Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Winter – Minnedosa & Jim’s Toboggan

Episode Date: January 10, 2025

“Two men who should have known better, climbing onto an old wooden toboggan” Happy New Year and welcome back to Season 5 of Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe! We’ll be with you all the way to summer. But right now, summer is the last thing on our minds: this week’s podcast is all about winter and the joys and perils of winter sports. 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. We are so happy to be back with you for another season of Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. We're happy to be here and happy you are here too. It's you that keeps us coming back. I know there are some people who are new to this, so if you're new to the pod and you don't know me, let me introduce myself. I'm the long-time producer of The Vinyl Cafe,

a radio show hosted by my friend, the late, great Stuart McLean. On this podcast, we get together to play some of Stuart's stories about the fictional world of Dave, the owner of the world's smallest record store called The Vinyl Cafe. We'll also be sharing some of Stuart's other wonderful writing too, essays and scripts from his many performances at venues across Canada and the United States. So welcome. All right, let's get down to it. It's January so

today on the show we're talking about winter. If you've been listening for a while you'll know that I'm one of those crazy people who loves winter, so I have So today on the show, we're talking about winter. If you've been listening for a while, you'll know that I'm one of those crazy people who loves winter. So I have been really looking forward to this episode. We've got a David Morley story for you about one of my favorite winter activities, tobogganing. That's in the second half of the show.

And we're gonna hear Stuart talking about that great winter sport, curling. Let's get started. This is Stuart McLean from back in 2009. We arrived in town almost a week ago. Vinyl Cafe producer Jess Milton and I, we drove in one evening and the very first thing we did was drive out again. Ten kilometers north to the little hamlet of Clan William. Once we got there, we stopped at the general store to ask directions. We wanted to visit the Clan William curling rink. We'd come to Manitoba to learn about curling and we had been told Clan William, population

40, was the place to do that. Let me tell you if that General Store was the only place we saw while we were here it would have been worth the trip. The Clan William General Store is perfect in every way. It has wooden floors and a wood-burning stove. It has groceries and it has penny candy. It has wooden floors and a wood burning stove. It has groceries and it has penny candy. It has a kitchen table where folks gather in the morning for a coffee and at noon for lunch. It has a pool table, a buck a game, and in an alcove at the very back behind the wood stove and the kitchen table and the pool table, it has a single

old-time barber chair. Empty the evening we stopped by, but waiting there for the itinerant barber who comes to town every second Thursday, haircuts $10. We weren't sure the store was going to be open. We had heard what happened the last time a reporter had been sent to Clan William to visit the Clan William Curling Club. It was a sports reporter from the Boston Globe, and like us, he had been told to stop at the General Store to get directions to the rink. When he got there, all he found was a sign in the store window that read, gone curling. But the General Store was open when we arrived and we went in and bought some penny candy and got directions. Turns out we were only a block away. We drove around the corner parked beside everyone else in the shadow of the grain elevator and we walked through the snow towards a long,

narrow, quonset hut that looked like a cross between a bowling alley and a garage. We stood there for a moment under a bone-white crescent moon and we looked at each other. We didn't have to say what we were thinking. It was a perfect prairie moment. Our horizon framed by a grain elevator, an outdoor skating rink, and the door to a natural ice curling arena. Neither of us know anything about curling, but we now knew why we had been sent to Clan William to learn about it. I opened the door and we stepped into what looked like a basement rec room.

The end of the building was covered in wood paneling. There was a coat rack to our left and above it 12 pairs of skates lined up on a shelf. Oh said Jim Richards who was the first person we met. That's where everyone leaves their skates. If you want to go skating feel free to borrow a pair. There was a small kitchen in the far corner serving homemade hamburgers and lemon meringue pie. There was a large table in the other corner with a cribbage board and there were two rows of 12 chairs overlooking the ice surface. We stayed for three

hours. We sat in the seats and we watched the games. We ate pie and burgers. But most importantly, we fell in love with curling. When we left, we left thinking curling may just be the perfect Canadian game. As we drove home, we were both berating ourselves for wasting so many winters. Where should I begin? Maybe where every curler I met began, with fellowship. Curling is a sport that fosters fellowship. That's easy to say, and lots of people say it about their sports.

The thing is, curlers mean it. Curlers seem a little closer to each other than others. Every game begins and ends with a handshake. It's tradition. And when the handshakes are over, the fellowship isn't. There's another tradition. The winning team traditionally buys the losing team a drink. You linger.

You get to know the people you play with and against. In the old days before liquor licenses, you went down to the snake pit for your drink. These days you go to the bar and you replay the good shots and argue about the strategies. Sometimes it's hard to tell where the game begins and where it ends. What else? Well, I like that there are no refs in curling. You're expected to call your own penalties. If your broom touches your rock or burns it as they say, you're expected to remove the rock from the game. Nine times out of 10, you could get away with it, but no one tries.

OK, there are umpires at the big bond spiels, but they're kept behind glass. And they don't interfere unless they're asked. It is, as they say, a gentleman's game. I don't know how you say that inclusively. And I don't want to insult all the women who play just as gentlemanly as the men on teams with other women and I should point out on teams with men. But I don't think I have to fuss about that. Curlers don't take offense easily. I have a friend back home,

a young mother who plays at the provincial level, who I phoned after my visit to Clan William. What do you like about the game? I asked. Like every curler I talked to, she talked about fellowship. I know about that, I said. Besides that. Well, you get to yell, she said.

Yell, I asked. yell, she said. Yell, I asked. Sure, she said. Who doesn't like to yell? Especially curling talk. Hurry hard, she yelled down the phone line. Now how great is it to yell that in public? So, yes, I am loving this sport, though I may be getting ahead of myself. I haven't actually played it yet. But maybe that's the best place to keep your favorite sport at arm's length in the realm

where anything is possible. I still have a lot to learn, like, for instance, how to read the scoreboard. What's the deal with that? As far as I can figure, some drunken acilt developed the system years ago. People have been trying to figure it out ever since. It's just the way we do it is the best explanation I got. Mostly, I think, I have fallen for curling because more than any other sport I know it is about community. And I would put forward sport is at its best the closer it can get to that.

Today professional athletes are no longer connected to the communities where they play. They are literally free agents. The best of hockey was never the professional game. The best of hockey was when the old senior leagues from coast to coast competed each year for the Allen Cup and the right to represent Canada at the World Championship. In those days, any community could dream of sending their team overseas. Well guess what? Curling still works like that.

The briar for men and the Tournament of Hearts for women are the top drawer for Canadian curlers. And each year when the curling season begins, every curler in the country begins the season in the knowledge that they could make it to either tournament. Anyone in any town in any province has the same shot. And this is not just theory, this is the way it works. Club playoffs in every club in the country are played to choose the teams that will go to the zone playoffs, which are played to determine which teams go to the provincial

playoffs, which are played to determine the 12 provincial and territorial champions that will go to the Briar and the Tournament of Hearts. Three women from right here in Minidosa went to Prince Albert to play in the provincials last year, and the night before they left the community gathered over the curling rink to help raise money for the trip. The place was jammed. There was a bagpiper who piped the women up from the basement. It was one of those grand moments. And they're still talking about it here in town.

It's what curlers do. They rehash all the great moments. That's the thing about the game of curling, it unfolds slowly enough so you can do that. You have to love a sport where any schmo can aspire to play at a national level. Curling is still a sport of the people. It may not be big, but it's small. That was Stuart McLean singing the praises of curling. We recorded that at the Minidosa Community Conference Center in Minidosa, Manitoba back in 2013. I talked a little bit about

the wonders of Minidosa and Clan William back in season one of the podcast in an episode called Dave's Buddies. So if you want to hear more scroll back in your feed all the way back to February 2023 and you can listen to that one too. We're gonna take a short break now but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with more winter stories. So stick around. ... ...

... ... ... ... ... ... Welcome back. We were talking about curling in the first half of the show, and there's a new curling rink in the town where I live. The other night a bunch of friends of mine were talking about it. There was a group of us, all of us women, all of us middle-aged

or maybe a little bit older than middle-aged, sort of 45 to 65. We were on a hike in the woods on snowshoes when this conversation happened. We were on a hike in the woods on snowshoes when this conversation happened. We'd been hiking up the hill for about an hour when talk turned to curling. One of my friends said she wanted to try it. And then another woman gave a little shudder, shook her head and said, curling? That's so dangerous. What? I said. I? I said. I was incredulous. Now, this is one of my very good friends

and I know she's had some bad falls on ice. So this curling is dangerous thing wasn't coming out of nowhere. Her fear comes from past experience, I get that. And she told me that night that her mother-in-law had just fallen while curling and had suffered a concussion. So her comment made sense. I love her and

I trust her opinion, so normally I'd be open to her perspective. That night, I was not. That night, I had a visceral reaction to her curling is dangerous comment. I shot it down. Hard. I dismissed her experience and her mother-in-law's experience in a not so nice way. And in the weeks since that night, I've been thinking a lot about why I reacted so poorly. This friend and I are the exact same age. We talk a lot about where we're at smack dab

in the middle of life. We're both really into fitness and aware that as our bodies get older, we need to look after them differently. Which of course is why she said what she said. But something about what she said and something about the language she used really bothered me.

I wasn't able to accept that curling was dangerous. I wasn't ready to accept that this is the sort of thing I should be feeling or telling myself in middle age. I wasn't able to accept that I am now of an age where maybe anything on ice is dangerous. Is curling dangerous? I don't know. I guess. I mean, there's ice and when there's ice you can fall and when you fall you can break bones or get a concussion and as my friend astutely pointed out you don't wear a helmet when you curl. But then if curling is dangerous what about skating? Sure you wear a helmet or I wear a helmet when I skate, but I could break a wrist when

I fall. Or downhill skiing, you could break a leg or worse. Or what about cross-country skiing in the back country? Even walking on an icy sidewalk in the city where you also don't wear a helmet. All of those things have an element of risk. Does that mean we should avoid them? As I thought about it, I realized I reacted the way I did. I reacted poorly because I think fear is the most dangerous thing of all,

especially as we age. As you develop fear, you cross things off your possible list. Fear makes your world smaller. It happens bit by bit. So it's hard to notice. No one wakes up in the morning and decides to become sedentary. No one wakes up in the morning and decides

they're too old to do the things that bring them joy. That's not how it happens. It happens like this. You tell yourself downhill skiing is too dangerous. I'm gonna switch to cross-country. And then the cross-country trails are too icy. I'm gonna walk on the sidewalk. And then the sidewalks are way too icy today, I'm gonna walk on the sidewalk. And then, the sidewalks are way too icy today. I'm gonna stay inside. Eventually, after enough self-talk like this, you've stayed inside so many days that it actually is dangerous to ski or skate

or walk on icy sidewalks because your core isn't strong enough to do it, and all those little stabilizing muscles in your feet and ankles and knees are out of practice. And not only that, you have a new danger, the biggest danger of all. You've stopped having reasons to get outside, to move your body, to learn new things, to spend time in nature. The stories we tell ourselves are important and the stories we allow others to tell us are important too. I don't want to tell myself that curling is dangerous. I don't want to think like that. I don't want my world to

get smaller and smaller, eroded slowly over the years, fear by tiny fear washing away my confidence. As I age, I want to do the opposite. I want to embrace fear and risk the way children do. I think kids have an innate ability to know what is actually dangerous and what isn't. They feel it in their tummies. It's not that they don't have fear, it's just that they embrace fear and they know that fear is different than risk and that risk is different than danger. But mostly, mostly I think kids are more comfortable with risk because their peers aren't walking around telling them how dangerous everything is. We do that.

It's adults that do that to kids. We erode the shores of their ambition, curiosity, and adventure by constantly saying unhelpful things like, watch out, or be careful, things so ambiguous in nature that they're not effective. We do that to them and we do it to ourselves too. All those what if and all those times we say yeah but what about the yes some things are dangerous, but some of those things, most of those things are just risky. Almost everything has some risk associated with it. The level of risk depends on the activity, but also on the person.

And I think kids understand that. They also understand that risk, that the possibility of danger is kind of part of the fun. It exercises our minds as well as our bodies. It makes us stronger and it forces us to be in the moment, to be present. I'm not the only one who thinks this. This year, the Canadian Pediatric Society said, and I'm quoting here, the Canadian Pediatric Society said, thrilling and exciting free play that involves the possibility of physical injury can improve physical, mental, and social health.

The author of the study said that benefits of risky play are less obesity, lower stress levels, and higher self-esteem. I think it's the same for adults. Any physical activity is beneficial to ward off obesity. But for me, anyway, thrilling and exciting play? Well, that helps lower stress because it occupies not just my body, but my mind too. It forces me to be fully and totally present. The risk of flying over my handlebars while mountain biking means that I have to stay focused to make sure I see that rock. Backcountry skiing means I can't think about my to-do list

because I have to watch out for that tree. And it improves self-esteem because conquering fear I can't think about my to-do list because I have to watch out for that tree. And it improves self-esteem because conquering fear is way better than having no fear at all. Here's an example. A couple of years ago, my eldest daughter, Eloise, went off to overnight camp for the first time. She was five years old at the time.

It was just two nights, and I knew she could do it. More importantly, she knew she could do it. But still, she was five. It was scary. And I was glad she had some fear about it. If she had no fear, she would have had nothing to conquer. If she had walked off into the woods without trepidation, she wouldn't have felt like she'd conquered anything. She walked off into the woods with a tummy full of butterflies, but she walked off nonetheless. And so, when she emerged two days later, she was walking triumphantly, like a warrior walking off the battlefield. And it was a battlefield. What she had fought was her own fear. The battle was with herself. And without a

battle, there is no victory. And this year? This year, she went back for an entire week, riding in triumphant after her victory the year before. So that's what we're talking about on the show, embracing our fears and embracing risky play as an adult. This is Stuart McLean with Jim's Toboggan. It was after 11, 11 at night, and it was snowing again, third night in a row. Fifteen centimeters on Tuesday, same Wednesday, and there'd been more than 15 centimeters already tonight.

It was coming relentlessly, not unpleasantly though. It was the agreeable sort of snow, I mean, soft and almost dreamy. The kind of snowfall that makes you stick out your tongue rather than hunch up your shoulders. Kind of dreamy sort of snow that draws you to the bedroom window and imbues you with the wistfulness of winter. Which is where Dave was by the window, wistfully lost in the snow when he spotted his neighbor Jim Schofield slipping out his side door again. Third night in a row and for the third night in a row Jim had something tucked under his arm. Come, come, come called Dave.

Look, look. Of course by the time Morley was there, by the time Morley was out of bed and had made it across the bedroom to the window, Jim was not out of sight exactly, but well down the street. What's he carrying, said Dave. It's hard to tell, said Marley. She had her hands cupped on the cold window pane. She had her face pressed to the glass. It looked like a board or something. An ironing board said Morley. He's doing some midnight ironing. Gym said Dave. Ironing. Dave had his face pressed beside hers, two of them staring out like two little kids.

If he goes tomorrow night, said Dave, I'm following him. What are you, said Marley, ten years old? But Jim was gone, and Dave was too, staring wistfully at the half-buried snowman that the kids down the street had built. But the next night, he was back at the window, his coat beside him and his boots by the side door. And precisely at 11, like the night before

and the night before that, there was Jim again, slipping outside. Don't wait up, said Dave. And he was slipping out the door too. Now it might seem odd to you for Dave to be out there following his neighbor the way he was. But the truth is he was being driven by concern as much as by curiosity. Dave was worried about his neighbor. Jim had been, what to say, different the last few

months, of a sort. Not exactly depressed, it was hard to find the right word, just not Not himself. Dave held back in the shadows of his driveway and watched as Jim headed west. The sidewalks hadn't been plowed. Jim was walking in the street following the packed tire tracks. It was pretty clear where they were heading. They were heading for the park. When they got there, Dave held back, watched Jim from the far side of the street sit on one of the benches at the top of the North End Hill.

The benches where the old Italian guys sit in the summer with their little dogs and their cigarettes. Jim sat slumped, really. His shoulders sagging. And then, absolutely nothing. He just sat, slumped really, his shoulders sagging, and then absolutely nothing, just sat there. Felt weird to be standing there watching him like that, little creepy. Dave had no explanation for what he was doing,

nothing to say if Jim spotted him, so he decided, rather than stand around, what he'd do is he'd do a lap of the park, which would take about 15 minutes, and if Jim was still sitting there when he got back, he could just pretend he was out for a walk. If Jim was gone, well, it was none of his business anyway. Jim was still on the bench when Dave came back, still staring down the hill, still so preoccupied that Dave could have walked right by and Jim wouldn't have noticed.

He almost did that walk by. But the part of Dave that wanted to know what was going on seemed to be the part that was in charge. Hey, it said, acting surprised, Jim, what are you doing here? Jim looked up and blinked. Dave could almost hear the gears grinding. Could also see the thing that Jim had been carrying under his arm was leaning on the bench beside him, a toboggan.

Jim still hadn't said anything. Glanced at the toboggan and then back at Dave with a look of utter embarrassment. Then he shrugged and slid over and patted the bench beside him and said, you want some tea? Dave hadn't noticed the thermos, the empty lid upside down beside it. Dave sat down and Jim picked up the thermos and refilled the lid and he handed Dave the little cup of tea.

And then he began to talk. Now Jim grew up in Nova Scotia, in one of the pretty little towns strung along the floor of the Annapolis Valley. Winter was always my favorite season, he began. We used to skate on the river, play shinny, and toboggan. And then as Dave and Jim sat there on that bench in the middle of the city, in the middle of the biggest storm of the winter, Jim told Dave about the greatest toboggan ride he'd ever had.

It was the winter I was 11, said Jim, on Bugden's Hill. Who were the Bugden's, said Dave? Oh, they had a house on the North Mountain, said Jim, overlooking the valley. And every winter, the Bugdendens build a toboggan run. The greatest toboggan run ever, said Jim. But not just a toboggan run. They had a skating rink and a fire pit

and a wood-fired hot tub. Maybe the first one in the country. Mrs. Bugden was from Norway, you see, and in the winter, the Bugden's place was the place everyone wanted to be. Bugden's place was pretty much a winter's paradise. The Toboggan run was incredible. It started on the back porch right beside the hot tub.

Mrs. Bugden would shovel all the snow off the top of the tub and pile it against the porch railing, and then she'd add to the pile using snow she had shoveled from the roof. It was like a launch pad, said Jim. The run followed the contours of the Bugden's yard. And the Bugden's yard was made for tobogganing. It had curves and swales and trees. Mrs. Bugden didn't just pile snow on the porch.

She built sides to the run so it followed the curves and banked around the trees. Like a bobsled run, said Dave. Exactly, said Jim. It ran towards the river, said Jim, but it didn't end on the river. Ended before the river. There was a ravine before the river, and the run ended before the ravine in a sort of a bowl.

You'd slide into the bowl and then go around and around and around it until you slowed down. Now, the 21st of February of that winter, the winter that Jim was 11, was pretty much a perfect day for tobogganing. You remember the date, said Dave? I remember it all, said Jim. Over a foot of snow had fallen at the beginning of that week. Mrs. Bugden had been working on the banks of the run, sculpting and carving the sides. So by the time Friday night arrived, the sky was clear and starry, and the toboggan run was packed and smooth.

Just like this, said Jim, and he pointed at the toboggan run at his feet, plunging down the side of the hill. There are a lot of people there, said Jim. It was Fraser McFadden who issued the dare. I dare you, he said. What, said Dave? To use the old wood toboggan, said Jim. No one ever used the wood toboggan on the Bugden's Hill. It was against the rules. Why, said Dave? Because you can't turn a wooden toboggan, said Jim. A wooden toboggan said Jim. A wooden toboggan wants to go straight and the Bugden's Hill had curves and bends and if

you didn't make those curves you were gonna hit a tree. I dare you said Fraser. They were hanging around the fire, four of them Jim Fraser Lydia Bugden and Sherry White. I dare you said Fraser to get the wood toboggan out of the shed running start from the swings. Kids were always issuing dares. Like if they were in the hot tub to get out of the tub, run across the yard and see who could sit on the rink the longest without moving. Don't," said Sherry. And I wasn't, said Jim. I wasn't going to do it until Fraser McFadden said, double dare. And someone standing on the edge of the circle started counting one, two, and well, on three,

Jim headed for the shed. There was a collection of parents gathered around the fire pit, and one of them turned and smiled at Jim. They had no idea what was about to happen. Jim got the toboggan out of the shed and over to the porch without an adult seeing it, and he got it ready, balanced it on top of the snow pile. Candice Thomas held it in place. And Jim jogged across the yard so he could get a running start.

He stood for a moment staring at the porch, and then he started running. Don't, said Sherry again, but it was too late to back out now. He ran across the yard, and he leapt onto that toboggan, and Candice let go. Well, the first part of the run was dead straight. Straight off the porch and over the stone wall. And then there was a flattish bit and then after the flattish bit, a dip. Well, Jim had been concentrating so hard on getting going that he hadn't considered what was going on. So when he hit the flat part, he took a moment to collect himself. Tucked his feet

under the curved wooden front of the toboggan, gathered up the rope so there was no slack. And just in time, too, because the toboggan hit the first dip then, and it left the ground Because the toboggan hit the first dip then, and it left the ground slightly, and his stomach lurched, and then he was all alone. Just him and the hill and no time to think about his stomach or the kids around the fire pit or anything else because the first turn was coming and he had to get ready or he was in trouble.

But he leaned hard to the right and he pulled on the left rope, pulling the front of the toboggan up and right like he was trying to turn a horse. He was pulling right but he could feel himself climbing the left wall of the run like he was going to go right over so he pulled harder and he leaned more and now he was picking up speed as he fell back down the wall into the center of the run heading for the second curve. He had made it. he fell back down the wall into the center of the run, heading for the second curve. He'd made it.

And he made it around the second one, too. Everything a blur now because he was flying down the straight part. Trees a flash of gray on either side. He could hear people yelling, but he had no idea what they were saying anymore. Another dip, and he was in the air again again and there, right in front of him, was the big curve into the bowl.

And he made the curve. And he went down into the bowl. But instead of going round and round and slowing down the way you were supposed to, he flew up the other side and suddenly time stood still. Suddenly everything went into slow motion because he had jumped the bowl. No one had ever done that before. Dave was sitting on the park bench listening

in rapt attention. He had forgotten about where they were or what the point of this was, he didn't care about the point of this anymore. Just that Jim had jumped the bowl and was suspended in midair somewhere above the snow and below the stars. Float, said Jim, I was floatingin', it was like I was floatin'. Trees to the left of him and trees to the right, floatin' through the trees like he was floating

through the midnight kitchen. Floating through the trees and heading toward the ravine. He should have bailed, of course. But I was going too fast, said Jim. So he shut his eyes and he rode that toboggan over the edge of the ravine like he was riding a roller coaster. I thought you said the toboggan didn't turn said Dave. Well that's what everyone thought said Jim.

But it turned if you knew how to turn it. And so he steered through the trees down the side of that ravine and right out onto the flat frozen river until he coasted to a stop. And no one ever did it again. Not before or since. Jim picked up his thermos cup and took a sip. Jim said it's funny how some of the things you do as a kid stick with you. Then he said he'd been watching the kids heading to the park all week, and he'd be coming at night when no one would see him, trying to build up the nerve to go down the hill himself. Looked over at Dave and he shrugged. Jim, who is north of 60 now,

never married, never had kids, hadn't tobogganed in years. Dave stood up and picked up the toboggan and said, come on. Jim said, I don't know. And Dave said, I dare you. And Jim laughed and said, well, if you put it that way. And the two of them sat on it, Dave in the front, Jim in the back.

We live our lives so cautiously, cautiously playing by the rules, cautiously driving between the lines, staying out of the passing lanes unless we have to pass. In all a cautious little while, it is the reckless moments we hold close to our hearts. The day we told the girl we loved her and would love her until the day we died. The night we stayed up and waited for the sun to come.

The year we changed direction in mid-flight and walked away from the safe thing. Those times. And this one too. This night in the park when they should have been in bed, two men who should have known better climbing onto an old wooden toboggan. Jim says, here goes nothing.

And he pushes off, dragging his mitts on the ground at first, partly to steer but mostly to slow them down. And then he picks them up and puts them around Dave and says, ah, who cares? Halfway down they hit a patch of ice and started spinning, backwards, forwards, sideways, Jim holding on as tight as he could, the two of them hollering at the top of their lungs, screaming in the middle of a winter night, in the middle

of their lives, halfway between the top and the bottom, between the beginning and the end between fear and joy. Their lives suspended, and all the moments that had come and gone, and all the ones left were a blur. For all that mattered was the snow in their faces and the stars above them. For they were boys again. Their hearts were young. And anything was possible. That was Jim's Toboggan. We recorded that story at the Grand Theatre in Kingston, Ontario back in 2013.

All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this one. Morley doesn't think Sam is ready to stay home alone. She's clear on this, and she's expecting Dave's support. She scrunches up her bag of corn and tucks it away, and she walks inside. It is always a tricky thing to negotiate the war of independence. Both sides approach the battlefield full of righteous conviction, but righteousness always conceals uncertainty, and conviction is never far from doubt. Are you ready? Here comes Sam, bounding

down the stairs determined to spread his wings. And there's Morley, waiting in the kitchen, just as determined to clip them. You have to understand, Sam is still her baby. He may be at that awkward age where he is no longer young enough for a babysitter, but he's still young enough that, well, let's listen in. They're at the kitchen table now. The battle has begun without us.

A babysitter, says Sam. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. In the meantime, I have a little bit of housekeeping. As always, for all things Vinyl Cafe, just check out our website, vinylcafe.com. We're also on Facebook at Vinyl Cafe, and you can find us on Instagram,

look for Vinyl Cafe Stories, or send us an email. We love hearing from you. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is Greg, I ain't afraid of no curling, Declute. Theme music is by Danny Michelle,

and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg Declute, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.