Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 136
November 16, 2017
SponsorLand
The days are grey, slate grey and cool, my huge maple tree at the front showering yellow leaves, the front path thick with them. It's still warm enough to ride the bike, but I miss the sun.
To warm my day and my heart, I just received this from a student at Ryerson who cannot make the last class of term next week:
I just wanted to thank you for the truly wonderful experience of your writing class. I signed up last minute and on a lark, not really sure what I was doing or why. It was the very best thing I did this fall.
I loved every minute of it. I felt connected to my classmates. I loved hearing their stories and listening to their styles. I learned so much from you and from them. I learned a lot about myself, too. Thank you again for a wonderful class and experience.
As I just wrote to her, during the last class, she read such a well-written and moving piece of work, the air in the room changed. We always know when someone is sharing a vital truth.
Speaking of vital truths, there was a moment in the English conversation group yesterday morning, when one of the women, who's usually quiet and shy, began to speak. She told us in her hesitant English that she had gone to the Gerrard mall with two of her sons to buy them winter clothes - and then at their insistence had taken them to the McDonalds in the mall "for fries." We all laughed. Kids, even Bengali kids who at home are fed pakoras, samosas, biryani, and coconut rice - the cooking of which we discussed at such length yesterday that I was hungry - love fries. I was proud of my new friend who wanted to share that moment of normalcy and had the courage to utter a bunch of English sentences in a row, out loud.
I was thinking of the group when I watched a documentary on TVO last night, "SponsorLand"; one of the producers is Noah Bingham, the son of my neighbours and good friends Jack and Gretchen. It's about a group of people in the small town of Picton in Prince Edward County who sponsor a Syrian family with 11 children - what happens when they arrive, how they integrate, or not, into small town Canadian life. Beautifully shot, intimate, thoughtful - and I have to say, how open, decent and kind they all are, both the sponsors and the immigrants. If only bigots could be forced to see it. It's available online; please take a look.
And now - into this grey day. Incidentally, the back pain went away and came back, again so fierce that I took two Advils in the night. I guess it's the flaw in my carpet, that and the lack of sun, and the political situation, the vicious morons loose in the world. It's good to be reminded of human kindness.
To warm my day and my heart, I just received this from a student at Ryerson who cannot make the last class of term next week:
I just wanted to thank you for the truly wonderful experience of your writing class. I signed up last minute and on a lark, not really sure what I was doing or why. It was the very best thing I did this fall.
I loved every minute of it. I felt connected to my classmates. I loved hearing their stories and listening to their styles. I learned so much from you and from them. I learned a lot about myself, too. Thank you again for a wonderful class and experience.
As I just wrote to her, during the last class, she read such a well-written and moving piece of work, the air in the room changed. We always know when someone is sharing a vital truth.
Speaking of vital truths, there was a moment in the English conversation group yesterday morning, when one of the women, who's usually quiet and shy, began to speak. She told us in her hesitant English that she had gone to the Gerrard mall with two of her sons to buy them winter clothes - and then at their insistence had taken them to the McDonalds in the mall "for fries." We all laughed. Kids, even Bengali kids who at home are fed pakoras, samosas, biryani, and coconut rice - the cooking of which we discussed at such length yesterday that I was hungry - love fries. I was proud of my new friend who wanted to share that moment of normalcy and had the courage to utter a bunch of English sentences in a row, out loud.
I was thinking of the group when I watched a documentary on TVO last night, "SponsorLand"; one of the producers is Noah Bingham, the son of my neighbours and good friends Jack and Gretchen. It's about a group of people in the small town of Picton in Prince Edward County who sponsor a Syrian family with 11 children - what happens when they arrive, how they integrate, or not, into small town Canadian life. Beautifully shot, intimate, thoughtful - and I have to say, how open, decent and kind they all are, both the sponsors and the immigrants. If only bigots could be forced to see it. It's available online; please take a look.
And now - into this grey day. Incidentally, the back pain went away and came back, again so fierce that I took two Advils in the night. I guess it's the flaw in my carpet, that and the lack of sun, and the political situation, the vicious morons loose in the world. It's good to be reminded of human kindness.
November 13, 2017
Loving Vincent, saying no to Beth
Yesterday I went for a long walk on the Don Valley trail with my old friend Marilyn Biderman, who has made a very successful mid-life career change, from working as a foreign rights manager in a big publishing company to, after being brutally downsized, setting up her own literary agency and now working as an agent in one of the biggest literary agencies in Toronto. She's a source of great wisdom for an outsider like myself. She told me the first question a prospective author will be asked by a publisher or agent is: How big is your social network platform? Apparently having thousands of Twitter followers is not enough. Deeply discouraging. I have seven Twitter followers, I think, maybe not even that because I never tweet, have always thought a blog was enough. Not. She told me other facts that were deeply discouraging about how hard it is to sell memoir.
This morning I heard back from another agent friend to whom I'd sent a query and the first 50 pages of my book. After talking to Marilyn, I was not surprised to read this:
I read and really enjoyed your submission. You’ve got such a distinctive voice and a dry sense of (impeccably paced) humour. It’s impossible not to relate to this young woman as she makes her way out of a thorny nest and out into the world. This being said, personal memoir, even well written, is a tough sell, more so when it’s without a big or more delineated hook. So regrettably, I don’t think I can take it on.
A hook, a hook, my kingdom for a big delineated hook. Ah well. That's the biz. Time to send it somewhere else.
Even before this, I've been kept awake two nights in a row with serious pain on one side of my back - a burning ache. No idea where it came from or what it is, but I'm off to Shopper's to get painkillers and ask the druggist if he has any idea. Must relax back. Tension will make it worse.
On Saturday afternoon, I went down to TIFF to meet Annie and see Agnes Varda's Faces/Places. It occurred to me that we should book in advance, and then I thought, who'll want to see an obscure French film in the middle of a cold Saturday afternoon? I'm such a geek that recently, when I decided to see California Typewriter, I bought my ticket in advance because I was so sure it would be sold out - and there were five people in the cinema besides me.
This time, however, wrong - I got there half an hour early to buy tickets, and the showing was already sold out. Who knew? Annie and I saved the day; we went to see Loving Vincent instead, an extraordinary work of art about the life and death of Vincent Van Gogh. It was shot with - of course - great British actors and then, frame by frame, painted over in Van Gogh's thick brushstrokes by 100 visual artists - so it's like seeing the whole world from Vincent's eyes, inside his paintings. It is of course the tragic story of a magnificent tormented genius misunderstood and neglected in his time, except for a great hero, his brother Theo who kept him alive. Vincent was not only a superb painter but a wonderful letter writer, constantly detailing his life and work for his brother and other correspondents. A beautiful experience in the cinema. Don't miss it.
And now, this:
NEWS IN BRIEFEntirety Of Hollywood Film Industry Replaced With 40,000 Christopher PlummersThursday 3:00pm
SEE MORE: ENTERTAINMENT
LOS ANGELES—In the wake of numerous sexual misconduct allegations against prominent figures in Hollywood, the entire film industry will reportedly be replaced by 40,000 Christopher Plummers, sources said Friday. “Going forward, veteran actor Christopher Plummer will write, direct, and star in every movie we make and is currently working with us to reshoot hundreds of features already in production,” said studio executive Christopher Plummer, adding that the entire history of film would eventually be altered with Christopher Plummers swapped in for the roles and also feature revised credits to reflect the fact that Christopher Plummers performed every behind-the-scenes task. “We’ve got Christopher Plummers serving as sound designers, foley artists, background extras, hair and makeup, key grips, and even craft services. To be honest, this was long overdue.” At press time, Plummer had been forced to resign after allegations of sexual harassment from five other Christopher Plummers surfaced.
This morning I heard back from another agent friend to whom I'd sent a query and the first 50 pages of my book. After talking to Marilyn, I was not surprised to read this:
I read and really enjoyed your submission. You’ve got such a distinctive voice and a dry sense of (impeccably paced) humour. It’s impossible not to relate to this young woman as she makes her way out of a thorny nest and out into the world. This being said, personal memoir, even well written, is a tough sell, more so when it’s without a big or more delineated hook. So regrettably, I don’t think I can take it on.
A hook, a hook, my kingdom for a big delineated hook. Ah well. That's the biz. Time to send it somewhere else.
Even before this, I've been kept awake two nights in a row with serious pain on one side of my back - a burning ache. No idea where it came from or what it is, but I'm off to Shopper's to get painkillers and ask the druggist if he has any idea. Must relax back. Tension will make it worse.
On Saturday afternoon, I went down to TIFF to meet Annie and see Agnes Varda's Faces/Places. It occurred to me that we should book in advance, and then I thought, who'll want to see an obscure French film in the middle of a cold Saturday afternoon? I'm such a geek that recently, when I decided to see California Typewriter, I bought my ticket in advance because I was so sure it would be sold out - and there were five people in the cinema besides me.
This time, however, wrong - I got there half an hour early to buy tickets, and the showing was already sold out. Who knew? Annie and I saved the day; we went to see Loving Vincent instead, an extraordinary work of art about the life and death of Vincent Van Gogh. It was shot with - of course - great British actors and then, frame by frame, painted over in Van Gogh's thick brushstrokes by 100 visual artists - so it's like seeing the whole world from Vincent's eyes, inside his paintings. It is of course the tragic story of a magnificent tormented genius misunderstood and neglected in his time, except for a great hero, his brother Theo who kept him alive. Vincent was not only a superb painter but a wonderful letter writer, constantly detailing his life and work for his brother and other correspondents. A beautiful experience in the cinema. Don't miss it.
And now, this:
NEWS IN BRIEFEntirety Of Hollywood Film Industry Replaced With 40,000 Christopher PlummersThursday 3:00pm
SEE MORE: ENTERTAINMENT
LOS ANGELES—In the wake of numerous sexual misconduct allegations against prominent figures in Hollywood, the entire film industry will reportedly be replaced by 40,000 Christopher Plummers, sources said Friday. “Going forward, veteran actor Christopher Plummer will write, direct, and star in every movie we make and is currently working with us to reshoot hundreds of features already in production,” said studio executive Christopher Plummer, adding that the entire history of film would eventually be altered with Christopher Plummers swapped in for the roles and also feature revised credits to reflect the fact that Christopher Plummers performed every behind-the-scenes task. “We’ve got Christopher Plummers serving as sound designers, foley artists, background extras, hair and makeup, key grips, and even craft services. To be honest, this was long overdue.” At press time, Plummer had been forced to resign after allegations of sexual harassment from five other Christopher Plummers surfaced.
November 11, 2017
Remembering Marion
Remembrance - my father who was in the U.S. Army MASH units in the last year of WW2, his brother Edgar a radio operator in the U.S. airforce, my mother in the British Land Army and at Bletchley Park. We thank you and your compatriots for all you did to save the world from Fascism. Glad none of you is here to see the state of the world today. But then - after last Tuesday's elections in the U.S. - there's hope again. Up and down we go.
But in honour of remembering, here's a photograph that means a great deal. My Washington cousin gave me this shot I'd never seen before of my British grandmother Marion Edith Alice Bates at age 18 or so during WW1. The photo was damaged so I had it repaired and enlarged. Marion had just become a teacher, her thick auburn hair tied behind her neck with a bow - and look at that tiny waist! I see so many of her descendants in her face, including both my children, my brother, and me. I have her thin shoulders, too, though have not, have never had, that waist. Soon she'd marry my grandfather Percy Harold Leadbeater, 100% not the right man for her, a dry stick who was lucky to marry this great beauty. However, we're all glad she did, because here we are.
So in remembrance of Marion, a supply teacher and great cook in a thatched cottage in a village, growing her own fruit and vegetables, making her own bread, sewing her own clothes and those of her 3 daughters, and later a proud, delicate grandmother to her 4 grandchildren - I honour and remember you today. I'm wearing the ring you gave my mother and she gave me, a gift from your best friend Hattie Cumberpatch, and the watercolour you did of the cottage where you raised your family, where my mother was born, is in my office. So you are always with me.
But in honour of remembering, here's a photograph that means a great deal. My Washington cousin gave me this shot I'd never seen before of my British grandmother Marion Edith Alice Bates at age 18 or so during WW1. The photo was damaged so I had it repaired and enlarged. Marion had just become a teacher, her thick auburn hair tied behind her neck with a bow - and look at that tiny waist! I see so many of her descendants in her face, including both my children, my brother, and me. I have her thin shoulders, too, though have not, have never had, that waist. Soon she'd marry my grandfather Percy Harold Leadbeater, 100% not the right man for her, a dry stick who was lucky to marry this great beauty. However, we're all glad she did, because here we are.
So in remembrance of Marion, a supply teacher and great cook in a thatched cottage in a village, growing her own fruit and vegetables, making her own bread, sewing her own clothes and those of her 3 daughters, and later a proud, delicate grandmother to her 4 grandchildren - I honour and remember you today. I'm wearing the ring you gave my mother and she gave me, a gift from your best friend Hattie Cumberpatch, and the watercolour you did of the cottage where you raised your family, where my mother was born, is in my office. So you are always with me.
November 8, 2017
a student's piece for Remembrance Day
A few weeks ago, a student at Ryerson wrote a piece for class about how her father, a veteran, was mistreated on Remembrance Day by a store. Send it to the Globe, I advised, and told the class, whenever they have an essay relating to a specific holiday, they should send it in. Already, her piece has appeared. She has never been published before and is thrilled. And I am thrilled for her.
https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/my-dad-made-sacrifices-for-our-country-so-why-did-his-favourite-big-box-store-disrespecthim/article36861612/?click=sf_globefb
With all these reports of sexual assault pouring in, including from decades ago, I'm grateful that as far as I can recall, I have never sexually assaulted anyone. I don't think anyone from my past is going to stand up and point a finger. In fact, I could point a finger or two myself, but I won't, that was many many years ago when I was young and stupid and spent too long at the bar.
But I love how Samantha Bee put it, with her usual forcefulness. "Here's how I do it, guys," she said. (I paraphrase.) "I get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, and I don't masturbate in front of my staff."
At today's conversation group, the local library's outreach coordinator came to talk to us about the library and to make sure all the women have library cards. He told us about the library's programs - so many! It's like a community centre - parenting, literacy, the Lego club, the Bookmobile, Leading to Reading, home delivery for the non-mobile, of course Storytime for young ones, another conversation circle, puppet shows, teen youth groups - it's incredible. Even "Why make a will?," coming up in a few weeks - we had to explain "a will" to the women. So impressed with our library system. There are 100 libraries in Toronto - the goal, one every 1.5 kilometres. Fabulous.
Yesterday's treat - I was killing time on Bloor Street between class at U of T and a non-fiction conference meeting nearby, strolling along with the shoppers, when I heard a high clear voice of unearthly beauty - a young man standing at the corner of Bloor and Bay, singing. "For Tuition," said his sign. He sang "Ave Maria" and I stood stock still and relished. I gave him $10 and he gave me his card. Ian Sabourin, a counter tenor. Thank you, Ian, I said, for such beauty in the midst of the consumer madness of Bloor Street. When I left, he was being hassled by a First Nations man who wanted to beg on the same corner. Valuable real estate. Give him a listen - he's stunning, vocally and - let's be frank - physically. https://www.iansabourin.com/
And then, last night, watching the second half of the doc on Jann Wenner's Rolling Stone on HBO - four hours of the history of my generation, music, politics, revolution. Wonderful.
Democrats won in the States including the first transgender woman ever! And the Bloor Street bike lanes are permanent. At last, some good news. We could use some. It's getting cold here.
P.S. This is what a successful writer's life looks like. Sigh. Just a tiny bit jealous.
https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/my-dad-made-sacrifices-for-our-country-so-why-did-his-favourite-big-box-store-disrespecthim/article36861612/?click=sf_globefb
With all these reports of sexual assault pouring in, including from decades ago, I'm grateful that as far as I can recall, I have never sexually assaulted anyone. I don't think anyone from my past is going to stand up and point a finger. In fact, I could point a finger or two myself, but I won't, that was many many years ago when I was young and stupid and spent too long at the bar.
But I love how Samantha Bee put it, with her usual forcefulness. "Here's how I do it, guys," she said. (I paraphrase.) "I get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, and I don't masturbate in front of my staff."
At today's conversation group, the local library's outreach coordinator came to talk to us about the library and to make sure all the women have library cards. He told us about the library's programs - so many! It's like a community centre - parenting, literacy, the Lego club, the Bookmobile, Leading to Reading, home delivery for the non-mobile, of course Storytime for young ones, another conversation circle, puppet shows, teen youth groups - it's incredible. Even "Why make a will?," coming up in a few weeks - we had to explain "a will" to the women. So impressed with our library system. There are 100 libraries in Toronto - the goal, one every 1.5 kilometres. Fabulous.
Yesterday's treat - I was killing time on Bloor Street between class at U of T and a non-fiction conference meeting nearby, strolling along with the shoppers, when I heard a high clear voice of unearthly beauty - a young man standing at the corner of Bloor and Bay, singing. "For Tuition," said his sign. He sang "Ave Maria" and I stood stock still and relished. I gave him $10 and he gave me his card. Ian Sabourin, a counter tenor. Thank you, Ian, I said, for such beauty in the midst of the consumer madness of Bloor Street. When I left, he was being hassled by a First Nations man who wanted to beg on the same corner. Valuable real estate. Give him a listen - he's stunning, vocally and - let's be frank - physically. https://www.iansabourin.com/
And then, last night, watching the second half of the doc on Jann Wenner's Rolling Stone on HBO - four hours of the history of my generation, music, politics, revolution. Wonderful.
Democrats won in the States including the first transgender woman ever! And the Bloor Street bike lanes are permanent. At last, some good news. We could use some. It's getting cold here.
P.S. This is what a successful writer's life looks like. Sigh. Just a tiny bit jealous.
November 6, 2017
So True's truths
I'm sure you've heard this before - but yesterday felt like a plateau in my life, a place of peace I've spent 67 years climbing to, an achievement, yes, to be proud of. So I'll celebrate with you.
So True was remarkable. We'd had a big problem - one of the eight pieces for the event turned out, at Thursday's rehearsal, to be confusing; it was my fault, choosing a new writer with a quirky style that in the end, didn't work for reading aloud. We tried to fix the piece but could not, so with only a day to go were one reader short, when I came up with an idea - to remember and honour Gord Downie by reading a piece by a talented student of mine who'd also died far too young of a brain tumour. Only months before she died, she was writing powerful, moving pieces for class, and I'd saved the last and best one, "The Night Bus." Another longterm student, Sam, agreed at the last minute to read it, and in a flurry of emails, we mended the hole in the program.
This time, as our MC Jason said, it felt as if we know how to do this; those who've read before were relaxed and comfortable on stage, and even those who were new did beautifully. There was a good mix of ages and styles, though I wish as always for more diversity - but that's a problem of the genre and the demographic attending my classes. The place was packed - over 70 people - and the audience reaction was rapturous. One reader had a group of dog-walker friends who came to hear her read in the first half and intended to leave at the intermission, to go to dinner. Instead, she said, they stayed for the whole thing and were in tears at the end.
From those who read:
it's just goddam inspiring -- I want to keep coming, to keep writing -- you all, all of you who presented today -- you've given me hope and inspiration. This particular afternoon at SO TRUE will stay with me forever!
Thanks to all for sharing your truths so eloquently and with such passion...I left buzzing, proud to be in such company.
Ah the truths! So refreshing. Even the sad stuff - it's real - and it makes you feel alive. We need more truths in today's world - less hate and more love. And more Beth! Thanks for all you do, you make the world a more inspiring and interesting place to be :) I'll be submitting a piece for your next show - I am addicted.
And from my writer friend Isabel Huggan, who could only stay for the first half and whom I asked to give me a critique:As for critique - heaps of praise on all four I heard, each sequence polished, with constant forward movement and not too much explanatory detail slowing things down... each one so different and written and spoken exactly according to the "type" of true-story-memoir it was, the voices were all so individual, as unique as the experiences. A great crowd you get there, I can imagine this scene expanding -- but could you handle that?
No. We want to keep it just as it is - 70 plus people in this warm, comfortable room. No desire to get bigger - it's enough work as it is.
Wayson was there with me, taking money at the door; afterward, at home, I pulled spaghetti sauce from the freezer to make us dinner, grateful for his company - another time it's hard to be single is after an achievement, when there's no one else to witness it. Wayson is my witness. We watched "The Durrells in Corfu," the best yet, a hilarious series, and at 9, simultaneously, a doc about conjoined twins in B.C. and "Poldark."
And while we watched, I received a text from my son. I'd given him and his girlfriend Amy an early Xmas present - tickets to the last matinee of "Guys and Dolls" at Stratford, morning bus tickets there and late train tickets back. He'd arranged to have dinner after the show with dear family friends who've known him since he was a baby. The weather was forecast to be hideous, thunderstorms all day, and I was concerned they'd have a terrible time - these 30 somethings, especially Sam an aficionado of action and horror films, wouldn't necessarily enjoy a dated musical written in 1950. In the rain.
Sam wrote, from the train home, "Mom, what a truly wonderful day. We had a great lunch and walked by the river. Played Pooh sticks (Amy cheated) and that was all before seeing the most wonderful musical. Tom and Anna fed us a wonderful meal and are just amazing. Love you."
Pooh sticks, from one of the Winnie the Pooh books. When the kids were small, whenever we went for a walk over a bridge, we played Pooh sticks, throwing sticks in one side and waiting excitedly to see whose came out first on the other.
That moment - sitting on the sofa with my beloved friend, full of my homemade spaghetti sauce made with MY OWN BASIL, GARLIC, AND TOMATOES, with the success of So True that afternoon, and my son's happiness - it was good, my friends.
I hesitate to write it down, because we know life - just around the corner, who knows? Up down up down up. Earlier that day, as I walked home from the Y, I stood watching the Remembrance Day parade down Jarvis Street, Canadian army men and women marching to honour those who've died. The world is particularly fragile right now.
But right then, last night on the sofa, yes, I thought. Thank you.
P.S. Here's what's missing from this charming picture: a work ethic that has me WORKING on my next writing project instead of spending the morning going over past successes on the blog. Missing! Failure! A profound lack.
Just in case I am feeling too proud of myself.
So True was remarkable. We'd had a big problem - one of the eight pieces for the event turned out, at Thursday's rehearsal, to be confusing; it was my fault, choosing a new writer with a quirky style that in the end, didn't work for reading aloud. We tried to fix the piece but could not, so with only a day to go were one reader short, when I came up with an idea - to remember and honour Gord Downie by reading a piece by a talented student of mine who'd also died far too young of a brain tumour. Only months before she died, she was writing powerful, moving pieces for class, and I'd saved the last and best one, "The Night Bus." Another longterm student, Sam, agreed at the last minute to read it, and in a flurry of emails, we mended the hole in the program.
This time, as our MC Jason said, it felt as if we know how to do this; those who've read before were relaxed and comfortable on stage, and even those who were new did beautifully. There was a good mix of ages and styles, though I wish as always for more diversity - but that's a problem of the genre and the demographic attending my classes. The place was packed - over 70 people - and the audience reaction was rapturous. One reader had a group of dog-walker friends who came to hear her read in the first half and intended to leave at the intermission, to go to dinner. Instead, she said, they stayed for the whole thing and were in tears at the end.
From those who read:
it's just goddam inspiring -- I want to keep coming, to keep writing -- you all, all of you who presented today -- you've given me hope and inspiration. This particular afternoon at SO TRUE will stay with me forever!
Thanks to all for sharing your truths so eloquently and with such passion...I left buzzing, proud to be in such company.
Ah the truths! So refreshing. Even the sad stuff - it's real - and it makes you feel alive. We need more truths in today's world - less hate and more love. And more Beth! Thanks for all you do, you make the world a more inspiring and interesting place to be :) I'll be submitting a piece for your next show - I am addicted.
And from my writer friend Isabel Huggan, who could only stay for the first half and whom I asked to give me a critique:As for critique - heaps of praise on all four I heard, each sequence polished, with constant forward movement and not too much explanatory detail slowing things down... each one so different and written and spoken exactly according to the "type" of true-story-memoir it was, the voices were all so individual, as unique as the experiences. A great crowd you get there, I can imagine this scene expanding -- but could you handle that?
No. We want to keep it just as it is - 70 plus people in this warm, comfortable room. No desire to get bigger - it's enough work as it is.
Wayson was there with me, taking money at the door; afterward, at home, I pulled spaghetti sauce from the freezer to make us dinner, grateful for his company - another time it's hard to be single is after an achievement, when there's no one else to witness it. Wayson is my witness. We watched "The Durrells in Corfu," the best yet, a hilarious series, and at 9, simultaneously, a doc about conjoined twins in B.C. and "Poldark."
And while we watched, I received a text from my son. I'd given him and his girlfriend Amy an early Xmas present - tickets to the last matinee of "Guys and Dolls" at Stratford, morning bus tickets there and late train tickets back. He'd arranged to have dinner after the show with dear family friends who've known him since he was a baby. The weather was forecast to be hideous, thunderstorms all day, and I was concerned they'd have a terrible time - these 30 somethings, especially Sam an aficionado of action and horror films, wouldn't necessarily enjoy a dated musical written in 1950. In the rain.
Sam wrote, from the train home, "Mom, what a truly wonderful day. We had a great lunch and walked by the river. Played Pooh sticks (Amy cheated) and that was all before seeing the most wonderful musical. Tom and Anna fed us a wonderful meal and are just amazing. Love you."
Pooh sticks, from one of the Winnie the Pooh books. When the kids were small, whenever we went for a walk over a bridge, we played Pooh sticks, throwing sticks in one side and waiting excitedly to see whose came out first on the other.
That moment - sitting on the sofa with my beloved friend, full of my homemade spaghetti sauce made with MY OWN BASIL, GARLIC, AND TOMATOES, with the success of So True that afternoon, and my son's happiness - it was good, my friends.
I hesitate to write it down, because we know life - just around the corner, who knows? Up down up down up. Earlier that day, as I walked home from the Y, I stood watching the Remembrance Day parade down Jarvis Street, Canadian army men and women marching to honour those who've died. The world is particularly fragile right now.
But right then, last night on the sofa, yes, I thought. Thank you.
P.S. Here's what's missing from this charming picture: a work ethic that has me WORKING on my next writing project instead of spending the morning going over past successes on the blog. Missing! Failure! A profound lack.
Just in case I am feeling too proud of myself.
November 4, 2017
Love is ... California Typewriter
Sheer joy - a documentary that brought tears to my eyes and made me laugh out loud several times: California Typewriter, about the weird band of retrograde eccentrics who still use and love and collect typewriters. And what a bunch - Tom Hanks, writers Sam Shepherd and David McCullough and musician John Mayer, who speak about the visceral pleasure of striking the keys and preserving work on paper; an amazing artist, Jeremy Mayer, who makes sculptures out of parts; the Boston Typewriter Orchestra, who, yes, make music with theirs, and a very sweet, hapless Canadian who is reliving his halcyon childhood with his typewriter collection, searching for one in particular, the oldest and rarest. And the centrepiece of the film, the shop in California of that name which gathers, sells, repairs, and struggles to survive.
What's interesting is that there's barely a woman in the film. This is a world almost entirely male - the collectors, the artists still using these machines. Why is that? Perhaps the typewriter is too associated with one of the only jobs a woman in the old days could get, dead-end, a trap. And yet the history segments of the film show that typing opened up the wide business world to women, gave them better paying jobs than factory work or even teaching.
But mostly - the film celebrates writers, their process, choosing the right tools to transmute the words from the brain to the page. It's a long film, too long, the filmmaker does not want to let his lovely people go, and I understand why. Still, I loved every minute. I have two very old Royal ones myself, and perhaps need to buy one I can actually use. Stay tuned. Highly recommended.
This morning I Googled myself - because I'm that sort of narcissist - and to my surprise, found this photo on the website for Bikestock, a celebration of bicycles I went to a few years ago. Too bad I wasn't there with Marilyn, my current beautiful bike, but this sleek old one I bought on Craigslist is still nice. Speaking of 19th century technology that still works better than anything ...
After much nagging from all my children and friends, I wear a helmet more regularly now. Hate it - itchy, heavy, ugly - but there are so many bad drivers in Toronto, and shit happens. Still, I much prefer to be without, even with risk and windy fluffhead.
Wayson came for supper yesterday, hobbling more slowly with a bigger cane - I am sad to see him physically diminished, though his sense of humour remains as sharp as ever. We watched some of "Present Laughter" on PBS and then Bill Maher, more depressing about ISIS and the future than I'd thought imaginable. And tonight and all tomorrow, apparently, torrential rain. Still - friendship, family, love. Falling leaves.
What's interesting is that there's barely a woman in the film. This is a world almost entirely male - the collectors, the artists still using these machines. Why is that? Perhaps the typewriter is too associated with one of the only jobs a woman in the old days could get, dead-end, a trap. And yet the history segments of the film show that typing opened up the wide business world to women, gave them better paying jobs than factory work or even teaching.
But mostly - the film celebrates writers, their process, choosing the right tools to transmute the words from the brain to the page. It's a long film, too long, the filmmaker does not want to let his lovely people go, and I understand why. Still, I loved every minute. I have two very old Royal ones myself, and perhaps need to buy one I can actually use. Stay tuned. Highly recommended.
This morning I Googled myself - because I'm that sort of narcissist - and to my surprise, found this photo on the website for Bikestock, a celebration of bicycles I went to a few years ago. Too bad I wasn't there with Marilyn, my current beautiful bike, but this sleek old one I bought on Craigslist is still nice. Speaking of 19th century technology that still works better than anything ...
After much nagging from all my children and friends, I wear a helmet more regularly now. Hate it - itchy, heavy, ugly - but there are so many bad drivers in Toronto, and shit happens. Still, I much prefer to be without, even with risk and windy fluffhead.Wayson came for supper yesterday, hobbling more slowly with a bigger cane - I am sad to see him physically diminished, though his sense of humour remains as sharp as ever. We watched some of "Present Laughter" on PBS and then Bill Maher, more depressing about ISIS and the future than I'd thought imaginable. And tonight and all tomorrow, apparently, torrential rain. Still - friendship, family, love. Falling leaves.
November 3, 2017
meeting Miriam and Avi Hoffman
A lovely day - cascades of red and yellow leaves, sun, blue sky. Spent the morning with John, winterizing - putting away cushions and sun umbrellas, covering chairs and tables with a tarp, pulling out the remnants of plants, covering the barbecue and the air conditioner that I used twice this summer. The cold is on its way. But not yet - mild out there, still. I learned from friend Chris's blog that it snowed on Gabriola Island yesterday - and here, people were out in shorts.
A grand event Wednesday night - dinner with Michael Shore, yet another first cousin once removed whom I hardly know, an actor who has recently moved to Toronto, and with Avi and Miriam Hoffman, theatrical son and mother formerly from New York now from Florida, who were in town to speak in Yiddish about the Yiddish theatre. I could not attend the event but through Michael, who was in the recent Yiddish Death of a Salesman starring Avi, I got in touch with them to offer to give them my book. Hence, dinner together. Avi is an interesting man with lots of great ideas, but Miriam is a powerhouse. How I enjoyed speaking with her. A mere 81 and as sharp as a teenager, she'd just returned from speaking in Prague and a separate trip to Bucharest. She taught Yiddish for decades at Columbia, has written a textbook about the language, has had many plays performed and just finished a memoir that you can be sure I'll order when it appears.
https://www.amazon.com/Breed-Apart-Professor-Miriam-Hoffman/dp/0999336509/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1505412387&sr=8-1&keywords=a+breed+apart+hoffman
She was born in Siberia, walked across Russia with her family to escape, her father-in-law survived Auschwitz - oh the woman has stories to tell. She reminded me of my American grandmother - my powerful roots, on one side. But the other, British side is so very different. Miriam and Avi wanted a commitment to Jewishness from me, but I'm afraid I cannot give it. I'm just not anything official, except a Cabbagetowner.
Wednesday night, big news, I slept through the night - went to bed at midnight after a comedian binge - John Oliver, Sam Bee, Trevor Noah - and woke at 7.30 a.m. That almost never happens, and what a difference it makes - I was at my desk by 8.30 and had a productive day. Usually I wake in the middle of the night to fret and ponder. Hours pass. What a waste of time! I think, furious, and then sleep late and the morning vanishes. My life would have been so much more productive, I think to myself, if I'd not had insomnia. But then - I would not be myself if I did not have insomnia. I'd be some other, more confident, less introspective and neurotic human being, someone like my daughter, who just goes to bed and falls asleep. I've got to accept that's not how I roll.
I roll by making lists at 3.30 a.m., as I did again this morning. C'est la vie.
And - Paul McCartney and his beautiful daughters Mary and Stella have created a short film about saving the planet by not eating meat one day a week. Meat-free Mondays - we can do that. For you, my beloved Macca, easy.
Watch 'One Day a Week' by clicking HERE!
A grand event Wednesday night - dinner with Michael Shore, yet another first cousin once removed whom I hardly know, an actor who has recently moved to Toronto, and with Avi and Miriam Hoffman, theatrical son and mother formerly from New York now from Florida, who were in town to speak in Yiddish about the Yiddish theatre. I could not attend the event but through Michael, who was in the recent Yiddish Death of a Salesman starring Avi, I got in touch with them to offer to give them my book. Hence, dinner together. Avi is an interesting man with lots of great ideas, but Miriam is a powerhouse. How I enjoyed speaking with her. A mere 81 and as sharp as a teenager, she'd just returned from speaking in Prague and a separate trip to Bucharest. She taught Yiddish for decades at Columbia, has written a textbook about the language, has had many plays performed and just finished a memoir that you can be sure I'll order when it appears.
https://www.amazon.com/Breed-Apart-Professor-Miriam-Hoffman/dp/0999336509/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1505412387&sr=8-1&keywords=a+breed+apart+hoffman
She was born in Siberia, walked across Russia with her family to escape, her father-in-law survived Auschwitz - oh the woman has stories to tell. She reminded me of my American grandmother - my powerful roots, on one side. But the other, British side is so very different. Miriam and Avi wanted a commitment to Jewishness from me, but I'm afraid I cannot give it. I'm just not anything official, except a Cabbagetowner.
Wednesday night, big news, I slept through the night - went to bed at midnight after a comedian binge - John Oliver, Sam Bee, Trevor Noah - and woke at 7.30 a.m. That almost never happens, and what a difference it makes - I was at my desk by 8.30 and had a productive day. Usually I wake in the middle of the night to fret and ponder. Hours pass. What a waste of time! I think, furious, and then sleep late and the morning vanishes. My life would have been so much more productive, I think to myself, if I'd not had insomnia. But then - I would not be myself if I did not have insomnia. I'd be some other, more confident, less introspective and neurotic human being, someone like my daughter, who just goes to bed and falls asleep. I've got to accept that's not how I roll.
I roll by making lists at 3.30 a.m., as I did again this morning. C'est la vie.
And - Paul McCartney and his beautiful daughters Mary and Stella have created a short film about saving the planet by not eating meat one day a week. Meat-free Mondays - we can do that. For you, my beloved Macca, easy.
Watch 'One Day a Week' by clicking HERE!
October 31, 2017
Happy Hallowe'en
I don't celebrate Hallowe'en. Anyone who has been in the theatre, who wore other people's clothes for a living, doesn't see why pretending to be other people is fun. Also, here in Cabbagetown, we get 700-800 kids trick or treating. Nobody believes that number except the people who live here. So after many years of exhausting Hallowe'ens, getting my own kids out in costume, carving pumpkins and buying 800 little chocolate bars to be distributed through the evening hours, I now take the night off. Except that Jean-Marc and Richard are having their post-Hallowe'en grownup gathering tonight, always fun.
But here's someone who will really have a good time today. And so will his brother, who went to school as a blue ninja. There will be candy. Good luck, mama.
But here's someone who will really have a good time today. And so will his brother, who went to school as a blue ninja. There will be candy. Good luck, mama.
October 30, 2017
All My Loving in the library
Recently I saw that beside three copies of Finding the Jewish Shakespeare, there are four copies of All My Loving in the library. Not sure how they got there, but what pleasure, I who so love the library, to know that two of my books are there. People have been saying nice things about All My Loving which I feel obligated to share with you. Because you follow my ups and downs, here are some ups.
Alan Millen responded to a request on a Beatle website for books about the Beatles:
Beth Kaplan's book "All My Loving: Coming of Age with Paul McCartney in Paris" is a gem, and I am saying that as a guy who did not grow up with an infatuation for any particular Beatle. It's beautifully written and will resonate with anyone who recalls their own adolescence honestly.
So pleased by this. Thank you, Alan and unknown reviewer. It's a long, lonely slog, writing a book. Good to know readers are out there.
And for readers and listeners, a repeat of this - next Sunday!
Alan Millen responded to a request on a Beatle website for books about the Beatles:
Beth Kaplan's book "All My Loving: Coming of Age with Paul McCartney in Paris" is a gem, and I am saying that as a guy who did not grow up with an infatuation for any particular Beatle. It's beautifully written and will resonate with anyone who recalls their own adolescence honestly.
And this appeared on Goodreads, written perhaps by a young American:
All my Loving: Coming of Age with Paul McCartney by Beth Kaplan is the true story of Kaplan's teenage life growing up in the 1960's and falling in love with the Beatles, especially Paul McCartney.
As a 13 year old in Canada, Beth had pretty big problems to deal with. Problems that a lot of teenagers have to go through, but still big problems. Her parents for one thing fought a lot and had a lot of marital problems. Her Dad was not kind to her and her brother was obviously his favorite. Plus she wasn't developing as quickly as her classmates and was concerned about puberty and all that comes along with it. And then Beth heard the Beatles....and things changed for her. She became a full blown Beatlemaniac and fell head over heels in love with Paul McCartney. Beth knew that she and Paul were meant to be together and would write elaborate stories about their love to help her escape from the world around her.
In the midst of all of this, Beth and her family had to move to Paris, France due to her father's job. Beth did not want to go. She did not speak the language, and she did not want to move away from her Beatle crazed friends. In order to survive in a foreign country, Beth relied more and more on Beatles music and mostly in her made-up world of Paul McCartney.
In the summer of 1965, the Beatles performed twice in Paris and Beth got tickets to BOTH shows! For the first one, she was down in the front, surrounded by boys. She turned her recently purchased program to the photo of Paul and waved it around. Paul saw her and waved! What a thrill for her!
I enjoyed reading All My Loving. It was easy to read because Kaplan is such a good writer and the story flowed very well. Everyone (well females especially) can relate to many of the things that Beth experiences during her early teen years, but having it happen in the middle of the Beatles made it an interesting read. First generation fans would be most likely to enjoy this book, as they were the ones that were growing up right alongside Beth. However, I think teenagers today who are Beatles fans would also enjoy this book and it would be interesting for them to see that the problems they face aren't that much different than the problems faced by a teenager in 1964.
So pleased by this. Thank you, Alan and unknown reviewer. It's a long, lonely slog, writing a book. Good to know readers are out there.
And for readers and listeners, a repeat of this - next Sunday!
Bernie blasts through, Brian gets well, Eli is cheerful
It's colder out, though the leaves are still mostly on the trees; the weird fall continues. Still, though I am always bundled up, there are people out in light clothes, even shorts. Crazy Canucks. Speaking of which, Bernie Sanders was in T.O. this weekend to learn about our healthcare system - not perfect, but so much better than his country's that it's barely comprehensible. Go Bernie. And in Washington, ARRESTS ARE BEING MADE. Go Mueller!
On Friday, at my Runfit class at the Y, I ran into an old old friend - well, former friend. I've known her longer than anyone; we were in Grades 4 through 6 together in Halifax and later in high school, visited when both living in London, then when I took a room in a communal Toronto house in the early seventies, she moved in with her boyfriend. We had children at the same time; I stayed with her when I came to Toronto from Vancouver. Her lifestyle was always strange to me; they had a very expensive Italian sofa and no kitchen table. But still, she was my oldest friend. Until she dumped me, not returning my phone calls, eventually also dumping all our mutual friends - apparently, I was told, to avoid seeing me. No idea what went wrong; when I ran into her years ago, also at the Y, I asked what I'd done, and she said, "Kaplan, life is like that." Since then, we've met occasionally through our mutual friends and had cordial talks, but it grieves me. I knew her brother who died young in a motorcycle accident; I remember her childhood home and she mine, her parents, my parents, my child self and hers - and there is no connection at all. On Friday, we said hello and exchanged a few words, and that was that. Unimaginable to me, to throw away a lifetime's friendship, but hey. Life is like that.
Also re the Y: Last year a Y friend, Brian, an architect in his late seventies who sometimes taught the Runfit class, had a massive heart attack. Many of us from the class kept in touch; we signed cards, wrote emails, some went to visit him in hospital. He recovered and finally came back to the Y, very slowly working on the machines to regain his strength. He's still not where he was, but he is much better, and was told that if he hadn't been so fit, the attack might have killed him. On Friday, he and his wife Judith had a party to thank those of us who'd tried to give them support. We stood on the south-facing deck of their Riverdale home overlooking the sloping garden below, with a view of sky and trees. The Runfit crowd are such extremely nice people - and I appreciate that they almost all have normal 9 to 5 jobs, as opposed to the arty types I know. Ordinary, nice, kind, interesting people who get regular paycheques - exotic, in my world. We ate and drank and looked at the view and toasted Brian's full recovery and our friendships and the Y. Blessings.
And then, the greatest blessing, a sleepover with Eli. Last time, there were tears at bedtime, missing his mother and brother. This time, no problem at all. His beloved new stuffie, perched on the pillow beside him, helped. After his birth, I spent ages looking for exactly the right teddybear to give him, as my grandparents gave one to me and my mother to my kids. But he paid no attention to it, or to any stuffie at all, until now, when his chosen one is not the lovely teddybear I searched for but a fat child version of Captain America. Yes, my grandson's favourite stuffie is Captain America. He carries it around and throws it up and down stairs. Ah well.
After bathtime, when we played pirates slashing and shooting, we were snuggled together in bed reading Harry the Dirty Dog, a favourite book, and I noted the H on the doghouse. "That's H for Harry," he said, and I said, "H for happy." To which he replied, "which is what I am right now." Be still my beating heart.
In the morning, he got into bed with me as usual, and we lay in the warmth for a bit. "It looks like a grey day again," I said. "Oh no," he said, "it's nice out. It's just not sunny yet."
How's that for optimism? And another great line: I asked what the tooth fairy had brought for his first tooth. "One blue money," he said. And that is how I would like to see money forever after.
We played and explored and made a big mess; Wayson came for a big Sunday lunch, and while I was cleaning up, they did puzzles and played Snakes and Ladders amid peals of laughter. 79 and 5 and best friends.
A cold grey gloomy Monday, but ... it's nice out. It's just not sunny yet.
On Friday, at my Runfit class at the Y, I ran into an old old friend - well, former friend. I've known her longer than anyone; we were in Grades 4 through 6 together in Halifax and later in high school, visited when both living in London, then when I took a room in a communal Toronto house in the early seventies, she moved in with her boyfriend. We had children at the same time; I stayed with her when I came to Toronto from Vancouver. Her lifestyle was always strange to me; they had a very expensive Italian sofa and no kitchen table. But still, she was my oldest friend. Until she dumped me, not returning my phone calls, eventually also dumping all our mutual friends - apparently, I was told, to avoid seeing me. No idea what went wrong; when I ran into her years ago, also at the Y, I asked what I'd done, and she said, "Kaplan, life is like that." Since then, we've met occasionally through our mutual friends and had cordial talks, but it grieves me. I knew her brother who died young in a motorcycle accident; I remember her childhood home and she mine, her parents, my parents, my child self and hers - and there is no connection at all. On Friday, we said hello and exchanged a few words, and that was that. Unimaginable to me, to throw away a lifetime's friendship, but hey. Life is like that.
Also re the Y: Last year a Y friend, Brian, an architect in his late seventies who sometimes taught the Runfit class, had a massive heart attack. Many of us from the class kept in touch; we signed cards, wrote emails, some went to visit him in hospital. He recovered and finally came back to the Y, very slowly working on the machines to regain his strength. He's still not where he was, but he is much better, and was told that if he hadn't been so fit, the attack might have killed him. On Friday, he and his wife Judith had a party to thank those of us who'd tried to give them support. We stood on the south-facing deck of their Riverdale home overlooking the sloping garden below, with a view of sky and trees. The Runfit crowd are such extremely nice people - and I appreciate that they almost all have normal 9 to 5 jobs, as opposed to the arty types I know. Ordinary, nice, kind, interesting people who get regular paycheques - exotic, in my world. We ate and drank and looked at the view and toasted Brian's full recovery and our friendships and the Y. Blessings.
And then, the greatest blessing, a sleepover with Eli. Last time, there were tears at bedtime, missing his mother and brother. This time, no problem at all. His beloved new stuffie, perched on the pillow beside him, helped. After his birth, I spent ages looking for exactly the right teddybear to give him, as my grandparents gave one to me and my mother to my kids. But he paid no attention to it, or to any stuffie at all, until now, when his chosen one is not the lovely teddybear I searched for but a fat child version of Captain America. Yes, my grandson's favourite stuffie is Captain America. He carries it around and throws it up and down stairs. Ah well.
After bathtime, when we played pirates slashing and shooting, we were snuggled together in bed reading Harry the Dirty Dog, a favourite book, and I noted the H on the doghouse. "That's H for Harry," he said, and I said, "H for happy." To which he replied, "which is what I am right now." Be still my beating heart.
In the morning, he got into bed with me as usual, and we lay in the warmth for a bit. "It looks like a grey day again," I said. "Oh no," he said, "it's nice out. It's just not sunny yet."
How's that for optimism? And another great line: I asked what the tooth fairy had brought for his first tooth. "One blue money," he said. And that is how I would like to see money forever after.
We played and explored and made a big mess; Wayson came for a big Sunday lunch, and while I was cleaning up, they did puzzles and played Snakes and Ladders amid peals of laughter. 79 and 5 and best friends.
A cold grey gloomy Monday, but ... it's nice out. It's just not sunny yet.
