Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - The Wisdom of Children - Annie’s Turn & Dave and the Roller Coaster

Episode Date: March 8, 2024

“The kids were always up to something in the Narrows.” This week’s episode is all about kids and what we can learn from them. The first story relates an adventure from when Dave was a boy. In the second, Dave’s adventures continue, with a little help from his son Sam. 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. Today on the show, we're talking about the wisdom of children, that innate ability kids have to just trust their tummies, to know intuitively what is okay and what isn't. We're going to start with this story, a story that kept me on the edge of my seat when I listened to it this week. This is Annie's turn. In those days that always set something out of the ice out in front of the breakwater hotel. An old car, an outhouse, a rusted out tractor, some old rig. That set it there on New Year's Day and then take bets about when it was going to disappear. That winter it was Stumpy Hayman's woodshed. And that weekend it was just about through.

The ice all slushy and rotten, all the fishing huts already back on land. Heck, you could see open water out in the middle. Earlier that week, Pete Levine and Charlie Fraser, who had money riding on it, tried to get out there and give the doomed woodshed a hand and almost went through the ice themselves. Pete swearing like a sailor as he stumbled into the dining room soaked. Now this was a long time ago. This was the winter that Dave was just 12, just tall enough that if he stood on his bedroom radiator

and held onto the window frame and leaned way out to the left, he could make out the woodshed roof over the treetops and rooftops of the town. Is it still there? said Charlie. Dave's dad, Charlie, who was bouncing up and down in the hallway. Charlie had a bet on a Sunday two weeks out. And Charlie was convinced if that woodshed could just hold on through the weekend, the weather was going to take a turn for the worse and give him a shot at the pot. The good shot, said Charlie, was possible. They were balanced in that

precarious no man's land between the seasons. It was neither spring nor winter. Could have gone either way. Neither spring nor winter. Could have gone either way. There was still snow all about, pushed up at the end of the driveway and piled up along the road, but it was spring snow, all granular and icy, like corn kernels. Every morning, old man Macaulay would get up and stare wistfully at his maple bush. Any day, things were going to start stirring.

On Thursday morning, the woodshed was still out there. I'm telling you, said Charlie at breakfast as he reached for the honey. I'm just telling you. So every morning at breakfast, Dave, who could see the woodshed from his bedroom window reported in and it was that week the week that Pete and Charlie had almost drowned that Dave climbed up to have a look just before supper and saw something on the ice at first he thought it was just a shadow a smudge of darkness on the snow. But when he looked carefully, it seemed to be something. Turned off his bedroom light and he looked again, squinting.

Hard to tell if somebody had left something out there maybe, or maybe it was just a log poking through the ice. Or even just his imagination. Your eyes play tricks on you at dusk. Of course, they went and checked it out. Dave, Billy, and Sean Gillespie, Friday, as soon as school was out, hustling down River Street past Rutledge's Hardware and McDonnell's General Store, and then around Kerrigan's to the town dock. From the dock, they followed the little path at the back of the parking lot down to the beach, as empty as a pocket at that time of year. At first, they didn't see it. They got to the beach and, it's gone, said Billy.

But it wasn't gone. There, said Billy. But it wasn't gone. There, said Dave. It was further out than it had been the night before. It's just a log, said Sean, who had brought a knife in case it wasn't. Billy lobbed a snowball. And the log jumped up and started barking. A dog, said Dave. It was on a big hunk of ice.

The ice was surrounded by water. It was on an ice island. They called it. Come here, called Dave. Come on, come on. They called it. Come here, called Dave. Come on, come on. The dog dropped its front paws down and held its rear high, its tail wagging, and then it took maybe three steps sideways and four towards them, but it sunk into the slush on the edge of the ice pack and scrambled back and stood there, barking. What's the matter with it, said Billy? You can't swim, said Dave.

How do you know, said Billy? You can tell, said Dave, by the fact that he's not swimming. Billy went and got a rope. Dave and Sean went to Kerrigan's and got a rope. Dave and Sean went to Kerrigan's and got a big beef bone from the butcher. They tied the bone to the rope. Billy threw it. It landed with a splash in the water, short.

He tried again and then again and then they each tried, but no one got any closer. And the dog wasn't budging. It was Dave who said, we need a boat. Sean went home and got his toboggan instead. They tied the rope around Dave's waist. That way, said Sean, if you fall through the ice, they won't have to drag for your body. And Dave set off, pulling the toboggan behind him like an arctic explorer.

When he got to the edge of the water, he put the toboggan down and gave it a shove. The toboggan was supposed to float out to the ice island. The dog was supposed to climb onto it and Dave was supposed to pull him back across the open water. They tied the soup bone to the front of the toboggan to entice him on. But when the toboggan hit the water it sank like a stone. And it was getting dark. I have to go said Billy. I have to go too said Sean. Dave stood on the edge of the shore and shouted at the dog Tomorrow. Stay. That night as they slept, spring finally made up its mind and snuck softly into town.

It came on the wings of crows. Everyone woke up to the cawing of crows. It was as if winter had never been. As planned, the kids met in front of Macdonnell's. There were five of them now, wandering toward the beach in a gang. Dave, Sean, Billy, Alex, and Dave's little sister, Annie. Had they been a few years older, had they been teenagers, they wouldn't have been there. Had they been teenagers, they would have been too busy to notice a stray mutt. Had they been a few years younger, they would have told their parents. Had they been younger, they wouldn't have dreamed this was something they should tackle by themselves. Had they been younger, they wouldn't have dreamed this was something they should tackle by themselves.

But just like the weather, they were balanced in the precarious no man's land between things. In the fog between fantasy and fact. They had lost the blessings of childhood, but they had not yet received the benedictions of age. They had this still, however. They had the belief of boys. They assumed that dog needed them and no one else to come to the rescue, and they had come back to do what had to be done. to come to the rescue. And they had come back to do what had to be done. I was thinking we should get Ollie, said Sean. Ollie was Sean's dog. We could tie a rope around Ollie, said Sean, and send him out to the rescue. They were all nodding. It seemed like a good idea until Annie said, what's he going to do when he gets out there? Untie the rope and hand it to him? Everyone stared at Annie, standing there with her hands in her pockets, the little sister.

Why is she here, said Billy. Dave shot Annie a look and said, let's go. When they got to the beach, the dog was gone. The thing is, there was nowhere left for him to be. The ice had broken up overnight. All there was was open water. Sean said, we should have told our parents. It was Annie who spotted him. There, she said.

Over there. Annie was pointing at the far end of the lake. She was pointing to the bay where the lake empties into the river and the river passes under the bridge on its way to Little Narrows. The dog was sitting on a piece of ice no bigger than a freezer, looking more like a painting of a dog than a dog itself, sitting stiff and upright and staring straight ahead. The fall, said Dave. We have to get him.

As he sat at the piece of ice the dog was sitting on, the dog slipped into the current and seemed to bob up and down, seemed to pick up speed. Come on, said Dave. He started running. They all peeled off behind him, all five of them running for the bridge, Dave in the lead, Annie falling behind. They knew if they didn't stop that dog before he went into the river, he was going all the way to the falls and there was no way he or anyone was surviving that. They got there just in time to see him bob by, standing on his ice boat, barking, snapping at the white waves jumping over his bow. They stood on the bridge, leaning on the rail and watched him pass under. Then they ran over to the other side and watched him emerge and bob along until he disappeared around the corner near the big willow.

We have to get him, said Dave, before the falls or he's a goner. They had a chance. There was one more bridge where the Macaulay's Road crossed the river. If they could get to the Macaulay's Bridge before the dog did, how are we going to do that, said Sean? A ride, said Dave. We need a ride. Come on. And so they were running again, back to town,

back past Kerrigan's grocery store and the hardware store and past McDonnell's post office and general store to the Maple Leaf Cafe where Dave knew his dad would be having his morning coffee, his truck parked out back. Annie huffed around the corner as they were climbing into the truck. Where's dad, said Annie. We're not telling dad, said Dave. We can't risk it. Are you out of your mind, said Annie. Probably, said Dave. Me too, said Annie, and she crawled into the truck. Even today in Big Narrows, there are people who leave their keys in their cars. These days, they likely slip them under the floor mat.

But back then, just about everyone left them right in the ignition. Charlie was no exception. Dave ruffled Annie's hair and said, You run the pedals. And when Annie crouched between Dave's feet working the gas and the brakes, they lurched away. Billy clutching the emergency brake with all his might. In case there's an emergency, said Billy. More gas, said Dave. More gas.

They made it in first gear. The engine screaming the whole way. And they rocked to a stop on the side of the road, and Dave opened the door and jumped out. First thing he noticed was the roar of the falls in the distance. They all jumped out after him, and they all ran to the bridge and stared up the river. Dave looked at Annie and said, we might have missed him.

We might be too late, you know. We aren't too late, said Annie. He's coming. What are we going to do? There was only one thing to do. We have to lower someone over the edge, said Billy. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at Dave. Dave turned and stared at Annie.

Give me your belt, said Dave to Sean. They fashioned a harness out of their belts and grabbed the rope out of the back of the truck and they fixed the harness around Annie and then fixed the rope to the harness. Someone should have said, are you sure about this? Someone should have said, this is not a good idea. But that's why they didn't bring Charlie. Anyway, Annie had already climbed over the railing and was standing on the far side of the bridge. Lean out, said Dave. I'm too scared, said Annie. Dave said, let go of the railing, shut your eyes and lean. The dog came floating around the corner. Dave pointed and said, Annie!

And Annie stepped off the edge of that bridge, screaming at the top of her lungs. There is a time in a person's life when everything changes. This was Annie's time. All her life, she had been Dave's little sister. All her life, she had been the tag-along. But in that moment, right there, right then, swinging back and forth over the black cold waters of the Little Nation River,

Annie, not yet ten, came of age. She let go of the edge of that bridge, and from that moment on, her life was never the same. She was no longer on the sidelines watching things happen. Everyone was watching her, and she was swinging over the river like a bucket at the end of a rope. The harness shifted. Annie flipped upside down. She could almost touch the water. The dog was almost there. Now what? screamed Annie. They'd forgotten the most important part of the rescue, the plan.

The dog almost sailed right by her. But he didn't. As the boys stood there, dumbstruck, the dog jumped towards Annie's outstretched arms. The boys watched it happen in slow motion. He hit her chest high. She grabbed on, and so did he. They didn't need a plan. The dog had the plan.

Being there, Dave would say years later, is usually the only plan you ever need. But that was years later. Right now the only thing on their minds was getting Annie and that mutt onto the bridge. Pull, cried Dave. And they pulled, and they hauled her up and over the railing. And when that was done, and they were standing there on the bridge looking at each other in shock, the dog jumped onto the road, barked twice, and then walked casually over to the truck and peed on the front tire. And that was more or less that. Well, that wasn't completely that. There was still Charlie to deal with. Charlie was waiting for them in the parking lot of the Maple Leaf Cafe. First thing he said to them when they shuttered to a stop in front of him, first thing he said after they got out of the truck and Dave handed him the keys was, I was wondering when you'd get back.

handed him the keys was, I was wondering when you'd get back. They drove down to the dock and parked there and looked over the water. The three of them in the front of the truck, the dog sitting next to Annie, licking her hand. First thing they agreed was they wouldn't tell her mother. It wouldn't be good for her, said Charlie. She'd just get worried. When they nodded at that, he said, now we've got to figure out some story about this mutt. And it can't involve ice or bridges. I just don't want to think about that.

Could we say we got him at the pound, said Dave. That'd be good, said Charlie, if we had a pound. So they cooked up a story. And then Charlie said, as for you two, you two need to be punished. And he said, but mom always does that part. You have no experience in that. You're right said Charlie. Maybe we could just you know pretend said Charlie. I'm okay with that said Dave. Well said Charlie best we go home then and

introduce this mutt to your mother. They put up a note at the post office and an announcement in the casket, but they never heard anything. And no one in town could remember ever seeing that dog before. And so he became theirs. It was Annie who named him. Scout, said Annie. His name is Scout. It was a good enough name. It seemed to suit him. In any way of all of them, she had earned the right to bestow it, so no one argued.

Pretty sorry-looking mutt, if you ask me, said Charlie. Doesn't look like he has much life left in him. Charlie was wrong about that. Scout lived forever. He went on and on and on. As for the woodshed, the woodshed didn't sink that spring. That night, the night they rescued Scout, the piece of ice it was on broke away from the shore,

and the next morning it floated away down the river, or what was left of it floated away. The roof half ripped off as it went under the bridge, but old man McCauley saw it go over the falls, and there were other reports of it bobbing along in the flow. A lot of people saw it go through little narrows on Monday afternoon. So there was no winner that year. No one even knows where the last timbers disappeared or whether they actually even sank.

Annie and Dave had many great springs growing up. Annie and Dave had many great springs growing up, but that spring was the best of them. It's the one they talk about when they get together. That day, the one they rescued Scout especially. They came to love him so much. But isn't that so often the way with love it arrives when you least expect it out of the blue unbidden and mysterious

it shows up and when it does you have no choice but to reach out and hold on tight. That was the story we call Annie's Turn. We recorded that story at the Esplanade Arts and Heritage Center in Medicine Hat, Alberta in 2012. All right, so obviously I've heard that story before, but I have to tell you, I was on the edge of my seat during that climax. I couldn't stop listening. I was like, oh my God, oh my God, is she going to be okay? Are they going to get her? Are they going to get the dog? Are they

going to get up? I had to tell myself, Jess, calm down. You know how the story ends. You heard it 32 nights in a row on tour. Anyway, I love that story and I love the way Stuart tells it. Doesn't it feel like a Steven Spielberg movie? I watched the movie E.T. recently with my kids. We do movie night every Friday night. I pick the kids up from school, bring them home, make something fun and easy to eat for dinner, and the four of us all sit on the floor together with our dinner buffet spread out on the coffee

table, and we watch a movie together. And I know, I know you're not supposed to eat and watch TV, a movie together. And I know, I know you're not supposed to eat and watch TV and we don't usually, but that's what makes movie night so fun. We're doing a whole bunch of things that we usually don't do. We eat pizza or chicken fingers or something that isn't, you know, salmon and broccoli. And we eat in front of the TV. And it's special in that way that things you know you shouldn't be doing are special. We do it every Friday night and we all look forward to it. Even Molly the dog. She's happy to have us all in one place and happy to clean up the odd thing that falls under the coffee table while we're eating distractedly. But no one looks forward to it more than Annabelle, four years old. Annabelle

loves movie night. I think it's less about the movie and more about the togetherness. All Annabelle wants, it's pretty simple, actually. All Annabelle wants is to be home with mom every second of every hour of every day. I mean, is that too much to ask? I don't think she dislikes preschool. It's just she doesn't like it as much as she likes staying home with mom. And so movie night is her favorite because we are all home together, but also because it's Friday night. And Friday night marks the beginning of the weekend where we get to be together 24-7. The thing that breaks my heart is this. Every single morning before school, Every single morning before school.

Annabelle pitter-patters down the stairs. And the very first thing she asks is, It's night movie night, Mom. It breaks my heart when I have to say, No, sweetie. It's Monday. She doesn't get upset, or doesn't show that she's upset, but still, it breaks my heart. And it breaks my heart to the point where as much as I love movie night, I've wondered about not doing it anymore.

Can something be too fun? Can something special and different and out of the ordinary make the ordinary feel unbearable? And I'm just going to pause for a second and say, if anyone has any advice for me on this front, I'm all ears. I know most people don't like parenting advice. I am the opposite. I love parenting advice. I love all advice. So if you have thoughts on this, send me an email. Anyway, back to Stuart's story. The story you just heard, Annie's Turn. It feels so much like a Steven Spielberg movie to me. We watched E.T. the other night for movie night, and I hadn't seen it since I was a kid. And I had forgotten how amazing Spielberg is at capturing emotion, but also at capturing childhood. In E.T., for instance,

you rarely see the faces of the adults other than the mom. You see the mom's face, but the rest of the adults, for the most part, you only see their middles, their belt buckles, their skirts, that sort of thing. And I think he did that because that's what kids see. That's how they experience life. They experience life from a different perspective. They see only a slice of life. But because they see only a slice of life, they see that slice differently than we do. In that movie, you hear the adults talk, but you only overhear them. Their voices are mixed further back, farther away. They don't talk to the children. They talk around them. They talk through them. Because, again, that's what it's like to be a kid. So much of your information is gleaned from eavesdropping.

eavesdropping. But the kids figure things out on their own without the adults. They gather scraps of information overheard from the adults, and then they start to fit those puzzle pieces together. But there aren't enough pieces to form a full picture. The puzzle is incomplete. So they have to fill in the blanks. And they fill in the blanks with their own imagination. Fiction and overheard fact fitting together to form the fantastic. Something otherworldly. Stuart does the same thing in that story we just heard. He captures the spirit of children so well. He does that in so many of his stories, but in that one especially, he captures the intensity of their feelings, the feelings of kids, but also their absolute

presentness and their incredible ability to sense possibility. I love that about children, their ability to see what is possible or maybe to not tell themselves that it is not possible. Is that what it is? kids more optimistic than adults? Maybe. But it's more than that. It's lack of experience, of course. They don't worry about falling from that tree because they've never fallen before. They've never seen someone else fall. So why would they worry about it? But I think it's more than that, too. Adults intellectualize more than kids do. I think we, well, I think we think too much. We're less likely to trust our gut. We're more likely to trust our experience or the experience of others, the stories we've been told about what could happen. We think too hard. And there's lots

of good reasons for that, safety being the most important. Kids, on the other hand, just know, or think they know. And that's just it. We think we know better. And sometimes we do, but they know too. They just know differently than we do, and sometimes they know better. Kids have a superior spidey sense, and I think it's superior because it's all they've got. They don't have experience. They don't have knowledge or much of it. And like those kids in ET, they have to piece together bits of information to figure things out. They're like detectives. They listen carefully. They watch intently. They intuit meaning. Intuit meaning they feel things deeply. They pay attention to those feelings.

They don't brush them away. And when you move through life like that, you develop a pretty good antenna. An antenna for what is right and what is wrong. For what is possible and what isn't. And that is what I love about that story and what I loved about watching E.T. I think we can learn as much from kids as they learn from us. The power of being present and the promise of possibility. Okay, 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 a second story now. We recorded this in Mission, B.C. in 2006. This is Dave and the Roller Coaster. To the town of Big Narrows in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, the town where Dave grew up was, when Dave was a boy, about as far away as you could get from anywhere, unless you left town. Not that there weren't plenty of places in town to keep a boy happy.

There was the alley full of steam that ran alongside Art Gillespie's laundromat. Down by the river, there was the chair factory, and you could always find scrap wood there. And if you had money for ice cream in the summer, there was McDonnell's Post Office and General Store, which is where the kids went for candy, pop, and Mad Magazine. The teens went for smokes, and parents picked up the big city newspapers. The Glace Bay Coastal Courier, the Andy Ganesh Sunday Casket. Big Narrows was off the

main road, no doubt about it, still is, and that made it just about a perfect place to grow up, though you'd never convince any of the kids of that. When you do, you're growing up in a place like the Narrows, where you know everything about everyone, and everyone thinks they know everything about you. You spend a lot of time dreaming of the places that you're going to go to the day you can finally swing clear of the school and clear over the moon. Dave dreamt of landing in Brooklyn, New York, home of the most famous amusement park in the world, Coney Island. When he got there, he was going to ride the roller coaster.

He'd read about it in the Reader's Digest. He'd read that the roller coaster at Coney Island went so fast it defied gravity. Billy Mitchell said astronauts used to go to Coney Island at night and practice on the thing. Billy and Dave had a plan to go the summer they were 15. They never made it, of course, and soon enough life took over. To everything there is a season. Dave missed the season of roller coasters, and he forgot about them for 30 long years until the leafy summer

his son Sam was six, and Dave remembered, which would have been fine, or should have been, except Sam, six, was way too young for roller coasters. And Dave, who was old enough to know better, was way too keen. So off they headed to an amusement park. And when they got there, Sam took one look at the roller coaster and he started to whimper. Dave said, come on, it'll be fun. Sam shook his head. Dave picked Sam up, more or less lovingly. And he held him close, and he began whispering calming, reassuring things. Sam seemed to relax a little and Dave continued his supplications.

Look, said Dave, pointing at the roller coaster. It'll be fun, said Dave. The people in the roller coaster were clinging to one another. A woman in the front was screaming. No, no, no, said Sam. No, said Sam. And then he collapsed into tears and Dave's shoulders sagged. He knew it was time to concede defeat. And so he turned and he began to work his way back down the line. Excuse me, I'm sorry, excuse me, please. And Sam by now was crying and thrashing and flailing about in Dave's arms. The crowd in front of him just parted. It was as if he was

armed or something, which in a way he was. Dave and Sam spent the rest of the afternoon hiding out in kiddy land, a quiet and grassy oasis with a climber, a vinyl cage of colored balls, and a slide in the shape of an elephant. Sam played happily while Dave sat morosely on the bench, pulling little bits of cotton candy out of the hairs on his legs. They went back to the amusement park the summer that Sam was eight. And this time, they were better prepared. They'd talked about roller coasters for weeks before they went. Sam was pumped. They lined up for 40 sticky minutes.

And when they got to the front of the line, a man wearing a duck costume took one look at Sam, shook his head, and said, not tall enough. What, said Dave? 54 inches, said the man. He's too short. People began to push past them, and they headed back to kiddy land. On the way, Sam pointed to a ride. Six giant bumblebees that went around in a small, slow circle. Sam said, can I try it? He rode the bumblebees for half an hour. After a half an hour, he staggered off the ride and said, can I try it? He rode the bumblebees for half an hour.

After half an hour, he staggered off the ride and said, I don't feel too good. And then, one night this summer, Sam said, I still haven't been on a roller coaster. They went back to the park again, just the two of them, just two weeks ago. They arrived at 6 30. The sun was beginning to dip. It was the perfect time to be coming as the day was going. They bought a big roll of tickets. The park was full, just as it should be, thought Dave. You wouldn't want the place to yourself. Diving into the crowd was like shoving a canoe into a stretch of white water. The crowd picked you up and carried you along.

Somewhere, mixed with the noise of the crowd and the ringing bells, somewhere floating above the red and yellow flashing lights, Dave could hear Cream singing the sunshine of my love through a cheap PA. It took them 20 minutes to get to the roller coaster, and when they got there, Dave saw to his distress that a lot had happened in the world of roller coaster design over the last 40 years. They were standing in front of the hypergeist, a roller coaster which the sign said would exert a force of 4.2 Gs as it tossed and flipped its way through two loops and a corkscrew.

There was a very young guy with long hair and a ring through his eyebrows slouched against a control panel. He looked bored and inattentive. While Dave gave him his tickets, he said, has anyone ever had an accident on this ride? Not that I've ever noticed, said the kid. Not that I've ever noticed, said the kid. Sam said, Let's go. There was a big sign. Dave grabbed Sam by the shoulder and held him back. He said, Just a minute.

Dave wanted to read the sign. Do not speak to the operator, said the sign. Do not walk on the track. Do not put your arms outside the car. Do not ride if you're pregnant. Do not ride if you suffer from heart palpitations, vertigo, high blood pressure, atrial fibrillation, night sweats, anxiety disorder, or peanut allergy. Come on, said Sam. Dave said, just a minute. Dave kept reading.

This ride may cause shortness of breath, excessive sweating, and dry mouth. Dave's tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Some people may experience nausea, confusion, disorientation, muscle twitches, or an overwhelming desire to urinate. Dave began bobbing up and down slowly. Do not go on this ride if you have silver amalgam fillings or worry about going mad or have had precognitive experiences that involve hurtling to your death in an amusement park while trapped in a little car that leaves the rails and you didn't have to go if you didn't want to, and that will be your last thought.

Come on, said Sam. I'm not sure I can do this, said Dave. Oh, brother, said Sam. And for the third time in their lives, Dave and Sam slunk out of line. As they passed a group of staring teenagers, Sam muttered, they won't let him on the ride. He's pregnant.

What is the problem, said Sam? I can't do this, said Dave. They were sitting on a park bench. They were eating cotton candy. They were passing a pop back and forth. Sam said, it's normal to be afraid. You're supposed to be afraid. You aren't going to die.

You can't die. Dave thought, sometimes people die. Sam said, not here, not tonight. That would be ridiculous. What are you afraid of? They finished their candy. They finished their candy. They finished their pop. Dave said, I don't know what I'm afraid of.

I'm just afraid. Sam stood up and he held out his hand. Dave said, go without me. You go and I'll watch. Sam said, I have a better idea. Okay, said Dave. Sam said, do you trust me? What could he say to that? He nodded his head. Sam said, good, okay. Stand up and close your eyes. Promise me you won't open them until I tell you. Promise me you won't open them until I tell you. Dave stood up, and he closed his eyes.

And Sam took his father's hand. Dave said, if I die, I'm going to kill you. Sam said, just don't open your eyes. And Sam led him through the park, through the bumps and the bells and the screams. And Dave didn't open his eyes, not once. It was very, very hard. But Dave kept his promise and his eyes closed.

And then they stopped walking. And Dave heard Sam walk up to a ticket taker and stop and say, my father needs help. He's blind. Now Dave really wanted to open his eyes. But now he couldn't. Now he had to keep them closed because the man had him by the elbow and the man was helping him into a seat. As he sat down, Dave put out his hand and felt the seat and, oh my God, he wanted to look so badly. But the man was right there. He could feel his breath on his neck. He could sense him reaching across him. He was fastening a seat belt. He could sense Sam sitting beside him. He could sense the car was starting to move. Sam sitting beside him. He could sense the car was starting to move. Sam said, are you scared? Dave said, yes, I'm scared, but it's okay. Sam said, don't be afraid. They were moving slowly.

Dave said, can I open my eyes? Sam said, not yet. They were picking up speed. I can feel it, said Dave. And then Sam said, okay, now. And Dave, who had been clutching the bar in front of him, didn't open his eyes right away. Instead, he lifted his hands off the bar and he held his arms over his head, just like he saw people doing in pictures when they were in roller coasters. He held his hands up in the air and he yelled like those people. He yelled as loud as he could, I-ya! Then he opened his eyes and saw he was in the giant bumblebee ride. And Sam was sitting beside him with his head in his hands.

And there was a group of adults, people who he had never seen before in his life, and every time they went by them, the adults would wave. Wave. Sam said, put your hands down. Sam said, put your hands down. Dave said, what are we doing? Sam said, I was conditioning you. They got off the ride and they went into the Giggle Palace.

And they stood in front of the fun house mirrors. Sam's mirror stretched him tall and impossibly thin. Dave's made him look like a little dwarf toad. Perfect, thought Dave. He couldn't say when it had happened, but he wasn't going to deny it. He couldn't keep up with his children anymore. He felt like he had to run just to keep up these days. And even though he was running as fast as he could, he could feel himself slipping behind. His children were passing him on the highway of life. And this was just another milestone. And soon there would be plenty more. And that wasn't the worst part. One day before he knew it,

he'd have to pull over and wave goodbye. Sam would leave him behind. Okay, said Dave, let's do it. Are you sure, said Sam? No, said Dave, but let's do it anyway. And so off they headed, across the park for the second time that night back to the lineup they had quit three times now. As they came abreast of the warning sign Dave said I'm just going to shut my eyes for a moment and go to my happy place. And that's what he did and Sam led him the line, talking to him all the time.

When we get there, look at the track in front of you. It'll make you feel balanced. And if you start to feel queasy, push your right foot down onto the floor and grab the bar like a steering wheel and pretend you're driving it. Dave opened his eyes and looked at his son. How do you know this stuff? Sam said, I got it online. Dave said, you researched this? Sam shrugged. I figured you might need some help. Before Dave knew it, they were climbing into the roller coaster.

Sam turned and looked at his father earnestly. Remember, he said, you only have to do this once. Dave said, is that from the net too? Sam nodded, yup. You can repeat it to yourself if it helps. And then a heavy padded bar fell across Dave's lap, and he felt a rush of panic. He didn't have choice anymore. I only have to do this once.

He looked at Sam. Sam gave him the thumbs up, and then the train started to move. The track was rising in front of them. They were climbing a huge hill. It was so steep they began to tilt backwards, slower and slower, way back. Dave nodded. Dave closed his eyes. I only have to do this once. I only have to do this once. And then they got to the top of the hill. And then they crested the hill. And then they were plunging to the ground and Dave could feel himself coming right out of his seat. He was upside down. He was right side up. He was coming. He was going. He looked at Sam. Sam's hair was pressed against his head by the wind. Sam looked like a

dog with his head out of a car window. Somebody was screaming. Somebody was screaming from the pit of their stomachs. The screams sounded horrible. Dave opened his mouth to ask Sam if he was okay, and he realized his mouth was already open. Realized he was the guy screaming. It had begun as a scream of terror,

but it was different now. It wasn't a scream of terror anymore. It was a scream of unadulterated joy. Sam was screaming too, the two of them, screaming like fools. And then Sam lifted his hands and held them over his head, and he turned to his dad and he said, now. Dave was clutching the padded bar.

He had his foot pushed into the floor. I can't, he said, I'm driving. And then it was over. Just like that, just like that, around a corner, and they pulled into the station. And Sam held his hand up, and Dave uncurled his fingers from the bar one by one, and he high-fived his son. And Sam said, how do you feel? And Dave said, like a kid.

Then he said, can we do it again? On their way out of the park, they walked by a merry-go-round, a beautifully restored carousel of the old style, painted wooden ponies with genuine leather reins. Dave held up the last of their tickets. Come on, he said. No way, said Sam. So Dave went along.

It was late, and he was the only person on the ride. He chose a big white horse, frozen on its brass pole, its wild mouth tossing backwards. As the ride began, Dave looked at all of the empty horses in front of him and beside him, all the horses going up and down, up and down, the calliope playing and the horses going up and down and the carousels spinning around like a record player. It was like the gallop of his life. It was like his life, galloping all alone to a place that was out there somewhere, but kept fading into the distance the closer he got. Around and around he went. And that was when he realized he had been wrong. He had been wrong at the Hall of Mirrors. Well, partly wrong. He was falling behind.

He'd got that part right. But Sam wasn't going to leave him behind. Sam wasn't going to leave him on the sidelines. His son was hurtling into the future, no doubt about it. But Dave wasn't being left behind. He was being dragged along with him. This was the future. This moment and all the others. It was the way it had been ever since Sam was born. Sam was opening life to him.

Sam had taught him more than he would ever teach his son. Around and around, up and down, Sam was leaning on the fence, watching his father. And each time Dave passed him, Dave waved like a kid. And Sam shook his head, embarrassed. Dave would come into sight and wave and then disappear again as the carousel carried him out of sight, smiling as he rode on his silly wooden horse, smiling and waving and, above all, happy. Thank you.

Thank you. That was the story we called Dave and the Roller Coaster. That's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with more from Dave and Morley, including this. Morley came down for breakfast, and he was standing by the door beaming, saps running! And then,

the magic words of his boyhood springs. They went to the backyard and sure enough, drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Little drops of water dripping into the pail, one slow drop at a time.

That's cool, said Sam. But he didn't mean it. It's embarrassing, he said to Morley when they were alone. Why can't he golf like the other dads? 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 who loves that bumblebee ride, Greg DeClewt.

Theme music is by Danny Michelle. And the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg Duclute, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.