Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange

"Coincidence"
by Jim Cowan from Toronto, ON

On a cold January evening three years ago, on a snowy street corner in North Toronto, I suffered what the medical professionals call a “sudden witnessed collapse”. I remember virtually nothing of the day itself, and certainly nothing of the next few, some of which I spent in a drug-induced coma packed on ice, “like a flounder,” as my wife would say. But, a double-bypass and three months recuperation later, and I was pretty much back to normal, twenty-five pounds lighter and on a much healthier diet and exercise regime.

The survival rate for such incidents is less than ten percent, and I wanted to meet and thank the people who had responded that day: the fire fighters and paramedics who brought me back from a “vital signs absent” state. And over the next few months, I did just that. A family connection in the fire department put me in touch with the crew, and my wife and I visited them at their fire hall. Getting to the paramedics was a bit more difficult, but eventually I met them too, and learned more about what had happened that day, and just how close I’d come to death. Their reaction was well summed up by one of the fire fighters, who said, “So often I go home and tell my wife about something like this, but we never know how it turns out. It’s great to see that this had a happy ending.

”But there was one big hole in the story. Who was the witness to my “sudden witnessed collapse”? All we knew was that a woman saw me fall into a snowbank, called 9-1-1 and stayed with me until the emergency crews arrived. However, as far as we could tell, no one had taken her name, and we couldn’t think of any practical way of finding her.

Last winter, we decided to take up ballroom dancing, which meant that once a week I would meet my wife at the children’s bookstore where she works, where in fact I was headed on the night of my episode. I don’t visit the store all that often, and usually stay for only a few minutes. I walked into the store wearing a coat very similar to the one from two years earlier, and the same hat. Just inside the door, a woman was looking at a book display, and she glanced up at me as I stepped past her.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but can I ask you a personal question?

”I stopped and looked at her, trying to figure out where we could have met.

Then she said, “Did you have a heart attack near here about two years ago?”

“Yes, I did,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “I’m the person who was there that night.”

My angel, as it turns out, is named Helen Healy. She had changed her plans that evening and was heading home when I passed her, looking, she said, “like a man in a big hurry.” She told me that when I was about fifty paces ahead of her, I staggered, grabbed at a bus stop pole, then collapsed. She quickly reached me, saw I was unconscious, and dialed 9-1-1. Incredibly, she said, although there was bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic just a few feet away, no one stopped. She pointed to my dark cap – the same one I was wearing that night – and said, “You have to get rid of that and get a red one. If I hadn’t been there, no one would have seen you.”

She started CPR but, as she notes, I am a big man and she is a small women, and after a while, she saw I was slipping away. The dispatcher told her that the ambulance was only a minute away, and at that point, she stopped the CPR and gave me a big hug. “Hang on,” she said, “don’t die on me.” Moments later, the emergency crews arrived and took over.

Both Helen and I had the same sense that while our first meeting was fortunate, our second one was miraculous. Even now I can’t accurately describe my feelings as we stood there talking, and I told her, hoping not to sound ungrateful, that I needed some time to sort out my reactions. Later, she told me that she found it “emotionally unsettling,” and we remain amazed at the coincidences that caused our paths to cross not once, but twice, on two snowy January evenings.

Emma's March Break

Yesterday Paul and I took Emma to Moncton to catch the train to Windsor. We left shortly after lunch. Along the way we picked up some snacks for the LONG train ride. She left Moncton at 1700hr. Friday and will arrive in Windsor on Saturday at 2040hr. We wanted to fly her up but she was timid about changing flights and also stated that it being winter the flights might be delayed and sure enough we and Ontario were having unsettled weather and flights were delayed. There were delays in Quebec due to the weather. She is now travelling from Montreal to Toronto.

Stuart McLean's "The Vinyl Cafe", Story Exchange

"Banana Cream Pie"
by Mary Thompson from Mississauga, Ont

Our mother instilled a spirit of celebration into our lives. Birthdays were a big deal in our house. It seemed it always was or was just about to be somebody’s birthday. Mom was a great cook and on our birthdays, she would make our favourite dinner. Kelly loved Chicken a la king and Peter’s dinner involved lots of creamed corn. It wasn’t unusual for laughter to fill the room as we ate, but birthdays were even more festive. We’d sing the birthday song, my father’s baritone underscoring our thin, young voices and salute the day’s special person. While Dad seemed somewhat bewildered and bemused by this horde of humanity around his table and sometimes it did feel like we were living in a kind of controlled chaos, Mom held it all together with an organizing principle that put time and thought for her children first. We were a tight community but we were also valued individuals and we knew it. Every birthday reminded us.

Michael’s birthday is April 14, just a few days after Mom’s and even as adults we would come together on the nearest weekend to celebrate their birthdays together…our numbers now bolstered by grandchildren and spouses,. So when Mom died on a beautiful June day after a sudden, brief illness, we were stunned.

We continued to celebrate every birthday and holiday together throughout that first year. When April came around we knew we had to do something special for Mike. It was his 50th after all. On Mike’s birthday, Mom always made a big Banana Cream Pie (or two) topped by copious amounts of whipping cream and studded with birthday candles. My two sisters and I decided that this year, this special year, we would attempt my mother’s famous Banana Cream Pie.

Kelly had Mom’s old cookbook and I was going to put it together so I called her one evening in early April, pen in hand, ready to copy out the recipe. As she began to look it up, the old book fell open immediately to the right page. It turns out the page was already marked, with a card – but not just any card- the front read “Happy 50th Birthday” and inside it was signed, “To Mike, Love, Mom.”

So we baked the pie and brought it and the card to our celebration. After dinner we all crowded around the kitchen table, the little ones in front ready for a chance to help blow out the candles, the adults ranged behind, filling the room. We sang the song in our usual lusty but somewhat off key manner and Mike (with help) blew out the candles. When that was done my sisters and I told the story of the card. Of course we all cried, some with tears streaming down our cheeks, some of the more stoic just a little teary eyed. There was a deep silence, each of us remembering in our own way, and then Tom said,

“Does she have any cards in there for 43 year olds? Look under corned beef and cabbage.”

And we all laughed. She would have loved that.

Look Who Turns 50!!!!

Brennas pet rabbit "Bandit" Last evening, Paul surprised me with an evening out with family and friends to celebrate my 50th Birthday. Emma is going to be away next weekend(my actual birthday) so we planned to celebrate this weekend. The girls came home for the weekend and we were going out to a dinner theatre for the evening. Much to my surprise Gerry & Diane as well as Allen & Debbie joined us. I had no idea that Paul was organizing this for my birthday.

Hummingbird chime.....Diane displaying!


A gift from the Greens. They will be in the garden come spring.

Debbie taking pictures and Allen and Gerry in the background ordering drinks.

Emma minus Jack :-(

Father and Daughter.

Gerry and Allen

Brenna and Kirby

The whole gang........where's Debbie? Somewhere behind Diane.

Thanks everyone for a wonderful evening.

Happy Valentines Day

A beautiful bouquet was delivered yesterday by my lovely husband.

Stuart McLean's "The Vinyl Cafe", Story Exchange

"Valentines Rock"
by David Cameron from Bowen Island, BC Feb 14

It was Valentine's Day 1994 and time was running out. I still hadn't gotten my beloved wife and the mother of my child a gift or a card. Now, I didn't want to buy the prepackaged sentiments of Hallmark and I didn't feel like standing in the 5:30 tulip line at the General Store with all the other desperate male lovers. No. I was waiting for something special to come along.

But it was late in the day and there I was, in my capacity as a builder, scraping and digging amongst the foundations of a customer's house and my chances for a romantic evening were looking slim.

And then my spade hit a particularly immovable rock. I dug around it, levered it out with a pry bar and behold! Cupid had answered my prayers, for there was a ten pound rock in the perfect shape of a heart. Now if I had seen this very same rock the day before, I might have thought it potato shaped but like I say, I was desperate. "She will love it" I thought as I brushed off the bigger chunks of dirt. I spent the rest of the work day chiseling our initials into it with somebody else's wood chisel, hopped into my trusty white van and drove home imagining my wife's delighted reaction and the fleshy rewards that would be mine. I was so tickled with anticipation that I drove all the way to the front door stairs and bounded up with the prize in hand and thrust it proudly at my heart's desire.

Now in my wife's defense, she had spent the day alone with a three-year-old and I was late because I had stopped at the pub for one. She was not overjoyed. She looked blankly at what I had laid on the coffee table and tensely muttered, "A rock."

We had a quiet dinner after which I quickly volunteered to do the dishes so I could feel sorry for myself alone. The plates dried and everything back in its place, there was only one thing left to do. I glanced over at the coffee table and there it sat; ten pounds of humiliation. I grabbed it and opening the front door hefted it out like a shot-put. Only when it had left my finger tips and was sailing through the air did I remember where I had parked my van.

The new windscreen cost $259.69, a new wood chisel cost $15.78 and the following year I bought a nice Hallmark card for $4.75.

Stuart McLean's "The Vinyl Cafe", Story Exchange

"Manitoba Long Underwear"
by John Fera from Mississauga


Fifty years have passed since I arrived in the small prairie community of Russell Manitoba. Life was wonderfully simple then. At the time, television in the area was none existent, roads were unpaved and the winter weather conditions tended to create a feeling of isolation, of oneness, in the community.
This isolation, which in retrospect was more of the mind then reality, created a social environment conducive to the organization of fowl suppers, Saturday night dances, and invariably the game of CURLING.
My tenure in Russell was prompted by my employment. I was a rookie RCMP Constable. In those days our clothing issue as it was referred to, included numerous suits of exceptionally good quality long woolen underwear. Since I didn't wear his type of apparel the stuff piled up and crowded out the limited bureau space available in our barracks.
One evening while my partner and I were having supper at the home of friends, this surplus underwear issue became part of the dinner conversation.
The lady of the house, an avid curler immediately provided a solution to my dilemma. She and her teammates, who were invariably chilled during their games would in future, keep warm by donning my surplus "LongJohns". Shortly after that dinner, our hostess and her curling partners were each awarded a pair of the "Unmentionables". All that is except one.
For some reason, now obscured by time, Olga Des Champs the final member of the curling quorum, and the wife of my close friend Darcy, had not received her pair of the 100% , regulation issue pure woolen RCMP LongJohns. As time went on, Olga would hurl pointed barbs at me for my neglect. Finally on a given afternoon I decided that if I was to ever partake of Olga’s succulent cabbage rolls & pirogues again, the apparel in question had to be delivered.
I arrived on Olga's doorstep just as the pastor was about to make his annual visit. We exchanged greetings before he wrapped gently on the door. The good man, with myself in tow, entered the house in response to "its open". Poor Olga, seeing the Pastor and then myself in uniform, stared at us in wide eyed shock, contemplating I'm sure, a family tragedy or crisis. She obviously had not been apprised of the Minister's intended visit.
The moment and the circumstances were too opportunistic to let slip away. I tossed the underwear, which had been folded unobtrusively in my hand at the poor woman. It settled across her shoulders unmistatably revealing the nature of the garment. "Olga", I said, "you left these in the barracks."
Beating a hasty retreat, I reached my car door before doubling over in convulsions of laughter. The Minister, I learned much later, delicately, but firmly, outlined the weaknesses of the flesh and the rewards of virtue. Needles to say, it was some time before I could, with any assurance of safety, again visit the Des Champs household.

Despite the Cold

You never know what you will find in the woods!!!

This afternoon we went snowshoeing. A co-worker told me of a place that was in Westfield. It was -9 when we went out but with the wind it was -19. We usually snow shoe on the golf course but it is quite open and would be bitter cold today. I was looking for some place that was sheltered, out of the wind, in the woods. This was a snowmobile trial, a little more open than I would like but we wandered off into the woods and had a great walk.

Stuart McLean's "The Vinyl Cafe", Story Exchange

About the Story Exchange
Write a story and send it to us and we may read it on air. There are two rules. Your story must be true and it must be short, after that it is up to you. Write about a moment that you have experienced, witnessed or heard about. Something funny or something touching - anything - so long as it's a true story and so long as it's short.

"Dutch Neighbours"

by Wendy Everitt from Fort Saskatchewan, ABAug 22, 09

Newcomers and neighbourhoods are always changing. I remember the houses on our street in Edmonton in 1954. Some were brown stucco bungalows with charming entrances that gave a visitor shelter. Some had sun rooms in the front, small square panes of glass looking out to the street. Others were three stories tall with mysterious looking windows in the attic rooms. Ours was a war-time house. They were built in response to the shortage of housing for veterans who had returned from World War II.
It was a simple, solid, white clapboard house with bedrooms upstairs, a front lawn that led to a boulevard, lined with great protective elm trees. In those days, when I was about five, it seemed as if children played outside all day long.
Although I didn’t know the world had changed, I could see that our street was changing. There was a surge of new people moving into basement suites, upstairs apartments, and spare rooms. Families were arriving from the Netherlands, and for us, it was wonderful because there were so many new children to play with.
The Dutch kids didn’t speak English, so initially we experienced the graceful dance of smiling, nodding, and curiously staring at a sweater or shoes that were different. A girl named Heddy was my age, and she laughed hysterically when my brother made silly faces. She ran to get her sisters; then motioned to my brother to do it again. He was pleased to have such simple silliness be so entertaining.
Before long we were showing them our best climbing tree, or where we might find a discarded pop bottle that could be taken to the corner store and exchanged for candy. They would point at things, then motion for us to say the English word and then they would repeat it: . . tree . . . tree. . . grass. . grass. . . window. . . window. We too, would get them to say Dutch words that we could repeat; not one of which I can remember today.
My dad was a harsh man. His voice was loud. There was also a great sadness about him that of course, I didn’t understand at that time. I remember telling him about our new friends. He said he had been to Holland and told us we were to be good to those children. Once I overheard my parents talking. My mum said, “You should see the garden. . . the fences are covered with peas and beans. Every inch of soil in the back is planted . . . Potatoes to the very edge of the alley.” In a low voice, my dad said.. . “they know hunger.” . . . and then the mysterious chasm of silence.One day, Heddy’s mum said I could join them for lunch. I was delighted. We went to the back door of the house across the street, and as we stepped inside – the melting aroma of freshly baked bread drifted up to meet us. The stairs creaked as we descended to the suite in the basement. Their home was two rooms – a tiny kitchen with white and yellow cupboards, a glistening linoleum floor, and crisp yellow curtains separating the kitchen from the bedroom. The small table was set with a sparkling white table cloth and everyone squeezed a little closer to make room for me. I imagine we all felt shy that day.Heddy’s family bowed their heads, and in their language, said a gentle murmuring grace. Her mum got up and brought food to the table. Fresh, warm, white, home-made bread; soft butter; sliced hard boiled eggs; a plate of Edam cheese; and a bowl of chocolate sprinkles. I watched the others put together a sandwich and I followed. I had never tasted home-made bread. I had never seen white cheese and I was astounded that people would be so brilliant to think of adding chocolate sprinkles to a sandwich!! . I think they were surprised at the look on my face of pure pleasure. It tasted heavenly. Like the day my brother made them laugh, Heddy’s family leaned back in their chairs and laughed out loud at how their lunch had so pleased a little girl.
That winter, Heddy’s family moved to a house in St. Albert. For over 40 years, on hot summer nights, my mum would sit on her front steps and watch the world go by. One night we sat together and she asked me if I remembered the Dutch families. I thought about how it is children, who reach out innocently; and in peace, touch the familiar and the strange; the old world and the new.
My mum remembered their garden. I remembered chocolate sprinkles.