Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 122
August 4, 2018
the beach, the beach
To bring you up to date on recent stories: first, the tiny spider in my window has remained motionless for days. Nothing has entered his web, and in any case, he and the web are so small and delicate, his dinner would have to be something in the order of fruitflies, which ordinarily do not hang around my bedroom. I have contemplated trying to catch one in the kitchen and sticking it in the web, but I don't think spiders, even very small ones, approve of that sort of thing.
In fact, he's so still, I wonder if he's even alive. But in any case, I am still careful opening my blinds in the morning.
Auntie Do is now out of hospital and in a recovery place; she's not happy there and misses the hospital. She is hoping to regain enough strength to move home in a week or two, and then we will begin the struggle about the next move - to the Unitarian retirement home which will soon have a place for her. That is, whether she will consider it or not.
And - being 68 is great! My energy was tested yesterday and passed. I worked in the morning (had sent the manuscript of the rewrite off to the young editor and then busily rewrote page after page, so have sent her a rewrite of the rewrite), did a muscleworks class at the Y, and spent the afternoon sorting in the basement with the help of Nicole. I am inspired by the CBC documentary about the lunatic hoarder and am truly attempting to make inroads on the junk here, tossing and tossing. But of course, we come back to family photos and memorabilia, CD's and books - impossible. Paralyzed.
After hours of that I was exhausted, settled into my chair with a good computer when at 5.20 the phone rang - Jean-Marc and Richard were biking to the island to swim and have a picnic, did I want to come and if so could I be ready in 5 minutes? I did and I was. It was heaven, cycling down to the ferry and around the island, landing on the beach, swimming in the cool water, dining together, with wine, on delicious salads and dessert. The beach was crowded and noisy, and of course, since it's clothing optional, there were many penises and a few breasts of various sizes, shapes, and colours parading back and forth. A truly unique place.
JM and Richard are celebrating their 22nd anniversary today. All my love to them - the best neighbours ever.
Will this woman ever learn not to grimace at the camera?
Today, Saturday of the long weekend, the city sounds dead. Heaven. I have cleaned some kitchen cupboards (because mice - don't know what to do, hate traps) and soon will head off to see "Eighth Grade" with Ken. Later, must deal with vegetables - many cucumbers, much kale, tons of basil.
Bill Maher was back last night after a month away. It was riveting and appalling, his guests laying out in horrifying detail just how much trouble the US is in, just how hideous is the Axis of Evil as defined by Maher - Trump, Charles Koch, Rupert Murdoch. Guest Nancy McLean has written a book laying out exactly what Koch is working toward - rescinding various articles of the Constitution to make life much easier and freer for far right billionaires. Apparently, he's nearly there.
Not to mention our planet burning up on all sides, and the ostriches with their heads buried deep.
Hard to reconcile this beautiful hot day with the evil lurking out there. I will put it aside for now. Read in the NYT that we all deserve a holiday from the news. Maybe I should start today.
But how?
In fact, he's so still, I wonder if he's even alive. But in any case, I am still careful opening my blinds in the morning.
Auntie Do is now out of hospital and in a recovery place; she's not happy there and misses the hospital. She is hoping to regain enough strength to move home in a week or two, and then we will begin the struggle about the next move - to the Unitarian retirement home which will soon have a place for her. That is, whether she will consider it or not.
And - being 68 is great! My energy was tested yesterday and passed. I worked in the morning (had sent the manuscript of the rewrite off to the young editor and then busily rewrote page after page, so have sent her a rewrite of the rewrite), did a muscleworks class at the Y, and spent the afternoon sorting in the basement with the help of Nicole. I am inspired by the CBC documentary about the lunatic hoarder and am truly attempting to make inroads on the junk here, tossing and tossing. But of course, we come back to family photos and memorabilia, CD's and books - impossible. Paralyzed.
After hours of that I was exhausted, settled into my chair with a good computer when at 5.20 the phone rang - Jean-Marc and Richard were biking to the island to swim and have a picnic, did I want to come and if so could I be ready in 5 minutes? I did and I was. It was heaven, cycling down to the ferry and around the island, landing on the beach, swimming in the cool water, dining together, with wine, on delicious salads and dessert. The beach was crowded and noisy, and of course, since it's clothing optional, there were many penises and a few breasts of various sizes, shapes, and colours parading back and forth. A truly unique place.
JM and Richard are celebrating their 22nd anniversary today. All my love to them - the best neighbours ever.
Will this woman ever learn not to grimace at the camera?Today, Saturday of the long weekend, the city sounds dead. Heaven. I have cleaned some kitchen cupboards (because mice - don't know what to do, hate traps) and soon will head off to see "Eighth Grade" with Ken. Later, must deal with vegetables - many cucumbers, much kale, tons of basil.
Bill Maher was back last night after a month away. It was riveting and appalling, his guests laying out in horrifying detail just how much trouble the US is in, just how hideous is the Axis of Evil as defined by Maher - Trump, Charles Koch, Rupert Murdoch. Guest Nancy McLean has written a book laying out exactly what Koch is working toward - rescinding various articles of the Constitution to make life much easier and freer for far right billionaires. Apparently, he's nearly there.
Not to mention our planet burning up on all sides, and the ostriches with their heads buried deep.
Hard to reconcile this beautiful hot day with the evil lurking out there. I will put it aside for now. Read in the NYT that we all deserve a holiday from the news. Maybe I should start today.
But how?
August 2, 2018
onward
Listening to a CBC documentary about hoarders, crazy people hanging onto stuff that drives their families nuts. An important lesson. Time to purge, girlfriend.
My birthday dinner was wonderful, including five salads made with my very own beans, kale, tomatoes, and, of course, endless cucumbers, and lots of meats barbecued with skill by Thomas. Entertainment by Eli and Ben. Ben told me at one point, about the day before, "I got dung, Glamma!" I wondered if this had something to do with compost, but no, it had to do with wasps.
The next day was lovely, very quiet. I went to Carole's class at the Y, where the whole runfit class sang Happy Birthday. Later, Jean-Marc and Richard came for dinner on the deck, leftovers and rosé, perfect on a mild evening. Many kind messages via FB, phone, and email from dear, thoughtful friends.
Nancy, a student from 2012, wrote to let me know that members of her class still meet regularly, and that she has just posted about my writing book on her brand new blog.
If you’re ready to start writing your own story, here are my suggestions for books on the craft that every writer should read:Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott. Lamott is funny, passionate, powerful and my favourite writer on writing.On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King. Need I say more?True to Life: Fifty Steps to Help You Tell Your Story, Beth Kaplan. Easy to read, funny, with loads of wisdom from a great teacher.The Elements of Style, William Strunk, Jr., and E.B. White. A classic, always on my desk.Fucking Apostrophes, Simon Griffin. A funny little book that tells you exactly where you can stick your apostrophes.
I'm honoured, Nancy, to be in such fine company - Strunk and White!
Auntie Do is moving right now from hospital to a care facility, to recover. She'll go home from there, but I hope before long to a retirement home. The very stubbornness and independence that has kept her alive for so long is impeding her move to the next step. Stay tuned.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain. -James Baldwin, writer (2 Aug 1924-1987)
Much, much to do on these long hot quiet days. Here goes.
My birthday dinner was wonderful, including five salads made with my very own beans, kale, tomatoes, and, of course, endless cucumbers, and lots of meats barbecued with skill by Thomas. Entertainment by Eli and Ben. Ben told me at one point, about the day before, "I got dung, Glamma!" I wondered if this had something to do with compost, but no, it had to do with wasps.
The next day was lovely, very quiet. I went to Carole's class at the Y, where the whole runfit class sang Happy Birthday. Later, Jean-Marc and Richard came for dinner on the deck, leftovers and rosé, perfect on a mild evening. Many kind messages via FB, phone, and email from dear, thoughtful friends.
Nancy, a student from 2012, wrote to let me know that members of her class still meet regularly, and that she has just posted about my writing book on her brand new blog.
If you’re ready to start writing your own story, here are my suggestions for books on the craft that every writer should read:Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott. Lamott is funny, passionate, powerful and my favourite writer on writing.On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King. Need I say more?True to Life: Fifty Steps to Help You Tell Your Story, Beth Kaplan. Easy to read, funny, with loads of wisdom from a great teacher.The Elements of Style, William Strunk, Jr., and E.B. White. A classic, always on my desk.Fucking Apostrophes, Simon Griffin. A funny little book that tells you exactly where you can stick your apostrophes.
I'm honoured, Nancy, to be in such fine company - Strunk and White!
Auntie Do is moving right now from hospital to a care facility, to recover. She'll go home from there, but I hope before long to a retirement home. The very stubbornness and independence that has kept her alive for so long is impeding her move to the next step. Stay tuned.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain. -James Baldwin, writer (2 Aug 1924-1987)
Much, much to do on these long hot quiet days. Here goes.
July 31, 2018
wild life
There is something amazing and beautiful in my bedroom. Visible only in sunlight, a minuscule spider has built a web in front of my window, long almost invisible silver threads coming down from the ceiling and continuing to the table below, and there, in the middle of a perfect little web, he or she waits. A dot. I have to be careful, every morning, not to disturb my companion, this tiny artist, hunter, homebuilder.
And yesterday, I was watering the veggies at the back when a male cardinal landed on the birdfeeder not two feet away and began cracking seeds with his beak, spitting out the shell and snapping up the seed inside. Cardinals are usually very cautious, but this guy has no fear, paid me no mind several times through the day, so I got to admire his extraordinary orange feathers with a brown tinge, the bold crest on his head, his black neck and face. How I love the fact that while we humans fuss and fume, the creatures around us go fiercely about their business. After "Endeavour" on Sunday night, (and what a great series it is) I watched the last half hour of a nature documentary about one day on earth, showcasing zebras, dragonflies, sharks, and other magnificent creatures from around the planet. At the end, they talked about urban wildlife and showed adorable raccoon babies knocking over watering cans - in Toronto. Our claim to fame.
Our other claim to fame - producing mini-Trumps whose goal is to tear the city apart, limb from limb. But let's not push up my blood pressure so early on this beautiful morning.
I woke early Sunday and spent most of the day finishing this draft of the memoir, sent it off late afternoon to the young editor I've hired to read it. She doesn't know me or my work, so can come to it fresh. I do have hope, I think it's much better, but we'll see.
Yesterday, got a bi-annual royalty cheque, $121.57 - whee, I'm off to the South Seas! Seriously, it's thrilling that my two latest books, published in 2014 with no marketing whatsoever, continue to sell, however slowly, especially the writing book. Just received a note from the wife of my high school crush, to whom I gave the writing book.
Enjoying your book and find it very helpful and thought-provoking. In fact, I was talking about it to a few people and sent them photos of the cover, isbn number, the back cover, etc so they could order it. I believe a really great read is one that you have to stop - and put down - and digest - and really think about. That’s your book.
It's my birthday tomorrow; today is about cooking, as we're having the celebration tonight, a small gathering. I went to the butcher, St. Jamestown Steak and Chops, told Mark, the owner who's been a friend since we moved here in 1986, that it was my birthday, and he gave me a big packet of marinated spareribs as a birthday gift. "Sixty-eight," I told him, and he said, "That's how many people are coming to your party?!" LOL.
The sun is shining on the huge patch of towering yellow golden glow, the Rose of Sharon is hosting many happy pollen-coated bees as always, two perfect white gardenia blooms are scenting the air. My aunt will be released from hospital to an extended care facility next week, and then we'll continue the debate about where she will, as I said to her, celebrate her hundredth birthday in two years. My son is at the cottage of a family who are good friends of his, getting a week of much-deserved r and r. (He's on the left; on the right, in a pose I do not associate with him, is Matt, the father of the family and the computer genius who has saved my digital life.)
Anna, Thomas, and their boys will be here tonight, along with Wayson, my dear friend Ken, and my oldest friend Ron from Halifax days, who is one week younger than I. I will give thanks for the breath in my lungs, and that, despite the vile madness afoot in the world, despite the wilfully blind, lying lunatics, the racists, the fascist thugs doing their best to take over - how did it happen, that these loathsome creatures suddenly have so much power? I mean, Steve Bannon in Europe, really? - I will celebrate human goodness, the power of family, the growth of new young citizens of the planet.
I will take them up and show them the tiny dot in my window, another life, as important as ours.
And yesterday, I was watering the veggies at the back when a male cardinal landed on the birdfeeder not two feet away and began cracking seeds with his beak, spitting out the shell and snapping up the seed inside. Cardinals are usually very cautious, but this guy has no fear, paid me no mind several times through the day, so I got to admire his extraordinary orange feathers with a brown tinge, the bold crest on his head, his black neck and face. How I love the fact that while we humans fuss and fume, the creatures around us go fiercely about their business. After "Endeavour" on Sunday night, (and what a great series it is) I watched the last half hour of a nature documentary about one day on earth, showcasing zebras, dragonflies, sharks, and other magnificent creatures from around the planet. At the end, they talked about urban wildlife and showed adorable raccoon babies knocking over watering cans - in Toronto. Our claim to fame.
Our other claim to fame - producing mini-Trumps whose goal is to tear the city apart, limb from limb. But let's not push up my blood pressure so early on this beautiful morning.
I woke early Sunday and spent most of the day finishing this draft of the memoir, sent it off late afternoon to the young editor I've hired to read it. She doesn't know me or my work, so can come to it fresh. I do have hope, I think it's much better, but we'll see.
Yesterday, got a bi-annual royalty cheque, $121.57 - whee, I'm off to the South Seas! Seriously, it's thrilling that my two latest books, published in 2014 with no marketing whatsoever, continue to sell, however slowly, especially the writing book. Just received a note from the wife of my high school crush, to whom I gave the writing book.
Enjoying your book and find it very helpful and thought-provoking. In fact, I was talking about it to a few people and sent them photos of the cover, isbn number, the back cover, etc so they could order it. I believe a really great read is one that you have to stop - and put down - and digest - and really think about. That’s your book.
It's my birthday tomorrow; today is about cooking, as we're having the celebration tonight, a small gathering. I went to the butcher, St. Jamestown Steak and Chops, told Mark, the owner who's been a friend since we moved here in 1986, that it was my birthday, and he gave me a big packet of marinated spareribs as a birthday gift. "Sixty-eight," I told him, and he said, "That's how many people are coming to your party?!" LOL.
The sun is shining on the huge patch of towering yellow golden glow, the Rose of Sharon is hosting many happy pollen-coated bees as always, two perfect white gardenia blooms are scenting the air. My aunt will be released from hospital to an extended care facility next week, and then we'll continue the debate about where she will, as I said to her, celebrate her hundredth birthday in two years. My son is at the cottage of a family who are good friends of his, getting a week of much-deserved r and r. (He's on the left; on the right, in a pose I do not associate with him, is Matt, the father of the family and the computer genius who has saved my digital life.)
Anna, Thomas, and their boys will be here tonight, along with Wayson, my dear friend Ken, and my oldest friend Ron from Halifax days, who is one week younger than I. I will give thanks for the breath in my lungs, and that, despite the vile madness afoot in the world, despite the wilfully blind, lying lunatics, the racists, the fascist thugs doing their best to take over - how did it happen, that these loathsome creatures suddenly have so much power? I mean, Steve Bannon in Europe, really? - I will celebrate human goodness, the power of family, the growth of new young citizens of the planet.I will take them up and show them the tiny dot in my window, another life, as important as ours.
July 28, 2018
Ottawa
Ye gods, it is a young person's game, the raising of children. I've just spent three days and nights with my grandsons, aged 3 and 6, and though they are a marvel and I adore them, they have drained every last bit of energy from my body. I'm in a daze, but at least now I get to sit in my silent house and recuperate. Their mother has to keep right on going. Good thing she's 30 years younger than I.
Our journey to Ottawa had its difficulties, largely juggling the needs of my 98-year old aunt in hospital with those of two very energetic little boys. Luckily, we had a vital secret weapon: their mother, my daughter Anna, who planned the journey within an inch of its life. They had their snacks packed in cases with freezer packs, little tubs filled with cucumber or squares of cheese, a playlist of travel songs we'd all enjoy and another specifically for Ben with his favourite songs, especially Old McDonald Had a Farm and Justin Beiber's Despacito, neither of which I ever want to hear again. On the way there, she located a fabulous playground in Kingston, more or less half way, and on the way back, an even better playground in Belleville. So we broke the journey to let the wild animals out of the back of the car; they ran and climbed and slid and swung and got soaked in the water park, and then we managed to strap them down and set off again.
Even so, the last hour, both ways, was excruciating, with one very small boy making sure we knew he was not enjoying his enforced imprisonment. And of course coming into Toronto there was gridlock, and screams from the back. By the end I was flinging stuff back there - candy, crackers, books, anything to buy a few more minutes of peace, while Anna maneuvered the car magnificently under pressure.
In Ottawa I'd rented a 3 bedroom airbnb house which was perfect, mostly because it was so plain, there was nothing in it to break - well, almost nothing - and a playground around the corner, which she took them to once and I, twice. They had a great visit with my brother in Quebec while I spent the day with my aunt, and then next day, after a morning in the terrific Museum of Nature, they all came with me to visit her. The boys had made paintings as gifts. It was a beautiful and moving encounter, 3, 6, and 98.
She and I had some tough work to do to figure out what's next for her, but finally, after consulting with her doctor, the occupational therapist and the social worker, and mostly, with her dear friends back at her apartment building whom I went to see one evening, the answer for me was clear: it's time for assisted living. She looks as if she's being condemned to death when she considers this, but I now have no doubt that once she's there, she will find much to enjoy. And she is beginning reluctantly to accept this.
We visited her again today on our way out of town. At the end, Anna took the boys to the hospital Tim Hortons to buy a box of Timbits each, guaranteeing peace for the start of our journey, and I stayed for a last farewell with my aunt. Next week, when I turn 68, it will be my first birthday since the age of three without a card from her. We had a tender hug - she is so frail, so tiny and bent - and she got her walker and came with me to the door of her room to say goodbye. As I walked down the hall, I kept turning and waving, as she stood waving. She made me cry. Such a trouper.
And then the paradise of an hour and a half in the car with two sleeping children stuffed with Timbits and my beautiful, calm, wise daughter. We of course had to moan about what the despicable Doug Ford is doing to the city of Toronto and many other political issues about which we are in complete agreement. At one point, at the end of the trip, when Ben was screaming, I wondered for a second if it's worth it to have children. And then I looked at my daughter.
Eli's painting for Auntie Do
More art from the artists
The Museum of Nature - a terrific place with real dinosaurs
Do receives her magnificent artworks
Hanging around at the playground
One pushing down the tree, the other holding it up.
Home. In the garden, three huge cucumbers, tons of beans and tomatoes. I need to sort out my life. The adventure continues.
Our journey to Ottawa had its difficulties, largely juggling the needs of my 98-year old aunt in hospital with those of two very energetic little boys. Luckily, we had a vital secret weapon: their mother, my daughter Anna, who planned the journey within an inch of its life. They had their snacks packed in cases with freezer packs, little tubs filled with cucumber or squares of cheese, a playlist of travel songs we'd all enjoy and another specifically for Ben with his favourite songs, especially Old McDonald Had a Farm and Justin Beiber's Despacito, neither of which I ever want to hear again. On the way there, she located a fabulous playground in Kingston, more or less half way, and on the way back, an even better playground in Belleville. So we broke the journey to let the wild animals out of the back of the car; they ran and climbed and slid and swung and got soaked in the water park, and then we managed to strap them down and set off again.
Even so, the last hour, both ways, was excruciating, with one very small boy making sure we knew he was not enjoying his enforced imprisonment. And of course coming into Toronto there was gridlock, and screams from the back. By the end I was flinging stuff back there - candy, crackers, books, anything to buy a few more minutes of peace, while Anna maneuvered the car magnificently under pressure.
In Ottawa I'd rented a 3 bedroom airbnb house which was perfect, mostly because it was so plain, there was nothing in it to break - well, almost nothing - and a playground around the corner, which she took them to once and I, twice. They had a great visit with my brother in Quebec while I spent the day with my aunt, and then next day, after a morning in the terrific Museum of Nature, they all came with me to visit her. The boys had made paintings as gifts. It was a beautiful and moving encounter, 3, 6, and 98.
She and I had some tough work to do to figure out what's next for her, but finally, after consulting with her doctor, the occupational therapist and the social worker, and mostly, with her dear friends back at her apartment building whom I went to see one evening, the answer for me was clear: it's time for assisted living. She looks as if she's being condemned to death when she considers this, but I now have no doubt that once she's there, she will find much to enjoy. And she is beginning reluctantly to accept this.
We visited her again today on our way out of town. At the end, Anna took the boys to the hospital Tim Hortons to buy a box of Timbits each, guaranteeing peace for the start of our journey, and I stayed for a last farewell with my aunt. Next week, when I turn 68, it will be my first birthday since the age of three without a card from her. We had a tender hug - she is so frail, so tiny and bent - and she got her walker and came with me to the door of her room to say goodbye. As I walked down the hall, I kept turning and waving, as she stood waving. She made me cry. Such a trouper.
And then the paradise of an hour and a half in the car with two sleeping children stuffed with Timbits and my beautiful, calm, wise daughter. We of course had to moan about what the despicable Doug Ford is doing to the city of Toronto and many other political issues about which we are in complete agreement. At one point, at the end of the trip, when Ben was screaming, I wondered for a second if it's worth it to have children. And then I looked at my daughter.
Eli's painting for Auntie Do
More art from the artists
The Museum of Nature - a terrific place with real dinosaurs
Do receives her magnificent artworks
Hanging around at the playground
One pushing down the tree, the other holding it up.Home. In the garden, three huge cucumbers, tons of beans and tomatoes. I need to sort out my life. The adventure continues.
July 24, 2018
still crazy after all these years
First, thanks to all who wrote after the shooting on the nearby Danforth, to ask if I'm okay. We in Canada like to think those hideous events are the domain of countries full of unhinged lunatics like school shooters and Trump, not here. But sadly, we have our share of lunatics; we have Doug Ford, and we have gun violence.
Is there any flowering tree as indefatigable and glorious as the Rose of Sharon? Mine is bee heaven - swarming with them, as they zoom inside the fat flowers and splay themselves all over those generous white pistils, often two at a time, buzzing furiously. This is MY pistil, buzz off!
Today I went to see my shrink. My tenant Carol liked to go for therapeutic massages and acupuncture and other healing therapies. I have my shrink. It has been well over a year since I've talked to her, and today was the day. Only 50 minutes - had to talk fast! It's been nearly 30 years since I started with her, and there she is still, a little woman in a nice room, listening, listening, listening. Needed a tune up - feeling overwhelmed, under pressure, fallible. So lucky to have someone who knows me so well.
The renovation on Spruce Street is agony - day after day of drilling, sawing, hammering, huge loud machines. So much for my tranquil summer in the garden. I'm wondering now if it's a mistake to stay here. But surely it'll be over soon. And then my own reno will start.
Speaking of the tranquil garden, I've been getting nice notes about the workshop, will share a few with you:
Brad: I can't stress enough how re-invigorated I was by today's workshop. You work magic.
Jennifer: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful generosity in opening your home today for this gathering. I have never done anything like this in my life and it was an honour to be there. I have always had trouble getting out of my 'intellectual' brain and giving myself permission to write from the gut, and your encouragement (and the encouragement of nature) had a transformative effect. I will carry your garden with me everywhere I go now, and put myself into that space in order to 'pull down' the words that so often elude me at desks and in cafes.
Marlane: I want to thank you for the wonderful day in your lovely home and garden. The writers and their stories were remarkable. You are a generous teacher and hostess.
Lynne: Sunday's workshop was truly special. You did a fabulous job of bringing a sense of calm and trust to the group, and wonderful ideas to get us writing! Thanks for all that, and the lovely hospitality in your home.
So - it works. Glad to hear it. And a bit of income in high summer doesn't hurt either. Especially with two little boys to buy ice cream for tomorrow, on our way to Ottawa. Happy summer to you all. Let's forget politics for awhile and concentrate on flowers and the ice cream running down some very small chins.
Is there any flowering tree as indefatigable and glorious as the Rose of Sharon? Mine is bee heaven - swarming with them, as they zoom inside the fat flowers and splay themselves all over those generous white pistils, often two at a time, buzzing furiously. This is MY pistil, buzz off!
Today I went to see my shrink. My tenant Carol liked to go for therapeutic massages and acupuncture and other healing therapies. I have my shrink. It has been well over a year since I've talked to her, and today was the day. Only 50 minutes - had to talk fast! It's been nearly 30 years since I started with her, and there she is still, a little woman in a nice room, listening, listening, listening. Needed a tune up - feeling overwhelmed, under pressure, fallible. So lucky to have someone who knows me so well.
The renovation on Spruce Street is agony - day after day of drilling, sawing, hammering, huge loud machines. So much for my tranquil summer in the garden. I'm wondering now if it's a mistake to stay here. But surely it'll be over soon. And then my own reno will start.
Speaking of the tranquil garden, I've been getting nice notes about the workshop, will share a few with you:
Brad: I can't stress enough how re-invigorated I was by today's workshop. You work magic.
Jennifer: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful generosity in opening your home today for this gathering. I have never done anything like this in my life and it was an honour to be there. I have always had trouble getting out of my 'intellectual' brain and giving myself permission to write from the gut, and your encouragement (and the encouragement of nature) had a transformative effect. I will carry your garden with me everywhere I go now, and put myself into that space in order to 'pull down' the words that so often elude me at desks and in cafes.
Marlane: I want to thank you for the wonderful day in your lovely home and garden. The writers and their stories were remarkable. You are a generous teacher and hostess.
Lynne: Sunday's workshop was truly special. You did a fabulous job of bringing a sense of calm and trust to the group, and wonderful ideas to get us writing! Thanks for all that, and the lovely hospitality in your home.
So - it works. Glad to hear it. And a bit of income in high summer doesn't hurt either. Especially with two little boys to buy ice cream for tomorrow, on our way to Ottawa. Happy summer to you all. Let's forget politics for awhile and concentrate on flowers and the ice cream running down some very small chins.
July 22, 2018
Write in the Garden = A+
A happy exhaustion: the day-long writing in the garden workshop just ended. For the first time - I've been running these since 2011 - the day dawned wet and cold. Sudden shift, clearing rooms in the house for people to meet in the living room, not on the deck, and to write inside, not scattered through the garden.
But it went beautifully; after lunch the sun actually came out, I sponged off chairs and tables with a towel, and we spent the rest of the day, till 5.30, outside with the birds and the scent of lavender and gardenia. You would not believe how extremely good the stories we heard were, how powerful and moving and funny - and of course, true.
I love my job.
Some were recent students, some students from years ago, and one a neighbour who has never done any creative writing and read about the workshop in the Cabbagetown news. Everyone came through magnificently. And lunch, I have to say, was pretty good too - two different quiches and four salads: tabbouleh, pasta, cucumber, and kale, featuring my very own tomatoes, kale, cukes, and beans, as promised. Coffee, dessert, wine and cheese - and through it all, stories stories stories.
I love my job.
Now for a month, except for editing work for private students and compiling a playlist for the dance evening in September, the only work I have to do is keeping myself and the house and tenant and the upcoming renovation going, clearing out the excess here, and trying to finish my memoir. And getting to Ottawa and back with Anna and the boys in one piece, and celebrating my 68th birthday with family and friends. That's all.
That's enough.
I got this lovely email this morning from a stranger. An early birthday gift. Thank you.
Greetings from Africa. (I’m on my honeymoon). I just devoured “True to Life” in about two hours and found it to be compassionate, encouraging, clear, funny and very helpful.
Music to my tired ears.
But it went beautifully; after lunch the sun actually came out, I sponged off chairs and tables with a towel, and we spent the rest of the day, till 5.30, outside with the birds and the scent of lavender and gardenia. You would not believe how extremely good the stories we heard were, how powerful and moving and funny - and of course, true.
I love my job.
Some were recent students, some students from years ago, and one a neighbour who has never done any creative writing and read about the workshop in the Cabbagetown news. Everyone came through magnificently. And lunch, I have to say, was pretty good too - two different quiches and four salads: tabbouleh, pasta, cucumber, and kale, featuring my very own tomatoes, kale, cukes, and beans, as promised. Coffee, dessert, wine and cheese - and through it all, stories stories stories.
I love my job.
Now for a month, except for editing work for private students and compiling a playlist for the dance evening in September, the only work I have to do is keeping myself and the house and tenant and the upcoming renovation going, clearing out the excess here, and trying to finish my memoir. And getting to Ottawa and back with Anna and the boys in one piece, and celebrating my 68th birthday with family and friends. That's all.That's enough.
I got this lovely email this morning from a stranger. An early birthday gift. Thank you.
Greetings from Africa. (I’m on my honeymoon). I just devoured “True to Life” in about two hours and found it to be compassionate, encouraging, clear, funny and very helpful.
Music to my tired ears.
July 20, 2018
vegetating with the vegetables
Someone at the Y asked today, Seen any good movies lately? Not a one. Have I been anywhere except my kitchen and garden and the Y? It doesn't feel that way. Besides, oh yes, Ottawa.
On Tuesday I spent the afternoon celebrating Ben's third birthday with him and his family. We picked up his big brother from day camp; what joy to see them run to hug each other and set off hand in hand, one tiny for his age and one very tall. Sometimes they try to murder each other, and Ben will be one tough dude from a childhood fending off his teasing, mischievous brother. But more importantly, they adore one another. So they're set for life.
Wednesday night was a potluck dinner with the Word Sisters, a group of fascinating, accomplished women who work in publishing - editors, publicists, agents, and one lone writer and teacher lucky enough to be included. They casually toss out hallowed names to me - Knopf, Penguin, Louise (Dennys, legendary editor), Ellen (Seligman, ditto.) We sat outside in Rosemary's garden sheltered by her enormous trees and ate delicious offerings - "I didn't know when I assembled this group 8 years ago," said Marilyn, "that you were all such good cooks!" Dinah brought sangria stuffed with fruit she'd marinated in vodka for days: lethal. I brought gazpacho, made with my own cucumbers, mint, basil, and cherry tomatoes. Rosemary said it was like drinking the garden.
But mostly, this week, I have been ploughing through the rewrite of the memoir. It's funny how that goes - either I can't stand the thing and won't go near it for weeks, or I am addicted to it and can't get away. I've been so focused after supper, yesterday and today, I forgot both days to call my aunt, which makes me feel very guilty as I've been phoning her daily. A quiche I was making for my workshop on Sunday burned to a dark brown crisp. I have found another editor, someone who doesn't know me or the story, who can read the manuscript fresh, an objective pair of eyes I will need a lot when I'm done, as I have no idea if this new draft works or not. I think it's better, but is that wishful thinking? Is it good enough?
Today, across town to rent a car with Anna; she will have it for the weekend and then next week we go to Ottawa again. Road trip with two hyperactive young boys - hooray!
Every morning, I juggle the best and the worst. I read the newspaper and mourn the latest horrors going on in the world. And then I go into the garden to pick raspberries, cukes, tomatoes, and now beans, to water and smell and revel in the glory of it all.
And on Sunday, I get to share it all with ten writers who'll spend the day there and get to eat burned quiche. And a lot of tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans.
On Tuesday I spent the afternoon celebrating Ben's third birthday with him and his family. We picked up his big brother from day camp; what joy to see them run to hug each other and set off hand in hand, one tiny for his age and one very tall. Sometimes they try to murder each other, and Ben will be one tough dude from a childhood fending off his teasing, mischievous brother. But more importantly, they adore one another. So they're set for life.
Wednesday night was a potluck dinner with the Word Sisters, a group of fascinating, accomplished women who work in publishing - editors, publicists, agents, and one lone writer and teacher lucky enough to be included. They casually toss out hallowed names to me - Knopf, Penguin, Louise (Dennys, legendary editor), Ellen (Seligman, ditto.) We sat outside in Rosemary's garden sheltered by her enormous trees and ate delicious offerings - "I didn't know when I assembled this group 8 years ago," said Marilyn, "that you were all such good cooks!" Dinah brought sangria stuffed with fruit she'd marinated in vodka for days: lethal. I brought gazpacho, made with my own cucumbers, mint, basil, and cherry tomatoes. Rosemary said it was like drinking the garden.
But mostly, this week, I have been ploughing through the rewrite of the memoir. It's funny how that goes - either I can't stand the thing and won't go near it for weeks, or I am addicted to it and can't get away. I've been so focused after supper, yesterday and today, I forgot both days to call my aunt, which makes me feel very guilty as I've been phoning her daily. A quiche I was making for my workshop on Sunday burned to a dark brown crisp. I have found another editor, someone who doesn't know me or the story, who can read the manuscript fresh, an objective pair of eyes I will need a lot when I'm done, as I have no idea if this new draft works or not. I think it's better, but is that wishful thinking? Is it good enough?
Today, across town to rent a car with Anna; she will have it for the weekend and then next week we go to Ottawa again. Road trip with two hyperactive young boys - hooray!
Every morning, I juggle the best and the worst. I read the newspaper and mourn the latest horrors going on in the world. And then I go into the garden to pick raspberries, cukes, tomatoes, and now beans, to water and smell and revel in the glory of it all.
And on Sunday, I get to share it all with ten writers who'll spend the day there and get to eat burned quiche. And a lot of tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans.
July 16, 2018
northern capitals: Helsinki, Ottawa
You know who is going to save the world from the maniacs currently running it? Another kind of maniac - the comedians. I just watched Sacha Baron Cohen pretending to be an Israeli operative speaking to American politicians and gun supporters about kinderguardians - training children as young as four - and younger - to use pistols. From the Guardian: Cohen as Morad (“Are liberals using school shootings to further their anti-tragedy agenda?”) gets various gun nuts in and outside Washington to promote arming pre-schoolers. “Fill the Puppy Pistol by pushing his lunchbox into his belly and sending the naughty men for a really, really long timeout,” says one, joyously. The gun lobbyist Larry Pratt notes that if children are young enough, “if they haven’t developed a conscience yet, they can make very good soldiers”.
The interview is beyond nauseating yet hilarious - but it's not a joke, it's true, at least, the people he's talking to mean every loathsome word. The level of criminal idiocy on display defies belief. Almost enough to make one give up on humanity. I don't think I can bear to watch more than this one brilliant segment.
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jul/16/sacha-baron-cohen-guns-children-toddlers-who-is-america-reality
However. We have no choice, we live here on this endangered little planet, and we have children, grandchildren, friends, homes, gardens, books, and many other things we love. Somehow we have to get through this insanely murderous time, while the most ghastly human beings on the face of the earth, Trump and Putin, dominate the conversation worldwide. Right now, dominating the news feeds with Trump's lunatic display in Helsinki. Mind-blowing. Nightmarish. Grotesque.
I am just back from Ottawa where I spent the weekend in the geriatric ward of a hospital, and let me tell you, it's not a place you want to linger. My aunt is not unhappy there; "I'm in a four star hotel!" she exclaimed, as yet another drooping beige meal was delivered to her bed - the man across the hall horking up his lungs, the woman in the bed across the room catatonic while her big sons sat silently beside her. People in wheelchairs struggling to manoeuvre the halls, a very determined old woman with a walker marching up and down, back and forth.
As did my aunt. She got out of bed several times, despite back pain, and we trucked up and down the halls and to the dining room where the TV lives, and watched a bit of the World Cup. I discovered her TV had been disconnected and got it connected it again so we could watch Wimbledon and the great British baking show and other shows that gave her pleasure. Otherwise, if there's no one around, she's just lying there dozing. No wonder she's losing muscle and brain. She's never been vague before, so forgetful, so disoriented.
On the march, up and down the hall.
A not unhappy camper, 98 years 3 months old.
In an open drawer in her apartment, where I stayed, this was on a cigar box. Everything is marked and listed. If you want sealing wax, you know where to go.
There's a lesson here: I tried to get her to move to assisted living a few years ago and was pilloried by her friends who felt I was forcing this wonderfully independent woman to go somewhere she didn't want and wasn't ready to go. No doubt I was, and she did indeed have a few more years at home. But now - now when the situation is fairly dire and it looks like she will never go home again - she's at the mercy of the system. At the most vulnerable time of her life, she'll have to go wherever they put her and be surrounded by strangers. It makes me very sad.
And what this means to me is more back and forth to Ottawa, as happened during the end time of my mother. Only Do is a tough old bird and may go on for a long long time, even if she's somewhere she doesn't like. It is not a pretty picture and fills me with despair. And in the meantime, in the background, my friend Wayson, who came over for dinner, is watching CNN and it's all about hideousness. Soon we are going to watch a doc about Robin Williams. So we can laugh before we cry.
Tomorrow is Ben's 3rd birthday. I missed his party on Sunday but am going over tomorrow with sidewalk chalk, a puzzle, and I hope a harmonica which I have to go out and search for tomorrow. It's a privilege to spend time with loved ones at the very beginning and at the very end. Though often, it won't surprise you to learn, these loved ones make me cry.
And here, a thought from your old-fashioned correspondent:
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart. -Iris Murdoch, writer (15 Jul 1919-1999)
The interview is beyond nauseating yet hilarious - but it's not a joke, it's true, at least, the people he's talking to mean every loathsome word. The level of criminal idiocy on display defies belief. Almost enough to make one give up on humanity. I don't think I can bear to watch more than this one brilliant segment.
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jul/16/sacha-baron-cohen-guns-children-toddlers-who-is-america-reality
However. We have no choice, we live here on this endangered little planet, and we have children, grandchildren, friends, homes, gardens, books, and many other things we love. Somehow we have to get through this insanely murderous time, while the most ghastly human beings on the face of the earth, Trump and Putin, dominate the conversation worldwide. Right now, dominating the news feeds with Trump's lunatic display in Helsinki. Mind-blowing. Nightmarish. Grotesque.
I am just back from Ottawa where I spent the weekend in the geriatric ward of a hospital, and let me tell you, it's not a place you want to linger. My aunt is not unhappy there; "I'm in a four star hotel!" she exclaimed, as yet another drooping beige meal was delivered to her bed - the man across the hall horking up his lungs, the woman in the bed across the room catatonic while her big sons sat silently beside her. People in wheelchairs struggling to manoeuvre the halls, a very determined old woman with a walker marching up and down, back and forth.
As did my aunt. She got out of bed several times, despite back pain, and we trucked up and down the halls and to the dining room where the TV lives, and watched a bit of the World Cup. I discovered her TV had been disconnected and got it connected it again so we could watch Wimbledon and the great British baking show and other shows that gave her pleasure. Otherwise, if there's no one around, she's just lying there dozing. No wonder she's losing muscle and brain. She's never been vague before, so forgetful, so disoriented.
On the march, up and down the hall.
A not unhappy camper, 98 years 3 months old.
In an open drawer in her apartment, where I stayed, this was on a cigar box. Everything is marked and listed. If you want sealing wax, you know where to go.There's a lesson here: I tried to get her to move to assisted living a few years ago and was pilloried by her friends who felt I was forcing this wonderfully independent woman to go somewhere she didn't want and wasn't ready to go. No doubt I was, and she did indeed have a few more years at home. But now - now when the situation is fairly dire and it looks like she will never go home again - she's at the mercy of the system. At the most vulnerable time of her life, she'll have to go wherever they put her and be surrounded by strangers. It makes me very sad.
And what this means to me is more back and forth to Ottawa, as happened during the end time of my mother. Only Do is a tough old bird and may go on for a long long time, even if she's somewhere she doesn't like. It is not a pretty picture and fills me with despair. And in the meantime, in the background, my friend Wayson, who came over for dinner, is watching CNN and it's all about hideousness. Soon we are going to watch a doc about Robin Williams. So we can laugh before we cry.
Tomorrow is Ben's 3rd birthday. I missed his party on Sunday but am going over tomorrow with sidewalk chalk, a puzzle, and I hope a harmonica which I have to go out and search for tomorrow. It's a privilege to spend time with loved ones at the very beginning and at the very end. Though often, it won't surprise you to learn, these loved ones make me cry.
And here, a thought from your old-fashioned correspondent:
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart. -Iris Murdoch, writer (15 Jul 1919-1999)
July 13, 2018
good times
Just so you don't think I'm in a permanent funk, dear blog readers, I'm here to tell you I had a GREAT DAY! Up really early again and a full morning of work with real progress on the rewrite of the memoir. I think I've broken the logjam, which is big news. I hope. Perhaps not, I'll need to get someone else to look at it at some point, but for now, it feels like something is working.
I know, I've said that before.
My dear Lani wrote me the sweetest note, urging me not to burn out and insisting I come visit and sit in the quiet of their small town home. I will try to get there. I did feel close to burnout, it's true, just deeply irritated and ready to fly off the handle. But today, more equilibrium.
Oh, and a lovely note from my piano teacher, Peter Mose:
I was at the TSO to hear Beethoven’s 9th led by Peter Oundjian in his departing concerts as music director. A fellow seated one row in front of me was reading your book on memoir writing before the concert, and it had all sorts of underlining and highlighted passages! I couldn’t resist bending over and chatting with him. He was singing your praises from a class at the UT.
Now that's an image I like, my writing book and Beethoven. A tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless.
The bad news is that my attached neighbours have bought some kind of outdoor sound system. I managed to sit outside today with earplugs. Maybe they'll get tired of it. The good news is that the cucumbers are enormous, the beans are thriving, the raspberries are delicious, and the kale is taking over.
I'm off first thing tomorrow to see Do in hospital in Ottawa. She also is in a better mood and seems to be looking forward to my visit, even if she'd rather I don't stay at her place and steal all her valuable stuff, as I will certainly do.
No, I understand, she has had some pretty bad days herself, much worse than mine, stuck in hospital and in pain. She has much more right to be crabby than I.
Carol will be here watering and bringing in the newspapers. Maybe I should tell her to throw them away.
Below, the story of my life ...
I know, I've said that before.
My dear Lani wrote me the sweetest note, urging me not to burn out and insisting I come visit and sit in the quiet of their small town home. I will try to get there. I did feel close to burnout, it's true, just deeply irritated and ready to fly off the handle. But today, more equilibrium.
Oh, and a lovely note from my piano teacher, Peter Mose:
I was at the TSO to hear Beethoven’s 9th led by Peter Oundjian in his departing concerts as music director. A fellow seated one row in front of me was reading your book on memoir writing before the concert, and it had all sorts of underlining and highlighted passages! I couldn’t resist bending over and chatting with him. He was singing your praises from a class at the UT.
Now that's an image I like, my writing book and Beethoven. A tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless.
The bad news is that my attached neighbours have bought some kind of outdoor sound system. I managed to sit outside today with earplugs. Maybe they'll get tired of it. The good news is that the cucumbers are enormous, the beans are thriving, the raspberries are delicious, and the kale is taking over.
I'm off first thing tomorrow to see Do in hospital in Ottawa. She also is in a better mood and seems to be looking forward to my visit, even if she'd rather I don't stay at her place and steal all her valuable stuff, as I will certainly do.
No, I understand, she has had some pretty bad days herself, much worse than mine, stuck in hospital and in pain. She has much more right to be crabby than I.
Carol will be here watering and bringing in the newspapers. Maybe I should tell her to throw them away.
Below, the story of my life ...
July 12, 2018
terrible, no good, very bad day
The bad day did NOT start cheerily at 7 a.m., like yesterday, but late, because I was awake for hours in the night worrying about my aunt. Her caregiver called last night while I was having dinner on the deck with my dear friend and former student Jason, to tell me how worried she is.
Beautiful day; hot. John the handyman arrived at 10 and we set out to tackle the tree roots that clog up the drains, by pouring in a solution that destroys them - and also erupts and spreads all over the floor. Floods. Much cleaning up. Then other things needed to be fixed. Thank God for John. This while I'm on the phone to Ottawa trying to decide whether I'm needed there while my poor old aunt is in hospital. Decide I am. Have a fight with a relative who knows how to push all my buttons, which roils me so much, my heart won't stop pounding. But life is too short. Let it go. (Easy to say.)
John leaves, and immediately the computer man Matt, my personal genius, arrives with a new router. Two hours later, after much up and down and to and fro, testing, failure, success, he has set up the internet anew in this house. I'm still trying to deal with Ottawa, and in the middle of it all, heard the birds outside calling Danger and ran out with my water pistol to chase away the horrible grey cat who hides in the bushes and tries to kill.
Booked Ottawa - flight, car. Very expensive because last minute - but it's important to see my aunt, who is marooned. I will miss Ben's 3rd birthday party on Sunday. Never again, I hope, but as his mother said, he won't remember, he's three. More talking to Ottawa to let Do's friends and caregiver know I'm coming and will be staying, for the first time, in Do's empty apartment. At least I don't have the hassle and expense of an Airbnb.
Also dealing with the ongoing thefts from the Little Free Library, the renovation plans which are flying to and fro, students who want private sessions, my own disintegrating body, the garden which needs fertilizer, weeding, and planting, (the beautiful multicoloured hydrangeas at the front are dying and I don't know why), cancelling Anna's friend Nicole who was coming on Saturday to help me throw things out. Carol my tenant is still here till Sunday, so at least I can leave without worrying about the house and watering.
And then the coup de grace - I finally got through to Do in hospital to tell her I'm coming, and she was furious and attacked me. Why didn't I ask if I could stay in her apartment? Why am I coming now when I'm back in two weeks? Someone must have given her a very negative view of my visit.
I confess, it did feel as if I should just hang up and go back to bed. But I did not, and we're fine now. But again, one of those days when it felt like I was trying not to be smashed by baseballs hurtling my way. And, of course, trying not to look at the news, because it makes me puke - now not just what's happening down south but also here in Ontario. Gut wrenching. Maybe there's a desert island?
And as for thinking about writing - the only words are LOL.
But the Thai boys are safe.
Beautiful day; hot. John the handyman arrived at 10 and we set out to tackle the tree roots that clog up the drains, by pouring in a solution that destroys them - and also erupts and spreads all over the floor. Floods. Much cleaning up. Then other things needed to be fixed. Thank God for John. This while I'm on the phone to Ottawa trying to decide whether I'm needed there while my poor old aunt is in hospital. Decide I am. Have a fight with a relative who knows how to push all my buttons, which roils me so much, my heart won't stop pounding. But life is too short. Let it go. (Easy to say.)
John leaves, and immediately the computer man Matt, my personal genius, arrives with a new router. Two hours later, after much up and down and to and fro, testing, failure, success, he has set up the internet anew in this house. I'm still trying to deal with Ottawa, and in the middle of it all, heard the birds outside calling Danger and ran out with my water pistol to chase away the horrible grey cat who hides in the bushes and tries to kill.
Booked Ottawa - flight, car. Very expensive because last minute - but it's important to see my aunt, who is marooned. I will miss Ben's 3rd birthday party on Sunday. Never again, I hope, but as his mother said, he won't remember, he's three. More talking to Ottawa to let Do's friends and caregiver know I'm coming and will be staying, for the first time, in Do's empty apartment. At least I don't have the hassle and expense of an Airbnb.
Also dealing with the ongoing thefts from the Little Free Library, the renovation plans which are flying to and fro, students who want private sessions, my own disintegrating body, the garden which needs fertilizer, weeding, and planting, (the beautiful multicoloured hydrangeas at the front are dying and I don't know why), cancelling Anna's friend Nicole who was coming on Saturday to help me throw things out. Carol my tenant is still here till Sunday, so at least I can leave without worrying about the house and watering.
And then the coup de grace - I finally got through to Do in hospital to tell her I'm coming, and she was furious and attacked me. Why didn't I ask if I could stay in her apartment? Why am I coming now when I'm back in two weeks? Someone must have given her a very negative view of my visit.
I confess, it did feel as if I should just hang up and go back to bed. But I did not, and we're fine now. But again, one of those days when it felt like I was trying not to be smashed by baseballs hurtling my way. And, of course, trying not to look at the news, because it makes me puke - now not just what's happening down south but also here in Ontario. Gut wrenching. Maybe there's a desert island?
And as for thinking about writing - the only words are LOL.
But the Thai boys are safe.
