Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 2

Muskoka joy

I’m at Ruth’s cottage, built on massive Precambrian boulders of Muskoka granite, breathing air scented with pine, listening to the warbling of the loons. Yes, we are also invaded by cockroaches and ants, and there are occasionally dock spiders in the kayaks. The weather switched on Sunday instantly, from hot to cold and back again. But it’s heaven.

Annie and I came up Friday midday and are leaving this rainy afternoon – four days of bliss. We get along so well, the three of us, politically aligned with similar interests. We talk about world affairs, recipes, health, family, books, movies, aging, and of course, a lot about the past. Ruth gave me a book she enjoyed – The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight – and I devoured it. Recommended. A rom-com tale with heart and depth, perfect cottage reading.

We watched two episodes of a fun British series called Ludwig every evening while eating Annie’s chocolate cake. Annie swam far more than I, but I swam twice a day, and before and after the weekend we swam without a suit as there’s hardly anyone on the lake. A. and I kayaked twice. We cooked healthy meals – last night shrimp with rice and baked sweet potatoes, sweet and sour red cabbage salad, and of course the cake. We drank gin and tonic and rosé. We laughed a lot and worked hard at the NYT’s Spelling Bee. A. and I walked twice, forest bathing around Ruth’s island with our socks over our pants because of ticks. We listened to a Lockdown University webinar about memoir with Denis Hirson, to see if I could learn anything new. I didn’t, but Denis said things in an interesting way that I will steal.

Ruth owns much of this island; the owner of the rest has died and his cottage will be eventually be sold, but for now, it’s all ours. On the weekend, there’s noise from the unwelcome jet-skis, wake boats, and speedboats, but during the week it’s remarkably quiet. Up here, it’s hard to believe there’s trouble in the world. We have not shut it out, there’s powerful internet connection so we’re reading the papers and hearing the bad news – that the vile PP has been re-elected, for example, disgusting. Trump and Putin. Horrible.

Ruth and her husband bought this place in 1970 – it had no electricity or plumbing, and through the years, they’ve added and improved. It’s comfortable, warm, and well-stocked with everything we could want except, I joked, a manservant. Ruth, who’s 86, has spent the entire summer here without coming back to the city once; she organizes shifts of guests so she’s never alone. She is the liveliest, most engaged person I know. Extraordinary.

A few years ago, when A. and I came up, I’d forgotten the bag with my shoes, so had only the flimsy sandals I’d worn up. But – miracle – both these women have the same big feet! Size 10 ½! What are the chances? So I could borrow all the shoes I could possibly want. Kindred spirits in every way.

These four days have made my summer. Today, back to reality – the news, house, garden, family – pollution, homeless people, Pierre Poilievre. But still, this morning, although it’s grey and chilly and will rain, there are two loons floating nearby, Ruth just made egg-in-a-basket for breakfast, we have laughed a hundred times, we’ve together got 34 words so far in Spelling Bee and are about to try it again. There’s a Z.

Blessings.

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Women in Black, “triage your outrage”

Crazy busy. Spent five hours yesterday editing a manuscript with more to go on this one and another big one in the wings. Tonight an hour-long Word on the Street Zoom webinar, a hundred people registered which means 25 will actually appear. A houseguest is here all this week. My son is in the middle of another nightmare: a bedbug infestation, this on top of the cockroaches he already battles, and in the middle of the worst heatwave of the summer, so moral support is needed — life in Parkdale is not fun and games. He has the worst luck!

And Friday Annie and I are driving to Ruth’s cottage in Muskoka for four heavenly days, which means house-sitters, cat-sitters, and waterers to arrange. Maybe Sam will stay here and escape for a bit.

Happy summer to you too.

Friday afternoon Annie and I stood at Bloor and Yonge with the Women in Black; Michele Landsberg has organized the Toronto chapter of women who dress in black and attend a silent vigil to protest the genocide in Gaza. There were at least 100 women, although as someone laughed, asking 100 women to be silent is a non-starter. There was much talk. But a great seriousness of purpose.

Started watching Bill Maher as usual on Friday night and had to turn him off almost immediately; he had on the insufferable Dr. Phil. Maher as I’ve said before is insufferable himself about Israel and medical science, but he does have on really interesting people and often makes great sense himself. Last week his rant was about the insanity we are having to witness, day after day, from the Trumpers, and how to “triage your outrage.” Pick your battles, because if you react to it all, you’ll go mad. Good advice.

On Saturday, to the Council Fire powwow at Regent Park, where my daughter was working with her colleagues. It’s wonderful to see the drumming, jingle dresses, and dancing, especially small children in full regalia.

And then to Toronto Lynn’s, for a swim in her heavenly lagoon and dinner with her and Nick, our summer ritual.

Sunday I went to see Pride and Prejudice (sort of) which has had rave reviews and won awards. It sounded interesting and fun – the story of P and P told by the female servants in the Bennett household. It’s the British production and I wanted to see what was winning prizes in London. Well, call me a stick-in-the-mud; I left at intermission. There were some genuinely funny things — Mr. Bennett was played by a wingback chair and a newspaper — and lively and talented performers, but mostly it was frantic and fraught and just too much was not clever or pointed, just silly. Mostly, I knew I’d dislike it when from the start, Elizabeth was played as a flighty, giggly teenager. You do not mess with Elizabeth Bennett.

Had to go to Rogers yesterday, long story, which means I do not have a television for the next few days. No Law and Order! Will survive. Loved this sign in the shop, O Canada.

Terrifying news from Newfoundland, raging wildfires on the Avalon Peninsula not far from where I stayed with Kathy. Fingers crossed it does not spread.

And finally, Holly sent some pictures from my birthday, including one of me dishing out the best cake ever, dark chocolate mousse. I dislike being photographed so there are few pix of me, but still, I’m grateful occasionally people snap a tolerable one.

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I will try to avoid the newspapers during our idyll with Ruthie, although we are all news junkies. I will suggest we triage our outrage and put it away for a bit. Eat peaches and corn and swim, relishing the heat, which will soon vanish.

As will we.

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Victoria Mboko, Canadian champion

A few weeks ago, I saw a New Yorker cartoon I loved, which unfortunately I cannot under pain of arrest share with you. A mother sits with her grown daughter and says, “Now that you’re older, it’s time you started carrying little bags of nuts around in your purse.” LOL.

I sent it to my kids and wrote, “I’m turning into my mother!” Because my mother, who was probably hypoglycemic, was never without a snack in her purse, and now neither am I.

Well, tonight again, I turned into my mother, because I watched much of the National Bank tennis final in Montreal and shed a few tears at the end, just as Mum, a huge tennis fan, would have. (Roger Federer forever, Mum.) An incredible match won, more or less out of the blue, by the phenomenal 18-year-old Canadian Victoria Mboko. What a story, her precipitous rise and win on home turf. The crowd went mad. Brava to a magnificent athlete, whose parents are from the Congo.

Today, my older grandson was voted MVP by his baseball team. And his speedy younger brother is not far behind. I will turn into a sports fan yet.

I can hardly believe it’s the second week of August already, as this year zips by. We held my birthday dinner Monday — hors d’oeuvres on the deck, moving to the back forty for salmon and five salads, followed by dark chocolate mousse cake with Moët et Chandon champagne given me on their last visit by Lynn and Denis. Nine of us — family, including my almost daughter Holly, and dear friends Annie and Toronto Lynn and her Nick. Lovely. Sam helped set up, Anna made a huge sweet potato salad, Holly cleaned it all up. And now I really am seventy-five. Believe it or not.

Me with Toronto Lynn, friend since 1969 – and a proud 13-year-old creeping up on his uncle Sam, who’s six foot eight! Eli’s voice is changing, and there are a few tiny pimples on his forehead. He’s in the maelstrom, all right.

Tuesday I went to see a former student, who at 97 is at last getting out the stories she wrote in my class, plus others, to form a memoir. She lives alone in an elegant apartment and has a fabulous story to tell. Inspiring. Stay tuned.

All this to say, my work, Victoria Mboko, and the love given me recently could almost let me forget the times we are living in. But not quite. We are living in a time of evil white men who somehow, inexplicably, are in power and determined to ruin our planet: Trump, Vance, Putin, Netanyahu, Orban, and their ilk. Each of them evil evil evil to an unimaginable degree. Yes, people who lived through Hitler have seen this before to an even greater degree. But they’re the same strain of human being — the actual evil men in power, and the craven enabling lickspittles, including some women, who bow and scrape and fling every last shred of human decency to the wind.

However. Victoria Mboko. A glorious win for Canada, and for an immigrant family.

In the Blowing Own Horn department, received this lovely email: “I just finished MidLife Solo. I did so with sadness because, like a kid hearing a gripping bedtime story, I wanted more. It is such an intimate and honest work that had me engaged with the roller coaster of your life. Most friends have not shared with me as much as you have about the arc of your journey.

I feel now I know you well. Of course, that’s not true but it speaks to the power of your memoir. Many thanks for this gift.”

Thank you, dear reader!

And this, from someone for whom I’ve been editing a novel: “Again your guidance was really helpful. I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated it. Not only has what you’ve noted been astute, you’re the only person whose encouragement I’ve trusted has been genuine. I don’t think I have to tell you how lonely an enterprise this has been.”

Glad to help another struggling writer. Yes, this is a lonely enterprise.

Today, I played the piano for a bit, for the first time in many months. The fingers are stiff, but to my surprise, I remembered and struggled through some pieces. I must not neglect this important pleasure again. Arthritis is lurking; this pleasure may be denied me one day. But not yet.

Harking back to evil white men, tomorrow I’m going to join Women in Black, hundreds of women holding a silent vigil at the corner of Bloor and Yonge at 3 to protest Israel’s actions in Gaza.

Victoria Mboko. A magnificent young black woman. Let’s think about her instead.

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Being seventy-five

Seventy-five today. Hard to believe. Inside I’m thirty-two and feeling like the richest and luckiest woman in the world. So far, touch wood. Touch a great deal of wood.

A quiet day, much of it blessedly alone. Chores. Greetings coming in on FB, some from people I’ve never met. A card from my housemate in my first apartment at eighteen, in 1968. Classmates spoiled me at the Y, including Carole who gave me a gift certificate to the LCBO. “Why would you associate ME with the LCBO?” I asked, astonished. LOL. I tried to run like the wind in class. Was not the wind, more like an intermittent breeze, but I tried.

Anna popped by with a lovely mauve bouquet and some food from her work. Then Sam arrived with a painting he’d made – he has taken up painting and is doing really interesting work – and groceries, and made me dinner: trout, smashed potatoes, stuffed peppers, mushrooms. The doorbell rang; it was a magnificent bouquet from my ex-husband with a note: “Dear Beth, you’ve only just begun.” If only. But thank you.

So it was a cup runneth over kind of day. Right now, dusk, the cardinal chip chip chipping, a holiday weekend but the city won’t be quiet and empty because it’s Caribana. I’m thinking of going to the parade for the first time tomorrow. The weather today and this weekend: perfect.

It feels like maybe this, today, is the pinnacle, the zenith of my life. Surely things can’t get better. Maybe it’s all downhill from here. Because right now, I am beyond blessed.

RIGHT NOW: I am healthy. My children are healthy. My grandchildren are healthy. My best friends are too — well, three are not so healthy, but they’re okay. Many other friends and neighbours. Far-flung family in the States, Lesley and Duncan in France. There. Alive. Going strong.

The garden: cucumbers, rose of Sharon, William Morris rose, geraniums, lilac, viburnum, dogwood, holly, tiny redbud tree, tomatoes, echinacea, wisteria, black-eyed Susans, clematis, hydrangea, bleeding heart, phlox, basil, rosemary, dill, parsley, chives, oleander, jasmine, thyme, oregano, fuchsia, astilbe, mint, milkweed, buddleia, climbing roses, golden glow, honeysuckle, anemone, spirea, day lilies, Mexican sunflower, climbing hydrangea, raspberries, rhubarb, potatoes. Trees and bushes and endless ivy. (And weeds and pests, and slugs and squirrels and raccoons, attacking it all.)

My Y family. Teaching – home class, U of T, online webinars. Editing and coaching. Talks, online and in person. House running; tenants, stable and terrific. Tiggy, for better or worse. (While I was away, she pooed twice in my office. Telling me what she thinks of my work.)

Five books, still getting noticed periodically. Rarely, but still. The birds.

My helpers for tech and the garden. The handyman.

This blog, website, Substack, social media: communicating

Rosé

To work on:

The new book, get going for God’s sake. Piano – abandoned for months, must start again. More walking, less sitting, less scrolling, less watching Law and Order. Sorting and culling in the house. CULLING! All this @#$@# stuff!

I watched my beloved Wayson, when he turned seventy-five, give up. He stopped writing, stopped exercising. He still was social and interested in everything, but he didn’t want to make an effort any more. I wondered if someone in his family had died or had some catastrophe at 75, and he was following suit. He’d just turned 79 when he died.

I prefer to think of Merrijoy and Sheila, 96, full of energy and ambition, both writing memoirs with some help from me. Ron, aged 92, writing his great pleasure, with a terrific Substack. Ruth, 86, always a jam-packed calendar of cultural activities and travel that puts me to shame. Macca, 83, unstoppable. My role models for aging.

But one other thing: yesterday it occurred to me to ask ChatGPT for financial advice. I told it my situation, that I own a house but will need money before I sell or instead of selling, what should I do? The answer was instantaneous: apply for a Home Equity Line of Credit, a HELOC. It explained what it is and what it would mean — you’re not locked in as with a second mortgage or a reverse mortgage, and the interest is relatively low. A huge weight lifted. If I need money, there’s a way I can access it. Thank you, ChatGPT, which also sent me a detailed breakdown in a PDF.

I can feel financial advisors trembling. Jeez. The genie is out of the bottle. What will it mean, this terrifying and brilliant new technology? What world will my grandsons grow up in? It’s not a great place, right now. Peace and love, as Ringo always says. Peace and love. They’re missing in so many places, but they are here right now.

Thank you for being there, dear readers — for coming along for this long strange trip. Only one more word to say: Onward. To seventy-six. Touch wood.

PS Kathy sent a few photos from Newfoundland. That’s what nearly 75 looks like. A toast.

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Bye Newfoundland, hello heat, and All Fours by Miranda July

Tuesday July 29

Coming in from Pearson airport – endless towering high-rises, a million cars, people living under the Gardiner Expressway, a vulnerable woman tottering home in what looked like her underwear. The city felt brutal, relentless. And very very hot. The plane back was freezing; I put on all my layers, and then peeled them off immediately leaving the terminal.

It’s 10 p.m. and I’m home. Alanna did a great job; the cat is alive. I’ll see the garden tomorrow. My ears are still plugged, crackling and painful.

On Sunday, Kath and I did a great hike, a trail set up on crown land by a local man called Willy, who took it upon himself to carve out a long path along the cliffs and maintain it. Vistas for days. I took it easy as was still not feeling well. Kathy is a nurse, scrupulous about me touching nothing, washing my hands, wearing a mask, keeping far away from everyone.

Sunday night, she asked Alexa, her constant companion and servant, to put on folk music from the seventies and sixties; we sang along, eventually moved on to Motown, and danced on the deck as the sun set. Wonderful.

Today after putting everything I might conceivably have breathed on or touched into the washing machine, with my sheets already hanging on the line, she drove us to St. John’s. We went up Signal Hill, a military lookout overlooking the city and the harbour where Marconi received the first transatlantic telegraph signal. The wind up there was so violent, it almost knocked us down, I had to grab a handrail not to be pushed over. Then to Quidi Vidi, a pretty fishing village close to town that’s overrun with tourists, where we had lunch – fish and chips for her, delicious lobster roll for me, with, of course, beer. She had two pieces of fish and could only eat one, so I wrapped the other and took it with me. It’ll be lunch today.

And that was my last treat in Newfoundland. Off to the airport, and home. Very grateful to my generous hostess, who knows the province so well and has created a beautiful home there.

There’s an authentic humour that’s delightful, the give and take, openness and honesty. At the same time, as Kathy told me, there’s the highest level of alcoholism and unemployment, surely related conditions, in the country. Nfld is vast, trillions of trees, thousands of coves; most everyone has a deep connection with fishing and the ocean. Kathy taught me an expression: “Good day on clothes,” to which the response is, “Yes, b’ye.” It’s a good day to hang laundry on the line. Many such vivid expressions. I love the accent. But there’s no doubt I’m a city girl. Unapologetically.

Below: so many beautiful old churches and graveyards. Dusk on Kath’s deck. Quidi Vidi. Kath and Finn in the wind on Signal Hill.

Back to lists – a ton to do in the garden, three editing clients, family, my own big birthday coming up. I’ve already had one of my presents – the trip. The next is in November – the Macca concert in Montreal. I am a lucky woman.

Wednesday July 30

Two more treats in the mail: a card from my new family, fourth cousin Lesley and her husband Duncan in France, and my birthday poem from Nick Rice. He writes and sends me a new one every year. You should all have such a friend. It ends “Now as I write/this letter/once again/I hope I see you/more than/ now and then.” Those in the know will twig that’s a reference to the very last Beatle song, Now and Then. Nick knows me well. Since 1975.

Olivia came over yesterday and we spent hours trying to fix my email; one of my addresses no longer receives mail, no idea why. We finally phoned Patrick who’s in Winnipeg and partially solved the problem; Olivia is coming back today to see if we can finish the job. Tech! My cold is fading. So much easier to be sick at home.

A lot of work in the garden, just scratching the surface of what needs to be done – I’m thinking I should not go away in July, when everything is bursting open. I picked two huge cucumbers and many cherry tomatoes, cleaned up the rose of Sharon, staked, raked. Kath thinks I should sell this house and rent, and sometimes I think so too.

Book report: Two books I’d put on hold from the library came in just before I left. I brought with me All Fours, by Miranda July, a bestseller. I’m glad I read it as a zeitgeist book, and was glad when I finished. Yes, it’s brave, excoriatingly honest, with humour and very good writing. It’s also weird and graphic and even, to me anyway, though I will be accused of prudery, disgusting. I do not want to know the minute details of her sex life, incessant masturbation, and frenzied fantasies. There’s such absurd craziness – instead of driving across the country as planned, she stops not far from home and spends $20,000 to completely redesign and equip a shabby motel room. There are two beyond obsessive affairs, and in the background, a very nice husband attempting to cope with an off-the-wall wife. I’m glad she’s devoted to their child, who already, at the age of six, has been declared nonbinary — like many children in California, I’m sure.

What to make of it? She’s delving into the obligatory drudgery and boredom of marriage and motherhood, how to free herself from it, and into menopause, women’s fear of losing sexual allure and desire. All that feels so far away from me now that I feel I’m too old, the wrong demographic for this book. All the frantic obsessing about sex and love – was I like that once? Yes, I guess so, though I’d prefer to believe not.

“I only need my lesbianism held and kept, like a person who buries little bits of money all over the world – it’s never on me, but it’s never far,” she writes, although by the end, she’s a lesbian whose husband, with whom she continues to co-parent, also has a girlfriend.

A favourite passage: “Exercise-wise I’d never done more than buy ten yoga classes and take two of them. I was so weak that sometimes my arms got tired brushing my teeth. I nodded instead of waving – hands are heavy! No one wants to admit it! And heads. Just keeping the whole contraption upright was a lot. I was almost always leaning on something, sharing with burden with a counter or a doorway. There was nothing really wrong with me, exercise just seemed like a lot of investment in a temporary body. Wasn’t it smarter to spend your time making things that could live on after that body died?”

So funny, sharp, and clever. But the book can also be gross and offputtingly quirky. Have you seen Miranda July on the internet, wrapped in a plastic bag and doing strange dances? I celebrate quirk, am glad there are quirky people on the planet. I’m just too placid. It’s not my thing.

FYI, this placid writer is doing a free Zoom workshop about memoir for Word on the Street soon – Tuesday August 12. Good to keep my brain, if not my libido, in gear.

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/1542605387239

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Hopeall, Newfoundland

Friday July 25, 2025

Sitting on Cathy’s deck with the sound of seabirds and a fierce wind to keep me company. The weather is iffy today; yesterday heavenly, tomorrow rain.

Cathy lives at Hopeall, on the water, partway up one side of the Avalon Peninsula. She spent childhood summers very near here, and although her adult life was centred in Ontario, she bought this house twenty-five years ago. She has made it beautiful to within an inch of its life – trees, plants, renovations, a sunroom, a little round barrel of a sauna outside.

Sunset from Cathy’s deck.

Yesterday, a sunny day, we drove up the peninsula. We stopped at New Melbourne on the way to visit the cemetery where some of her relatives are buried, near where her nanny lived – her father’s mother who never accepted being Canadian, was a Newfoundlander forever. We ended at Grate’s Cove at the top of the peninsula, walking along the cliffs with the ocean pounding below. At the end of the trail, we sat looking out to sea, and she said, Look – whales! There were two whales; we watched the sleek black backs, could hear the blows. We followed them for ages as they cruised by. The thrill of a lifetime.

Driving away, we stopped at Cindy’s, who had a clothesline of colourful hooked rugs on display. I bought one for me and one for Cath. Cindy brought us into the cluttered little house to her workshop, passing her husband who was watching TV. “Don’t mind him, he’s part of the furniture,” she said. We went to a general store that sells everything, including a huge selection of heavy, expensive rubber boots, vital footwear here. Also a huge selection of wool and cloth. Winter is long.

Below: the village of Grate’s Cove with Finn, Cathy’s little dog, leading the way; Cindy’s; “In honour of Mabel Driscoll. Here she sat watching the comings and goings of fisherman”; the fishing village of Bay de Verde, pronounced Bay de Verd.

Last night, after dinner, we watched Sense and Sensibility, both of us for the nth time. It is a perfect film, not one single thing wrong with it – acting, script, direction. Perfect.

Today, Friday, we went for a long walk through the nearby tangled woods to Hopeall Falls and the abandoned trout farm, and later to the town of Dildo, made famous by Jimmy Kimmel, who paid for a Hollywood-type sign above the town. It was far too windy to walk around, though. A storm is brewing. We had moose sausage for dinner. Delicious.

Kathy has pointed out what a city girl I am. She has lived in countless places, including for a long time as a public health nurse in the far north, and went with Doctors Without Borders to Africa. I’ve lived in Cabbagetown for nearly forty years, go periodically to Paris, London, and New York, am little acquainted with wilderness. Ah well.

Saturday July 26, 2025

I have a cold. Unbelievable, embarrassing, no idea where that came from, but here it is. Poor Cathy. Now we cannot go and visit her local friends, some of whom have health issues. Luckily – LOL – it’s supposed to rain all day so we’re not going anywhere anyway.

Cathy told me when you’re having cod for dinner, it’s just fish. We’re having fish for dinner, means cod. If you’re having something else, mackerel, then you’re having mackerel. I’m happy to tell you, I’ve had fresh fish every day since landing.

What makes me marvel is – how do things survive the endless brutal winters? People, animals, birds, nature, somehow they all do. There are abundant wildflowers everywhere, including sweet wild roses, and forty trillion trees; this vast province is covered almost entirely with trees. I wonder if the famous Newfoundland kindness and generosity so celebrated in Come From Away is at least partly because it’s survival; in such a harsh climate, without friends and neighbours, you’d die. There’s an automatic and authentic hospitality here, and humour, great understated humour.

Cathy says although her father was born here and she came back with him every summer, she’s still a come-from-away and will never be completely accepted by native Newfoundlanders. But then, Lynn says that about the French, too.

So, a quiet day ahead, as I regain health and we wait for the rain to subside. I did the worst packing job for this trip ever – a suitcase full of flimsy summer clothes and a bathing suit! One sweater and a fleece. I must have been out of my mind. Luckily Cath has leant me a sweatshirt. It was hard, in a sweltering Toronto, to imagine such damp and cold. Now I know, for the next time.

Cathy just came back from walking Finn down her road. She had porch visits with neighbours, doesn’t want to go in in case she has my bug. Was given a bag of fish straight off the boat. There are loons right outside. We are both trying to ignore the news, with little success – watching Colbert, Jon Stewart, and the other geniuses keeping hope alive. Hopeall!

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St. John’s, jellybean town

I’d read it might be raining in St. John’s. But as we began to land Tuesday midday, the swirling mass over the city looked like snow. Instead, it was heavy rain. Heavy heavy rain, and cold, and wind. The entire day felt like November, and I in my light summer raincoat.

The adventures of travel. Nigel, whom I’ve known since Grade 13 in Ottawa in 1966, picked me up at the airport and assured me it’d been 30 degrees the day before. I didn’t believe him.

But despite the intemperate weather, it was glorious to be here. He took me to my guest house where I changed into as many layers as possible, and then out for a drive around the city and harbour,

and for lunch at the friendliest café. Then he left me to nap — I’d risen at 4.45 a.m. to get to the airport by 6.30 — and then I went to the Rooms. I walked through the bitter wind, so cold that I pushed my raincoat zipper as far up my neck as I could, remembering how I’d laughed at myself when contemplating bringing a scarf. You idiot, I’d thought, it’s July!

At the museum, I couldn’t get the zipper down, it was stuck fast. Had to ask the women at the ticket counter, who struggled and couldn’t get it to budge; I couldn’t even pull the coat over my head. Finally a kind genius in the gift shop took me to the back room, rubbed pencil on the zipper, and eased it open. Embarrassing and funny. By then I only had forty minutes before the Rooms closed, so they advised me to look at the free stuff and come back with more time. A magnificent structure, art gallery and museum of Newfoundland history, wonderful.

I walked around until it was just too cold. They talk about “Jellybean Row,” a famous row of brightly coloured houses, so I didn’t know that ALL the houses in St. John’s are brightly coloured; every single street is Jellybean Row. I kept snapping pix.

The style of house reminds me of Halifax, where I grew up, as well as the keening and shrieking of seagulls and the fresh hard wind. No fish, though, the air does not smell of fish; Nigel says crab is now the cash crop here. The famous friendliness of the people is always evident; the first woman I encountered on my walk, as our eyes met, said, “Hi, my love.” What amazes even more is that if you’re standing on the curb, even in the middle of the block waiting to jaywalk, cars will stop. They just stop and wait politely. Incredible for someone from Toronto, used to trying not to be run down.

In the evening, a rollicking dinner at Nigel’s. He bought a house decades ago for an absurdly small amount of money; he and his wife have a big secluded lot, a greenhouse full of vegetables, and two small dogs. He’s a filmmaker, cameraman, and producer involved in all aspects of the local film industry, as is his wife Mary who produced one of my favourite films, Maudie, about the folk artist Maud Lewis, and her son Nick; mother and son just produced the recent successful film Skeet, which I’m anxious to see. Nigel cooked us curried cod. Perfect.

Wednesday morning, there’s sun! Hooray. Nigel and I are going to walk the dogs near Cape Spear, and then Kathy comes to take me to her place, an hour plus north, on Trinity Bay. I am slowing down. The pace is different here.

2.20 p.m. A glorious morning, sun and fresh wind; Nigel and I took two small, happy dogs to a cove and then drove on to Cape Spear, the easternmost point of land in North America, and I explored the lighthouse museum there, where the keeper and his family lived – such a narrow constrained space, unimaginable in winter. But there are lifesaving lighthouses all over Newfoundland.

Painting the fence at Cape Spear

Nigel had to get back to work, so dropped me off downtown. By now it was actually hot, so I guess he wasn’t lying after all. I had lunch – a delicious banh mi sandwich and flat white at a Vietnamese café, sitting outside at a picnic table. Kathy was delayed; I’m waiting for her back at the guest house where my stuff is stored. My legs are sore. This town is built on a steep hill; you’re either going up or downhill. I would not be biking in St. John’s.

A gorgeous day. Soon, phase two begins: Kathy’s, in the country, on the water. And sun. Heaven.

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writing in the garden

Saturday July 20. Glad to say I had a letter to the editor of the Star published this week. My usual rant, which I know will incite the population of Ontario to rise in revolt against our crooked premier! Nice to feel so useful.

LOL. Still, it feels good to have my opinion on paper. And one whole person emailed me in response.

“Carney, please don’t turn to Ford for advice

Bonded by crisis: Inside the alliance between Mark Carney and Doug Ford, July 11

This article states that Prime Minister Mark Carney is apparently a fan and confidant of Doug Ford’s. Perhaps Carney doesn’t know that this premier, once a great admirer of Donald Trump, is under investigation by the RCMP for dodgy dealings, like when his pals the developers happened to buy land in convenient places. Is the prime minister aware Ford has slashed budgets for public education and health care, starved universities and colleges, and is encouraging private clinics? That he’s ramming an Austrian spa and parking behemoth into the public land of Ontario Place, has shuttered the Ontario Science Centre for spurious reasons, wants to tear out bike lanes and spend billions on a tunnel under Highway 401?

Many progressives in Canada had high hopes for Carney, the calm, sensible grown-up in the room. We understand he’s a new politician dealing with the lunatic-in-chief to the south and many national and international crises. But please, prime minister, do not turn for advice to a folksy shyster like Ford, who, yes, sounds great defending Canada, but most of whose policies are a disaster for the city of Toronto and the province of Ontario.”

Waiting for the world to change as a result.

Exhausted. Prep for the garden writing workshop tomorrow has gone on for days, shopping and planning. Yesterday, my young tech helper came to help make three big salads, with a fourth to come. Today, Jannette came to help prune the wilderness in the yard — with the unusual heat, there’s a lot of dried out and dead stuff — and Sam came to help sweep, rake, and tidy. I need twelve chairs on the deck, plus others in the back. Still more to do — the house to clean, the deck to sweep, watering, tidying, preparing prompts.

But right now I’m drinking rosé, grateful for this extremely quiet day; considering that the Indy race is going on somewhere in this city, the mosquito whine of powerful motors is inaudible. Tomorrow morning, eleven writers will appear at my door and spend the day writing, eating, and I hope receiving inspiration for future creative endeavours.

My daughter keeps sending pictures from Nova Scotia – and a recent trip to PEI – of ecstatic children splashing in various bodies of water. I’m so happy they are so happy. Today, as Sam and I worked in the hot sun and the latest picture came in of them all in a very big swimming pool, I wrote back, You are a cruel cruel woman.

I’m also nearly packed for Newfoundland, because Monday will be very busy – including a trip to the doctor to discuss the results of my x-ray, though I assume it’s a waste of time; even if my ribs are damaged, which they almost certainly are not, there’s nothing to be done. However. They want to see me. Otherwise, my wounds are almost completely healed. Thank you, fine old body. I have to get up at 5 a.m. Tuesday to get to the airport. Groan.

Something came to me in the night and luckily I wrote it down, because otherwise I would certainly have forgotten: possible first lines for the book about my parents that I’m avoiding. The lines would be: “How many of you know your parents’ nickname for your father’s penis? I am one of the lucky ones who do.”

Is that a grabber? Certainly unusual.

Answer: It was Barkis, the character in Dickens’s David Copperfield whose famous line is “Barkis is willin’.” And I gather my fathers’ Barkis was too.

Unusual is right. But that’s why I think it’s a story worth telling. They were an unusual couple. Lucky me.

Sunday July 20

Sadly two people had to drop out due to illness, so there were nine writers here for the day, ranging in age from a recent high-school graduate to an artsy business owner in her eighties. We had perfect weather, some cloud, not too hot, and it was very quiet. Much intense discussion about many things. Careful listening, powerful writing, laughter, camaraderie. One of the writers mentioned his book, to discover that another person there was on the team that published it. Other bonds: small towns, English parents, anxiety, difficult mothers, fathers who died too young. And more. One made a startling on-the-spot discovery about her mother’s sexuality. We all exclaimed with her.

I love this day, although I am wrung dry by the end.

Lots of leftovers to pass on to my son.

And now, a day to recover and prepare for the next event: Newfoundland!

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Pretending to be Boston

Lots going on. An American TV series called Boston Blue has been shooting right outside my door since dawn – and I mean shooting literally, a fake gun keeps going off. When I lifted my bedroom blinds at 7 a.m., a black garbage truck with Boston Public Works on the side was driving by. The street is crammed with a ton of equipment and at least a hundred people hanging around, including scary-looking police officers in black with their faces covered. I’m glad so many Canadians are getting work, but I wish we didn’t let American shows come here and pretend our country is theirs. Hooray for Law and Order Toronto, unapologetically identifying this city. Glad we don’t live where black-clad police could snatch us off the street and disappear us.

Watching the goings-on reminds me of the few film and TV jobs I had as an actress, which mostly involved standing around waiting for many hours. So many moving parts to get right at a glacial pace. They do actually use those canvas and wood chairs we used to see movie stars sitting in; they’re all out there now, sitting, waiting. For Godot.

A joyful event — lunch at nearby Café Zuzu with a young woman who hired me as a writing coach. She’s originally from Mongolia and needed help writing entry essays for several universities, was using ChapGPT, convinced her own story and voice were not interesting. I convinced her otherwise; she eventually wrote powerful true essays and got into the prestigious American university of her choice with a 75% scholarship. She brought me as a gift a scarf of Mongolian cashmere and a note: “Through your guidance and support, I was able to flourish into my best self. Perhaps appreciating oneself is the biggest accomplishment one can achieve.”

Perhaps indeed, you clever, hard-working young woman. I wish you joy in your exciting future.

Incidentally, a car driven by a drunk drove right through Café Zuzu’s front door a few nights ago; no one was there. They’ve covered the door with plywood, with a notice: “Sorry, no drive-through orders available.” LOL.

Interesting: I wrote to a fellow memoir teacher I met at the San Miguel conference about being turned down to teach there again. She told me a friend of hers who’s a very big deal in the memoir world also taught there one year and was turned down for several years afterwards. Because many local people come every year, she said, they need to change it up. Good to know.

Today, both heat and air quality warning in effect, because of wildfire smoke from northern Ontario. Happily Anna and the boys are in Nova Scotia; she has sent several ecstatic videos of splashing in backyard pools and being driven in dune  buggies. Fresh air and friendship.

Happy Ben! Anna sent a picture from a solitary walk by the ocean. Wish I were there too, my loves.

Okay, time to gear up; the garden writing workshop is full at eleven people on Sunday, lots of preparation needed, and then two days later I leave for Newfoundland. I’d love to hang around watching Boston cops in a shoot-out, but duty calls.

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Lean Out podcast interview with Tara Henley – a treat

Getting better; life returns. I went to Carole’s class today, was slow but there, really moving for the first time in over a week.

This is last Wednesday; on Thursday the bruises on lip and chin got even darker. And now, a week later, completely gone. Bodies are amazing! My knee is still throbbing with a big red scab, but the scabs on my hand are falling off. I had x-rays yesterday on ribs and knee. I’m sure all is well but it’s good to check; my ribs still hurt. Was lucky enough at the x-ray clinic, at 8.20 a.m., to sit next to friend and former writing student Merrijoy, who’s a vibrant 96, indefatigable, off to Stratford today. We all need such inspiration in our lives.

Had a huge treat yesterday. Last week, Tara Henley got in touch, to say she’d discovered Loose Woman at a second-hand bookstore on the Danforth. It spoke to her, she bought it, read it, loved it. She has a successful podcast called Lean Out and wanted to interview me about the book.

She’s a delightful, very smart and thoughtful woman who asked the best questions. What supreme joy for a writer to meet someone who’s read one’s book closely, been moved by it, and is eager to know more. She quoted passages; she asked for a deep dive back to that time. “I love your writing!” she said several times, and has just bought Midlife Solo.

I was dizzy with pleasure. Loose Woman was first published in 2014, and though it was a finalist for a nonfiction book award, it has dropped off the radar. But I hope you won’t mind if I say that I re-read it to prepare for the interview, and I thought it was good. Really good in some sections. Vain, I know, but I tried to read it as if written by someone else. It’s a good story. I like her writing.

I know, shut up, you boastful woman. Here’s the podcast. Thank you, Tara!

https://tarahenley.substack.com/p/beth-kaplan-on-getting-stuck-and

Posted a Substack yesterday too, a query from a student and a reply from me about the writing process. Twenty minutes after it went out, I received an email from a former student and recipient saying, Thank you for these letters. This encouragement and truth keeps me going, so now, off to my pen and paper with gratitude.

https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/p/encouraging-words-to-write-by-help

So it was a good day. My son came over to help me do things only a tall person can do. The day before, I spent time with the grandboys while their mother worked; at one point they sprayed each other and Bandit with the hose as they jumped on the trampoline. Who would have thought of that? These troublemakers, that’s who.

My three grandsons.

Today, after the Y and my obligatory nap, I rode to the Deanne Taylor Theatre to see a Fringe show, Something to Look Forward To, a one-woman show by and with Joanna O’Sullivan, who’s bright and entertaining even as she talks about a triple whammy of grief. A good show, well worth the trip. As a bonus, I happened once again to sit next to a dear friend, this time Barbara Gordon, a wonderful actress.

Oh good, it’s raining, and I’m safely inside. My tree guy cut a lot of branches from the willow, and now there’s a lot more sun in the garden, which is a shock for the greenery that’s been sheltered until now.

As I said just after landing on my face last week, into each life a little rain must fall. But I’m happier when it’s actual, not metaphoric, rain. More, please.

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