Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 158

O Canada

This morning's walk:  The spot Aunt Do was standing two days ago
Trees - so beautiful
playground
 beach
another abandoned home

Back to my not-so-abandoned home tonight. How I wish my aunt lived closer, so that we could visit on a regular basis. These intense trips have to do for us both. But she is well looked after, with her Scrabble friends, my brother who comes when he can, and especially Pat who phones her every morning, as my mother used to do, and comes at least once a week to help her shop and get around. She has a driver's exam coming up - yes, at 96. It may be that this one, she will not pass, as she has all the others, and probably should not. She's a menace on the roads because she drives so slowly.

This woman was there when my mother was born, when my parents met, when they both died. Stubborn as she is, with a fridge full of rotting food she doesn't want me to throw out, she is a treasure.

And now I'm off to take her, very slowly, very carefully, through the snow to lunch at our favourite restaurant, the Village Café. She will eat an amazing amount for one so small. I will try to do a last pass through the fridge, and get it stocked before I go. And then go.

Fantastic Beasts in the snow

Why oh why does anyone come to this godforsaken town? Why?! I checked the weather before I left, but all looked okay and it was so mild in Toronto, so very mild. I wore my leather boots, not my snow boots. As I was walking out of the house, a tiny voice said, Maybe you should change boots, and I said to myself, Oh for God's sake it's not going to snow.

Last night, continuing most of today - at least six inches.

So much for today's walk in the woods. My leather boots were soaked and freezing in no time just getting around, because I had jobs to do, including my usual trip to Ikea. I never get there in Toronto because it's miles and I have no car. Here I have a car and it's five minutes away, so I always go and drool over the gorgeous file boxes and everything else that won't fit in my carry-on suitcase. I bought the usual - candles,  napkins, stuff for the kids, a fake poinsettia for my aunt, and gazed in wonder at everything else, like the perfect stand-up desk I'd like for Christmas. Ate an incredibly cheap breakfast and went back out into the frozen wilderness. Brought lunch to Do and then persuaded her, the two of us prisoners in her apartment, that we should see a film. So I chose what I thought was the most suitable that was showing earliest - Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the J. K. Rowling film.

Oh my. Poor Auntie Do had absolutely no idea what was going on in this tale of magic and mayhem and menace. As she said afterwards, "I am the least magical person possible. Reality is my forte." So trying to explain to her about muggles or no-maj's, as they're called in America, and why that guy turned into a black hurricane of vicious destruction and why the rain made them all forget, and so much more, was not easy. But still, even understanding nothing, she was glad to get out, glad she'd seen it. What a good sport she is.

I am so happy to spend time with her, and I also can't wait to get out of here, especially now there's snow everywhere. But Do saved the day. She had actually bought a new pair of snow boots, and though her feet are smaller than mine, still, miraculously, they fitted. She wore her old ones and I wore the new ones for the rest of the day, so grateful for warm, dry feet. New rule: never come to this preposterous town, even in July, without snow boots.

We called my cousin, Do's niece, Barbara in Washington D.C., who is of course in shock about Trump. Here's a final word for today, sent by my friend Patsy, which I've just forwarded to Barbara too:

When I despair, I remember that all through history, the way of truth and love has always won. There have been murderers and tyrants, and for a time they can seem invincible. But in the end they always fall. Think of it, always.  Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1869-1948)

our nation's capital

First, several friends have written about my last post on the pipeline issue. I do understand the world has to drastically change its use of energy. But at the same time, I am defending Trudeau's practical political decision. As he said, "No country in the world would leave billions of barrels of oil in the ground." We know he is on the right side, but he is also running a vast complex country. Anyway, I am a left wing person coming to his defense. This time, at least. Perhaps, selfishly, because the pipeline is not running close to MY home.

I am in Ottawa to visit my extraordinary aunt Do who, as I've said many times, is still living alone at 96. I stay in a room in an airbnb house not far from her, and once again, as always, I am profoundly grateful that my mother and her sister chose to settle in Britannia, on the far west side of Ottawa, right on a beautiful park and the Ottawa River. Walking in the park has saved my sanity many times. I went this morning - it was cold but sunny, gorgeous - and later persuade Do to take a little meander.
Bilingualism, Ottawa style.
An abandoned home

Ninety-six! She used to be my height - about 5' 81/2". Now she's about 5'3".

We solved the thorny longstanding curtain problem with a jaunt to Westgate Mall and its subterranean curtain store Cozzy (sic) Coverings. Yes! And then had a coffee in this rather desolate mall and watched the passers-by, including several homeless people there to get warm, who were escorted out - a crack addict in flip-flops whose feet were blue. Ottawa is no place to be homeless. NO place is no place to be homeless, but especially a place with winters like the ones here.

Last night we had dinner with a friend of Do's and watched an episode of "The Crown." So so good.
Now my aunt is off to play Scrabble, and I'm going for dinner with my brother and his son Jake. My only Canadian family, besides my kids and grandkids, these three. Ottawa is full of ghosts. But some nice warm bodies too.

P.S. Listened to some of Cross-Country Check-up on CBC as I was driving to dinner. It was about the pipeline decision. It's possible I will change my tune. Okay, yes, occasionally, very occasionally, I am wrong.

letter to Santa

So - the new normal, going through the day, busy, coping, but every so often seeing something in the news, hearing the radio, a glimpse on TV of some hideous political travesty south of the border - digesting it, trying not to feel sick, sick, sick. Then moving on, because there's no choice.

And intolerance cuts both ways. Dear friends have been posting scathing things about Trudeau on FB because of his recent pro-pipeline decision - one, a cartoon of Stephen Harper removing a Trudeau mask and crying, "Surprise!" Come on, people - he has done 100 fine things and this, which has made the huge province of Alberta very happy. He is tending his base on all sides; he's a politician, that's his job. That doesn't mean he in any way resembles Harper. GET A GRIP.

Instead of bemoaning - too much bemoaning, these days! - I would like to share some major cuteness with you. This is Elijah's first big letter to Santa. May I remind you, he is a mere 4 1/2. Be still my beating heart.
And this, a quote of his from Anna's FB page:
"Mum, when I was in your belly I made a book shelf for when Ben was in there. I left books, but I don't remember which ones cause I was just a baby. Also, I left kinder eggs with toys for him. But I ate all the kinder chocolate. I love kinder chocolate."

Love. It's genetic, the love of bookshelves! And chocolate.

Off to Ottawa soon to visit Auntie Do. It's cold here now - yes, it's here, though far from full blast yet - and will be colder there. Sam will be tending the home fires and eating everything in the fridge. The good news is that now, amazingly, thanks to a gift from Rogers, I have Netflix on my computer.  I will be able to watch "The Crown" from my tiny airbnb room. Yay. Welcome to 2016, slowpoke. Maybe I'll never read a book again.

And now, more wine. Cheers, my friends. Have you written YOUR letter to Santa yet?

Karl Ove and Gratitude, yay, Cafe Society boo

MMMM. Here is one of the world's most attractive men, Norwegian Karl Ove Knausgaard, talking about his writing. I could listen to him all day. Be still my beating heart.
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2016/11/17/karl-ove-knausgaard-world/

And speaking of attractive men, here are two more. Only one of them closely related to me, but both of whom I've watched grow up.
Still incredibly mild. A gift from the gods, this beautiful autumn. John came over to help in the garden today, built a cage to contain my toppling goldenglow for next year and another to stake my raspberries; we spent hours outside on Nov. 30, without gloves or hat or even coat. A marvel.

I got Gratitude by Jenny Diski from the library today, a memoir from columns written as she was dying of cancer, aged only 68 - a whirlwind of words, am enjoying it. Did not enjoy last night's offering - the latest Woody Allen, Café Society, which Sam, who was visiting, and I ordered from Rogers On Demand. What a terrible movie, though stunningly beautiful to look at, gorgeous lighting, sets, costumes. I'm sick of Woody's absurd, even nauseating fantasies of young twiglet women in love with much older men. His writing here is lazy and weak; subplots and characters are there and then vanish, Jews, of course, take over for a bit and then disappear; lots of the actors are miscast. It's a mess. What happened to the powerhouse auteur of before? Woody, you shouldn't make a film a year, just make a film when you have a really good script and something to say. And maybe, I suggest politely, someone should edit you.

Who edits Woody Allen? That's a big part of the problem.

Not a big part of my problem. Tomorrow the latest edit of the memoir comes from Colin Thomas in Vancouver. There’s so much that’s really lovely in this draft, Beth. At this point, it’s almost all about figuring out what you have to do and how you can do it in Act 1. 

Music to my ears "really lovely,", except that, of course, he's also saying, there's stuff that works and stuff that doesn't that you have to fix. Which I knew already.

Sigh.

Oh well. It's really lovely out there, that's what counts right now.

Arrival and niqab

It's a grand sight - Torontonians stumbling about in the warm air, blinking with astonishment. 13 degrees on Nov. 29th! It's minus 13 in Britain, apparently. Here, people out in shirtsleeves and shorts. It's a first. "It'll come," people say gloomily, but in the meantime, let's get out there, into the warm bath of November air. And try not to think about the polar bears.

I have completely regained my equilibrium, though it hurts still to read the papers, hard to do so without raging. But I'm trying not to rage. What's the point? History will judge this vile, intolerant, childish, dishonest, reprehensible man and his friends.

Several things to tell you. First, went yesterday to see Arrival, the new Denis Villeneuve movie that's about a linguist meeting and translating for aliens in Montana - but which was shot entirely in Montreal, as the long list of French-Canadian names in the credits attests. It's a wonderful movie, though I did have to check reviews when I got home to be sure I got it all. Thoughtful, dense and complex, with a big twist at the end. Excellent - about so much more than aliens. Though I do hope when aliens land in Montpellier, they call my linguist friend Lynn to come and translate.

Second, I have asked permission of one of last term's students to write about her. When the classroom door opened and she walked in, I wondered how this would work - my first student wearing a niqab, completely covering her face and head, her eyes behind glasses, in a memoir class about being nakedly honest and telling the truth. I have always felt - as those of you reading here know - that the niqab is a medieval horror, a denial, ordained by men, of a woman's most basic right, to have a face in the world.

My student turned out to be warm, honest and open, friendly and smart and a good writer. At the end of term, I wrote telling her that she had countered my prejudice. She wrote back, "I started wearing the niqab 14 years ago, at age 22, much to the consternation of my husband and both sides of our families as no one covers to this extent. I felt and still feel that it makes me closer to Allah. I find the niqab liberating and dignifying. It gives me a sense of strength; I choose what you see. 

At times I do waiver in my fervour, specially when it hinders on some activities. But never when faced with anger or contempt from perfect strangers who equate my niqab with extremism. 
I have urged her to write about this in more detail - especially important in our new age of explosive intolerance. I hope she does, and I thank her for what I have learned about mine. 
I've also just had some extremely nice notes from friends and students, which I'm reprinting either because I'm an impossibly vain person, or, on the other hand, an impossibly insecure person. Your choice.
From a student whose THIRD book will appear next year: It took years to write the stories for this book and you helped me immensely, you read/edited them first and gave me the encouragement and, more important, the courage to send them out into the world. My books wouldn't exist without you. Truly. Thank you, Beth.
A spectacular success story, this student. I am one proud teacher.
From someone reading my book about my great-grandfather:I just wanted to let you know that I am LOVING your book on Jacob Gordin. Not only is it a fascinating portrait of a great man, but it is also such a rich tapestry of his world. It is such an exciting and gratifying read. So thank you so much!
Thank you, dear reader. If it weren't for you, our work would not be worth it.
Tonight - November 29, a mild sweet evening - I rode my bike to the U of T Faculty Club for the retirement party of my boss, Marilyn Booth, Dean of Continuing Studies, for whom I worked first at Ryerson and then at U of T. A spectacular woman. Honoured to be there to honour her. And on MY BIKE on November 29! As Lynn said, if the weather continues like this, everyone on earth will want to live in Canada. But it won't. "It's coming." Take my word for it.

Quebec my country mon pays

It's November 26th - my father's birthday; he would have been 94 today. Perhaps that's one reason for my sadness of late. I have much to be grateful for today, especially that my friends are such generous, thoughtful people. After the mewling of the last post, boo hoo, I'm so sad,  kind readers responded. A student friend wrote, I hope you know how much you have enriched my life as a writer and as a retired person searching for purpose. And you have given me that, by being the strong, gifted, eloquent and inspirational teacher that you are.

Oh thank you, CB, I needed that! And dear Lynn wrote from Montpellier, First of all, you know that you are a fabulous writer- so that should be one less reason to be depressed. The fact that you can't get your memoir to work like you'd like to is just normal writer's slump. And you know that too. So that's another reason not to be depressed. Unfortunately I cannot offer any relief from Donald Trump being the president elect. I cannot do anything about the Canadian winter either. Too bad you're not here. We could go shopping together. Then we could go for a nice dinner at the Entrecote and go to a movie. Also it is the Fete des Vignes here- so you'd get to do a lot of wine tasting.

Bella, I'm on my way.

So really, I just mewl periodically so people have to write me nice things. And it works. On the other hand, there's Ken, with whom I saw a documentary yesterday. Afterwards, over dinner at Paupers Pub across the street (half-price entrees before six!) I told him I was depressed because I'm a lousy writer and should just quit. He beamed at me. "Oh I just love it, " he said, "when I go on a depressing tear like that. And how's it working out for you?"

No pity there, just an old friend's honesty and good cheer, which will simply have to do. We saw the excellent Quebec, My Country, Mon Pays, an anglo's story of his family's deep roots in Quebec and how torn they feel about the hostile political environment, so many anglo's leaving, the difficulties and loyalties of those that stay. It recapped the terrible years of the FLQ, the death of Pierre Laporte - and when I got home, I watched two of CNN's documentaries The Seventies, including one about the terrorism of that time. We forget how much there was then, most of it on the left - the Baader-Meinhoff gang, the Red Brigade, the IRA, the absurd Symbionese Liberation Army and its famous heiress ... Angry young people wanting to smash things, like today. But the most chilling, still, was a young Iranian woman telling the cameras that she was willing to face death with pleasure because there is no death in Islam; Muslim martyrs do not die. That was in 1979.

The sun came out this morning, and I did my favourite Saturday morning jaunt by bike to the market, for Empire apples, coffee, sourdough bread, a roast for tonight - my grandson is coming for a sleepover, let's eat! Got 12 bottles of good red on sale at the LCBO and managed to carry them home on my back or in my arms. I'm stocked up for winter, but it's really mild out there today.

So gloom over, all is well chez moi, and I will try not to think, for awhile, about the state of the world. Thank you again for your words of encouragement. For a final jolt of joy, here are the grandkids on their last visit, and the Xmas celebrations in Cabbagetown which were launched today.


Merry November 26th.

PS. A friend just stopped by - I'd sent him a note of gratitude last week for all he does for the neighbourhood, and he brought me flowers. "I remembered that you like ranunculus," he said. And I do.

My cup runneth etc.

Wrestling Jerusalem

Still sad. Still scared. Yes, the man had a meeting with the NYT, trying to win them over with his charm and wit. Ha. Yes, there's magnificent analytical writing pouring out from newspapers, magazines, on-line, and perhaps this horror will galvanize lefties young and old to re-engage with the political process in a serious way. That would be good.

But in the meantime, what damage will be done to the planet? Unimaginable.

Also, it's November, true November now, grey and chilly, leaves showering down not to mention the rain, plants fading. Nature closing down for now, and my soul feels like doing the same. It won't, but still... My daughter and grandsons were over all day yesterday - their apartment was being sprayed for cockroaches - and I realize, they too, these beloved boys, like their mother and uncle, will grow up to be grown-ups whose choices I hardly understand.

Also - it's the memoir, this next draft, the problems, the issues, what's wrong, why doesn't it work, maybe it's just that I'm a lousy writer and should give up. Yesterday, talking to my colleague, prize-winning novelist Cordelia Strube, at the Ryerson open house - we were both there to meet potential students - listening to her complain about the Writer's Trust Gala, a fancy dinner she had to attend, sitting at a table with rich people anxious to meet and talk to a writer, she all dressed up eating filet mignon. She hated it. It sounds like heaven to me. I have never been invited and probably never will be - yo, Cinderella here, sitting in my rags, dreaming of the Writer's Trust Gala.

Sigh.

Okay, snap out of it. Here's something great to share with you: Wrestling Jerusalem, at the Berkeley - a thrilling one man show about a Jewish writer, Aaron Davidman, going to Israel to try to figure out the situation and offer a balanced report. He talks to many people there, both Jewish and Palestinian, whom he brings to life for us. The play shows the depth of passion, the fear and resentment, the enormous love its people have for the place, the intractability of the problem on both sides. It's stirring and beautifully acted - his accents and body changes are instantaneous and bring all his interlocutors vividly to life. An excellent piece of theatre. If only Trump and Pence could see it. Trump apparently told the NYT he'll bring peace to the Middle East. This show would elucidate him about a few of the centuries-old problems.

But then, elucidation is not his thing.

Off this afternoon to meet Ken to see a documentary, Quebec my country mon pays, about the changes in Quebec, and then dinner. If anything can cheer me up in today's gloom, it's Ken's sunny smile.

Bingo with Stella and other joys

It finally came, the cold. Until mid-November, our weather was unbelievable, sunny, almost hot - people out on Nov. 19 in shirtsleeves. But then on Nov. 20, it came. It's so cosy in the kitchen when there's white outside.
I couldn't write here, because I was trying to finish the next draft of the memoir for a Monday deadline - yesterday - with lots else going on. And also - truthfully - I was feeling depressed and gloomy about the fate of the world, about the stupidity and blindness of my fellow human beings. I know, very wrong to judge. And yet how not to judge people who decided, through their own heedless discontent and misinformation, to smash everything and unleash chaos and horror upon the world?

Let it go. We'll get through. Or we won't. In any case, there's nothing you can do. Though somehow I felt guilty, surely I could have done something to stop this terrifying train wreck. No, it seems not. Let it go.

My talk at the JCC went really well. The room was full, including some of the Yiddishists I met while researching the book decades ago. The sad thing about Yiddish is that most of the fluent speakers are very old. But they are brave and feisty and helpful. Jack Newman read excerpts of Gordin's plays in both Yiddish and English, which was very moving. Thanks to all involved. I sold five books!

And met a second cousin for the first time - Michael Shore, whose grandmother was my grandmother's sister, though I think for decades they had nothing to do with each other, in that family where many were estranged. I went to Montreal long ago to meet Michael's mother; her son then lived in Vancouver but recently moved to Toronto. He is, no surprise, an actor and a teacher of acting. With my American father and British mother, I've never had cousins in Canada, only in the U.S. and England, so having one in my own city is new and welcome.

That night, the last of my home classes with the wonderful writers who are so dear and close, they're like adopted cousins. Today, my last class at U of T and then, except for editing and coaching, I'm off till January 16! Even though that means no teaching income, hooray. More time for my own work.

And for my family. Saturday, I went across town. Eli had come home from school with head lice which Anna caught - so now he has a crew cut, and after treatment, she had to go to a clinic to be sure hers were gone. Thomas stayed with Ben while I took Eli for sushi, to the library and to check out the local toystore, pre Santa. I asked who his best friend was at school. "Stacey," he said. "I'm going to marry her." "Does she know that?" I asked. "I told her," he said. "Does she think that's a good idea?" "When we're seven or eleven," he said firmly.

I need to check her out. Will go spy on the playground. IS SHE GOOD ENOUGH FOR MY BOY?

Here's Thomas making pumpkin pie under the watchful eye of much of the family.
On Sunday, in the new thin sheet of snow and fighting the Santa Claus parade, I went to a legion to play bingo. Yes. My dear friend Stella Walker, a hilarious comedienne, musician and painter with endless talent, kindness and craziness, was shooting a music video about bingo, wearing a dress made of bingo cards, and invited a group of her friends to play the game behind her. I've not played in years - if ever. It was thrilling. I won once. BINGO! I shouted. My prize was a mandela colouring book. Awesome.
Then a meeting with Stephen and Lesia about Babe in the Barn, the Christmas pageant we produce every Xmas Eve. Panic - we don't have shepherds this year, need to find two shepherds, speaking roles. But we do have one family with a baby who are willing to sit in the straw for an hour, and a possible backup. Need to talk to the Farm about making sure more animals are in the barn for the show. Oh, it's a complicated affair.

Sunday night, Monique came over to drink wine and watch TV with me - the Durrells in Corfu and Poldark. I had to explain who everyone was, and there are a lot of people. Much fun.

All day Monday, finishing the rewrite, sitting until my bum was numb - a poem - except for a yoga class midday, delightful, the first time I've done yoga in years. Much missed. Will start again. Mailed the draft late last night. Mailed another draft, with a few last minute rewrites, early this morning. Let it go. And now, out to class.

So that's it. Here's a bouquet a friend gave me as thanks for a favour. White as snow.

back soon

Have just had an email query from dear Gretchen - are you okay? Sick? I realize - it's been nagging at me - I haven't posted here for a few days. I'm not sick, there's just too much going on. I haven't been able to clear either psychic or actual space and time.

And can't now either.

More anon, dear bloggees!