Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 21

changed my mind

Had to write and say – I’ve posted enthusiastically about Law and Order SVU, but now I regret it. The latest shows have taken a turn for the worse, way worse, unwatchably manipulative and violent. Someone else must be writing or directing, or else the producing team got pushed to extremes for some reason. Ratings? Really?

So, thank heavens I won’t waste time with it any more. It reminds me of when I was raving about the British series Sherlock, brilliant and witty, so Ruth said she’d watch. Unfortunately, she watched the last episode which was vile, nothing like the others, nauseatingly violent and stupid. She wondered what the #@# I was talking about. Don’t want you to do that too.

I just started to watch the Golden Globes and the host is unbearable, insulting, I turned it off. Am I getting too old and crabby for TV? No, because soon I’ll watch All Creatures Great and Small. If there’s violence, it will be a sick cow or a dog bite. That I can take.

It snowed, at last, and it’s pretty. Walked in the ‘hood, so lovely with the Christmas lights. As I may have said before, I am fond of where I live.

And … today’s chuckle — every editor’s silent mantra.

Tiggy and I are sitting by the fire. Over and out for today.

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Touchpoints: A Writer’s Truth, on Substack

Bleak and grey again now, but we had one blessed day of sun on Thursday. Anna and the boys met me at Canadian Tire downtown to exchange the Xmas skates I gave them for bigger ones — two sizes bigger for the very tall Eli. She went off to work and the boys and I walked to Ben McNally Books to pick up Dogsong by Gary Paulsen, the author of Hatchet, a terrific survival adventure story the boys loved. While there I asked how Midlife Solo was doing; Danielle told me none sold in the last few days but then sent word that, just after we left, two were sold. Two! I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams.

After much spaghetti, we settled down to read, not Dogsong yet, but their Xmas book, The Eyes and the Impossible by Dave Eggers, written in the voice of Johannes, a spectacularly articulate and confident dog. A great book so far. We went in the sunshine to Riverdale Farm, where after communing with goats and sheep they kept joyfully busy for a long time throwing stones into the empty, almost-frozen duck pond. What is it about a body of water that compels small boys to shatter the surface with stones?

We all had a treat for dinner: sushi and pizza, and for Anna sushi pizza, from Parliament Street. And then they left me to pick up the pieces of my home and collapse. When I’m tired, I turn to my new addiction, Law and Order SVU. I feel guilty to be wasting time, and yet – it’s so good! (Except when it’s too violent, then I turn it off.) The episode a few days ago about a ten-year-old psychopath has haunted me. And soon there’ll be Law and Order Toronto! We gots endless crime and tough cops and fast-talking lawyers here too.

Today’s excitement: my tech helper Patrick helped me set up a Substack newsletter. Substack is a platform increasingly populated by the most interesting writers, and now I hope to be one of them. Mine is called Touchpoints: A Writer’s Truth, and is specifically about the writing life and my own struggle within it. Have a look, or, as my mother would say, Take a gander. https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/

It’s true: I post regularly on FB and IG and repost on Twitter; write a blog 3 or 4 times a week; send a MailChimp newsletter to hundreds of former students 3 or 4 times a year. What the #@$ do I need a new writing venue for? Good question. We’ll find out.

Another question is: with all this free writing — using all my expertise and skill but paying nothing — when will I get to writing the next book? Hmmmm?

That, in fact, is one of the things Touchpoints is about. Stay tuned.

PS I took a selfie today because I wanted to post about my favourite winter coat, bought at least 27 years ago with my uncle Edgar’s credit card for Bloomingdale’s. (The dear man, one of the best bridge players in the world, died in 1997.) It’s a long black Kenneth Cole, on sale but not expensive to start with, just the right length, light but warm, with a zipper that after all this time has not quit. It’s threadbare now, with bits of whatever it’s made of poking through holes, but I don’t care, IT IS THE BEST COAT. Thank you, coat!

The selfie, however, was horrifying. Who’s that wrinkled, haggard crone in the black coat? No, surely not. But, unfortunately, yes. Instant delete.

Sigh.

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The sweet smell of … success? Something or other

Blowing own horn alert: It’s Wednesday, so I was in Carole’s class at the Y doing sit ups when my friend Debra came over. She said, “I’ve almost finished Midlife Solo and feel like I know you so much better. It’s so fucking good, Beth! I don’t want it to end. Write another one soon.”

How much that means! The other day I received this note on a similar vein from my sometime piano teacher, Peter: I have done my best to read it slowly, because your essays are so fine, I don’t want them to end. I wish there were more of them. My bookmark for now remains stuck on p. 197, because this means I will always have two more essays left.

I’m 73 years old. Could it be that I’m finally coming into my own, as they say? That it took only five books to have a modicum of success? And what does success mean in this business, anyway? Sales are nice, but I’ve learned they’re not a judge of much. How much better to have someone say, “I don’t want the book to end.” Music music music to my ears.

Debra went on, “I wondered if I’d like the book so much if I didn’t know you, but it’s so well written, there’s no question I would. I want to send it to my friends.”

Please, Debra, other readers out there, send it to your friends. Please tell people how much you like it and post it on your social media. That is the only way this little book is going to find readers.

Oh, and a Facebook friend, Adelle Purdham, posted a picture of her TBR books, with two of mine in the middle of her pile. Along with Kyo Maclear, Ann Marie MacDonald, Waubeshig Rice, Betsy Warland, and Anne Enright. Disbelief.

Thank you, Adelle! Happy reading in 2024.

A former student just sent this: I am halfway through MidLife Solo and I am loving it. Every essay has resonated – whether it’s been about raising a teenaged daughter, losing your dad or the simple joys of thrifting. I am savouring each one and marking them up as I go – see attached photo!

Taking your course taught me so much about the power of a good piece, but reading your work has taught me about the powerful connection a good piece can create between people. While I don’t really know you, I feel like I do, and strangely, I feel like I know myself a bit better too after reading your essays.  Thank you for having the courage to put them out in the world – I hope to find my own courage soon!

How wonderful to read “I feel like I know myself a bit better too after reading your essays.” Thank you, CC.

Otherwise, other than these great pleasures, not much to tell you. During my solitary New Year’s Eve, I watched two episodes of my guilty pleasure, Law and Order SVU – always dramatic, this time a rape victim who gets pregnant and fights to keep the baby of her rapist, and the second about a ten-year-old psychopath and his blindly loving parents — terrific. Much better than cheesy music in Times Square. My tenant Robin and I shared a bottle of Prosecco by the fire next day, and Monique and I toasted, but otherwise, completely uneventful, in bed by 11.15, as always. Sun is promised for tomorrow — by then we’ll have forgotten what it is, it’s been so gloomy for weeks. But still confusingly mild, I’m on the bike and my heavy winter coat is in the basement closet.

There is still not peace on earth, good will toward men. But the birds are crowding the feeder — that flash of scarlet is the cardinal — the cat is sleeping beside me, and a few readers don’t want my new book to end. I am one lucky woman.

Ben, like David Hockney, drew this on his iPad — Ben with the long hair has a B, Eli has an E, and someone big with grey hair has an H. Unlike our real world right now, there is sunshine in Ben’s. Happiness is!

PS. Just realized – of course, it’s Auntie Holly.

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Happy 2024! Here’s some reading for you.

Several people have written, asking to read the essay in Queen’s Quarterly. I feel guilty posting it instead of encouraging people to buy the magazine. But on the other hand, if there’s a choice between being read and not being read, especially with a story I like so much … no choice, in fact.

So here it is, below. Let me know what you think.

It’s still grey and gloomy out but sun is predicted for tomorrow, can’t wait. A long quiet day here. Finally tossed the rest of Xmas dinner and finished the last of the turkey soup. Took down the tiny tree. Moving right along.

But the bright colourful lights will stay up outside. We need light! In a raging world, please, let there be light.

Happy New Year to you, despite all.

Kaplan Nov 2023

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The Oxford Story, and 2023’s cultural tally

One more day of 2023. What a year. Terrible for the world, another brutal, beyond brutal war fought senselessly, many thousands of senseless deaths in an incomprehensibly complicated and contested part of the world. My daughter and I are so far apart on this issue, I urging moderation, seeing both sides: what Israel is doing in Gaza is indefensible, no question, but there’s a very good reason the state of Israel needs to exist, and Hamas, which has done nothing to improve the impoverished lives of its people, launched this incendiary war — versus her, Israel is utterly culpable and should never have been created; the Palestinians and Hamas are simply revolting against endless oppression, as oppressed people must.

Free Palestine. What does that look like? How is that possible? Wipe out Israel, with all its current hideousness, the only democracy in the Middle East?

It’s a good thing she and I love each other so much.

Not to mention what’s happening in Ukraine, and parts of Africa, and the political horror show in the U.S. A story in the NYT: a young brother somewhere in the midwest had an argument with his sister about Xmas presents, so he shot her, and then another sibling shot him. I’ll take arguing about Gaza; at least we’re not slaughtering each other. The world gone mad. And no sun here for many days, grey gloom gloom gloom.

However. From my safe perch, I’ve been slothful, nothing much getting done, but life goes on. I’ve been serving leftover Xmas dinner to many friends — Monique, Ruth, Annie; just finally froze the rest. Rona is coming over this afternoon so we can exchange memoirs and battle scars about launching books this year. Tomorrow, getting groceries and feeding the birds and reading, that’s about it. Naps, many naps. The Y. Fighting the gloom. My latest sinful addiction: Law and Order SVU — delicious.

But joy, an essay has just come out in Queen’s Quarterly, a literary magazine of exceptionally fine quality, heavy shiny paper, beautiful layout and illustrations, good writing — poetry, fiction, memoir, essays. My piece is about lecturing on my first book at Oxford University, and a wonderful thing that happened there. An important story for me. Link below.

Kaplan Nov 2023

Finished reading Julia Child’s My Life in France, so uplifting, her pleasure in everything, eating, drinking, the French countryside. How can she possibly remember every fine meal? But she does. Someone left Bonnie Garmus’s hugely successful Lessons in Chemistry in my little free library, so I started it last night. Wow, compelling — she sweeps you right into the story, for sure, I can see why it’s already being made as a film. I rarely read fiction, so we’ll see how this goes. Was just asked for a blurb for a memoir-in-essays that’ll be published later this year, am enjoying it so far.

Finished The Crown. People diss it, but I think it’s fabulous television, gorgeously shot, very well-written, and of course the acting can’t be beat, all of them, especially Elizabeth Debicki as an uncannily true Diana and Imelda Staunton as the Queen, pulling you into her restrained heart … superb. The writers are hard on Harry, it’s clear they don’t think much of him and portray him as a petty, angry brat in the series, which I think is unfair, and William is 100% tender-hearted, loyal, true. And Kate Middleton is a grounded schoolgirl who simply loves the boy for who he is. Hmmm. Perhaps it’s a little more complicated than that. But still, terrific. Bravo.

I’ve kept a list this year, because I forget so easily what I’ve read, seen, done. The tally: 21 books, though I think I forgot to write down a few, and there were a few others started and not finished. 27 films, both in theatres and on Netflix, and 12 documentaries. 27 TV series followed at least partly. (Call the Midwife back Xmas night- as always, tears! This series is sublime.)

9 plays. 5 music and dance events. 5 talks. Disappointing — only 2 visits to an art gallery.

But that will change for 2024, because I’m planning a trip to Paris. Had to cancel a trip last winter because of the massive strikes throughout France, and need to rebook soon to avoid losing all those points. When I saw there’s a big Mark Rothko exhibition at the Fondation Vuitton, ending April 2, I booked for the last day. I’ll travel far for Mark Rothko. So, I hope, Paris with my friend Lynn, possibly a quick visit to visit a friend in Amsterdam, then a few days in London and a jaunt around the English countryside with friend Penny, to Northamptonshire where my British roots are.

How does that sound? Amazing, right? Nothing is booked, but plans are afoot, life seeping back into these stagnant bones, after years of pandemic isolation.

Of course, all this may change in an instant. Tons of people are getting sick. France may convulse with another round of massive strikes, or England may. What’s pretty sure, however, is that Canada won’t. My own health — who knows? So far so good, is all I can say. Does it get better than that?

SO FAR, SO GOOD.

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Blessings

Hard to believe, but this morning, after an exhausting but wonderful Xmas day, I was at the Y at 9 for Carole’s Boxing Day bootcamp. It’s now 1 p.m. and I’m done for the day.

A busy time. Xmas Eve, went to the Riverdale Farm Babe in the Barn pageant that Mary Martin and I started — or revived — twenty years ago, back after a three-year Covid hiatus. It’s absurdly hokey and yet, singing those grand old carols, I cry every time. This year’s baby was especially beautiful.

And then to Mary and Malcolm’s for their annual post-Babe gathering by the fire. I thank the heavens again for my fine generous neighbours.

Once upon a time, my Christmasses were so fraught, it’s hard to imagine now. Two small children with huge expectations of what awaited under the tree; many guests for dinner, including often my parents and even my in-laws from B.C.; and on top of it all, I spent Xmas Eve producing and directing the pageant, with its cast of local volunteers and its various problems — lack of sound equipment and lighting, late arrivals of the cast, bad weather etc. And yet, somehow, it all got done.

This year, Xmas morning, just had to stuff the bird and make sure all was ready for the tsunami, which arrived early afternoon, to the usual flurry of unwrapping. This year we swore to keep it all simple and minimal, and we did, and yet … Soccer jerseys were a special hit, leading to much soccer tearing apart the living-room. Mbappé and Messi shooting and scoring! But where is the adorable David Beckham?

And then dinner, with our special treat, the presence of both Thomas, Eli’s dad, and Matt, Ben’s dad, chatting amiably together. Both fathers treat both boys as their own, which is a glory to see, all of it a tribute to Anna who somehow engineered this familial miracle. Thomas brought his Xmas baking, four different kinds of rich treats. We feasted.

Among the candles on the table is a memorial yahrzeit candle that burns on a loved one’s day of death; while the candle burns, the spirit of the departed is with you. My mother died eleven years ago at 3 a.m. on Dec. 25 2012. She was with us.

And in the middle of all this, one of the best gifts ever: I discovered Midlife Solo is on the list of Ben McNally Books’ top ten bestsellers for November. Imagine, my book and the word ‘bestseller’ in the same sentence — and with the marvellous Roz Chast! It’s only there because the book launch was in November and sold a lot of books, but still, for now, it’s there.

And two new five-star reviews on Goodreads.

Today, extraordinarily mild though damp and grey, my job is to finish the cleanup and make turkey soup. And watch the end of The Crown and maybe something else. Look at the cat sleep and the birds at the feeder, and count my blessings.

I am counting counting counting my blessings.

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A toast to peace, here, there, everywhere

Invited for lunch today with Ron and Babs, the couple of the year. They met online in 2006 when Ron was 73 and Babs was 63. Now he’s 90 and she’s 80 and despite a few health issues, they’re madly in love, got married this summer. We ate in Cranberries, the little restaurant around the corner from where they live, and Ron told me that after their lunch there a few weeks ago, when he called for the bill, the waitress said it’d already been paid by the man at a nearby table. Ron went to thank the stranger, who explained that he was so moved by the love and cheer shared by the couple, he’d paid for their lunch. Ron says things like that happen to them regularly. I guess people are surprised to see an elderly couple still obviously enjoying life and each other.

Not only that, but Ron published two books this year: the story of Babs’s life that he wrote in her voice, and an illustrated book of her poetry. He has also fallen in love with writing and writes every day, is starting a Substack in January. Every day at 5 they have a glass of whiskey and listen to jazz, though Babs, originally from Liverpool, is also a Macca maniac, like me.

Inspiring and beautiful.

Yesterday, lunch with my dear Rosemary, another inspiring elder, recently made Senior Editor at Simon & Schuster. Truly eighty is the new fifty. Hooray!

On the way to Cranberries, I bought the last groceries — cream cheese, clementines, and Christmas cookies — and on the way home stopped at Mark the butcher for my turkey, carried the 14 pound bird and a pound of stuffing meat home on my back. Just went out to get a tablecloth I’d had dry-cleaned for Anna. And that’s it, I’m nearly done, one more errand tomorrow. Last night, PBS played a choir singing the Messiah, so I put it on and sang along while wrapping. “Wonderful! Counsellor!” Almost everything under the tree is from Doubletake, except the stuff for the boys. A coat for Anna for fifty cents. Sam’s was expensive — $30.

It is a cup runneth over kind of day, despite the dark wet gloom. The teacher assessment forms came back yesterday from U of T, the best yet, the highest possible marks, with comments like “Beth’s ability to bring out the best in everyone, keep them inspired, provide criticism in a positive manner, and get a group of students from twenty something to seventy is almost Sage like. She’s an amazing instructor, and I love her writing. I enrolled in her Life Stories II course, and can’t wait for it to begin. U of T is very fortunate to have her on its team.”

Usually there’s at least one grumble that hurts, but this time, not a one. So that did my heart good. And then my friend and former writing student Rita Davies, the Chair of the Ontario Arts Council, sent this: Congratulations on Mid Life Solo. It’s engaging, funny, sad, and spilling over with your warmth and intelligence.

Thank you, Rita!

As I’ve said often before, it’s hard to feel satisfaction or comfort when the world is in such dire shape. Although in the paper this morning, a possibility of peace in Ukraine? But the pictures from Gaza are unbearable. As Ron said today, We Canadians are the luckiest people on earth.

And here, I’m alone, as almost always. The house is silent. There’s cooking and cleaning to be done,  not to mention my own work, but tonight, whatever I can scrounge in the fridge, a glass of wine, reading and/or TV by the fire, sending gratefulness into the universe. It was not always thus; it will not always be thus. So for right now, the word is yes. Yes yes yes.

The front door from the inside, looking out at the lopsided wreath and Xmas lights on the forsythia. The sign reads both ways. May it happen.

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glad tidings

What I forgot to mention, in that rapturous account of my ex’s visit, was one more great joy during his visit: the essay about my garden, an excerpt from Midlife Solo, was published in Alice Goldbloom’s Substack, and for days, readers wrote of their appreciation. “Great nuanced and rich piece!” “What a lovely story! I need things like this to remind me of life’s simple goodness, especially when surrounded by so much political discord and animosity.”

And more — 30 comments so far. It’s like receiving 30 warm pats on the back. Thank you!

https://aconsiderableage.substack.com/p/the-garden-of-delight

Crazy busy. All day doing errands on the bike, slow and steady because I can only carry so much. Two trips to No Frills for heavy stuff: potatoes, milk, veg, a tin of luxury chocolate biscuits for the wonderful women who take care of things in the women’s change-room at the Y. To St. John’s Bakery, where my favourite multigrain sourdough bread was hot from the oven, mmmm. To the downtown Ikea for last minute gifts, scented candles for Anna who loves them, picture frames for the boys’ fathers, who are both coming for Xmas dinner — I had a picture of the boys printed to give them. To Doubletake, great scores for gifts, a linen blouse, a scarf, a sweater. To Pet Valu for the requested gift for Bandit, mon dieu, Bully Sticks are expensive. Will get to the LCBO tomorrow for wine for me and beer for the men, and to Ben McNally for a book for the boys, one of the NYT’s top ten kids’ books of the year, The Eyes and the Impossible by Dave Eggers, narrated, apparently, by a dog.

I am giving my kids mostly money, but it’s nice to have some bulky things under the tree, have skates and a portable typewriter for Eli and Ben.

Yesterday, Monique and I had dinner downstairs with Olga who rents my basement flat. Tomorrow, lunch with my dear friend Rosemary Shipton, editor extraordinaire. Saturday, lunch with Ron and Babs, the oldest honeymooners – at 90 and 82 – I’ve ever met. Ron has just had edited and published a beautiful book of Babs’s poetry.

The amaryllises Ken and Annie brought me a month ago are in full blazing bloom.

Yesterday my doorbell rang. It was Len, a neighbour from up the street, friend for 37 years. His wife, another Beth, had read the rave review of Midlife Solo in The Bridge, and he wanted to buy a copy to give her for Christmas.

Does it get better than that? The answer, my friends, is no.

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Famdamly forever

I just found a tiny plastic submachine gun under the kitchen table. There have been and will be other surprises around the house, because the boys have been here for an extended period, and they’ve found interesting things, as they do. But now my family intensive is over until Xmas day.

I barely remember the last few days, it’s a blur, except that I spent far more time with my kids and grandkids than usual, and how welcome that was. We had dinner at Anna’s on Saturday, and a Sunday roast here with Yorkshire pudding, a favourite of all, and then Anna went home and the boys stayed for a sleepover. Grampa had taken them swimming in the Regent Park pool – he dry, on the side, watching – so they were tired; we watched the wonderful Chicken Run film, wry British humour at its best, much aimed at grownups but lots for kids, and a vegetarian message — chickens have feelings too! — and then put them to bed on a big mattress on my office floor. Instant sleep, side by side, angels. He and I cleaned up and settled to jabber, again, always, by the fire.

Monday, Ed went to spend much of the day with Sam and Bandit, Anna was at work, and the boys and I played Sorry, which I lost, and Monopoly, which I lost badly, to their immense satisfaction. I finished reading them the terrific Hatchet, Eli with his head on my shoulder and Ben bouncing nearby, but listening. When the gang arrived, we put on the second Chicken Run to settle everyone down, and Ed took us to dinner at the House on Parliament, our local favourite.

This morning, they came over again to spend a last few hours with their dad and grandfather, and then Anna and the boys went in an Uber with him to the island airport, because it’s near their house and the boys love the place. And I sat down to recuperate. Eventually put away toys, did a load of laundry with another to come, ran the dishwasher. The house is breathing quietly once more, after the chaos and noise; the boys are unstoppable, and Bandit too. Poor Tiggy was overwhelmed.

In a quiet moment this  morning, I showed Ed, for the first time, the scrapbooks — as the inveterate chronicler that I am, I’d made scrapbooks — one of our first trips together in early 1980 to New Orleans and to the Okanagan, to visit Ed’s family, and to Ottawa, to visit mine; another of our wedding party in August 1981, a joyful event when Anna was three months old; and a third just of his life, with pictures and reviews of his first theatre productions as a teenager and his later career. That one he asked to take home, to digitize. A gift of our past together. We have a past together, but we also have a present and a future. How blessed we are to have retained such friendship and love after three decades of divorce.

I don’t know why he looks so serious, almost grim in every shot, he has and has always had a lively sense of humour. In one shot, Anna is wearing a sweater that belonged to Ed’s father, Ed Senior; at his funeral, the grandchildren were asked if they wanted to select an item of his clothing, and she took that sweater, dug it out to wear at the restaurant for dinner. Ed’s parents were with us; my parents too.

Family. Treasure.

 

A nuclear family, of a sort. Picture by Eli.

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Family reunion and Narrative4

When he and I first met, he was 23, a theatre administrator, and I was a 26-year-old actress. We began dating 3 years later. And now here he is, 70, and I 73. He came in last night, had a big plate of the stew Sam and I had made that afternoon, and then we sat by my fire, getting caught up on so much — his life and mine, our children and grandchildren, the many friends from long ago and recently. Imagine, if we hadn’t fixed the bitterness of our divorce, we’d have lost this miraculous bond.

He’s across town now at Anna’s. It’ll be a lovely sunny day today; she kept the boys out of school, and apparently all they want to do is play ball hockey with their grandfather and uncle. Ed runs one of the biggest and most important regional theatres in the States, a pipeline to Broadway. It’s a guarantee he has not played ball hockey for some time. Hooray!

On Monday, I made a valuable new acquaintance. Backstory: at the San Miguel Writers’ Festival in Feb. 2020, just before the world shut down, I encountered an organization called Narrative4, founded by Irish writer Colum McCann to help teach “radical empathy.” In his workshop, he divided us into pairs — I was paired with a middle-aged man — and asked us to tell each other important stories from our lives. We were then asked to stand up and tell the story to the whole group in the voice of the other person, and then to listen to the other tell OUR story. Narrative4 does this work mostly in schools, to help kids enter into another world view. I loved it — honouring the power of story, which is how I earn a living and spend my life.

So recently I got in touch with Narrative4 and asked about the Canadian branch and on Monday I talked to her — Rosa, the sole Canadian practitioner so far. We hit it off instantly — among other things, she teaches French literature and speaks fluent French. After an hour’s inspiring convo, I joined Narrative4 and started to become a facilitator; there’s a series of webinars and tests. I hope eventually to do this in Eli and Ben’s school and maybe keep going with it after I retire from teaching. Exciting. (Yes — as if I don’t have enough to do already…)

https://narrative4.com/

Speaking of which, on Wednesday, a workshop at the Y on writing memoir. It was not well publicized by the Y, and though 12 people signed up, 6 appeared. However, they were keen, and it was terrific. As always, I am grateful to have found something I love to do that perhaps makes a difference, however small, in our increasingly dark world.

What I missed, on Wednesday: Ben’s Christmas concert, at which he and his class sang George Harrison’s “Here comes the sun” as “Here comes the snow,” taped by Anna and sent to me, the cutest thing ever that brought, of course, tears to my eyes. Ben at the back in a tuque because his very long hair, his mother says, “is a bird’s nest.” My boy. Thursday, Eli’s concert, at which he did his best to disappear. Eli is not a joiner.

But ball hockey with Grampa, any day.

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