Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 3

The walking wounded, and the joy of Marcel the shell with shoes on

It’s Wednesday at midday, so you know where I should be — where I’ve been at this time for the last thirty-five years, if possible — in Carole’s class at the Y. But I’m not, I’m sitting in the kitchen doing nothing. Watching. The cardinal just flew to perch in the rosebush. What a clash of colours, the bright scarlet of the bird and the peachy-pink of what’s left of the flowers. Summer pleasures.

But I’m not feeling much pleasure these days. Besides the actual pain, this stupid accident is causing psychic pain; it has left me feeling vulnerable, frail, slow, old. And hideous; the bruising on my face has bloomed into a patch of black and blue on my chin and lip, lovely. My knee is no longer an open wound, just a wash of purple, green, and brown surrounding the swollen red wound which is scabbing successfully. My right hand sports ten dark scabs of varying size, and my right side is sore, I think maybe a bruised rib or two. My spirit hurts.

Proud, wounded Canadian. I just went to the health food store for Arnica, for the bruising, and I could tell the women in the store were concerned. I do look as if someone punched me in the face. But no. It was Dundas Street.

Life marches on. On Monday, I read the NYT list of the 100 best films of the new century and thanks to Kanopy, watched one I’ve been meaning to watch for ages: Punch Drunk Love. My beloved Bill Nighy said it was his favourite film, and it is delightful, extremely quirky, not at all what I expected, and yet original and engaging. Adam Sandler’s character is obviously autistic and made me think of a Masterpiece show I’m enjoying these days on PBS, Patience, about a young woman whose autism helps her solve, of course b/c this is British, murders.

But even better, yesterday the boys came over while Anna was at work, and we watched Marcel the shell with shoes on. Again, a completely unexpected treat with astonishing depths that delighted me much more than the boys. I found it imaginative, moving, and wise and loved it unreservedly, and I think you will too. Its hero is a one-inch high hermit crab shell with pink tennis shoes, one googly eye, and a tiny, very articulate mouth. Marcel meets a documentary filmmaker who makes a film about him and his quest to reunite with his missing family. An extra delight: one of Marcel’s favourite TV programs is 60 Minutes, (as it is mine), and the actual journalist Lesley Stahl comes to interview Marcel for the program.

I will watch the film again, this time with captions on if possible, because Marcel has a lot to say, and I missed some. Don’t wait for the children in your life; watch it your grownup self. A must watch, a thoughtful treat of innocence, humour, and wisdom.

Last night dear Toronto Lynn and her partner Nick came over with a picnic basket full of deliciousness, and we had supper on the deck. One of Marcel’s messages: friendship will help get you through. Yes indeed.

So will persistence and patience and courage. I think of people who have a ten-ton boulder dropped onto them — a cancer diagnosis or heart attack or stroke, the death of a loved one, being fired, being dumped. I just tripped and fell. Still, the experience of running for the streetcar on the way to a party one minute, and the next, lying face down in the middle of the street in shock and pain has stayed with me. A perfect embodiment of one of my favourite sayings: If you want to make God laugh, tell Her your plans.

I will do my best to stop reading about the rise of the fascist dictatorship to the south of us and elsewhere; the bad guys on the side of evil, greed, lawlessness, and appalling cruelty are winning right now, unbelievable as it seems. @#$%3  them.

Two kinds of treasure: the last roses, and the boys at a diner for lunch yesterday. They were playing a game to see how often they could make the creamers land on the bottom. Very competitive, many rules. Wearing “Every child matters” t-shirts. And yes, yes, yes, they do.

 

Today I’m taking an online webinar by a friend I made in San Miguel, Jennifer Leigh Selig. The rest of the week, sitting here, watching the garden. Have picked a bowl of cherry tomatoes already, lettuce, a few beans, lots of basil and other herbs; the bounty has begun. There’s a New Yorker cartoon I cannot of course share with you, much as I’d love to — a man gesturing to the spectacular country landscape he’s standing in, with mountains and waterfall, and saying to his dog, “Behold, my antidepressant.”

Mine is considerably smaller and more local. But it’s there. And it is.

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A bit of a fall, Wonder Woman, and My Mom Jayne

An adult I knew in childhood had a cheerful saying when something bad happened. “Into each life, a little rain must fall,” she’d trill. Yesterday, on a beautiful bright Saturday evening, into my life indeed a little rain didst fall. And so did I.

My friend Robin Pacific was celebrating her birthday with a huge party at an art gallery; she’d decided to sell all the artwork she’d created over years to her guests, with profits to go to War Child. She’d be serving lobster rolls and has the most interesting group of friends; I’d been looking forward to this for ages. Set off dressed in my new floaty wide-legged pants from Monoprix, feeling as chic as this old bird can get. Got to Dundas Street, saw the streetcar stopped nearby, and started to run to catch it at the corner. And WHAM. Hard face plant in the middle of the street. My foot must have tangled in the pants.

An angel appeared; a lovely young woman helped me up, escorted my dazed self to sit on a wall nearby, hovered with sympathy, even produced a bandaid for my banged up knee. A young driver stopped his cab and brought me a bottle of water. The kindness of strangers!

I hobbled home and took stock of the damage — my right knee a bloody mess, right hand with multiple scrapes, right ribs hurting, swollen bruised lip. Asphalt is not a welcoming substance.

Otherwise, hunky dory. Hooray for Tylenol! Wrote to Robin to apologize for missing her grand event. I can type. I can walk. It’s just a fall. The other day I spoke with my 92-year-old friend whose 80-year-old wife recently had a bad fall, after which their kids demanded they move to assisted living. I’m proud that, in shock and pain as I was, I walked home and fixed myself up. And even, then, had a glass of rosé and chicken soup from the freezer. No lobster rolls unfortunately.

So today, on this Canada Day long weekend, the city is silent, and your trusty correspondent is moving slowly. But moving. Just danced – slowly – with Nicky and the group on Zoom.

In other news – it’s Pride weekend. My dear friend and writing student Diana walked in the trans march last night as Wonder Woman. Gorgeous.

On Thursday I went to visit a friend who’s 88 and also had not long ago to move to assisted living. Last year we’d hop on our bikes and meet for a movie and a meal, but various health issues defeated him, temporarily. The move was hard, but he has come through, and I was thrilled to see his usual warm smile. This aging business is tough.

Friday I watched the last The Agenda with Steve Paikin on TVO, where his mystery guest was … his father, 91, humane and wise. At the end, Steve, choking up, said, “You’re the finest man I’ve ever met,” and his dad said, “I’m very proud of you, Steve.” It was an intimate familial moment shared with us on television, very moving. Such an intelligent show, will be sorely missed.

Then I watched a doc called My Mom Jayne, by Mariska Hargitay of Law and Order fame, about her mother Jayne Mansfield, who died in a car crash when Mariska was three (and in the back seat of the car with her siblings.) Who knew this woman who’s famed as a dumb blonde spoke five languages and played both violin and piano? She wanted to be a serious actress, but had big breasts and platinum blonde hair, exploited both to get started, and subsequently those were the only parts she got. In the doc, Mariska makes a huge discovery about her parentage. Again, unexpectedly moving.

I just took off the bandage; my right knee is bloody and black and blue. But I’m here. I’m sentient and mobile. There’s food in the fridge and more importantly rosé. I have a roof, friends, and family; Sam is coming over later to help. Yes, into each life a little rain must fall, but we’ll just shake off those raindrops and move right along.

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Beloved old friends

War. Yes, a wise and thoughtful solution to the world’s problems, bombing the shit out of each other. Go team human. Nightmare image: the orange blowhole at the mike crowing about bombs, behind him the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Hegseth, Rubio, and worst of all, Vance. There are three people on earth whose faces I confess have a violent impulse to punch: our @#$@# lying premier Ford, Stephen Harper, and J.D. Vance. Our poor planet.

As of now, apparently a ceasefire is holding. Go team human. Sigh.

Moving right along, because there’s nothing I can do about that. First, my own good news: the results of my various health tests show that so far, my insides are A-OK. So lucky! Whatever’s wrong isn’t what I feared, so we’ll cope. Among other things, there’s painful osteoarthritis of the right thumb, which I can’t bend and makes opening wine bottles difficult. The doctor suggests starting the day with hand stretches. Can do.

We’re in a heat wave, 33 feeling like 43, brutal outside. My new AC works well downstairs, but upstairs is a steam bath. And yet yesterday, for the first time in years, I ran really well in class at the Y. Art remarked, “You’re full of beans today,” and I replied, “I know! And I don’t know why.” Full of beans during the heat wave makes no sense. And yet, I was.

This week’s treat: on Sunday Annie and I went to a matinée at Tarragon Theatre of After the Rain, with music by Suzie Wilde and book by Rose Napoli. Clever Rose took my course at U of T and was my social media assistant for a while. Suzie’s mother Nancy White is one of my oldest friends; we toured for 3 months in a Young People’s Theatre show in 1971, a way to get to know someone really well. It was wonderful to meet up with her there yesterday. “Do you know the Yiddish word kvelling?” I asked her. She did, and she was, watching her older daughter on stage; her younger, Maddie, is also a musician. The show is fabulous with, I’m sure, a great future. It’s off next to the NAC in Ottawa, but I hope Mirvish is on the case; I sense another huge hit. It was wonderful to celebrate the success of these young women. Brava to everyone involved.

Another treat: a telephone talk with Michelle, who knew my childhood friend Penny during the last two years of her life; the important story of our friendship, begun in 1961, is outlined in the essay Secret under Articles. Talking with Michelle felt like solving a puzzle, helping to close another chapter. Penny told Michelle about her abusive childhood and that she was happily single after making poor choices of partners – making me feel less bad that I’d tried to warn her about one of them, leading to her cutting me off forever. Michelle told me Penny was an inspiration to her. Grateful to hear about a beloved friend from over sixty years ago.

Friday night, dinner with two more old and beloved friends, these from university — Suzette and Jessica, with their husbands, in Suzette’s elegant garden in the Annex. Much talk. The three of us are just the same as we were decades ago. We are also completely different.

We’re none of us good at selfies. I’m wearing a marinière from the Monoprix in Montpellier; Lynn has the same one.

And finally, I have at last finished Dad the Red, an essay I’ve had hanging around for years, about the FBI files on my father and our relationship. At least, I’ve finished this draft, #4,763. Inspired by Jean-Marc, who uses ChatGPT all the time, I explained to the chatbot what the essay is and asked where I should send it. In seconds, a list of valid suggestions, followed by a question – did I want it to write a cover letter? It did, but I will not use it. Apt but generic. Today I read an obituary in the Star that was obviously written by ChatGPT: the anodyne language, the clichés, the undeniable core of truth. Can you imagine, a chatbot writing your obituary? The final insult.

The roses are magnificent but because of the heat will be over too soon. I, however — if my health results are any indication — will not.

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the fascist personality exposed

Why did Trump leave the G7 early? Because he’s a sociopathic toddler who found himself in a terrifying situation — surrounded by competent adults and cameras. In his first press conference, he lauded Russia then made a stupid mistake, and there’s no question his deficiencies would have gotten ever more evident. So either his team pulled him out, or he realized he was over his head and bailed instantly. Pretty galling to have to flee, after such a lovely parade in his honour.

CBC’s Ideas had a fantastic program exploring Theodore Adorno’s theory of the authoritarian personality, which goes a long way to explaining why we are where we are. They presented the “F scale” which tests fascist tendencies: people who are conventional and hostile toward those who are not, superstitious, paranoid about government and the future, value stereotypes, power, aggression, and toughness, reject being “imaginative, tender-minded, self-critical”, and have an exaggerated concern about sex, at least, other people’s sexual choices and activities.

Recognize anyone?

Speaking of fascist tendencies, watching or reading the news these days is more unbearable than ever. Mind-boggling. Can you imagine if Republican senators had been thrown to the ground and handcuffed during Obama’s tenure? If he’d run roughshod over every known convention of democracy and decency? The other side would have gone mad; Fox “News” would have exploded. But these thugs get away with doing whatever they want. Grotesque.

Just watched a few moments of a video posted online — a woman on an airplane attacking the woman sitting behind her who’s wearing a mask — pulling her hair and insulting her. We are witnessing the flinging open of Pandora’s box. Trump and his ilk have lifted the lid off the box containing human cruelty and callousness, which was always there, of course, but muted by civilization. It’s all permissible now, in the new fascist America. Perhaps that lid will never be fitted back on.

Okay, moving right along before I get too sad: it’s summer. The roses are flourishing, and there was one solitary red cherry tomato; all the rest are still hard and green. I had an ultrasound — strange to lie there with the wand moving over my belly for the first time since I was pregnant with Sam in 1984 — plus blood test and x-ray of my swollen thumb, will hear the results next week. Moving right along.

Sunday, I went to a Luminato presentation of An Oak Tree, by British actor Tim Crouch. It sounded interesting, every performance using a different local actor who had not read the script. Perhaps I saw it on a bad day, but it did not work at all for me. The actor was Rebecca Henderson, who was terrific — valiant as he whispered instructions to her all the way through, telling her exactly what say, or handing her a script to read. The worst was when he impersonated a hypnotist, set up eight chairs in a row, and invited audience members to come up. Not a single person moved. Yes, it was a Sunday matinée, so reserved Canadians hadn’t been lubricated at dinner, but still, I think it was because we didn’t trust him. I found it all awkward and manipulative. A no from me. Interested to hear if anyone differs.

On the other hand, I finished Orbital. An extraordinary book, well worth reading, though it’s slow, heavy going, so much rapturous prose about the flight of those astronauts around our lovely, fragile earth. Samantha Harvey is an incredible writer and obviously a meticulous researcher; you’d think she had been in space herself. Which she has not.

Today’s excitement: a former student of mine, now a colleague who also teaches memoir at U of T, asked me to speak via Zoom with her class today at 2. But there was a big storm at lunchtime, and at 1.15, the internet went down; Rogers said it was down in the whole neighbourhood. Didn’t have a phone number for the teacher, and U of T didn’t have one either. No way to get in touch. And then I remembered: Jean-Marc is with Bell. Luckily he was home and as welcoming as ever, so I marched down the street in the rain with my computer and books; he got me set up on his dining room table, and, as my mother would say, Bob’s your uncle. (Must look up where that expression came from.) I loved speaking with her class and miss having my own this term.

The rain has stopped; the smell of wet roses is intoxicating. Enough to forget the horrors for a minute or two. And wait … it’s after 5. Time for rosé!

Wish I had some cartoons to share with you, but never again. Instead, my cat. Living blood pressure medicine.

Wait – one more thing! A gift! Posting this, I saw that someone had commented on an older post. Someone read my post about my childhood friend Penny and responded. I’d hoped someone would. She knew Penny and can update me on her life. Another joy of being a writer. Thank you to the gods.

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roses, birthdays, high school, disappointment, and a happy story

First, importantly: I just counted over 100 buds on the William Morris rose. There was a bit of rust on the leaves which I cut off, and one small errant caterpillar trying to pillage, now gone. I go out every day to make sure my rosebush is okay. That I can manage.

Less important but very disappointing: I just heard from the San Miguel conference that I will not be asked back next year. I’d applied to teach memoir again next February, sure it would be a go since I heard such positive things about my workshop this year. I loved being there, meeting all kinds of people, surrounded by writers, not to mention the joys of Mexico and the three days at the airport in Mexico City with John Irving. But no. I don’t understand it, but that’s life. For once, surely it cannot be because I’m an old white woman, because many of the teachers there are the same, not to mention the attendees. Obviously, they have someone better in mind.

No, cut that, no bitterness, girl. Who knows why? No point thinking about it. I’ll find somewhere else to go next winter.

But on top of that, PicRights, the bottom feeding bullies who troll the net looking for what they call copyright violations are still hounding me, insisting on many thousands of US dollars in payment because years ago I shared a few New Yorker cartoons with you. Now of course all deleted. If I don’t pay, they threaten legal action. I’ve already paid several hundred dollars to a lawyer for notes back to them defending myself – my blog, a minuscule diary-type account of my personal life, how could that possibly interfere with the livelihood of New Yorker cartoonists? But there you go. Surreal and very unpleasant.

And at his work yesterday, my son was bitten on the ankle; the swelling was so big and immediate, he went to a walk-in clinic which thinks it was a rat bite. Tetanus shot and blood tests.

Plus everything that’s happening south of the border and elsewhere. Nauseating.

However — roses. The weather is good, hot. The lineup waving signs at Grandmothers Against Racism this morning was smaller, but still heartening, lots of cars honking approval at us. “You guys are amazing!” said one woman, though it’s hard to see what’s amazing about standing with a sign, to indicate we care about human life and human rights.

My neighbour’s daughter goes to Rosedale Heights School of the Arts, where Sam went, and she recently asked me to sign a petition to keep the principal, who’s been there 33 years (!!) at the school; the school board wants at long last to transfer him.

And then she said, Isn’t that your son?! It certainly is — the petition features Sam and Barry Sketchley at a school reunion some years ago, a picture I took — chosen I guess to represent every happy student from the school. LOL. Oh, and feel free to sign! Barry is not replaceable.

I went with Annie to see Jane Austen Wrecked my Life again and liked it even more the second time. It’s bilingual, sweet, not particularly deep but well cast and shot, lovely to look at, interesting quirky characters including my friend Liz, fabulous music, and it’s about writing, what’s not to like?

Carole is the lithe, athletic grandmother who teaches the Wednesday Y class a group of us have been taking for over 30 years. When I noticed her 77th birthday would fall on a class day this year, I emailed the others suggesting we do something for her. A card was smuggled around for everyone to sign, and after the suggestion of a Lululemon gift card, I went to the mall and bought one; many class members contributed. We gave her the card and gift after the class today, and she was surprised and moved.

But I confess: I organized this out of strict self-interest. I need this class, need Carole’s positivity and energy and the bonds all of us have made in the gym, this strange collection of friends in shorts and spandex and sneakers. So the more Carole knows how grateful and appreciative we are, the better. Pure selfishness, on my part.

And best of all, yesterday a dear friend took me to lunch and told me the most beautiful story. He was adopted at birth, had a great childhood and little interest in finding his birth family, but finally, at age 75, did the Ancestry DNA test and found a close match who turned out to be his half-sister. And through her, he met his birth mother, who’d given him up at 22 and now is a vigorous 97. She at last embraced the son she gave up 75 years ago, and he now has a whole new family and knows where he came from.

His story made me so happy. We can forget, in the chaos and violence of our current reality, the only things that really matter —family, connection, love.

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Charlie Angus’s mother for Gaza, and the amazing Orbital

Exciting news: I’ve been asked to teach a workshop on memoir writing at the Kingston WritersFest in September! It’s one of the best Canadian festivals, one I’ve long wanted to attend. Now I’ll be there as a participant, able to attend talks and workshops, like in San Miguel. Thank you, Merilyn Simonds!

Perfect weather here, at last — mild, sunny through a bit of a haze, probably from the wildfires in the west. Yes, the smoke reaches this far. The garden is underway; in a few weeks, lots of blooms. How does it happen, every year, from shrivelled brown nothingness to a burst of glory in only a few weeks?

More good news: I went to Mrs. Angus’s weekly protest Grandmothers Against Genocide at Bloor and Bay at 8 a.m. on Wednesday, meeting Annie and some of her social justice friends. Not a big crowd but signs waving on all four corners. Lots of honking and bike bell ringing in solidarity, although also, as I reported on FB, some anger, raised middle fingers, and one guy cycling by who shouted, “Fuck your mother, I hope you die!”

All righty then.

After my FB post, a Jewish writer friend challenged me furiously on FB Messenger, calling me “one of Hamas’s useful idiots.” “What would YOU have done on October 8?” he asked. I replied that Israel has brilliant technology, surely they could have developed a way to target Hamas fighters without slaughtering, to date, 53,000 Palestinians, mostly women and children, destroying everything in sight, and now starving them to death. We exchanged contentious notes back and forth but, after I suggested we should both read Colum McCann’s Apeirogon about this insoluble conflict, ended by discussing books.

I wrote my friend I’m now reading the extraordinary Orbital by Samantha Harvey, which he’d read and agreed — it’s superb, unique, more than worthy of the Booker Prize. Never read anything like it. She somehow imagines with incredible vividness what it’s like to live on a space station, not just for one astronaut but for six different personalities. Space travel is not something I’m particularly fascinated by, and yet in her telling, with her exquisite language, I’m riveted. Highly recommended.

If only Musk and Trump could draw down their battle by discussing the books they’ve recently read. LOL! Loved a FB meme: “Trump and Musk feud over whose father loved them less.” Unfortunately — true.

On another note, I’ve ordered from the library the book everyone is discussing, Miranda July’s All Fours, but it’ll be awhile. There are 541 holds for 225 copies. Sigh. A lowly writer can only dream.

More happy reporting: yesterday I heard children shouting and cheering and went outside to see what was happening — a long line of kids, some with rainbow face paint, holding handmade signs and Pride flags, chanting, “Love is love!” I guess a parade from the school nearby. Everyone, including the teachers, looked proud and happy. Tears of pride and gratitude at being Canadian.

Speaking of which, I’ve been having gut issues which may be leading to back pain. On Monday I saw my doctor, briefly. Thursday I had a blood test and next week will have an ultrasound, to see what’s going on in there. Speedy! And more good news: a dear friend who’s bipolar just spent a few weeks at CAMH, going in suicidal and coming out bouncing with positive energy. All, of course, free, thanks to Tommy Douglas. May I repeat: pride and gratitude at being Canadian.

Saw a program on PBS, to which I recently sent a donation because it’s an endangered species, about memory and aging. Since my grandmother had dementia, memory is something I have on my radar. His prescriptions: exercise and meditate every day; learn something new; lift weights; take probiotics and various supplements, most of which I thought excessive (choline? tyrosine?) but yes to Vitamins D and B; limit alcohol (hmmm) and prioritize sleep. Drink green tea, and eat blueberries, leafy greens, garlic, mushrooms, and onions, wild caught oily fish, healthy oils (olive, avocado, coconut,) walnuts, and raw cacao. I’ll have to make do with my daily dose of dark chocolate.

All righty then. Got most of that covered.

Oh, and banish what he calls ANTs: automatic negative thoughts. Write them down, he said, and ask yourself, Are they true?

I’ll take that to heart. “For some time, I’ve accomplished little because I’m a lazy slug.”

“Is that true?”

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Lots of laughs

Blog May 30, 2025

The cool spring continues. Not complaining, as the heat will slam in soon enough, and Canadians in the west are being evacuated already due to forest fires. So rain and cool temperatures are welcome.

I was on my way early Wednesday morning to a rally organized by Charlie Angus’s mother — we see where he gets his idealistic political smarts from, what a fine man he is. His mother was launching Grandmothers Against Genocide, to stand at the corner of Bloor and Yonge at 8 a.m. So I set off on my bike at 7.50, but most of the way up Sackville Street, which is uphill, I changed gears and my back wheel froze. The bike would not move. Tried to fix it, could not, decided to lock it up and go anyway, but then a man came up offering to help. And as he tinkered, a truck passing by stopped to greet him and then parked, so there were three men gathered around my bike, upside down on the sidewalk.

Finally they gave up but offered to drive it home for me, as it was hard to move. So kind! The best of men. I took it to Cycle Solutions later and after $200 for a new derailleur and chain, home we came. Thanks to my gallant helpers. I’ll try to join the grandmothers next week.

John Sinclair is another gallant helper, a kind friend and smart finance guy whom I met at the Y and who has done my income taxes ever since, and Sam’s too. You may recall, I wrote here about being invited to his apartment with fellow Y stalwarts Carole and James for what we thought was a party. It turned out to be John’s wedding to Vanessa, right there in his living room, so happy for him. There were lots of laughs. This week at class he said, I have something for you. I thought something to do with my taxes. It turned out to be this photograph, that he says is his and Vanessa’s favourite from their wedding. Whenever I’m down, I’ll just look at this.

There’s so very much to be down about. But people are rallying, protests are ongoing; the courts are working overtime in the States. The situation in Gaza is beyond grotesque and appalling. Heartsick.

But I confess, because shallow, I liked watching King Charles’s visit to Canada. I know, it’s absurd, a king and queen in 2025. But it was a good speech watched by many Canadian notables, including Trudeau in his famous I’m-free-now green shoes and the vile, frozen-faced, helmet-headed S. Harper. I liked especially knowing Pierre P. was not allowed into the chamber. It was a glorious day in Ottawa; Carney and Charles and their wives spent lots of time greeting and chatting with well-wishers on the street. The bugler played a mournful Taps before the wreath laying that reminded us all of the young men who died for democracy. Nothing wrong with a bit of pomp and ceremony. I’m glad they came.

Had a note from a writer I met in San Miguel, who loved Midlife Solo and found many points of similarity between our lives – another kindred spirit. Summer plans are afoot, Anna and the boys to Nova Scotia and I dreaming of a trip to Newfoundland to celebrate my 75th, why not? Well, a few reasons, but we’ll see. Watched Field of Dreams again on TCM, marvelling once more that so many films are about connecting, somehow, to distant fathers. In this one, the joy of old-fashioned baseball is the theme, Kevin Costner is good-looking, and James Earl Jones has the voice of god. I’ve spent ages rewriting an essay that I’ve just sent to my friend Isabel Huggan for critiquing. It’s — surprise! — about my father.

Another film I’ll see again just opened: Jane Austen Wrecked my Life, that I saw at TIFF last year as the guest of my friend Liz Crowther, who’s in it. It’s utterly delightful and is now in Canada. Hope you get to enjoy it too.

I was tempted to cut down the giant willow in my garden; although beloved of the birds, there are lots of other trees for them, and this one blocks so much sun and its dropped bits of branch make a huge mess. But it turns out I cannot; it’s protected by the city. I’ll just have to keep paying to have some branches removed to try to allow a bit of sun on my veg patch. The $75 tomato, indeed.

Life in the big city.

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Eli turns thirteen, and Samuel Mariño enchants

There are times I curse this lunatic city, choked with condo construction, struggling with iffy transit under a provincial government actively working to make life here worse. But then there are times I marvel at my luck in living here. Yesterday afternoon, Jean-Marc and I went to gorgeous Koerner Hall; he’d been given tickets to a Tafelmusik concert. I love Tafelmusik but truthfully was dubious about this event, featuring a male soprano.

 Well, colour me thrilled; it was quite stunning. Samuel Mariño, a lovely young Venezuelan, walked onstage in a floor-length skirt slit far up one side, twinkling very high heels, and a sheer net top revealing what looked startlingly like small breasts, though JM said they were pectoral muscles. And then he opened his mouth and out poured a glorious, if occasionally harsh, soprano voice. I had to look up the difference between a counter tenor, who sings in falsetto, and a male soprano who has a naturally high voice. When Samuel spoke, we heard that his speaking voice is high. That’s how he was made.

 What also was interesting about the program was its inclusion of two female composers I’d never heard of, Marianne Martines (1755-1812) and Maria Walpurgis (1724-1780.) The first and second violins of the orchestra are women, as is the diminutive double bassist. Love it.

Samuel spoke movingly about how welcome and safe he feels in Canada. You’re welcome back any time, young man.

Another big event: Eli’s 13th birthday party on Saturday. Once again, I marvel at my daughter’s mad generosity and expertise at party throwing; by the time I left, there were over twenty kids careening around the yard and the house, jumping on the trampoline that was my birthday present to both boys, or playing basketball, or inside the small apartment playing computer games, plus a crowd of mothers in the living room with babies and toddlers. Anna feeds everyone – huge tubs of potato, pasta, and Caesar salads and coleslaw, cut up fruit and veg, and outside, Thomas or Sam barbecuing hotdogs, burgers, and marinated jerk chicken. One tub with alcoholic drinks on ice for grownups and the other with pop for kids. Great was the joy.

It takes a village, as they say. Anna has fostered a close, caring village around her kids and all the other kids. One woman, who has an autistic son Eli’s age, has just taken over care of and will try to adopt an eight-week-old baby girl abandoned by her meth-addicted mother; that lucky babe was cooed over and cuddled by just about every woman there, all looking after their own and everyone else’s children. It did my heart good.

And in the middle, Elijah, handsome, officially taller than I am, and inarticulate. I know many boys don’t talk much, but this boy is truly determined to reveal nothing in speech. How are you? Good. How does it feel to be a teenager? Good. What was the best thing about your party? I asked him last night. I don’t know, he said. A pause. Jumping on the trampoline.

Good answer, and good to hear four words put together.

Below: Ben, who barely left the trampoline the entire afternoon, in the air; Eli in blue; the bedroom; the gang.

We’ve had a week of rain — of course the sump pump broke again — but all is well and the sun is out; it’s going to be 22 today. My viburnum has a serious bug infestation and so does the Mugo pine. The trees at the back have grown so thick and high, there’s not enough sun for my poor veg patch.

But the William Morris rose – ah, the rose. Can’t wait for her to unfurl her beauty for our delight.

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The business of being a writer

Well, this week so far has been a washout, literally, gloomy with major rain day after day. And for an additional treat, last night my heart stopped when I heard a shrieking alarm, which turned out to be the sump pump warning signal in the basement suite; it goes off when the pump stops working. I unplugged the alarm but didn’t know what to do next. Did it mean that, just as the heavens opened, the sump wasn’t pumping? That would mean flooding in Olga’s apartment. I arranged for my handyman to come first thing this morning, but could barely sleep with nightmare images of floods. The basement did flood, years ago, and the tenant then threatened to sue me. Last night I kept saying to myself, it’s not cancer, it’s only water. But still.

To my great relief, there was no flood. The sump was motionless, obviously broken, so Doug and I went to Home Depot to buy a new one. When we got back, Doug began to install it, but then the old one sprang to pumping life. Not broken after all, just resting, I guess, after all that rain.

I’m keeping the new one. It will be needed. Nothing matters more, in this house, than a healthy sump pump. Again, I end up thinking – how long will I be able to cope with this @#$@# house? But right now, I’m coping. New furnace, AC, and hot water tank went in on Tuesday. Let’s hope they last until I croak.

I wrote and sent another letter to the Editor of the Star yesterday, in response to a really nasty, petty column by Martin Regg Cohen about Nate Erskine-Smith, a terrific Torontonian who was briefly housing minister, very knowledgeable and keen about the portfolio, so understandably frustrated to be bypassed by Carney as housing minister in favour of a Vancouver mayor with a very spotty record in that regard. The Star has not run my letter. Phooey. Carney’s first big mistake, as far as I’m concerned. Worrying.

But from the Nice Things department: heard from a young woman from another country who hired me last fall to help her craft essays and letters for admission to Ph.D. programs here and in the States. I had to convince her that her stories were fascinating; that the universities would be looking for authenticity so to use her own voice, not ChatGPT. She aced it and has had several great offers. She wrote, “Your mentorship has changed me as a person. I feel like I have a voice of my own that then makes me feel like my existence is worthy and makes me look forward to life. I appreciate you so much, Beth! I hope to celebrate with you in person this summer!”

So happy for you! Another writer, who hired me to edit his novel and who’s now working on the third draft, wrote,  “How encouraging it is to have you check in on me. You are the only person who supports the work. I don’t need more. Your questions, your comments, and your admonitions have been a compass. You’ve really given me a spark.”

Glad to have been of service to you and literature, my friend.

I’m reading a book from the library by the marvellous Jane Friedman called The Business of Being a Writer. Should have read it many years ago. Jane is sensible and knowledgeable about all aspects of this crazy business. As the least businesslike person on the planet, I could have saved myself a lot of grief if I’d known some of this stuff before. May have to buy my own copy.

I was thrilled to see this beautiful work of art appearing recently on FB. That face means a great deal to me. When I was at theatre school in London in 1971, I was looking at an art book one day, saw this face, saw the painting was hanging in the National Gallery, got on a bus, and went to see the real thing. Every time I’m in London, I go to visit him. “Portrait of a Young Man” was painted by Botticelli in about 1480, around 550 years ago, and yet he could be walking down Parliament Street today. Apparently groundbreaking because an ordinary person is looking straight out, a pose until then reserved for portraits of Christ. I love this solemn young man.

You notice I am not talking about the state of the world, which is unbearable. Today I had an eye test, with drops that blurred my eyes. The lovely optometrist, who’s six foot two, said I wouldn’t be able to read for a bit, and then she said, “Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to read the news these days, it’s all so horrible.”

I agreed. I told her she’s magnificent — tall and beautiful. Especially as she told me I do not have glaucoma — my dad had it — and my eyes are pretty good. I’m lucky, so far — good eyes and good teeth. I do not take those things for granted. I don’t take anything for granted. Especially my lovely old basement-saving sump pump, that I’ve decided to call Charley.

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My letter to the Editor, and meeting Mitchell Cohen

It’s extremely still and quiet in the city, and I was wondering why when I realized: it’s Friday of the May long weekend. Everyone is in a traffic jam getting to the cottage. And we the cottage-less have the city to ourselves.

Yesterday I spent part of the morning writing a letter to the Editor of the Star about our premier’s plan to pay many thousands of dollars to rip out bike lanes. So unbelievably stupid. I’ve written several letters to the Editor that have not been published, but when I feel strongly, it’s worth a try. Today, amazingly, the letter was in! Another aging cyclist wrote to thank me.

Toronto Star, Friday May 16, 2025

Bike lanes are expanding around the world

As a 74-year-old city cyclist, I’m letting our provincial government know that if the bike lanes that keep me alive are ripped up, I will either impede traffic by riding at my usual stately pace on the streets, or I will ride on the sidewalk. And so will most other cyclists.

I propose that we Ontarians take up a collection to send our premier and his team to visit a few forward-looking cities, like Montreal, which has a massive and expanding biking network, London and New York as well, or to some cities in France, which I visited this spring.

In Paris, the ever-growing number of bike lanes separated with concrete dividers, and Parisians and tourists riding safely on them, is mind-boggling, especially for a Torontonian. Public transit in Paris is superb, with dedicated bus lanes that allow the mostly electric busses to speed through traffic jams, digital signs at almost all stops telling when the next bus will arrive, and a metro that efficiently covers the whole city. Air pollution has been cut in half. In Montpellier in the south, streetcars are free for all residents, parking is severely restricted in the city centre, and the mayor is installing hundreds more trees to bring down the heat.

Our premier is focused on making life easier and cheaper for suburban commuters, but most big cities are moving in the opposite direction, discouraging cars and making mass transit efficient, cheap, and accessible, and biking infrastructure far-ranging and safe.

Please, Premier Doug Ford, rather than ripping out life-saving bike lanes and spending countless billions on an absurd tunnel, expand your frame of reference, learn from what sensible politicians in other great cities are doing, and focus for once on inner-city safety and the future of the planet.

Beth Kaplan, Toronto

Did something else huge the other day, for me — I submitted an essay to NYT’s Modern Love column. It’s a Mount Everest for essay writers, like submitting to The New Yorker; many well-known writers have been turned down. But that’s what writers do, we open ourselves up over and over for brutal rejection. Hooray!

It’s notable because I’ve not been writing anything new, or even submitting anything old, for many months. Mostly because I was trying to advance Midlife Solo, writing for the blog, podcast, Substack, newsletter, and on Facebook and Instagram. A lot of writing, none of it submitted for publication. And also because I was just in a slump. Now I’m coming through.

Right now, I have to spend money like water. All the appliances in my house date from 2006, because they were all replaced (by insurance) after the fire here in 2005. So this week, I am having to replace my 20-year-old furnace, air conditioner, hot water tank, and back door screens. At the moment, the new furnace is in a box in my downstairs’ tenant’s bedroom, the new tank is in my dining room, and there are two AC’s in front of the house, the old and the new. Decisions have had to be made, and nothing, for me, is more stressful than that. (Also the copyright bounty hunters are still hounding me to pay thousands for a few pictures posted here decades ago. Unbelievable.) Soon, I hope not to have to think about furnaces etc. for another 20 years, when I’ll be 94 and probably in a nursing home.

LOL. Unimaginable. But possible. Dear friends are getting old, losing memory and mobility, having to move from the comfort of their beloved homes to one room. Phooey.

Had an interesting hour-long Zoom convo with a Stanford academic working in Yiddish and Russian; she enjoyed Finding the Jewish Shakespeare and wanted to find out more about Jacob Gordin and his family in order to write about them. Always happy to talk about my books! Any time. Thank you.

Monday’s thrill was a trip to Costco with Doug. Their garden centre is fabulous, and now I have a lifetime’s supply of Kleenex, toilet paper, and organic French peach-apricot-mango jam. The greatest excitement: a new retractable hose. My current hose, also at least twenty years old, was 100 feet long and required strenuous effort and grubby hands to heave it back onto its stand. This one: you press a button and it rolls itself up. Be still my beating heart.

Tuesday’s thrill was the monthly Cabbagetown lunch lecture, this time from Mitchell Cohen, a long-time advocate of affordable housing and the force behind the gorgeous, community-focussed revitalization of Regent Park. He told great stories of his long career, and what leapt out at me was the irrevocable damage done to this city and province by the loathsome Mike Harris and the buffoonish Ford brothers. Several times, major affordable housing initiatives already underway were destroyed by these cons. Disgusting. A big disappointment for Cohen was that his company, after effecting such brilliant work for much of Regent Park, was not selected to finish the project; another company was, a decision that made absolutely no sense and that I protested with letters at the time. “Did money grease palms to make that happen?” I asked him, but he could or would not answer. The answer is: it’s likely, no?

Cohen is still working on several projects, though also disappointed in Mark Carney’s choice for housing minister, as was I. Nate Erskine-Smith, a local man whose sister went to school with Anna and whose mother is a friend, is keen and smart and had done a lot of work already in the portfolio, but was cut out in favour of Vancouver’s Gregor Robertson, who has a controversial past in housing. I suppose it was for geographic diversity etc., but housing is a vital issue, and Nate was ready to go. A poor choice, Mark. I hope it’s not an indicator of things to come.

I’d thought about using excerpts of my old diaries for the Substack so got one out and realized why it’s a bad idea — because they’re so interesting, to me at least, I could sit and read forever. The random one I got out was from 1972 when I was at LAMDA, a big theatre school in London, confused and tortured by worry about my weight and my future. Luckily, I met Tony Bingham, a wonderfully interesting dealer in antique musical instruments, who became my boyfriend for the rest of the year and was a great support. I found lovely mentions of him in the diary, transcribed them, and sent them to him. I had dinner with Tony and his partner Blossom last year in Hampstead; despite serious health problems, he’s as fascinating and passionate about his work as ever. And Blossom is a treat.

This is a long post, sorry. Today was the summeroo switch – putting away sweaters, getting out shorts, bringing the plants that have wintered inside onto the deck. It’s 29 degrees. Spring was yesterday. Happy summer!

Below, my neighbour’s explosion of colour. And seen at the library … O brave new world.

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