Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 179
March 18, 2016
Suzuki the magnificent
An extraordinary man, one of the most important and vital Canadians ever, Dr. David Suzuki, is turning 80. He was a great friend of my father's, who was also a committed social activist and scientist. And happily for me, David and his family have become much valued friends of mine. His 80th birthday party will be celebrated here in Toronto; I was invited, and how I'd love to be there - but will be in Vancouver! I admire him, his brilliant wife, his accomplished, thoughtful daughters, very much - a superb, hard-working, engaged tribe who have made and continue to make a huge difference to our planet.
David was interviewed about turning 80 by Peter Mansbridge on CBC. Here's this eloquent, humble, passionate environmentalist:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybBB5aTPups&feature=youtu.be
David was interviewed about turning 80 by Peter Mansbridge on CBC. Here's this eloquent, humble, passionate environmentalist:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybBB5aTPups&feature=youtu.be
Friday
Big news: my student and friend Grace Thompson is on the long list for a non-fiction writing prize. (Link below.) She submitted a story she wrote for my Ryerson class, then worked on with me to read, in a slightly different version, at So True. I'm thrilled for her; she's a talented, vividly honest writer with powerful stories to tell. Fingers crossed that she'll win the prize, which will be announced at the Banff CNF conference. I'll be there, shouting Go Grace!
http://www.creativenonfictioncollective.ca/long-list-carte-blanche-cnfc-contest/
As for me - an hour in the garden yesterday with my gardening helper Dan, pruning, staking, inspecting the back forty - buds! The joy of buds and green shoots poking through. It's too early, but that's the kind of winter it's been. I'm going to miss early spring in the garden.
Richard came over the other night - his television wasn't receiving the channel which shows the new series "The Americans," and he was desperate to watch the beginning of the new season. And since I like to know what's hip and happening, I started to watch with him. After ten minutes, I left to go back to work. It's described as one of the best new shows on television, about two Russian spies pretending to be Americans. I just could not bring myself to care. Perhaps - is it because it's fiction? And I'm being asked to invest in a storyline which means absolutely nothing to me? I do know that I won't watch anything that's scary or even filled with tension; life is scary and tense enough. I can't watch anything cruel; ugly images stay with me forever and haunt my dreams. So I do my best not to watch anything upsetting. This show wasn't upsetting, just mildly tense ... and of no interest.
Mind you, my dear friend Kate was here for a visit today, and she told me her TV only carries the fish tank channel; all she can see, when she turns on, are fishes swimming around. So I'm a TV junkie in comparison with Kate. But extremely selective, even so.
The mountain of departure is approaching - packing, preparing to leave, saying goodbye, getting organized. I've rented my room for one night via airbnb, so have to clean it up properly before I go. I'm mostly thinking about rain, since that's what Vancouver and Victoria are famous for; their winter so far has been especially rainy. Boots, umbrella, ponchos. I will miss my babies. I will miss the patch of late afternoon sunlight I'm sitting in right now. My kitchen. Children. Garden.
Joyfully embarking on a NEW ADVENTURE.
Finally - can't resist - a very good article from the NYT on my least favourite subject on earth:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/18/opinion/no-not-trump-not-ever.html?ref=opinion
http://www.creativenonfictioncollective.ca/long-list-carte-blanche-cnfc-contest/
As for me - an hour in the garden yesterday with my gardening helper Dan, pruning, staking, inspecting the back forty - buds! The joy of buds and green shoots poking through. It's too early, but that's the kind of winter it's been. I'm going to miss early spring in the garden.
Richard came over the other night - his television wasn't receiving the channel which shows the new series "The Americans," and he was desperate to watch the beginning of the new season. And since I like to know what's hip and happening, I started to watch with him. After ten minutes, I left to go back to work. It's described as one of the best new shows on television, about two Russian spies pretending to be Americans. I just could not bring myself to care. Perhaps - is it because it's fiction? And I'm being asked to invest in a storyline which means absolutely nothing to me? I do know that I won't watch anything that's scary or even filled with tension; life is scary and tense enough. I can't watch anything cruel; ugly images stay with me forever and haunt my dreams. So I do my best not to watch anything upsetting. This show wasn't upsetting, just mildly tense ... and of no interest.
Mind you, my dear friend Kate was here for a visit today, and she told me her TV only carries the fish tank channel; all she can see, when she turns on, are fishes swimming around. So I'm a TV junkie in comparison with Kate. But extremely selective, even so.
The mountain of departure is approaching - packing, preparing to leave, saying goodbye, getting organized. I've rented my room for one night via airbnb, so have to clean it up properly before I go. I'm mostly thinking about rain, since that's what Vancouver and Victoria are famous for; their winter so far has been especially rainy. Boots, umbrella, ponchos. I will miss my babies. I will miss the patch of late afternoon sunlight I'm sitting in right now. My kitchen. Children. Garden.
Joyfully embarking on a NEW ADVENTURE.
Finally - can't resist - a very good article from the NYT on my least favourite subject on earth:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/18/opinion/no-not-trump-not-ever.html?ref=opinion
March 16, 2016
new exhibition on Yiddish theatre in NYC
Thrilling - an exhibit about the Yiddish theatre just opened at the Museum of the City of NY, including, of course, much about my great-grandfather Jacob Gordin. When I heard about it, I found the email address of the curator, Edna Nashon, and wrote to ask if she was including the bronze bust of Gordin, which my grandmother donated to the Museum. I saw it often in my grandparents' front hall. She wrote back:
The Gordin bust is featured prominently. Of course!
I have your beautiful book. It's a delight!I'd love to meet when you come to New York. It'll be an honor.
So - a trip to NYC, probably in early July, to see the exhibit, meet Ms. Nashon, and visit my relatives Cousin Ted, Cousin Lola - who's 94 - and others. And see theatre and visit museums. Yay!
Here's a NYT article about the exhibit, mentioning, of course, my main man:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/11/arts/design/new-yorks-yiddish-theater-explores-a-fractious-heritage-of-melodrama-and-musicals.html?ref=theater&_r=
The Gordin bust is featured prominently. Of course!
I have your beautiful book. It's a delight!I'd love to meet when you come to New York. It'll be an honor.
So - a trip to NYC, probably in early July, to see the exhibit, meet Ms. Nashon, and visit my relatives Cousin Ted, Cousin Lola - who's 94 - and others. And see theatre and visit museums. Yay!
Here's a NYT article about the exhibit, mentioning, of course, my main man:
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/11/arts/design/new-yorks-yiddish-theater-explores-a-fractious-heritage-of-melodrama-and-musicals.html?ref=theater&_r=
March 15, 2016
perfectly crazy - me and Sam Bee
Ran into dear friend Richard yesterday, riding his bike home as I walked to Ryerson for the second last class of term. "So I read that your life is perfect now!" he said.
Hmmm. Is that what it sounds like, after my heartfelt piece a few days ago? Perfect?! I think not.
This morning, after a very intense dream - yet another about being on stage and not knowing my lines - I was awakened by an urgent phone call from my son. Due to take his prize-winning flight to Barbados in a few weeks, he discovered that his passport has expired, was at the passport office when it opened where they told him he was presenting his Registration of Birth, not his Birth Certificate. Where's my birth certificate, Mum? he wanted to know, as I awoke. No idea. I made coffee and searched through papers as he arrived by cab, Hurricane Sam, frantic, exhausted. I found the website and applied online for an emergency re-issue while he filled out masses of forms, quickly made me breakfast and, as I delivered lectures about getting some sleep and taking care of yourself, hugged me tightly and vanished.
The phone rang; my daughter - the formula she uses for Ben is on sale at Shopper's but not at HER Shopper's, if I'm around a Shopper's could I buy some she'll send me a picture of what she needs? And then I realized, I have to arrange for transportation right now for my aunt who has two appointments this week and no one to take her there. Several phone calls to Ottawa, finally successful. And then my student Helen arrived, to go over the massive manuscript I'd finished editing on the weekend, an hour and a half of intense discussion. As she left, Wayson called: "I'm on my way over." Wayson and I have a friend who's a jeweller, and whenever we need repairs or watch batteries, we go to Elaine, but unfortunately she's far away, inaccessible by bike. So Wayson drove me to Elaine's to pick up the chain I'd had repaired and to leave a few other things; on the way back I ran to get groceries - so great to have a car. He came in for tea and a chat, and by the time he left, at 2.30, I was limp. Had not had one moment of peace since being awakened.
Some people live like that all the time. Unimaginable. For them, the stress never ends,whereas for me, the flurry was over and I just had to recover - sit here responding to emails and checking websites. Checked in with my friend Kerry Clare's blog, to the left; she has posted an essay she recently wrote for an on-line magazine that I read and loved and am posting here, for your day's pleasure. A beautiful, funny, moving piece of writing.
http://plentythemagazine.com/2016/03/02/if-you-wanna-be-my-lover/
While Wayson was here, I was showing him recent photographs of Anna's boys, and then at the end of the new ones, iPhoto jumps back a year, and there I was setting off for Paris. I showed him all those shots of Paris, then London, Florence with Brucie, Cinque Terre, Nice, the Alps, Montpellier, Paris again - what a dream life. But how glad I am this year - British Columbia. A complete absence of Caravaggio, yes - but mountains and sea and friends.
P.S. Just read this and must, reluctantly, agree with its premise - http://www.salon.com/2016/03/01/please_give_samantha_bee_the_daily_show_they_squandered_jon_stewarts_legacy_by_giving_the_show_to_the_wrong_host/
- that Samantha Bee's new show Full Frontal, which I am now addicted to, picks up from Jon Stewart in a superb way that Trevor Noah does not. He's genial, he's handsome, but he doesn't seem to care that much. Whereas Sam Bee cares, oh yes. I wish she wouldn't use crude terms, as she often does, but her heart is so obviously in the right place and so are her brain and her mouth. And so is her show. She has said that as a mother of 3, she didn't want Jon's job. She's doing a magnificent job with what she has, filling a void that needs, in this time of terrifying insanity, to be filled. Brava, Canadian woman.
Hmmm. Is that what it sounds like, after my heartfelt piece a few days ago? Perfect?! I think not.
This morning, after a very intense dream - yet another about being on stage and not knowing my lines - I was awakened by an urgent phone call from my son. Due to take his prize-winning flight to Barbados in a few weeks, he discovered that his passport has expired, was at the passport office when it opened where they told him he was presenting his Registration of Birth, not his Birth Certificate. Where's my birth certificate, Mum? he wanted to know, as I awoke. No idea. I made coffee and searched through papers as he arrived by cab, Hurricane Sam, frantic, exhausted. I found the website and applied online for an emergency re-issue while he filled out masses of forms, quickly made me breakfast and, as I delivered lectures about getting some sleep and taking care of yourself, hugged me tightly and vanished.
The phone rang; my daughter - the formula she uses for Ben is on sale at Shopper's but not at HER Shopper's, if I'm around a Shopper's could I buy some she'll send me a picture of what she needs? And then I realized, I have to arrange for transportation right now for my aunt who has two appointments this week and no one to take her there. Several phone calls to Ottawa, finally successful. And then my student Helen arrived, to go over the massive manuscript I'd finished editing on the weekend, an hour and a half of intense discussion. As she left, Wayson called: "I'm on my way over." Wayson and I have a friend who's a jeweller, and whenever we need repairs or watch batteries, we go to Elaine, but unfortunately she's far away, inaccessible by bike. So Wayson drove me to Elaine's to pick up the chain I'd had repaired and to leave a few other things; on the way back I ran to get groceries - so great to have a car. He came in for tea and a chat, and by the time he left, at 2.30, I was limp. Had not had one moment of peace since being awakened.
Some people live like that all the time. Unimaginable. For them, the stress never ends,whereas for me, the flurry was over and I just had to recover - sit here responding to emails and checking websites. Checked in with my friend Kerry Clare's blog, to the left; she has posted an essay she recently wrote for an on-line magazine that I read and loved and am posting here, for your day's pleasure. A beautiful, funny, moving piece of writing.
http://plentythemagazine.com/2016/03/02/if-you-wanna-be-my-lover/
While Wayson was here, I was showing him recent photographs of Anna's boys, and then at the end of the new ones, iPhoto jumps back a year, and there I was setting off for Paris. I showed him all those shots of Paris, then London, Florence with Brucie, Cinque Terre, Nice, the Alps, Montpellier, Paris again - what a dream life. But how glad I am this year - British Columbia. A complete absence of Caravaggio, yes - but mountains and sea and friends.
P.S. Just read this and must, reluctantly, agree with its premise - http://www.salon.com/2016/03/01/please_give_samantha_bee_the_daily_show_they_squandered_jon_stewarts_legacy_by_giving_the_show_to_the_wrong_host/
- that Samantha Bee's new show Full Frontal, which I am now addicted to, picks up from Jon Stewart in a superb way that Trevor Noah does not. He's genial, he's handsome, but he doesn't seem to care that much. Whereas Sam Bee cares, oh yes. I wish she wouldn't use crude terms, as she often does, but her heart is so obviously in the right place and so are her brain and her mouth. And so is her show. She has said that as a mother of 3, she didn't want Jon's job. She's doing a magnificent job with what she has, filling a void that needs, in this time of terrifying insanity, to be filled. Brava, Canadian woman.
March 14, 2016
Why I dance
A quick post on a gloomy, rainy but mild Monday: here's a great video entitled "Why I dance" to bring you joy.
https://youtu.be/NW8qUKxQiQUThere's nothing I love more than dancing; for years, I've been looking for a place in Toronto that has great music and doesn't mind weird grey-haired women flinging their bodies around. Please let me know if you know of such a place. When I get to Vancouver, I'll go to Boingboing at the Western Front with Jane Ellison, who has fabulous music and lets us loose.
Here's an article I agree with - "I shower once a week and you should too." Yes, I shower and wash my hair once a week, most often at the Y, and yet people do not run screaming from the room as I approach. At least, I hope they're not just being polite. We're over-washing and wasting tons of water.
http://gu.com/p/4hdxj/sbl
And here's family - Auntie Do at nearly 96, wearing my mother's dove grey cashmere sweater, and Eli at nearly 4, building a magnificent Duplo structure with his dad. "Can I smash it now?" he asked, when it was built. And with the greatest pleasure, he did.
Lots to do: I leave in a week for a month away - in Victoria, Vancouver and then the Creative Non-fiction conference in Banff. Such a relief, this year, that I'm only going thousands of miles across the country, not the ocean. I'll still be home, in a sense, not to mention that I have dear friends in Vancouver or nearby and lived there for a long time myself. Hope to reconnect to a past self.
In the meantime, I am trying to finish this draft of the memoir and get it to a few readers. I think seeing it in a strange new place will help me find the flaws, see what's missing, what's needed, and my readers will tell me that too. And all that while walking the seawall and meandering on the beach drinking in that salty air. And then Macca! There will be dancing. Lucky woman.
https://youtu.be/NW8qUKxQiQUThere's nothing I love more than dancing; for years, I've been looking for a place in Toronto that has great music and doesn't mind weird grey-haired women flinging their bodies around. Please let me know if you know of such a place. When I get to Vancouver, I'll go to Boingboing at the Western Front with Jane Ellison, who has fabulous music and lets us loose.
Here's an article I agree with - "I shower once a week and you should too." Yes, I shower and wash my hair once a week, most often at the Y, and yet people do not run screaming from the room as I approach. At least, I hope they're not just being polite. We're over-washing and wasting tons of water.
http://gu.com/p/4hdxj/sbl
And here's family - Auntie Do at nearly 96, wearing my mother's dove grey cashmere sweater, and Eli at nearly 4, building a magnificent Duplo structure with his dad. "Can I smash it now?" he asked, when it was built. And with the greatest pleasure, he did.
Lots to do: I leave in a week for a month away - in Victoria, Vancouver and then the Creative Non-fiction conference in Banff. Such a relief, this year, that I'm only going thousands of miles across the country, not the ocean. I'll still be home, in a sense, not to mention that I have dear friends in Vancouver or nearby and lived there for a long time myself. Hope to reconnect to a past self.
In the meantime, I am trying to finish this draft of the memoir and get it to a few readers. I think seeing it in a strange new place will help me find the flaws, see what's missing, what's needed, and my readers will tell me that too. And all that while walking the seawall and meandering on the beach drinking in that salty air. And then Macca! There will be dancing. Lucky woman.
March 12, 2016
back to the land of health
Once again I am reminded, my friends - what matters most is health. I'm in the Porter departure lounge in Ottawa, waiting to go home after a quick visit to the very old, and a too-vivid glimpse of the very sick.
As constant readers know, my formidable aunt will soon be 96; she lives alone and even, until very recently, continued, terrifyingly, to drive. She does not want to move to assisted care, and after a few attempts to persuade her to move to a nice place where she'd be safe and fed, we now do everything to support her decision to stay right where she is. But it's hard. This visit, suddenly, she went completely deaf, couldn't hear anything. She said it was merely ear wax, but of course, this was the weekend, her doctor's office was closed and gave the address of a weekend clinic. This morning, I drove her there, to discover that the clinic probably has not been open for years.
So I took her to Emerg at the Civic, a place I know well from countless disasters with my mother. The Civic - where my son was born in 1984 and my mother, after many visits for many different ailments real and imaginary, died in 2012 at the age of 89. I hate Emerg - but couldn't leave Do deaf, without being able to hear even the telephone, let alone the TV and radio which are her constant, and for long periods only, companions.
So we waited. When we were eventually triaged, we were told 3 hours minimum. I had a plane to catch that afternoon, and my brother was at work. Do's wonderful friend Una offered to come if I needed to get away. Finally, the doctor saw us, diagnosed - yes - ear wax buildup, and at last, three hours later, a nurse named Mike syringed her ears. I told him I have a friend who says that people who work in hospitals are angels. Wayson said that in his great book "Not yet." And it's true.
As we sat, we were surrounded by the misery of humanity, very very sick people, people who looked like they'd been abandoned at birth or whose faces were pale green or yellow or who could hardly walk. A woman with a very young writhing autistic son, both of whom did not look up from their phones for two hours. And we were there for ear wax. But deafness is serious, and how grateful I am that they took care of the problem. She can hear better now, still not perfectly. We discussed, yet again, how she needs more care, she needs people to come to her place to check on her. She doesn't want to admit that she needs help. But she's nearly 96!
And now I'm on my way home, more determined than ever to do what I can to stay healthy, to stay out of Emerg, to stay out of the Ontario health care system for as long as I possibly can. Forever!!!!!
Yesterday I took Do and two dear friends to dinner, to celebrate the upcoming 96th birthday I'll be away for. One has terrible arthritis and the other has various serious ailments, and Do couldn't hear us so we had to shout in her direction. But it was a marvellous dinner nonetheless, even joyful. We toasted "To your 100th, Do!" I bet she makes it.
As constant readers know, my formidable aunt will soon be 96; she lives alone and even, until very recently, continued, terrifyingly, to drive. She does not want to move to assisted care, and after a few attempts to persuade her to move to a nice place where she'd be safe and fed, we now do everything to support her decision to stay right where she is. But it's hard. This visit, suddenly, she went completely deaf, couldn't hear anything. She said it was merely ear wax, but of course, this was the weekend, her doctor's office was closed and gave the address of a weekend clinic. This morning, I drove her there, to discover that the clinic probably has not been open for years.
So I took her to Emerg at the Civic, a place I know well from countless disasters with my mother. The Civic - where my son was born in 1984 and my mother, after many visits for many different ailments real and imaginary, died in 2012 at the age of 89. I hate Emerg - but couldn't leave Do deaf, without being able to hear even the telephone, let alone the TV and radio which are her constant, and for long periods only, companions.
So we waited. When we were eventually triaged, we were told 3 hours minimum. I had a plane to catch that afternoon, and my brother was at work. Do's wonderful friend Una offered to come if I needed to get away. Finally, the doctor saw us, diagnosed - yes - ear wax buildup, and at last, three hours later, a nurse named Mike syringed her ears. I told him I have a friend who says that people who work in hospitals are angels. Wayson said that in his great book "Not yet." And it's true.
As we sat, we were surrounded by the misery of humanity, very very sick people, people who looked like they'd been abandoned at birth or whose faces were pale green or yellow or who could hardly walk. A woman with a very young writhing autistic son, both of whom did not look up from their phones for two hours. And we were there for ear wax. But deafness is serious, and how grateful I am that they took care of the problem. She can hear better now, still not perfectly. We discussed, yet again, how she needs more care, she needs people to come to her place to check on her. She doesn't want to admit that she needs help. But she's nearly 96!
And now I'm on my way home, more determined than ever to do what I can to stay healthy, to stay out of Emerg, to stay out of the Ontario health care system for as long as I possibly can. Forever!!!!!
Yesterday I took Do and two dear friends to dinner, to celebrate the upcoming 96th birthday I'll be away for. One has terrible arthritis and the other has various serious ailments, and Do couldn't hear us so we had to shout in her direction. But it was a marvellous dinner nonetheless, even joyful. We toasted "To your 100th, Do!" I bet she makes it.
March 10, 2016
a crazy fan
I think I know why the Beatles album made me so emotional yesterday - because the day was a culmination of a kind, the end of a long period of anxiety. I've been worried - not acutely, but worried - about my two kids, about my own future. Yesterday, I felt so much more calm and safe than I have for ages. Listening to my favourite music pushed me over the edge.
My son is almost settled, perhaps as much as he will ever be - ambitious and successful in his gruelling chosen field; my daughter is settled with what she has always wanted, a nuclear family - two sons, a partner, a neighbourhood, a backyard full of slides, bikes, balls and friends. That is a miracle to me; since the divorce in 1990, the fate of my kids has been top of my on-going anxiety list. No more.
And I myself am more settled in my work and life than I've ever been, happy as a teacher, editor and producer, happy as a writer - if making no money - and with the house, my tenants who help keep it going financially, John who fixes everything. A path is clear. Just read this in Abigail Thomas's "Safekeeping":
I lie awake, wishing I had a faith of some kind. I’ve caught glimpses of it now and then, I can even conjure it up for a second or two, but then it fades. It’s a stillness, the polar opposite of worry. It isn’t hope; hope has too much energy, requires constant renewal; faith (if I had it) would just be there.
Perhaps, for me, it's there now - faith in the planet, faith in the future, faith in right here.
I know - if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans. I'm aware how fragile this fine moment is, and grateful; I take nothing for granted. But I remember my dear friend Margaret asking, when our kids were very small, "Do you feel like you're sinking, treading water, or swimming?" I was treading madly, my feet pumping to keep my head, all our heads, above water. Right now, we're all skimming along that water in our separate canoes.
And so I wept at the music, and then finished reading and editing my student's magnificent manuscript, and at midnight, wept again for the pleasure of her success, the culmination of years of working together, her dedication to a beautiful, moving story.
Today I am allowed to be a lunatic. Yesterday I found out that Macca is playing in Vancouver while I'm there. In order to get my ticket, which I did at 11.05 this morning, five minutes after they went on sale, I had to: buy two tickets for a friend of Anna's and her son to accompany them to the Aquarium today instead of me, so I could be home by my computer; pay for the concert ticket itself, another of the exorbitant sound check ones; pay Air Canada to switch my flight to Calgary from Tuesday to Thursday. Luckily, I will save some money on two nights of a room in Banff I will no longer need.
And I have my ticket. It's embarrassing, but I am a superfan, one of the crazy ones; I who buy second hand clothes, second hand everything, allow myself this major extravagance without guilt. The man is 73 - how much longer will he tour? Why does he mean so much? Well, I'm not alone. His first band is the soundtrack of my life, of many lives.
And at the concert, I will bring him my book again. I have sent at least a dozen to people who might get it to him, not to mention bringing two to the last concert, so far to no avail. Maybe one day, he will actually receive his copy. With love, from me, to you.
My son is almost settled, perhaps as much as he will ever be - ambitious and successful in his gruelling chosen field; my daughter is settled with what she has always wanted, a nuclear family - two sons, a partner, a neighbourhood, a backyard full of slides, bikes, balls and friends. That is a miracle to me; since the divorce in 1990, the fate of my kids has been top of my on-going anxiety list. No more.
And I myself am more settled in my work and life than I've ever been, happy as a teacher, editor and producer, happy as a writer - if making no money - and with the house, my tenants who help keep it going financially, John who fixes everything. A path is clear. Just read this in Abigail Thomas's "Safekeeping":
I lie awake, wishing I had a faith of some kind. I’ve caught glimpses of it now and then, I can even conjure it up for a second or two, but then it fades. It’s a stillness, the polar opposite of worry. It isn’t hope; hope has too much energy, requires constant renewal; faith (if I had it) would just be there.
Perhaps, for me, it's there now - faith in the planet, faith in the future, faith in right here.
I know - if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans. I'm aware how fragile this fine moment is, and grateful; I take nothing for granted. But I remember my dear friend Margaret asking, when our kids were very small, "Do you feel like you're sinking, treading water, or swimming?" I was treading madly, my feet pumping to keep my head, all our heads, above water. Right now, we're all skimming along that water in our separate canoes.
And so I wept at the music, and then finished reading and editing my student's magnificent manuscript, and at midnight, wept again for the pleasure of her success, the culmination of years of working together, her dedication to a beautiful, moving story.
Today I am allowed to be a lunatic. Yesterday I found out that Macca is playing in Vancouver while I'm there. In order to get my ticket, which I did at 11.05 this morning, five minutes after they went on sale, I had to: buy two tickets for a friend of Anna's and her son to accompany them to the Aquarium today instead of me, so I could be home by my computer; pay for the concert ticket itself, another of the exorbitant sound check ones; pay Air Canada to switch my flight to Calgary from Tuesday to Thursday. Luckily, I will save some money on two nights of a room in Banff I will no longer need.
And I have my ticket. It's embarrassing, but I am a superfan, one of the crazy ones; I who buy second hand clothes, second hand everything, allow myself this major extravagance without guilt. The man is 73 - how much longer will he tour? Why does he mean so much? Well, I'm not alone. His first band is the soundtrack of my life, of many lives.
And at the concert, I will bring him my book again. I have sent at least a dozen to people who might get it to him, not to mention bringing two to the last concert, so far to no avail. Maybe one day, he will actually receive his copy. With love, from me, to you.
March 9, 2016
Macca in Vancouver
It has been an overwhelming day - my son's success and happiness, George Martin's death, sunshine. Two students sent me moving, evocative pieces about depression which drew me vividly into an experience I can empathize with but cannot understand. I spent time looking through photo albums for pix of a little Sam in Barbados, thus reliving two decades of family life, which is joy and pain in equal measure.
And I'm now sitting here after supper, sobbing out loud, sodden, eyes flooded, listening to the red album, Beatles #1, the early compilation that would not exist without George Martin. This music haunts me, feeds me, devastates me. It's not chords and singers, it's my very soul I'm listening to.
When I got home from the Y at 1.30, I found an email from Chris in Vancouver marked Urgent. Oh God, I thought, what has happened to him? But he wanted to tell me that Macca has announced two concerts in Vancouver April 19 and 20. OHMYGOD. I am in Vancouver the 19th but supposed to fly out that day. That can change. OHMYGOD, another Macca concert! He will soon be 74. How many more?
Much arranging. It turns out that the advance tickets go on sale at 11 a.m. tomorrow when I am supposed to be at the Aquarium with Anna and the boys, a long-ago special date set for 10 a.m. But ... I need to get my ticket. So we spent some time rearranging, and it will work out; I will meet them, give them the tickets, go to an internet place on King St. and wait to buy my ticket at 11, then meet them at the Aquarium only an hour and a bit late.
So tonight, thinking of George Martin, I put on the red album. Why do I erupt into sobs? What is it about this music? Am I thinking of my young self? Right now, Eight Days a Week is on, and I am dissolved. That's just the way it is. This universal music and the stellar musicians who made it mean more to me than I can say, cut so deep, as deep as I go. Nothing I can do about it.
Here's "Yesterday," with the string quartet suggested by Martin the perfect background for this limpid, lucent song. Thank you, George, for all you gave. You were lucky, no question. And so were we.
I weep because John is dead and George is dead and George Martin is dead and they were geniuses. And I am somehow, inexplicably, sixty-five years old with grey hair and wrinkles, and all you need, all you need, is love. Hello goodbye.
And I'm now sitting here after supper, sobbing out loud, sodden, eyes flooded, listening to the red album, Beatles #1, the early compilation that would not exist without George Martin. This music haunts me, feeds me, devastates me. It's not chords and singers, it's my very soul I'm listening to.
When I got home from the Y at 1.30, I found an email from Chris in Vancouver marked Urgent. Oh God, I thought, what has happened to him? But he wanted to tell me that Macca has announced two concerts in Vancouver April 19 and 20. OHMYGOD. I am in Vancouver the 19th but supposed to fly out that day. That can change. OHMYGOD, another Macca concert! He will soon be 74. How many more?
Much arranging. It turns out that the advance tickets go on sale at 11 a.m. tomorrow when I am supposed to be at the Aquarium with Anna and the boys, a long-ago special date set for 10 a.m. But ... I need to get my ticket. So we spent some time rearranging, and it will work out; I will meet them, give them the tickets, go to an internet place on King St. and wait to buy my ticket at 11, then meet them at the Aquarium only an hour and a bit late.
So tonight, thinking of George Martin, I put on the red album. Why do I erupt into sobs? What is it about this music? Am I thinking of my young self? Right now, Eight Days a Week is on, and I am dissolved. That's just the way it is. This universal music and the stellar musicians who made it mean more to me than I can say, cut so deep, as deep as I go. Nothing I can do about it.
Here's "Yesterday," with the string quartet suggested by Martin the perfect background for this limpid, lucent song. Thank you, George, for all you gave. You were lucky, no question. And so were we.
I weep because John is dead and George is dead and George Martin is dead and they were geniuses. And I am somehow, inexplicably, sixty-five years old with grey hair and wrinkles, and all you need, all you need, is love. Hello goodbye.
my son the cocktail champ
Some days are so good, it's hard to believe that other days are not. This morning, I got a call from Anna at 7.45 - it's registration day for Toronto School Board summer programs, parents have to be on the phone dialling madly at dawn, and diligently, she got not only her own son but her friend Erin's into all the programs they wanted - two weeks at camp, t-ball, pre-school. She was thrilled. And then she said, "And I'm so happy about Sam!"
So I read the text my son sent at 5.30 a.m. Yesterday he and 3 other bartenders won the Mount Gay Rum cocktail competition and will receive a free flight to and week in Barbados. What's particularly wonderful about this is the place Barbados has had in our lives. Auntie Do's ex-husband Loris owned a small hotel called the Kingsley Club on the almost-deserted east coast of the island, a glorious place we all thought of as heaven on earth - small and friendly, full of air and light and birds, with a massive beach on the other side of the road. You couldn't swim there, there was a deadly undertow, but you could paddle and dig and run. We could only afford a few trips, but they were among the best ever in our lives, and Loris wouldn't let us pay for a thing.
Bus tours would come through on their way around the island and stop there for lunch. When a big crowd arrived, my kids begged to be allowed to help; they'd stand behind the bar and open soft drinks for the guests. The other day, when Sam was inventing his rum-based cocktails, he named one the Loris and the other, the Kingsley. What goes around comes around, or something like that.
On top of all that, it's spring in Toronto, like May in the first week of March - incredibly mild, sweet soft sun. I've never known a winter this easy. The term at U of T ended yesterday, a group I adored, wonderful writers and people. I am editing the last draft of an autobiography by a former student who's been working with me on it for years, and it's gorgeous. My own memoir is coming along really well. All in all, right this moment, things are pretty damn good.
But soon I'll go to the Y for Carole's class and realize just how old I am. George Martin just died, a great sadness, what a brilliant talent, what a good life.
The patch of sun I'm sitting in just vanished behind cloud. And I am grateful for every bit of it.
So I read the text my son sent at 5.30 a.m. Yesterday he and 3 other bartenders won the Mount Gay Rum cocktail competition and will receive a free flight to and week in Barbados. What's particularly wonderful about this is the place Barbados has had in our lives. Auntie Do's ex-husband Loris owned a small hotel called the Kingsley Club on the almost-deserted east coast of the island, a glorious place we all thought of as heaven on earth - small and friendly, full of air and light and birds, with a massive beach on the other side of the road. You couldn't swim there, there was a deadly undertow, but you could paddle and dig and run. We could only afford a few trips, but they were among the best ever in our lives, and Loris wouldn't let us pay for a thing.
Bus tours would come through on their way around the island and stop there for lunch. When a big crowd arrived, my kids begged to be allowed to help; they'd stand behind the bar and open soft drinks for the guests. The other day, when Sam was inventing his rum-based cocktails, he named one the Loris and the other, the Kingsley. What goes around comes around, or something like that.
On top of all that, it's spring in Toronto, like May in the first week of March - incredibly mild, sweet soft sun. I've never known a winter this easy. The term at U of T ended yesterday, a group I adored, wonderful writers and people. I am editing the last draft of an autobiography by a former student who's been working with me on it for years, and it's gorgeous. My own memoir is coming along really well. All in all, right this moment, things are pretty damn good.
But soon I'll go to the Y for Carole's class and realize just how old I am. George Martin just died, a great sadness, what a brilliant talent, what a good life.
The patch of sun I'm sitting in just vanished behind cloud. And I am grateful for every bit of it.
March 7, 2016
How I Won the War
Farewell, dear Downton friends. Skilful work, Julian Fellowes, arranging, for example, to have Anna get pregnant in the late spring so she'd be able to give birth during the last episode on New Year's Eve! Funny how Anna and Bates just fell off the radar. Very clever to get out of the series just before the storyline hit the Depression. I know, it was absurd, neatly wrapping up all those stories with love everywhere abounding - except, of course, poor gay Thomas - and no surprises except that Mary is married to a used car salesman, Edith actually has some backbone, and all the children were as invisible as always.
We watched the Sixty Minutes piece of fluff about our handsome PM, had a wonderful dinner, and then drank Champagne - well, Prosecco - and ate chocolate, strawberries and macarons during the show. And we, like everyone else, are now asking - What will we do next Sunday night?
Here's an idea: my friend and fellow Beatle nut Piers Hemmingsen is producing another great event at the Revue Cinema - this time, a special showing of "How I Won the War," featuring John Lennon. Piers interviewed director Richard Lester for this event and will be speaking about it. Details here: https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/richard-lester-on-how-i-won-the-war-tickets-22629144380
My Cousin Ted in NYC sent me this joke, which made me laugh out loud and also wince. Hit close to home for me and I'm sure for many of you:
JEWISH MOTHER
We watched the Sixty Minutes piece of fluff about our handsome PM, had a wonderful dinner, and then drank Champagne - well, Prosecco - and ate chocolate, strawberries and macarons during the show. And we, like everyone else, are now asking - What will we do next Sunday night?
Here's an idea: my friend and fellow Beatle nut Piers Hemmingsen is producing another great event at the Revue Cinema - this time, a special showing of "How I Won the War," featuring John Lennon. Piers interviewed director Richard Lester for this event and will be speaking about it. Details here: https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/richard-lester-on-how-i-won-the-war-tickets-22629144380
My Cousin Ted in NYC sent me this joke, which made me laugh out loud and also wince. Hit close to home for me and I'm sure for many of you:
JEWISH MOTHER
The year is 2024 and the United States has elected the first woman President, Susan Goldfarb.
She calls up her mother a few weeks after Election Day and says, 'So, Mom, I assume you'll be coming to my inauguration?'
'I don't think so. It's a ten hour drive, your father isn't as young as he used to be, and my arthritis is acting up again.'
'Don't worry about it Mom, I'll send Air Force One to pick you up and take you home. And a limousine will pick you up at your door.'
'I don't know. Everybody will be so fancy-schmantzy, what on earth would I wear?'
Susan replies, 'I'll make sure you have a wonderful gown custom-made by the best designer in New York.'
'Honey,' Mom complains, 'you know I can't eat those rich foods you and your friends like to eat.'
The President-to-be responds, 'Don't worry Mom. The entire affair is going to be handled by the best caterer in New York, kosher all the way. Mom, I really want you to come.'
So Mom reluctantly agrees and on January 20, 2025, Susan Goldfarb is being sworn in as President of the United States.
In the front row sits the new President's mother, who leans over to a senator sitting next to her and says, 'You see that woman over there with her hand on the Torah, becoming President of the United States?
The Senator whispers back, 'Yes I do'.
Mom says proudly, 'Her brother is a doctor.'
