Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - REWIND WEDNESDAY: Summertime – Mexican Climbing Mint & Summer of Stars

Episode Date: August 6, 2025

“There is nothing like a neighbour throwing money about their garden to make you feel bad about yours.” It's summer all the way on this week’s episode. In our first story, Mary Turlington unwittingly trips off a chain of events that get heated under the summer sun. And in the second, Sam and Murphy have the summer of a lifetime in Big Narrows, Cape Breton. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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I'm Jess Milton and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. I don't know about you, but I am so ready for summer this year. the show, it's summer all the way, two summary stories to help get you in the mood. We're going to start with Mary Turlington. Have I got your attention? I love the structure of this story, the way Stuart sets it up, and the way he uses the seasons as a metronome of sorts, reminding us where we are in time. The story bounces around in time, but the references to the seasons are there to pull us back and to remind us where we are. This is Stuart McLean with Mexican climbing mint. July landed on the city like a life ring. Until July, the days were

wet, miserable, and gray through April and May and then unbelievably all the way through June. The coldest spring anyone could remember. And then came July. The kids, got out of school and someone turned on the furnace. Overnight, it got hot. August was even worse. Why, August, stepping outside was like stepping into the furnace. It was hot when you went to bed and hotter still when you woke up. So maybe we shouldn't be surprised that August was the month that everyone lost it.

When I say everyone, I mean certain people in Dave's neighborhood. August was a month when this neighborhood and nice people who generally get along turned against each other. It started, well, it's a dubious science that tries to pin down the origins of anything. The closer you get to any starting line, the murkier things always get.

But if you wanted to dig into the hot muck of Dave Summer, a summer that started benignly enough and then took a bad turn, One place to start would be the June afternoon two summers ago when Mary Turlington, seized by some earthy spasm, turned her attention to her back garden. I'm not sure where the spark came from that ignited Mary. Probably she saw something in some magazine or one of those television shows. Anyway, there was some spark, and Mary got going.

And by going, I don't mean that she and Burt spent an afternoon to Harman's loading the trunk with flats of geraniums. Two summers ago was the summer of the P-stone pathway to the backyard, the teak gazebo, the Japanese azalea, and above all, the granite terrace. Set in Italian clay. Expensive? Oh, yeah. And not just anyone can lay that down. You have to have tradesmen experienced in these things. But if you're going to do it, you should do it right, and granite set in clay was the only terrace that would stay flat and weed-free for generations. Well, there's nothing like a neighbor throwing money around their garden to make you feel bad about yours.

Morley had always enjoyed her backyard, the pear tree with the picnic table under it, the scene of so many happy summer evenings, the little, bed of flowers by the garage. Suddenly, her yard seemed diminished. Shabby. She made a stab at it herself that summer. She went to Harman's and got the geraniums. But next to the gazebo on the terrace, she didn't stand a chance. That was the winter, last winter, that Morley and Dave went to Mexico. Just a week, Dave's old pal Duncan Donald Duclo finally convinced them to come down to his place in the Yucatan. They ate avocados right from the front yard, and in the afternoon, red in Donald's walled garden, all the little colored birds.

This is heaven, said Morley. I love this. Every night they fixed dinner using herbs from the garden by the door. What is this stuff, she said one night, as she brought a basket of green leaves into the kitchen. Ah, said Donald. Mexican climbing mint, the king of herbs. Morley was rubbing a leaf between her fingers. I get mint, she said, inhaling,

but I also get lime. And rum, said Donald. There's a distant aroma of rum. A garden full of mehitos, said Dave, raising his head off the couch. So Dave brought back a little cut. of the plant at the bottom of his suitcase. He wrapped it in a red bandana that Donald claimed

had once belonged to Willie Nelson. When he got it home, he hit it in the basement freezer. He didn't tell Morley. He wanted to surprise her. It wasn't a gazebo or a terrace, but it was more their style. A memory of Mexico. Maybe it would give their backyard the zip it was missing.

Mexican mint. that tastes like a mojito in their garden. Come on. He planted it this spring. It didn't do well at first. It just sat there all April and May, even June. Donald had said it would shoot up like sugar cane. Donald said it would send out long green shoots,

like a miniature willow. All spring, Dave's Mint, sat in the backyard garden like a dwarf cornstalk, dry and dead looking. Most people would have lost interest. Most people would have given up, but most people don't have Mary Turlington living next door. Mary, standing on her terrace in her white caprice, wine glass in hand.

Mary on her hands and knees with a carpenter level and her husband bird at the end of a long piece of string. Mary, nodding her head in that self-satisfied way of hers. There's perfectly flat this year as they were last, said Mary. Loud enough for everyone to hear. No winter heave, she told Dave, and everyone else she ran into. None at all. Italian workmanship.

That terrorist would withstand an earthquake. I don't know, said Morley one night, looking out their bedroom window. Maybe we should, you know, get some people in. like the Turlington's did. So, somewhat wistfully, somewhat forlornly, somewhat pathetically, Dave kept out his little project. He fertilized it. He gave it some miracle growl, tried eggshells and a bucket of compost.

Nothing seemed to help. Then in late June, they had five, maybe six days of straight rain. And he didn't check on it, not once. Forgot about it, truth be told. And when he remembered, maybe two weeks had gone by. Come, come, he said to Morley when she got home that night. And he pulled her into the garden, and they stood there, staring at the mint. It grew two or three feet in the week, he said.

That was the Monday. Tuesday it grew a foot more, 12 inches overnight. I can't believe it, said Dave. it's hard to believe. By the end of the next week, there was a second stock standing beside the first, maybe six inches a foot away. He was waiting for Morley in the driveway after work. I think I'm a father, he said. I'm very happy for you, said Morley. And she was, delighted, though more by his enthusiasm than anything. By the end of the month, there were a dozen or so babies. Dave's backyard was a feckoned hot house. This was better than he'd ever imagined. By July, the initial

stock was about an inch thick at the bottom, and there were more and more of the offspring. It's getting a little thick out there, said Morley one night. How much mint do you think we need? Dave had been wondering the same thing himself. He went out to the garden and tugged at the smallest plant. He expected it to pop out of the earth like a carrot. To his chagrin, he pulled out a runner, sort of cable that connected the plant he was tugging on to the one beside it and then to the one beside that.

He stood there, plant in hand, as the truth dawned on him. All this new growth, all his base, weren't new plants. The tendrils, which had grown off the original stock of mint, had fallen back to the earth, burrowed into the soil, and reappeared as new stock several feet away. His Mexican mint wasn't having babies. It was roaming around his backyard like an octopus. Truth was, the mint, which had seemed cute and kind of fun, was beginning to scare them. By the end of the month, it had broken free of the garden perimeter and was heading toward the garage. It had morphed from an octopus into something closer to a pot of dolphin

dipping and diving across the backyard. They were heading up north to a cottage, two weeks by the lake. On the first night away, a year too late, Dave sat down at the computer and typed in three words. Mexican climbing mint. He got two words back. Invasive species.

He looked around the cottage furtively. He didn't want anyone else to see this. What's the matter? said Morley. Nothing, said Dave. Why? You just said, uh-oh, said Morley. There's nothing wrong, said Dave. Absolutely nothing.

This is about the mint, isn't it? Said Marley. It took him hours to get to sleep that night. When he did, he fell into a sweat-drenched dream. He was working in rock and roll again, managing a group called Purple Lusdryfe. The sound man was a mollusk named Leroy. One night after the show,

Leroy sat Dave down and explained that when he was hired, he had told everyone he was an oyster, but he was really a zebra muscle. He said he was tired of living a lie. It was the worst vacation of Dave's life. They got back home on a Saturday. When they did, Dave bolted out of the car and through the front door, ran past the living room and the dining room and into the kitchen. Surely it wouldn't be as bad as he'd been imagining. He set his bag on the kitchen table and peered out.

the kitchen window. It wasn't as bad as he'd been imagining. It was worse. He was living the day of the triffitt. His little patch of mint had entwined itself throughout the garden. It covered all the other plants. It was attacking the garage. The fence seemed to be listing under the weight. And then he looked down at his feet and gasped. When Morley came into the kitchen, he was down on his hands and knees tugging at a green tendril that was growing out of the hot air vent. That night, Dave went into the backyard with a pair of gardening shears, and by the light of the moon, he cut the mother plant off just above the ground. It didn't make a wit of difference. The mint was a hydra. It had no beginning. It had no end. There was only one thing to do. He

rolled up his sleeves and he got to work. And he kept at it for the worst of this heat-soaked summer, digging it up and hacking at it wherever it appeared. That's how the stories began. Mary heard him one night when she opened the bedroom window. What on earth is he doing back there, she said to Bert. And Bert in bed and already half asleep, Bert, the criminal lawyer, said the first thing that came to his mind. There's only one kind of gardening that you have to do in the dark, said Bert. Everyone knew something was going on. You'd see him in the middle of the afternoon when he should have been at work, standing at the driveway, all sweaty, his arms scratched. What's up? said Jim Schofield when he ran into him. Oh, nothing, said Dave. Nothing's wrong. I didn't ask if

anything was wrong, said Jim to everyone he meant. Mary Turlington has a theory, said Ted Anderson. Remember when they went to Mexico? Dave was doing his best, his very best, and for a moment it seemed like his best was going to be good enough. And then one evening he was sitting on the back stoop surveying his yard when he was seized by a cold fear. He stood up and he watched. And he walked tentatively to the fence and peered into Eugene and Maria's yard. It took a while, but he finally spotted it. He knew he was going to. In the middle of their tomato patch, a single rogue stock, maybe two feet tall. With his heart sinking, Dave got a chair from the kitchen and stood on the chair so he could see into the Turlington's. Exactly.

There in the middle of the Turlington's yard, thrusting through the earthquake-proof Italian terrace. Peaking into the sun like a groundhog on a summer prairie, the smallest of stocks, announcing more were coming. He had no time to lose. That was the night Gertil Lobier, well-known for her insomnia, spotted Dave slipping out of the Turlington's backyard after mid-term. night. Gerta, who reads too many tabloids for her own good, had long suspected that all men, save for her darling Carl, were weak and easily tempted. She was shocked to have her suspicions confirmed. But it was all there in front of her, Dave running home, morally standing at the back door with her hands on her hips. She could hear every word in the church still of the

night. I'm sorry, said Dave when he reached his wife. I thought it was over. I swear I'll put an end to it. Gerda wasn't the only one. The next night, Maria spotted Dave on his hands and knees in her tomato patch and leapt to her own conclusions. He was stealing tomatoes right from their vines. How long had this been going on?

She thought back to last fall's canning session. this is why they had run out of canned tomatoes. Dave confided in Kenny Wong over lunch. He had to talk to someone. It was Kenny who suggested the herbicide. You have to bring out the big dog, said Kenny. I got some stuff in the States that you can't buy here. Later that very night, as the moon rose over the neighborhood,

Dave slipped out the back door. He was heading for the garage and the industrial-sized bottle of herbicide he'd hidden there. He was wearing his hiking boots, his son's ski goggles, and a pair of yellow rubber gloves he had found under the sink. He looked like a four-year-old boy on the trail of trouble. The garage was dark. He went back inside and got a flashlight from the kitchen. Back in the garage with a flashlight stuffed in his mouth, he found. fumbled with the herbicide. It wouldn't have been the easiest job under the best of circumstances,

and these weren't the best of circumstances. The gloves made him clumsy. The goggles obscured his vision. Yet with the dubious help of the flashlight, he managed to get most of the herbicide into the little spray bottle he had found in the basement. He didn't notice the little puddle that missed the bottle and spilled onto the garage floor, or that he stepped into it each time he came back for a refill. Until the next morning, when he woke up and looked out his bedroom window, every lawn, as far as he could see, was scarred by brown, crunchy footprints. Footprints that led all around the neighborhood and directly back to his garage. One street over, he could see Carl Lobier, still in his housecoat, methodically following the footprints.

He was almost at Dave's back gate. Next door, Maria was standing by her back door, casting her eyes over the backyard. He had no choice. He got dressed, and he went outside. They were waiting for him. He gathered them up the driveway and into the back garden. It began in Mexico, he said. There was no more than a weed, really.

Mary squeezed Bert's hand. Can we stay here, she whispered. Will we be accessories? Actually, said Dave, looking right at Mary, it began with your backyard. I was jealous of your terrace. which was not technically true, but close enough. He presented himself in the worst possible light,

yet oddly by the end, he was the only one who was relatively unscathed. He expected them to, well, quite frankly, he expected them to be furious. He was totally unprepared when they were forgiving. Forgiveness was the last thing he, he thought he would get from sanctimonious Mary. But there it was. In fact, Mary seemed almost, was it possible, relieved? She actually laughed about it.

Gerta, well, Gerta had never seemed so fond of him. You are an honest man, she said. And Maria, after Gerta said the thing about honesty, Maria said, such honesty should be rewarded. I want you to help yourself to as many tomatoes as you want from my garden. When they were all leaving, Maria looked at Mary and shrugged, he's always been a good neighbor. And then she waved her hand in the air, a little strange, but you know. And so, in the dog days of August, disaster was averted.

And not for the first time, Dave and Mary tottered back from the abyss of outright warfare. That was a close call, said Dave, to Morley that night. They were sitting at the picnic table under the pear tree. He had made dinner, burgers on the grill. There had been a shift in the weather, a stirring in the trees, a coolness to the night. Next door, old Eugene switched off the light in his garden shed and made his slow way towards his house, the glowing tip of his little cigar leading him on. Dave raised his hand and waved

Eugene lifted his cane and waved back Across the yard the light in the Lobier's kitchen switched off Somewhere there was a car horn And then a far away siren The sounds of the city It is an ill wind That blows no good

But the nuttiness of this summer was not an ill wind. The gusts of autumn will be blowing, however, before the good of this summer will finally present itself. In October, when the fire of July has been extinguished once and for all, and the time for gardens and gardening is done, when the sky is blue and the air is thin and the clouds are wispy, on a glorious autumn morning,

Gertil Lobier will visit Dave at his record store. something she's never done before she'll look around the shop awkwardly and then after a moment or two she will come to the point she'll say I've been thinking about Maria

about her missing tomatoes she will put missing in quotation marks what do you think she'll say and Dave will say I think that it is a wonderful idea and Gerta will go from Dave's story

to the Turlington's, and that weekend, Gerta and Mary will go over to Maria's and help her put up her tomato sauce. Even Dave will make one last move. Still struck by the close call of summer, he'll find himself in Mary's backyard the next weekend, sharing a beer with Bert, and he will decide on the spur of the moment when Mary comes out the back door that it is better to be generous than jealous. Mary, he'll say, lifting his beer and waving his hand around. Have I ever told you how much I like your garden? That was the story we call Mexican Climbing Mint. We recorded that story at the Aurelia Opera House in, well, you guessed it,

Aurelia, Ontario back in 2011. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another summary story, so stick around. This summer, more travelers are discovering that some trips in Canada are just better in an Airbnb. And that's something I've experienced myself. I traveled all across Canada during my years producing the Vinyl Cafe, and I have stayed in so many great homes listed on Airbnb. We often chose them because of the space.

Everyone's got their own private bedroom, and we could still make coffee in our PJs and eat our favorite breakfast foods. No need to head out first thing in the morning. After the show, we'd gather around a fireplace and relax. We stayed in a lakeside cottage in Muscoca, burgers on the barbecue, coffee on the dock, and a trail right from the backyard that I walked every morning with the dog. We found a cozy little cabin in Nelson, British Columbia,

with a gorgeous garden. I remember writing a script there, watching the sun rise over the river, so much better than working in a hotel room. And just today, I booked a place in Valde-Mont-Cabec, a little cabin perched on a tall west-facing cliff with a wood-burning hot tub. I'm using it as a retreat to work on, yep, this podcast. I can't wait because, like I said, some trips are just better in an Airbnb, and I've got a feeling that this next one is going to be one of them. Making a big purchase, like a car, should come with confidence, not confusion.

But let's be honest, it's pretty easy to second-guess yourself. Is this a good price? Am I making the right choice? That's why I love car gurus. They take the stress out of car shopping with advanced search tools, deal ratings, and price history. So you actually know when it's a good deal. It's no wonder car gurus is the number one rated car shopping app in Canada. on the Apple App Store and Google Play Store.

They give you the control to shop how you want to shop, and when you're ready, they'll connect you with trusted dealerships for a transparent, hassle-free experience. Go to car gurus.ca to make sure your big deal is the best deal. By your next car today at car gurus.ca, that's c-ar-g-us.com. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Summer of Stars.

Dave's mother, Margaret, and Smith Gardner, retired Fire Chief, married more than a year, but barely more than a year. We're sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch. Campbell's tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and butterscotch pudding. They made it to the pudding, and Margaret was telling Smith one of her favorite stories,

the story of Puccini's last opera, Turandot, which happened to be one of her favorite operas. It was part of an ongoing campaign to educate Smith, not in the ways of the world. Smith Gardner was already wise in the ways of the world, in the ways of her world. Campaign wasn't going as well as she would have liked. Smith was a sweet and kind man She loved having him around her She loved cooking for him She enjoyed his company

They enjoyed each other's company Yet there was no denying it This business of a second marriage All these little adjustments It was surprisingly tough He didn't finish the final duet said Margaret Who said Smith

Putting down a spoon and staring at her earnestly Puccini said Margaret a little peevishly. Right, said Smith. First, said Margaret, he was sick, and then he died. So he couldn't finish, said Smith. Showing her that he could keep up. So his friend finished it for him, said Margaret.

Is that allowed, said Smith. Not against the rules? There are no rules, said Margaret. This is art, Smith. So his friend finished it. Then the great Toscanini agreed to continue. the world premier, Las Gala. Smith raised his spoon in the air as if he were conducting an orchestra, and Margaret smiled.

But when Toscanini reached the last scene, she said, the scene the friend had written, he put his baton down and he turned his back on the orchestra and everything ground to a halt. The two of them stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. Smith lowered his hands, and then he said, why did he do that? well said Margaret this is a very famous moment Toscanini turned to the audience and announced that the maestro had not completed the opera and then he said death is stronger than art and that would be as far as they would go that night

Margaret looked exhilarated Smith looked puzzled Smith said did everyone boo there was dead silence said Margaret until someone in the audience yelled out at the top of their lungs. I know what he yelled, said Smith. He yelled, I want my money back. No, said Margaret.

He yelled, Viva Puccini. And they all stood up, gave a big ovation. This made no sense to Smith at all. You'd think they'd want their money back, said Smith. Smith had a fiercely pragmatic heart. And Margaret loved him for it. but she wasn't used to it. Her late husband, Charlie, loved her story about Puccini, loved it.

Of course, Charlie loved everything about music. Charlie kept a ukulele in the truck, played it while he drove, used his knees to steer. Margaret and Charlie fit together so easily. Sometimes it felt that there was, it's hard to put in words like there was an unanswered question hovering between her and Smith. And like any unresolved question, it kept coming up, demanding her attention. There in June when she told them about the opera,

and then when her grandson Sam and his best friend Murphy came to spend some of the summer with them, and Margaret had to hustle the boys off each morning before Smith could get to them. She made them sandwiches and pushed them outside to play before Smith could push them into the garden and get them pulling weeds or laying down mulch. Boys should be working, said Smith. Boys should be boys, said Margaret. There was no doubt about it. Margaret and Smith were still getting used to one another's ways.

But Sam was her grandson, so she held Trump. And Smith was wise enough not to make her play it. So instead of working, the boys played. Margaret never asked where they had been or what they were up to. It was summer. She knew what they were up to. They were up to nothing. And could anything be more perfect for two boys from the city than to drift around Big Narrows Cape Breton in July and August?

It was a summer of corn, cobs, and popsicles of dandelions and frogs, ice cream cones and the old wrecked car on the mountain road. And then one night there were shooting stars. It was a night Sam and Murphy will never forget. They were in the backyard lying on the soft grass. the sky couldn't have been black or the stars couldn't have been closer or further away. It was hard to tell. Close and far at the same time, a constellation of confusion. They'd been lying there for maybe half an hour, lying on their backs head to head, lost from the world of words.

When Murphy's head, did you see that? Like a flash from a camera, except longer and streakier. one side of the sky, right across to the other. The two of them sat up abruptly and stared at each other in wonder. It was there, and then it was gone. And whatever it was flared into the atmosphere of their imaginations like a galloping horse. A wave of a hand, a blink of the eye, and they would have missed it, but neither of them blinked. Oh yes, Sam had seen it all right. what was that said Sam

Murphy's eyes were bulging but he didn't say anything it was like he was in a trance Murphy said Sam aliens it was aliens

and then there was another and then another and Murphy said it's happening they're coming The boys ran inside. Inside, it was an August night like any other. Margaret was sitting on the couch knitting.

And Smith was sitting beside her in his big green chair. The television was on. They were watching the news, oblivious, that the biggest news of all was just outside. We saw a UFO, said Sam. Three, said Murphy. They were hardly the first boys from the city to stare up into the night. and be fooled by a shooting star. Ah, said Smith, smiling, sitting up.

Margaret knew what was coming. These were the sort of moments Smith loved. He was about to explain. He was about to say something about comets and meteors and cosmic hoo-ha. Ah, said Smith. But he didn't get any further than that because Margaret didn't let him. Before he said one more word, Margaret shot him a look. What? said Smith.

And Margaret shot him another look, and then she turned to the boys, and she said, tell us what you saw. Right across the sky, said Murphy, right over town. Three of them, said Sam. One after the other. Like a flash from a camera, said Margaret, except faster and streakier. Exactly, said both boys together. How did you know? said Sam. Well, said Margaret, you're not the first ones around here to see something like that. And then she glanced at Smith.

Smith was frowning at her. Margaret frowned back. An hour later, the boys were upstairs. They were lying in bed, but they were light years from sleep. Did you see your grandfather? said Murphy. He didn't like her talking about it, said Sam. She didn't tell us everything she knew, said Murphy. You could tell. Did you see the look she gave him?

They talked for over an hour, lying on their beds under the sloping roof, feeling smaller and smaller until they felt so small they felt like they were floating. In the living room, Smith turned off the television. Why didn't you want me to tell them, he said? Margaret was folding up her knitting. What, she said, that it was just a shooting star? A meteor, said Smith, not a star. Probably no bigger than a grain of salt.

Margaret stared at him. That's the truth, said Smith. Smith, she said, what sort of fun can a boy have with a grain of salt? But those are the facts, said Smith. Smith Gardner, said Margaret. Life would be tedious of all we did was stick to the facts. Sam couldn't remember falling to sleep that night, but he slept deep and he dreamed of the golden flare from a monstrous spaceship.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Murphy, already dressed, sitting by the window, staring out. How long have you been up, said Sam. Maybe they didn't land, said Murphy. Maybe they crashed. And so they had breakfast. And they crashed out the back door and onto their bikes. We'll start at McCauley, said Murphy.

Start what? said Sam. The search, said Murphy. As they paddled over the green iron bridge on the edge of town, Sam said, why McCollies? Because, said Murphy, McCauley has the only cows in town. There are almost always mupilated cows. Macaulay's cows were fine.

You're sure, said Murphy, all of them? They were standing in the farmyard in front of the barn. The boys straddling their bikes, old man McCauley, leaning on his tractor. I only have the one cow, said old man McCallel. It isn't hard to keep track. The boys found. the piece of spaceship two days later, in the woods on Macaulay's mountain, a piece of shiny metal about the size of a cookie sheet. In fact, if you didn't know better, you might have thought

it was a cookie sheet. It was half buried under some old leaves, not far from Macaulay's sugar shack. This could be from a wing, said Sam, or a tail stabilizer, said Murphy. It could be radioactive, said Sam. They collected soil samples from beside it. They didn't. They didn't didn't want to touch it so they used a stick to push it into the backpack. They showed it to Margaret as soon as they got home. Do you think it's radioactive? said Margaret. Smith, who was reading the paper at the kitchen table, snorted derisively. They thought about selling it on eBay. But they decided against that it was too valuable for eBay. Beside, said Margaret, you wouldn't want it falling into the wrong hands.

Exactly, said Murphy. Then Margaret looked at Smith and said, maybe you should take the boys down to see Chief Kavanaugh. Smith stared at her in amazement, and then he nodded at her slightly as if to say, I'd give up. Chief Kavanaugh was sitting at his desk at the police station with a morning crossword in front of him when the boys arrived.

He looked up and smiled, said, You're the lads who found the spaceship. Murphy let out a long, contented sigh. Sam said, Peace of a spaceship. Chief Kavanaugh pushed the paper aside and examined the piece of metal carefully. Do you think it's radioactive, he said.

Then he reached for a pen and wrote in his logbook. It was Chief Kavanaugh who suggested they send it to the government. It was Margaret who told them that the government, was a mansion of many rooms and they should choose their room carefully. She sent them to the Big Narrows Library. They spent three hours huddled over the library's single computer.

They argued about where they should send it. To the RCMP, the Space Agency, the Department of Defense, foreign affairs. What about the Dairy Commission, said Sam? What? said Murphy. Because of the mupilated cows, said Sam. How about tourism? said Murphy. They could be tourists. They narrowed it down to three. Citizenship and immigration. The refugee board. And CBDC. What's that? said Sam. Cape Breton Development Corporation, said Murphy. Perfect, said Sam. They left with an address written on a tiny scrap of paper. That night they sat down. to draft a letter. Murphy

dictated. Sam wrote. Murphy said, okay. Murphy said, start with this. We found this in Area 27. Area 27, said Sam. That's just the way governments talk, said Murphy. So Murphy paste and Sam sat at the table

trying to keep up. Wait, he said, not so fast. How do you spell, mutilated? I don't know, said Murphy. M-E-W. Sam wrote, there are no dead cows. Murphy added, as far as we have seen. Sam added, but McCauley's cow seems cranky.

There are no dead cows as far as we have seen, but McCauley's cow seems cranky. Good, said Murphy. They placed the letter and a piece of metal along with some of the dirt they had dug up into a cardboard box, and they wrapped the box in brown paper, and they took it to the post office. and they used their allowance to mail it to Ottawa.

That night after supper, the boys washed the dishes. As they worked, they argued about some of the things they had been arguing about all summer, whether gerbils were more fun than hamsters, if Sasquatches existed in Canada or just in Russia. And what it would be like if Martians landed and they barked like dogs, and only dogs could understand them but not humans. When they finished, they walked to town. They said they were going for ice cream, down the hill in front of the house,

as lost in their conversation as two rabbinical students. As he stood on the porch and watched them go, Smith felt a pang. His boyhood summers seemed so close and so far. When she heard how much the package had cost to mail to Ottawa, Margaret began to wonder as Smith was right. sure they were smart boys sure they would figure things out in their own time but maybe it was a small treachery

not to tell the truth always maybe I was wrong Smith she said one night the two boys were already up in their room reading Charlie and I she began and then she stopped and she started again maybe Charlie and I didn't think these things through enough Smith set his tea towel down

and put his hand on Margaret's arms. Smith said, I think it's me who doesn't think things through. I think you have things just about right. I just enjoy stories, said Margaret, more than facts. I like the mystery and the tension. Aha, said Smith, that's why you married me. Margaret laughed too.

but she didn't contradict him. She went into the living room and saddled into her chair with her knitting. Smith disappeared upstairs. He rooted around at the back of the bedroom closet. He was looking for his old binoculars. When he found them, he crossed the hall and knocked on the boy's bedroom door. Come on, he said. Once he got them downstairs, he handed them the binoculars.

It's a beautiful night, he said. don't waste it they lay down on the lawn and he laid down beside them they laid down and looked up August stars Margaret saw them out the kitchen window her three boys sprawled on the grass she made hot chocolate

when she took it out Sam handed her the binoculars look at the moon he said look at the moon They stayed until it got cold and the boys began to yawn. Margaret took them in. When she came back out, Smith was sitting on the porch stairs still staring at the sky. She stood beside him for a few minutes. The two of them quiet until Smith said,

A penny for your thoughts? I was thinking of Charlie, said Margaret. He would have loved. this summer did you miss him said Smith seemed so long ago said Margaret another life and Smith patted the stair beside him and said sit down and she sat beside him and then she shivered and Smith stood up and took off his cardigan and draped it around her shoulders when he sat down again she leaned into him and they sat there staring up at the sky together.

There's plenty of time for them to learn that there are no mysteries left in the world, said Margaret. There's not close enough time for that, said Smith. There are more mysteries than time will ever give us. Another star flew across the sky. How long do you think I'll get? Said Smith. Like a flash from a camera, said Margaret.

Except brighter and streakier. Smith laughed. His laugh rose up into the night sky. Up to the window where Murphy was sitting. His book abandoned upside down on his bed. But the sound of the old man's laughter barely made an impression. Because up in the attic, Murphy was looking up too

Come here he whispered to Sam come and see it's happening again That was the story We call Summer of Stars We recorded that story

in Windsor, Ontario back in 2009. All right, that's it for today, and that's it for this season of the podcast. A bit of housekeeping before we go. Do you have a short, true story that you'd like me to read out on the podcast? Send it in and we'll consider it for our story exchange. And don't forget to send in your Arthur

award nominations. We're hoping to present some new Arthur's this fall. The authors are the awards that recognize everyday people for everyday acts of kindness, those small acts that too often go unnoticed. If you have someone you'd like to nominate for the authors, we want to hear about it. While I'm lazing by the pool this summer, Louise is going to be locked in a dark windowless office, reading everything you've sent in. So do me a favor, will you? and keep those stories and nominations coming so she's busy and make up good. You can send those to Vinyl Cafe at Vinylcafe.com and check out our website for more details.

Thank you for listening. This season has been so much fun, and I'll miss you over the summer, but I promise we'll be back in the fall. And until then, all the podcast episodes will stay right where they are so you can listen again whenever you want as often as you want. Plus, we'll have a couple of bonus episodes

for you over the summer. Do you remember that story about Roger Woodward, the boy who went over Niagara Falls? Well, Roger's going to come on the show this summer and give us an update, and we're going to talk more about that day and the days that came after. And we're going to play some of our favorite bloopers, too.

I'll play you some stuff from the archives, stuff like this. All right, one more. It's a good one to end on. P-H-E-W. You know, you might come home at the end of a long day and say, phew, glad that's over. But that's not how you'd say it.

We'll be performing in Owen Sound, Vancouver, Victoria, Calgary and Banff, Edmonton, Regina and Saskatoon, Toronto, London, Kitchener, Chatham, Ottawa, and Hamilton. Poo, I told you we spent a lot of time on the road. Well, okay. Pooh, we spent a lot of time on the road.

Pooh. That's this summer. Look for our special bonus episodes in your podcast feed. And let's plan to meet again the first Friday after Labor Day. Sound good? Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the apostrophe podcast network. The recording engineer is Minty Fresh Greg DeCloot. The music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by the lovely Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton.

Let's meet again in the fall. Until then, so long for now. Thank you.