Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 102
May 11, 2019
"Amazing Grace" - Aretha in concert, a must see
I sobbed all the way through and thought of my daughter, gazing at the glorious rose window of Notre Dame cathedral and saying, "If I ever believe in god, it will be because of this place."
If I ever believe in god, it will be because of the power of Aretha Franklin's voice and the purity and power of her own belief.
Just came from seeing the documentary "Amazing Grace," which was shot over two nights in 1972 in a Baptist church in L.A., as she recorded her first gospel album. The record became her best seller, but the film had technical complications and was not released until modern technology made fixing the problems possible. And so here it is. I began to weep at the beginning and continued dabbing my eyes and tapping my feet in rhythm until the end. There were moments of such intensity I could hardly breathe; hours later my eyes are still puffy and swollen. It's transcendent, overwhelming, that voice ranging from a soft clear bell to a soaring clarion, a wave of sound, the sky opening, a universe from that throat. Behind her, a full gospel choir. In front of her, an audience of believers who 'witness,' shouting back to the stage, clapping and dancing. Also in the audience, on the second night, Mick Jagger and Charley Watts and the Reverend C. L. Franklin, Aretha's father, who jumps up at one point, while she's singing, to mop her brow.
What a gift. She is subdued throughout, as if gathering her forces, preserving her strength for when her mouth opens and the music flows out, going straight to heaven.
How grateful I felt to be there, to have the chance to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon in a black gospel church in 1972. I rode my bike to the Sherbourne subway station, jumped on the subway, was there in no time, watched the previews of all the documentaries I want to see. After the concert, mopping my sodden eyes, I rode back to get my bike and stopped at the library, where I returned two books - Middlemarch, because I've found my copy, and The Dakota Winters, which I'd skimmed (charming, lightweight, with a tragic premise, that the protagonist was going to help bring the Beatles back together just before John was murdered) - and picked up the one waiting for me: Dreyer's English, an utterly correct guide to clarity and style, which is on the NYT bestseller list. The hideous premier has cut the inter-library service for rural communities but not yet in Toronto, which means I can still order any book I want and have it delivered to my local branch.
Then I stopped at St. Jamestown Steak and Chops to buy a chicken from Mark; Judy is flying in from Vancouver and is coming to dinner on Monday. I've been going to Mark's shop for 32 years, knew his father Terry, his mother Doris, his brother Santo, wrote their obituaries for the Globe.
In a bit, Cyril will appear at my door with a jar of his $8 soup for my dinner. Last night the Spring Fling, a fundraiser for the Cabbagetown Youth Centre, dancing to a live band with my friend Jean-Marc, who loves to dance as much as I do. I've been going to this event for decades, on and off. Danced there with Terry the butcher, as Doris sat nearby and beamed.
Despite the battering, the brutal smashing Toronto is enduring right now from the provincial thugs, despite the things I hate about living in the city - the construction, the noise and dirt, the constant confrontation with devastating mental illness and appalling poverty - still, I am glad to live in this ever-stimulating metropolis where there is so much going on, so much to do, so much challenge, and where I am surrounded by friends and decades-long acquaintances.
Behind Aretha, as she sang, was a painting of Jesus being baptized; he's a white dude with long brown hair. It's ironic to see that image in a church filled with devout faces of colour singing praise to the lord. Now I have absolutely no doubt that Jesus was black.
Watch the preview in this review, and then I hope you can see the whole thing for yourself.
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/may/10/amazing-grace-review-aretha-franklin-gospel-album-documentary
If I ever believe in god, it will be because of the power of Aretha Franklin's voice and the purity and power of her own belief.
Just came from seeing the documentary "Amazing Grace," which was shot over two nights in 1972 in a Baptist church in L.A., as she recorded her first gospel album. The record became her best seller, but the film had technical complications and was not released until modern technology made fixing the problems possible. And so here it is. I began to weep at the beginning and continued dabbing my eyes and tapping my feet in rhythm until the end. There were moments of such intensity I could hardly breathe; hours later my eyes are still puffy and swollen. It's transcendent, overwhelming, that voice ranging from a soft clear bell to a soaring clarion, a wave of sound, the sky opening, a universe from that throat. Behind her, a full gospel choir. In front of her, an audience of believers who 'witness,' shouting back to the stage, clapping and dancing. Also in the audience, on the second night, Mick Jagger and Charley Watts and the Reverend C. L. Franklin, Aretha's father, who jumps up at one point, while she's singing, to mop her brow.
What a gift. She is subdued throughout, as if gathering her forces, preserving her strength for when her mouth opens and the music flows out, going straight to heaven.
How grateful I felt to be there, to have the chance to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon in a black gospel church in 1972. I rode my bike to the Sherbourne subway station, jumped on the subway, was there in no time, watched the previews of all the documentaries I want to see. After the concert, mopping my sodden eyes, I rode back to get my bike and stopped at the library, where I returned two books - Middlemarch, because I've found my copy, and The Dakota Winters, which I'd skimmed (charming, lightweight, with a tragic premise, that the protagonist was going to help bring the Beatles back together just before John was murdered) - and picked up the one waiting for me: Dreyer's English, an utterly correct guide to clarity and style, which is on the NYT bestseller list. The hideous premier has cut the inter-library service for rural communities but not yet in Toronto, which means I can still order any book I want and have it delivered to my local branch.
Then I stopped at St. Jamestown Steak and Chops to buy a chicken from Mark; Judy is flying in from Vancouver and is coming to dinner on Monday. I've been going to Mark's shop for 32 years, knew his father Terry, his mother Doris, his brother Santo, wrote their obituaries for the Globe.
In a bit, Cyril will appear at my door with a jar of his $8 soup for my dinner. Last night the Spring Fling, a fundraiser for the Cabbagetown Youth Centre, dancing to a live band with my friend Jean-Marc, who loves to dance as much as I do. I've been going to this event for decades, on and off. Danced there with Terry the butcher, as Doris sat nearby and beamed.
Despite the battering, the brutal smashing Toronto is enduring right now from the provincial thugs, despite the things I hate about living in the city - the construction, the noise and dirt, the constant confrontation with devastating mental illness and appalling poverty - still, I am glad to live in this ever-stimulating metropolis where there is so much going on, so much to do, so much challenge, and where I am surrounded by friends and decades-long acquaintances.
Behind Aretha, as she sang, was a painting of Jesus being baptized; he's a white dude with long brown hair. It's ironic to see that image in a church filled with devout faces of colour singing praise to the lord. Now I have absolutely no doubt that Jesus was black.
Watch the preview in this review, and then I hope you can see the whole thing for yourself.
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/may/10/amazing-grace-review-aretha-franklin-gospel-album-documentary
May 9, 2019
with a little help from my friends
A thoughtful, kind email from Lani brought warmth and light, especially as, after two glorious days, we are back to chilly rain - the slowest coldest spring I can remember, though my memory is not what it used to be, perhaps this is normal.
Just read your latest blog and so admire your strength amid all the chaos and loss. You will be pining for Wayson for many years but the last sentence of your blog was wrong ... he IS there. Just not physically. Every time you think of him he lives again. I know that sounds ludicrous from an anti-religion excommunicated catholic but I found that out eventually with my mom. She is constantly with me. Same with Charlie. Occasionally with Redg. People who mean that much to you never go away. Like me, my pal. I'll never leave you either.
Love, Lani
Made me laugh and cry; I have no doubt Lani will be with me forever, as she will be with my kids, who adore her. Charlie was her older sister, Redg her first husband who worked often as a stage manager in shows I was in - I knew them both.
Nick made a donation in Wayson's name to the Toronto Food Bank. Several people dropped off cards.
And John, who started as my handyman and is now one of my dearest friends, appeared at my door yesterday with a gift from his wife Sylvie, an indefatigable baker and crafts maker. Sylvie works as a massage therapist at Sweetgrass Spa, and I'd enquired about having a facial there; after a long dusty renovation and winter, my face is battered and could use a polish. But the spa is too expensive for me. John arrived yesterday with a pretty gift bag full of homemade sweet treats and a gift certificate for a facial at Sweetgrass Spa.
As I wrote to them, what did I do to deserve such good friends?
It turns out I am indeed organizing a memorial event for Wayson. I know what HE did to deserve such good friends: he was hilarious, wise, fascinating, unique. His friends have been writing to tell me so, in case I forgot. As Mary Jo, one of his best friends who unfortunately can't be with us that day, wrote, I hope that the people you gather to celebrate him remember, not only what a good writer he was, and his gift for saying exactly the right things to people who were troubled, but also how much fun he was. I will never stop missing him.
Me either, Mary Jo. I should send you Lani's words.
Jean Vanier also gone - a good man who did a lot of good in the world, as detailed in my unforgettable gripping powerful new memoir which is still seeking a home. Hope you get to read it one day.
Anna shared on FB a post about nicknames for Trump. There were a number of marvellous ones, but my favourite, besides Blotus, was Trumplethinskin. Desperation does bring out brilliance. And we - we the world's people - are desperate.
Just read your latest blog and so admire your strength amid all the chaos and loss. You will be pining for Wayson for many years but the last sentence of your blog was wrong ... he IS there. Just not physically. Every time you think of him he lives again. I know that sounds ludicrous from an anti-religion excommunicated catholic but I found that out eventually with my mom. She is constantly with me. Same with Charlie. Occasionally with Redg. People who mean that much to you never go away. Like me, my pal. I'll never leave you either.
Love, Lani
Made me laugh and cry; I have no doubt Lani will be with me forever, as she will be with my kids, who adore her. Charlie was her older sister, Redg her first husband who worked often as a stage manager in shows I was in - I knew them both.
Nick made a donation in Wayson's name to the Toronto Food Bank. Several people dropped off cards.
And John, who started as my handyman and is now one of my dearest friends, appeared at my door yesterday with a gift from his wife Sylvie, an indefatigable baker and crafts maker. Sylvie works as a massage therapist at Sweetgrass Spa, and I'd enquired about having a facial there; after a long dusty renovation and winter, my face is battered and could use a polish. But the spa is too expensive for me. John arrived yesterday with a pretty gift bag full of homemade sweet treats and a gift certificate for a facial at Sweetgrass Spa.
As I wrote to them, what did I do to deserve such good friends?
It turns out I am indeed organizing a memorial event for Wayson. I know what HE did to deserve such good friends: he was hilarious, wise, fascinating, unique. His friends have been writing to tell me so, in case I forgot. As Mary Jo, one of his best friends who unfortunately can't be with us that day, wrote, I hope that the people you gather to celebrate him remember, not only what a good writer he was, and his gift for saying exactly the right things to people who were troubled, but also how much fun he was. I will never stop missing him.
Me either, Mary Jo. I should send you Lani's words.
Jean Vanier also gone - a good man who did a lot of good in the world, as detailed in my unforgettable gripping powerful new memoir which is still seeking a home. Hope you get to read it one day.
Anna shared on FB a post about nicknames for Trump. There were a number of marvellous ones, but my favourite, besides Blotus, was Trumplethinskin. Desperation does bring out brilliance. And we - we the world's people - are desperate.
May 7, 2019
spring, rain
The gorgeous days over for now - two days of hot sun, and now back to grey drizzle - but it's mild. Yesterday, I watched two sparrows mating on my fence. It was brief and I would think not much fun, but I guess it got the job done, because after he'd climbed on her a few times for a few fluttery seconds, they flew away in separate directions. Ah, the rites of spring.
I go out to ogle the buds, the bursting of green - the miracle of renewal, especially after such a long hard winter.
I am feeling it too, slowly - budding, coming out of months of chaos, then travel, then loss. The house is settling; though the work isn't quite finished, the repairs and purchases still needed are minor, and I no longer need the long lists that I carried everywhere. Yesterday I actually made it to a yoga class at the Y, first time in ages. Today U of T starts, Ryerson tomorrow night, on Friday back to my piano teacher after months of very little practice - that'll be painful. The joy of routine. And yet every time I climb the stairs into the airy bright hall or step into my shining bedroom and closet, it feels like a brand new spring inside, here.
I finished Sally Rooney's Normal People, the hot novel of the season, though confess I skipped some bits. She's an extremely talented writer but I was just not that interested in the obsessive detail, however beautifully and cleverly written, of these young people's lives. Plus the book was due back. Now I'm reading Middlemarch, at last, for a book club at the end of the month. With my B.A. in English, I've always felt guilty not to have read Middlemarch, so am happy to have been pushed to do so. And I'm also reading The Dakota Winters by Tom Barbash, which recreates New York in 1980 and imagines John Lennon as a main character - delightful.
Last night, something horrible and then a treat: I watched, with jaw dropped, a bit of the coverage of the Met Gala, an obscene gathering of the world's celebrities wearing the most preposterous clothes, accompanied by fawning discussion. Utterly nauseating; talk about fiddling while Rome burns. But then Gentleman Jack, a terrific British drama on PBS, the adventures of a fiercely independent landowner and lesbian in 1832. Bonus - it's based on the diaries of the actual Anne Lister. From an interview with Sally Wainwright, the showrunner:
Reading between the lines of the journal, I believe she had very robust mental health. And I think she had an enviably healthy opinion of herself, and though that's often an insult, I don't mean it as an insult. I wish I had a healthier opinion of myself, I'm sure I'd be a lot happier. She believed her sexuality was God-given, she believed it would be against God if she slept with a man because God made her like this. And she seemed able to live with that in a very healthy way.I find that really uplifting that for someone 200 years ago to have the courage and intelligence to be able to navigate her way through society, not to be ostracized from society, and to be truthful to who she was is why we should celebrate her. That's why the story is unique, because it's about this unique human being who was capable of being like this. I think that's a beautiful message for anyone, no matter what gender or sexuality they are.Speaking of unabashedly being who you are, Wayson was like that too. These days, despite spring, my heart feels muted, maimed, diminished. Something key is missing. I had not realized how automatically I thought of Wayson, called him, invited him over. The impulse is there all day, but he is not.
I go out to ogle the buds, the bursting of green - the miracle of renewal, especially after such a long hard winter.
I am feeling it too, slowly - budding, coming out of months of chaos, then travel, then loss. The house is settling; though the work isn't quite finished, the repairs and purchases still needed are minor, and I no longer need the long lists that I carried everywhere. Yesterday I actually made it to a yoga class at the Y, first time in ages. Today U of T starts, Ryerson tomorrow night, on Friday back to my piano teacher after months of very little practice - that'll be painful. The joy of routine. And yet every time I climb the stairs into the airy bright hall or step into my shining bedroom and closet, it feels like a brand new spring inside, here.
I finished Sally Rooney's Normal People, the hot novel of the season, though confess I skipped some bits. She's an extremely talented writer but I was just not that interested in the obsessive detail, however beautifully and cleverly written, of these young people's lives. Plus the book was due back. Now I'm reading Middlemarch, at last, for a book club at the end of the month. With my B.A. in English, I've always felt guilty not to have read Middlemarch, so am happy to have been pushed to do so. And I'm also reading The Dakota Winters by Tom Barbash, which recreates New York in 1980 and imagines John Lennon as a main character - delightful.
Last night, something horrible and then a treat: I watched, with jaw dropped, a bit of the coverage of the Met Gala, an obscene gathering of the world's celebrities wearing the most preposterous clothes, accompanied by fawning discussion. Utterly nauseating; talk about fiddling while Rome burns. But then Gentleman Jack, a terrific British drama on PBS, the adventures of a fiercely independent landowner and lesbian in 1832. Bonus - it's based on the diaries of the actual Anne Lister. From an interview with Sally Wainwright, the showrunner:
Reading between the lines of the journal, I believe she had very robust mental health. And I think she had an enviably healthy opinion of herself, and though that's often an insult, I don't mean it as an insult. I wish I had a healthier opinion of myself, I'm sure I'd be a lot happier. She believed her sexuality was God-given, she believed it would be against God if she slept with a man because God made her like this. And she seemed able to live with that in a very healthy way.I find that really uplifting that for someone 200 years ago to have the courage and intelligence to be able to navigate her way through society, not to be ostracized from society, and to be truthful to who she was is why we should celebrate her. That's why the story is unique, because it's about this unique human being who was capable of being like this. I think that's a beautiful message for anyone, no matter what gender or sexuality they are.Speaking of unabashedly being who you are, Wayson was like that too. These days, despite spring, my heart feels muted, maimed, diminished. Something key is missing. I had not realized how automatically I thought of Wayson, called him, invited him over. The impulse is there all day, but he is not.
May 5, 2019
Life Stories coming up at U of T
Wonderful article in the Guardian about how the memoirs of real people, as opposed to celebrities, are the new hits on the best seller lists. Great great news.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/may/04/real-life-memoirs-are-a-hit-with-readers?CMP=share_btn_link
So - if you are considering writing about your life, the Guardian is offering encouragement, and so am I. My course at U of T, Life Stories, begins Tuesday, though right now it's so small, they might cancel it - so please, if you want to write, considering signing up. There's also still room in the Ryerson class True to Life, which started last Wednesday.
I can be a guide on your way to telling the truth with craft.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/may/04/real-life-memoirs-are-a-hit-with-readers?CMP=share_btn_link
So - if you are considering writing about your life, the Guardian is offering encouragement, and so am I. My course at U of T, Life Stories, begins Tuesday, though right now it's so small, they might cancel it - so please, if you want to write, considering signing up. There's also still room in the Ryerson class True to Life, which started last Wednesday.
I can be a guide on your way to telling the truth with craft.
Cabbagetown's Forsythia Festival, meeting John Tory
Le tout Toronto is out today - a gorgeous day, hot and sunny, at last. Someone did say that in typical Toronto fashion, we'd probably go straight from winter to summer, and so it is.
I've been busy with Mr. Elijah - going across town to get him yesterday, keeping him busy, taking him back across town this afternoon - his mother's birthday present. We spent many hours at the Regent Park playground, which is just the best, the most multicultural group of kids, every colour of skin, running and leaping and climbing. Eli is very big on climbing and hanging from monkey bars and even bigger on jumping, from everything.
And then - Lego. Much much Lego. Luckily I got a big container at Doubletake so have lots on hand, and it kept him happily busy for hours. He took last night's creation into the bath and then into bed with him. And then more Charlotte's Web. The new bed in the new spare room, for its inaugural sleep, was a success.
He rose at 6, however, hungry for breakfast, which did not make a tired Glamma happy. We were at the playground by 9 a.m., and then off to the Forsythia Festival, a neighbourhood celebration of spring this family has been attending for 33 years. Eli even consented to walk in the parade,
and then up to Wellesley Sreet for face painting and other festivities.
It's a wonderful event, getting bigger all the time - now filled not just with young families but with grandparents - saw many old friends with their grandchildren. I ran into John Tory, Toronto's mayor (as well as Barbara Hall, a former mayor who lives in Cabbagetown) and went to talk to him, to commiserate with what the city is enduring from the cretins running the province. I went on about how we now have our own Trump, and he said he hoped the decent people in Ford's cabinet would wake up. Some chance. Please keep up the good fight, I said, but have to say, he's not a fighter, he's a wimp or just a nice polite man, so we're doomed.
Then, at last, the TTC back to the west side of town, to leave my beloved older grandson with his family. On the streetcar home, I saw a million Torontonians out in the streets, soaking it up. I was reading C. S. Lewis's A Grief Observed which someone left in the Free Library, about the death of his wife. I have not lost a spouse but grief is there, nonetheless.
Now in my messy Lego- and crumb-strewn house, alone, with the hot sun pouring in through the back door. Sam comes tonight to watch Game of Thrones. I'm grateful for my family when they're here, and also grateful for the solitude when they are not.
I've been busy with Mr. Elijah - going across town to get him yesterday, keeping him busy, taking him back across town this afternoon - his mother's birthday present. We spent many hours at the Regent Park playground, which is just the best, the most multicultural group of kids, every colour of skin, running and leaping and climbing. Eli is very big on climbing and hanging from monkey bars and even bigger on jumping, from everything.
And then - Lego. Much much Lego. Luckily I got a big container at Doubletake so have lots on hand, and it kept him happily busy for hours. He took last night's creation into the bath and then into bed with him. And then more Charlotte's Web. The new bed in the new spare room, for its inaugural sleep, was a success.
He rose at 6, however, hungry for breakfast, which did not make a tired Glamma happy. We were at the playground by 9 a.m., and then off to the Forsythia Festival, a neighbourhood celebration of spring this family has been attending for 33 years. Eli even consented to walk in the parade,
and then up to Wellesley Sreet for face painting and other festivities.
It's a wonderful event, getting bigger all the time - now filled not just with young families but with grandparents - saw many old friends with their grandchildren. I ran into John Tory, Toronto's mayor (as well as Barbara Hall, a former mayor who lives in Cabbagetown) and went to talk to him, to commiserate with what the city is enduring from the cretins running the province. I went on about how we now have our own Trump, and he said he hoped the decent people in Ford's cabinet would wake up. Some chance. Please keep up the good fight, I said, but have to say, he's not a fighter, he's a wimp or just a nice polite man, so we're doomed.Then, at last, the TTC back to the west side of town, to leave my beloved older grandson with his family. On the streetcar home, I saw a million Torontonians out in the streets, soaking it up. I was reading C. S. Lewis's A Grief Observed which someone left in the Free Library, about the death of his wife. I have not lost a spouse but grief is there, nonetheless.
Now in my messy Lego- and crumb-strewn house, alone, with the hot sun pouring in through the back door. Sam comes tonight to watch Game of Thrones. I'm grateful for my family when they're here, and also grateful for the solitude when they are not.
May 4, 2019
Wayson in the NYT and a possible memorial for him
I have a mail file on my computer where I've saved the most precious emails from or about Wayson. But last night I opened my Trash file and typed "Wayson Choy." There were 5,329 matches.
From a former student, one of many emails I've received about my friend which are now expanding the above file:
I must thank you for introducing me to Wayson, which unexpectedly (to me) led to a truly joyful connection. I feel blessed by his kindness & generosity to include me as a friend. He made himself available to meet with me the times when he could, & provided me with his words of wisdom.
And also many thanks to you that I became part of a small but warm & committed Writing Group - 6 of us who were your students at Ryerson a few years ago continue to meet & spur each other on with our writing. And some of us made it to your wonderful story sharing evenings at Black Swan.
People have been asking about a memorial event for Wayson. It seems the family will hold a private one in the summer and his agent Denise Bukowski will organize a formal one later. But lots of people have contacted me asking about it; people want to celebrate him now. I am thinking of holding an informal "gathering of remembrance" here at my house on a Sunday afternoon in early June. I'll let you know.
In the meantime, there was a big article in the NYT. How he would have loved it! And a great photo. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/03/obituaries/wayson-choy-dies.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share
Yesterday was Anna's birthday; we had lunch with the boys at Rol San, her favourite Chinese restaurant. Today as her present I'm going to get Eli who'll be here till tomorrow. She gets a well-deserved break.
Guess what? It's grey and gloomy and raining.
From a former student, one of many emails I've received about my friend which are now expanding the above file:
I must thank you for introducing me to Wayson, which unexpectedly (to me) led to a truly joyful connection. I feel blessed by his kindness & generosity to include me as a friend. He made himself available to meet with me the times when he could, & provided me with his words of wisdom.
And also many thanks to you that I became part of a small but warm & committed Writing Group - 6 of us who were your students at Ryerson a few years ago continue to meet & spur each other on with our writing. And some of us made it to your wonderful story sharing evenings at Black Swan.
People have been asking about a memorial event for Wayson. It seems the family will hold a private one in the summer and his agent Denise Bukowski will organize a formal one later. But lots of people have contacted me asking about it; people want to celebrate him now. I am thinking of holding an informal "gathering of remembrance" here at my house on a Sunday afternoon in early June. I'll let you know.
In the meantime, there was a big article in the NYT. How he would have loved it! And a great photo. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/03/obituaries/wayson-choy-dies.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share
Yesterday was Anna's birthday; we had lunch with the boys at Rol San, her favourite Chinese restaurant. Today as her present I'm going to get Eli who'll be here till tomorrow. She gets a well-deserved break.
Guess what? It's grey and gloomy and raining.
May 3, 2019
pain
Those moments when the heart seizes and the pain is physical: yesterday, marinating chicken breasts, realizing that every week, I cooked a large meal or two because Wayson would come to share it. Now I have to cook for myself or find another hungry single non-cooking friend.
Anna just sent this photograph. It's her birthday today, Eli is home from school, and we're meeting for lunch. Usually, I'd forward this immediately to my friend and he'd write back some rhapsodic lines about family and love and youth, about the boys as heartbreakers. Not today.
So - the heart hurts and then gradually not so much. As Theresa said, now I will come to know my friend in a different way.
Friend Gretchen just emailed, "Your blog continues to shine a light Into a completely unfamiliar world. The saying 'there are no words to express' or 'words fail to express,' simply are not true to me anymore. Because I am taking notice of very powerful and deeply meaningful words to express all sorts of loss, grief, sadness, rage, as well as joy, love, appreciation, delight, memory. Your community of writers, journalists, biographers, photo journalists (writers from the eye), are all becoming an essential tank of oxygen for humanity. Every person has a story, a narrative that rolls along, from birth to death. Keep writing. It does help to heal for the reader as well."
It is raining again. It has been raining for the last six months. One day it will stop raining.
Anna just sent this photograph. It's her birthday today, Eli is home from school, and we're meeting for lunch. Usually, I'd forward this immediately to my friend and he'd write back some rhapsodic lines about family and love and youth, about the boys as heartbreakers. Not today.
So - the heart hurts and then gradually not so much. As Theresa said, now I will come to know my friend in a different way.Friend Gretchen just emailed, "Your blog continues to shine a light Into a completely unfamiliar world. The saying 'there are no words to express' or 'words fail to express,' simply are not true to me anymore. Because I am taking notice of very powerful and deeply meaningful words to express all sorts of loss, grief, sadness, rage, as well as joy, love, appreciation, delight, memory. Your community of writers, journalists, biographers, photo journalists (writers from the eye), are all becoming an essential tank of oxygen for humanity. Every person has a story, a narrative that rolls along, from birth to death. Keep writing. It does help to heal for the reader as well."
It is raining again. It has been raining for the last six months. One day it will stop raining.
May 2, 2019
Wayson in the Globe and Blackbird in Mi'kmaq
Marsha Lederman has written a beautiful tribute to Wayson, published today, capturing his quirky warmth. She wrote me to say she was sorry so much of our conversation got cut. But that means I can tell those stories in my own time.
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books/article-canadian-author-wayson-choy-inspired-others-with-tales-of-childhood-in/
And for something goosebump haunting - Paul McCartney's glorious "Blackbird" in Mi'kmaq. It's a wonderful world.
https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-wednesday-edition-1.5118294/meet-the-n-s-teenager-who-sang-blackbird-by-the-beatles-entirely-in-mi-kmaq-1.5118296?__vfz=medium%3Dsharebar
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books/article-canadian-author-wayson-choy-inspired-others-with-tales-of-childhood-in/
And for something goosebump haunting - Paul McCartney's glorious "Blackbird" in Mi'kmaq. It's a wonderful world.
https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-wednesday-edition-1.5118294/meet-the-n-s-teenager-who-sang-blackbird-by-the-beatles-entirely-in-mi-kmaq-1.5118296?__vfz=medium%3Dsharebar
protesting in the cold
People have been incredibly kind. The notes on FB and the emails keep coming, including from students I've not heard from in many years, who met Wayson in my class or know what he meant to me. Nick Rice sent a letter, and this morning, Margot, a dear friend from the Y, dropped a card through my front door. Blogger friend Theresa Kishkan sent this beautiful thought: You will miss him and no doubt the grief is raw and painful right now. Any person who has become an intimate friend and who is interwoven in the daily fabric of our lives never leaves us, though. We learn to know them differently. It's a bit lonely, not having the physical person there to laugh with and talk to and share writing with, but everything he has meant to you will continue. And you will know him differently as you adjust to both his physical absence and his deep presence. I have a few dear souls who remain with me years after their physical deaths and learning to know them in a new way has been both sad and also kind of exhilarating.
I love the idea of our dead with us, us 'knowing them differently'.
The thoughtfulness of these friends gives me the feeling of a pair of arms holding me tight, at a time of grief. Wayson was one of the only people who telephoned me on my landline, so every time the phone rings, I think it's him. He'd call almost every day to check in, to ask if I needed to use his car for something; I almost never did but he called anyway, to make sure I knew he was thinking of me. I miss that.
I'm waiting to hear about a memorial event; apparently Denise, Wayson's agent, is organizing something but there has been no word. A number of people have written to me asking; I will post here as soon as I know.
Meanwhile, the usual. The weather has been appalling, the worst spring I can remember, protracted cold and wet, and that's after a cold, wet stay in Paris - not lucky with the weather this year. Work has not finished in the house. The other day I used the new small washing machine for the first time; disaster, during the spin cycle, it rocked so hard, it nearly spun out of control and was unbelievably noisy. I was in knots. An hour of exploration later, Kevin and Ed discovered they'd installed it with the feet needed only for transport still on, so no wonder it went off balance. One crisis averted. Matt my computer guy came to fix some bugs and upgrade me to Mohave. I got my bike fixed up for spring and some of the garden cleared and pruned. The window guys are coming, the termite guys. Today Ed is fixing the front door, which is about as old as the house - at least a hundred - and falling apart. Like me, some days.
But yesterday, I went to an anti-Doug Ford rally at Queen's Park, met friends there plus Anna and Ben. It was bitterly cold and we didn't stay long - long enough to register our disgust for this premier and his repulsive gang. It was good to be with a group of kindred spirits, fighting the good fight despite the odds. Despite the fact that here we go again. Got to try.
Ben with his sign, and, below, me holding Eli's.
And then Ryerson started last night - back at work, an interesting new group of student writers. Home class tonight, U of T next Tuesday. Normal life returns. Sort of.
I love the idea of our dead with us, us 'knowing them differently'.
The thoughtfulness of these friends gives me the feeling of a pair of arms holding me tight, at a time of grief. Wayson was one of the only people who telephoned me on my landline, so every time the phone rings, I think it's him. He'd call almost every day to check in, to ask if I needed to use his car for something; I almost never did but he called anyway, to make sure I knew he was thinking of me. I miss that.
I'm waiting to hear about a memorial event; apparently Denise, Wayson's agent, is organizing something but there has been no word. A number of people have written to me asking; I will post here as soon as I know.
Meanwhile, the usual. The weather has been appalling, the worst spring I can remember, protracted cold and wet, and that's after a cold, wet stay in Paris - not lucky with the weather this year. Work has not finished in the house. The other day I used the new small washing machine for the first time; disaster, during the spin cycle, it rocked so hard, it nearly spun out of control and was unbelievably noisy. I was in knots. An hour of exploration later, Kevin and Ed discovered they'd installed it with the feet needed only for transport still on, so no wonder it went off balance. One crisis averted. Matt my computer guy came to fix some bugs and upgrade me to Mohave. I got my bike fixed up for spring and some of the garden cleared and pruned. The window guys are coming, the termite guys. Today Ed is fixing the front door, which is about as old as the house - at least a hundred - and falling apart. Like me, some days.
But yesterday, I went to an anti-Doug Ford rally at Queen's Park, met friends there plus Anna and Ben. It was bitterly cold and we didn't stay long - long enough to register our disgust for this premier and his repulsive gang. It was good to be with a group of kindred spirits, fighting the good fight despite the odds. Despite the fact that here we go again. Got to try.
Ben with his sign, and, below, me holding Eli's.
And then Ryerson started last night - back at work, an interesting new group of student writers. Home class tonight, U of T next Tuesday. Normal life returns. Sort of.
April 30, 2019
a visit
You know what really helps with grief? Writing. It's what I teach. It's what I do.
7 a.m. on yet another bleak, grey, chilly morning, and I sit here in tears. People have been sending the most wonderful notes; so many of my friends are writers, and all of them had met Wayson, so what they send is beautiful and profoundly moving.
Somehow, as well, one death brings up others. I've just heard from May, one of my aunt's best friends in Ottawa, so have been thinking of the recent loss of Do. And then I had a note from Penny in England, younger sister of my childhood pen pal Barbara and now my own friend. Barbara died in 1966 at age 16, a story I've been trying to get out into the world for years, without success so far. Penny and her siblings had just spent the afternoon cleaning the gravesite of their sister, parents, and brother Michael who died at two weeks old, a yearly ritual that brings them together in tribute and love. The stone was designed by their brother Peter, an artist, some of whose ashes they scattered there to help with the roses.
In the bleak council cemetery where stones subside and the grass covers the neighbouring plots where the loved ones of the children we grew up with are buried, Barbara's stone now stands proud, one of the cleanest and brightest. Peter designed it carefully, the text debated each time we laid another to rest and the wording cut by hand. Beneath it Babs, Dad, Mum sleep quietly together with the memory of first born Michael.
Yesterday I sat at the piano to try to start playing again but instead broke down and actually cried, out loud, "How could you leave me?"
It was almost embarrassing; that's the sort of thing a spouse says after the death of a longterm partner. And Wayson was definitely not my spouse. But he was an automatic part of my life, my day, my thoughts. My dinner table. It's a huge hole. Right now, it feels like an open wound.
Marsha Lederman from the Globe called; she'd been told I was a close friend and she's writing an article. The stories poured out; I jabbered, wept, and laughed. The best kind of remembrance.
Monty, a former student who met Wayson several times at classes here, sent me this:
Wayson was a shining example of being in life who you really are, wearing it on your sleeve, with no explanations or apologies, what you see is what you get. If only we could all have Wayson’s strength and courage to be so authentic and real. It was an honour to meet him, to be with him, to listen to him, to be inspired by him.
Monty also wrote that after his father died when he was young, a friend told him his dad would never die while he, Monty, was alive, because Monty's memories would preserve him. His father would continue to visit in memory, and each visit would be a gift. And, Beth, I think your gardenia story on your blog may be one of your first “visits” from Wayson. I will leave that for you to decide.
I think he's right.
Old friend from university days Isobel wrote, "I didn't 'know' him except through your blog - how you embraced him as a family member, his quiet, obviously happy presence at moments large and small. How wonderful that your family has your all-welcoming, open-arms approach to life... and that you record it all for posterity. And how magnificent for Wayson to feel that generosity and love -- infused with it all, his spirit shines on."
7 a.m. on yet another bleak, grey, chilly morning, and I sit here in tears. People have been sending the most wonderful notes; so many of my friends are writers, and all of them had met Wayson, so what they send is beautiful and profoundly moving.
Somehow, as well, one death brings up others. I've just heard from May, one of my aunt's best friends in Ottawa, so have been thinking of the recent loss of Do. And then I had a note from Penny in England, younger sister of my childhood pen pal Barbara and now my own friend. Barbara died in 1966 at age 16, a story I've been trying to get out into the world for years, without success so far. Penny and her siblings had just spent the afternoon cleaning the gravesite of their sister, parents, and brother Michael who died at two weeks old, a yearly ritual that brings them together in tribute and love. The stone was designed by their brother Peter, an artist, some of whose ashes they scattered there to help with the roses.
In the bleak council cemetery where stones subside and the grass covers the neighbouring plots where the loved ones of the children we grew up with are buried, Barbara's stone now stands proud, one of the cleanest and brightest. Peter designed it carefully, the text debated each time we laid another to rest and the wording cut by hand. Beneath it Babs, Dad, Mum sleep quietly together with the memory of first born Michael.Yesterday I sat at the piano to try to start playing again but instead broke down and actually cried, out loud, "How could you leave me?"
It was almost embarrassing; that's the sort of thing a spouse says after the death of a longterm partner. And Wayson was definitely not my spouse. But he was an automatic part of my life, my day, my thoughts. My dinner table. It's a huge hole. Right now, it feels like an open wound.
Marsha Lederman from the Globe called; she'd been told I was a close friend and she's writing an article. The stories poured out; I jabbered, wept, and laughed. The best kind of remembrance.
Monty, a former student who met Wayson several times at classes here, sent me this:
Wayson was a shining example of being in life who you really are, wearing it on your sleeve, with no explanations or apologies, what you see is what you get. If only we could all have Wayson’s strength and courage to be so authentic and real. It was an honour to meet him, to be with him, to listen to him, to be inspired by him.
Monty also wrote that after his father died when he was young, a friend told him his dad would never die while he, Monty, was alive, because Monty's memories would preserve him. His father would continue to visit in memory, and each visit would be a gift. And, Beth, I think your gardenia story on your blog may be one of your first “visits” from Wayson. I will leave that for you to decide.
I think he's right.
Old friend from university days Isobel wrote, "I didn't 'know' him except through your blog - how you embraced him as a family member, his quiet, obviously happy presence at moments large and small. How wonderful that your family has your all-welcoming, open-arms approach to life... and that you record it all for posterity. And how magnificent for Wayson to feel that generosity and love -- infused with it all, his spirit shines on."
