Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Kids - Susan is Serious & Sam Goes Green

Episode Date: March 28, 2025

“I think I have an alien.” This week, two wonderful stories about kids… and their parents. And Jess admits to a surprising source of inspiration for her own parenting journey.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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when everyone in her small town knows her business. Netflix's first Canadian series, North of North, launches April 10th on Netflix. Routines are a big part of our family, especially at bedtime. Eloise, Annabelle, and I have an elaborate bath and bedtime routine. Those quiet, cozy moments, warm water, soft towels, time together, aren't just about getting ready for sleep. They're about connection, comfort, and care. This is something we started when they were just babies.

I started our bath and bedtime routine when they were just a couple of weeks old. I'd bathe them and then I'd sing to them while I gave them a calm, relaxing baby massage. Their skin was so soft, so new, and I wanted to do everything I could to protect it. Skin is a baby's first line of defense, but did you know it's about 30% thinner than ours? That's why Aveeno Baby uses the power of oats to help nourish and strengthen it. Their healthy start balm is safe for newborns, moisturizing, comforting, and supporting baby's skin moisture barrier from day one. It's gentle, soothing, and a small way to care for the ones we love most.

Learn more at avino.ca. From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. If you've listened to this podcast from the beginning, then you'll know I love getting advice about parenting. And I know, I know, most people don't, but I do. It's how I learn. Maybe it's different for me because I don't have advice coming at me from all angles. My own mom died decades before my kids were born. So I'm grateful to those of you who have shared your parenting wisdom with me. The advice you gave me about how to deal with Annabelle's obsession with movie night worked so well.

For those of you who are interested, people wrote in to tell me I should print an old school calendar and mark off the days. We did that and we still do. It totally worked. Kids weren't really on my radar during all that time I was working with Stuart on the Vinyl Cafe and sadly he never got to meet my kids. But he loved writing about kids and I love reading those stories now because it sort of feels like his advice in the form of fiction. I know this is crazy but so much

of what I've learned about parenting I've learned from Dave and Morley. They are great parents with great instincts. So today on the show, two stories about kids and their parents. We're going to start with this one. This is Stuart McLean with Susan Susan is serious. So in January, Morley received a letter from Calgary from a university friend that she hadn't spoken to in over 10 years. It was a breezy note full of family news about her daughter and her dog, like they'd never

stop talking, like they were still sitting up all night. Four pages, handwritten. We're coming to town in February, it ended. Matthew's getting an award from Junior Achievement. Enterprise in action. We should get together. It would be so good to see you love Susan. Morley wrote back that night, and she did exactly what you'd do. Why don't you stay with us? Never occurred to her that Susan would accept. Don't get me wrong, Morley was delighted about the prospect of seeing Susan again and her kids, especially

her kids. Morley had never met Susan's kids. Imagine the two of them with kids, dogs, moms. Morley was excited about the visit. Morley and Susan shared a house in their last two years of university, the Bird House. Six bedrooms, seven girls. Colleen slept in what should have been the living room, swore she could hear rats moving around the basement at night. There were enough memories in those years to last a lifetime, and Morley would have welcomed any of those women into her house without a second thought—even that old Guinea hen Harriet Swerdkopf.

But here comes Susan, the organized one. Whenever you missed a class, it was Susan's notes you borrowed. Morley had lingered over Susan's letter when she finished reading it. Her handwriting hadn't changed, the letters still big and round, the eyes still dotted with circles, Susan the Duck. Susan who tried a little harder than anyone else. Susan whose room was a little neater, Susan who was a little more responsible, a little more uptight maybe. But at a time when everyone else was confused about the future, Susan always seemed to know

exactly what she wanted. Susan who had both a subscription to Brides Own and The Economist. Susan and Susan's kids. A 15-year-old daughter and Matthew, the 12-year-old junior achiever. They arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, took a taxi from the airport, a limo actually. Is she a rock star? whispered Sam when he saw the sleek car idling at the curb. The only other time anyone had arrived at their house in a limousine, it was Mark Knopfler.

On his way to a concert in Buffalo, diverted to Toronto during a snowstorm and spent the night with them. Driftwood from Dave's past life. No, said Morley, a friend, she's a friend. And there she is, Susan looking back over her shoulder, Susan in designer jeans and a brown suede jacket, her green leather purse matching her green leather shoes, her deep red lipstick matching her deep red nails, her stylish gold chain, and there's Morley waiting at the door, running her hand through her hair, suddenly seeing herself through Susan's eyes. It's not a pretty sight. Birkenstock's jeans ripped at the knee, one of Dave's old shirts.

She's saying, come in, come in. And she's thinking, damn it, damn it. Susan, she says, her arms wide. And then she says, you must be Matthew. And the boy is taking off a pair of sunglasses toward a shell and slipping them into a glass as case, pleased to meet you," he says, holding out his hand, smiling, making eye contact, a firm handshake, a junior achiever's shake.

"'Sam,' says Morley. She has to turn around to find him. Sam has begun to back away from the door. "'Sam,' says Morley, pushing him forward. This is Matthew,' and out snaps Matthew's hand again. Sam looks down in confusion. Then he looks back at his mother, Matthew's hands still hovering in the air between them.

Sam has never shaken hands with someone his age in his entire life. He knows what he's expected to do, but it feels wrong. So he starts backing away, catches Morley's frown stop, says, hi, and then waves his arm vaguely in the air, vaguely in the direction of this boy. Pleased to meet you, Sam," says Matthew. Sam is still looking at Morley. Why don't you two go downstairs, she says. Matthew removes his shoes and places them carefully by the door. Morley turns to the girl, Jennifer, fifteen. Jennifer is wearing blue jeans rolled at the ankle so you can see her socks are white.

Jeans have been ironed. There's a crease running down the front. Her hair is short in the fashion of the 1920s and neat—maybe even sprayed neat. She's wearing three hair clips, one on the front and two on either side, each one carefully positioned to restrain rogue hairs that might make a break. You must be Jennifer," says Morley. All this is happening very quickly now. The daughter, Jennifer, steps forward and sticks out her hand. And like her brother, she looks Morley straight in the eye.

It is, in this case, however, a confidence belied by the way she is shifting her weight from one foot to the other. They shake hands. A moment later Jennifer is in the corner of the living room, her backpack open at her feet. She is examining her hair in a handheld mirror, as if the act of shaking hands might have shaken something out of place. She is running her hand over the top of her head the way a mechanic might pat the hood

of a troublesome but favorite car. Ten minutes later, Morley and Susan are in the kitchen. Are you still married to the dentist? asks Morley. She's fixing coffee. Or the dentist, says Susan, who's fiddling with her wedding ring, taking it off, putting it on, twisting it around and around. Bruce, says Morley.

Bobby, says Susan. That's right, Bobby. Susan had begun dating Bobby at the end of their graduating year. It was coming back. He was an athlete. Football or swim team? Almost went to the Olympics or something. Morley couldn't remember his face.

She tried, but all that came back was the vague smell of chlorine. The swimmer, said Morley, right? Diver, says Susan, he almost went to the Olympics. Right, said Morley. Upstairs in Sam's room, Matthew has opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick blue binder with a Junior Achiever crest on the cover. Do you want to see my business plan, he says? with a junior achiever crest on the cover. Do you want to see my business plan? He says. Next door, Jennifer is sitting on Stephanie's bed watching in amazement as Stephanie roots through a pile of clothes, a pile on the floor of her bedroom that begins at the door and

is almost level with the mattress by the time it reaches her bed. Stephanie is looking for lip gloss. Don't you have to make your bed in the morning? asks Jennifer, looking around the room with what is clearly admiration. There's something lovely about seeing your children paired up with the children of your friends. This must be what small towns are like, thinks Morley as the kids arrive in pairs for dinner. She thinks they're having fun together. Can't be right about everything. Halfway through the first course, Matthew puts down his knife and fork and he looks around and he says, These are delicious mashed potatoes. Morley catches Sam rolling

his eyes at Stephanie. She throws him daggers and then she smiles at Matthew. Thank you, she says. Morley has, during the three brief hours since they arrived, become painfully aware that there is a chasm separating her children and Susan's children. Susan's children had ... manners. As if they'd been raised by humans. Sam and Stephanie, on the other hand, seemed to have been raised by wolves. Look at them, slouched across the table from her smacking and snorting and wiping their greasy paws on their fur. Later that night, when they'll be alone in their bedroom, Dave will shake his head and say, that is one weird kid.

He'll be talking about Matthew. I don't think he even liked those mashed potatoes, Dave will say. He didn't even finish his mashed potatoes. He wasn't complimenting the potatoes. He was acknowledging the effort you put into making them. Those were manners, Dave, Morley will say, in case you didn't notice. And Dave will say, he's twelve. He's twelve years old.

And then he'll look at Morley and he won't say any more. But that's later. Now they're still at the table eating. And in that moment, after Matthew has said, these are delicious mashed potatoes, and Morley has frowned at Sam because he's rolling his eyes at Stephanie, in the moment after this an awkward silence settles on the dinner table. For a moment all you hear is the rattle of cutlery, and if you were there you might have thought everyone is enjoying these potatoes. But then you'd notice that the silence is lasting too long, and as soon as you notice that the silence will abruptly deepen and become a tomb-like

silence. So you are no longer listening to the cutlery but to the silence itself—a silence that seems to be getting deeper by the second. And you, like Morley, would be sitting at the table desperately trying to think of something to say, flipping through the Rolodex in your head for anything to say, looking at your husband for help perhaps. But before you came up with anything, before Morley comes up with anything, Sam puts down his cutlery and everyone at the table looks at Sam, looking at Sam in relief because everyone is aware of the silence now.

So everyone is looking at Sam in relief and expectation and great hope. And Sam says, You know what really pisses me off? Morley watches Susan clutch her knife and fork, watches her checking her children's reaction, Matthew his brow furrowed, puzzled. Jennifer staring at Sam with a mixture of awe, respect, disbelief, and, oh my God, approval. And then just when you think things couldn't get worse, not twenty minutes later while they're clearing the table, Morley catches Susan frowning at the floor by the stove. Morley follows her eyes to the crack between the stove and the kitchen counter and sees what has caught her attention—a forgotten roach motel, lying there like a pile of dirty laundry. An hour later, Morley comes into the kitchen to fill her coffee cup and Susan is wiping the counters down with a sponge. Susan looks up and smiles self-consciously,

I was just wiping the counters, she says unnecessarily. And they both stare at the sponge awkwardly and then back at each other, both remembering that twenty-five years ago when they lived together, how you always knew Susan was upset when she began to clean compulsively. The next night Stephanie comes bouncing down the stairs when she's called to dinner, but no Jennifer. Where is Jennifer? asked Morley. I lent her one of my tops, said Stephanie.

She's getting changed. And when Jennifer comes downstairs, she's wearing Stephanie's yellow lip gloss and a matching yellow halter top. And Jennifer picks up her fork and looks around and says, You know what really pisses me off? And Susan picks up a napkin and starts polishing her spoon. After dinner, Morley walks into the kitchen and Susan is standing by the sink with her hands behind her back. Morley pretends not to see the can of cleansers Susan is hiding behind her.

She'd been washing the table. They left the next afternoon, two days early. I decided we should visit their grandparents for a few days, said Susan, in Oakville in the suburbs. They both knew it wasn't true. Oh, they were going to stay with their grandparents all right, but not because Susan thought a visit would be nice. The truth was, Susan couldn't get Jennifer away from Stephanie fast enough.

After they left, Morley sat on the stairs and had a good cry. The aborted visit had rattled her. Things that she thought she loved looked shoddy now that she was looking at them through Susan's eyes. The jukebox in the living room looked juvenile. The house looked dirty. She scooped up a dust ball from behind a chair and stuck it in her pocket as she wandered into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes still weren't done. Arthur the dog was sitting in a chair licking a sticky half-full bowl of pinkish cereal

milk that somebody had left on the table. Morley thought of the house that she grew up in, and when she measured her house against her mother's house she felt like a failure. Her father Roy was a policeman. Roy insisted everything be ordered, tidy, neat, and Morley hadn't followed through. She'd been missing the point. She was raising a herd of slobs. After dinner she sat everyone down.

There are going to be some changes around here, she said. All beds had to be made before anyone went to school. Sam would wash dishes after supper. Stephanie was in charge of the upstairs bathroom. No allowance if the chores weren't done and done properly. That was January. Everything went surprisingly well for a week or two, more or less. Well, as okay as these things go, well, they didn't actually go okay at all. Things were actually

rather unpleasant. Every morning began with a fight over the beds. They were made every morning, more or less, the way beds get made under these kind of circumstances. After about two weeks, the alarm rang one morning and Dave opened a weary eye and proclaimed the arrival of the day like a ring announcer declaring a prize fight. He did this without lifting his head. Oh good, it's morning again, he said. And this morning we have in the south bedroom with a lounce in her pocket and determination in her heart, Mom.

And in the back bedroom, twisting in sheets that haven't been washed in weeks, months, years, a 10-year-old boy. Let the fun begin. What is this, round 12? And he got out of bed and he slouched into the bathroom. That's how things were going. In week three, Sam, who was supposed to be washing the dinner dishes each night, took his allowance to the byway and came back with a huge package of paper plates and three boxes

of plastic cutlery. And that night he came into the kitchen while Morley was cooking so he could monitor the number of dishes that she used. Why do you need another pot? You don't need a new spoon for the gravy. Use the spoon from the peas. Stephanie started to patrol the bathrooms, refusing one night to let Dave use the one by the bedrooms.

Standing in front of it, her arms across the door, I just cleaned this one. He can use the one downstairs. He's too lazy to go downstairs. And then one morning, Stephanie went to leave the house and her bed was unmade and Morley said, you are not going to school until your bed is made. And they stood there in the hall glaring at each other, nose to nose, neither of them about to give way.

And then a dim light began to shine in the back of Stephanie's eyes, an idea approaching like a train coming through the night from far, far away. Morley saw it coming and thought, Oh no, but what could she do? You're not going to school until your bed is made. Fine, said Stephanie. And she went back into her bedroom and shut the door and Morley stared at the closed door and thought, Now what do I do? It was not a happy home, but it was a cleaner home, and it was neater, and that was good enough for Morley. This is what she wanted, and she thought a month

after Susan had left early on a Friday night when her mother, when Helen was coming over for dinner and to stay the night, at least her mother would be impressed with the changes. Morley had told Helen what was going on or plans to organize the house. She thought that Helen would be impressed. But by Saturday morning it was clear to Morley that Helen was not impressed at all. It was clear that Helen was disquieted by the state of things. Instead of sitting at the kitchen table reading bits of the newspaper out loud to whomever happened by, something that Helen loved to do on the Saturday morning she stayed over. Instead of sitting at the

table sitting endless cups of coffee and keeping everyone endlessly abreast of the minutiae of the nation, having Helen at the table on Saturdays was like eating breakfast with the Reader's Digest. It snowed in Calgary last night. Instead of this, Helen seemed agitated, anxious to help out. Instead of reading to whomever wandered by with a load of laundry or a rag or a dirty plate, Helen kept struggling up, pushing the paper aside. Can I help? she kept asking. Morley almost snapped at her before lunch, but she bit her tongue and finally gave in. She went into the kitchen with a rag and a

can of cleaner and asked Helen if she had dusted the dam. But when she did that, Helen looked up at her, irritation clouding her face. I was just reading the book review, she snapped. Later after she had dropped her home, Morley drove across the city alone, listening to the radio and thinking of her mother. She remembered another night years ago when she had also been in the car alone. It was not long after her father had died. She had been worrying about Helen, and she had driven out of her way that night to knock

on her mother's door unannounced. Helen had been sitting in the living room reading. Morley had seen the book folded open on the chair by the window. But what caught Morley's attention that night wasn't the book but the wooden tray with Helen's dinner dishes still in front of the television. Morley couldn't believe that her mother had let the dishes sit for hours while she had sat and read. It was something she didn't think Helen was capable of doing. It was out of character.

I'm worried about her, Dave, said Morley when she came home that night. Her mother, who had been so neat and so perfect all her life, would never have let the dishes sit around like that when Roy was alive. It was Dave who said, maybe that's the point. Morley didn't get it at first. She had fretted over those dirty dishes for a week before she understood that those dishes—the small and insignificant act of leaving them unwashed—was an act of letting go, an act of healing.

Helen had spent her whole life keeping her house perfect because that's what Roy had wanted. All those perfect beds, all those spotless counters were in deference to her husband. And now that she was living alone, she wasn't about to live like a slob, but she wasn't going to worry so much anymore either. It was a liberating insight, and those dirty dishes waiting in front of the television set had been a gift to Morley. They had given her permission to run her house her own way, and Morley was suddenly aware that the way that she had been running her house was a conscious choice—a choice that she had made, paying attention to the lessons

of her mother's life, and it was a choice that her mother had approved of. Helen liked Morley's house and she liked it the way it was. She liked the jukebox in the living room. She liked her grandchildren. She approved of the way Morley and Dave were bringing them up. They might not be collecting junior achievement awards, but they had standards, different from Susan, certainly. But so what? Morley didn't put any cutlery on the table that night. Cavemen, she said. Cavemen dinner.

How am I supposed to eat mashed potatoes without a fork, said Stephanie. Like this, said Sam, dipping his fingers into his potatoes, smacking his furry little paws clean. Sam said, Stephanie, you are disgusting. And just like that, things returned to normal. Of course, things never actually returned to normal. Two weeks after the caveman's supper, two months after Susan's disastrous visit, Morley got up one morning to find Sam already up, dressed. When she walked into his room to wake him, he was making his bed. She was about to say something, but she bit her tongue and said instead,

It's a lovely morning out. I think no jacket. When you're finished, we'll make pancakes. Sam said, okay, but how do you make the tight corners? I've always liked to make my bed with tight corners. Thank you. That was the story we call Susan is Serious. We recorded that story in Montreal, Quebec, back in 2000.

See what I mean about Marlee and her good instincts? I may have a bit of Mary Turlington in me, but even I know a caveman dinner is way better than Susan's parenting. 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. You know that one piece of jewelry that works with everything? I have two of those, and both of them are majority.

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So go ahead, play, mix, stack, repeat. Shop in store, in app, or at majuri.com. Have you ever just needed a fresh start? or at majuri.com. Have you ever just needed a fresh start? That's exactly what Siya, a young Inuit woman, is looking for in Netflix new comedy series, North of North. From one of the most remote communities in the world, comes a universally relatable and heartwarming comedy

about one underdog's journey to reinvent herself. But it's not going to be easy when everyone in her small town knows her business. Netflix's first Canadian series, North of North, launches April 10th on Netflix. ["North of North"] Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Stuart McLean with Sam Goes Green. The first day I've heard of it, it was back in the fall. You heard it from his friend Dennis who was in town working on a Patsy Cline project. Some guy was recording an album

of Patsy Cline covers, note for note instrumentals, no vocals. A fellow had hired Dennis to play bass, and they were working nights to save money, which meant Dennis had the afternoons to kill and he started dropping in. By the end of the week, Dennis, who has an eye for a deal and not a lot of restraint once he's spotted one, had bought a son recording by Johnny Cash called The Songs That Made Him Famous and a best of Otis Redding and The Red Beetles and Marvin Gaye's What's Going On and the Many Moods of Charlie Louvin. On Friday he was working his way through the cheap bin at the back of the store, vinyl's last stop, when he whooped. Dave looked up from behind the counter. Dennis was holding

an album in the air and swaying back and forth. Merle Haggard's breakthrough record, said Dennis. That shouldn't have been in there, said Dave, when Dennis brought it to the cache. But he didn't really mind. It was nice having Dennis around. And that's when he heard that Friday from Dennis. "'Jake's going out again,' said Dennis. "'He's rounding everyone up.'

"'You're kidding,' said Dave. "'He called last night,' said Dennis, "'wanted your number.' "'Jake James, the front man for Jake and the Apostles. David met him the afternoon the Apostles had opened for Jefferson Airplane in Nathan Phillips Square. I always thought he was going to be the next big thing, said Dave. Everybody did, said Dennis. Turned out Jake had stage fright. Turned out every time Jake got a break, something would

happen. He'd blow his voice or something. He's going to call, said Dennis. He said, you promised. It took a week, maybe two. Jake didn't call. He dropped by. When he walked into the store, Dave held his hands up in the

air. He didn't make Jake ask. Jake walked through the store, Dave held his hands up in the air. He didn't make Jake ask. Jake walked through the front door. Dave held his hands up and said, I'm in. It's only a week, said Jake. You could bring Morley. And that's why Stephanie came home for spring break this year. Dave was road managing Jake James's week-long comeback attempt. Morley was along

for support, selling product and keeping things even. And Stephanie was at home looking after Sam. He's not old enough to stay alone, said Dave. We'll pay you. Stephanie didn't have any plans anyway. It worked out well for everyone. Night before they left, Dave and Morley finished Sam's room. They'd been at it for a couple of weeks, upgrading it from a little boy's room. New bed, new desk, new rug, and the final step, new paint. Moon raker. Shade of yellow between springtime and lantern light. Strangely, the yellow paint was making Morley blue.

You don't understand, she said one night. Her hair was covered by a red bandana. She had a paintbrush in one hand and a tiny piece of blue plastic toy in the other. You don't understand," she said, holding out the plastic piece. All this is over, over forever. I don't even know what that is, said Dave. Morley sighed and dropped the little piece of plastic into a set of rolling drawers. It's a tail stabilizer for a Sigma-6 Dragonhawk, she said.

The night before they left, Morley took Sam out to buy sheets for his new bed. He chose flannel Ninja Turtle sheets. Morley was beaming when she got home. "'Just when you've given up hope,' she said. Did you buy them in earnest or irony?" asked Dave. Don't want to know, said Morley. They left the next morning. We'll be back Sunday, said Dave.

We'll call every night, six o'clock. Fun, fun, fun, said Sam, under his breath, as he and his sister watched their parents pull out of the driveway. Given their past experiences under similar circumstances, this was a stunning flash of optimism. When Stephanie was 13 and babysitting her little brother for the first time, she had made Sam, who was about seven at the time, spend the entire afternoon cleaning his bedroom. At 16, she'd invited four girlfriends over, and Sam had been sent to his room with a video, a family-sized bag of chips, and a solemn promise not to come out for the entire evening. Something about their relationship had changed. It was

nothing either of them had done. It was just the relentless tides of breakfasts and dinners, of socks and underwear, time tumbling them the way the ocean tumbles glass, smoothing away the sharp edges, rolling the hard green of impatience into the emerald sea softness of love. It was just the work of the ocean and the laws of family asserting themselves. Since she's been away at school, Stephanie's appetite for bugging her brother had dissolved. We'll go out for dinner, she said.

There's a place I want to show you." It was the way, she said, we, that Sam noticed. I'm going to meet Becky, she said. She needs to buy a dress. I'll call you later. We can meet. There, she did it again. She gave Sam her cell phone number, but nothing else.

No instructions, nothing. He didn't even notice her going out. He liked this. This was cool. He felt grown up. They should have sent Stephanie to university years ago. Sam spent that Saturday morning amusing himself and annoying Arthur the dog with his Nerf gun. Peter Moore came over in the afternoon with his Nintendo Wii. Murphy came over too. They played for six hours. Dave phoned at six and said, the boys can stay for dinner. You could order pizza.

Then Dave said, the healthiest choice is the one with the grilled vegetables and no cheese. Sam said, We'll get that one for sure. Would you mind if we had it with the steamed broccoli? Stephanie called. and said, I'm going to stay here. After Peter and Murphy left, Sam stayed up and watched his secret copy of Porky's.

Twice. Stephanie didn't seem to care when he went to bed or whether he took a bath or what he ate. He slept until noon on Saturday, later on Sunday. On Monday at the end of library, Mrs. Atkinson asked Sam to stay behind. Are you feeling okay? She said. What? Asked Sam. He happened to be feeling on top of the world. You don't look well, said Mrs. Atkinson. I thought I should ask.

Sam shook her off. Sam felt fine. As he bounced down the hall, he was thinking, Mrs. Atkinson is weird. Then it happened again, after lunch. In between period four and five, Mr. O'Neill stopped him in the hall and asked him the same thing. Are you feeling okay? You look a little sallow. I'm fine, said Sam. He didn't say anything about Mrs. Atkinson, but it was weird. Twice in a day. It made him wonder. He went to the boys' room and peered at himself in the mirror. He

looked fine. But after school, they were playing ball hockey in Peter's driveway, and Peter said, what's the matter with you? And Sam said, what do you mean? Peter said, you look green. Sam asked Stephanie that night, do I look OK? Your jeans are too baggy, said Stephanie. You should get a job and get decent jeans.

When I was your age, I was buying my own jeans. Jeans are supposed to be baggy," said Sam, looking at his legs dubiously. Not this year, said Stephanie. When his parents called, Sam wanted to tell them what Mrs. Atkinson had said about him looking bad, but he didn't want to worry them, especially his father, who has a tendency to overreact. "'Before you go to bed,' said Dave, "'check the oven and make sure it's off. Also the back door. Make sure the back door's locked, and don't light any candles.

You're not lighting candles, are you? No, said Sam, I'm not lighting candles. What about your sister? The next morning, they had gym, first period. Basketball, the skins versus the shirts. Sam was a skin. After five minutes, Mr. Lovell pulled him onto the sidelines. You look a little green, said Mr. Lovell. You better sit out.

Sam went into the boys' room and looked in the mirror again. It wasn't just his face. It was his whole chest. He spun around and peered over his shoulder and his back, and he felt a rush of anxiety. Something was wrong. It was like he had a tan but weird. He changed mirrors and it was the same. It was like he had a bruise all over his body but different. It was hard to tell, but it made him scared. Maybe he wasn't feeling so good. When Jim was over,

he tried to brush it off. It's just the color of my skin, he said. You shouldn't judge someone by the color of their skin. But the truth was he was feeling worried. When his parents phoned at supper, Dave said, "'Before we left, I meant to check the smoke alarm and I forgot.' Will you check the smoke alarm? There should be a little light flashing every ten seconds. If it's not flashing every ten seconds, call us on Mummy's cell.' I'm fine," said Sam.

Obviously he wasn't fine. You do look a little green," said Stephanie later that night. Do you feel okay? The truth was he didn't feel okay. The truth was he was feeling tired and he was getting a headache. I'm fine, he said, but he didn't sound convinced, and he headed for his room. Stephanie came upstairs 10 minutes later and said,

people turn orange from eating too many carrots. Sam was lying on his bed. He had the covers up to his chin. I'm not turning orange, he said. I'm turning green. Stephanie said, because maybe you've eaten too much green stuff. But I haven't had a single vegetable since mom and dad left, said Sam. Stephanie came back 10 minutes later with a plate of beets, an apple, and a cut up red pepper."

Sam said, "'You want to turn me red?' Stephanie said, "'Red and green are complementary colors. I'm trying to balance you.'" "'I feel sick," said Sam. The next morning he was definitely worse. He came downstairs and there was an undeniable moldy power to his skin.

His whole complexion was vaguely off. I'm going to phone Dr. Keen," said Stephanie. You should stay in bed. Stephanie's concern scared him. Stephanie never paid him this much attention. She wasn't just paying him attention, she was being kind and concerned. It could only mean one thing.

He was dying. I'm okay, he said. He was trying to convince himself. He went back upstairs and he got into his pajamas. He read for a while, but he was feeling worse and worse. It was hot under the covers and he began to sweat. He rubbed the perspiration off his forehead onto his pajama sleeve, and he froze.

There was a bright green smear on his shirt sleeve. His sweat was the color of lime Kool-Aid. That could only mean one thing. Whatever he had was coming from inside of him. Suddenly it was obvious. He had been colonized by some weird green thing. A space creature possibly. Or some sort of swamp algae.

Maybe his insides were going moldy like swamp water or a piece of cheese that had been left in the fridge too long. It really didn't matter what it was because it was pretty obvious that whatever it was, it wanted out. His chest could erupt at any moment. came over after school. Sam said, I think I have an alien. Murphy nodded earnestly. Then he took off his glasses and pulled out his shirt and he polished his glasses on his shirt tail, which is what Murphy does when he's thinking very hard. He polished his glasses and then he put them back on and he bent over Sam who was lying on his bed despondently and he peered at Sam coming closer and closer until their faces were less than six inches apart. And Sam was getting uncomfortable. Sam turned his head and said, what are you doing? And Murphy reached out and took Sam to see Dr. Keane.

On the way there, Sam was thinking Dr. Keane would tell him there was nothing to worry about. Sam thought Dr. Keane would say that boys his age turn green all the time. It's a perfectly normal thing, and it would go away in a couple of days. But that's not what happened. Dr. Keene took one look at Sam and frowned. Dr. Keene agreed that Sam did not look well at all. Dr. Keene listened to Sam's heart and looked in Sam's ears and took Sam's temperature. And then Dr. Keene shook his head and said he was flummoxed.

We'll do some tests, said Dr. Keene. Sam said, Do you think maybe I have an alien? Dr. Keene said, I don't know what you have. I'm a little perplexed. Dr. Keane was muttering to himself as he wrote notes in a file. If you were blue, it would be a different matter. If you were blue, I'd be thinking about cyanosis and any number of things that involve your heart and lungs. And if you were yellow, well, it could be primary bilary cirrhosis, Wilson's disease, yellow fever, liver, or even pancreatic cancer, jaundice, hyperbily rubinemia, anemia, hepatitis

ABCDE, or Y, I think, or of course, gallstones. Hyperbily what?? said Sam nervously. Dr. Keene looked up at him. What? Oh, I forgot you were still here. Hyperbaili rubinemia. But you're not yellow. He looked back at the file and muttered, you're not blue

either. No, said Sam, I'm green. blue either." Dr. King said, No, I'm green. I'm going to take some blood, said Dr. King. Sam looked away as Dr. King got ready to draw the blood. Deep breaths, said Dr. King. Then he said,

All finished. Sam said, Well, what? Dr. King said, Well, what? Sam said, What color is it? On the way home, Dr. Keene's list of diseases echoed in Sam's ears. He couldn't remember all their names—just hyperbilyrubinemia—and that there were a lot more—blue ones and yellow ones.

When he got home, he crawled morosely back into bed. Pretty soon he was crying. He wanted his mother and father. Why were they away when he needed them? Probably he'd be dead when they came home. If his mother was there, she would sit beside him on the bed and tell him not to worry. If his father was there he would panic. Sam got out of bed and began to pace. He could figure this out. Maybe Stephanie was right. If carrots made

you orange it made sense that green stuff made you green. He had to avoid anything green. He went over to his desk and started making a list. Beans, broccoli, Brussels sprouts—there was a lot of green stuff when you thought about it—lettuce, spinach, peas, though it never occurred to him just how much. He kept adding to his list. No wonder he was turning green cabbage, kiwi, and cucumbers. He stared at the paper for a moment without writing anything. Then he added collard greens, bok choy, and mint chocolate chip ice cream.

He was still at it when Murphy called. Sam said, the doctor did a blood test. Murphy said, what color was it? Sam told him about Dr. Keen's list. Murphy said, I better come over. Murphy was standing at the foot of his bed, wiping his glasses. Murphy said, it's worse than we thought. All those blue and yellow diseases. Sam said, I don't have them.

Murphy shook his head. It's possible you have all of them. Exactly. When you mix blue and yellow together, what do you get?" It was the worst night in Sam's life. A sense of doom settled on him. Murphy was right. The doctor wouldn't have taken blood if he didn't think something horrible was happening. At nine o'clock that night the phone rang. Sam prayed it was his mother.

They had decided not to tell their parents anything until they got the test results. They didn't want to ruin their trip. But if it was his mother, he was going to tell her right now. It wasn't his mother, of course. And the wheels of the night ground on. Sam lying in bed working through all of the possibilities. What if it wasn't fatal? What if it was worse than that? How green could he turn without dying? He fell into a fitful sleep around midnight, but he didn't sleep well. He kept waking up. In the morning, Murphy called, all excited. You don't have to worry. It's okay.

You're not the only one. I just heard that the Prime Minister's going green. And he wants other people to turn green too. Sam clung to that for an hour. Maybe he was the first. Maybe he'd go down in history as a trailblazer. Maybe in 200 years he'd be a folk hero, just like Jackie Robinson. Maybe he'd be the first green boy to go to university.

The first green Olympian. Like that. Dr. Keen called in the afternoon and said the test results were normal. But he wasn't. He was still green. I'm not sure what to think said Dr. Keen. If it continues for a few more days you should come back in." It was obvious Dr. Keen didn't have a clue what was going on. Sam was certain about one thing. When his mom and dad called at supper, he was going to tell them. His mother, that is. But it was his father who called. Sam said, can I speak to mom? Dave said, mom's right here. There's just a couple of things I want to go over first. I want to speak to mom, said Sam.

Tonight's garbage night, said Dave. I want you to empty the garbage cans in the upstairs and downstairs bathroom and take everything out before you go to bed. And make sure the lid is on tight so nothing can get in. Also make sure the milk is still good. If it's off, Stephanie should buy some new milk tomorrow. Sam said, please can I speak to Mom? Dave said, one more thing, if you want to use your new sheets, make sure you wash them first. What? said Sam. The Ninja Turtle Sheet said Dave, make sure you wash them before you use them because if you don't Sam interrupted his father. He was talking on the portable phone he was sitting in his bed. If I don't wash them first said Sam he was looking down

at the Ninja Turtle on the pillow at the green Ninja Turtles on the sheets. If I don't wash them first," said Sam, he was looking down at the Ninja Turtle on the pillow, at the green Ninja Turtles on the sheets. If I don't wash them," said Sam, I'll turn green, right? Right, said Dave. Now, do you want to speak to Mom? She's right here. No, it's okay, said Sam. I'll talk to her tomorrow. That was Sam Goes Green. We recorded that story in St. John's Newfoundland in Labrador back in 2007.

Have you ever just needed a fresh start? That's exactly what Siya, a young Inuit woman, is looking for in Netflix's new comedy series, North of North. From one of the most remote communities in the world comes a universally relatable and heartwarming comedy about one underdog's journey to reinvent herself. But it's not going to be easy when everyone in her small town knows her business. in her small town knows her business. Netflix First Canadian Series, North of North, launches April 10th on Netflix. ["The Little Mermaid"]

All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with more from Stuart McLean. I hope you'll join us. ["The Little Mermaid"] Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is someone who never uses utensils at dinner, caveman Greg DeKlute. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeKlute, and me, Jess

Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now. Routines are a big part of our family, especially at bedtime. Eloise, Annabelle, and I have an elaborate bath and bedtime routine. Those quiet, cozy moments, warm water, soft towels, time together, aren't just about getting ready for sleep. They're about connection, comfort, and care. This is something we started when they were just babies.

I started our bath and bedtime routine when they were just a couple of weeks old. I'd bathe them, and then I'd sing to them while I gave them a calm, relaxing baby massage. Their skin was so soft, so new, and I wanted to do everything I could to protect it. Skin is a baby's first line of defense, but did you know it's about 30% thinner than ours?

That's why a Veno Baby uses the power of oats to help nourish and strengthen it. Their healthy start balm is safe for newborns, moisturizing, comforting, and supporting baby's skin moisture barrier from day one. It's gentle, soothing, and a small way to care for the ones we love most. Learn more at avino.ca. Have you ever just needed a fresh start? That's exactly what Siya, a young Inuit woman,

is looking for in Netflix's new comedy series, North of North. From one of the most remote communities in the world comes a universally relatable and heartwarming comedy about one underdog's journey to reinvent herself. But it's not going to be easy when everyone in her small town knows her business. Netflix's first Canadian series, North of North, launches April 10th on Netflix.