Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 14

Cottage life

As you may know, I am an atheist, or at least an agnostic. But there was a moment, yesterday morning, when I felt the presence of god. I woke at six at Ruth’s cottage and by 6.15 was outside with coffee, bundled up, everyone else asleep. And it was heaven. The air: pine, lake, leaves. Vast chunks of Canadian Shield granite, apparently some of the oldest rocks on earth. An endless expanse of water and trees, a million mature trees – spruce, white pine, red oak, maple. The welcome sound of birdsong – pine warblers, vireos, a song sparrow who never stopped repeating his refrain my entire time there. Ruth says there are many fewer birds than before, but they’re still there. Best of all, every so often, the plaintive warble of a loon, the most Canadian sound ever. And then the buzzing of wings – the hummingbirds who love Ruth’s feeder that’s suspended in the window so we can watch them dine as we do. The pileated woodpecker. The big blue-grey heron who soars back and forth, barely moving his wings.

The other creatures were busy – the chipmunk who lives under the cottage scurrying about, the ants big and small with their ceaseless activity, the bees and butterflies, the dragonflies, one of which landed on me as I swam later, and we chatted. And, yes, the mosquitoes. A lone kayaker paddled by. The sun gradually appeared over the tops of the trees. I sat and breathed and marvelled at how magnificent, how incredibly diverse and complex and beautiful it all is, miraculous. How is it possible we don’t cherish the glory around us and instead are doing our best to destroy it?

The morning view.

I do envy people who can slow down in a cottage, especially one like Ruth’s, many decades old, with piles of books and magazines, old boxes of games, and, because it’s built on a point of land, a vista on all sides; we can watch both dawn and sunset.

Anne-Marie arrived on Saturday, and that night made a suggestion for our viewing pleasure – the British series Slow Horses. We watched 3 episodes and loved it – fantastic acting, writing, direction, and the superb, hilarious Gary Oldman to boot. A brave actor, not afraid to look and be about as unpleasant as possible. Sunday was cold and rainy, so we did the unthinkable and watched more episodes in the afternoon. Much cooking, much talk. We are all distraught about the U.S. – the disastrous debate, the corrupt Supreme Court – France, the rise of fascism worldwide, the wars we know about and the ones we don’t. For all of us, guilt at our incredible good fortune in being where we are.

“Till human voices wake us,” I kept thinking, “and we drown.”

Monday, Canada Day, the sun came out full force. Thanks to Annie and my blog friend Theresa, I’ve discovered cold water swimming. Not TOO cold, but I’ve learned to plunge in quickly and that after maybe 15 seconds, it’s not so bad, and then it feels great. Swimming in an Ontario lake – one of the treats life can offer. Annie and I kayaked around the island too, although on Canada Day the lake was polluted with jet skis and wake boats, noise and speed. But most of our time there, it was pretty quiet.

Annie on our walkabout in the chilly rain Sunday; sunset Sunday night; the ladies by the water with Rhoda, Ruth’s grand-dog, who arrived with her son and his partner on Monday afternoon.

Tuesday, one last swim and walk around the island, and then off from paradise into the snarl of Toronto traffic. Annie had to stop in Aurora, so we went to Sheridan Nurseries there and I was able to buy something I’ve wanted for a long time, a big milkweed plant for the monarchs. And then home. Alanna had kept Tiggy happy and healthy. I got caught up with the papers – nothing good. A great editorial by Thomas Friedman in the NYT today desperately urging Biden to imitate wise, heroic leaders who’ve known when it’s time to step down gracefully. Something young Justin should also take to heart.

The veg are growing, the roses are nearly over, there’s a handful of raspberries every day. No lake out there, but there’s wildlife and beauty nonetheless. I have no summer plans except my garden workshop in a few weeks, which is now full, various visitors, spending time with the boys, tending the garden, reading, work. Overwhelmingly grateful for this planet on which we live.

May my fellow citizens feel it too.

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nature versus the horrors of the debate

And now for something completely different: Ruth’s cottage. We arrived early afternoon. It’s chilly now and supposed to rain; there’ll be no swimming for this coward until it heats up. But heaven — only the noise of motorboats and birds and squirrels, and the tapping of my fingers. I’m Ruth’s sherpa — she’s moving here for the summer, more or less, so brought enough food to feed a battalion. We shall dine well.

Grateful to be here, as teaching ended Tuesday at U of T and my home class last night. I’ll have some editing work and my garden workshop on July, but otherwise, am done until mid-September. I love teaching but am glad to stop doing it for a while.

Dinner at Ruth’s in the city on Wednesday with her friends June and husband Kalman, who’s the younger brother of my friend from high school, Henry. Many memories, many laughs, with 3 people who are on the same page about almost everything. And of course, I was happy to hear Kalman is writing a memoir and might need some help. Memoirs r us!

I have brought with me today’s Toronto Star, 2 or 3 New Yorkers, the novel Yellowface, and Lapham’s Quarterly. Will that be enough for almost 4 days? Although there are, naturally, piles of books here. Ruth and I, on the way up, discussed our despair for humanity in this dark time on our planet. We were emailing each other during the debate last night, although I only lasted ten minutes before I couldn’t bear it. It was desperately sad to see a good man, first, having to deal with the absurdities and lies spewing from a mendacious psychopath. But to see Biden so diminished, so incapable of response and so unfit for the daunting task ahead — terrifying. Thomas Friedman said it all today in a moving and powerful NYT editorial: “Joe Biden is a good man and a good president. He must bow out of the race.”

No kidding. Please God. Save the planet!

Spent the last few days getting the rental spaces in shape, so today the new kid moved in upstairs for 2 weeks, and Alanna comes to house and cat-sit. She calls her stays chez moi her “artist residencies.” I told them both the good news: though the roses are on the way out, the raspberries are coming in. It looks like finally, after decades of trying, we will have a good crop.

Okay, my hostess and I have had apéritif, rosé with potato chips, now it’s time to cook the asparagus, cut up the chicken, and make a salad. That’s what matters right now. Let’s leave the horrors of the world behind, for a day or two, and breathe in the beautiful air.

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Celebrating the life of Keith Turnbull

What a beautiful day Sunday was. Off with three old friends to Stratford in the morning for Keith Turnbull’s memorial celebration – Anne-Marie driving me and two giants of the theatre, Sue LePage the designer, and Nancy Beatty the actress. Much theatre talk and catching up all the way there, through the green fields of southern Ontario. There was a stellar obit for him in Saturday’s Globe.

It was supposed to thunderstorm, but the weather cooperated perfectly — of course it did, stage-managed by Keith the perfectionist director. We stood or sat outside in Dorothy’s lovely garden to chat and reminisce, and then a few hours later when it started to rain, we gathered inside, where actors sang songs, many of us spoke about Keith with hilarious and/or moving memories, and then we all sang.

We marvelled, again, at this extraordinary man, an intellectual (who told director Peter Hinton that he couldn’t understand Ibsen if he hadn’t read Hegel), a skilled gourmet cook who knew a great deal about flowers, who was kind to children, who travelled the world in a power wheelchair. His friend Paula talked about doing a show with Keith on Fogo Island off of Newfoundland, that one day there was a hurricane warning and they had to go out and search for him, found him barrelling down a gravel road in his wheelchair in a hurricane. “I’ll be fine,” he said. The local fishermen grew so fond of him, they built ramps so he’d have access to places previously impassable.

We all spoke of his generosity, adventurousness, relentless focus. In the last years, two of his close friends, Paula and his former partner Christian, provided endless thoughtful care for him. Only a few days before he died, they took him out to a museum and for lunch. A few months ago, they organized a party for him in his garden, although he was by then living in a care home.

So much love.

The event could not have been nicer. We all got to pick a tie. Keith had a collection of two thousand vintage ties, Christian had brought a bunch, and by the end of the day, most of us were wearing one. Many connections, going way, way back – including many who weren’t there, who should have been there, like his and our beloved friend Patsy Ludwick. So missed.

Below, a few of Keith’s ties. The living room gathering. Annie and I listening to Christian. A very solemn Keith, who never took himself seriously.

If ever there’s a sign of a life well-lived, it’s a send-off like that one. I wrote to my kids when I got home, When I get really old, let’s pretend I’m dead and have a grand celebration with all my favourite people and eat and drink and reminisce, only I’ll be there to enjoy it!

Sam replied, Let’s talk about it then.

And since we were in Stratford, I asked that we stop at Rheo Thompson Chocolates where I bought my usual half-pound box of dark chocolate peanut butter clusters and other delicious things. Should keep me going for a bit.

Otherwise, this week has been preoccupied with the house – getting the AC repaired, a huge relief in the sweltering heat, though as soon as it was fixed, the heat faded; now the temp is perfect. Finishing fixing various things in the top floor suite, just as well, because the son of an old friend really needed a place for two weeks, so is moving in on Friday. Another friend has rented the spare room. Someone else wrote wanting to come, and I wrote back, We’re full! My landlady days are heating up.

I watched an enjoyable film before cancelling my Amazon Prime membership and having to pay: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. One of my favourite actors, Gary Oldman – so hauntingly honest and contained, there’s no one like him.

A beautiful morning, with the scent of the roses drifting in and the cardinal chipping in his tree. Today, will prep my talk for tonight at the S. Walter Stewart Library. Glad to be alive.

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Happy 82nd birthday, Macca! Age is a feeling.

First, Happy 82nd Birthday to James Paul McCartney. Macca recently announced several major world tours, where he’ll perform in front of massive audiences for three hours without a break — some forty songs old and new, almost all of which he wrote. And he’s not just singing, but playing piano and many kinds of guitars. A phenomenon.

The weather turned on a dime, as it does. It was almost chilly for a few days, then really really hot. Now it’s cool, dark, and pouring. Good for the garden. And we can breathe. My AC, of course, is not working, but I rarely use it anyway.

On Saturday I went to Soulpepper Theatre to see Age is a Feeling, a one-woman show by Canadian actor Haley McGee. It has had rave reviews — a beautiful young woman telling the story, in the second person “you,” of a woman who ages from 25 to 90, when she dies. There were moments when I was moved, yes, like when she confronts the death of her mother and father. But I was surprised not to be MORE moved. It was entertaining; I’m glad I saw it. But truthfully, it didn’t leave me with much. I’m quite far along that journey myself. Maybe I wasn’t convinced that a thirty-something actress, even one with lots of talent and courage, has much to show me about aging.

More than from the show, I’m learning from my friend Janet, who’s visiting Toronto and has been living here this week. Janet is 85 and though her body has limits, her spirit is expansive. She notices everything. When we walk in my ‘hood, she points out things I’ve never noticed in all my decades here — look at that lamppost, isn’t it beautiful? My God, she says, peering through someone’s window, see how high the ceilings are in this house? Must be 15 feet at least!

Limitless enthusiasm for life — not a bad way to live, to age.

Sunday night we watched the usual PBS shows (Professor T, clever and amusing, but OMG Grantchester, get a life!) while I taped the Tonys to watch later, fast-forwarding through the ads. I’ve only seen a bit of it but oh how I love the theatre and its mercurial, crazy, honest, brilliant people! Though I gather Daniel Radcliffe won a Tony. I will never forgive him for his blithe condemnation of J.K. Rowling, the writer to whom he owes everything.

On Sunday, my new Substack went out, on trying to write about my meeting with Alice Neel over forty years after it happened — how to remember and recreate? Luckily — and this is the message — I’d taken notes.

https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/p/how-to-preserve-and-recreate-memories

Mon dieu, at 8.45 a.m. it’s a typhoon out there. I pity people trying to get to work, remembering once being caught in a thunderstorm on my way to a class at Ryerson, and having to teach for two and a half hours in wet pants and shoes.

Finally, some pix for you: part of the garden from the kitchen door right now, in the rain; a cartoon that all writers can relate to; a fine sign; and a drawing Eli made for me a few years ago, that is the message of all my teaching and writing: How is it at your house?

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The Outfit, and the roses

One of those blessed mornings — yesterday dawned cool, as it has been for days, then turned very hot, and then last night it rained. This morning the air is fresh and sweet. What’s most beautiful about the roses is the span of their time on earth: the small tight buds filled with promise; the new blooms, dark peach, frilly perfection; the middle-aged ones, wide open, paler; the old ones, nearly white, drooping, still lovely near the end. Hmmm. As the New Yorker would say, Kill That Metaphor.

Busy times continue. A friend called last minute to invite me to her cottage for the weekend — how I’d love to go, but not possible. Janet from Ottawa is staying here, Doug the handyman comes tomorrow, and my list of Things To Do is long. Cottage time will have to wait.

The great news is that the other day I went onto the Toronto Public Library site to check my holds and took a look at my own books while there. Midlife Solo is available at 9 local libraries, though it can’t be taken out of the Toronto Reference Library. But of the 8 remaining, the book is out on loan at 7 of them! And at the 8th it’s missing — possibly stolen? In any case, people are reading. I am thrilled.

Of course, I immediately checked a friend whose book appeared at nearly the same time and has had far greater visibility and better marketing than mine; her book is out at 6 libraries and there are 14 people waiting for it. Oh well.

On Monday to the fabulous Reference Library, one of the most beautiful and useful buildings in Toronto, to hear Eleanor Wachtel interview Keiron Pim about his bio of Joseph Roth, a fascinating, tortured Jewish writer. Pim reminded me of the hard work involved in exploring a long-gone overseas life, as I did with my great-grandfather. It was a scintillating conversation, as always with Eleanor.

On Wednesday a wonderful celebration. You know how important my Wednesday class at the Y is to me and the others, taught for the past 35 years by the lithe, indomitable Carole. She has been feeling overworked and under-appreciated as a volunteer at the Y, and I’m concerned; she has almost quit before. Our class is a lifesaver for so many of us, the Runfit Bunch, friends for decades. We’d be devastated to lose the class but are running out of volunteer teachers and dependent on Carole.

Tuesday was her birthday, and a few days before I emailed class members about it, copying the manager of the Y. On Wednesday I brought a card and sat in the lobby getting participants to sign. Margot had offered to bring flowers. At the end of class, I interrupted Carole to make a little speech and give her the card, Margot appeared with a gorgeous bouquet, and a team of Y staffers arrived with a big platter of cupcakes. Carole was overwhelmed.

It takes so little, sometimes, just a bit of effort to make worthy people feel noticed and appreciated and good. But I helped arrange this out of the purest selfishness: I want my dear teacher to keep teaching. I’ll be there next Wednesday, complaining about how hard it is, appreciating the hell out of it. And her.

Yesterday afternoon, Janet offered to drive me around to do errands. What a gift. My Mac repair shop used to be an easy bike ride away, so of course they recently moved to the Beach. She drove me all that way, where they figured out the problem in half an hour and handed it back without asking for payment — what a relief. We went to the LCBO for me to stock up on heavy bottles of wine, to St. John’s Bakery for $60 worth of bread, lemon cake, and coffee, and then she dropped me at my hairdresser’s, who suggested a short pixie cut because he’s going home to Greece for two months, so I’ll be hairy by the time he gets back.

Celebrating what a relative called the Kaplan Brackets, those deep grooves from nose to chin. Celebrating the pale drooping rose who’s not good at selfies.

Last night, Janet and I watched a fantastic film: The Outfit, recommended by Chris, starring the best actor in the world, Mark Rylance. Superb everything — writing, acting, directing. Tight, suspenseful, full of twists and turns — riveting.

I just did my patrol of the garden, checking slug damage and the growth of the veg, pruning. Sat for a minute near the feeder; I’ve taken down the big feeder for the summer but left the small one filled with nijer seed. A house finch, bright red head and breast, arrived to breakfast — just the two of us in silence, on a fresh summer morning, enjoying the day.

As our world explodes in ever more terrifying ways, I do my best to relish tiny moments of peace and beauty. They will have to do.

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Keith Turnbull 1944-2024

https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/montreal-qc/keith-turnbull-11847291

An extraordinary Canadian died last Sunday. Keith Turnbull, director, producer, translator, educator, was indefatigable in his support for theatre and opera, words and music. Read the obituary and marvel at the breadth of his accomplishments. And know what the obit does not even bother to mention — that for the last decades of his life, he was afflicted with an undiagnosed condition something like MS, that left him in a wheelchair.

When it says he directed an opera in Wales or Newfoundland, that means he had to fly with a power wheelchair. I was at a reunion with him and others in Toronto maybe ten years ago, after the opening of a chamber opera he’d directed, and listened to him describe what it’s like to fly without mobility — the disregard of airline staff, the endless waiting, shuffled off to a corner like a forgotten package. Laughing, he described navigating a wheelchair through the slushy, snowy streets of Montreal in winter. And yet he travelled the world for his work and never stopped. He didn’t let the limitations of his body impede him, not for a moment.

I met Keith at Neptune Theatre in 1970. I was 19, had taken a leave from university to act in a three-month-long professional tour, and afterward was a bit lost. I flew to Halifax, from which my family had moved four years before, for a brief visit with childhood friends. On the plane I ran into Christopher Banks, whom I’d met when I was a tour guide at the National Arts Centre. Christopher was now working at Neptune. “Come to the theatre,” he said. “We’ll find you a job.”

And he did, in the box office, and as an assistant to a fiery young director named Keith Turnbull. Keith was directing a quirky French farce and needed music for the entrances and exits; it was my job to find it. And eventually I did: Poulenc, perfect. As I did so, I fell madly in love with Keith, his energy, focus, dynamism, glee. I didn’t know he was gay. Nobody did. We spent so much time together, others in the company thought we were a couple. Only he and I knew that we weren’t.

Along with other brilliant, inspiring gay men whom I’ve been lucky enough to know, he remained one of the great loves of my life.

Keith went from Halifax to the Manitoba Theatre Centre and a stellar international career. A friend and I visited him once in Montreal, where he cooked a gourmet meal in an elegant kitchen specially set up for a chef in a wheelchair. His mind, as always, crackled with insight and ambition.

A devastating loss for our country and for the arts everywhere. One of a kind; a great, great soul. There will never be another Keith Turnbull.

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D Day

So moving. A CBC Ideas program for D Day: Harry, a Canadian soldier who wrote letters home about the war until he was killed, and a group of Canadian descendants of Harry’s who toured the Dutch villages where he and others fought and died. At one village, they were met with choir after choir, singing O Canada and other songs, and reading aloud the names of the young men who died there. Tears. Wonderful that Harry’s family – he had no children, these are great-nieces and nephews – is intent on making sure he’s not just remembered but honoured.

I was sitting on the deck with Jean-Marc when Stéphane, a Frenchman, friend of my downstairs tenant, came into the yard. We told him we were discussing D Day. He said, “Merci! We are grateful to Canadians. Thank you from France.”

Oh the tragedies. The hideous appalling uselessness of all that loss. Playing out to this day.

We are a flawed species.

However. Onward.

It looks like there will be a transit strike tomorrow, which will paralyze the city. Anna wasn’t sure how she’d get across town if it happens, so, hooray, they are coming to sleep here tonight. She works not far away so can walk to work, and the boys were spending the PD day here anyway. I am sheltering my family once more. That feels good.

Today, Doug and I took a load of stuff across to Anna and Sam, and then since we were already in the far west, went on to Doug’s favourite store, Costco. I have only been twice before, and each time, I’m overwhelmed — so much stuff at such good prices. Each time, as I wander the aisles packed with all manner of things, people loading up their giant shopping carts, I think of most of the rest of the world. And here we are overflowing with abundance. But those thoughts don’t stop me from buying: today, a badminton set for the boys, a dozen cans of tomatoes, quantities of asparagus and cheese – oh the cheese! – and much else. A great pile of socks for Sam. What Anna wanted was garlic powder; she will have enough for the rest of her life.

We are not at war. On Ideas now they are talking about the camps and reciting the mourner’s kaddish. More tears.

From 4 to 6 this afternoon, there was a Kite Festival at Riverdale Park. The children of nearby Sprucecourt School made their own kites and were overjoyed to gather to fly them. And once more, as I watched this multicoloured crowd of children and parents celebrate a beautiful evening, I was swamped with love for my country. One little girl on the field, in a hijab, did not stop running, her kite streaming behind her.

We are not at war; we live in a peaceful democracy. I am a child of immigrants, grateful for my life here.

Thank you, thank you, to all those who made our peaceful lives possible.

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making a mess

Busy days. I regained some energy and started cleaning and clearing, especially the top floor suite vacated by my longterm tenant, which led to moving things around in other rooms. Tomorrow a big load of stuff goes across town in Doug’s truck to deserving people, aka my kids. I’m preparing for guests — Janet from Ottawa next week, and my ex from Washington for a week in July. Unfortunately, I sidetracked into my office, where in attempting to sort the jumble I made a bigger mess. But it’ll get sorted.

At some point.

Finished reading The Island of the Blue Dolphins to the boys, a gorgeous book, one of the greats. There is joy in the silence on the other end of the phone, as they absorb the story. We start a new book tonight.

Last Saturday, much of the day with Doug who was fixing the outdoor watering system, requiring two trips to Home Depot in his truck and three trips to Home Hardware on my bike, but it got done. He’s coming this Saturday for more work. Later Saturday I went to friend Suzette’s elegant home for dinner and much talk and rosé with her and Pierre. The pleasure of interesting, accomplished old friends.

Monday a report from my doctor on my blood tests — all fine except more B12 needed, and my cholesterol is fairly high. I have to start on statins! “But I take no meds,” I said, “and I’m proud of that.” “If you were fifty, we wouldn’t do this,” he said. “But at your age, the risk to your heart is higher.” At my age. Sigh. Phooey. It’s my mayonnaise-based diet, I’m sure, and so much bread and pasta and cheese.

Yesterday on my way to my U of T class, I detoured via King’s College Circle to see the pro-Palestine encampment — more like a big impromptu village than a few tents, surrounded by a barrier covered with slogans and posters, with a closed gate marked Entrance guarded by students. A group was loudly chanting over and over, “Free Palestine!” I admire their idealism and fortitude. I just wonder how much they know about the many hundreds of years of conflict and complication on that tiny sliver of land. There’s no question a hideous injustice has been and is still happening and must stop. Whether invading and blockading the centre of a university campus and interrupting convocation for everyone helps the cause, I don’t know. But when I marched against the Vietnam War, it felt good.

Today, up very early to get on the bike and ride across town for 8 a.m. A young journalism student friend is now working at CBC’s Metro Morning and asked me to be on the show, live, to discuss transit for seniors in Toronto. As it happens, I have quite a bit of say about that, though we weren’t allotted much time. At one point after my divorce, I auditioned to be a news reader for CBC, was offered the job, and realized it would mean a rigid schedule and being stuck in that airless building many hours a day — impossible for a single mother. Instead I went there regularly to read essays for various shows, including many for Tom Allen’s Fresh Air, and chat with him and the others. I love radio, and I love the CBC.

As I write, a cat is staring at me hungrily with her big green eyes. Soon it’s dinnertime for this greedy feline, who the other day jumped up on the kitchen counter and devoured a chunk of parmesan cheese. Soon she’ll have to be on statins too.

A meme for today:

And a very apt New Yorker cartoon. Cheers!

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Sink the orange blowhole!

Well, what is there to say except WOO HOO? Justice was done. A criminal was convicted. What was disturbing was the footage of his followers, frantically parroting the old line: persecution Biden’s fault political prisoner etc. etc. I read somewhere that people used to uncover facts and then form opinions; now they form opinions and seek out “facts” to justify them.

This man, whom all thinking people once dismissed as a joke, is a monster who’s loomed over our world and unleashed a cavalcade of pure evil. Grotesque and terrifying. May he and all the Fox News type people, including Rupert Murdoch, rot in hell. But justice was done. Let the memes begin!

Much gardening, pruning, planting yesterday. The first fully open rose. Welcome, beauty. Soon to be joined by many of your kin.

People have been writing nice things. A friend wrote to let me know that TWO of my books are on the Recommended Reading list of the Creative Nonfiction Collective; they have a memoir webinar once a month to discuss nonfiction books people have enjoyed, and Midlife Solo and Loose Woman were there, along with bestselling memoirs by Cheryl Strayed, Mary Karr, and Salman Rushdie, among others. Not sure how I snuck in there, but I’m honoured.

An American reader wrote, “i resonate with a lot of your story and appreciate your sensibilities, your kindness and really, your mental healthiness at this point. your life has been amazing and that you came thru as you describe is thrilling. we have to go through a lot to become able to observe ourselves with detachment. it has (indeed) been a long strange trip … my favorite was paul too.”

Love that: mental healthiness. A lifetime struggle, for sure.

Another reader wrote, “I just finished reading Fire. What a great piece! Beautifully written! It’s so full of shocks and so full of deeply touching moments. You captured and conveyed the whole event so completely that I must have been there. Honestly, the story is packed with so many elements, I am amazed at how you covered so much in such a short story. And it all fits together seamlessly to the end.”

Thank you readers. Okay, enough for today, my head is swelling, and there are chores to do.

In case we feel too happy about the world today … my daughter is out there, fighting the good fight.

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You Hurt My Feelings

It may surprise you to know that I am not always cheerful. A few days ago I was distressed and crabby — why? Envy. A friend, a former student, wrote a memoir that has done extremely well; she had a great publisher who publicized the book, had excerpts printed all over, did a ton of prime time interviews, has appeared on panels and at book fairs and made it to the Globe bestseller list. She deserves her success, and I am 100% thrilled for her. I’m just really really sad for my book, which had none of those things.

So I grumped. A visual artist friend commiserated; she knew whereof I spoke. I know envy is corrosive and makes life miserable. I know, more importantly, that I’m one of the luckiest human beings on the face of this earth. Periodically, I need to feel sorry for myself and bitch. So I do.

And then stop. No point. Get over it.

Speaking of writer neurosis, however, I watched You Hurt my Feelings, which struck so many chords. A New York writer — the magnificent Julia Louis-Dreyfus — has published a memoir that did fairly well, though not well enough according to her demanding mother, adding to her insecurities. She has written a novel she’s trying to get published; her agent is lukewarm. She’s happily married to a kind man, a mediocre therapist who’s her great supporter, and is devastated, one day, to overhear him tell a friend that truthfully, he doesn’t think much of her novel.

These Woody Allen-esque people are ridiculous, yes – self-centred bumblers living privileged first world lives. But more, the film is about the necessary if sometimes painful compromises of love and marriage, about the white lies we all must tell to support our loved ones and friends. I’m sure everyone can relate. A very enjoyable film — especially for writers.

Today’s treat — Auntie Holly took the boys out of school early, and I met them downtown for Eli’s birthday. I gave him the silver chain I’d bought at LE Jewellers; I think he liked it, although later he tucked it inside his t-shirt. I took them for lunch, and then we went to SportChek for Holly’s gift to him – a new softball bat – $200! Who knew? Ben fell in love with a coach’s clipboard so he was given that and now is a coach. The 3 of them went off to a movie…

… and I rode home, stopping at Doubletake to look for t-shirts and hoodies for them. Found a few. Also an expensive treat for me – an Armani sweater I love, $19.99. I’m wearing it now. If it’s not cashmere – the tag has been cut off – it’s remarkably soft wool. Spoiled.

This morning my roofer came with his son to give my enormous willow tree a severe haircut, to allow the sun into the garden. A neighbour said incredulously, You spend money every year cutting back that tree for a bit of sun for your cucumbers? Well, yes, actually. If I didn’t, the thing would take over the world. It grows that fast.

The William Morris roses are opening, with tons of buds. So – new sweater on, a few more things crossed off the to-do list, garden watered by the rain last night. Envy, what’s that?

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