Sorry, you must be a member of this group to do that.
Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 197
September 6, 2015
Ottawa overload
Home, exhausted and enriched. I've been in Ottawa for a major dose of family.
I only have two first cousins, the daughters of my mother's older sister, who both live in Washington D.C. and whom I don't know well. Barbara, the elder, wrote to tell me she'd like to come in to visit our aunt Do in Ottawa whom she didn't know at all, would I meet her there? We chose the first week of September, which turned out to be the exact time my ex-husband would also be flying in from Washington for a family wedding. Anna and her boys wanted to come too. Sam was working.
Tuesday Barbara and I both flew in and met at the airport, rented a car and drove straight to Do's. She is phenomenal - feisty and independent, coming into her own at 95. Barbara's parents, both British, turned their backs on their roots after emigrating in 1948, so Barbara knew very little about their U.K. past and sat listening for hours to stories she'd never heard, piecing together the family puzzle. She wanted to stay at the Chateau Laurier, so adjoining rooms at the Chateau it was, a pleasure to be right downtown instead of near Do in Britannia. We wandered around the market; I took her, with great pride, to the stunning National Gallery and introduced her to the Group of Seven and Emily Carr. But mostly, we sat and talked to Do, which included taking her to a luxurious tea at the Chateau. The American Open was on - Do's life revolves around tennis, so we watched with her while she explained the game to Barbara. (Explaining the incomprehensible scoring to someone who doesn't know the game is difficult.)
On Thursday my cousin and I drove to the airport again to meet Anna, Eli and Ben; we had lunch together, then drove Barbara, who is also a recent grandmother, back to the airport to fly home, and the rest of us went to the airbnb near Do's. It's a basement suite in a fantastic location right on Britannia Park with the beach two minutes away. Two days of running and splashing, and nursing and crying, and eating and eating and eating. And visiting Do, who was not fazed by the invasion of a very energetic 3-year old and a newborn. We had two great dinners out, a family ranging in age from 7 weeks to 95 1/2. What a blessing.
Friday, a visit with Edgar my ex, who is a terrific grandfather, patiently playing catch with one boy and holding the other. We took him to visit Do, who had seen him only once since the divorce 34 years ago. Ed's mother, once a powerhouse, has Alzheimer's; Do exclaimed in sorrow, but she's so young - only 88!
By Saturday, however, this Glamma was bushed after four days of organizing everything - transportation, accommodation, meals, visits, plus endless wrangling with Eli. He is a powerhouse too, in his own small, noisy, rebellious way - still acting up, mischievous and rambunctious, driving his mother crazy. Thank God for my computer, Netflix, and the "chickmunks movie," which kept him quiet for nearly an hour. The baby is fussy with a cry that goes right through to my nervous system, like a dentist's drill. However, my daughter is, as Barbara said, "Mother Earth." She pointed out that both our mothers were nervous neurotics, full of quivering anxiety. It looks like Anna, calm, patient, unflappable, has put that gene to rest forever.
At the airport, a tiny glitch - the plane was late getting in, and once we were all finally on board, there was a mechanical problem, we had to get off, get our bags, wait for another plane. Luckily, there was a play area in the airport where I watched Eli jump from a plastic cloud for an hour. We left 3 hours late. The televisions at the airport were showing unbearable footage of the migrant crisis in Europe. We had nothing to complain about.
Baby at the beach
Do meets the newest member of the family
I always fall in love with the huge old trees at Britannia Park
As beautiful as it gets
The roundheads
The park is a lifesaver in the heat, or, in fact, at any time
We all play "admire the baby."
The most important part of the visit: after Barbara told Do that her father, also 95, whom Do knew well in Britain, is in a Lutheran assisted living place, I remembered that Do had once considered the not-for-profit Unitarian seniors' residence nearby, and asked if she'd be interested to visit. She was, and we went. It's shabby, no question, not like the chic, upscale place my mother lived in the last year of her life, but it's far friendlier, open and warm. The rooms are of course minuscule, but there are lots of communal areas with activities, and even a big old friendly dog - a vital draw for animal-loving Dorothy - and raised flowerbeds where the residents can garden. After an impromptu tour, when Do was asked if she wanted to be on the waiting list, to my amazement she said yes.
It would be a wonderful move for her, not far from her Scrabble friends, safe with nursing staff always nearby, and fed. I'm sure she'd be happy there. My aunt spent most of her life even more tense and anxious than her sisters, and in these last years of her life, she is finding friendship and even joy. I am grateful for her time with us, for ours with her.
I only have two first cousins, the daughters of my mother's older sister, who both live in Washington D.C. and whom I don't know well. Barbara, the elder, wrote to tell me she'd like to come in to visit our aunt Do in Ottawa whom she didn't know at all, would I meet her there? We chose the first week of September, which turned out to be the exact time my ex-husband would also be flying in from Washington for a family wedding. Anna and her boys wanted to come too. Sam was working.
Tuesday Barbara and I both flew in and met at the airport, rented a car and drove straight to Do's. She is phenomenal - feisty and independent, coming into her own at 95. Barbara's parents, both British, turned their backs on their roots after emigrating in 1948, so Barbara knew very little about their U.K. past and sat listening for hours to stories she'd never heard, piecing together the family puzzle. She wanted to stay at the Chateau Laurier, so adjoining rooms at the Chateau it was, a pleasure to be right downtown instead of near Do in Britannia. We wandered around the market; I took her, with great pride, to the stunning National Gallery and introduced her to the Group of Seven and Emily Carr. But mostly, we sat and talked to Do, which included taking her to a luxurious tea at the Chateau. The American Open was on - Do's life revolves around tennis, so we watched with her while she explained the game to Barbara. (Explaining the incomprehensible scoring to someone who doesn't know the game is difficult.)
On Thursday my cousin and I drove to the airport again to meet Anna, Eli and Ben; we had lunch together, then drove Barbara, who is also a recent grandmother, back to the airport to fly home, and the rest of us went to the airbnb near Do's. It's a basement suite in a fantastic location right on Britannia Park with the beach two minutes away. Two days of running and splashing, and nursing and crying, and eating and eating and eating. And visiting Do, who was not fazed by the invasion of a very energetic 3-year old and a newborn. We had two great dinners out, a family ranging in age from 7 weeks to 95 1/2. What a blessing.
Friday, a visit with Edgar my ex, who is a terrific grandfather, patiently playing catch with one boy and holding the other. We took him to visit Do, who had seen him only once since the divorce 34 years ago. Ed's mother, once a powerhouse, has Alzheimer's; Do exclaimed in sorrow, but she's so young - only 88!
By Saturday, however, this Glamma was bushed after four days of organizing everything - transportation, accommodation, meals, visits, plus endless wrangling with Eli. He is a powerhouse too, in his own small, noisy, rebellious way - still acting up, mischievous and rambunctious, driving his mother crazy. Thank God for my computer, Netflix, and the "chickmunks movie," which kept him quiet for nearly an hour. The baby is fussy with a cry that goes right through to my nervous system, like a dentist's drill. However, my daughter is, as Barbara said, "Mother Earth." She pointed out that both our mothers were nervous neurotics, full of quivering anxiety. It looks like Anna, calm, patient, unflappable, has put that gene to rest forever.
At the airport, a tiny glitch - the plane was late getting in, and once we were all finally on board, there was a mechanical problem, we had to get off, get our bags, wait for another plane. Luckily, there was a play area in the airport where I watched Eli jump from a plastic cloud for an hour. We left 3 hours late. The televisions at the airport were showing unbearable footage of the migrant crisis in Europe. We had nothing to complain about.
Baby at the beach
Do meets the newest member of the family
I always fall in love with the huge old trees at Britannia Park
As beautiful as it gets
The roundheads
The park is a lifesaver in the heat, or, in fact, at any time
We all play "admire the baby."The most important part of the visit: after Barbara told Do that her father, also 95, whom Do knew well in Britain, is in a Lutheran assisted living place, I remembered that Do had once considered the not-for-profit Unitarian seniors' residence nearby, and asked if she'd be interested to visit. She was, and we went. It's shabby, no question, not like the chic, upscale place my mother lived in the last year of her life, but it's far friendlier, open and warm. The rooms are of course minuscule, but there are lots of communal areas with activities, and even a big old friendly dog - a vital draw for animal-loving Dorothy - and raised flowerbeds where the residents can garden. After an impromptu tour, when Do was asked if she wanted to be on the waiting list, to my amazement she said yes.
It would be a wonderful move for her, not far from her Scrabble friends, safe with nursing staff always nearby, and fed. I'm sure she'd be happy there. My aunt spent most of her life even more tense and anxious than her sisters, and in these last years of her life, she is finding friendship and even joy. I am grateful for her time with us, for ours with her.
September 3, 2015
Where I am
Explanation to come. Family! I'm wearing my "Oct. 19, 2015 - Stephen Harper's Last Day" button to tea.
August 31, 2015
the McCartney tulip
To mark Paul’s trip to Amsterdam and to honour his “positive contribution to the Netherlands and the world”, the flower growers association Remarkable Tulips is launching an official Paul McCartney tulip - a completely new form of the flower. It is red - a reference to the colour of Liverpool FC – and white, which is said to symbolise “infinite possibilities” (Paul also points out that it stands for peace). He helps to christen the new breed just minutes before taking to the stage at the Ziggo Dome on the first of two nights in Amsterdam. Pouring champagne over the new flower, he declares: “Well, this doesn’t happen every day.”As Paul leaves the little ceremony to walk to the stage, he asks that all the crew get a tulip each. 
“Paul McCartney electrified the Stade de France. He was irresistible as he took us through his treasures.” Le Parisien, Paris“An amazing show! Legendary songs, high emotions and an over-excited audience were proof McCartney was in his best form ever.” L’Express"McCartney and his four fellow musicians played brilliantly. As he constantly shifted around between his iconic Höfner bass, electric and acoustic guitars and keys, there could be no doubt about his great musical talent and his legendary status." Berlingske Tidende, Denmark"I do not think in the history of Roskilde I’ve seen so many good songs together performed in one set. It was overwhelming to stand in the middle of the audience and be part of such a communal moment."Paul McCartney with his insanely tight band gave a historic end to a great concert and festival." Politiken
“Paul McCartney electrified the Stade de France. He was irresistible as he took us through his treasures.” Le Parisien, Paris“An amazing show! Legendary songs, high emotions and an over-excited audience were proof McCartney was in his best form ever.” L’Express"McCartney and his four fellow musicians played brilliantly. As he constantly shifted around between his iconic Höfner bass, electric and acoustic guitars and keys, there could be no doubt about his great musical talent and his legendary status." Berlingske Tidende, Denmark"I do not think in the history of Roskilde I’ve seen so many good songs together performed in one set. It was overwhelming to stand in the middle of the audience and be part of such a communal moment."Paul McCartney with his insanely tight band gave a historic end to a great concert and festival." Politikengifts
Life often hands out gifts, and I received a few today. I was forwarded an article in a scholarly journal; a few notable Canadians were asked to write about a university professor who inspired them and changed their life. Dr. Alex MacKenzie, a notable genetics researcher and doctor, winner of the 2013 Champion of Genetics Award, wrote about my dad.
I first encountered the late J. Gordin Kaplan teaching his third-year molecular biology course at the U of O in 1973. An indifferent student meandering indifferently through the undergraduate curriculum with no particular destination in mind, I came late to his second class (having missed the first) to encounter Dr. Kaplan beautifully outlining Jacob and Monod’s then fairly recent work on the bacterial lactose operon – work that established many of the key principles of gene operation. An elegant man, Dr. Kaplan had the delivery of a Shakespearean actor, albeit one with a distinctly New York accent, a fierce gaze and a wonderful sense of timing. A lover of all things Gallic and frequently bedecked in a cravat and beret, he gave lectures that were performances. I remember him pausing to stare at the floor mid-sentence for emphasis before delivering the intellectual coup de grace concerning a particular aspect of the operon theory, describing how the genes that make up all forms of life are controlled. Through his eloquent mastery, the elegance and simplicity of the then-nascent world of molecular biology shone forth. He had me from negative repressor. I did an honours project with Dr. Kaplan the following year, then shipped off under his guidance to his friend Lou Siminovitch in the U of T medical genetic department, where I completed a doctorate. To this day, I have been, more or less, tilling the same DNA furrow that Dr. Kaplan laid out so beautifully on that September afternoon.
This made me very, very proud - and also laugh, not just the beret and cravat - I never once saw Dad in a cravat and I'd dispute that memory, but the beret was a staple - but because MacKenzie describes the theatrical gene I inherited from him and he from his grandfather the Jewish Shakespeare. One of the things I was most proud of as an actor was my timing. Genes! Bravo, beloved father. Dr. MacKenzie has made a huge difference to the world with his research, and so did you.
Received this from #1 daughter: her older son with his best friend Finn at the Ex, two cool guys in their Jeep. They don't look three, do they? Pre-school Easy Riders.
Wish his great-grandfather could have met Eli, and vice versa.
My woodpecker is still at work. When I wake up, he's pecking away at the dead wood of the ivy, and late in the day, he's still there. Alone, working, intent - inspiring, that little guy. I am working too - over 60,000 words on the new memoir; the peaceful month of August has been a huge gift. Chris wrote to ask what my hopes are for this one, and I wrote back, Incredible success, obviously - publishers fighting for it, bestseller lists, becoming rich and famous and buying houses for both my children.
Or - the same as before, 132 discerning readers, most of them my friends and family. I will be sad and disappointed if it doesn't fly out of the nest. And then I'll start to write the next.
As perhaps the last of today's gifts - which included a visit with excellent #1 son, a lot of dark chocolate and rosé, and the smell of gardenia and jasmine - I have become a follower, on Twitter, of the Dalai Lama. How amazing is that? The Dalai Lama has a Twitter feed! What a world.
It's a rough life.
PS And one mixed blessing gift - someone returned my book, Finding the Jewish Shakespeare, to the Little Free Library, obviously untouched, unopened. Well, thank you for giving it back. I didn't leave it there, though. It's now stacked up with all the others - the many others - waiting for eager readers. One day.
I first encountered the late J. Gordin Kaplan teaching his third-year molecular biology course at the U of O in 1973. An indifferent student meandering indifferently through the undergraduate curriculum with no particular destination in mind, I came late to his second class (having missed the first) to encounter Dr. Kaplan beautifully outlining Jacob and Monod’s then fairly recent work on the bacterial lactose operon – work that established many of the key principles of gene operation. An elegant man, Dr. Kaplan had the delivery of a Shakespearean actor, albeit one with a distinctly New York accent, a fierce gaze and a wonderful sense of timing. A lover of all things Gallic and frequently bedecked in a cravat and beret, he gave lectures that were performances. I remember him pausing to stare at the floor mid-sentence for emphasis before delivering the intellectual coup de grace concerning a particular aspect of the operon theory, describing how the genes that make up all forms of life are controlled. Through his eloquent mastery, the elegance and simplicity of the then-nascent world of molecular biology shone forth. He had me from negative repressor. I did an honours project with Dr. Kaplan the following year, then shipped off under his guidance to his friend Lou Siminovitch in the U of T medical genetic department, where I completed a doctorate. To this day, I have been, more or less, tilling the same DNA furrow that Dr. Kaplan laid out so beautifully on that September afternoon.
This made me very, very proud - and also laugh, not just the beret and cravat - I never once saw Dad in a cravat and I'd dispute that memory, but the beret was a staple - but because MacKenzie describes the theatrical gene I inherited from him and he from his grandfather the Jewish Shakespeare. One of the things I was most proud of as an actor was my timing. Genes! Bravo, beloved father. Dr. MacKenzie has made a huge difference to the world with his research, and so did you.
Received this from #1 daughter: her older son with his best friend Finn at the Ex, two cool guys in their Jeep. They don't look three, do they? Pre-school Easy Riders.
Wish his great-grandfather could have met Eli, and vice versa. My woodpecker is still at work. When I wake up, he's pecking away at the dead wood of the ivy, and late in the day, he's still there. Alone, working, intent - inspiring, that little guy. I am working too - over 60,000 words on the new memoir; the peaceful month of August has been a huge gift. Chris wrote to ask what my hopes are for this one, and I wrote back, Incredible success, obviously - publishers fighting for it, bestseller lists, becoming rich and famous and buying houses for both my children.
Or - the same as before, 132 discerning readers, most of them my friends and family. I will be sad and disappointed if it doesn't fly out of the nest. And then I'll start to write the next.
As perhaps the last of today's gifts - which included a visit with excellent #1 son, a lot of dark chocolate and rosé, and the smell of gardenia and jasmine - I have become a follower, on Twitter, of the Dalai Lama. How amazing is that? The Dalai Lama has a Twitter feed! What a world.
It's a rough life.PS And one mixed blessing gift - someone returned my book, Finding the Jewish Shakespeare, to the Little Free Library, obviously untouched, unopened. Well, thank you for giving it back. I didn't leave it there, though. It's now stacked up with all the others - the many others - waiting for eager readers. One day.
August 30, 2015
Oliver Sacks, RIP
My friend Chris just sent this. What a loss to the world of this brilliant, compassionate doctor, writer and man.
Famed British neurologist and author Oliver Sacks died on Sunday at the age of 82, his assistant told The New York Times. The cause of death was cancer. In February, Sacks wrote an op-ed revealing that he was in the late stages of terminal cancer, after earlier melanoma in his eye spread to his liver. "It is up to me now to choose how to live out the months that remain to me," he wrote. "I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers."His last book, a memoir, was published in April. On The Move details Sack's childhood, his move to the United States, his sexuality, his professional achievements and his challenges. "In this book he studies himself as he has studied others: compassionately, unblinkingly, intelligently, acceptingly and honestly," wrote Colin McGinn at The Wall Street Journal. "There will not be another like him."
Famed British neurologist and author Oliver Sacks died on Sunday at the age of 82, his assistant told The New York Times. The cause of death was cancer. In February, Sacks wrote an op-ed revealing that he was in the late stages of terminal cancer, after earlier melanoma in his eye spread to his liver. "It is up to me now to choose how to live out the months that remain to me," he wrote. "I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers."His last book, a memoir, was published in April. On The Move details Sack's childhood, his move to the United States, his sexuality, his professional achievements and his challenges. "In this book he studies himself as he has studied others: compassionately, unblinkingly, intelligently, acceptingly and honestly," wrote Colin McGinn at The Wall Street Journal. "There will not be another like him."
August 29, 2015
The Wolfpack
Being a mother never ends. Hard to believe, but yesterday, both my children lost their phones simultaneously, so there's been no way to get through to either of them, and Sam was very sick. Anna let me know through Facebook IM that her phone was found and she's going to pick it up today. I've just received a call telling me that Sam's also has been found and where it is, but I have no way to let him know because he's at home sick with no phone and his sister doesn't have one either.
Okay Mama, they're grown ups. Back off.
Sigh.
Met Ken yesterday for a fabulous burger with sweet potato fries at Pauper's Pub - I rarely eat like that but God, a burger once in a while is good! Don't listen, Paul - and then across the street to Hot Docs to see "The Wolfpack," the story of six brothers (and their handicapped sister) who are kept prisoner in a small Lower East Side apartment throughout their childhood by their paranoid father. They find freedom by watching countless movies, typing out the scripts for themselves and enacting them, with costumes and lines, in meticulous detail. A tribute to the saving power of fantasy in a child's life, which was partially the point of my memoir.
http://variety.com/2015/film/news/the-wolfpack-documentary-crystal-moselle-1201518963/
They are remarkable, haunting young men, sensitive, candid, beautiful with their waist-length black hair. Once the eldest takes his first rebellious steps outside the apartment at the age of 15 (terrified of being seen, he wears a homemade mask, which leads him to be arrested), followed eventually by the others, it's profoundly moving to watch this band of six tall, slender, exotic brothers begin to move into the world, discovering beaches and water and trees - and even going to their first real movie theatre.
This was taken after some of them cut their hair. The thought of all that hair and all that testosterone trapped in a small apartment - it's incredible they're still sane, particularly their mother.
Of course, the filming of the documentary itself was part of their liberation, and I wish the filmmaker had explored that fact with more honesty. The story I've read is that she saw them on the street, was fascinated, made friends and was invited to their home and realized here was a movie. It's amazing they all let her so completely into their lives - even their sweet, befuddled mother and their crazy, sad dad.
It's a very good documentary, and yes, uplifting. Highly recommended.
Now back to worrying about my own little wolfpack across town.
Okay Mama, they're grown ups. Back off.
Sigh.
Met Ken yesterday for a fabulous burger with sweet potato fries at Pauper's Pub - I rarely eat like that but God, a burger once in a while is good! Don't listen, Paul - and then across the street to Hot Docs to see "The Wolfpack," the story of six brothers (and their handicapped sister) who are kept prisoner in a small Lower East Side apartment throughout their childhood by their paranoid father. They find freedom by watching countless movies, typing out the scripts for themselves and enacting them, with costumes and lines, in meticulous detail. A tribute to the saving power of fantasy in a child's life, which was partially the point of my memoir.
http://variety.com/2015/film/news/the-wolfpack-documentary-crystal-moselle-1201518963/
They are remarkable, haunting young men, sensitive, candid, beautiful with their waist-length black hair. Once the eldest takes his first rebellious steps outside the apartment at the age of 15 (terrified of being seen, he wears a homemade mask, which leads him to be arrested), followed eventually by the others, it's profoundly moving to watch this band of six tall, slender, exotic brothers begin to move into the world, discovering beaches and water and trees - and even going to their first real movie theatre.
This was taken after some of them cut their hair. The thought of all that hair and all that testosterone trapped in a small apartment - it's incredible they're still sane, particularly their mother.Of course, the filming of the documentary itself was part of their liberation, and I wish the filmmaker had explored that fact with more honesty. The story I've read is that she saw them on the street, was fascinated, made friends and was invited to their home and realized here was a movie. It's amazing they all let her so completely into their lives - even their sweet, befuddled mother and their crazy, sad dad.
It's a very good documentary, and yes, uplifting. Highly recommended.
Now back to worrying about my own little wolfpack across town.
August 28, 2015
Macca then and now
There will be a certain amount of Macca madness in the days leading up to October 17 ...
Here's a video of the young man and the older man and his song. And a beautiful song it is too.
http://beatles.littlethings.com/paul-mccartney-beatles-yesterday-in-1965-2011/?utm_source=LTas&utm_campaign=performances&utm_medium=Email via LittleThings
Incidentally, it says he wrote it with John Lennon, but as we all know, he wrote it and recorded it completely on his own except for George Martin, thank you very much, and Lennon was quite put out by that too.
Here's a video of the young man and the older man and his song. And a beautiful song it is too.
http://beatles.littlethings.com/paul-mccartney-beatles-yesterday-in-1965-2011/?utm_source=LTas&utm_campaign=performances&utm_medium=Email via LittleThings
Incidentally, it says he wrote it with John Lennon, but as we all know, he wrote it and recorded it completely on his own except for George Martin, thank you very much, and Lennon was quite put out by that too.
love those genes
First, for those biting your nails for me out there - the charge for the Macca ticket has appeared on my Visa bill! Hooray! I get to pay lots of money to see my hero. Not sure why it took 3 days to process, leaving me wondering if I'd stumbled on a fake site or something. But no, the ticket that I've already printed and hidden in a safe place is authentic. I have paid for it. And how.
Summer is on the wane; I need socks. It's still beautiful, there are still roses and tomatoes and beans and two new flowers on the gardenia. But the change has begun. September is on its way.
This morning I received an email from a relative I've only met once. She lives in Illinois but some years ago was in Florida visiting her parents at the same time I was visiting my mother, so we met. Our grandfathers were brothers, hers Harry and mine Mike. She sent this family picture taken in New York in about 1915, of our great-grandparents Yetta and Jacob with their seven children - at the back, Ann, Mike, Sol, Belle, Bill, and in front Harry and little Leo, both seated - and Harry's wife behind him and daughter on his lap. My grandfather Mike is between Harry and their mother. In his face, I see my brother, named for him, but also my own children and of course my dad. The incredible power of genetics. I correspond with Belle's daughter Lola, now 92 in NYC, and granddaughter Patti, with Bill's sons Peter and David, with Leo's Ted and Debbie, and now with Harry's daughter Dottie. But they are all far away in the U.S. We are and have always been the only branch of the family in Canada - thanks to Joseph McCarthy, who forced my dad out of the country. Many thanks to him.
Yetta and Jacob emigrated in the 1880's from a shtetl near Minsk. He was a tailor and she was a battle axe. A few years after this picture, Mike would meet Nettie Gordin in the Pokonos, and 7 1/2 months after their wedding in 1922, my father would appear. Premature! my grandmother always said of the big healthy baby boy. Oh family. What would we have to write about if it weren't for family?
Summer is on the wane; I need socks. It's still beautiful, there are still roses and tomatoes and beans and two new flowers on the gardenia. But the change has begun. September is on its way.
This morning I received an email from a relative I've only met once. She lives in Illinois but some years ago was in Florida visiting her parents at the same time I was visiting my mother, so we met. Our grandfathers were brothers, hers Harry and mine Mike. She sent this family picture taken in New York in about 1915, of our great-grandparents Yetta and Jacob with their seven children - at the back, Ann, Mike, Sol, Belle, Bill, and in front Harry and little Leo, both seated - and Harry's wife behind him and daughter on his lap. My grandfather Mike is between Harry and their mother. In his face, I see my brother, named for him, but also my own children and of course my dad. The incredible power of genetics. I correspond with Belle's daughter Lola, now 92 in NYC, and granddaughter Patti, with Bill's sons Peter and David, with Leo's Ted and Debbie, and now with Harry's daughter Dottie. But they are all far away in the U.S. We are and have always been the only branch of the family in Canada - thanks to Joseph McCarthy, who forced my dad out of the country. Many thanks to him.
Yetta and Jacob emigrated in the 1880's from a shtetl near Minsk. He was a tailor and she was a battle axe. A few years after this picture, Mike would meet Nettie Gordin in the Pokonos, and 7 1/2 months after their wedding in 1922, my father would appear. Premature! my grandmother always said of the big healthy baby boy. Oh family. What would we have to write about if it weren't for family?
August 27, 2015
August 26, 2015
glitches
I am crabby. Petty reasons - I've had a great day. But consumer issues are making me crabby. I just checked my Visa, and the charge for the McCartney ticket is not there. I have actually printed the ticket but the payment has not gone through. This makes my skin prickle. I will call first thing tomorrow. For once, I am anxious, very anxious, to pay.
And - I have been pursuing Cineplex. Anna, Eli and I went to see "Minions" at Cineplex; we tried to buy tickets at the machines, they didn't work, so we lined up and got our tickets from the cashier - $40.48 for the three of us, a hefty fee (this was not Tuesday). When I checked my Visa a few days later, I'd been charged twice. $81 for a senior, an adult and a child to see a film. I made several calls, finally got through to Andrew Johnson (could that be his real name? Maybe he's a robot) who was very polite and said he'd follow through and get in touch. Normally I would not make a fuss about $40.48 - but it seems so unfair to contribute a double portion of my hard-earned cash to Cineplex's vast bottom line.
That was weeks ago. I have emailed Andrew Johnson twice. Nothing.
Okay, first world problems. Here's the pleasure - spent the afternoon with Anna and family. Eli is rangy these days, fierce and demanding. His world has changed and he's testing its limits. But we had sushi for dinner, and his appetite is phenomenal - he ate more than I did, and that's saying something.
And then I walked up Ronces to the Revue for Piers Hemmingsen's event celebrating the 50th anniversary of "Help!" with a showing of a special remastered version. I haven't seen the film for decades, and what fun to sit in a sold out house of Beatle fans. Parts of the film are much as I remembered - all that frantic silly stuff about them being chased gets tired quickly. But the boys themselves are as always fresh, irreverent, natural, terrific. The music is fab gear. And the humour is quite wonderful, full of wit and British satire, things I get much more now as a grown up than I did at 14 in the summer of 1965.
So now with that great music in my head, I will try to relax and go to bed.
If you actually have the ticket, have it printed and put in a very very very safe place, they can't tell you it doesn't exist, can they? So it must just be a glitch that the charge has not gone through. Don't you think?
OUR TRUSTY LEADERS:
And - I have been pursuing Cineplex. Anna, Eli and I went to see "Minions" at Cineplex; we tried to buy tickets at the machines, they didn't work, so we lined up and got our tickets from the cashier - $40.48 for the three of us, a hefty fee (this was not Tuesday). When I checked my Visa a few days later, I'd been charged twice. $81 for a senior, an adult and a child to see a film. I made several calls, finally got through to Andrew Johnson (could that be his real name? Maybe he's a robot) who was very polite and said he'd follow through and get in touch. Normally I would not make a fuss about $40.48 - but it seems so unfair to contribute a double portion of my hard-earned cash to Cineplex's vast bottom line.
That was weeks ago. I have emailed Andrew Johnson twice. Nothing.
Okay, first world problems. Here's the pleasure - spent the afternoon with Anna and family. Eli is rangy these days, fierce and demanding. His world has changed and he's testing its limits. But we had sushi for dinner, and his appetite is phenomenal - he ate more than I did, and that's saying something.
And then I walked up Ronces to the Revue for Piers Hemmingsen's event celebrating the 50th anniversary of "Help!" with a showing of a special remastered version. I haven't seen the film for decades, and what fun to sit in a sold out house of Beatle fans. Parts of the film are much as I remembered - all that frantic silly stuff about them being chased gets tired quickly. But the boys themselves are as always fresh, irreverent, natural, terrific. The music is fab gear. And the humour is quite wonderful, full of wit and British satire, things I get much more now as a grown up than I did at 14 in the summer of 1965.
So now with that great music in my head, I will try to relax and go to bed.
If you actually have the ticket, have it printed and put in a very very very safe place, they can't tell you it doesn't exist, can they? So it must just be a glitch that the charge has not gone through. Don't you think?
OUR TRUSTY LEADERS:
