Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 33

The Crown in the snow

A day to be grateful not to have to go anywhere - slushy rain all day and soon snow. My job involves sitting here thinking and tapping, warm and dry. So that's what I did. 

Watched another episode of The Crown last night, a shocking exposé of BBC journalist Martin Bashir forging documents and lying to convince Diana to be interviewed by him. It all unfurls like a Greek tragedy, the curse of the House of Atreus, being continued now by Harry and Meghan's ill-advised onslaught. Why don't they just shut up? Surely they want to mend relations, at least between the brothers, rather than an endless airing of grievances. I've not watched their new doc, was relieved the first shows were about racism, but now apparently it's a full-on attack on family.

Just shut up. 

I'll watch more The Crown tonight, as the snow falls. My neighbour has draped Xmas lights around the 25 foot spruce in her garden. I'm watching them dance now in the wind. Light in the darkness.

Blowing own horn department: it was a good term at U of T, and students have written to say so. 

Thank all of you for your honesty and trust in sharing some intensely personal stories, in listening deeply, and in giving respectful constructive criticism to us on our writing journey. Thank you, Beth, for encouraging us to go to those dark places,  to experiment with structure, voice, dialogue  and tone, to speak our truths in a safe environment. 

I recall feeling more than a little uncomfortable that first week, yet the courage and vulnerability shown by this group gave me the strength to share my own stories, so thank you all. And thanks, too, to Beth for guiding, supporting and teaching but especially for creating this safe space for everyone to share.

My gratitude to the whole class, able to show immense compassion while providing constructive criticism. I’ve never taken a writing class before but I’m pretty sure this was a unique and special experience. 

Yes, yes it was — a special group of student writers and a most enjoyable term.

Throwback Thursday: my friend Karin Wells and I in a production at Carleton University in 1969. Oh those smooth faces — babies. I just went to Settings on Zoom and turned the feature that makes you look better up to the max. Because looking at myself on Zoom, these days, hurts.  

RIP Andy Rhodes: actor, musician, writer, madman

Lani just called; our dear friend Andy Rhodes has just died in Vancouver, aged about 74. Andy was one of a kind, a writer and musician with a wild sense of humour and enormous talent; an obstreperous guy, too. Lan and I met him in 1975 when we were touring the Kootenays in B.C. with a Vancouver theatre troupe. Andy, a draft dodger, had built himself a geodesic dome near New Denver and was one of the Valhallelujah Rangers, named after the Valhalla mountain range, who wrote skits and played music; they all came to see our show. This tall lanky lunatic and I had a little affair and he invited me back to New Denver to work with the Rangers, which I did in one of the grand adventures of my life. We were a big group living communally above the Legion in a large open space that had no running water; we bathed in Slocan Lake. We put together a show and toured B.C. prisons and old folks homes in a van that had no second gear. Andy and I played a flute duet as two musicians who hated each other and as they played, kept trying to stab each other with their flutes. 

That was as close to hippiedom as I got. Should point out, in passing, that all these troupes were paid with government LIP and OFY grants. In those days, grasshopper, the government paid young people to make art. Impossible to imagine now. 

Andy moved to Vancouver to become an actor. Lani got us yet another grant, and Andy, Lani, and I, with several others, formed Acme Theatre, which mostly wrote its own shows, except for the infamous El Grande de Coca Cola. Andy had a tempestuous affair with Lan for a time, as he did with most of the actresses in Vancouver, though it wasn't a surprise he ended up alone. He had a number of successful gigs, but things eventually got tough for him; he returned to the Kootenays and his dome for some years, and then back to Vancouver, to PAL. Hard to believe such a high octane man developed dementia, but he did, with several good friends, especially Simon Webb, helping to care for him. 

Thank you for your exuberant talent, Andy, your marvellous humour and musicality and mad, mad ideas. You'll be missed. 

The Hours: Metropolitan Opera in HD, and Lizzo

Quite the week in culture consuming, as a friend pointed out: the ballet, the new Sarah Polley film, and yesterday The Hours, a new opera based on the Michael Cunningham book and subsequent film of the same name, linking Virginia Woolf and her Mrs. Dalloway with one day in the lives of two other women living at different times.

What an impossible thing to make into an opera. And yet it works, as shown in the Met Opera Live in HD production at my local Cineplex. One of the best innovations ever: great theatre and opera in cinemas. Without the excitement of a live show, but a bike ride away with closeups and interviews with the performers and production teams, and much, much cheaper. 

This one stars three of the world's best singers: Renée Fleming, Joyce DiDonato, and Kelli O'Hara, all with superb voices but also excellent actresses. My criticisms - you knew this was coming, right? - were that it was over-produced, with a vast chorus in the background often flailing about reading books or waving flowers, and more importantly, that the music, especially for the two sopranos, sometimes sounded monotonously the same. But mostly, it was daring and affecting, about the horrors of depression, the struggle to make art, and love of many different kinds. "Here is the world, and you live in it," they sing together at the end, "and you try to be. And you try and you try..."

My friend Curtis thought it was brilliant, a triumph. It succeeded in doing what art is for. Touching our souls and enabling us to feel the bliss of being alive. 

Well put, Curtis. Doesn't get better than that.

I raced home to put the chicken in the oven and mash the potatoes, because two of my oldest friends, Jessica and Suzette, were coming for dinner. We go back fifty-five years. Doesn't get better than that. Incidentally, that's not us, above, that's the sopranos. 

A pretty snowfall today. I shovelled but otherwise stayed in, to devour a fridge full of leftovers. Danced with Nicky, read, worked, wrote to you, and another day vanished.

There's an opera in the too-fast passing of time. Let's sing. 

Speaking of singing, in case you missed it, the spectacular Lizzo did a wonderful thing during the People's Choice Awards, inviting a big group of women activists of all backgrounds and causes onstage with her to be recognized. BRAVA to her and to them all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIq87Q4DL0g

Ben McNally's new store, and a Canadian woman you should know about

Yesterday, rode to Ben McNally's new bookstore. His store on Bay Street was elegant and spacious, but he and his wonderful team have been wandering in the desert since before Covid. Now, finally, he's landed on Queen St. East. It's a rough section of town but a lovely tranquil space, unfinished right now but beautiful, perfectly curated, full of deliciousness. 

I was there to pick up my friend Karin Wells's new book, More Than a Footnote: Canadian women you should know. Karin was a roommate in my first apartment in 1968 and in 1970 became a professional actor at the same time. I bought her book not only because I admire her as a broadcaster and writer, but because she dedicated the book to my daughter Anna, among others. She told me she'd heard a great deal about Anna's activism and generosity and wanted to be sure she was included as one of the young "Canadian women you should know." Proud mama here.

Otherwise, discouraged. I received a contract from a magazine, and have to say, it's an appalling piece of work, asking that I sign away everything except my first-born child. As if it's not hard enough to get writing out into the world, we have to deal with greed and bullying in contracts. So — that venue may be gone.

And I'm dealing with the other, where there are issues of copyright. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't go into something solid, like dentistry.

No I don't. But still. 

Women Talking: a triumph

Yesterday was a very good day that ended with a spectacular treat: a showing of Sarah Polley's film Women Talking at TIFF as a guest of my friend Eleanor, who afterward interviewed Polley and Miriam Toews, the writer of the book. 

The film is a feast, one to see again, a chamber piece set in a hayloft, and it is, yes, women talking — intense, powerful, moving. It's shot in a muted palate, but the performances blaze with truth – phenomenal acting from a fabulous cast, including several stellar Canadian actors among the international superstars. 

It's based on the true story of a Mennonite community in Bolivia where the men drug and rape the women and girls; while the men are briefly away, the women must figure out what to do about their situation. And so they talk. 

So much to love about the film, but I especially appreciated how uncynical and tender is the treatment of the women's faith. They're fervent Christians and often stop to sing hymns together, holding hands. They gather around each other when there's pain or stress. There's a beautiful sequence of boys' faces, the innocent young they hope will not follow the ways of their fathers. The film is stunning. 

Earlier on this terrific day, I had several bits of good news: Toronto Life has accepted an essay to run next spring, and my essay book manuscript may have found a publisher. Substantial rewrites needed for both, particularly the book — how delicious, nothing I love more than editing and rewriting, knowing the words will have a home. It's a rare occurrence. (The key words above are "may have" — nothing definite, nothing signed.)

Midday I was at Carole's class at the Y, where a new exerciser came over to tell me he'd taken my class at Ryerson ten years ago and was thinking of taking it again. And then Sam and Bandit came for a brief visit, so I got to hug my furriest grandson of the floppy ears, who wants to chew everything. He has started his heart medication. 

The negatives — the gridlock, chaos, and congestion of this city downtown, designed to thwart and infuriate its citizens in every conceivable way, just appalling — road work thoughtlessly set up for maximum inconvenience. And then, the victory of Warnock in Georgia was so inconceivably close, when his opponent is barely literate, a profoundly stupid and unethical man, and yet nearly 50% of the voters approved of him. Horrifying.  

But one last treat just before bed - Wordle in two in about a minute. Leapt into a guess of a word using the other vowels with S in the fourth slot, and there it was. Occasionally there are those days when it all works. I relished every moment. 

news re Chris of "Chris Walks," the blog to the left

Some who read my blog also read the blogs to the left, especially those by my dear friend Chris in "Chris Walks." He blogs nearly every day about his astonishing life change from inner-city apartment dweller to lord of half an acre on the Gulf island Gabriola, his beloved pets and garden, his friends, cooking, reading, walks, and new volunteer activities. But he's been silent for days, and we know he has had significant health issues in the past, a cause of great concern.

A few days ago, I wrote to our mutual friend Bruce, who'd also been worried and done some research. There was a power outage on Gabriola a few days ago, and we gather it's still not back on. Internet is out, so no Chris. We assume he'll be back as soon as he can.

A beautiful day yesterday, crisp and bright; Toronto Lynn and I chose a great day to go to Kleinburg for a walk in the woods and then lunch and viewing at the McMichael gallery. A perfect afternoon, in fact: nature, lunch, art, and a little tour through the gift shop.

As lovely in late fall as in summer, no? In its way. We can see the beautiful bones of the deciduous trees.  In the gallery: an exhibition by Kurelek of Jewish life in Canada - a passover feast in Halifax A major retrospective of Vancouver's Gathie Falk, associated with ceramic shoes and stacks of lemons, I didn't know she painted - loved this still life bursting with colour
At home, my very own Gathie Falk print, teacups and stars; she donated it as a fundraiser for a Vancouver theatre, my parents bought it, I inherited it. Delicately pretty. 
More sun today. Sam wrote that he just went to pick up his dog's heart medication; on the bottle was printed "Bandit Dobie." The responsibilities of fatherhood. He's learning the hard way. 

Maddaddam and The Fabelmans

Many disadvantages to living in the inner city, but much pleasure too. I read a great review of the latest National Ballet production, Maddaddam, adapted from the Margaret Atwood dystopian novels. How to turn such a thing into dance?! I rarely go to the ballet, but — let's see this one. Yes, tickets available for closing night, including the cheapest, high up on the side, for $75. Annie and I will give these a try.

What a glorious evening! Stunning dancing, fabulous original music played by a full orchestra, and a completely incomprehensible story, at least to someone who has not read the novels, but it didn't matter. A feast, a production that could be in New York or London but is here, close to home, and in one of the most gorgeous buildings in all Toronto.

And at the end, during the curtain call, a little old lady walked on stage: Madame Atwood herself, tiny in the midst of the willowy dancers, to a rapturous standing ovation. Made me proud to be Canadian. And we loved our view over the orchestra pit and the stage. 

our view before the show started
the chic multi-story lobbies, the entire audience in black (Annie was in red and I, orange...)
The curtain call with the tiny writer in the middle.

On Tuesday, watched my favourite TV show Sort Of, CBC, it's so good. And Friday, to see The Fabelmans with Ken, Spielberg's autobiographical film about his childhood and beginnings as a filmmaker. At the end, Ken turned to me and said, "What 20 minutes would you cut?" I agreed, it's too long and slow, a good film with great performances, but strangely unmoving, I think because this boy is so blessed with two loving if eccentric parents and an innate talent and drive, we don't feel sorry for him as he suffers anti-Semitism and his parents' divorce. He and writer Tony Kushner fell in love with their characters and didn't go nearly deep enough. Don't cry for me, Steven Spielberg. 

So glad to be out and about; it really does feel like emerging from hibernation, even though the viruses are all out there and as virulent as ever. 

Spent today cleaning madly, scrubbing away the detritus of many tenants, including the Ukrainian family, in preparation for the new tenant who just moved in. It's work, landladying.

A friend just sent this: cigarettes named for my great-grandfather. My friend thinks they came out after the old man died in 1909, to capitalize on grief and sentiment. Problem is, Gordin died at age 56 of cancer of the esophagus after a lifetime of smoking. However. Nice to see his name and face, even on cigarettes.

We had bad news this week about Bandit, the beloved and beautiful dog. It turns out he has a serious congenital heart condition, aortic stenosis, apparently not uncommon among large breed dogs. He will need to take blood pressure medication and is at risk of ... well, we won't discuss it. Let's pray not.
Pot of soup on the stove, Bandit coming over with his human. There will be hugs. And bones. 

nice words for this writer, and disgust for Bill 23

Haven't boasted about kind words recently, so ... today's the day, hooray. 

Nice words about the Star article: Thanks for sharing Beth’s excellent and thoughtful article. Having been apartment dwellers for years when our kids were growing up, I agree it can be an excellent place for kids to live. Almost everyone on our floor had kids and our doors were always open for them to run back and forth visiting their friends. It was a wonderful time of friendship and sharing.

And this from a writer friend: THANK YOU for that wonderful piece you wrote in Brevity. I read it at JUST the right time, before my lectures started and I was fretting about not being an expert & getting imposter syndrome & reading your piece & recognizing that the lectures are an opportunity to share what I DO Know, and that it's a gift, really put things into perspective. (I did the lectures, learned a ton, would do some things differently, but ultimately it was all great!) Also loved your piece in the Star about apartment living. 

Thank you both!
Today's one of those days I wish Mum and Auntie Do, tennis lovers, were here to see Canada's triumph at the Davis Cup. Though she loved her life here, Mum was a bit condescending about Canada, but I'm sure that would have changed with all these hot young Canadian tennis stars. 
Today's thrill: a fat little ovenbird pecking away on my deck. I'm concerned; he should be flying south with his team. Instead, he's hanging around my back door, with his spotted thrush breast and a lovely orange stripe on his bean. He's a warbler but I have not heard him warble. Honoured to host you, little friend.  Today's disgust: the passing of Bill 23, the decimation of the Greenbelt for more sprawl. Let's hope there's lots of civil disobedience for this hateful government. If the brave souls in Iran and China can take on their loathsome leaders, we can too. 
Just tell me where and when. 

"It's okay to raise kids in apartments" : Toronto Star op-ed

This article is in the Star today. It's a subject that matters deeply to me, as we battle the dinosaur premier and his henchmen, a pack which now unfortunately seems to include our mayor. 

https://www.thestar.com/opinion/contributors/2022/11/27/children-can-grow-up-just-fine-in-rental-apartments-instead-of-sprawl-focus-on-affordable-housing-and-greater-density-in-the-city.html

My friend in Vancouver tells me the new B.C. premier started moving instantly on housing; he has proposed a city-provincial partnership to buy old hotels and turn them into housing for marginalized people. Brilliant! He also wants to create a safe space for people who are too mentally ill to be abandoned to the streets. That's the kind of positive, progressive thinking we need. Instead, we in Ontario have: let's turn farmland into expensive houses and make our developer friends, who by the sheerest coincidence have bought those particular plots of land, even richer. 

(Oh, and let's send a $200 cheque as a bribe to families with children, to show them how much we care. My daughter, who could use the bucks, sent her kids to school with the cash to give to their teachers for supplies in the classroom.) 

An assistant Star editor got in touch about the piece. I thought I recognized his name, and we ascertained that his mother once took my course at Ryerson. Feeling old much, Beth? 

Gave myself a Covid test yesterday; it's negative, just a cold and not even much of one. But I cancelled seeing The Fabelmans with Ken and am masking more diligently than usual. Yesterday, riding my bike to the market in the sun, the snow gone, such pleasure. Monique came over to sit by the fire and toast Dad's hundredth birthday with me, Chateauneuf-du-Pape in $1 Rosenthal crystal. Today, the skilful Kingston editor Ellie Barton whom I hire to edit all my work, including this essay, and whom I've never met, comes for coffee, and later, Anna and the boys are here for dinner, to celebrate their great-grandfather who died decades before they were born.

So much of writing is sitting alone with the words, struggling to get them right, then trying to find a place where others can see them too. Especially with books, it's a tortuous process that can take years, and sometimes result in nothing, closed doors, no readers, no outside eyes. I'm grateful another short piece has found its way out into the world. 

And to blog subscribers: this new way of emailing the blog, I now see, means ads are attached. I dislike that but am not sure there's a way to avoid it. We'll try. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

toasting a hundredth birthday

My bloggee friends — many of you subscribed to this blog and received it automatically in your inbox via email. And then suddenly, in July, that for some incomprehensible reason stopped, tho' it took ages before I found out. Now my tech whiz Patrick has figured out how to fix it, we think. So I hope this is once more going out to you all. We'll see.

Tonight I'm drinking a special toast. Tomorrow is my father's 100th birthday; he was born Nov. 26 1922. A friend gave me a Chateauneuf du Pape a few years ago, and I just opened it. Normally I'd never drink such a good wine alone, I'd wait for a festive communal occasion, but tonight, tomorrow night, and the next, I'll drink toasts to my dad. 

And in a special glass. I buy my wineglasses at Doubletake for $2 each; this week they had a bunch for $1, and I saw a few nice ones, managed to find three matching. At home I discovered they're Rosenthal crystal, worth $25 each. 

So — a toast to my father's 100th, with a good wine in a nice new glass. And on a nice new tablecloth, which was a $5 remnant at Doubletake.

Yesterday was constant busyness. Patrick came in the morning to work out various tech issues. Robin the roofer came to clear the eavestroughs. I taught a two-hour home class on Zoom at midday and a three hour one in the evening; seven writers came here, two beamed in on Zoom, and eight of them read. Exhausting and marvellous. 

I was recuperating from the day at 10 when the front door opened and Tom arrived; I'd forgotten Tom sleeps here on Thursday nights. We always sit and chat. So I did more talking yesterday than I usually do in a week. My throat hurt and I thought I might be sick. But I think it's a bit of a cold and a lot of talk. 

Just finished Elizabeth McCracken's The Hero of This Book, enjoyed it immensely. It's a memoir about her mother but she has to call it a novel because her mother didn't want her daughter the writer to write about her. Vivid, funny, honest, moving. Recommended.

Every day, when I walk into my house, I think of my brothers and sisters in Ukraine and am flooded with gratefulness for heat, light, water. Their courage and fortitude is unfathomable.