Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 194

Thanks

Bliss. Yes, more boring bliss. I'm listening to Randy Bachman celebrate John Lennon's 75th birthday with outtakes, demos, first recordings - he just played an early version of "This Boy" when at the end, John and Paul got the "this" and the "that" confused and collapsed in laughter. I laughed with them, as I laughed earlier today, listening to Eleanor Wachtel interview Salman Rushdie, bringing out his mischievous sense of humour. He's a very funny guy - at least, when he's talking to Eleanor. How I enjoy laughing along with CBC radio.

The weather today was almost painfully beautiful. I rode my bike in the hot sun this morning down the Don Valley Trail to Corktown Common, a lovely park near the lake, with bright red and yellow trees and bushes and clouds of white and mauve Michaelmas daisies. I went to take another shot and my phone died, and I remembered the day before, when I wanted to take a picture of a gorgeous scarlet tree and was chagrined that I'd forgotten my phone. I thought of trying to explain to my father, who died in 1988, why not having my phone mattered when seeing this tree. "Why do you want to telephone a tree?" he'd ask, bemused.
 Riverdale Farm
Corktown Common

As I made my way downtown to do an errand, a man started to talk to me, a short well-built guy in a  tank top, with long blondey grey hair. For some reason, he started to tell me the story of his life. His mother was a nun and somehow his father persuaded her to leave the convent and marry him. But his father used to hit his mother, his older brother and him. When he was 12, when his father hit his mother, he picked up his dad and threw him through a wall and said, "If you ever touch her again, you're dead. After that," he said, "my dad was afraid of me. My brother was older, but he never did nothing. How could he not have tried to stop that man? I hate my brother for that. I will never forgive him."

So we stood together in the sun. I wished him a happy Thanksgiving and went on my way, graced by a stranger's story.

I voted later. Enough - let's get this over with! I voted for the NDP's Linda McQuaig, because she came to my door yesterday, because she has worked incredibly hard and is smart and focussed - and also because there is no real Conservative candidate in my riding so there's no risk - it's either the Lib, who's a good guy, or Linda, who's terrific, a woman and a writer and a fighter. But in the end, I'm with Justin. Best case, my most beautiful dream: a Liberal minority government that has to court the NDP. Wouldn't that be something?!

While listening to the radio, I made the stuffing and prepared the potatoes and cleaned up in advance of tomorrow's onslaught; my housekeeping is never good enough for my meticulous daughter. And then I sat outside in the last of the sun, reading the newspaper with a glass of wine, thinking life couldn't get much better, when there was a knock on my garden gate - it was my neighbour, handsome Rob, with a glass of champagne. He'd seen me from his window. Later I picked a bouquet - roses, mint, lavender, sedum, hydrangea - and took it to him and Alex as a centrepiece for their Thanksgiving dinner.

I miss my dead loved ones today - my parents, my friends who are no longer here. Yesterday a student sent me such a beautiful, heartbreaking piece of writing for the So True reading on Oct. 25 that I've been teary since. I thought, today, that this weather - this late fall burst of glory - is like life in the later years, if we're lucky. At 65, I'm in the early October of my life, I hope, lucky to have this time, to appreciate everything in a way I couldn't even have begun to imagine in my twenties. Because time is short, and winter is coming. So get your face in that sun, my friends, and feel it warm you to the bone.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

"Grandma" - "slick and trivial"

Just came home to a beautiful sight - a video via email of my younger grandson in a blue plastic tub, kicking and splashing his little legs for dear life. For another child this wouldn't mean anything - but for Ben, this is about strong legs attached to straight identical feet, whereas at birth, one of his feet was turned completely sideways. In less than 3 months, the medical professionals of this city have effected a miracle. He is kicking with pleasure because right after the bath, and for the next few months, his "boots and bar" have to go back on - his tiny skateboard. But after Xmas, if all goes well, he only need wear them at night. And from then on, by day, though one leg will always be a little thinner than the other, he will move normally. Praise be.

Another gift - my neighbour Gretchen left two items in my mailbox: Mavis Gallant's "Paris Stories," which I have long wanted to read and am ashamed I have not yet, and a Rolling Stone special about Macca, which of course I have and now have another. We can never have too many lovely pix of Sir P., can we? Hmmm? And another - Wayson came today to lend me his car to pick up the nearly 18 pound turkey and other heavy items difficult to cart home on a bicycle. Grace came to help me sort out stuff, and Arlene my student came for an editing session. Life is busy.

Much thinking about offspring and generations today, because I went to see the movie "Grandma" with my friend Suzette. We were looking forward to it - Lily Tomlin, comedy, grandmother, what's not to like? Well, it turns out, quite a lot. Most of the reviews have been raves, which surprises me; the film misses on so many levels - cliched characters and situations, the pretence of quirky importance but actually, in true Hollywood style, selling all for laughs. Really, Lily Tomlin is a poor, angry, unpleasant lesbian with whom a stunningly beautiful woman at least 45 years younger is madly in love? Because this is often presented as a male reality for the likes of Woody Allen, though it's utterly absurd, we're meant to believe it for Lily? I think not. Ridiculous. Really, Lily's daughter is a shrill workaholic who is suddenly warm, gentle and loving? Really, the granddaughter's boyfriend is a grotesque caricature without a single redeeming feature? Wouldn't it have been a more interesting film if he were a human being?

Anyway, disappointing - except that it's always fun to pick apart a movie with a pro like Suzette, who's a screenwriter and knows everything about that world. I thought of a film like the Polish "Ida," so profoundly true and uncompromising. This is a million miles away. Too bad. As one critic, one of the very few critical critics, says:
An elderly former poet and retired academic (Lily Tomlin) takes her wheezy old 1955 Dodge out of storage and hits the road to help her pregnant granddaughter (Julia Garner) raise the money for an abortion. Writer-director Paul Weitz tries to give his movie a veneer of indie-flick honesty, but at heart it's as slick and trivial as his American Pie (1999), and just as specious. Weitz is lucky Tomlin signed on; her prickly performances distracts us from the symphony of false notes in the script, and she makes this puny little movie worth watching (well, more or less). Tomlin is aided in this by the many star cameos (Judy Greer, John Cho, Elizabeth Peña, Sam Elliott, Marcia Gay Harden) who parade across the screen. J.L.

There's some good writing and one really good line, when Tomlin says, "I'm glad I'm old. Young people are so stupid." No kidding! And I guess the movie is groundbreaking because of the honest way it treats the necessity for abortion. That's not nothing. But it's not enough.

What matters most today, in any case, is this: GO JUSTIN GO!

delicate little shoes for sale

Vanity, thy name is BK. I loved these shoes, bought them convinced that they're so stretchy - made out of elastic! - I could make them fit. Oh, Cinderella's stepsister that you are. They are a size 41, a 10, which sometimes my size 10 1/2 feet can wear. If there's an open toe. Here I somehow failed to notice that there is not. And though I've struggled to tell myself I can wear them for short periods without my feet going numb, in fact, I can't. They are wonderfully comfortable Bernie Mev. I adore them. But I can't wear them and am looking for someone with smaller feet. They're hardly worn, cost $110 + GST (not a Winner's buy, unfortunately, this time), and I'd like to sell them for $50 OBO. And I'm reluctant to let them go, I can tell you.

Perfect for work or a casual night out, the Bernie Mev Bonnie pump will give you a stylish lift on the chunky 2.5" heel. Featuring Bernie Mev's famous basketweave elastic upper and memory-foam insole, the Bonnie conforms to your feet for unmatched comfort. The cute mary-jane strap keeps your foot secure. 
Woven elastic fabric upper stretches to fitGreat for those with bunions, hammertoes and other foot problemsMemory foam footbed softly conforms to your foot for customized cushioning from heel to toeUltra lightweight and flexible EVA outsoleApprox. 2½" heel height

Non-fiction writer wins the Nobel Prize!

Happy news! A non-fiction writer - a Belarusian woman - has won this year's Nobel Prize in Literature. Hooray to Svetlana Alexievich!

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/oct/08/svetlana-alexievich-wins-2015-nobel-prize-in-literature?CMP=share_btn_fb

She interviews her fellow citizens and makes sure their story is heard. She says, “It never ceases to amaze me how interesting ordinary, everyday life is. There are an endless number of human truths … History is only interested in facts; emotions are excluded from its realm of interest. It’s considered improper to admit them into history. I look at the world as a writer, not strictly an historian. I am fascinated by people.”

YES!

And someone says about her work, "I hope that in reading her, more people see the ways that suffering – even suffering brought on by geopolitical circumstances foreign to many readers – is also something that can bring people closer to one another if they are willing to take a risk and listen."

This is what I teach, what I believe so strongly, how thrilling to read it in the Guardian in connection with a Nobel Prize! People bursting with vital stories sit in my class and say, Who'd want to listen to me? I'm not interesting or famous. 

And I reply, If you tell the stories that matter most to you, if you tell them with depth and honesty and passion and learn the craft to tell them well, they will matter deeply to us too. Because they'll be about the things we all share."

It's hot and sunny again, and I spent this glorious morning working on my own little bit of truth-telling, full of doubt about its worth, its structure and voice and scope. But Svetlana has brought me back. My paid work is to listen to others and help them tell their stories. My own work is to listen to myself and tell mine.

A fall bouquet for Svetlana:

hope's name is Justin Trudeau

Such beautiful weather these days - hot and sunny, after a spell of dreadful cold. I'd already put my winter comforter on the bed, now have to take it off. Yet it's a melancholy time, I find, because we know this is the last gasp of good weather before everything shuts down, all the colour and scent, and the cold grey takes over. I went into the garden to collect the last of the cherry tomatoes and beans - have not had to buy a tomato all summer, but soon I will. Cut a few of the last roses to bring in, to keep me company. Have started to feed the birds again, after letting them forage all summer. Am shifting the clothes - all those light, bright summer things put away, thick sweaters and warm pants and boots out. I made a beef stew, hearty fall fare.

I feel sad with the dying of the light - also because tomorrow would have been my mother's 92nd birthday. But I can call her sister and we'll wish her well together. And tomorrow, happily, is my first piano lesson in months. I've been practicing as I never did when I was a kid, 20 minutes a day when possible - starting a new easy bit of Chopin, heaven, and an easy version of - of course - "Yesterday". But then, when there's a piece I know really well that I don't play for a while, it vanishes, I've completely forgotten where the fingers go. Frustrating! 65-year old holes in the brain.

A new term started at U of T yesterday - a full class with profoundly moving and interesting stories already. On Monday, my student and friend Lina Di Carlo came to the Ryerson class to bring me a copy of her memoir, which after two years of writing with me editing, and then extensive copy editing from Chris Cameron, she published last month. It's a work of art, and I'm very proud of her. Lina has been in a wheelchair since contracting polio in her Italian village at the age of 10 months, but nothing has stopped her fierce drive for accomplishment and experience. And now she has chronicled it all in "Just Watch Me." Brava, Lina.

And ... the election. So many emails flying back and forth, so much pouring out on FB, so many people united in their contempt for Harper, his party, his tricks. Will they be enough to oust him? The story of the campaign is Justin Trudeau emerging as a highly credible alternative. Go Justin! I may change the sign on my fence from NDP to Liberal. This is strategic voting. Both candidates in my riding are good, but I want everyone, everyone to vote Liberal now. The NDP has lost momentum and cannot win; Justin might, or even if he comes close, he and Mulcair can form a coalition.

Yesterday I'd lost heart; today not so much. With all the hideousness right now in the world - Syria, shootings in the US, the bombing of a hospital ... maybe there will be good news in Canada, to go with the sun that shone on us today.

If you want to read something heartening, please take in my friend Chris's post to the left, about a Craigslist ad. Beautiful. There is hope. There is hope.

prayers, trees and "The Little Paris Bookshop"

I ached and ranted when George Bush was elected, and the hideous Mike Harris, TWICE. But this election is the most fraught I've ever lived through; the fate of our country's soul is at stake. The Cons have limitless sums of (well-concealed) money, a well-oiled, experienced election machine, and absolutely no scruples, and they're dealing with two under-performing contestants. Mulcair and Trudeau are fine men, no question, but they'd have to be powerhouses to overcome the forces against them.

I'm terrified. My cleaning-lady was here yesterday, a Polish immigrant who lives in Mississauga, drives a car the size of a tank and doesn't understand why I bother to recycle. We've been friends for many years. She told me her son was going to vote for Trudeau but changed his mind because of the Muslim issue. "Trudeau said he'd bring in 25,000 Syrian immigrants, but Harper said, we have to check them first to be sure they're not terrorists. And my son agrees with that."
"You're an immigrant, Marisha," I said. "I'm an immigrant. This is a nation of immigrants." She just looked at me. What her face meant was, we're different; we're nice. They're dangerous.

It is to weep. I thought, we've lost. They've won. Their politics of fear, paranoia and divisiveness, appealing to the worst in human nature, have won.

Trudeau is our only hope. Mulcair seems to have fizzled completely, from such a strong start. I feel sick contemplating all this. And yesterday some giant trade deal - I had to turn off the radio and may not be able to turn it back on for years.

Instead, I'm reading. Just finished "The Little Paris Bookshop," by Nina George - yes, a novel, I do read them sometimes. Charming. It will certainly be turned into a movie, maybe starring George Clooney as Jean Perdu, John Lost, the hero, who sells books from a barge on the Seine. It was manipulative and obvious in places, but full of heart - about the joy of books and the joy of France, among other things that matter deeply to me. Here's a paragraph.
Soon Anna was surrounded by piles of books as a woman in a shoe shop might be surrounded by boxes.         Perdu wanted Anna to feel that she was in a nest. He wanted her to sense the boundless possibilities offered by books. They would always be enough. They would never stop loving their readers. They were a fixed point in an otherwise unpredictable world. In life, In love. After death.         When Lindgren then jumped onto Anna’s lap in one audacious leap, and made herself comfortable, paw by paw, purring loudly, the overworked, love-crossed and conscience-stricken advertising executive reclined in her chair. Her tense shoulders slackened, her thumbs unfurled from her clenched fists. Her face relaxed.         She read. 
Monsieur Perdu observed how the words she was reading gave shape to her from within. He saw that Anna was discovering inside herself a sounding board that reacted to words. She was a violin learning to play itself.
Charmant, non?On the recommendation of my blog friend Theresa, I got another stunning book out of the library:"Remarkable Trees of the World," by Thomas Pakenham. It soothes my heart to look at his pictures of fantastic trees. He has other books about trees and I'm going to get them out too, and make a nest of books about trees to get me through the next few weeks. Trees don't care about elections; they just go on growing and processing sunlight and casting shade and hosting birds. I will take inspiration from them. 
Though of course this election matters to them, too, because the Cons will do nothing about climate change which is destroying our towering friends. Prayers are in order. 

Spiderman and his brother

This is what Anna wrote on FB:I'm sitting in the sick kids food court after Ben's final cast removal, waiting for his boots and bar fitting, and I find myself overcome with profound and unending gratitude. Ben and I have been surrounded by the most incredible team of doctors, nurses, physical therapists and support staff. I will never be able to express my gratitude to them all. I will however single out Barb, the physical therapist whose gentle hands quite literally healed Ben's foot, Dr.Ponseti whose research and work on clubbed feet made it possible, and Tommy Douglas who brought universal healthcare to Canada, and is by far, one of the greatest Canadians ever. Thank you from the bottom of this mother's heart.

at the Shaw Festival

What pleasure it was to be immersed in my thespian past for a few days, with actress friend Nicola Cavendish. On Thursday we rented a car and drove to Niagara on the Lake to see two plays, visit friends and stay the night. When we arrived, we checked in at our b and b - Bushy House, on the outskirts of town, where we had a spacious pretty room with two big beds, a fireplace and a view of the woods outside. The weather had suddenly turned very cold, and Ms. Cavendish had brought only a linen jacket from the west coast. But little things like that don't bother her as they do me.

At lunch, while Nicky slowly finished (I eat at four times the speed she does) I went for a walk down to the lake. We had emailed our mutual dear friend, the actor Norman Browning, to let him know we were coming and would love if possible to see him, but had not heard back and didn't know where he and his actress wife Laurie lived. I was driven from the lake by the cold - even more bitter and windy by the water - and as I walked back, I saw in NDP sign outside a house, welcome and rare in this town of Tory blue. Looking at the man sitting smoking on the porch, I thought, he looks familiar. It was Norman.
Their house is on one of the bigger streets leading to the lake, much favoured by the leaders of Chinese tours, so as we sat chatting on the porch, scores of Chinese tourists went by in huge clumps. Norman told me that sometimes they stop and ask if they can take a picture of him - or even come up on the porch and be photographed with him. He looks like a real Canadian, I guess. If only they knew he spent his entire professional life in the theatre!

In the afternoon, we saw "The Divine," and I confess I left at intermission and went back to visit with Norman and Laurie while Nicky saw Act 2. Life is too short. Such an interesting subject too - the visit Sarah Bernhardt made to Quebec City in 1905, to the horror of the Catholic church. But the didactic, clunky play needs tons more work, and the production did not help. That's all I'll say.

After a great visit and then dinner at Zee's, we saw the Tony Kusher play with the unwieldy title "The intelligent homosexual's guide to capitalism and socialism with a key to the scriptures." And the title  - shortened at Shaw to IHO - is the only unnecessary thing about this play. What a night of theatre - stunning writing, direction, acting, set, music, all superb. This production should pack up and tour the world. Magnificent and moving - not to mention three acts and nearly four hours long. But the time vanished. So much to digest.

Back to Bushy House in the cold and dark, and next morning, our landlady Jody produced a fabulous breakfast, a cheese and veg omelette with eggs and tomatoes from her own chickens and garden, hot croissants with her homemade jam, lots of coffee. I bought a dozen fresh eggs from her, each egg marked with the date it was laid and one, a blue egg, with the name of the chicken - Puff. Highly recommended if you're going to NOTL. I will certainly stay there again.

We set off for visits - to Christopher Newton, for a long time the Artistic Director of the Shaw Festival, an extremely articulate man overflowing with taste, ideas, and talent. Then to the Irish Shop teahouse to meet Fiona Reid and Steven Sutcliffe, actors in the festival, Fiona one of its stars (and in The Divine, but luckily also in IHO, which is what we talked about.) As I've said before, theatre talk for me is like visiting a country where I speak the language because I used to live there. Now I'm in exile, and happily so. But I'm writing about the theatre in my memoir, and my time with Nicky brought so much of it back. Then she zipped off to Montreal. She's got a small recurring part in a new CBC spy drama, The Romeo Section, starting next Wednesday. Nicky, my lunatic friend, as a retired CSIS agent - what will they think of next?

While I was away, baby Ben had his cast off and the "boots and bars" fitted and put on. The angle of his club foot has been corrected; this is to make sure it stays that way. He has to wear them 23 hours a day for 12 weeks - till Xmas.
With neighbour Monique. "He looks like a tiny skateboarder," she said.
 With Mama
It's awkward, as you can imagine - but he's coping and so, of course, is his marvellous mother. Today we met at the Y, where she ascertained that the dance class Eli refuses to participate in is just not right for him - too structured. "He loves dancing," she said, "but he doesn't want to be told what to do." So we'll find something else.  Meanwhile, Ben was in a good mood, despite the cold and wet. But I can tell you, after a busy few days and with some even busier ones coming up, the last thing I want to do is go out and look at the hundreds of Nuit Blanche installations all over the city starting in only a few hours. There's a freezing rain right now. Poor artists. I wish you well and God bless you. I'm turning on the furnace, pouring a glass of wine and staying home.

I have not mentioned the election. It's too terrifying, too horrific to imagine that ... no, I won't even write it. Unbearable. At 3 a.m., I was awake saying to myself, Democracy sucks sometimes. Voters make terrible, terrible mistakes. And there's still a world, albeit a diminished, sadder place as a result of those mistakes. Pray for our country.

good job, Trevor Noah

Last night, what joy to sit down again at 11 and turn on the TV, for Trevor Noah's first Daily Show. It was a respectable start. I loved his intro, which hit just the right notes of respect and self-deprecation. The set is streamlined, simpler, less stuff going on. A few horrible jokes, but then, Jon made some too.The interview was awful, but then it was awful when Jon interviewed Kevin Hart - he’s something of an egotistical blowhard. I give Trevor great credit for his courage - what a difficult job, to follow an adored and brilliant man at the top of his game. 
So, so far, I’m in for the long haul. Happy to have that time slot back, even though I will miss and love Jon Stewart forever.

I didn't watch Trevor Noah alone. My dear friend the wonderful, multitalented actor and writer Nicky Cavendish is here, visiting from Vancouver. We performed together many years ago, a hilarious time touring a shallow sex comedy to remote northern B. C. communities. With Nicky, everything is an adventure and a joy. She's the most honest person I know. And right at this moment, she's reading the excerpts from my memoir that deal with the theatre. She'll let me know exactly what she thinks.

I will not write about the election. I will not write about the election. I will not write about hijabs, which are highjacking this election in a terrifying way.

Let's write about something else: the essay by Carrie Mac that won the CBC Non-fiction Literary Competition. It's good - immediate, visceral. Takes one's mind off the election.
http://www.cbc.ca/books/2015/09/2015-cbc-creative-nonfiction-prize-winner-announced.html?cid=Canada+Writes+-+Sept29+Newsletter

Supermoon, superdad

It was too cloudy to see the vast romantic orange supermoon last night, but there are fantastic pictures online. Today is gloomy and wet. Teaching tonight, so a quiet day at home. Some pictures for your delight:
This is Paul McCartney with his daughter Stella. No, she's not a nervous young teen, she's one of the world's most successful and visible fashion designers, but here, she's a girl being held by her dad. Who among us has not dreamed of being cherished like this by our own fathers? Say what you like about Macca, but he has been a wonderful dad to his own kids, including his stepdaughter Heather who considers him her legal father, and to John's son Julian, and to all the world's children who have grown up bathed in music.

Here's my own (grand)parental pride:
Benjamin Bunny, yesterday. Just over eight weeks old and feelin' perky. Bald and perky.

I leave you with these, my friends. Back to work, and then time for a delicious nap. Life is tough.