Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 12

Kamala rules, and Jane Austen Wrecked my Life

So, last night’s debate — not even close. I was concerned, because when Kamala was running for the Democratic nomination, she seemed shallow during the debates and laughed too much; I didn’t like her. Mon dieu, how much she’s learned; she was extraordinarily skilful and articulate last night. The fact that this election is even remotely close is what’s astounding. As David Sedaris once said, grossly, the choice is between a cordon bleu steak and dog shit rolled in ground glass — hmmm, that’s a dilemma, says almost half the American electorate — what should I choose?

Sorry, it’s disgusting, but I think the metaphor is apt.

Monday, great excitement. Actress Liz Crowther who’d just flown in from London came for dinner; she was here for the TIFF premiere of the film Jane Austen Wrecked my Life, in which she appears. We gabbed over dinner about acting as a career, Liz who’s done it all her life and I who gave up after ten years. And then we went to join the crowds and madness downtown, for the film.

There I was, in a prime seat next to one of the film’s stars and two spectacular Frenchwomen, the writer/director, and the producer. The bilingual film is gorgeous; I loved it. It’s about courage and entropy and grief, but also about the joy of writing and words, and it’s very funny. The bilingual cast is perfect, and Lizzie of the long blonde braid is particularly wonderful, in French! The rights have been sold so it will get distribution; I hope you get to see it.

On Sunday, Stevie Cameron’s memorial, in front of a stellar assembly of Canadian notables, politicos like Bob Rae and well-known writers, movers, and shakers, was very moving. She made a big difference to our country. We’re in her debt.Yesterday, two readers posted on Instagram praising Midlife Solo, and last night, the first Zoom class of the U of T term, almost full, terrific. Tomorrow I take the bus to Stratford to see friends and three plays, leaving Carol to hold the fort. The sun is shining and the garden still thrives, despite the morning chill.My cup runneth etc. One grateful woman.

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Zoom webinar for Word on the Street, and Stevie Cameron

I’m doing a free Zoom webinar for Word on the Street in two weeks, on Thursday Sept. 19 from 6 to 7. Info and registration here. Please pass on to anyone who might be interested. The great thing about Zoom is that if you’re bored, you can turn off your camera and do the dishes. The date, below, is wrong: it’s Thursday not Tuesday Sept. 19.

Link: https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/wots-virtual-workshop-writing-memoir-with-beth-kaplan-registration-1008552376307?aff=ebdsoporgprofile

It’s the Cabbagetown Festival this weekend, a marvellous event when the ‘hood is packed with garage sales, an arts and crafts show, music, street food, and huge crowds showcasing the extreme multicultural nature of this city – one snapshot, a group of black-shrouded women in niqab walking next to a bearded person in a dress, a bald man wearing leather and chains with a completely tattooed head, and two elegant gay men with their kids. People of every colour under the sun, and there was some sun, though it was mostly cloudy with a bit of drizzle. We remained undaunted. I bought a bunch of books for the kids at the garage sales (ever hopeful, though they are not readers yet), and later Anna, the boys and I wandered about and bought meat on a stick for them and Thai food for us. The food booths – Ethiopian street food! Colombian street food!

There are lots of events; on Wednesday, Annie, Ruth, John, and I went to the C’town Short Film Festival. This morning, though, I copped out. It’s the C’town Mini-marathon, almost 2 k. through the local streets, and I’ve run it almost every year, even by some great fluke a long time ago won it once or twice in my category of Senior Women. But it means getting up early, warming up, being there by 8.30, running at 9, and being exhausted for the rest of the day. This morning, I’m still not 100%, it was freezing, and I decided to give myself a break and sat drinking coffee at 8.30. I did go out to cheer the runners. The magnificent Jazz Shukla, a gorgeous specimen of womankind who started her athletic career in this ‘hood and just ran at the Olympics, breezed in, by far the first. And then the others, including many children, dogs, and walkers. I want to do it next year with my boys. We’ll see.

The start. Where I was not.

In previous years, when I was still a Goodwill junkie, I’d have a big garage sale myself, which is a lot of work. Glad not to do that any more. It was gratifying that twice this weekend I was stopped by youngish men who took my course years ago. One I didn’t remember well, but one I certainly did, because of the power of his unusual story. Right now, happy to be home with yet another fat peameal bacon sandwich from Mark the butcher’s booth on the street. We get them every year. Soon I’ll bike around and explore again.

I had another reason to preserve my strength today, besides the very busy week coming up — I’m going this afternoon to the memorial event for my C’town neighbour Stevie Cameron, whom I knew and admired. She was a formidable investigative reporter in her day, exposing, for example, PM Mulroney’s corruption; she was a great writer of several important books, hugely respected. Latterly she was sadly diminished by both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, so cruel. I want to honour her life and work.

Thank you, Stevie. We need you now more than ever.

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The cheque was in the mail

And just like that – September 1 – the weather turned. The days are glorious, but the evenings are definitely cool. Amazing that Mother Nature pays attention to our calendar like that. But sometimes she does.

If I post this, you have to promise not to pass it on to Pierre Poilievre. He rants about destroying the CBC, and I’d hate for him to know how extravagantly they pay people. I just received a cheque from them, for what I’m not sure. When I saw it was a cheque, my heart leapt; I was on a radio program not long ago, perhaps it was actually paid, not free as I’d been led to believe. But no, this massive payout must be for some past endeavour. I wrote to the kids, perhaps a winter vacation is in the cards for us now!

Or perhaps not.

The same thing that often haunts me is back – a bug nagging at my throat, my nose. I guess I’m susceptible to bronchial things. I’ve been fighting, though, with what’s left of the wonder drug I bought in France – Berocca Immunité – full of vitamins and minerals, and so far, have not succumbed, although whatever it is – a late summer cold? – is still there. I almost canceled going to Lynn’s for a final swim and dinner on Sunday, but luckily did not, because it was sublime. She’d invited two other friends whom I’d never met, and we were instant kindred spirits.

It was potluck and I was asked to bring hors d’oeuvres, so I made pesto hummus with my basil, and tzatziki with my cukes and garlic. Delicious, if I say so myself. And really easy, hardly any equipment needed.

Today, my hairdresser, Spavros, is back from more than two months in Greece. I usually get a haircut every six weeks, so was full-on fluffy/hairy/out-of-control by today, very glad to be trimmed back to something respectable. He’s a lovely guy. Today I was telling him about the Festival film, Jane Austen Ruined my Life, I’m going to on Monday with my friend Liz who’s flying in from London, because she’s in it. He asked, Who’s Jane Austen? I realized they do not deal with Jane Austen in Greek schools, so I told him, and we discussed the writers he learned about, like Plato, Socrates, Euripides, and Homer. He is reading Homer’s Iliad to his young daughter. Lovely to celebrate our different literary heritages and emerge transformed at the same time. Well, kind of transformed. Tidied up, at least. Same old face, however.

Clever memes flying about. Love this one, for my American friends and family.

First day of school! Schoolboys trudging reluctantly … or not so reluctantly, always good to see friends again…

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There’s still hope, despite the ever more dire situation in various corners of the world. Despite it all, a Happy September to you.

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Summer ending? Pas possible! And the Paralympics.

If you need cheering up about the state of the world, turn on your TV and watch the Paralympics. I watched some of the opening ceremonies yesterday — those French, again, what a spectacular celebration, with dance, music, fireworks, and a parade of paralympians. The fact that these extraordinary athletes are not shoved out of sight, as they used to be, but have their own games with brilliant new devices to help them — those curving metal prosthetic legs, for example — is a testament to how some things get better, like gay marriage, legalized weed, MAID, and other improvements in our society that take years to push for and then finally happen. Bravo to you all. Go Team Canada!

In other news: Go Team Kamala!

The last week of summer; next week, things heat up quickly. The Cabbagetown Festival is a busy time, and two friends are coming to stay at the house throughout. My U of T class Life Stories I starts on Zoom Tuesday Sept. 10 — almost full already — and I go to Stratford Thursday to Saturday. The following week I do a solo webinar on memoir writing for Word on the Street, and the International Festival of Writers starts. And then my home class starts too.

So this week — nothing. Today, going across town to be with the boys, who are back from a great time in Nova Scotia and gearing up, perhaps reluctantly, for school. The weather has turned; it got very hot again and now is grey and not hot at all. I’m consuming the last of the peaches and corn — some are still delicious and some are already woody. What I did for this entire summer, I’ve no idea. On Tuesday I had the first piano lesson in months and managed to stagger through, although I’ve hardly played. Peter pointed out that I’ve been coming to him for ten years. That means, I said, I should be a hell of a lot better than I am. However, I’m there, which is what I think about the Y, too. I should be better, after all this time, but at least I’m there.

Cabbagetown creatures: the other day there was a magnificent female Black Swallowtail on my buddleia, which has quadrupled in size this summer. There’s a story in Midlife Solo about Dorothy, who taught me to garden and loved buddleias, so I always have one in the garden in her honour. This one has grown huge, attracting to my joy not just butterflies but a host of fat, happy bees.

The other day a fearless young raccoon appeared at my screen door and scrabbled to get in, in the exact spot where Tiggy scrabbles to get out. I need a stronger screen.

And finally, there’s this creature; I took a selfie in the mirror to show Lynn in France the wonderful fuchsia (buddleia-coloured) linen pants she bought at Monoprix for my birthday, and the t-shirt I already had to go with it, on which is written Little Miss Chatterbox. As you can see, I am well stocked with wine, and the cat is never far away.

Little Miss Chatterbox, over and out for the summer of 2024.

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Good news for planet earth: the Democratic convention

What a show, the Democratic convention! OMG those Americans sure know how to produce something spectacular. In only four weeks!

I started by watching bits and pieces, was drawn in hour by long hour – I’d sigh, here’s another governor, and then he or she would be riveting, what a parade of eloquent talent — and by the last night didn’t want to miss a moment. I missed Stevie Wonder, for God’s sake, and much else. For a brief moment last night, I felt sorry I’d just renounced my American citizenship. When I did, only a few months ago, who could have predicted this miraculous wave of good sense, decency, and profound hope taking over?

The convention was phenomenal. So much went into it. Choosing the themes over four long nights. Deciding, for example, they were going to feature ordinary Americans who’d endured gun violence or abortion restrictions — how did they find exactly the right people, help write their speeches, rehearse them, get them there? No one who spoke seemed nervous, so they’d been well prepared. Even, for heaven’s sake, Kamala’s very young nieces — adorable.

So much more — the superb short films. The intro music, just right for every speaker, how did they do that? Including getting permission from musicians like Beyoncé, Jon Batiste, and Neil Young. The set and lighting, the tech, OMG, the tech, all those mikes with as far as I could see barely a glitch. The stuff under the seats — every time the camera scanned the crowd, they were holding different signs and banners.

The atmosphere was raucous and, yes, joyful. That was the watchword: joy, and it was there plentifold. But mostly, the speeches spoke of everything that matters, or almost everything. My daughter I’m sure is incensed more attention wasn’t paid to the war in Gaza, although several people spoke of it, including Kamala at the end, but there was no Palestinian speaker. Perhaps not enough about climate change, or maybe I missed that. Otherwise, they covered a lot of ground and produced surprise after surprise, including, on the last night, members of the exonerated Central Park Five, brave Gabby Gifford, still recovering from an assassination attempt, and Adam Kinzinger, one of several principled Republicans who spoke throughout. And they didn’t pull any punches about D. Trump and his party, no more Mr. Nice Guy, including in Kamala’s speech where she went after him hard. As he deserves.

Watching it reminded me of the euphoria I felt when Obama was nominated, except better, much better. It seems the Dems have learned from the years of stalemate for cautious, polite President Obama, who thought he could work with the brutal die-hards across the aisle, and from the gut-wrenching defeat of 2016. Dems have reclaimed American patriotism, almost to a nauseating degree to this Canadian — why do they keep saying, “Only in America!” as if in no other country on earth could someone rise from humble beginnings to great success? But it’s okay, that’s how Americans roll. The Dems have re-appropriated the USA chant, the flag, the anthem, sung in 46-part harmony by the wonderful Chicks. They produced war veteran after hardened war veteran — no weaklings, these.

One of the most marvellous things is the new vision offered, not just of a tough, successful, yet compassionate, warm, and open woman, but of the men beside her. Both Coach Walz and Doug Emhoff are men standing second to a powerful woman, unthreatened, supportive, and proud. Gold.

Kamala’s speech was masterful, about her mother, her upbringing, years as a prosecutor, values. How is it possible to be so relaxed as you give the speech of a lifetime in front of many millions of people, potentially saving not just your party, but the planet? And yet she was relaxed, beautiful, radiant. Extraordinary. My only complaint — she didn’t mention her five years in Montreal, the Canadian influence surely key in shaping the exceptional human being she is today.

I know, cold reality will hit and the euphoria will wear off. They were wrong not to allow a Palestinian speaker along with all the others. But for now, there’s much to celebrate. Women! Wise women, supported by kind, self-confident men, are taking over. And that, my friends, is very, very good news.

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nice things, many nice things

I do not know where the days have gone. It’s mid-August! What have I been doing, for God’s sake? No idea. The usual – chores, cooking, cleaning, eating, drinking, reading, watching TV, sitting here tapping and scrolling. A tornado hit the west of the city, in some places causing huge flooding; there was extreme weather by my son’s house in Parkdale, thunder and lightning terrifying his dog. But almost nothing a few miles away here, in C’town. Bizarre! But then bizarre is the name of the weather game these days. We’ve had the wettest summer on record. This morning was freezing; I rode to the Y in a fleece jacket and scarf. But later, hot again. No wonder my veggies are not thriving, except the ever-reliable cukes. Which auto-correct just changed to nukes. Fortunately, those are not growing in my garden.

And yet – things are happening. My piece came out on Friday on the Brevity Blog, and I’m proud of it. Hope it helps. https://brevity.wordpress.com/2024/08/16/the-spielberg-list/

A few days ago, I couldn’t stop myself from responding to a front page article about the deaths of cyclists in Toronto, since I’m directly affected by these tragedies, always relieved to get home in one piece. I spent a few hours drafting a letter to the Editor of the Star. I’ve written a number of letters to the Star, as well as op-ed articles, which have mostly gone unpublished. This one seemed to sink also — no word from the paper.

So I was astonished to find it there this morning. In the online version, it even has a big headline. I hope it provokes some interest. Change? Not much chance. But it’s good, even so, to feel that what I care about deeply might be read by someone out there.

https://www.thestar.com/opinion/letters-to-the-editor/auto-advertising-needs-to-be-regulated-to-stop-encouraging-speeding/article_05f01c74-5bdc-11ef-90f8-3fb4336e2ad1.html?utm_medium=social&utm_source=email&utm_campaign=user-share

Speaking of someone reading out there, I heard from someone who’d just read Midlife Solo, and emailed, “What a treasure trove of words, written with brutal honesty, compassion and love. You have traveled a long, difficult road, and, in sharing your experiences and vulnerability,  you have bravely helped many … Thank you, thank you Beth. I will continue to spread the word and will steer my friends to buy their own copy. Certainly, your wisdom bears more than one reading.”

And on the same day, I received an email from Mike in England. “I am about to publish my first book (my memoir). And you really helped me; in no small way I am indebted to you. I was looking for help on how to write and I discovered your podcast ‘True to Life: Talking about Memoir’ and listened to it all (avidly) several times. I have even referenced one of your references and mentioned your good self. I took your guidance and held it as a reference point along the whole journey to final publication, invaluable on every step. It was of course a long haul, but I loved the process and I am enriched as a result of it, whatever people think about the final product. Thank you from afar again, and please feel free to share my endorsement of your great help and advice.”

Wow! So good to hear from you both. Many many thanks. Dropping stones into the pond and watching the ripples.

Last night, on TCM, I watched most of the film State of the Union from 1948, directed by Frank Capra, with Spenser Tracey and an adoring Katherine Hepburn; the chemistry between them is beautiful to see. It’s about an idealist who gets sucked into the maw of the political machine and nearly loses his soul but, thanks to his wife, climbs back out of hypocrisy and hype to his true self. And he’s a Republican! In what world? Not ours.

Speaking of which, it’s 8 p.m. Time to watch Democrats at work.

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Not changing my life, and reading obituaries

It’s August and sleepy; the month is vanishing. Today, I went to the Beach to swim in Lake Ontario with Annie, but though I waded in to my waist, it was too cold to plunge. Achingly cold. Still, we had a picnic by the lake.

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Fleeing!

A few miscellaneous thoughts: Not long ago, I wrote about reading a book by Dr. Michael Mosley called Just One Thing, filled with small life-changing suggestions, some of which I was determined to take up. Changing my life for the better, here we go! So here’s a report back: I have managed to keep up with almost none of them. Not eating for a while after getting up or after supper and many other suggestions — not happening. I do stand on one leg while I brush my teeth, and I’ve tried kefir and beets. The one change I have made consistently, though, is, in bed last thing, to jot down 3 or 4 things that made me happy during the day. That’s a satisfying exercise.

I read obituaries with more attention and interest as I grow closer to the time when I’ll be in there myself. What I love about them especially are the names, the way names have changed through the decades. So for example, here’s the obituary of a woman called Pearl Margaret, whose siblings were Eileen, James, and William, her husband Frank. Her children: Brian, Janice, Frank, Catherine, Jeffrey, Robert. Her grandchildren: Cory, Lindsay, Ryan, Melissa, Alicia, Cari-Anne, another Melissa, Sean, Drew, Wesley. Her great-grandchildren Chase, Preston, Brett, Brandon, Madelynn, Averie, Hunter, Abbigail, Carter, Maddox, and Zoey.

Other great-grandchildren in recent obits: Hudson, Colton, Kendall, Carter, Aphra, Sedley, Aria, Riley, Tyler, Reid, Olivia, Casey, Brynn, Wade, Roman, Orion, Rhodes, Brennan, Isla. Sedley? Orion? Sheesh. I wonder when the pendulum will swing back, and the favoured names will again be Pearl, Margaret, and Frank. I’m glad Elizabeth is timeless, as are Anna, Samuel, Elijah, and Benjamin, old biblical names all. Anna was considering some trendy names for her boys; it’s good that faded.

Law and Order has redeemed itself; I wonder what that strange right-wing glitch was, condemning Canada for not having the death penalty – making a strange point of some kind? I’m watching the old ones, with the superb Sam Waterston as D.A. Jack McCoy. Two nights ago he prosecuted for murder a white supremacist teacher whose inflamed student had killed someone, leading to a fierce debate about the limits of free speech and the First Amendment. Last night’s was about the culpability of American police in the Sixties using provocateurs to infiltrate student groups and destroy the image and reputation of student radicals. Great stuff.

Yesterday, a friend from university days whom I haven’t seen in decades came for a visit on my deck. It’s extraordinary how we can look at people we knew when young and still see them as they were. I knew Deirdre at Carleton U. in the late sixties, but in June 1972, at the end of my year at theatre school in London, I went to spend a few days in Ireland where I knew no one. In Dublin, who did I run into but Deirdre, who was studying at Trinity and invited me to stay with her. Then in 1977, I flew from Vancouver to Toronto to see if my acting career would do better here, and again, Deirdre, housesitting a magnificent mansion, invited me to move in. I had a basement bedroom on one of the best streets in all Toronto. Now, that’s a friend. We’d lost touch during the busy years, but I’m very glad we’ve reconnected. We had much to catch up on.

My dear friend Dorothy, described in Midlife Solo as the woman who taught me to garden, loved buddleias. Through the years I’ve struggled to keep them alive, but one planted last year has grown huge. Many happy butterflies, especially Painted Ladies like this one. Happy Beth, watching them. How I wish Dorothy were here to celebrate with me.

I’m listening to cicadas and birds, that’s it. During the day, there’s construction not far enough away, but now, at dusk, nothing but the patter of my fingers, a few chirps, and that long sizzling cicada note from outside. Oh, and my cat whimpering that she’s starving to death. Enough chatter. There’s work to do.

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Inside Out 2: adding anxiety to the mix

The Olympics. I didn’t watch a lot, but I did see bits and pieces, including the last 20 minutes of the women’s marathon, breathtaking, the resilience, power, and strength of those lean long-legged women, all African. And then the closing ceremony, beautiful faces and bodies of all sizes, shapes, and colours, joyful, it really was wonderful, with that glorious city always in the background. Who knew Canadians are the heroes of hammer throw? Who knew anything at all about hammer throw?! I can’t get over young people who spend countless hours throwing a heavy object, or, even stranger, trying to use a long pole to fling themselves over a high bar. I mean, who invented pole-vaulting? And why?

But it was great to see the camaraderie, the good feelings. And then Paris passed the torch to L.A. for 2028; Tom Cruise jumped out of an airplane, and we went to L.A. where Snoop Dog rapped incomprehensibly on the beach and Billie Eilish mumbled a song, and my heart sank. But this French version was a marvel. Merci, la France. Spectaculaire!

However, I just had an unpleasant experience; I watched an episode of Law and Order that took aim at Canada because we do not have the death penalty. The story involved a Canadian woman living in New York, unquestionably a bad person who murdered several people to get what she wanted. The issue was, should she be executed by the state? The Canadian authorities refused to extradite her unless the death penalty was taken off the table; but her trial ended with her being sentenced to death. And the program ended with the notables of L&O sneering at Canada for not executing its criminals.

It made me sick. Grateful 1000%, once again, to be Canadian.

However, earlier today, I saw a wonderful Disney/Pixar film, Inside Out 2. The first Inside Out was a clever exploration of a young girl’s mind, her cavalcade of emotions — Fear, Joy, Sadness, Disgust, and Anger, wonderfully voiced by Hollywood’s best, as they wrestle inside her. I took the boys to see this new one to give their mother a break today; she’s just back from a family wedding in Winnipeg and leaving tomorrow for nearly 2 weeks in Nova Scotia, so had a lot to do. They would have preferred to see the manic Despicable Me 4, and I promised to take them when they get back, but I really wanted Eli to see this one. He’s 12, and Riley, the main character, just turned 13; an alarm labelled PUBERTY blares out and sends everything in her mind into chaos. It’s hilarious and also frighteningly true. Suddenly she’s taken over by Embarrassment, Ennui (being both tired and bored, which is Eli’s default demeanour), Envy, and especially Anxiety, who nearly drives her to lose her sense of self. One of the sombre messages of the film: as we grow older, we exchange joy for anxiety.

The script writers consult with psychiatric professionals to craft their images — our memories like billions of glowing coloured balls, the islands of Friendship and Family, and other thought-provoking notions. I’ve just sent out a Substack about a vital memory; in the film, it would be a sparkling yellow ball, one of the happy ones; there are many, many sad or difficult ones too. Embarrassment, envy, and anxiety have had their way with me. Still do.

https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/p/digging-into-detail

Luckily we had the cinema to ourselves except for one other grandmother with two grandchildren, because Ben, who has ADHD, spent much of the film running up and down the stairs. But, while in perpetual motion, I think he does listen and take it all in. I will miss them. Got a chance back at Anna’s to read more chapters of Holes to Eli; we’re nearly done. There’s a great deal at stake in this book; it’s terrific. I want to read on and find out what happens but will wait for him so we can find out together. Luckily, he’s not completely swamped with ennui, not quite yet.

A photo in the paper of Trump supporters waiting for him at a rally. They look just like us, and yet they’re not — consumed with anger, disgust, and fear. Definitely support the death penalty. Hard to understand.

Now we need something lovely: this is one of my favourite artists, Matisse, with his beloved cat.

It’s perfect summer weather, breezy with sun. I am as usual dealing with too many cucumbers and little else in the garden. Come on over for some gazpacho! You’re invited. And we will eat with Joy.

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Touch: must see film

The world feels like a saner, safer place right now, with two humane, sensible people running for office in the U.S. Could it be that the lunatics will be forced back into their grotty holes? Well, no, because three teenagers have been arrested for a terrorist plot in Austria, intending to slaughter people at a Taylor Swift concert. Lots of lunatics out there still, not to mention the current crop of warmongers raining death upon their own people and others. But Kamala and Tim, sanity in suits – thank you for them.

Tuesday I went across town to meet the boys after the day camp at their school, to walk them home and feed them until their mother got home. They’d had a very active day so I didn’t mind the video games, although to my great joy, I did get to read lots more chapters of Holes to Eli, such a good book. Sometimes when we are reading, he puts his head on my shoulder. Nothing feels so good.

Ben had an avatar at his very clever online baseball game; on-screen Ben was six-foot-two and weighed 210 pounds. Actual Ben has a little way to go.

Anna was supposed to be home by 5.30. By 6.30 I’d been texting her and heard nothing back, she who’s attached to her phone as to an umbilical cord. My sensible mind said something must have happened to her phone, but my mother mind eventually went into hyperdrive – kidnapping! Accident! Finally, around 7, she got in touch. She’d left her phone in an Uber, couldn’t call to get it because it was in the Uber, didn’t know my number because it’s in her phone. It took the poor woman a long time to get it back and then get home. She has so much going on – is leaving tomorrow for a family wedding in Winnipeg while the boys go to Matt’s for the weekend, and then back late Sunday to spend Monday getting ready to leave Tuesday with her boys for almost two weeks with her best friend in Nova Scotia. It’s a good thing she’s young. Well, younger than some of us.

Speaking of which, I saw a fabulous film today, about aging, regret, love lost and found, youthful idealism, old age yearning, and so much more. Touch is an Icelandic film and simply exquisite; haunting. Could not have loved it more. Achingly beautiful, I’d say, because I ached as I walked out. An elderly Icelandic widower facing decline goes in search of his first great love, which takes him to London and then to Japan. We see him now and him then, wonderful flashback scenes of the sixties, there he is (the very handsome young actor is the son of the film’s director) with a headband holding back his long hair at a student protest – we must be about the same age, he and I. No, he’s a bit older, he moves more slowly than I. But still, I have to say that I left glad not to have a youthful lost love to mourn. Except for Paul McCartney, of course.

Speaking of aging, Sam sent me this this, from Instagram: “I knew I’d get too old to recognize celebrities but I did not expect to get too old to recognize what celebrities are famous for. I go, ‘Is that a new singer?’ and a person born in 2007 goes, ‘Ew no, they’re a peeble streamer on doop,’ as I inch closer to the grave.”

Me too. LOL!

Here’s the man himself with his great love. Photograph by his adoring mother.

And here she is, just sent by the San Miguel Writers’ Conference — Faculty! With all her faculties, we hope. For now, at least. Fingers crossed.

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thoughts in the rain

Rain, beautiful hard fresh rain on the parched plants and earth. It’s a holiday Monday, very quiet in the big city. Not a siren so far today.

Worries today, things daunting or hurtful, problems. C’est la vie.

I finished a terrific book in translation, Swimming in Paris, by France’s Colombe Schneck, not about the Olympics but a memoir in three parts about various aspects of her life – extremely honest and well-written. Now I’m reading my former student Charles Hayter’s excellent book Cancer Confidential, about his life as a radiation oncologist, which sounds dull and mystifying but is anything but – he takes us behind the scenes in clinics and hospitals to show the fallible, difficult human beings at work there, and it’s fascinating. But it does lead me to remember various cancers encountered in my life, particularly my father’s, and to be grateful that at the moment, at least, it’s not rearing its vile head around me now.

Though I do have a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks to inspect a mole.

Not much is happening, except that it seems I’m as busy as ever, and the days vanish. A glorious swim in Toronto Lynn’s beautiful pool.
A rosé visit here with friend and accomplished colleague Rona Maynard, a book exchange with Charles, a visit with other neighbours, and son Sam over yesterday to cook us dinner. There’s an Icelandic movie called Touch close by I’d like to see and can’t get myself there. Much much editing and emailing, however.

When there’s an ache in my gut, as there is sometimes, the garden is there to receive and relieve me.

And to give up its gifts. My first eggplant!

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