Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 137
October 26, 2017
a Hallowe'en devil
Ben's drop in knew exactly which costume he should wear for Hallowe'en. Be still my beating heart.
October 25, 2017
Trump's Africa
The sublime Roz Chast does it again. Laughing out loud.
adventure at the museum
Routine. Home. Pleasure - though yes, the minute I got home, it turned cold. I put away the last of the warm weather things and started sealing windows. It has begun - though today, cold in the morning, and chilly but very sunny later.
And what a day - an outing, with the Regent Park English conversation group, to the Royal Ontario Museum, organized by the indefatigable Ashrafi, the most mesmerizingly cheerful person I know, and privileged I am to know her too. We gathered at CRC, fourteen Muslim women and three small children plus me, Ashrafi and Zara, a CRC volunteer, and walked to get the streetcar. The face of the old man sitting at the front, as this crowd got on, like a flock of colourful birds, chattering in Bengali ... sheer incomprehension. What is happening here? Then the subway to Museum, and into the ROM.
That's our unscarved volunteer Zara in the middle of the streetcar - only she, Ashrafi, and I headscarfless.
The new ROM 'shard' is a Daniel Liebeskind building and therefore, I know from visiting his Jewish Museum in Berlin, utterly and wilfully confusing. Ridiculous. We were always lost. But still, we managed to find the Islamic artifacts to start with, then the whole Middle East, a First Nations exhibit, Egypt and the mummies, the dinosaurs to the joy of the small ones, the gemstones to the joy of us all - all women, it seems, are attracted to sparkling things - finally, ecosystem diversity and endangered species ... It was quite a visit. Mostly, the women gathered in small groups jabbering to each other, but still, there they were, taking it all in. Most had never been there before.
A few stellar moments: Before we left, I was chatting with one tiny woman, who was trying to explain why she wore the veil, which she had flipped up to talk to me. What I understood her to say was that she's not afraid of anything except her god, and she wears the veil for him - for her god. I thought, that's as good an explanation as any for something that's very hard for us to understand.
Then, at the museum, Nurun was thrilled by an exhibition of basketry from the Philippines. "This I do!" she exclaimed, pointing. She makes baskets, apparently - Bengalis also use baskets for fishing, for serving and carrying. She promised to bring some of her baskets to the group to show us.
And finally, in the diversity exhibit at the end, there were all kinds of taxidermied animals. One woman, standing in front of a window, pointed and asked me, "This is cheetah?" "No," I replied, "that's an anteater. The cheetah is up here." It was funny that she thought an anteater was a cheetah, but mostly what it showed was that she had read the panel in front.
It was unforgettable. I ran into a friend at the Y who is fiercely feminist and rages against the veil - sexism, patriarchy, the subjugation of women. But with my new friends, I do not see subjugated women. I see women who despite the extreme disapproval of the society they live in, are obeying what they think are the dictates of their religion and their god. I wonder, though, if their daughters, the little girls in the expensive shoes who were with us today, will also obey. I have to say, I hope they don't.
Centre front, with the smile - Ashrafi the wonder.
And what a day - an outing, with the Regent Park English conversation group, to the Royal Ontario Museum, organized by the indefatigable Ashrafi, the most mesmerizingly cheerful person I know, and privileged I am to know her too. We gathered at CRC, fourteen Muslim women and three small children plus me, Ashrafi and Zara, a CRC volunteer, and walked to get the streetcar. The face of the old man sitting at the front, as this crowd got on, like a flock of colourful birds, chattering in Bengali ... sheer incomprehension. What is happening here? Then the subway to Museum, and into the ROM.
That's our unscarved volunteer Zara in the middle of the streetcar - only she, Ashrafi, and I headscarfless.
The new ROM 'shard' is a Daniel Liebeskind building and therefore, I know from visiting his Jewish Museum in Berlin, utterly and wilfully confusing. Ridiculous. We were always lost. But still, we managed to find the Islamic artifacts to start with, then the whole Middle East, a First Nations exhibit, Egypt and the mummies, the dinosaurs to the joy of the small ones, the gemstones to the joy of us all - all women, it seems, are attracted to sparkling things - finally, ecosystem diversity and endangered species ... It was quite a visit. Mostly, the women gathered in small groups jabbering to each other, but still, there they were, taking it all in. Most had never been there before.A few stellar moments: Before we left, I was chatting with one tiny woman, who was trying to explain why she wore the veil, which she had flipped up to talk to me. What I understood her to say was that she's not afraid of anything except her god, and she wears the veil for him - for her god. I thought, that's as good an explanation as any for something that's very hard for us to understand.
Then, at the museum, Nurun was thrilled by an exhibition of basketry from the Philippines. "This I do!" she exclaimed, pointing. She makes baskets, apparently - Bengalis also use baskets for fishing, for serving and carrying. She promised to bring some of her baskets to the group to show us.
And finally, in the diversity exhibit at the end, there were all kinds of taxidermied animals. One woman, standing in front of a window, pointed and asked me, "This is cheetah?" "No," I replied, "that's an anteater. The cheetah is up here." It was funny that she thought an anteater was a cheetah, but mostly what it showed was that she had read the panel in front.
It was unforgettable. I ran into a friend at the Y who is fiercely feminist and rages against the veil - sexism, patriarchy, the subjugation of women. But with my new friends, I do not see subjugated women. I see women who despite the extreme disapproval of the society they live in, are obeying what they think are the dictates of their religion and their god. I wonder, though, if their daughters, the little girls in the expensive shoes who were with us today, will also obey. I have to say, I hope they don't.
Centre front, with the smile - Ashrafi the wonder.
October 22, 2017
home, still hot
The weather is mind-boggling - have I said that before? Hot hot sun, breezy, sublime - not just in Washington but in Toronto, since I came home this afternoon to the same gorgeous weather.
Friday afternoon I went to visit old old friends Judith and Leon Major - Judith's parents were my parents' great friends in Halifax in the Sixties, and so I've known Leon and Judith all my life. They've lived in Washington for decades, Leon teaching opera production. Judith told me that in 1965 my father called them to ask their advice - his daughter loved the Beatles and not Mozart, what should he do? Poor dad. (And now, Dad, I love both. You needn't have worried.)
That night, a family dinner at Barbara's. Her second husband Dan had two adopted Korean children when he married Barb; their daughter Mia came with her Swedish husband and two sons, just a tich younger than my grandchildren. The air rang with the voices of little boys and new family for me. Heaven.
Saturday Barb, Dan, Barb's younger sister Francey and I went for a hike on the Billy Goat trail at Great Falls, on the most glorious October 21 in memory. (click to enlarge)
Not that far from the White House.
Cousins squinting in the sun. Matching chins.
My Washington family on my mother's side. After the hike, I said goodbye to Barb and Dan, and Francey drove the two of us to Frederick, a hip town in northern Maryland, full of antique and record stores, where I treated her to lunch - the best crab cakes I've ever had and a local hoppy craft beer - and then we drove to her isolated house in acres of woods on top of a mountain. She's a recluse who has an amazing list of hobbies; she's a master knitter and a harpist and pianist who is teaching herself the viola da gamba; she and her husband raise big dogs, right now a wolfhound and a borzoi, and she is very serious about calligraphy.
A concert on one of her four harps.
Brianna lounging. An enormous wolfhound.
Practicing her letters. I spent the night there in the tranquillity of this mountaintop home where, however, the nearest neighbours are rabid Trump supporters. I myself would not want to live so far away from everything, but it suits Francey. Joe her husband was in Japan receiving an award for his work as a physicist. We sat in tilting leather chairs drinking American champagne and watching their giant TV screen - Francey's favourite program about British people who want to move to the country, and then the first episode of the new American series Mindhunter. Disturbing and terrific.
This morning Francey drove me to Dulles, an hour and a half. Luckily she likes driving. I had bought new sunglasses which have magic lenses - everything looked stunning, the colours much more vibrant than they actually were on another heavenly day, as the leaves slowly turn, a month late. We talked too much about You Know Who. Of course.
At Dulles, in the bookstore, a whole section for religious books and various bibles. They are not like us.
A painless fight home - in fact, wonderful, I sat next to a young red-headed Quebecois man who was deaf and covered with tattoos, wearing an anti-fur-trade t-shirt in French - we wrote messages to each other. He was adorable. Home through the usual traffic jam - maybe Toronto traffic is as bad as Washington's.
My tenant Elodie had left me a gift - she's a florist and had bought and arranged these beauties. So good to be home! Pray I sleep tonight.
Gifts from the trip: Francey did some calligraphy for me,
and Barbara gave me these - part of a tea set belonging to my great-great-grandmother Elizabeth Bates in Northampton. So many gifts from both sides of my family. And then I went for a walk in my 'hood, gearing up for Hallowe'en - this is just up the street. Glad to be home. It was a superb trip.
Randy Bachman is blasting on the radio, the back door is wide open, soon there's great Sunday night TV, and then I'll be in my own bed. And what I'd like to say to that is: YES.
Friday afternoon I went to visit old old friends Judith and Leon Major - Judith's parents were my parents' great friends in Halifax in the Sixties, and so I've known Leon and Judith all my life. They've lived in Washington for decades, Leon teaching opera production. Judith told me that in 1965 my father called them to ask their advice - his daughter loved the Beatles and not Mozart, what should he do? Poor dad. (And now, Dad, I love both. You needn't have worried.)
That night, a family dinner at Barbara's. Her second husband Dan had two adopted Korean children when he married Barb; their daughter Mia came with her Swedish husband and two sons, just a tich younger than my grandchildren. The air rang with the voices of little boys and new family for me. Heaven.
Saturday Barb, Dan, Barb's younger sister Francey and I went for a hike on the Billy Goat trail at Great Falls, on the most glorious October 21 in memory. (click to enlarge)
Not that far from the White House.
Cousins squinting in the sun. Matching chins.
My Washington family on my mother's side. After the hike, I said goodbye to Barb and Dan, and Francey drove the two of us to Frederick, a hip town in northern Maryland, full of antique and record stores, where I treated her to lunch - the best crab cakes I've ever had and a local hoppy craft beer - and then we drove to her isolated house in acres of woods on top of a mountain. She's a recluse who has an amazing list of hobbies; she's a master knitter and a harpist and pianist who is teaching herself the viola da gamba; she and her husband raise big dogs, right now a wolfhound and a borzoi, and she is very serious about calligraphy.
A concert on one of her four harps.
Brianna lounging. An enormous wolfhound.
Practicing her letters. I spent the night there in the tranquillity of this mountaintop home where, however, the nearest neighbours are rabid Trump supporters. I myself would not want to live so far away from everything, but it suits Francey. Joe her husband was in Japan receiving an award for his work as a physicist. We sat in tilting leather chairs drinking American champagne and watching their giant TV screen - Francey's favourite program about British people who want to move to the country, and then the first episode of the new American series Mindhunter. Disturbing and terrific.This morning Francey drove me to Dulles, an hour and a half. Luckily she likes driving. I had bought new sunglasses which have magic lenses - everything looked stunning, the colours much more vibrant than they actually were on another heavenly day, as the leaves slowly turn, a month late. We talked too much about You Know Who. Of course.
At Dulles, in the bookstore, a whole section for religious books and various bibles. They are not like us.
A painless fight home - in fact, wonderful, I sat next to a young red-headed Quebecois man who was deaf and covered with tattoos, wearing an anti-fur-trade t-shirt in French - we wrote messages to each other. He was adorable. Home through the usual traffic jam - maybe Toronto traffic is as bad as Washington's.
My tenant Elodie had left me a gift - she's a florist and had bought and arranged these beauties. So good to be home! Pray I sleep tonight. 
Gifts from the trip: Francey did some calligraphy for me, 
and Barbara gave me these - part of a tea set belonging to my great-great-grandmother Elizabeth Bates in Northampton. So many gifts from both sides of my family. And then I went for a walk in my 'hood, gearing up for Hallowe'en - this is just up the street. Glad to be home. It was a superb trip.
Randy Bachman is blasting on the radio, the back door is wide open, soon there's great Sunday night TV, and then I'll be in my own bed. And what I'd like to say to that is: YES.
October 20, 2017
after the talk
Sasha Olenick, who brought to life some of my great-grandfather's great characters, including the grande dame Mirele Efros.
New family - Becky, Jill, Robert, moi, Peggy, Barbara - I'm loaded with cousins all of a sudden! And behind us, the man himself, great-grandfather to four of us.
At dinner that night - exchanging many family stories. So much pleasure.Washington
Where to start? Well, here - leaving my fair city Tuesday afternoon by the island airport, on a stunning day.
Landing in Dulles Airport, Washington, where my cousin Barbara was waiting. Barbara, who's a year older than I, and her sister Francey, a year younger, are my only cousins, daughters of my mother's oldest sister. We haven't spent much time together, but Barb and I like each other a lot, so it has been a treat to get to know her better. Her hospitality - offering to put me up and chauffeur me around - made my speaking trip here possible.
She lives in Bethesda, a leafy suburb of pretty colonial houses amidst old trees, where the only drawback is that you have to drive everywhere; there are no amenities for miles, and the traffic in Washington, apparently, is worse than Los Angeles. From what I've seen of it, that's true. The only other negative about my trip, so far, is that for some reason my brain decided to go on high alert and refuse to shut down, so my first two nights here were almost sleepless, a kind of torture. I haven't used my sleeping pills for so long that I didn't bring them with me. Mistake. But I got through.
On Wednesday I took the metro downtown and walked to the National Gallery of Art. Ran right into a protest outside the Trump Tower - NO MUSLIM BAN.
I joined them for a bit - hooray for democracy! - then went on to the museum, which is spectacular - in two parts, classic art and modern art. Bathed in the Italians, saw the Leonardo and all the Madonnas, right up to the Impressionists - Van Gogh's thick cream roses. Glorious. Then down to the concourse for lunch and up to the other side, to bathe in the Rothko's. Enjoyed the blue rooster on the roof.
A long walk to Arena Stage, the theatre run by my ex Edgar. I had no idea it was such an enormous, spectacular, modern place, with 3 theatres and many open spaces designed by Canadian Bing Thom. Part of the inside looks like the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver, with totem pole-like panels. Below, the front.
Barbara and Dan met us there, the four of us had a superb dinner together nearby - Edgar has been Executive Director at Arena for 8 years and knows everyone, including all the staff at the restaurant - and then he gave us tickets to see a play, Native Gardens, by Karen Zacarias, a young woman who's their resident playwright. Remember that name, because she's going to go far - the play was hilarious and yet profound, an exploration of current American issues of entitlement, racism, classism, even ageism - not didactic but funny. Very hard to pull off.
Edgar met us afterward and gave us a proud tour of the vast backstage; here we are on the set of the show. It was a perfect visit with an old friend, who happens to be the father and grandfather of four human beings very dear to my heart.
One of the joys of my visit here is mornings - Dan puts on the coffee and we all sit, reading both the NYT and the Washington Post, two of the finest newspapers in the world, bemoaning the latest Trumpian horrors. Today, an unbelievable headline in the Post: "Study ties loose concealed-carry laws to higher gun death rates." Amazing - they needed a study to show that if it's easier to carry guns, more people die! Imagine that! Ils sont fous, ces Americains.
Off to the Jewish Community Centre of Fairfax, Virginia, for my talk on the Jewish Shakespeare. It was all set up - tables for lunch, which was provided free for me and Barbara and included a smoked meat sandwich and a knish, and I was happy to welcome three first cousins-once-removed, whom I hardly know though our grandparents were siblings. Then I spoke to an audience of about 50 about my great-grandfather and my book. In the middle, a fine actor, Sasha Olenick, read excerpts from Gordin's plays. Sasha, it turns out, is best friends with one of my ex-husband's ex-girlfriends. Small world etc. It went very well, it seems; the organizer was rapturous. Luckily, however, I'd only brought 3 books to sell, because I sold 2 - and gave one to Sasha. People may love a book talk but that does not necessarily lead to the sale of the book. Pictures in the next post.
Home in a traffic jam to rest before dinner in downtown Bethesda with my new relatives, this time not from the British side - my mother's - but the Jewish side of my father - Robert and his new wife Becky, and his sisters Jill and Peggy, who all grew up in Virginia. I have relatives who speak in a Southern drawl, are almost as leftwing as I and very nice. New family. Makes me very happy.
That night ... some actual sleep. I guess it was my talk keeping me awake. And yet I've done it many times before. Neurosis!
Today another perfect hot day; I'd considered going back downtown to more museums, but I often see museums and rarely see my cousin so decided to stick with her. Barb, Dan and I walked to the local Y, not far from their home, for a Y Fusion class Barb had heard good things about. It was tough and fun, a dance class with fab music, the 3 of us stumbling about at the back. Loved it. Back home in a day so hot, it was like July. Lucky lucky lucky.
Landing in Dulles Airport, Washington, where my cousin Barbara was waiting. Barbara, who's a year older than I, and her sister Francey, a year younger, are my only cousins, daughters of my mother's oldest sister. We haven't spent much time together, but Barb and I like each other a lot, so it has been a treat to get to know her better. Her hospitality - offering to put me up and chauffeur me around - made my speaking trip here possible.She lives in Bethesda, a leafy suburb of pretty colonial houses amidst old trees, where the only drawback is that you have to drive everywhere; there are no amenities for miles, and the traffic in Washington, apparently, is worse than Los Angeles. From what I've seen of it, that's true. The only other negative about my trip, so far, is that for some reason my brain decided to go on high alert and refuse to shut down, so my first two nights here were almost sleepless, a kind of torture. I haven't used my sleeping pills for so long that I didn't bring them with me. Mistake. But I got through.
On Wednesday I took the metro downtown and walked to the National Gallery of Art. Ran right into a protest outside the Trump Tower - NO MUSLIM BAN.
I joined them for a bit - hooray for democracy! - then went on to the museum, which is spectacular - in two parts, classic art and modern art. Bathed in the Italians, saw the Leonardo and all the Madonnas, right up to the Impressionists - Van Gogh's thick cream roses. Glorious. Then down to the concourse for lunch and up to the other side, to bathe in the Rothko's. Enjoyed the blue rooster on the roof.
A long walk to Arena Stage, the theatre run by my ex Edgar. I had no idea it was such an enormous, spectacular, modern place, with 3 theatres and many open spaces designed by Canadian Bing Thom. Part of the inside looks like the Museum of Anthropology in Vancouver, with totem pole-like panels. Below, the front.
Barbara and Dan met us there, the four of us had a superb dinner together nearby - Edgar has been Executive Director at Arena for 8 years and knows everyone, including all the staff at the restaurant - and then he gave us tickets to see a play, Native Gardens, by Karen Zacarias, a young woman who's their resident playwright. Remember that name, because she's going to go far - the play was hilarious and yet profound, an exploration of current American issues of entitlement, racism, classism, even ageism - not didactic but funny. Very hard to pull off.
Edgar met us afterward and gave us a proud tour of the vast backstage; here we are on the set of the show. It was a perfect visit with an old friend, who happens to be the father and grandfather of four human beings very dear to my heart.One of the joys of my visit here is mornings - Dan puts on the coffee and we all sit, reading both the NYT and the Washington Post, two of the finest newspapers in the world, bemoaning the latest Trumpian horrors. Today, an unbelievable headline in the Post: "Study ties loose concealed-carry laws to higher gun death rates." Amazing - they needed a study to show that if it's easier to carry guns, more people die! Imagine that! Ils sont fous, ces Americains.
Off to the Jewish Community Centre of Fairfax, Virginia, for my talk on the Jewish Shakespeare. It was all set up - tables for lunch, which was provided free for me and Barbara and included a smoked meat sandwich and a knish, and I was happy to welcome three first cousins-once-removed, whom I hardly know though our grandparents were siblings. Then I spoke to an audience of about 50 about my great-grandfather and my book. In the middle, a fine actor, Sasha Olenick, read excerpts from Gordin's plays. Sasha, it turns out, is best friends with one of my ex-husband's ex-girlfriends. Small world etc. It went very well, it seems; the organizer was rapturous. Luckily, however, I'd only brought 3 books to sell, because I sold 2 - and gave one to Sasha. People may love a book talk but that does not necessarily lead to the sale of the book. Pictures in the next post.
Home in a traffic jam to rest before dinner in downtown Bethesda with my new relatives, this time not from the British side - my mother's - but the Jewish side of my father - Robert and his new wife Becky, and his sisters Jill and Peggy, who all grew up in Virginia. I have relatives who speak in a Southern drawl, are almost as leftwing as I and very nice. New family. Makes me very happy.
That night ... some actual sleep. I guess it was my talk keeping me awake. And yet I've done it many times before. Neurosis!
Today another perfect hot day; I'd considered going back downtown to more museums, but I often see museums and rarely see my cousin so decided to stick with her. Barb, Dan and I walked to the local Y, not far from their home, for a Y Fusion class Barb had heard good things about. It was tough and fun, a dance class with fab music, the 3 of us stumbling about at the back. Loved it. Back home in a day so hot, it was like July. Lucky lucky lucky.
October 16, 2017
John Dunsworth RIP
A quick word - tomorrow I'm off to Washington D.C. till the end of the week, leaving quantities of instructions for Elodie, my tenant. Winter is coming, so part of today was washing pots and moving plants inside. And yet it's supposed to be warm all next week - 25 maybe, in Washington, if not more. Confusing.
John Dunsworth has died at age 71. Oh that makes me feel old. He played drunk Mr. Lahey on Trailer Park Boys and was a stalwart, apparently, of the Nova Scotia film scene. I knew him way way back; we lived on the same street in Halifax; his father was a child psychiatrist, and, briefly, when I was 9, MY psychiatrist. I did not like him one bit. He had many children - 11 or 12, and I think John was the oldest. One of our family friends knew the Dunsworths well, and when in high school at 15 I was complaining about not having a date for a dance, she called and asked John if he would go with me. He did. He was charming - he was 19, FOUR YEARS OLDER, impressing everyone. Thank you again, John. I wrote to him a few years ago before a trip to Nova Scotia, reminding him of it and thanking him, wanting to meet, but he didn't remember who I was. Obviously our date was not seared onto his memory as onto mine. When my kids were teens and big fans of Trailer Park Boys, knowing that I had once dated Mr. Lahey was my great claim to fame.
Last night, four good shows were on between 8 and 10. Weeks can pass with nothing worth watching and then everything good comes on at once. The Durrells, so entertaining, but at the same time as Suzuki's Canadian seasons show, magnificent footage of Canada's animals through the year - stunning. And then The Life-Sized City, a fabulous Canadian doc about how cities are changing and adapting, at the same time as another fabulous Canadian doc, very beautiful, Sickboy, about a young man with cystic fibrosis who has started a podcast about illness and is now seen and heard around the world. And somewhere in there was Poldark. Thank god for the channel changer.
So - Washington, home of the looney tunes. Staying with Cousin Barbara, seeing lots of family and speaking about the Jewish Shakespeare. Stay tuned.
John Dunsworth has died at age 71. Oh that makes me feel old. He played drunk Mr. Lahey on Trailer Park Boys and was a stalwart, apparently, of the Nova Scotia film scene. I knew him way way back; we lived on the same street in Halifax; his father was a child psychiatrist, and, briefly, when I was 9, MY psychiatrist. I did not like him one bit. He had many children - 11 or 12, and I think John was the oldest. One of our family friends knew the Dunsworths well, and when in high school at 15 I was complaining about not having a date for a dance, she called and asked John if he would go with me. He did. He was charming - he was 19, FOUR YEARS OLDER, impressing everyone. Thank you again, John. I wrote to him a few years ago before a trip to Nova Scotia, reminding him of it and thanking him, wanting to meet, but he didn't remember who I was. Obviously our date was not seared onto his memory as onto mine. When my kids were teens and big fans of Trailer Park Boys, knowing that I had once dated Mr. Lahey was my great claim to fame.
Last night, four good shows were on between 8 and 10. Weeks can pass with nothing worth watching and then everything good comes on at once. The Durrells, so entertaining, but at the same time as Suzuki's Canadian seasons show, magnificent footage of Canada's animals through the year - stunning. And then The Life-Sized City, a fabulous Canadian doc about how cities are changing and adapting, at the same time as another fabulous Canadian doc, very beautiful, Sickboy, about a young man with cystic fibrosis who has started a podcast about illness and is now seen and heard around the world. And somewhere in there was Poldark. Thank god for the channel changer.
So - Washington, home of the looney tunes. Staying with Cousin Barbara, seeing lots of family and speaking about the Jewish Shakespeare. Stay tuned.
October 14, 2017
publish a book and grow rich - lol
In two weeks, there's an event in Toronto you won't want to miss. It's called "Publish a book and grow rich." It teaches you, apparently, how to write a book in a month and then reap vast profits. And if ever there's a truth I subscribe to, it's that books are easy to write and lead to easy and incomprehensible wealth. God knows, just look at my own life, my books flowing from publisher to best seller lists, my mansion, my Maserati. So don't miss the ...
Publish A Book & Grow Rich Weekend Bootcamp
On the other hand, here's a humble event coming up on November 5 that will lead to riches for no-one, except to reveal the wealth of the human spirit. Stories that took a great deal of time to write and edit and rehearse, for nothing. Just because - because writing the truth is hard and important, and telling it out loud too. If you're in Toronto, why don't you join us?
Publish A Book & Grow Rich Weekend Bootcamp
On the other hand, here's a humble event coming up on November 5 that will lead to riches for no-one, except to reveal the wealth of the human spirit. Stories that took a great deal of time to write and edit and rehearse, for nothing. Just because - because writing the truth is hard and important, and telling it out loud too. If you're in Toronto, why don't you join us?
celebrating Sam
It's the morning of October 14th. 33 years ago today I was on my way home from the Ottawa Civic Hospital with a blue bundle in my arms, born at 11.30 p.m. the night before - a baby boy we called Samuel Jacob Edgar: Sam after many men in my family and his father's; Jacob after my father and great-grandfather; Edgar for his dad and his dad's dad. Much history in those names. His 3 1/2 year old sister was waiting at home, impatient to see who would be coming for her to play with.
Last night, there was big sister with her own son, Eli, at Sam's 33rd birthday party, a joyful event Sam organized in the back room of his restaurant for about 30 of us - family, his oldest friends from high school, close friends from his business, and, simply, people who adore him, including Wayson and a middle-aged couple who've adopted him as another son; he's a big brother to their teenaged children.
We sat at long tables, moving around to talk to different people, and the food kept coming - oysters, salads, dips and bread, pasta, small burgers, steak, all gourmet and delectable - and then a decorated chocolate cake made by Eli with a little help from his mama. Sam was his usual open and funny self, moving around to keep company with everyone, including his 5-year old nephew and his high school friend Dustin's 3-year old daughter, imperious and beautiful in her cornrows.
Outside it was mild and grey; inside it was warm and full of love. Every time I pass the Civic Hospital - and I pass it every time I go to Ottawa to visit my aunt - I think of that night, the morning after, the blue bundle taking his place in our lives, the pictures of my parents holding him. And I think of my mother, who died 28 years later in the very same place.
Sam met Matt his first day at Rosedale Heights School of the Arts. Matt and his longtime girlfriend Maxine are like family.
With Amy. Also, already, like family.
Last night, there was big sister with her own son, Eli, at Sam's 33rd birthday party, a joyful event Sam organized in the back room of his restaurant for about 30 of us - family, his oldest friends from high school, close friends from his business, and, simply, people who adore him, including Wayson and a middle-aged couple who've adopted him as another son; he's a big brother to their teenaged children.
We sat at long tables, moving around to talk to different people, and the food kept coming - oysters, salads, dips and bread, pasta, small burgers, steak, all gourmet and delectable - and then a decorated chocolate cake made by Eli with a little help from his mama. Sam was his usual open and funny self, moving around to keep company with everyone, including his 5-year old nephew and his high school friend Dustin's 3-year old daughter, imperious and beautiful in her cornrows.
Outside it was mild and grey; inside it was warm and full of love. Every time I pass the Civic Hospital - and I pass it every time I go to Ottawa to visit my aunt - I think of that night, the morning after, the blue bundle taking his place in our lives, the pictures of my parents holding him. And I think of my mother, who died 28 years later in the very same place.
Sam met Matt his first day at Rosedale Heights School of the Arts. Matt and his longtime girlfriend Maxine are like family. 
With Amy. Also, already, like family.
October 13, 2017
moving right along
Not much to tell you but I have to move on from the gloomy last blog. Hit a bad patch there, some worries rearing up, c'est la vie. I make sure to include these things lest you think my life is all ... well, sunshine and roses. There is thunder and rain, there are thorns, there is fear and guilt and grief. But also, there is MOVING RIGHT ALONG. Comme ça...
Had a great conversation circle Wednesday - TEN women, more every week, it's wonderful. Again, a woman came in shrouded in cloth, sat for awhile without removing her veil, and I was concerned, how could we make cheery conversation with someone whose face was completely covered, even her eyes, with glasses? At last she removed her veil, to reveal a lovely, friendly, eager face, and she turned out to be the most interested in what we were talking about, asking questions about vocabulary, jumping in to contribute. It's thrilling to be in that room. In two weeks, Ashrafi has arranged an excursion to the Royal Ontario Museum; we're setting off by bus and streetcar, and will spend some hours at the ROM together. Now that will be an experience.
My friend Wendy, an ESL teacher, came over Wednesday to discuss ESL techniques and ideas, which was valuable, as Linda and I have no idea what we're doing. What we found out is that we're instinctively doing a lot of the right things, but Wendy suggested, for example, a whiteboard to write down hard words. Great idea.
Yesterday, a home class, seven women with nary a veil in sight except perhaps a veiled reference in their wonderful, vivid, accomplished writing. This morning, dragging Wayson to the Y to find him a personal trainer. He needs to move his body and stubbornly prefers not to. We're working on that.
An editor at a publishing house is reading a chapter of my memoir this weekend. I await the inevitable no, but can't resist a tiny glimmer of hope. And then I remind myself - J.K. Rowling was rejected many times. Not that that cheers me up at all.
The world is too much with us, so depressing, so utterly horrifying to see that hideous monstrous man stamping on our planet - and then Harvey Weinstein, depraved, appalling. Must think good thoughts. Must think good thoughts. Here's one:
Today my son is 33, and Wayson and I are going to his party tonight. There will be a lot of food and laughter and many young people. What a journey, my beloved boy, you crazy man. Thank you for being who you are.
Had a great conversation circle Wednesday - TEN women, more every week, it's wonderful. Again, a woman came in shrouded in cloth, sat for awhile without removing her veil, and I was concerned, how could we make cheery conversation with someone whose face was completely covered, even her eyes, with glasses? At last she removed her veil, to reveal a lovely, friendly, eager face, and she turned out to be the most interested in what we were talking about, asking questions about vocabulary, jumping in to contribute. It's thrilling to be in that room. In two weeks, Ashrafi has arranged an excursion to the Royal Ontario Museum; we're setting off by bus and streetcar, and will spend some hours at the ROM together. Now that will be an experience.
My friend Wendy, an ESL teacher, came over Wednesday to discuss ESL techniques and ideas, which was valuable, as Linda and I have no idea what we're doing. What we found out is that we're instinctively doing a lot of the right things, but Wendy suggested, for example, a whiteboard to write down hard words. Great idea.
Yesterday, a home class, seven women with nary a veil in sight except perhaps a veiled reference in their wonderful, vivid, accomplished writing. This morning, dragging Wayson to the Y to find him a personal trainer. He needs to move his body and stubbornly prefers not to. We're working on that.
An editor at a publishing house is reading a chapter of my memoir this weekend. I await the inevitable no, but can't resist a tiny glimmer of hope. And then I remind myself - J.K. Rowling was rejected many times. Not that that cheers me up at all.
The world is too much with us, so depressing, so utterly horrifying to see that hideous monstrous man stamping on our planet - and then Harvey Weinstein, depraved, appalling. Must think good thoughts. Must think good thoughts. Here's one:
Today my son is 33, and Wayson and I are going to his party tonight. There will be a lot of food and laughter and many young people. What a journey, my beloved boy, you crazy man. Thank you for being who you are.
