said softly, I won't.

Then he ran. When it started, it had been fun. When it started, it was a game. It was just Sam and Ben. It was summer. It was something to do. Then it got serious, and Sam felt full of power and promise. But now he wasn't feeling powerful anymore. He was feeling overwhelmed. Things were getting out of control. He had barely escaped being kissed. That night after he turned out his light, that night when he was alone in the windless dark of his bedroom,

an enormous thought occurred to him. Maybe it wasn't a game. Maybe he was psycho. Maybe he wasn't predicting things that would happen. Maybe his thoughts were causing things to happen. The thought terrified him. Suddenly a waterfall of horrible things cascaded through his mind. His mother was sick. His dog was dying. His father was going away and would never return. His mind was moving so fast he couldn't sleep. 10 o'clock became 11 o'clock. 11 turned to 12. Now all he could imagine were fearful, awful things, convinced if he kept thinking them, they had all come true. He lay there in the dark trying to think of happy things.

He tried to remember the greatest afternoon of his whole life. The afternoon his father had appeared at his classroom and said, Sam has to be excused from school. Sam has a doctor's appointment. Sam was nervous because he didn't know about the doctor. He thought maybe he was so sick they didn't want to tell him. But instead of driving to the doctor, his dad winked and they drove downtown and they went to his very first ball game. He tried to concentrate on the glory of that afternoon. They sat on the third baseline and his dad had bought him a hot dog

and a pop from a man who walked among the seats. He tried to remember the man with the hot dogs. He could almost hear him coming towards him. But when he turned to look, it wasn't the man.

It was Deirdre Simpson. Deirdre smiling and waving at him. And Gregory Hanover was standing beside her and he was spelling something over and over. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Sam met Madam Nina the next afternoon after school. It was Ben who had discovered her storefront. He showed Sam one August afternoon. They stood on their bikes and read Madam Nina's sandwich board. Palmistry, tarot, aura. $25, $40, $60.

Ben said, we could set up a booth at the fall fair. I could be your manager. We could make serious money. And as they stood and stared, a woman wearing jeans and a ball cap came out and picked up the sandwich board and took it inside. That was her, said Ben. She didn't look so special, said Sam. Neither do you, said Ben. And now Sam was knocking on her door.

The fear of the unknown washed away by the tidal fears from the night before. Hello, said Madam Nina to the boy standing at her door in the sweatshirt and the ball cap. I have to talk to you, said Sam. Well, then you have to come in, said Madam Nina. Sam followed her into her tiny room. It was no bigger than his bedroom. Madam Nina was pointing at the table.

There were two chairs. Sam chose the chair closest to the door. The walls were covered in dark red fabric. There were two paintings of the moon and complicated charts of the stars. There were candles flickering. It was like being in a tent. Now, said Madam Nina, sitting down across from him, what can I do for you? Sam shrugged. Madame Nina said, you look like a boy who has a lot on his mind. Sam started to cry. Madame Nina wasn't used to little boys knocking on her door, but she was used to tears. She handed Sam a box of Kleenex, and she waited. And that is how Sam met Nina Chiraldi. That September afternoon that he went to her studio and sat at the table in the corner, and he began to cry. He told her everything. How

it had started in the summer, and what had happened at school. He told her he thought he was psycho. He told her he was scared that if he thought bad things, maybe they'd happen. She waited for him to finish and then she smiled and she handed him a large deck of cards. She said, do you know how to shuffle? Sam shook his head, no. Just mix them up a bit, she said, like this. These are the tarot, she said. Do you know anything about the tarot? Sam shook his head again. Good, she said, no one does. She took the cards from him and she squared up the deck. And she began to lay the cards face up on the table. Are you ready, she said. Sam shook his head again.

What, said Madam Nina. Sam said, you have to teach me the rules. I don't know how to play. The rules, said Madam Nina. Are you listening to what the cards say? Then she said, look at all these hearts. You feel things deeply for such a young man. Sam nodded, yes, he said.

And you worry, said Madam Nina. Sam nodded. Sometimes, he said. And then he yawned. Sometimes, said Madam Nina, you worry so much that you have trouble sleeping. Yes, said Sam quietly. Sometimes that happens. Then Sam said, how do you stand it?

Stand what, said Madam Nina. Knowing what's going to happen, said Sam. She said, No one knows what's going to happen. And she looked down at the cards. Not even these cards, she said. But if you listen carefully to people, if you listen carefully and with all of your heart,

they'll tell you what they want. And what you want is to know that everything is going to be all right. And it will be. Everything's always all right in the end. Really, said Sam. Madam Nina looked at her watch. Always, she said. I promise. I have one more question, said Sam. Madam Nina nodded. What if it isn't, asked Sam.

What if what isn't, said Madam Nina. What if everything doesn't work out well in the end, asked Sam. Ah, said Madam Nina. That's easy. If it doesn't work out well in the end, that means it's not the end. Oh, said Sam. When he got home, Sam told his mother he was going to make a prediction. I predict I'm not going to make my bed anymore, he said.

I predict I'm not going to make my bed anymore, he said. A year went by before he saw Madame Nina again. And then a year after that. And then it turned into a thing. Sam goes to see her every September before school starts. He was there a few weeks ago. He sat at the table and she did his cards. Every September, she will do his tarot. And he won't tell his parents until the year Madam Nina moves.

And then one perfect morning that summer, when the wind is soft, Sam and Morley will drive by the storefront where her studio used to be and Sam will say, there was a lady who had a place there. I used to go there sometimes and talk to her. She was nice. And Morley will turn and look at him and say, when? And he will tell her the whole story. And that will be the end. But that won't be for years yet. Thank you very much. Thank you very much. That was Sam's predictions.

We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with an essay Stuart wrote at this time of year. So stick around. Welcome back. Instead of a second Dave and Morley story today, I want to play you something that Stuart wrote at this time of year, 16 years ago. Stuart and I had spent the summer reading nominations for the Vinyl Cafe Arthur Awards. And as we read them, we felt full of hope. This is back in 2008.

The world was not feeling hopeful. The housing market had crashed. There was a recession. The housing market had crashed. There was a recession. There was a cyclone that had killed 138,000 people, an earthquake that had killed almost 100,000 people. But in the middle of all of this, we sat down to read letters from you.

Letters about kindness and letters about selflessness. And after reading your stories, Stuart sat down to write this script. He starts off talking about the Arthur nominations he's read, including one from our friend Jill Barber about a woman named Maxime. But he goes somewhere different. He goes on to talk about something else entirely. This is from back in 2008. This is Stuart McLean in studio. I mentioned the Vinyl Cafe

Arthur Awards at the beginning of the show. We here at the Vinyl Cafe spent the first few weeks of September sifting through the letters and emails that have come in over the past 12 months, reading all the nominations. We read some lovely stories of kindness and selflessness, stories like the one we began with today about Maxine Montgomery, who loaned her car to my friend Jill out of the blue when they met in the Saskatoon airport. We always look forward to reading these letters. It's one of my favorite jobs of the year. But it seemed especially important this year, and I thought I'd tell you why. I think the North American media, and I'm speaking of both the entertainment industry and the news bureaus who frame the world for us, I think the North American media have, over the last

50-odd years, framed our view of the world in a most unhelpful way. We have been told over and over again, in both direct and indirect ways, that the world is not a safe place. A proposition I fundamentally disagree with, which is not, I hasten to say, to imply that there are not dangerous people out there or even dangerous states. It is a complex and complicated say, to imply that there are not dangerous people out there or even dangerous states. It is a complex and complicated world, sometimes sad, often frustrating, full of intrigue and intricacy. But the simple fact is, we are not surrounded by enemies. And the vast majority of people you might meet, here or there or anywhere,

would lend a hand in help rather than in harm if they were to raise a hand at all. Yet these stories, the stories of people like Maxine and Jill, are not the stories we hear or see. Consider all those police shows and reality shows and talk shows, they add up. Consider the movie chosen by the Academy of Motion Picture Artists last year as the best of the year, the best America could do. No country for old men. It was a movie of unspeakable violence, and it left me anyway with one lesson, and that was to question my instinct to stop at the edge of a highway if I ever saw anyone in distress, ever again. The strangers our schools teach our children to avoid

are more apt to help than harm them. Yet here in Canada, various politicians and police forces serving their own self-interests have warned us about rising crime rates when the reverse is true. But we buy into the fear and hover around our children like secret service agents. And instead of sending them next door to call on someone, we arrange playdates as if we were social secretaries rather than moms and dads. We have bought this danger story hook, line, and sinker. And in so doing, we've robbed our children of childhood. I fell

for it too, which is probably why I feel so strongly about this. It's worth pointing out that it's not just the media who should be held to accounts. Political leaders have been equally adept at this game. It's served more than one leader to paint the world as a dangerous place, to point to the enemies hovering around us. Any person who has traveled widely would tell you otherwise, would tell you this world is full of men and women just like you. Men and women who are anxious to look after themselves and provide for their families and muddle through to the end as best they can. There are not armies huddled on our borders in the darkness. And if there are,

they are the armies of the hungry and the dispossessed. And yes, again, there are bad guys, and yes, it's a tricky business navigating the ship of state. But any political leader who tries to tell you it's time to circle the wagons is trying to sell you a bill of goods. Forgive me for going on, but it's not said enough, and I'll say it again. The world is a good place place full of good people. And when we act out of that, when we act out of hope and optimism and faith in our fellow man, we act out of our best selves, and we are capable of doing great things, of contributing to the greater good. Hope and optimism are not synonymous with naivete. We should be looking to the future with flinty and steely eyes for sure, but they should be wide open with hope, not squinting in fear.

Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find. Knock and it shall be opened unto you. If it's evildoers you seek, you'll find them aplenty. If it's enemies that you want, they are there too. But if you want the truth, the truth is, blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God. That was Stuart McLean, recorded in 2008. Alright, that's it for today's episode, but we'll be back here next week with two Dave and Morley stories, including this one. Stephanie didn't go to her first class for a week and a half. A Tuesday morning at 10 o'clock, room H110, as big as a theater.

There was raked seating chairs for maybe 500 people. When Stephanie walked through the double door, she thought she had made a mistake. But there was a chalkboard at the front of the hall, and on the chalkboard it said Sociology 101, and under that, How Society Works. She chose a seat on the aisle. There was a table in front of the blackboard, and on the table, there was a watermelon, a squash, and a pumpkin. There was a man sitting beside the table. He was wearing a mauve shirt with a wide collar and massive bell-bottom jeans with an embroidered ribbon stitched around the cuff. He had beads and Birkenstocks and a Fu Manchu mustache and a floppy hat. He looked vaguely familiar to Stephanie. There was a black button on his brown vest.

Stephanie was too far away to read what it said on the button. The man seemed completely oblivious to the class. He was sitting at the front of the hall as if he were in a trance. At ten minutes past ten, he abruptly stood up and walked shakily to the lectern and peered out at them, and the room slowly fell quiet. As soon as the man had stood up, Stephanie had recognized him. He was the bongo player from the parking lot. She could make out the button on the vest now. It was a peace sign. You could have heard

a pin drop. Professor Bongo leaned into the microphone. He said, my name is Brian Michaels. Then he looked down and he consulted his notes and he said, this course is called How Society Works. And then without another word, he reached under the table and brought out a mallet and lifted it over his head and he swung it with startling force into the center of the pumpkin. mallet and lifted it over his head and he swung it with startling force into the center of the pumpkin. He destroyed the pumpkin in three quick blows and quickly turned his attention to the watermelon which lasted just a little longer. All of the keeners in the front row were soon covered in seeds and juicy pulp. A girl in a blue cashmere sweater stood up and started to freak out, brushing her sweater as if she was

covered in bugs. The boy beside her lifted a large piece of melon off his notebook and started writing notes furiously. Brian Michaels didn't flinch. He stood at the podium covered in vegetable matter, seeds and all sorts of gunk dripping from his hat. And when the class quietened down, he said, I just did violence to those vegetables. And he left the classroom without another word. The girl beside Stephanie was frowning. Are you okay, asked Stephanie. I don't understand, said the girl looking down at her notebook.

Isn't a watermelon a fruit? Understand, said the girl looking down at her notebook. Isn't a watermelon a fruit? That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. In the meantime, if you want to find out more, you can go to our website, vinylcafe.com, or find us on Facebook at Vinyl Cafe, or Instagram at Vinyl Cafe Stories.

at Vinyl Cafe Stories. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is peacemaker 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.