The Contest

For almost fifty years, my father owned an upholstery business in North Bay. To this day, it amazes me how many times a week I run into people for whom he has done work. Invariably, they tell me that their chesterfield or chair is still in fine condition. My father taught me many lessons. One of the most important was “the pleasure of quality remains long after the price is forgotten.” In everything he did, my father’s craftsmanship was never less than excellent.

There were five kids in my family. My brother Stu and I were the oldest, born exactly a year apart on the eve of our mother’s birthday. March was always a really good time for presents and cake. When we were teens, my brother and I worked in our father’s shop. We worked after school, Saturday mornings and during summer weeks when we couldn’t convince the boss that a half-day golf holiday was in order.

Our favourite job was picking up and delivering furniture. Instead of having to listen to Sammy Davis Junior rot our teeth with “The Candy Man” on CFCH, the official workplace radio station, we got to drive around in the delivery van bopping to Deep Purple’s classic Machine Head on the new 8-Track stereo we cajoled the boss into buying for us.

One fine July afternoon in 1973, Dad was putting the finishing touches to a chesterfield Stu and I would be delivering somewhere later that day in the south end of town. At the time, CFCH was running a radio contest. The station had a mobile unit that would rove about town, broadcasting live. The contest was simple. You had to follow the mobile unit over the radio. At some point, around 3pm each day, the unit would stop and the announcer would say something like:

“ This is Dash Steel broadcasting live from the 600 block of Beverly Street. The first person to approach the CFCH Pepsi Challenge Mobile Unit and answer a skill testing question will win a two month supply of Pepsi Cola and Hostess Potato Chips, what a snack, with big blue letters on a silver pack.” Party on.

Week after week, we followed the unit on the shop radio, wishing we could win. On this particular day in July, about 2:30 pm, Dad was done his work on a beautiful white velvet couch. As was the usual practice, we draped the couch in clear plastic for protection during delivery.

Now my brother Stu is quite competitive. The same could be said for me. It was always a competition to see who would have to walk backwards during the loading process. As soon as the boss said “Time to go, boys”, we would wrestle our way to the better end of the chesterfield or chair which would allow the winner to carry the furniture while walking frontward. I can’t remember who got to the better end first on this day, but the person stuck going backward had a plan. As soon as the couch cleared the shop doors, Mr. Backward would turn sharply to the left and force Mr. Frontward to swing into the backward carrying position. The ploy worked: until we reached the loading doors on the van. Then, the new Mr. Backward turned sharply to the right to force the forward walker to make the difficult step up into the van. “No way, buddy!” thought the lifter in the more difficult position. There we were in the parking lot, swinging around this delicate white velvet couch, backward and forward, trying to win this crazy game. I think we ended all the way up the Albert Street hill before Dad threatened to take away the 8-Track. We had managed to execute in a quarter of a mile, what should have been done in fifty feet. Our poor father. He had had to watch, stunned, as his idiot sons put two weeks of meticulous work into jeopardy as they zigged and zagged, laughing, up the street.

Eventually, the chesterfield was safely deposited in the delivery van. I got to drive because, right after lunch, I had grabbed my dad’s keys, knowing there was an afternoon delivery in the works. As you can see, furniture delivery is a very competitive sport.

When I turned on the van, the radio came to life.

“The CFCH Pepsi Challenge Mobile Unit is now on the 100 block of Janice Street.”

Janice Street was very close by but was in the opposite direction to where we were supposed to go. Stu looked at me. I looked at Stu. We made a beeline for free pop and chips.

By some miracle, we were the first to arrive. The announcer asked my brother:

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Stu Walpole.”

“Stu Walpole, for two months of Pepsi Cola and Hostess Potato Chips, what a snack, with big blue letters on the silver pack, who won the 1967 Stanley Cup?”

My brother, a rabid Leafs’ fan, with the socks and underwear to prove it, answered the skill testing question correctly.

“Stu Walpole, you are today’s big winner. Congratulations.”

Now everybody knows that teenagers don’t always think things through. It is a common defect. While we were chasing fabulous CFCH prizes, Dad was back at the shop listening to our non-compliant work adventure over the airwaves.

At 3:36, Stu and I returned to our workplace, with the amplified sounds of “Smoke On The Water” ringing deliciously in our ears. No Sammy Davis Junior for us when we were driving, unless absolutely necessary. As we entered the shop, there was our father, head down at the sewing machine, whistling to some tune on the radio. Slowly, he looked up with what appeared to be a heaping helping of paternal disapproval, but, in reality, was barely disguised bemusement at head-shaking teenage hijinks.

“How did the delivery go, boys?”