Beth Kaplan's Blog

The joy and ubiquity of Zoom

Busy times; can hardly catch my breath sometimes. But better too much to do than too little.

First, welcome news: my cat has learned to purr! Suddenly, a few days ago as I was stroking her, a tentative rumble sputtered and started up, and there it is: purring. Two years without that comforting noise, but now she has turned it on. I wish human beings could purr. (Actually, with good chocolate or peanut butter toast, I sort of do.)

All kinds of interesting clients are coming for coaching or editing, including two in their late nineties publishing memoirs. Recently, something new: a young writer on the spectrum whose mother brought him to the house. I’m not sure I can help with what he wants to write, but I’m going to try.

I welcomed Tara Henley for apéritif last week; she’s a former CBC journalist, now a well-known podcaster who interviews on Zoom the brilliant, powerful, and important, and also, for some reason, me. (I’m honoured she liked Loose Woman so much. Hear her stellar interviewing on the home page of this website.) We had a great deal to talk about, as left-wing women impatient with the mea culpa excesses of the left. She wrote recently about the Vancouver Parks Board apologizing to LGBTQ people for the harm caused by a Harry Potter-themed children’s event; they disavowed J. K. Rowling, the writer whose books about a brave and clever underdog have introduced countless young people to the joy of reading and imagination, and who has opinions some disagree with.

Having opinions some disagree with was, once upon a time, expected and normal. Sigh. Check out Tara’s podcast.  Fascinating, even if she does sometimes talk to obscure writers. https://tarahenley.substack.com

My Saturday Zoom event for an Etobicoke library went well; attendees sat at a table in front of a monitor, I talked and gave writing prompts, and then we had questions. As I may have said before, I love Zoom and what it has made possible.

On Sunday I baked a chocolate cake for Sam’s birthday and decided to make a peanut butter icing for the first time. The recipe called for smooth and I only had crunchy, so I went with that. The result was truly hideous; I told the kids it looked like someone had vomited on a cake.

But it tasted great, as did our huge Thanksgiving/birthday meal. Happy Birthday, Sam, one of the good men of our world. Here’s the fam in descending order. I used to be tall!

On Wednesday, it was my turn to be interviewer; I Zoomed with Merilyn Simonds about her new book, Walking with Beth, which instantly hit the Canadian bestseller lists. It’s a wonderful, thoughtful book about her friendship with Beth, who’s going strong at 105. Merilyn feels intergenerational friendships are important these days, so her book came out at just the right time. It’s wide-ranging and meditative; I told her it goes at a walking pace, forcing us to slow down and savour as we read. I’ll write a Substack about our talk.

I watched a terrific two-part drama, Brian and Maggie, in which Margaret Thatcher is played by my friend Harriet Walter in a tour de force performance. She’s unrecognizable, and somehow conveys Maggie’s stubborn, self-destructive ferocity and at the same time her vulnerability. I wrote to congratulate her, and she wrote back that the show was ignored by the British film awards. Fuck awards! I replied. How could they not have nominated her for this work? Inconceivable.

Yesterday, rehearsals began for So True, which is next Sunday; all the writers have to read their pieces to me in person or on Zoom, so I can check pace and pronunciation and make sure every word is heard. As ever, eight powerful stories, and then moi.

There’s a cat on my lap, and the furnace too is rumbling; the mornings are cold though the days are still sunny. It’s closing in. But not yet. Not yet.

I know what the whole country will be doing tonight. Go Jays go!

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What to pack in a small carry-on for 3 weeks in Canada in September

My dear best friend Lynn has gone home to France. She could not have had a better time in her birth country, with the most glorious September weather and a number of encounters with friends of her youth. I miss her.

She brought only a small carry-on for three weeks in Canada and always looked stylish and comfortable, so I asked her to detail what was in her suitcase. This was of course for mild weather generally. I thought any female travellers out there might be interested.

-4 pairs of pants: one black that could work for dressy, three loose, lightweight, in different colours

-4 long-sleeved t-shirts: one white that could work for dressy, the others striped in colours that went or contrasted with the pants: black, yellow, blue

-2 short sleeved tops, short white and longer black, could dress up or down

-A black satin skirt, worn once

-A long dressy white shirt

-A black cashmere turtleneck

-A lightweight black blazer, for dressy and/or warmth

-2 pair shoes: white leather sneakers, good for walking but could go with a dressier look, and black sandals (It’s a blessing, she said, French women wear sneakers now)

-Gym clothes for her daily yoga online workout; pyjamas; a shawl

-Quite a bit of jewelry – earrings and necklaces

-A long raincoat with hood, good against rain and wind, that folded into a pack in her purse

 If it had been predicted to be colder, she would have brought leggings to wear under the pants, and another sweater. She played with proportions of her tops – long and short, somehow always just right. Surprisingly she wore white or cream a lot, which seems risky for travel but looked elegant. But she had access to a washing machine at both places she stayed.

Below, two of Lynn’s looks, including with Eleanor who came to visit, and the two of us at my wedding celebration in August 1981 in Vancouver, when Anna was 3 months old.

Luckily she came when she did, because the weather has at last turned, at least at night. It was 3 degrees last night! The days are still sunny and warm, although not like they were in September.

I spent four hours with my gardening helper Jannette and her husband Jim yesterday, pruning trees and vines – Jim wielded the long-handled pruners and loppers, and I shoved the detritus into leaf bags; by mid-afternoon I could hardly bend over. And there’s more to be done. Teaching continues and is a pleasure, and I’m editing the pieces writers will read at So True on Sunday Oct. 26.

On Saturday afternoon, I’m giving a free memoir webinar at the Elmbrook Park library in Etobicoke, me on Zoom and participants in the library.

And on Thanksgiving Monday, my son will be 41. I’m giving thanks for a great deal. Especially that.

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In memoriam: Ken MacLennan

I first met Ken MacLennan decades ago. Ken was a high-school teacher in Toronto who in 1971 went to France to volunteer for a year at L’Arche, where he met fellow Canadian Lynn and introduced her to Denis, to whom she has stayed married for 54 years. Ken was made godfather of their firstborn, Christopher. He moved back to Toronto at the end of his time at L’Arche, so every time L and D and family came to Toronto, they visited him, and he and I became fast friends. Regularly through the years, we’d get on our bikes to meet at the cinema, see a film, and have lunch or dinner. He always came to celebratory events here, was part of the family, and we talked often on the phone. I also knew his first cousin, my good friend, writer Isabel Huggan.

He was a gay man beloved by everyone, with the bright smile and energy of a young boy; he rode his bike into his mid-eighties. But this last year, as he turned 89, was brutal for him; when he needed dialysis three times a week, he couldn’t cope alone in his apartment, and his loving niece Sarah and dear companion Glenn helped him move into assisted living. Which he disliked. Everything wore him down. When I visited him there last month, he told me he was ready to go. He died September 29.

His celebration of life was today, in the Catholic church where he’d worshipped for many years. There’s a story in my memoir Loose Woman about his time at L’Arche, to which he went as a devout Protestant; he’d accompany the disabled men to Mass but not take communion himself. One day, André, one of the men, was standing beside him. “André spoke rarely,” Ken told me, “but when he did speak, we listened. He was a man of great wisdom.” After André came back from taking communion, he tapped Ken on the shoulder. “Si on ne mange pas, on risque de mourir de faim,” he said. If one doesn’t eat, one risks dying of hunger.

His words had a powerful impact on Ken, who soon after converted to Catholicism. “A strange choice,” he said, chuckling, “because, as a gay man, I’ve chosen a religion that rejects everything about me. But it was something I needed to do.”

Latterly, especially after the horrifying revelations about Jean Vanier, Ken was angry at the church. Even so, his memorial was a deeply religious event. We should all be spoken of as warmly, with as much love, as Ken was today – described by family members and the priest as kind, courageous, principled, genuine, inspiring, thoughtful, welcoming, youthful, curious, generous, and loyal, full of joie de vivre; that he listened, was always there for family and friends. “He knew how to love,” said a great-niece. “One of the world’s good people,” said Lynn, who was sorry she had to fly home yesterday and miss the celebration of his life.

His niece Sarah told us his 90th birthday would have been November 24, so she asked us to make that date “Uncle Ken Day,” and to honour his memory by being extra kind that day. Will do. My next So True reading event on October 26 will be dedicated to Ken, who missed only one of the nineteen we’ve presented since 2014.

I miss him already.

Pictures on display at the church: Ken’s baby picture, with the spirit of lively innocence he carried all his life; with his dear Glenn; on a sky-diving trip not that long ago.

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joyful drama club reunion; “The Welkin” a firm NO; “Inter Alia” yes

Saturday, an unforgettable experience – a reunion, here at my house, of Carleton University drama club members from 1967 on. About 25 people, some of whom hadn’t seen each other in many decades. A glorious day, people spread through the house and garden, tons of food and drink and much much talk and reminiscing. And to make it more special, Lynn just happened to be here from Provence. Our first play together with Sock’n’Buskin, the rather pretentious name of the club – apparently the oldest university drama club in Canada – was in 1967, a fine production of Hamlet, in which she and I played ladies-in-waiting to Ophelia. The joke, which I told at this event, is that I had a line, and Lynn had cleavage.

Before long, we were both starring in productions there, and by the end of 1969 had been granted Equity cards and were setting off to act in a professional production in Toronto. Two of the others who did the same, Karin and Suzette, were also at the reunion. Of the four men in that production, however, three are no longer with us. The fourth, our dear Peter Blais, who spent many years in the Toronto theatre and is now a skilled visual artist in Nova Scotia, could not make the journey, although Gay, who has family in Toronto, did come up from Halifax. Don flew in from Edmonton with a pile of photographs and programs. Louise came from Ottawa and stayed here for two nights on a mattress in my office.

It was dizzying to see many familiar if older faces and to acknowledge how many of us continued in the arts. Perhaps those who didn’t were not at the reunion, but besides actors, there were writers, teachers of creative stuff, a well-known casting agent, a radio personality. We marvelled that we were more or less on our own, down in our basement green room, picking and casting plays and mounting productions. And yet we achieved a consistently high standard. And of course this is without mentioning Dan Aykroyd, who started with us at Carleton and went on to a certain amount of fame. He was invited but sadly did not come. He might be busy.

There were two groups at our reunion, my peeps from 1967 to 71 or 72, and those who came later, whom I didn’t know. The event was organized by Jim Girling and his wife Jannette, my garden helper, who not only provided a gorgeous catered array of Persian food, but helped set up a tech wonderland, with scans of our photos and programs playing on my TV until it was changed to Zoom; people stood in the living-room chatting on the TV with far-flung friends who couldn’t be there. A marvel.

Below, a poster, a bit of the crowd at the back of the garden, and me with Keith, who played Lenny in our production of The Homecoming by Harold Pinter. I played a mysteriously sexy wife and had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But it got good reviews anyway. Thanks Harold.

I offered my house because I know it works really well for entertaining, and it did – luckily, perfect weather so we were in the garden much of the time, but also in various corners of the kitchen and living room. All in all, a gift.

As is having my beloved friend here from France, best friend through thick and thin, much thick and much thin, since September 1967. It’s been lovely, too, to talk on FaceTime with her husband Denis in France and with Chris on Gabriola Island, who met Lynn and Denis through me and has visited them several times. Lynn and I are very different in many ways and yet extremely compatible.

I took her to Soulpepper Theatre to see The Welkin, a well-reviewed play, which we both hated. We went afterwards to El Catrin, the great Mexican restaurant near the theatre, to meet her sister Karen, here in TO for a conference. The best margaritas.

The next day we met Suzette at Cineplex to see the National Theatre Live production of Inter Alia, terrific, and to have dinner at Eataly. Last night, my children and grandchildren came for dinner on the deck cooked by Sam. Lynn has eight grandchildren scattered around the world, including six boys. Nothing fazes her.

I who sometimes spend days barely talking have adapted to all this constant talk. Because soon, silence will descend again.

In the midst of all this, I received a very welcome note from the publisher in a city near Hong Kong who is bringing out a Chinese edition of my writing textbook True to Life. The translation is done, apparently; she sent an Afterword written by the translator for my comments. I am also teaching the U of T class and receiving essays for editing from private clients and the participants for So True, my reading event at the end of October. But not getting much work done at the moment.

Lynn and I have spent our spare time watching all 15 episodes of The Pitt, which she was anxious to see as it will be years before it gets to France. Hard to imagine how they filmed this fast-paced drama with hundreds of bandaged extras suffering in the background, and lots of blood, so much blood. I couldn’t watch a lot of it. But it sweeps you in and along. For a change of pace, last night we watched my favourite Sunday night British shows on PBS, glacial in comparison, but also terrific.

We just came back from visiting Anna at the huge celebration of Truth and Reconciliation Day at Nathan Philips Square. Heartening to see so many creators – dancers, drummers, ribbon skirt makers, jewellers, etc. – celebrating Indigenous culture, and in the middle of it all, my daughter, wearing Land Back beaded earrings and a keffiyeh around her ribbon skirt, selling sweetgrass lemonade with Council Fire.

Tonight, we’re going to a dance party for women organized by Nicky. The beat goes on. Lynn is here till Friday, and after she goes, my life will seem very quiet and dull.

More photos to follow, perhaps. But now it’s time to rustle up lunch. Thank heavens for leftovers.

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The Kingston WritersFest: a triumph!

I’m happy to tell you that the Kingston WritersFest, where I spent last Thursday to Sunday, was fantastic. But what I didn’t know, going in, was that the festival, founded in 2009 by writer Merilyn Simonds and editor and publisher Jan Walter, nearly died this year. The previous administration had taken some wrong turns, built up a huge debt, and announced the festival was no more. When Merilyn heard that, she did what she always does: she jumped in to save the day. In only a month or two, she and Jan raised enough money to cover the debt and begin to plan this year’s festival. It was a bloody miracle!

A volunteer driver, friendly interesting Steve, picked me up from the train station and drove me back three days later. The moment I walked into the Marriott Hotel in downtown Kingston, there were greeters, more volunteers with huge smiles ready to inform and help. Upstairs, there was a room set aside for faculty, with a constant supply of donated food and beverages, including, later in the day, wine and beer. Each writer-presenter had a “wrangler” tasked with getting them where they needed to go on time, and most had a local sponsor, who’d paid a great deal of money to have their name attached to the writer of their choice. (I asked Merilyn for the contact info for my sponsor so I can thank her.)

Anyway, not to go on and on, but it was a lesson in how to organize an event – Merilyn and Jan were everywhere, including, at one point, Jan vacuuming the writer’s room because the croissants put out for breakfast had caused crumb spill.  For a bit more pressure, Merilyn also had hosting and interviewing duties, and was launching her own new book, Walking with Beth, on Sunday afternoon, featuring a special guest, the subject of the book, her friend Beth who’s 105 and still living alone.

I’d had unfortunately to leave by then, especially as I’ve been asked to do a podcast or Substack interview and review of Merilyn’s book, which I read and thoroughly enjoyed. Would have loved to meet Beth. But I’d enjoyed a diverse group of writers and a number of wonderful presentations by then, two in particular: Saturday night’s packed launch of a new book called Elbows Up, a panel about Canada past, present, and future with the fabulous Carol Off and David Moscrop and a Kingston writer, Ian Reid, moderated by Elamin Abdelmahmoud, in which Carol gave the rallying cry for Canada: “We’re the standard bearer for democracy in the world right now,” she said, “we’ve got a new self-confidence and maturity, I’m proud to be a born-again Canadian patriot!”

At the end, they all got a standing ovation from a room full of proud Canuck standard bearers.

Next morning, Merilyn interviewed Anne Collins, legendary editor, about what an editor is and does. Answer: a woman, usually, who’s an invaluable assistant and guide to a writer and who never stops working.

My own workshop on memoir went well, by all reports – all the books I’d brought and the bookseller had ordered were sold, which is a good sign. I love what I do.

And I was part of a group of faculty who gave a reading outside on a glorious Saturday afternoon. It was terrific except that I don’t understand some of my colleagues. We were told eight minutes max, so I wrote a new piece and timed it several times at seven minutes thirty-two seconds. But others are not so rigorous. IMHO, they should be.

The weather was perfect; as often as I could, I walked by glittering Lake Ontario, a block from the hotel. Kingston is a lovely town with a lot of history; in the 1800’s the waterfront was barricaded and armed against the American invaders just across the lake, and perhaps should be again. Gorgeous old FOOF mansions line the streets: fine old Ontario families. But now the town is far more diverse; Sunday there was an “intercultural arts festival” with music, crafts, and food from around the world, something else I was sorry to miss.

So the train back, jammed with new information and a sense of my community, invaluable, as we writers sit alone in rooms most of the time; wonderful to be in a crowd of writers and keen readers. Heaven.

Now to settle back into daily life. After weeks of lovely weather, it’s dark and very rainy today, the day my bestie Lynn arrives with her sister from Montreal. Karen is here for a conference, so they’re both staying tonight at the Hilton, then Lynn comes tomorrow to stay for ten days. Lots planned – theatre, film, visits. What matters however is the food. Got to get cooking. A woman who has lived all her adult life in France cares about what she eats, in a way your faithful correspondent does not.

The sun just came out. Cheers!

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A vegetable bonanza and Leslie Jamison

I’m still relishing this lovely machine beneath my fingertips. She’s here! So, two gifts this month: the giant light-blocking tree vanished unexpectedly, and the backpack with my computer was returned, minus only an egg salad sandwich and three energy bars. Thank you again, universe. Grateful.

My daytimer is so jammed, I can hardly read what’s there. I leave tomorrow for the Kingston WritersFest. My tech helper Olivia will be here keeping the home fires and ridiculous cat going. I teach Friday afternoon, read Saturday afternoon, and leave Sunday midday, otherwise it’s all completely open. So we’ll see.

Monday evening, I went to the ROM for the Hilary Weston Nonfiction award event, given this year to Leslie Jamison. Thank you to Mrs. Weston for elevating nonfiction in this country! Her son Galen made a speech, however, that left me snorting in derision. He spoke about how his mother loved to read biography and history, and even, he said, “would admit to reading an occasional memoir for some salacious gossip to talk about at dinner parties.” I wanted to throttle him. He was there to celebrate a serious memoir writer!

And the next speaker, introducing Jamison, said, “She writes about topics that have no words, like motherhood, addiction, and the writing life.” Really? NO WORDS?!

However, Jamison herself was interesting, even if she was reading partly from an article published in the Globe on Saturday, and the talk with the terrific Marni Jackson was enjoyable. Hooray for nonfiction! Attending the event was a who’s who of CanLit, who gathered for a schmooz fest afterwards. I could not wait to jump on my bicycle and pedal home.

Today a beloved friend came over; his business is failing, strangled by the internet, and he’s depressed. But I think we’re all depressed, because of the world. I was too young to register the danger of the Cuban missile crisis, so I think the world situation is more dire right now than it has ever been during my lifetime. Dire. I can barely listen to or read the news. When the CBC plays Poilievre, I jump up to turn it off. Today, reports of pomp and circumstance in London as the King fawns over Trump. How abased and craven they all are. How appalling that one of the worst human beings on the face of the earth is being given everything he wants and more. Sick-making. Not to mention the rest, which I won’t even begin to list.

However. It’s been a lovely fall, and more good news: I grew my first potato. I dug it up too early and it’s extremely small; there are others still beneath the soil I hope are more substantial. But still.

Let’s celebrate what we can, my friends. We’re not in a world war yet. Let’s celebrate that.

Below: In Stratford, a lovely sign, a walk along the Avon where there’s a spectacular willow tree with a knobbly trunk, and … my first potato! Celebration.

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Panic, the kindness of strangers, and Stratford

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. And some stranger out there was very kind.

On Friday, I got on the streetcar, heading downtown to get the bus to Stratford, wearing my backpack with computer, water, and the sandwich I never travel without, towing my wheelie. I took off the backpack and put it beside me while I checked the bus ticket and saw to my horror I had the time wrong – it actually left half an hour before I thought, making this trip tight. If I missed the bus, I’d miss the play Forgiveness that I was anxious to see – had managed to snag the last ticket – plus sick friends I was renting a car to go visit. So when we approached the subway, I jumped up in a panic and flew out of the streetcar down to the subway. And, yes, left the backpack behind.

Didn’t realize until I was on the subway, when my face was so distraught, the women opposite asked what was wrong, and when I told her, looked up TTC lost and found and gave me the number. I made the bus and called TTC, but anything turned in Friday wouldn’t register till Monday. Three long days without my beloved Mac, my faithful companion, on which I spend most of my day. Forgiveness was fabulous, it should have a long life, and Stratford was particularly beautiful this time of year. But I was worried, altho’ kept repeating, it’s only a computer, not health, not life and death. Still.

I did rent a car to visit my friends Lani and Maurice in the country, got completely lost because I haven’t driven in years and didn’t know how to work the GPS, ended up driving through endless miles of cornfields, but got there and had a good visit.

On Monday, the TTC office didn’t have it and my heart sank, but they said it might come in later. Later, to my joy, they said a black backpack with a Mac had been turned in, probably mine, but it had not reached the office yet. I got my young tech helper to show me how to teach tonight’s U of T class on Zoom on my phone in case the computer didn’t get there on time. But at last, they told me the backpack had arrived, I rode like the wind to the Bay station, and there it was. The person who found it took the sandwich and snacks and turned it in. I’m glad they got something out of it. THANK YOU!! A world of worry and expense is behind me thanks to you. And now, forgiveness to myself for being such an idiot.

Of course I had my phone throughout, and learned to do more with it – I don’t use my phone as the kids do, I’m mostly on my laptop. I got more adept on the phone over the weekend, had no choice. But felt so helpless still – I use this machine for so much, including posting here. I did call the Apple store to find out about new  Mac Airs – mine is six years old, about eighty in computer years, so will need to be replaced at some point. But not yet. The most wonderful relief.

And yes, anyone who’s read Midlife Solo knows that in France some years ago I got off a train with suitcase and backpack and left behind my purse, with wallet, passport, phone, and keys to the apartment I was staying in. Much more serious. But still.

As I said, Forgiveness was one of the best productions I’ve ever seen at Stratford. Not easy, we spend time with Japanese-Canadians who spend the war in appalling conditions thanks to Canadian racism, and in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, unspeakable. But as the title says, the play is about forgiveness and hope. Truly beautiful. I also, since I didn’t want to see Robert Lepage’s overdone Macbeth as a bunch of Quebecois bikers, saw A Winter’s Tale. It was solid, but with some bizarre miscasting and embarrassing overacting. But Shakespeare. That man could write.

The weather is sublime. There’s more to say and photos to post, but I will stop now; it’s nap time.

I might hold this silver beauty in my arms while I doze.

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the Cabbagetown Festival

Proud of myself today, I hope you don’t mind if I boast a bit. It was the Cabbagetown Festival this weekend, and on Sunday morning it’s Blair’s Run, the fundraising mini-marathon, 2 k. through the ‘hood. I’ve done it most years, including, as I’ve boasted here before, long ago winning it once or twice by some miracle, largely because there was almost no one back then in my category — Senior Women, which they think is 55 and up! — and of course, I was younger and fitter.

Yesterday, I had such serious back pain, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to go, but this morning it was better so I did go, and I did run — and walk. I won nothing, but I did it. Over 350 people signed up this year, including many children. People run or walk with kids, dogs, strollers, in wheelchairs. It’s a wonderful community event for the C’town Youth Centre.

Then at home I finished the edit of an essay I’ve been working on for a few days about Paul McCartney, to tie in to his upcoming Canadian concerts in November. Sent it to a newspaper. I was inspired because my friend Margot at the Y told me she and her friends really enjoyed All My Loving, which is partly about my Beatle years, and she thought it should be better known. The essay, though it doesn’t mention the book, is a start.

Yesterday and today was full-on Festival time. This year was the best yet; the weather was perfect, and the streets were jam-packed with every demographic, every age, ethnicity, and sexual preference — Canadian tolerance and multiculturalism at its best. Parliament Street was a festival of musical performances and street food with limitless choice; I had Thai/Vietnamese yesterday and vegan Ethiopian today. The garage sales were everywhere; I bought a never-used dog-carrying backpack for $10, in the hopes it’ll make taking Tiggy to the vet easier. The boys and Anna came yesterday and we explored; I gave them a bit of money to have fun with, which meant ice cream. The Festival always makes me proud to be Canadian and a Cabbagetowner. So I was plenty proud this weekend.

The boys played pingpong and also with a giant chess set; a drum band called TDot Batu, fabulous, very LOUD; and us at the Farm.

Something big: I got a note from a neighbour that they were going to take down the enormous tree that extends from their yard, over my neighbour Danielle’s, over mine, even as far as the condos to the south of me. It’s a Manitoba maple I’ve hated for years, ever-growing, now so thick above the end of my garden that it allows no sun at all, and my pretty Japanese maple shrivelled and died. They said the city had given permission for them to take it down because it’s at such a dangerous angle, it could fall. I was thrilled.

Passing their house, I stopped to meet and talk to them. They told me they’d changed their minds, because another neighbour complained that he liked taking a shower without a shower curtain, and the tree hid him. I kid you not. Also the wife felt sorry for the tree. So I gave them a pep talk. I said, I love trees but that tree really is dangerous, and God knows, there are many huge trees in C’town, it’s not as if the birds will have nowhere to go. Shower man can get a curtain! But they remained unconvinced. Today I wrote offering to help pay for the removal, because so much of the tree is above my yard, and it’ll be a huge job.

They are going to take it down, starting Tuesday. It will cost me too, but there will be sun. Hooray. Life in the big city often involves tricky negotiations over trees.

The other thrill is the book I’ve been editing for my former student, who’s about to turn 98. It’s vivid and engaging. What a way to celebrate her birthday.

A busy week coming up — the first U of T class and first home class of the fall term, the vet, a haircut, a drink with a good friend, the tree coming down, and on Friday, a trip to Stratford, to visit friends and see at least one show. After a quiet summer, fall has certainly revved up.

I may complain about busyness and stress, but it’s better than the alternative.

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Labour Day: moving right along

Happy Labour Day! Hope you are not labouring too hard during these beautiful days. It’s hard to stay inside, knowing what’s coming — although for the first time in months, I did turn on the heat, briefly, this morning. Mornings chilly, days lovely. I wander in the garden every morning, checking to see what’s still flourishing and what’s fading. The rose has come out for a last burst of glory, still lots of bloom elsewhere; there’s a bowlful of cherry tomatoes to eat and a last cuke or two growing.

Thursday Anna brought the boys over for the day while she went to work. They immediately curled up on the sofa and went back to sleep for a few hours. I love that although there are two sofas, they squash onto one. They fight all the time and are as close as brothers can be. Although their genetic differences are clear: Eli, at just 13, is now five foot eleven, and Ben is small.

After a considerable breakfast, we went to Little Canada, miniaturized dioramas of Canadian cities and famous spots. I was dubious; it’s not cheap, and I thought it’d be a cheezy rip-off. But it’s quite extraordinary, phenomenal in its detail, with lots of humour and whimsy, like a fishing wharf where tiny people are fishing, and at the end, a fish fishing for people. We travelled from Newfoundland — Signal Hill, where I was in July — to Victoria. I was thrilled to show the boys the Arts Club Theatre on Vancouver’s Granville Island, where my acting career ended for good in the mid-nineties. There were trains, cars, and trucks shuttling through, and periodically the sky darkened and the lights in the cities came on; fireworks exploded over Ottawa as the national anthem played.

I liked it. If you have tourists to Canada visiting, even without kids, I think they’d really enjoy this. It’s amazing.

Above: Signal Hill in St. John’s, and the Arts Club Theatre in Vancouver.

I read a beautiful book from the library, Clear, by Welsh writer Carys Davies, a hauntingly spare tale of a very unlikely friendship between two men on a remote island in the 1800s. Not the sort of thing I’d usually read, recommended by my dear writer friend Isobel Huggan.

Also read Monkey Grip by Helen Garner, given me by Nigel in St. John’s. It’s apparently a classic in Australia, but is an unpleasant read, about a woman in the nineteen-seventies obsessed with a junkie and other men; about her hippy friends and their communal houses. What’s horrifying is that she has a six-year-old lost in the melee. I knew the book is autobiographical — Garner confessed she transcribed her diaries directly into the narrative — and I Googled her daughter to see if she was a homeless addict living on the street. No, she’s a successful actor and teacher with three children, which is miraculous, as she seems to have been more or less abandoned as her mother went off with various men and did lots of drugs. But then, they were living communally, so everyone was looking after the children.

The book talks a great deal about what they call fucking. There is a lot of it. Really a lot of it. So yes, I did not enjoy reading the book, but she’s a good writer. Terrific dialogue. Her diaries must really be something.

Sunday night, PBS’s British treats, Professor T and Unforgotten.

Today, Labour Day, Carole gave a special class at the Y at 10, and then I did a webinar from Lockdown University with Denis Hirson about memoir. As I’ve said, he doesn’t teach anything I don’t know, but I’m interested anyway.

Another writer friend, Rona Maynard, came over for apéritif; periodically we meet to exchange survival stories of the writing life. She recommended the app Scrivener to help organize my next book. I know many writers use it, but I’ve resisted because there is, as everyone says, “a steep learning curve.” However, I bought and installed it, and now the curve begins. Rona did a stern edit of a recent essay of mine, and I hope soon to do an edit of one of hers. A mutual editing society.

I had a lazy summer, as detailed in my latest Substack essay, but I think my energy is coming back. Just in time, as there’s a lot going on this month and next. Lunch at the Beach tomorrow with dear friend and superb editor Rosemary Shipton, and it’s the Cabbagetown Festival this weekend, the short film festival on Wednesday, and the whole ‘hood swarmed on Saturday and Sunday, including the mini-marathon on Sunday morning that I always do, lumbering along.

Then real work begins: U of T, Tuesday Sept. 9.

The horror continues out there, this time of evil white fascist men. However, in the Nice Things department, Anna sent me this. She was recently having a very bad day and found this on the kitchen table, from Ben.

The $2.25 was his entire fortune.

Love is. I will sit on the deck and, like the Little Prince, contemplate my rose.

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Toronto’s new park – unpronounceable but gorgeous

First, my U of T class Life Stories I starts Tuesday September 9 on Zoom, so anyone from anywhere can join. Lots of room left. And on September 19, I’m giving a memoir workshop at the Kingston WritersFest. Come one, come all!

I can’t believe summer is ending; didn’t it just begin? It’s that in-between time when you’re never sure if you should wear a tank top or a fleece. Or alternating both. The garden is sinking, the veg are nearly over, and the days are mostly beautiful – sunny, a bit chilly, heartening.

The boys are back to school in a few days – Grade 5 and Grade 8. I think they’ve had the summer of their lives, including a trip to Nova Scotia and a very long day at the Ex with some of their best friends and their very tolerant mother, ending at 1.30 a.m. I hope they know how lucky they are.

Last night I watched a wonderful documentary on Netflix, The Greatest Night in Pop, about the taping of “We are the World” in 1985, with many of the pop world’s musical greats in one room for a very long night. Spectacular to watch them work, directed by the indefatigable Lionel Ritchie and Quincy Jones from an idea of Harry Belafonte’s. Bob Dylan, looking small and lost throughout. Springsteen, who flew in from a gig, his voice raw, giving everything. The ethereal Michael Jackson, leonine Tina Turner the opposite of ethereal, Dionne Warwick – were these two women competitors? Not here, anyway. Paul Simon, Kenny Rogers, Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles: royalty.

And in the back row of the chorus, my friend from Carleton University in the late sixties, Danny Ackroyd wearing sunglasses and a tie, I’d imagine overwhelmed, even though pretty famous himself now, by the stellar company.

What’s most moving is the hard work, vulnerability, and dedication on display. Bob Geldof is there to remind them what they are actually singing for, to raise money to mitigate mass starvation in Ethiopia. Then Stevie decides they should sing a few lines in Swahili, and because everyone loves Stevie, they try to learn it — it’s 4 a.m., Waylon Jennings gives up and walks out, and Ray Charles urges Quincy to shut down the conversation — until someone points out Ethiopians don’t speak Swahili.

Another moment when Stevie needs the bathroom and Ray Charles takes him there — as someone says, the blind literally leading the blind.

The song was an instant worldwide hit and raised over $60 million in famine relief, and ongoing. A glorious story of creativity and generosity, could not be more sorely needed right now. Highly recommended.

I also got BritBox for a month to watch the six episodes of Outrageous, the fascinating story of the six Mitford sisters from an aristocratic British family in the nineteen-thirties. Two, horrifyingly, became fascists — Unity a confidante and intimate of Hitler’s!, her glam sister Diana eventually married to Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Fascist party. On the other hand, Jessica became a Communist, and almost all of them became successful writers. The story seems to indicate that sexual frustration and lack of purpose and education led the young sisters to the all-consuming fascist cause. A tale with resonance for today, as we watch fascist ascendance. Who would have believed it?

A personal note: Oswald’s grandson Ivo Mosley got in touch with me after reading Finding the Jewish Shakespeare, and we corresponded for a bit; there was even a plan for us to meet up in London, though we never did. He was a lovely man who despised his grandfather. He died last year at the age of 72. Wish I’d asked him more questions about his family.

Tuesday morning Jean-Marc called; we’d made a tentative arrangement if the weather was good to ride to the island once more for a picnic, as we did earlier in the summer. But I’d forgotten our date and was swamped with things to do, told him I couldn’t make it. And then thought, wait, how often will I have the chance to go somewhere, on a stunning day, with this dear man? So I asked if instead, we could ride down to the new park in the Toronto Port Lands at the mouth of the Don River — Biidaasage Park. It’s amazing – the largest new TO park in a generation — a landscape of native grasses and plants, many trails, and the best playground anywhere, with tons of water features including pumps, and a zipline. I hope my boys are not too old to enjoy it if I can get them there, though I fear they are. A few years ago, I would not have been able to tear them away. Pumps!

JM, who should have been a city planner, is critical of various aspects of the design. There are few “destination” spots, instead just meandering paths on one side of the river and the other with only one bridge and few shady places to sit. But I loved it. Nice to be reminded that sometimes, this city can actually do something bold and beautiful. If only it happened more often.

On the other hand, our premier is appealing the judge’s ruling that tearing out the city’s bike lanes is unconstitutional. Of course he is. Could I despise him more? And the Star reports today that he and his party are polling at an all-time high. Makes me sick. As does the news from all over. Israel bombing more hospitals and slaughtering reporters, as if determined to cement its reputation as a pariah without a shred of morality. The States … well, where to begin? I won’t begin.

Have to say that these days, I feel I’m doing a lousy job at almost everything, barely keeping up with house and garden and cooking and writing, though definitely, unfortunately, keeping up with the news. I’m extremely prompt with editing jobs, though, that are helping to pay the bills. And I’ve kept the cat alive. She’s sitting now staring out the back door waiting to hiss at the raccoons who sometimes peer in.

Now it’s 11 p.m. and another day is done. Cheers. Happy end of August to you all.

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