Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 223
January 8, 2015
the power of pencils
Ran into a friend at Shopper's today - she had lost so much weight, I hardly recognized her. When I exclaimed, she said, "I have cancer. I've lost 40 pounds. We're hoping for the best."
What to say except - I give you all my love, I hope for the best with you? Be safe, be well. A reminder that what matters most is health.
Fantastic moving images today of the outpouring of support for France. Who would have thought the entire planet would one day focus on a few French cartoonists? Jon Stewart was particularly fine last night on the subject - how, as a kind of cartoon himself, to speak about the murder of funny men? He did it beautifully and ended with a piece about Nazi cows, which turned, subtly, into a musing on extremism.
Juliet who lives in Paris has mused in her blog, at the left, about the fact that the Charlie guys did provoke deliberately, and often published really offensive cartoons about other people's cherished beliefs. No reason to be murdered, it goes without saying, but courting anger from the least rational people on earth nonetheless. Not my kind of humour. But the beauty and sensitivity of the cartoon images coming out is stunning. Like this one:
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/cover-story-2015-01-19
Here's a bit of wonderful Canadian humour to leaven this dark freezing day - FREEZING! -
PSI have to tell you that while waiting for an appointment this morning - my shrink, if you must know - I went into Starbucks to kill time. First, I ran into an old friend, one of my favourite people, the actor and singer Brent Carver of the luminous and expressive face, who's a great person. So it was good to see him. But I also ordered the new Starbucks offering, Flat White. God knows what that means, but it's stronger than their regular cappuccino, with whole milk, and it's absolutely delicious. I HATE to advertise for any brand. But seriously good coffee... I'll be back.
What to say except - I give you all my love, I hope for the best with you? Be safe, be well. A reminder that what matters most is health.
Fantastic moving images today of the outpouring of support for France. Who would have thought the entire planet would one day focus on a few French cartoonists? Jon Stewart was particularly fine last night on the subject - how, as a kind of cartoon himself, to speak about the murder of funny men? He did it beautifully and ended with a piece about Nazi cows, which turned, subtly, into a musing on extremism.
Juliet who lives in Paris has mused in her blog, at the left, about the fact that the Charlie guys did provoke deliberately, and often published really offensive cartoons about other people's cherished beliefs. No reason to be murdered, it goes without saying, but courting anger from the least rational people on earth nonetheless. Not my kind of humour. But the beauty and sensitivity of the cartoon images coming out is stunning. Like this one:
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/cover-story-2015-01-19
Here's a bit of wonderful Canadian humour to leaven this dark freezing day - FREEZING! -
PSI have to tell you that while waiting for an appointment this morning - my shrink, if you must know - I went into Starbucks to kill time. First, I ran into an old friend, one of my favourite people, the actor and singer Brent Carver of the luminous and expressive face, who's a great person. So it was good to see him. But I also ordered the new Starbucks offering, Flat White. God knows what that means, but it's stronger than their regular cappuccino, with whole milk, and it's absolutely delicious. I HATE to advertise for any brand. But seriously good coffee... I'll be back.
January 7, 2015
Beth's writing courses: update
Dear writers, who can explain these things? For two Januarys in a row, my course at Ryerson, True to Life 336, has been cancelled because not enough people registered. It was disheartening and made me sad - and poorer - but such is life. I thought maybe winter was the problem.
Today, I discovered that True to Life is now full. Five days before the course starts, registration is closed, and I've already had an email from a student who was turned away, begging to get in. I wrote back that 18 is the maximum for a reason, and it wouldn't be fair to those already registered, or to her, to let in more. It's not a lecture course which can hold limitless attendees. Each week, every student writes and reads, and so 18 different essays a week is enough of a challenge.
I am sorry if you were intending to take the course and left it too late. The good news is that I teach 3 terms a year, so you can come back in May - when the course is on Wednesday evenings - or in September, when it's back to Mondays. Who knows, perhaps next year, the numbers will vanish again and I'll be unemployed. But right now, I feel like the high school girl who couldn't get a date and suddenly is besieged with cute guys.
I like it. It feels good.
If you want to branch out into fiction, my colleague Ann Ireland is offering course # 410, Short Fiction, via email - she's highly experienced and skilled and a great teacher.
The U of T course, Life Stories II, is open only to students who've worked with me before and runs during the day so is not an option for many. It's getting more full but there's still room. Links on this website under "Teaching."
Today, I discovered that True to Life is now full. Five days before the course starts, registration is closed, and I've already had an email from a student who was turned away, begging to get in. I wrote back that 18 is the maximum for a reason, and it wouldn't be fair to those already registered, or to her, to let in more. It's not a lecture course which can hold limitless attendees. Each week, every student writes and reads, and so 18 different essays a week is enough of a challenge.
I am sorry if you were intending to take the course and left it too late. The good news is that I teach 3 terms a year, so you can come back in May - when the course is on Wednesday evenings - or in September, when it's back to Mondays. Who knows, perhaps next year, the numbers will vanish again and I'll be unemployed. But right now, I feel like the high school girl who couldn't get a date and suddenly is besieged with cute guys.
I like it. It feels good.
If you want to branch out into fiction, my colleague Ann Ireland is offering course # 410, Short Fiction, via email - she's highly experienced and skilled and a great teacher.
The U of T course, Life Stories II, is open only to students who've worked with me before and runs during the day so is not an option for many. It's getting more full but there's still room. Links on this website under "Teaching."
Frank Zappa and his mum and dad
Brutal, brutal out there. Minus 18 but apparently minus 35 with the wind chill. I walked from the streetcar two blocks to the Y and my eyeballs hurt. Stay inside, little Canadians. Even the birds are ignoring the feeder today and hiding at home. I don't blame them.
So to cheer you up, as you huddle together for survival, please contemplate these heartwarming pictures - especially Mr. Zappa with his folks in the purple haze room, too wonderful. Funny how much young Eric Clapton looks like young George Harrison - maybe Patti Boyd, who left George for Eric, thought they were the same guy.
http://peewee.com/2015/01/06/70s-rock-legends-parents-homes/
PS Hideous, tragic news from Paris. Murderous lunatics full of hatred - is there no escaping them?
So to cheer you up, as you huddle together for survival, please contemplate these heartwarming pictures - especially Mr. Zappa with his folks in the purple haze room, too wonderful. Funny how much young Eric Clapton looks like young George Harrison - maybe Patti Boyd, who left George for Eric, thought they were the same guy.
http://peewee.com/2015/01/06/70s-rock-legends-parents-homes/
PS Hideous, tragic news from Paris. Murderous lunatics full of hatred - is there no escaping them?
January 6, 2015
Mr. Turner and "The sun is God!"
Bitter out there today and worse tomorrow - punishingly cold all over North America. A good day for taxicabs.
Yesterday, Eli and his mother visited. Here is my advice to grandparents of young children: acquire something called a Plasmacar. Ours was given to us by generous friend and former student Janice, along with a huge bag of clothing and books her kids had outgrown; it provided great joy last Xmas day and has continued to do so. It's a stable four-wheeled contraption that's strong and big enough for two - and my grandson decided yesterday that he wanted to play chauffeur. On his way into the living-room to get more books - "Come, Blamma," he said, patting the back of the seat, and I lowered myself onto the back of the vehicle and he drove us into the living-room to get books, steering magnificently. Four times, four trips.
Getting off the Plasmacar was difficult. This is why I go to the Y, was my main thought as I struggled creakily to my feet. The best ride ever - being driven by my grandson from the kitchen to the living room, replete with vroom vroom and screeching brake noises made by Blamma. I wonder if one day I'll embarrass him as I embarrassed my children. Let's hope not.
Today I went (by cab, and not a Plasmacab) to see Mr. Turner. In 1981, when my ex-husband and I were newly together, a friend of his visited, a young British director writing a book about someone we'd never heard of called Mike Leigh, whose work in the theatre involved lengthy improvisations. Now Mr. Leigh is a film director of great and well-deserved esteem - his Vera Drake and Topsy-Turvy are wonderful films.
And so is this one - indisputably great, perhaps the most beautifully shot film I've ever seen, only right in a biopic about a master of light. It's long, perhaps a shade too long though I can't think of a scene I'd cut. And it's odd in that it deals with a genius who is a rough snorting boor with few social graces who treats his wife and children and his housekeeper poorly. And yet also a sensitive, successful, respected man and a courageous, ground-breaking and hard-working painter. Fascinating.
The film provides a series of character studies, too, of names we know, like Constable and Ruskin, and others we don't, like the crazed egotistical painter Haydon - all so real because Mike Leigh continues to improvise with actors, who are all as solid and comfortable in their roles as it's possible for an actor to be.
For me, it's a film about a golden age in England, just as the railway is arriving and the country is about to change forever. References to the slave trade and the Napoleonic wars, and a brief encounter with an unappreciative Victoria and Albert, situate us in historical time. The interiors are breathtaking and full of artifacts of British life I know my mother would have wept to see - vases, jugs, pewter plates and mugs, platters and dishes, she would have recognized them all. The countryside is a pastoral dreamscape, the seaside is so vivid you can smell the air and the fish - Britain of the early to mid-1800's lovingly recreated, seamless, nothing out of place.
Confession: I've never liked Turner's work - too wishy washy, all those filmy pink, brown and gold skies and seas. After the film, I still am not crazy about his paintings, but I understand much more about the man and his times. I loved this film.
PS Just saw that a dear friend I've not yet met, Theresa Kishkan, has also just posted a review of the film on her blog, to the left. As sensitive and thoughtful as ever, Theresa.
Yesterday, Eli and his mother visited. Here is my advice to grandparents of young children: acquire something called a Plasmacar. Ours was given to us by generous friend and former student Janice, along with a huge bag of clothing and books her kids had outgrown; it provided great joy last Xmas day and has continued to do so. It's a stable four-wheeled contraption that's strong and big enough for two - and my grandson decided yesterday that he wanted to play chauffeur. On his way into the living-room to get more books - "Come, Blamma," he said, patting the back of the seat, and I lowered myself onto the back of the vehicle and he drove us into the living-room to get books, steering magnificently. Four times, four trips.
Getting off the Plasmacar was difficult. This is why I go to the Y, was my main thought as I struggled creakily to my feet. The best ride ever - being driven by my grandson from the kitchen to the living room, replete with vroom vroom and screeching brake noises made by Blamma. I wonder if one day I'll embarrass him as I embarrassed my children. Let's hope not.
Today I went (by cab, and not a Plasmacab) to see Mr. Turner. In 1981, when my ex-husband and I were newly together, a friend of his visited, a young British director writing a book about someone we'd never heard of called Mike Leigh, whose work in the theatre involved lengthy improvisations. Now Mr. Leigh is a film director of great and well-deserved esteem - his Vera Drake and Topsy-Turvy are wonderful films.
And so is this one - indisputably great, perhaps the most beautifully shot film I've ever seen, only right in a biopic about a master of light. It's long, perhaps a shade too long though I can't think of a scene I'd cut. And it's odd in that it deals with a genius who is a rough snorting boor with few social graces who treats his wife and children and his housekeeper poorly. And yet also a sensitive, successful, respected man and a courageous, ground-breaking and hard-working painter. Fascinating.
The film provides a series of character studies, too, of names we know, like Constable and Ruskin, and others we don't, like the crazed egotistical painter Haydon - all so real because Mike Leigh continues to improvise with actors, who are all as solid and comfortable in their roles as it's possible for an actor to be.
For me, it's a film about a golden age in England, just as the railway is arriving and the country is about to change forever. References to the slave trade and the Napoleonic wars, and a brief encounter with an unappreciative Victoria and Albert, situate us in historical time. The interiors are breathtaking and full of artifacts of British life I know my mother would have wept to see - vases, jugs, pewter plates and mugs, platters and dishes, she would have recognized them all. The countryside is a pastoral dreamscape, the seaside is so vivid you can smell the air and the fish - Britain of the early to mid-1800's lovingly recreated, seamless, nothing out of place.
Confession: I've never liked Turner's work - too wishy washy, all those filmy pink, brown and gold skies and seas. After the film, I still am not crazy about his paintings, but I understand much more about the man and his times. I loved this film.
PS Just saw that a dear friend I've not yet met, Theresa Kishkan, has also just posted a review of the film on her blog, to the left. As sensitive and thoughtful as ever, Theresa.
January 5, 2015
God Only Knows
One of my favourite Beach Boy songs, sung by Brian Wilson and many people I've never heard of and a few I have - Stevie Wonder, Lorde, One Direction, Chris Martin ... A lovely extravaganza.
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152500923475787&set=vb.7519460786&type=2&theater
And if you're in the mood for music and film - and let's face it, it's January, so go for it - here's another YouTube treat: Garth Hudson, member of The Band who were so vital to Dylan, returns to the house Big Pink where that glorious album was recorded. Very moving.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBc_4dPQusI&feature=youtu.be
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152500923475787&set=vb.7519460786&type=2&theater
And if you're in the mood for music and film - and let's face it, it's January, so go for it - here's another YouTube treat: Garth Hudson, member of The Band who were so vital to Dylan, returns to the house Big Pink where that glorious album was recorded. Very moving.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBc_4dPQusI&feature=youtu.be
January 4, 2015
Downton rapture
Downton! Only one word: DIVINE. No, another word: DELICIOUS. All those plot balls in the air, spinning, sparkling - how does Julian Fellowes do it? One after another, launched aloft. Enchanting. Costumes, set, script, acting - all as good as can be. Even the goddamn dog is perfect. And in the middle, there's my friend and former theatre school classmate Dame Harriet Walter, perfect as Lady Shackleton. Someone I know, sailing through a scene with Dame Maggie Smith. What a thrill.
It's a good thing there are so many cute guys in the show, with all those Dames around. Mmm Branson. Surely you won't end up with the teacher, that Bolshie. Over here, Branson, over here!
Wayson cancelled, but Jean-Marc and Richard came over and Carol came down from her room and we all sat, enthralled. This is why I bought that ridiculous television set - I am the neighbourhood Downton resource. Come one come all, Sundays at 9.
There was a half hour documentary afterwards about Edwardian manners, obviously aimed at explaining the mores of the show and the era to an American audience. I thought about my mother's parents, so very British, and their encounters with my father the American - how my dad, the first time he met my grandparents over tea in their London parlour, perched on the arm of a chair. On the arm of a chair! I don't think Percy and Marion ever recovered. Oh those crazy Americans, so rude.
Superlative television. A great way to see out a cold, dark week.
Before you go, to those of you interested in writing, I highly recommend my friend Shaena Lambert's essay on the left - love her internal tussle with Margaret Atwood, her notion of "letting the paint dry" on a first draft, and then stretching it out in a scrapbook. A very interesting suggestion. Take a look.
And let me know, please, who you think will remind Branson of his humble roots.
It's a good thing there are so many cute guys in the show, with all those Dames around. Mmm Branson. Surely you won't end up with the teacher, that Bolshie. Over here, Branson, over here!
Wayson cancelled, but Jean-Marc and Richard came over and Carol came down from her room and we all sat, enthralled. This is why I bought that ridiculous television set - I am the neighbourhood Downton resource. Come one come all, Sundays at 9.
There was a half hour documentary afterwards about Edwardian manners, obviously aimed at explaining the mores of the show and the era to an American audience. I thought about my mother's parents, so very British, and their encounters with my father the American - how my dad, the first time he met my grandparents over tea in their London parlour, perched on the arm of a chair. On the arm of a chair! I don't think Percy and Marion ever recovered. Oh those crazy Americans, so rude.
Superlative television. A great way to see out a cold, dark week.
Before you go, to those of you interested in writing, I highly recommend my friend Shaena Lambert's essay on the left - love her internal tussle with Margaret Atwood, her notion of "letting the paint dry" on a first draft, and then stretching it out in a scrapbook. A very interesting suggestion. Take a look.
And let me know, please, who you think will remind Branson of his humble roots.
January 3, 2015
a writing student describes her first class
A big snowfall just ended - all is still, thick and white in the garden, except for the flurry around the bird feeder as the sparrows and cardinals eat a late lunch.
Last night, more "Sherlock" - I allowed myself to watch a few favourite bits from shows I'd seen before. So good! Today, errands - I became obsessed with finding a specific pair of new running shoes in my difficult enormous size - 10 1/2. Most stores only stock to size 10. My search entailed a visit to Nike in the dreaded Eaton's Centre, where I didn't find the shoes but did buy a new pair of tight running tights, and then to various Winner's. Found them - $60 less than at the Nike store. Bought them. So now I have new tights and purple Nike Pegasus shoes. No excuse not to get really fit, with the winged horse on my feet.
But the problem with looking for shoes at Winners, which is one of my tiny addictions: I also found another gorgeous pair of running shoes and couldn't resist. Only they're size 10 and slightly too small, but I'm convincing myself they'll stretch. Or my feet will shrink. They're turquoise and purple, my colours! They'll fit! I know they will. All I have to do is shave a little bit from my left big toe.
Or take them back. Sigh. This happens a lot with Winners. How to waste time in one easy step.
I've been editing a big manuscript - Lina took my course years ago, kept coming and finally wrote a full-length memoir. Today I came upon this page, and liked it, and would like to share it with you. I don't remember a class where so many vanished overnight, surely her memory is a bit extreme - but there are always a few.
In 2001, I took a creative writing course at Ryerson University, called “True to Life.” The first day, eighteen women and two men sat in a circle listening to Beth Kaplan, our professor. She said, “Welcome. This course is for you to write your life stories. I am not here to judge, only to help you make your stories better. This is a free zone where you can speak openly, without judgement.” The second time we met, the class number had dwindled; the two men had disappeared and only twelve women remained. I guess the others weren’t prepared to expose themselves. Beth asked us to read what we had written. I was third from her left, and I was happy she asked the first woman on her right to begin. Some of the stories were tragic, but I couldn’t really concentrate, and besides, my story was more important, wasn’t it? Two more to go and then it would be my turn. I never perspire, but I was sweating by the time my turn came. “I can do this,” I silently told myself.I lifted my papers. My hands shook, so I put them down again. “I can do this. I can do this.” I read the first three sentences. My voice cracked. I held back the tears that were ready to burst. “Would you like me to read it for you?” Beth asked.Without answering, I passed the paper over to her. I watched the others’ reaction. They looked serious, sympathizing with my situation. When Beth finished reading my story, something amazing happened. My shoulders were no longer up to my ears, I wasn’t sweating anymore, and the vice on my heart had loosened. I was even giddy. I had shared my most intimate thoughts, my fears, my uncertainties, and now I was free of them. The rest of the course was a true learning experience. I was able to listen, and really hear, the other women tell their stories.
Brava, Lina. I'm so glad it worked for you. And now you're hooked for good.
Last night, more "Sherlock" - I allowed myself to watch a few favourite bits from shows I'd seen before. So good! Today, errands - I became obsessed with finding a specific pair of new running shoes in my difficult enormous size - 10 1/2. Most stores only stock to size 10. My search entailed a visit to Nike in the dreaded Eaton's Centre, where I didn't find the shoes but did buy a new pair of tight running tights, and then to various Winner's. Found them - $60 less than at the Nike store. Bought them. So now I have new tights and purple Nike Pegasus shoes. No excuse not to get really fit, with the winged horse on my feet.
But the problem with looking for shoes at Winners, which is one of my tiny addictions: I also found another gorgeous pair of running shoes and couldn't resist. Only they're size 10 and slightly too small, but I'm convincing myself they'll stretch. Or my feet will shrink. They're turquoise and purple, my colours! They'll fit! I know they will. All I have to do is shave a little bit from my left big toe.
Or take them back. Sigh. This happens a lot with Winners. How to waste time in one easy step.
I've been editing a big manuscript - Lina took my course years ago, kept coming and finally wrote a full-length memoir. Today I came upon this page, and liked it, and would like to share it with you. I don't remember a class where so many vanished overnight, surely her memory is a bit extreme - but there are always a few.
In 2001, I took a creative writing course at Ryerson University, called “True to Life.” The first day, eighteen women and two men sat in a circle listening to Beth Kaplan, our professor. She said, “Welcome. This course is for you to write your life stories. I am not here to judge, only to help you make your stories better. This is a free zone where you can speak openly, without judgement.” The second time we met, the class number had dwindled; the two men had disappeared and only twelve women remained. I guess the others weren’t prepared to expose themselves. Beth asked us to read what we had written. I was third from her left, and I was happy she asked the first woman on her right to begin. Some of the stories were tragic, but I couldn’t really concentrate, and besides, my story was more important, wasn’t it? Two more to go and then it would be my turn. I never perspire, but I was sweating by the time my turn came. “I can do this,” I silently told myself.I lifted my papers. My hands shook, so I put them down again. “I can do this. I can do this.” I read the first three sentences. My voice cracked. I held back the tears that were ready to burst. “Would you like me to read it for you?” Beth asked.Without answering, I passed the paper over to her. I watched the others’ reaction. They looked serious, sympathizing with my situation. When Beth finished reading my story, something amazing happened. My shoulders were no longer up to my ears, I wasn’t sweating anymore, and the vice on my heart had loosened. I was even giddy. I had shared my most intimate thoughts, my fears, my uncertainties, and now I was free of them. The rest of the course was a true learning experience. I was able to listen, and really hear, the other women tell their stories.
Brava, Lina. I'm so glad it worked for you. And now you're hooked for good.
January 2, 2015
The Imitation Game
After the film was over, as we stood up, I said to my friend Ken, "My mother was one of those young women at Bletchley Park, typing madly away." And the woman in the row in front leaned over and said, "Really? Your mother was there?"
"She was indeed," I said, "only she didn't talk about it for many years."
"You must be very proud of her," she said.
And I am. Yes, my mother was one of those young women typing madly away at Bletchley, as shown in the film "The Imitation Game." She was working there when she met my father the Yank soldier boy, in the fall of 1944. I wonder what she told him she did - because she could not have told him the truth.
The film is flawed, yes, as many commentators have pointed out, in the allowances it takes with the facts. Apparently Polish cryptographers were far more important in breaking the Enigma code than they're given credit for, for example. But the only thing that truly bothered me, beyond the overwhelming score and a few overdone scenes, was the implication that Alan Turing allowed a Soviet spy to remain on his team for fear of being outed as a homosexual. That implies that he was a coward and indeed, a traitor, and it's a pure invention. Scandalous.
But apart from that, it is a very good film, highly recommended. The performances are superb, even Kiera Knightley, almost believable as a math prodigy in love with Turing. But Benedict Cumberbatch outdoes himself in making Turing, the enigma, the autistic genius, not just believable but magnificent. Because in the end, the film is telling us this: without this difficult, arrogant, snobbish, impatient, terribly wounded gay man, we might very well have lost the war. Thank God for the strange ones, the different ones, it tells us. And that is a very important message.
Channel 87, the BBC channel on Rogers, is showing back to back episodes of the divine "Sherlock" today, at 6, 8 and 10. Yesterday I finally got to see one I'd missed when they first aired. Cumberbatch is at risk of being typecast as an autistic genius, but my God, he does it well. The series is, once again, TV at its best. If you can help it, don't miss "Sherlock."
"She was indeed," I said, "only she didn't talk about it for many years."
"You must be very proud of her," she said.
And I am. Yes, my mother was one of those young women typing madly away at Bletchley, as shown in the film "The Imitation Game." She was working there when she met my father the Yank soldier boy, in the fall of 1944. I wonder what she told him she did - because she could not have told him the truth.
The film is flawed, yes, as many commentators have pointed out, in the allowances it takes with the facts. Apparently Polish cryptographers were far more important in breaking the Enigma code than they're given credit for, for example. But the only thing that truly bothered me, beyond the overwhelming score and a few overdone scenes, was the implication that Alan Turing allowed a Soviet spy to remain on his team for fear of being outed as a homosexual. That implies that he was a coward and indeed, a traitor, and it's a pure invention. Scandalous.
But apart from that, it is a very good film, highly recommended. The performances are superb, even Kiera Knightley, almost believable as a math prodigy in love with Turing. But Benedict Cumberbatch outdoes himself in making Turing, the enigma, the autistic genius, not just believable but magnificent. Because in the end, the film is telling us this: without this difficult, arrogant, snobbish, impatient, terribly wounded gay man, we might very well have lost the war. Thank God for the strange ones, the different ones, it tells us. And that is a very important message.
Channel 87, the BBC channel on Rogers, is showing back to back episodes of the divine "Sherlock" today, at 6, 8 and 10. Yesterday I finally got to see one I'd missed when they first aired. Cumberbatch is at risk of being typecast as an autistic genius, but my God, he does it well. The series is, once again, TV at its best. If you can help it, don't miss "Sherlock."
January 1, 2015
the Brown sisters
Those of you who read the NYT will know this story - that a man photographed his wife and her sisters every year for 40 years, with stunning and very moving results. We watch beautiful faces age and crumple, slender bodies expand and droop - and yet the eyes and attitude and sisterly love are unchanged. Gorgeous.
2014
1975
See all the years:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/10/03/magazine/01-brown-sisters-forty-years.html?smid=fbnytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000
I just came back from a yearly party, the only party I was invited to this Xmas season - a neighbourhood celebration that happens every New Year's day afternoon. It's a great opportunity to catch up with people I've known for many years, some for decades, as I've lived in this house for nearly 30 years. I stood with one group trying to make sense of the Ford brothers, then another discussing our daughters who grew up and went to Brownies together, another discussing the fate of Riverdale Farm, where it seems the city is trying to get rid of the animals which are its whole raison d'être, with another talking about how tiring yet exhilarating teaching is and what we are doing now. John the widower rode his bike through Africa two years ago and across Canada last year; this year he is driving with his new girlfriend through the United States to Panama. Another couple want to learn to weave in Peru, a third are leaving tomorrow for Trinidad. The happiest couple among our children is a young Cabbagetown woman officially married to her spouse, who's what my daughter would call a tranny, once a man, now a woman, now driving a truck in a northern Ontario town where they are completely accepted and at home. She may run for city council.
Happy 2015, Cabbagetown, best 'hood in the country. And to you out there, I hope your celebrations were everything you'd hoped, and that you've eased into this bouncing new new year.
2014
1975See all the years:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/10/03/magazine/01-brown-sisters-forty-years.html?smid=fbnytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000
I just came back from a yearly party, the only party I was invited to this Xmas season - a neighbourhood celebration that happens every New Year's day afternoon. It's a great opportunity to catch up with people I've known for many years, some for decades, as I've lived in this house for nearly 30 years. I stood with one group trying to make sense of the Ford brothers, then another discussing our daughters who grew up and went to Brownies together, another discussing the fate of Riverdale Farm, where it seems the city is trying to get rid of the animals which are its whole raison d'être, with another talking about how tiring yet exhilarating teaching is and what we are doing now. John the widower rode his bike through Africa two years ago and across Canada last year; this year he is driving with his new girlfriend through the United States to Panama. Another couple want to learn to weave in Peru, a third are leaving tomorrow for Trinidad. The happiest couple among our children is a young Cabbagetown woman officially married to her spouse, who's what my daughter would call a tranny, once a man, now a woman, now driving a truck in a northern Ontario town where they are completely accepted and at home. She may run for city council.
Happy 2015, Cabbagetown, best 'hood in the country. And to you out there, I hope your celebrations were everything you'd hoped, and that you've eased into this bouncing new new year.
