Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Summer in the City - The Waterslide & Rosemary Honey

Episode Date: June 19, 2026

“This waterslide was the waterslide to end all waterslides” School’s – almost – out for summer! For our final episode of this season we've got the podcast equivalent of a banger end-of-year pool party. Get ready to jump in! Ad-free listening is here! Listen to the pod ad-free and early, PLUS a whole bunch of other goodies – like virtual parties, Q&As, listener shout-outs & more. Subscribe here: apostrophe.supercast.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the apostrophe podcast network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Schools out for the summer, or almost. My kids are on holiday as of Tuesday, and we will be celebrating the end of school the same way we always do at our house with a giant end-of-year pool party. We had 78 people in the pool last year. We'll see how many turn up this year. And this week's episode is going to be the podcast equivalent of a banger end-of-year pool party.

So fasten your seatbelts, roll down the windows in the car, take your AirPods out of your ears, and put it on speaker. Crank up the volume because this first story is the kind of story you want to share with others. This is Stuart McLean with The Water Slide. It was the dog days of summer, and half the city was away. Even the mailman was on vacation. Neighborhood was so quiet you could hear the spiders working. There was absolutely nothing to do. Murphy and Sam were lying on their back, shoulder to shoulder,

underneath Jim Schofield's mulberry tree. There was an ant crawling across Sam's forehead. Both boys had their mouths stretched wide open. Sam said, this is crazy. It's been like an hour. Murphy said, it's been ten minutes. Do you give up? Sam said, do you? They had a bet. First one to catch a mulberry in his mouth, one. A hot wind rustled the branches of the tree above them.

The boys sun dappled, watched the leaves turn from green to gray to green again. The clouds were doing summer things, but the berries weren't. Nothing was coming down. It was the middle of the week in the middle of the summer, and all there was was the sun, the soft, hot wind, and one lovelorn cicada vibrating at the top of the mulberry tree. Murphy said It sounds like in

To Kill a Mockingbird Sam said Once again I have no idea What you're talking about Murphy said the cicadas Do you give up Sam sat up abruptly

Sam said okay whatever Murphy said I went It was the next day It was lunch They were eating at Sam's house Grilled cheese Carrot sticks chocolate milk Morley was leaving for work, but she wasn't leaving yet.

She was standing in the middle of the kitchen with her hands on her hip. She was considering something. No, she finally said. No videos. It's summer. It's a beautiful day. Play outside. Sam said, we're bored of outside.

Morley said, that's funny. I thought you were bored of school. Adam Turlington's going to summer school. I bet summer school isn't boring. Arthur the dog was lying in the cool dust under the back steps. Sam was holding a cup dripping water on him through the slats. Murphy said we should get the hose. And that, more or less, is the moment it all began.

They called Peter Moore. They said, bring your bathing suit, Ms. Sprinkler. By the middle of the afternoon, there were five boys running around the backyard. Five boys with two sprinkler. inklers, one attached to the garden tap and one running out the back door attached to the basement sink. Middle of the afternoon is when Rashida Chuddery came by with little Fatima in tow. Rashida was on her way to the store. She'd stopped by with something for Morley. When no one answered the front door, she came around the back. Fatima got sprayed, and she squealed, but it was a

squeal of delight, which only turned to tears when Rashida said they had to go. And one thing led to another, and Fatima ended up staying. We'll take care of Fatima, said Sam. And they did. Magnificantly. They unscrewed one of the sprinklers and they replaced it with a nozzle. They set the nozzle to jet spray. They put Fatima on a chair on the back of the deck. They gave her the jet hose. Fatima blasted them with a hose as they ran around the yard. It was beyond a doubt the most wonderful fun Fatima had in her entire life. Better than anything, ever. Better than Aideal Fiter.

When Rashida came to get her after about an hour, Fatima wouldn't leave. Sam said she could stay. We'll bring her home. When they did, when they did bring her home, Rashida gave them $10. Sweet, said Murphy. It was Murphy's idea to pick her up the next afternoon. They spent the morning getting ready. They got Peter Moore to bring his waiting pool over. They dragged Sam's old sandbox from a forgotten corner of the yard. They set it in the sun so the sand would dry out. They made lemonade. The three of them went and knocked on the chuttery door, standing on the stoop like three little Jehovah Witnesses. When Rashida answered, it was Murphy who did the talking. But we were wondering, said Murphy, if Fatima would like to come to our water park.

On their first day, they got Fatima and Eric Schmidt's little brother. And they made 20 bucks. And everything back in place, and the basement all mopped up by the time David Morley got home. Murphy went to his cottage over the weekend, which didn't really matter because it rained on Saturday. They were back at it on Monday. Murphy, who had had two days to think about things, arrived with three white t-shirts and two days of pent-up plans.

They set up the backyard, the sandbox, the waiting pool, and the sprinklers, and then Murphy produced the white t-shirts. We should look, professional, said Murphy. So they put on the white t-shirts, and they headed off. They were looking for customers. That afternoon, there were some. seven kids in the backyard, and four of them were paying customers.

It's not clear who thought up the water slide. It might have been Fatima. Something about being the first kid there, the founding member of whatever this was, had given the normally shy four-year-old a massive injection of self-assurance. Could have been Fatima's idea, but no one remembers anymore. Old Eugene, who lives next door, was involved. Wouldn't have happened without 92-year-old Eugene. Eugene had been watching since it began, sitting where he always sits on hot summer afternoons, on the old kitchen chair under the grape arbor, smoking one of his Italian cigars, nursing a tumbler of his homemade Keonti, and tilted dangerously backwards, his feet feathering the fence whenever he started to teeter, sitting there, nursing his

wine and wondering what in God's name those children were trying to do. They had two slides that they had removed from two play sets, and they were trying to ductate them together or trying to make them into one long slide. Sam called Eugene in his throaty whisper, waving his spotted arm in the air. If it was a slide they needed, he had a better one. It was in his shed. he was pretty sure. Sam, he called again, coughing and spitting on the ground, gesturing at the shed at the bottom of the garden.

The boys came over, and he led them around his wife's Maria's flower bed, past his famous fig tree under the grape arbor between the rows of peppers and tomatoes and into the earthy cool of his shaded shed. When his watery, eyes adjusted to the light, he started them moving stuff around, an old refrigerator, a bureau, two hand-pushed lawnmowers. It was dirty work, and they were getting hot and irritated because

they didn't understand what he was up to until they unearthed it, until Eugene stepped back and beamed and they stood there in the sticky darkness without saying a word, struck dumb, staring into the back corner a Eugene shed as if they had just uncovered the gold mask of Tutankhamun. The greatest treasure they could imagine. A huge, long, plastic tube, a portable industrial garbage chute. The thing you use, the sort of thing you use when you're renovating houses to slide debris from the second floor to the yard. That's where the chute came from. They'd been trying to build a water slide that ran from the back deck down to the garden. A little slide, a modest drop.

But by the time they had finished, by the time they had heaved the enormous plastic tube out of Eugene's shed and dropped it over the fence, they had heaved modesty out the window. This water slide didn't start on the deck. This water slide was the water slide to end all water slides. This water slide began at the second floor bathroom window. It traversed the family room roof, looped around the clothesline pole, rolled over the picnic table, and ended in the back garden near the pear tree. Fatima stood on the deck with her little arms folded over her chest as the boys ran the handheld shower hose out the bathroom window to wet the slide down. It took most of the afternoon to assemble it.

The hardest part was connecting the slides from the play sets to Eugene's shoot. But they finally figured it out. And when they did, they all agreed it just might be the greatest water slide ever built, ever. Any normal adult watching all this unfold would have been seized by a spasm of anxiety. They would have put a stop to it. But Eugene was the only adult watching. And at 92, Eugene was a lot closer to boys, and the boyhood called to adventure

than he was to the anxiety levels of any normal adult. After two wars and 91-half summers, what could possibly go wrong in a backyard? Ataba was the first one down. She bounced to her feet at the bottom like a trapeze artist. It was the greatest water slide in the world. Word spread overnight. No one actually told anyone.

It spread through the telepathy of childhood. By the next day, there wasn't a boy or girl in the neighborhood who didn't know about the water slide in Dave and Morley's backyard. No adults. knew about it. Boys dissembled it at the end of the afternoon and they spent the next morning putting it back together. They didn't believe they were doing anything wrong. They just had this intuitive understanding shared by all children that there are perfectly innocent things children do that adults are not equipped to handle. And so they put it up and they took it down and then

they put it up again. Words spread, but not amongst the adults, because every kid in the neighborhood had the same intuitive understanding. No one was surprised then the very next afternoon when about 25 kids showed up, or that everyone knew without anyone saying anything to wheel their bikes down the drive and lean them behind the house, so they didn't attract attention from the street. What did surprise them, however, was the moment that afternoon, that second afternoon, when Eugene, who had been watching them quietly from his chair under the arbor for two straight days, stood up and went inside and came out 15 minutes later wearing nothing but a bathing cap and a speedo. He grinned at them, and then he propped his pruning ladder against the fence and climbed over.

the veins on his naughty old legs throbbing with excitement. It was Chris Turlington who videoed all this on his cell phone. It was his twin sister, Christina, who took the phone home, downloaded the video, and posted it on YouTube. I would have seen it if he didn't work at a record store, and his staff wasn't attuned to this sort of stuff, but he did.

You might have seen it yourself if you have kids. A lot of people saw it that afternoon. Tens of thousands, actually. It was the most watched video about an hour after it was posted. Everyone was talking about it, though you understand when I say everyone, I mean everyone of a certain age. People like Brian, for instance, who works part-time for Dave. Oh, said Brian, who was sitting at the computer that afternoon.

You have to see this. And Dave walked over and leaned down. over his shoulder and Brian pressed play and this is what Dave saw. A grainy and very shaky close-up of an impossibly old man struggling over a fence. Then there was a cut and there was a jerky shot of the back of a house and the camera pulled back and Dave saw there were kids dancing on the back roof of this house. Camera zoomed in and he saw something that looked like a bob sled run coming out of the upstairs window. There was something familiar about it all. I think I've seen this before, said Dave.

Feels like deja vu. And then the camera zoomed in on one of the kids dancing on the roof. The kid had one of those tiny Italian cigars in his mouth. I know this place, said Dave. Is this a frat house? It looks like a frat house. Dave leaned forward, squinting at the screen. The picture was so fuzzy. It was hard to be sure. Then the camera zoomed in on the window.

A small face and two hands appeared. Whoever it was was holding a bottle in each hand and dumping the contents of the bottle down the slide. I think that's detergent, said Brian. Oh, my God, said Dave. You ain't seen nothing, said Brian. It gets wicked better. There was another edit, the camera zoomed in on the old guy again.

It was hard to make him out because the kids were gathered around them, slapping them on the back. The old guy was doing something to his mouth. Oh my God, said Dave. It was Eugene, of course. And Eugene was doing what he always does before he does anything that requires exertion. He was reaching into his mouth

and removing his false teeth. As Dave watched, the old man handed his teeth to a little girl standing on a chair. She was holding onto a garden hose. All the teeth high in the air and all the kids applied. She was stuffing them into her pocket.

And she turned her hose onto the slide. And the camera left her to follow the old man inside the house and up the stairs and into the bathroom. Dave said, is this live? Camera zoomed in on the bathroom window and everything was still. A beat another. Dave shrugged. And that's when the toothless of the mouth. old man came flying out the window.

He was wearing nose plugs. He was sitting down, waving at the camera with one hand, and holding a glass of wine with the other. Then he hit the frothy spot where the boy had poured the detergent. Oh my God, it looked exactly like Eugene from next door. I have to go, said Dave. It gets better, said Brian. The whole point is the end when he hits the garden fence.

but Dave didn't hear that Dave was already out the store so he missed the moment when Eugene flew out the bottom of the slide like he had been shot out of a cannon and he missed the part where he smacked into the garden fence the part where he struggled to his feet and stood there toothless

covered with bubbles his nose plugs still on grinning madly until he looked over the fence and spotted his wife Maria. And Eugene turned and looked at the camera and his shoulder sagged. And he said one word.

Busted. Dave missed that part. Dave was already out the front door. Running like a shot, turn right, past Dorothy's bookstore, past Kenny Wong's Cafe. Don't stop. There's no time to stop.

It was 4.30. The hottest part of the day was done. Sam and Murphy were on the back porch, sitting on the double hammock, well, more slouched than sitting, or sprawled, sprawled on the hammock. They were moving back and forth, but barely moving. The perfect picture of summer indolence, as still as hot wind on a summer lake. Dave burst into the scene like a dog with a fetched ball. Dave all sweaty and panting and out of breath.

dog-like Dave. Murphy and Sam looked up at him from the hammock with sleepy boredom. Hey, Dad, said Sam. Boys, said Dave. Hey, said Sam. This was not what he had expected at all. This was the last thing he had expected. He looked over the fence. Eugene was sitting where he always sat under the grape arbor, tilting back on his kitchen chair, his arm in a sling. Dave looked at Eugene. And then he looked at the boys. And then he walked over to the fence and nodded. Eugene nodded back and spat on the ground. Dave smiled at Eugene.

Dave said, you okay? Ah, said Eugene, motioning with his head. Gardening accident. Dave said, sorry to hear that. Maria, who was sitting beside her husband, snorted. Dave nodded and walked back to the boys in the hammock. What are you boys been up to? We watered the garden.

said Santa. Front and back, said Dave. He was looking around. The grass was certainly wet. The bathroom window was closed. There were no children dancing on the roof. Just the back, said Sam. Looks like you did a good job,

said Dave. Everything was in order, except for a few telltale soap bubbles clinging to the pear tree. Dave said, you've probably done enough watering for the next little while. Yeah, said Sam, probably. Dave looked at his son hard. Sam looked back, nodding his head. Sam said,

we're pretty much true with the watering. Okay, thought Dave, my move. He knew it, and they knew it too. The boys were getting up. Sam said, we're going to the park. Line of least resistance, thought Dave, lead me on. That's a pretty good idea, said Dave, and he does. He doesn't. He does, into his pocket and pulled out a bill. Why don't you boys stop at Lawlers and get yourself an ice cream on the way? It's a good day for ice cream. Sam pocketed the bill. Thanks, he said. Murphy nodded at Dave as he passed him. Thanks, said Murphy. That was the story we call the water slide. We recorded that story at the Playhouse Theater in Georgetown, PEI, back in 2008. 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. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Rosemary Honey. Just as redemption can only come to those who have lost their way, just as true love only embraces the love lost. So to our dreams handed out. Oh yes, they come to those who have hitched their wagon to a star, but even stargazers have a lost and a longing. For before you can dream, you have to long. And before you can long, you have also had to have lost. For ten years, Dave's neighbor, Eugene, now well into his 90s all spotted and brown with age. He spent his summers sitting in his backyard garden, tipping back precariously, in his old kitchen chair, a little cigar in one hand,

and a tumbler of his famous homemade wine on the table in front of him. And with a dreamer's eye, he's watched over his garden, over the sticky grapes hanging in the shade of the grape arbor, over the languid eggplant and the waxy peppers, over the fattening red tomatoes and the promise of sweet corn. But more than anything, over the fragrant and silvery bed of rosemary that grows in the sandy soil by his shed. Sometimes in the impatient afternoon, he struggles up and makes his way back there.

He grabs the stalk of the rosemary, crushes some of the precious needles between his rough fingers, and inhales the resiny aroma of lemon and pine. The sand always transports him to the hills of Calabria, back to the dusty little town of Rondi, where he grew up, to the farm where the dreaming began. It's been like this for ten years. For ten years since he planted it,

Eugene has watched over his rosemary patched like a fretting uncle. He prunes the bushes every fall, covers them for the winter, feeds them from the big dusty bag of fish meal in the spring, and then dotes over them in the summer. Maria, his wife of over 70 years, learned many years ago that if she wants some fresh rosemary for a chicken she's roasting or a bread that she's baking, that she should not go out there with her shears. and take it. Eugene has made it clear that the rosemary bush is not meant for her kitchen, not for her stove, not for her oven, not for the bottles of oil that line the window infusing the sun. If she needs some, she has to wait until the old fool is napping.

Even then, she's careful to snip from the middle of the bush, so he won't spot that she's been there. Eugene sits in his chair and watches over his rosemary patch like an old cat, all sleepy and languid looking, but watchful all the same. He sits and watches, and while he watches, he dreams. This summer, his dream came true. Sam, it was more a whisper than the command he meant it to be. At 90, Eugene doesn't so much order as beseech.

Sam! There was barely enough oxygen on this heavy August afternoon to breathe, let alone carry the old man's voice across the yard and over the fence. Barely audible over the electric buzzing of the cicadas, he called a third time. And this time, Dave's son, Sam, lost in the torpor of his own summer dream. dreams, looked up and saw the old man waving at him impatiently. Come here. Last summer Sam would have walked around, out his yard and across the driveway.

But this summer, long of leg and coltish of mind, he vaulted over the fence, pleased with his own grace as he jumped. Sam, said the old man, he was too caught up in his dream. to be impressed by the flight of boy over fence. He was waving his cigar so close to Sam's face that the smoke stung the boy's eyes. Sam, said Eugene, pointing, what do you see?

He was staring at Sam with, well, almost indignation, as if the boy was about to tell him there was nothing to see that he was imagining things. Sam followed his gaze to the back of the garden. Flowers, said Sam. uncertain of what it was he was supposed to notice. What else? said Eugene, who sounded urgent, almost frantic. Sam had never seen him like this before.

The shed, said Sam, peering back there, puzzled. No, no, no, no, said Eugene. The flowers, the flowers. What else about the flowers? They're blue, said Sam. and white? The old man was shaking his head, not that, not that, not the color of the flowers.

I don't know what you're asking me, said Sam. What else do you see? said Eugene. In the rosemary. What do you see in the rosemary bush? Bees, said Sam. There are bees in the rosemary, said Eugene. And he slumped into his chair, his eyes closing. exhausted.

Honey bees, he whispered. This was the moment he had been waiting for. This is what he'd been dreaming about. Rosemary, honey. The old man's eyes were still closed. He was breathing fast. Mr. Conte, said Sam. He was getting a little scared.

Mr. Conte, Are you all right? It was so long ago. So long ago now, the memory was like a black and white movie, all flickering and faded in his mind. His grandfather, the path up the sun-soaked hill, the hot summer wind, the tree with the strange carvings,

marks his great-great-grandfather had cut into the trunk, marks that claimed that tree and its honey, for their family. He thought of them often these days, the buzzing of the bees, the puffing of the smoke pot, clouds of smoke under a cloudy sky, all gone cloudy in his memory. The camera of his mind panned from the tree onto his grandmother in her kitchen, her black apron and dress, the yeasty smell of homemade bread. the salty tang of fresh goat cheese.

And on the rough kitchen table, the very table he had in his own kitchen today, the famous jar of honey, rosemary, honey. In all his life, nothing had ever tasted so clean, so fragrant, so flower-like. The old man opened his watery eyes. He looked up at Sam, I need your help, he said. he was holding his arms out. Sam bent down and Eugene grabbed onto him and pulled himself out of his chair

and they walked to the end of the garden, the old man and the boy. And when they got there, they stood in front of the rosemary patch and Eugene pointed at the bees. Follow them. Find out where they go. How do you follow a bee?

How do you follow a bee? along a bee line. To follow a bee, said Eugene. You must think like a bee. How do you think like a bee? said Sam. Eugene! It was Maria. I will tell you tomorrow.

Now go, go. And he waved his hand in the air dismissively. When Sam came back the next afternoon, he brought his friend Murphy with him. I told you not to tell anyone. said Eugene. This is my friend Murphy, Mr. Conte. You've met him before.

We can trust him. He's going to help us. Murphy nodded. Eugene looked Murphy up and down. Murphy took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. It's a move Murphy believes makes him look smart. Sit down, said Eugene. Both boys sat down at the table.

Turns out following a bee is not. not a complicated business. It's very simple, said Eugene. I've done it myself in the old country. They would take a plate, like this one. Eugene was holding a plate in front of him. They would cover the plate with honey. Eugene picked up the spoon that was in front of him on the table

and dipped it in the jar of honey that Maria had brought it. He held the spoon over the plate. not too much he said just enough then they would set the plate with the honey on the ground by the rosemary bush and this is the important part you have to watch it carefully

when he said this his right eyebrow crawled high on his forehead like a caterpillar the boys watched it mesmerized. The bees will come to the plate and eat, and when they are full, they will fly back to their hive. The boys would sit and watch, and they would move the plate along the line the bees were traveling on, the bee line. They would be like ponds on a chessboard. They would follow the bees back to their hive one move at a time. Now do it myself that my legs weren't so old.

Then Eugene reached into his pocket and pulled out his package of miniature cigars. Smoke? Both boys shook their heads. Eugene shrugged. He was trying to thank them. They didn't seem to care. They started the next morning. It took them five days to find the hive.

Every day, inching their plate of honey through the neighborhood. Down the street past the Turlington's house, along the alley behind Lawler's drugs. It made them feel important. Even better, it made them feel old. They each took a book with them, and they pretended to read their books when people walked by them. They were, after all, working undercover. They were, after all, sworn to secrecy.

One afternoon, the bees that had been flying away from them were suddenly flying towards them, We've overshot, said Murphy. We've gone too far. So they backtracked. And they found the hive in a tree on the edge of the park. There was a hole in the tree as round as a baseball bat. And there were bees everywhere, circling the tree with the certainty of summer.

That's it, said Murphy. We found it, said Sam. In a tree, said Murphy. In the park, said Sam. Eugene smiled. He didn't think they'd have the patience. You're sure it's the right one. These ones.

And he gestured towards the bees on the rosemary bush. We followed them, said Sam. We're sure, said Murphy. Take me to the shed. They helped him up. And they walked beside him to the back of the garden and into the cool, damp garden shed. and he stood by the door and told them what he wanted them to do.

And they did, as they were told, they pulled wooden boxes off the shelves. They pawed through the boxes until they found what he was looking for. It looked like a lantern with a spout. It was his great-grandfather's smoker. He sent them off to gather twigs. He got them to soak pine needles in water. He taught them how to light it. And once it was going, he told them that the,

they were going to pretend that the doorknob on the shed was the hole to the hive. Back and forth. Back and forth, he said, as they snuck up on the shed. Smoke pouring out of the smoker's spout. Slowly, he said. Slower, he said. Move like the priest with the thurable. They both stopped and looked at him.

Like what, they said? Never mind. Never mind. Just go. slowly. Don't excite them. Slower. Let the smoke do the work. It puts them to sleep. No, not yet. Not yet now. Now you can reach in, but not too fast. You don't want to make them mad, slower than that. Okay, now you're in. You feel for the honeycomb. You take just a bit, the top layer.

You take yours, you leave them theirs. Half and half. That's fair. It's important to be fair always, especially with bees. He was afraid he was asking too much of them. If they made a mistake, if they went too fast, if they used too little smoke, if they panicked, if any number of a thousand things went wrong,

a bee sting is no joking matter. It's like having your finger slammed with a hammer. And when you were fighting bees, there can be too many fingers, too many hammers. Why weren't they back? They'd been gone over an hour. Surely it shouldn't take an hour. It took two.

Fifteen minutes to get the honey and an hour and three quarters to get their nerve. They spent the first hour and three quarters staring at the tree, studying it, considering it, arguing about it. They stared and they studied and they argued for an hour and three quarters and then they moved in. They decided Murphy would work the smoker and Sam would stick his hand in the hive. He's your neighbor, said Murphy. It went off without a hitch. And now they were back. They were. They were were standing in front of him, standing beside his picnic table.

All three of them staring at the dripping piece of honeycomb lying on the newspaper on the table. It was the size of a bread plate. Don't we have to wash it or something? said Murphy. Beside the honey, there was a bottle of Eugene's homemade wine. And beside the wine, three wine glasses. Eugene picked up the bottle and opened it with great. ceremony. It was from seven summers ago, his best year ever. He poured out three glasses of the dusty, brick-colored burgundy. Then he picked up his glass and held it in the air in front of the boys.

Grazie, he said. Murphy picked up his glass and held it up in the air and cleared his throat and stared directly at Eugene and said, Chantani. You should have. You should have. You should live for a hundred years. Sam looked at Murphy and whispered, where did that come from? The godfather, said Murphy. And the two of them dumped their wine on the ground. As if she'd been waiting for a queue, Maria Conte came out the basement door carrying a large wooden tray. There was cheese on it, a bowl, a coarse sea salt, a loaf of homemade bread, and a dark green bottle of olive oil. Mangea, she said. Mange. Everyone watched Eugene. No one said a word. He chewed and he chewed and they waited. And slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to grin.

A hive of bees is like a kitchen at harvest. They gather up the summer. the heat of the sun, the warmth of the rain, the softness of the mornings and the long afternoons. Above all, they gather up the flavors of the flowers. They gather it all up and mix it together and cork it in wax. Benet, said Eugene. Benet, Benet, Benet, Benet. There was a tear running down his cheek.

you did a good job he said I wish I went with you I should have gone Sam looked at Eugene for a moment and then he stood up and said we'll be back in a minute come on he said to Murphy they were longer than a minute but when they came back they were pulling Sam's old wagon

they set it up by the picnic table and then they helped Eugene get out his chair and into the wagon and off they sat he sat there holding the sides tightly all hunched over each time he saw someone walking towards them he straightened up he straightened up and sat as straight as he could staring straight ahead as they passed just daring them to say something they followed the beeline they followed the be line that they had followed all week or they followed as best they could And as they did, they showed him the way it had been. They come over that fence, they said.

They come through those trees. They stopped five yards from the tree and the park. And they stood there, and they stared. After a few moments, Eugene began fussing with his coat. He was looking for something. When he found it, he held it out and smiled at the two boys, a leather sheathed knife, a knife that had once belonged to his grandfather.

He held his arms out the same way he had held them out the week before when he had called Sam and Sam had vaulted over the fence. He said, I want to mark this tree with my family mark. So everyone will know it is our tree, our honey. Sam helped him up and over to the tree.

When he got there, Eugene leaned against the trunk, but he couldn't manage the knife. He tried, but he wasn't strong enough. He leaned against the tree for a moment, breathing fast, and they waited until he handed Sam the knife. You do it. Sam took the knife and said, I don't know how to make the Conte mark. And Eugene shook his head. No, Conte Mark. Your mark, Sam.

this tree is your tree. Last summer, Sam would have been scared to cut into the tree, unsure of what you were allowed to do to a tree in a park. A few years from now, he'll not be around for the old man to call. But this summer, this summer he was around, and he was the perfect age for the command. So while Eugene waved the smoke machine, Sam and then Murphy

carved their initials six inches above the entrance to the hive. They are not perfect. Sam's S looks like an eight, but you can tell what it is if you're foolhardy enough to get close. The bees will live in that tree for many years, yet. The boys will never take honey again.

But Sam will come back every year and look at the mark. even after the bees have left. And he will remember this moment always, this moment standing by the tree holding the knife just after he's used it. He will remember that moment, and he will remember the moment in Eugene's backyard,

eating the honey, and how it was both sweet and bitter all at once, how it burned his throat. He will remember these things, but most of all, he will remember how he and Murphy spent a week of this past summer on the trail of bees. That was Rosemary Honey. We recorded that story at the Tidemark Theater in Campbell River, British Columbia. That's it for today.

And that's it for this season of the podcast. I can't tell you how much we all love putting this little podcast together. It makes all of us, Greg, Louise, me. It makes all of us so happy. We get to work together doing something we love. I hope that you can hear that love and care every single week. And now, with this episode and this season done, we get to go to the library bar and drink sacred beasts. Once we recover from the cocktails tonight, we'll turn our attention to summer programming.

We'll have a few surprises for you over the summer. and we'll be back in September right after Labor Day. But before we go, I want to thank the stupendous team at the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Allison Pinches, who is so patient and so kind, she waits for me to finish my day job before recording all of these episodes. And Jeff Devine, who makes all of those ads

sound like they weren't recorded in my office. closet. And Callie O'Reilly, who creates the graphics that you see on our social media pages. And of course, my pals, Debbie and Terry O'Reilly, who lovingly welcomed our little Vinyl Cafe family into their little O'Reilly family. Thank you. I am so grateful. And speaking of families, I couldn't do this podcast every week or at all without our little vinyl cafe team. My good friend and sacred beast, Greg Declute, who always takes my late-night phone calls and walks me through everything from pro tools to parenting. He's always there for me when I need him, and even when I don't. He's so generous with his time, and if he stopped doing this, so would I. Thank you, Greg. And to Louise

Curtis, who does, well, pretty much everything. She's the captain of this ship and an excellent producer. organized, creative, thoughtful. Louise, you keep me grounded. You keep me motivated. You keep me sane. You are funny, efficient, and I am so grateful to have you in my corner. I can't imagine doing this without you,

and I hope I never will. And to my pal, Danny Michelle, you're a better friend to me than I am to you. I miss you, and I'm glad that you're amazing, theme music keeps you in my mind every week. Gosh, I better sign off before I start crying. But wait, there's someone else I want to think. Someone really important. You. Thank you for listening. None of us would be here if it were not for you. So thank you for tuning in every week. And also, Stuart. Without him, without his amazing stories,

None of us would be here every week. So thank you to Stuart for his incredible work. Now, let's all go get a sacred beast. We'll see you in September. Until then, so long for now.