Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 114

re: BETH'S CLASSES AT U OF T and RYERSON

I will be running this note regularly to be sure potential students checking this blog know: I AM NOT TEACHING THE WINTER 2019 TERM AT EITHER U OF T OR RYERSON.

My U of T class Life Stories has been cancelled for January through March 2019. At Ryerson, True to Life is being taught by the terrific writer Sarah Sheard.

I WILL RESUME IN MAY AT BOTH UNIVERSITIES: Life Stories Tuesday evenings starting May 7, and True to Life Wednesday evenings starting May 1.

Please write if you have any questions. Thank you and Happy New Year!

blessings

Welcome to my world: the first work day after Xmas, and there are five men making a huge noise in my house, two cutting planks upstairs and three drilling holes in the basement floor and injecting termite-killing poison. Kevin and I spent half an hour this morning moving furniture away from the walls so they could do so. I have retired to my office and am wearing my expensive Xmas present from my kids, just what I wanted and asked for: Bose noise-cancelling headphones. They may save my life. Literally.

Xmas was, as my daughter said, "the best yet." Maybe it's because, in the chaos of the house, not much could be expected - no tree, few decorations. I had the whole quiet morning to get the turkey in the oven and everything else ready for the meal, and then they burst in, little boys flushed with excitement, parents surviving, Uncle Sam with lots of energy for tossing nephews in the air. It was so mild, he took them outside in the garden to play with their new toys, including Eli's new remote controlled car from his parents and a skateboard from Glamma. He's six, but it's what he wanted.
The meal, like the day, was calm and bright. Sam's friend Max whose parents are in England came to share it with us; we were a small group with a lot of food.

And then they went home! It was a Christmas miracle. I was overjoyed to be alone to clean up and put things away and sink onto the sofa to watch the "Call the Midwife" Xmas special, sat there with tears rolling - I've known no show like it, how deeply we care about all the characters, and how they manage to evoke tears in every episode. It's gorgeous. I went to bed with red eyes.

Yesterday, recovery, and riding my bike - on Dec. 26, with no discomfort! - to visit my friend the writer Isabel Huggan, here from France visiting her family. I got some of my own work done with no workmen in the house, and otherwise did as little as possible.

Now, all systems go, until it all shuts down again for New Year's. I'm still living in the shell of my house, but I'm grateful for a roof, a furnace, a kitchen, and now the sun, shining briefly through my office window and gone again. Grateful for small mercies, and mercies that are not so small.

Merry merry merry

11.30 Xmas morning. The turkey is in the oven, the son is on the sofa, the little boys and Wayson will be coming in about an hour for a new flurry of paper and presents. There's no tree this year in the chaos of my ripped-apart house, but I'm sure no one will mind. Anna and I FaceTimed, so I've seen what Santa brought across town. Great excitement.

Last night's pageant at Riverdale Farm was the best yet. It was a mild night, the crowd was enormous, everyone in the cast was in the right place, and so was the choir. My last year, after about 16, as producer and director, and I'm leaving it in good shape. It made me cry, of course. At the start, in the Drive Shed as we start the carols, I turned around; behind me, the huge crowd of 300 or 400, from the very old to babies; right behind, my neighbours Len and Beth with their daughter Janice, who was in nursery school with Sam, with her son, who's Ben's age. I felt such overwhelming gratitude to live in this community, to have lived here for so long, to be so tied to a piece of the earth. Roots. Big strong roots, for us all.

Anna was there with her family, and afterward we went to the party at Mary's, where the fire was burning, the extravagant spread was waiting, and Sam was waiting too. Ben wanted to know which "chimbley" Santa was going to come down; he was worried about the fire. We ate and drank and talked and laughed with old friends and neighbours, and once more, I didn't cry but almost. Sam joked to Gina and Paul how jealous he was of the GT Snowracer sled their son Ryan got one year, and how I made sure he got one a few years later. We talked about times at Riverdale Hill, the very tall sledding hill nearby - going toboganning a few Christmasses ago. No snow at all this very mild year.

Here are some pictures of last night: a house just up the street, the young innkeeper (son of our usual innkeeper) and his wife (who I thought was his sister until I saw them kissing, and kissing some more), the shepherd checking her messages, the holy family of such extreme beauty, and the final tableau.

From my neck of the woods to yours, I wish you joy, peace, health, kindness, friendship. Love. As someone once sang, it's all you need.



 They're wearing sari silks I bought 20 years ago at Goodwill, plus a bathrobe for Joseph and a serape for the babe. Our budget for costumes was $0.00. And yet ...

a voice from heaven

7 a.m. Christmas Eve. All systems go. The Christmas pageant underway - who knows what surprises the evening will bring? But it won't be too cold - or wet, as it was last year - so we might have a big crowd. We've had 400 or more. But cast, baby, costumes, cookies - that we distribute as people leave - are all in place. And afterward we go to Mary's, one of the loveliest houses in Cabbagetown, for a beautiful party.

Miraculously, in the chaos, I've been working on the memoir. I feel like a carpenter, finishing a project by polishing, polishing, sanding, and polishing again. Making each word stronger, if possible. I hope to send it out soon.

The little boys are coming over tonight for the pageant and the party, and then back early tomorrow afternoon for the main event. The ground floor of the house is livable, if not Christmassy. Upstairs, not so much.
But there are presents, and there is turkey.

I've been really worried about my friend Chris, whose blog appears on the left - he blogs nearly every day and suddenly went silent. After two days, after telephoning and Skyping and getting no answer, I wrote to Patsy, another friend on Gabriola, to ask if she knew where he was, and didn't hear from her either. And then I read about the power outage on the coast - days now of no power for many thousands of people. Chris has a generator and a fireplace and Patsy has a fireplace, so I hope they're safe and warm. I miss Chris's daily missives.

Yesterday, my friend Eleanor sent email greetings and included a link to a performance by a singer I hadn't heard of: Lorraine Hunt Lieberson. After listening, I found it hard to believe she's not world-famous, and then I Googled and learned that she began as a violist, didn't start her professional singing career until her thirties, and died at 52 of breast cancer. What a grievous loss for our world. Her voice is as rich and pure, powerful and wise as any I've ever heard. Here, as my Christmas gift to you, is what Eleanor sent to me:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQlt1UxjvWU

Follow Lieberson's other links, to Bach, to "Deep River." The voice of an angel, literally, straight from god.

And, because this is me talking, here's another treat. My Macca went a few days ago to see the Rockettes and met them afterward. Notice: he's 76, and his leg is higher than theirs.

Merry Christmas Eve to you. May we all high-kick our way into tomorrow's festival and the new year.

"Nothing like a dame"

Xmas is looming. This chaotic year, I'm doing the minimum, no tree, few decorations, but presents for the kids, of course. That's enough. What a relief. And there's the pageant, of course - a rehearsal tomorrow at the farm. But to celebrate being more or less ready, I went to a wonderful film this afternoon: "Nothing like a dame," four brilliant British actresses, all dames, Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Joan Plowright, and Eileen Atkins, sitting around talking, telling stories, dishing, gossiping, reminiscing. "Larry" - Laurence Olivier, Plowright's husband and a fellow actor to them all - looms large. I loved this film so much, I'd gladly see it again. They are as funny as standup comediennes, these magnificent actresses. For me, hearing them talk about life in the theatre was like hearing people living in a country where I used to live speak a language I used to speak.

On the Xmas theme, I dug out this essay I wrote and read for "Fresh Air." Here it is, for your pleasure. Merry Everything to you all.

ChristmasCBC, Fresh Air, December 21, 1997
As this time of togetherness approaches, I think of one Christmas, a long time ago. At the age of twenty-four, I moved across the country to Vancouver where I knew no one, and so found myself alone, on Christmas morning, cat-sitting in someone's apartment. The little box my mother had sent sat under the rubber tree in the living room; opening it, slowly, was my festive activity for the day. Luckily, in the evening, I was invited out for Christmas dinner. Still, it was a long quiet December 25th.
In subsequent years, I had friends to help make an occasion of the day, and then, suddenly, I had a life's partner, someone to spend Christmas with forever and ever. And then, just as suddenly, we were expecting a baby. That year we joined my parents in Edmonton on Christmas Eve. With great ceremony, my father opened the bottle of 1959 Burgundy that he had stored in the cellar for just this occasion – to toast new life in the family.
The following Christmas, there was a busy seven-month-old in residence, and from then on, the holiday was buried under snowdrifts of paper, boxes and ribbons. When the next baby came, a few years later, our Toronto home became the centre of the family. My parents flew east for the celebrations. Auntie Do drove down from Ottawa with my brother and two dozen freshly baked mince pies. After his wife died, my bereaved uncle flew up from New York for his first visit ever, to be with us. The house was really full then – my husband and I, our children, my parents, all those other relatives – one year my in-laws too, from B.C. – and always, in memory of that lonely day in Vancouver, a few people who didn't have anywhere else to go. Homeless waifs, we called them - a fixture, a necessity at our festive table.
After the groaning excess of dinner, my mother would pound out carols on the piano; we'd stand around singing in the paper hats we'd pulled from Christmas crackers, the table behind us strewn with plates, bottles, tangerine skins and nutshells. As he sang, my father loved to offend with his own irreverent lyrics; "Deck your balls with cloves of garlic," was his favourite. Later, the children would settle down to read with him or do a puzzle with Grandma and Auntie Do. It was exhausting, and there was always a familiar family tension under the cheer. But this, I felt, was what Christmas was really meant to be.
The summer my first-born turned seven, my father was diagnosed with stomach cancer. That year, we went to Edmonton for the holidays. Our plates at Christmas dinner were piled high, as usual. In front of him sat a small bowl of turkey broth, which he couldn't finish.
Next year was very hard. There was an unbearable silence at the centre of our gathering, though we were all aware of the irony of our grief – my father, an atheist and a Jew, had never really liked Christmas. At least, the religious, manger part; he loved feasting and giving gifts. The rest of us mourned and drank a good bottle of wine in his honour. After that my uncle, his brother, decided he didn't want to travel at such a difficult time of year."If I'm ever in Toronto, though," he deadpanned, "I'll be sure to look you up."
One bleak November not long after, my husband and I separated. Though we struggled, in the end successfully, to remain friends, each year there was a painful tussle over the children at Christmas – who would be where when, for what. My aunt announced she could no longer manage the journey to Toronto; she and her mince pies would stay at home. My brother bought his first house and decided to stay at home too. I was grateful to our homeless waifs for filling out the table.
Last year was a celebration of another sort: the guests included my ex-husband and his girlfriend. It was good to see him at the head of the table again, carving the turkey in his yellow paper hat. This year, though, he's overloaded with work and can't come. My mum has just bought a condo in Florida, so she'll be staying south. This year, on Christmas morning, it's just the kids and me.
They're teenagers now, leaving home before too long. I find myself wondering – will I end up once more alone, with a small present under a large plant? I don't think so. I think these children will keep coming back, if they can. They seem to feel that there's only one place to wait for the feast – at home, even if the dog and I are the only ones here.
One day, our ranks will swell once more. Perhaps I'll marry again, who knows? My kids will find partners. Maybe one day they'll make their own joyful announcements, and with great ceremony I'll open the bottle of 1982 Burgundy I have stored in the cellar, to toast new life in the family. On Christmas Day, the children of my children will settle down to read and do puzzles with their grandma. That'll be me.
And once again, there'll be a big turkey and the best tablecloth covered with debris and bottles and chaos and carols and paper hats. And always, homeless waifs on a solitary leg of their own journey, invited to join us at the ever-changing banquet table of life.
From the ebb and flow of my house, to the ebb and flow of yours – Merry Christmas.

"Relax into the blow"

A grey, wet, mild Friday morning in C'town, and you'll be happy to hear that sanity and calm have returned to this fevered brow. I remembered something important at 4 a.m. this morning. When I went to a prestigious British theatre school in 1971, I didn't expect that one of my most important lessons would come from stage fighting class, where we learned to stab and kick and smash heads realistically. We all had to do a choreographed fight in front of the British Board of Stage Fight Directors - the Romeo-Tybalt fight with swords, knives, and feet - and though I was easily one of the clumsiest, I along with everyone else was awarded the Certificate of Proficiency in Stage Fighting, one of my prized possessions, which hangs framed in my downstairs bathroom.

Our marvellous teacher was B.H. Barry, who now works in New York and was recently, I was thrilled to see, the subject of a short profile in the New Yorker. He taught us a lot. And most importantly, he taught us this: Relax into the blow.

If you are rigid and tense when the blow comes, it will hurt much more. If you're loose and relaxed, you'll move with the blow and it will hurt much less, do less damage.

At 4 a.m. this morning, I heard him again: Relax into the blow. What's the point of fretting about what is or what may be, or, for that matter, the mistakes of the past? No point. You're alive, you're fine. Let it go, as someone famously sang. Relax. Put your mind to other tasks.

Friends have been offering retreats - Ruth offered a basement room, my neighbour Monique gave me her key and said come in anytime - and I think in the new year I will take them up on it. Sitting here while the demolition crashes above my head does not help. I will continue to sleep here, to guard my house and to be home. But I will try to get away during the day.

That's when work resumes, which may not, because of the snafus, be for some weeks. But I will not fret. I will relax into the blow and think of other things and keep my gut loose and my mind clear. I am a famously tense, uptight person, always seeing the possible worst. But I will change that. I will.

It wasn't yesterday, it's today the termite guys come to begin the process, which will continue after Xmas and in the spring. I will relax as they poke around in the chewed-up wood of my kitchen. Because how lucky am I - the experts are here to make sure these bugs go away and never come back. I will not think about the cost, because what's the point? It has to be done.

Fifteen minutes ago, I sent a PDF of the memoir to RePrint. I'm going there anyway to get colour xeroxes made - I put together a collage yesterday of photos of my kids when they were small, mostly with their grandfathers, will get that reproduced for them and might as well have a hard copy of the latest draft. I hope to send it in the next week or two to the editor.

There's life in these old bones yet.

MORE gloom and doom

My friends, I think I used to be perky, setting out cheerily for new adventures, perhaps fun to be with.

Maybe again sometime. Not right now.

It's all too much, right now. The excruciating daily news, the abasement of everything we hold dear - the Ontario government cutting after-school programs for at-risk kids, British politicians screaming abuse at each other as their country disintegrates, as France disintegrates, as the U.S. flops and flounders and makes a disgusting spectacle of itself. As the worst side of humanity flourishes. Is this ALL due to Russian interference, as we're finding out every day? To the internet and the Russians? Just how evil is Putin? It hurts to read or hear. It makes me sick.

But my personal situation is also making me sick. As we renovate, we become embroiled in one snafu after another, blundering about here, making mistakes because we're nice people with no fucking idea what we're doing. A well-meaning mistake today may take months and much, much more money to fix. At the moment, in any case, it's Christmas - really? Christmas? - and everything has ground to a halt. My second floor is a skeleton, my Xmas presents for family are all stored on the third floor and the staircase to that floor has nearly been dismantled, and my Xmas tree is a one foot high Ikea fake I bought for Auntie Do once and carried back in my suitcase last month, in case I needed it. I need it. Christmas is about as far from my thoughts as it's possible to be.

My stomach heaves, my heart pounds. And then I say - well, what's the worst that can happen? It'll take months of chaos and dislocation, you'll be in debt for a long time, and, of course, little will get written. Okay, it happens, you'll survive. But I'll have - eventually, if we ever get there, if we ever can move forward - a renewed house with many problems solved. (And many new ones unearthed by the reno and, perforce, we hope, solved.) The house is worth a lot of money and will be worth more. My children will be very sad when I die, but they will receive generous compensation for the terrible loss of their mother. That is, if I don't sell this place soon and move to Bali and spend all my bucks on martinis.

I'm sad and scared and pissed off at my stupidity, at embarking on this vast project without knowing what I was getting into. But I know I'll pull out of it. Today was a terrible horrible no good very bad day, that's all.

Perspective - talking to a dear friend today whose husband's Alzheimer's is getting worse; on a recent trip to Cuba, they got on on a double-decker bus where she sat him in the handicapped section downstairs and went upstairs to sit. When she came back down, he was gone; he had followed someone off the bus. Her husband, who cannot speak Spanish and doesn't even know his own name, was wandering the streets of Havana. Eventually, he was found, but what a nightmare, ongoing, getting worse for her. A loved friend is awaiting a biopsy. Not to mention countless others with life-threatening problems. And I - a renovation that's gone wrong. Well boo hoo.

My father did a literal translation of the great French term "s'emmerder" - 'beshitment.' He used to talk about "the human search for beshitment," at making life more difficult and complicated. Well Dad, I have chosen quite a little packet of beshitment. Wish you were here to laugh me through it.

Today I got home and left my bike outside while I rushed in to deal with whatever - and an hour later Ed, Kevin's helper, pointed out that I had left the bike unlocked. Yesterday, I left my most loved cashmere scarf at the dentist. Got to get it together. This too shall pass. That's what everyone is telling me, and it's true. So get over it.

My fridge is making strange chugging noises I've never heard before.

Tomorrow, just to lighten the mood around here, the termite treatment begins.

Just got this, from a former student submitting an essay for consideration for So True next year:
On another note, you are a fantastic teacher who is enriching so many lives, in other words – thank you and happy holidays.

Thanks, Jody. I needed that.

a slump

Voices from upstairs, men figuring out this and that. Measuring negotiating planning. Always problems arising in this old old house. Nightmares for the owner, sleepless nights, upset stomach. Decisions to make.

Let sleeping dogs lie, they say. My house was a very sleepy skinny old Borzoi with many things wrong. Undertaking to fix them has brought forth a whole new array of issues. My hair is grey and soon I think my face will be grey too.

However. No choice now but forward. Tomorrow they say there will be sun. That will help; it's been the greyest fall on record, I understand. Also, a family member recently called to tell me about a cancer diagnosis, that dreaded word: aggressive. Hit me very hard, just when I was feeling raw.

But - two of my oldest friends came for dinner last night, in the rubble - Suzette and Jessica, both of whom have been through renovation hell and were kind and supportive, with great ideas. And then we ate and drank and talked - a lot about aging, how and where will we live, what is happening to us now, how people call us Ma'am and stand for us on the streetcar, and we all, vibrant accomplished working women with lots still to do in this world, can't understand why.

I stepped heedlessly into this project, a good idea to do a little this and that, and now it's huge, carnage, massive destruction. I know it will all be worth it; good things have already come - a major clear out, timely discovery of more termites. But right now, all I see is money flying out the door and noise, mess, disruption, to the horizon.

First world problems.

Need to go for a walk.  And then - just to complete my joy - to the dentist.

Yo Yo, light, "Will You Ever Forgive Me?"

Yo Yo Ma was in Montreal recently with his new Bach project, playing Bach's Unaccompanied - how I would love to have been there. And then he played in a Montreal subway station. When asked why he'd included Canada on his very busy itinerary, he said something like, "Are you kidding? Canada is one of the only liberal democracies left!" Chrystia Freeland was interviewed recently by the NYTimes in Toronto; she rode her bicycle to the interview, and she also said, “I would argue — and I don’t think this is gloating at all — I think Canada is the strongest liberal democracy in the world right now. And if you guys disagree with me, name me one that’s stronger. Right? Truly. We’re standing pretty strong, and that’s great.”

#proudtobeacanuck!

Another weekend - no men in my house. Though today, I put an emergency call through to Kevin at noon, when I found water dripping from the third floor to the second. AAAHG - the angry water gods again! Luckily, Kevin lives a few houses away and came right away; not a hole in the roof, it was a problem with the plumbing he installed yesterday, fixed in an hour.

But as I sat in the sauna at the Y, breathing in the hot still air, I realized one reason this reno has been so difficult for me: yes, of course, it's my house being ripped apart and partially demolished as I live in it, with resulting disruption, dust, and chaos, terrible ripping, crashing sounds of destruction. And yes, it's money, tons of money floating up the chimney, to the great merriment of the Royal Bank of Canada.

But also - I am a woman who lives alone. There are days I talk to almost no-one, as I sit in my house, my sanctuary of peace and solitude. And now my sanctuary is flooded with people daily - Kevin and Ed arrive at 8.30 a.m., JM not long after, the electrician, the termite guys, the roofer, the others, a long procession, all needing to be dealt with. A thousand decisions have to be made, all costing me money and the men time.

So - a tiny bit of stress. A tich of anxiety. JM is very kind and says I'm dealing with it well. You could have fooled me.

Fun yesterday - we need lighting fixtures, and he discovered a high end lighting showroom that has - be still my beating heart - a remainder table with quality stuff vastly reduced. So we went yesterday to check out all the boxes piled on their table. It's a wonderful place: Dark Tools.
https://www.darktools.com/. The owner, Glen, a most personable man, took time from a company lunch he was hosting to show us his wares; he's passionate about lights, and we fell for his honeyed words, and also his offer of sometimes 90% off. I bought an extravagant something that's totally not me, and yet I hope will work in a new very tall space we're creating by taking out a bit of third floor floor, and also a pendant orb for my bedroom. I woke at 4 a.m. in a sweat, wondering if they're ridiculous. You be the judge.
We have the raw materials; that's the finished product. We'll hang individual maple leaves all over the frame and suspend it in a very tall passageway.

I've never bought anything at a high end design store before - but that remainder table made these a possibility. And then Glen drove us back here in his truck and I learned all about his love life. Now that's a great experience in a store!

Today, like last Saturday, I've spent recovering from the week, and from the leak. This mild afternoon, rode my bike to my favourite cinema, the Carlton, to see "Will you ever forgive me?" There seem to be lots of movies about writers these days, this one about Lee Israel, a biographer who fell on hard times, ended up forging author letters fashioned in the voices of famous writers and making very good money selling to dealers - until she was apprehended. And then, of course, she wrote a memoir about her life of crime. It features superb performances by Melissa McCarthy - only a little bit of milking going on - and the always fabulous Richard Grant, doing another version of his dissolute but adorable "Withnail and I" character. Well done and very entertaining.

As in "The Wife," in this film, the writer's life is not enviable. And yet here we are. With our new twinkly lights and our smashed house and a glass of wine in our hand.

Onward.

discovering Facebook Messenger

Starting with the big news - Michael Cohen's conviction. Sing, Mike, sing! Nail the giant orange blowhole. Though I wonder with what's going on everywhere else - Brazil, Britain, Ontario, Italy, Hungary et al - will it make any difference? What has happened to our world?! The revenge of the angry white man. Lynn Skyped today from Montpellier, livid at the gilets jaunes, who have paralyzed cities and shops before Xmas, putting lots of people out of work. "We have free education and wonderful health care," she said, "but it's not enough for them."

Major discovery today: Someone sent me a message on FB Messenger, so I replied, and then saw to my amazement that there were all kinds of messages on the left side of the screen. I started scrolling, and realized that they went back to 2008 or so, the year I joined FB! I didn't realize you should check Messenger regularly. People wrote nice notes about liking my books; one woman loved "So True" and wrote offering me a print of an old typewriter; several people wrote after pieces of mine appeared on CBC radio, asking if I was the Beth Kaplan they'd known in the past. I was mortified to realize I'd ignored them all.

So I wrote back to a few, wondering if they'd reply even after years, and one did immediately, a schoolmate from Grades 7- 9 in Halifax, and another a friend from New Brunswick. Crazy.

Yet another way to pass the time. I was about to write "waste time" but changed it. It's so much fun.

Nearly had a meltdown today. Poor JM brings up some new issue or expense and watches my face turn purple with stress. Today the electrician came and told us changing the panel and the new wiring would cost $8000. This is not even an item on the budget; we both forgot changing the wiring would be necessary. These are the kinds of things that turn my face puce. It's terrifying.

However. It's happening. And once it's done, if I survive, it'll all have been worth it. Already there's much more light pouring into the second floor because of the third floor barriers we've removed. But still, it looks pretty dreadful.
The view from my bedroom of the rest of the second floor and the stairs to the third. The skeleton of my house.

But on the plus side, there's this - Eli's Christmas concert yesterday. Just look at that multicoloured band of Grade One's. He's the fourth from the left in the back row - very serious. Looking, once more, exactly like my father as a boy.
Tomorrow JM and I go to look at second-hand light fixtures. Life is full of excitement. Oh, and best of all - I've booked a massage tomorrow at 3. I may just stay there until February.