Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 37

3rd Avenue street fair

Click to enlarge. Had the day all planned - walked out the door to discover a street fair on 3rd Avenue right outside Ted's, from 72 to 86. Strolled up and down, much fun. Bought reading glasses, 3 for $25. Love these New Yorker posters.
The hospital just up the street was offering free blood pressure testing and free bike helmets. A big lineup. My blood pressure is normal to low. I didn't get a helmet, I have one.
A hot Saturday with the street closed.
Strolling on - one of the delights of NYC is the preservation of a few old shops, like this barbershop which looks more or less unchanged from when it was founded in 1927. 
The subway - a young woman reading The Screwtape Letters. Someone young reading! Hooray! 
Sidewalk stencil, a desperate message: "Human over-population crisis, 52% wildlife killed off in 40 years." Does anyone notice?
Once again, a surreal message outside the Frick museum - and the usual clump of mesmerized people. Cellphones are a necessity and a cancer. 
A bride being photographed in Central Park.
An oasis.
Human beings just have to leave their mark.
New York portrait - skinny Upper East Side lady reading the Times. 
Birthday party, Central Park - the fathers gather at the back, by the balloons, while the mothers organize the games and cake. Many happy children.

And then I took the 79th Street exit and wandered back to Ted's. This is the first time in memory I've come to NYC and not gone to the theatre. I have stayed in a close radius to home. Glad I came. Glad I'm leaving.

Matisse's Red Studio in NYC

Click to enlarge. Cousin Ted's museum - one of the many shelves filled with antiquities. 
MOMA - Barbara Klunder makes a statement or two.
The Matisse Red Studio exhibit, the main reason I came to NYC besides seeing Ted and Henry. He painted it in 1911, when he could at last afford to design and build his own studio. He painted this for his Russian patron who didn't want it (!) so it languished for decades before being hung in a British nightclub and then eventually making its way to New York. Most of the actual objects and art works he included were assembled here. 
Still Life with Geraniums, 1910. Paintings like this are reason Matisse is one of my favourite painters, far far more than his rival and friend Picasso. They were both brilliant and far ahead of their time, but there's joy and exuberant simplicity in Matisse's work, whereas I feel macho aggression in much of Picasso. Of course, Picasso did some beautiful work. But there is nothing macho in Matisse. 
Not sure if you can see, but the way he has outlined the chair and chest of drawers and stools reminds me of how David Milne does the same thing. Perhaps Milne saw this work or others by Matisse. 
And now for something completely different: the Great Lawn in Central Park. The place is a lifesaver, a pressure cooker valve in this insane metropolis.  I went to the Met Museum, this time touring the Greek and Roman galleries for the first time, an incredible collection of ancient statuary, mosaics, artifacts. Fascinating history of Hadrian, a great leader who presided over a time of stability and relative peace. There are many (uncircumcised) penises on display; it seems men never wore clothes in those days. I myself would love to wear any of these delicate necklaces, made of gold, onyx, carnelian, emerald, garnet, and glass, made two thousand years ago in the first century AD. One of the most important things art galleries and museums do is to remind us how human beings, from the dawn of our time here, have always valued and created beauty.

More New York pix

From "Treasures" - some of the treasures of the NY Public Library's collections, including drafts of the work of all kinds of writers, like Rachel Carson, James Baldwin, Frances Hodgson Burnett - and Beethoven. Kindred spirits, crossing out and annotating. This is the First Folio of Shakespeare's works. Beside it, Virginia Woolf's cane that she took with her to the river Ouse and left on the bank as she waded in.
Charlotte Bronte's portable writing desk
Love this - a drawing by Saul Steinberg entitled "Bleeker and MacDougall, Feb 1523." Those are two of the most famous and populous streets in Greenwich Village. But not, obviously, in 1523.
This I really adored: the original cast of Winnie the Pooh - Pooh, Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga! Minus Piglet, who got lost. The little one is Roo.
Walked from the library to Ted's old, stately club, the Century Club on W. 43, for (wealthy) artists or people in arts related businesses, patrons and such. Paradise, out of the maelstrom - while I waited for him and Henry, sat in the reading room with newspapers, The London Review of Books, the Times Literary Supplement. Could live there for a week or two. And then we had a delicious dinner. Ted's on the board. The service was great. 
Ted, at 81, is a busy lawyer with a clientele of quite a few well-known writers and producers. Henry is a thinker and intellectual. They've been together for 38 years, married for 11. Ted and I talked about family going back generations, thrilling, important - he knows so much more than I do about the New York Kaplans. And then they left to go back to their weekend home in Northport, and I headed for Grand Central to get the #6 uptown, back to their flat on 77th.
The view as I headed to Grand Central, below, with the Chrysler Building above.
On the subway platform, the New York look in the heat - earbuds, phone glued in hand, very short skirts or shorts, cowboy boots. Lots of women wearing nearly nothing - bra-like tops, tiny shorts or skintight workout gear. People of indeterminate sex, a bearded man today in a long flowing gown. What everyone has in common is moving fast. Except for this Torontonian, meandering. 

Some NYC pictures

Click to enlarge.

I walked along 47th St., the centre of the diamond trade, shop after shop stuffed with diamonds. These were the biggest - ridiculous rapper necklaces.

Phew! Near Times Square.
A comedian I know from I think the Daily Show interviewing hapless tourists in Times Square. 
Just not enough people here.
They don't build theatres like they used to. What a beauty this one is. This year's Tony winner is here.
So many people on every street, selling all manner of food from their tiny booths. Love this one - Kwik Meal, "Like us on Facebook, give us a review on Yelp."
Old New York - a Sarah Lawrence backpack with flowers and an aloe leaf. 
They just don't build libraries like they used to. The New York Public Library, with its two famous lions, is utterly magnificent inside and out. And nearby is Bryant Park, another oasis in the jungle.

mourning the Queen in New York

Here I am at Cousin Ted's at 77th and 3rd in NYC, watching BBC news, feeling sad. Shortly after I landed here, I got word of the death of the Queen. She was 2 1/2 years younger than my mother, who grew up with her. My British grandparents adored her. Hard to believe we saw her tiny figure two days ago in her kilt, and so fast, she was gone. 

Also just after landing at La Guardia, I turned on my email and got word that the long list for the CBC nonfiction competition was out. I'd entered an essay I wrote about my father's death, one of the most meaningful events in my life. But my piece was not included in the 31 essays on the long list. And for once, I do not take this as a commentary on my talent as a writer, but on the judging in competitions. So what I say is: Phooey.

Today I saw a magnificent exhibit on Matisse's Red Studio at MOMA, and one thing it showed is that he was disparaged by critics, often cruelly, early in his career. He just kept going and doing what he needed to do. I'm not comparing myself to Matisse, God knows. But the lesson is - keep going. At almost the same time, I received word my piece for the Globe's First Person section will run Sept. 23. The editor wrote, "It’s a lovely tale." She and I disagree about the Oxford comma, but that's all. 

Though I may not keep going in New York. I'm overwhelmed. It's very hot, it's so crowded, it's so noisy, I walked all day and my feet hurt. Once again, in this madhouse, I see the end of humanity. Human beings are not going to give up consuming until there's nothing left to consume. 

I'll buck up. More anon. There will be pictures.

the problem with travel

Exactly why I declared I would not travel during Covid! It's nearly 3 p.m. and I have spent the day so far on hold. First with Aeroplan, because I haven't received a boarding pass email from Air Canada. Waited an hour, tried another number, gave up, I'll get it at the airport. 

Then with the province of Ontario, trying to download an electronic version of my vax certificate. I have a printout but not the electronic version on my phone, and the website will not let me in. Hates me. Have tried 3 different government sites to get help. One wanted me to download Chrome which ended up being even more complicated. One told me to call border services, where I ended up somehow getting information on the legalization of marijuana. 

Surely the printout should be enough. But I don't want to be caught out in case. 

My friend Patrick to the rescue. He's coming over to see if we can download through his computer rather than mine. 

Took another Covid test awhile ago, again negative. Have a sore throat, feeling fragile. Maybe I'm just stressed because this is the first international travel since spring 2019! And I don't want to leave my chair. I love my chair. Why am I doing this to myself? Plus getting to the airport many hours early because of chaos there. Plus, as my son kindly has pointed out, I'm flying back from New York on Sept. 11. 

ADVENTURE. Get away. See something else. Rip up these roots, even just for a few days.

But right now, I'm regretting that decision.

However, the great thing is - this trip is not urgent. If something happens and I can't go, no biggie. So relax, you idiot! 

Relax? What means this word?

PS It's 3.40 and my shoulders are finally moving down from my ears. Patrick guided me through the ArriveCan app, which is convoluted and ridiculous, and we simply scanned my printout so it's on my phone. Problem solved. The minute he left, out of the blue, I got an email from Health Ontario offering a download of my vax certificate, and it let me in instantly, after refusing for two days. I didn't ask them to email me. The world works in mysterious ways. I now have more vax certificates than I know what to do with. 

It's a beautiful day. I've been on the phone all day. Time for a walk in the sun. 

PPS. I know. First world problems. 

Beth's workshop at the Parliament Street library, Thursday Sept. 22

The day before yesterday, a summer bug hit. I actually took a Covid test, which was negative, but felt lousy and wondered about my trip to New York on Thursday. Today, though, better. And what a stunning day it was too. Fall is in the air, and yesterday was cool and gloomy, but today the sun is hot. 

On Saturday, which was very hot, there was a powwow just down the street in the Regent Park park, and my daughter's group was providing the food. There she was in her ribbon skirt, grilling bison burgers, which were delicious. There was a big Indigenous crowd, many dancers in jingle dresses or feathers, lots of kids, loud drumming. At the same time, the big Muslim population of Regent Park was also out, so there were women in niqab, boys in long white tunics with little white caps ... and many others of all nationalities. As always, I marvelled at the diversity of my city and especially my neighbourhood.

I'm so grateful to my local library for 36 years of great reading that I offered to give a free memoir writing workshop there, which will take place Thursday Sept. 22. I posted about it on IG, and someone replied Coincidentally, I happen to be reading True to Life as you post this! I actually just finished the exercise of writing as my negative voice and then defending my writing to the devil👺 The exercise opened me up to writing the first truth I’ve put on paper in months. So what I’m saying is, I’ll be there! 😂

So the good news is, at least one person will be in attendance.

I'm also working on a podcast about memoir writing with my young tech assistant Patrick; we taped one episode that I've heard and another that I haven't yet. There will be a series of talks and some interviews with local nonfiction writers. No idea what to do with it all. Stay tuned. 

Tomorrow night, the Cabbagetown Short Film Festival, produced by my friend Gina. Wouldn't miss it. Now packing for NYC. Just hope this sore throat vanishes. 

exploring Dad

September. The days are glorious, the evenings getting cooler, the tomatoes are taking longer to ripen. We're all moving into reality mode. I'm beginning to prepare for NYC and for teaching. And for the Big Job.

Bravely got out and opened a box marked "Dad." Instantly swamped. My father was a voluble man who was a public figure for decades, made speeches, wrote articles, was much written about in newspapers, and he and my mother kept all of it. I mean, all of it. His last CV, which I just found, is 33 pages long, including pages of scientific articles. I found essays he wrote for his BA from City College in 1942, including "Some Notes on Music," for which he received a 95, "Splendid." There's a file marked "Poetry" — doggerel he wrote throughout his life, one to my mother Sylvia, "Ode on the Sylvian Bum," about how my mother's bottom is always there to keep him company. 

Speeches and articles about peace and science and nuclear fallout and public education and racism and the Vietnam war and so much more. Piles and piles and piles. I want my kids and grandsons, and the reading world, to meet him — and my extraordinary mother too. Where to start? 

One of the boxes
An article from Weekend magazine, 1958, about nuclear fallout. That's me, aged 8, eating Strontium 90-laced corn.
The man himself. A certain charisma, no?

Not to mention that my mother kept all my letters to her, and I wrote to her constantly; just unearthed another huge pile of those. Just after we bought a house: We have not had a second of doubt since we made the offer that we'll be happy in the house for 3 or 4 or 5 years, anyway. On and on about what we love about the house in which I still happily live, 36 years later; we moved in on Sept. 1 1986.

A brief note, sent in October 1988, just after my father died; Sam had just turned four. There are typewritten lines of gibberish, and underneath I wrote, Sam asked me to read this, which he had just assiduously typed. "I think," I said, squinting at it, "it says, My name is Sam Dobie and soon I am going to school and this afternoon I go to nursery school."

"No!" he cried. "That's not what it says."

"What does it say then?" I asked. He looked at it carefully.

"It says, 'I love you, Grandma!'"

So then I stop, and remember, and celebrate, and weep a tear or two. Ah well. Bird by bird, as Anne Lamott would say. I'll keep delving and try not to drown.

I have a locker mate at the Y, a lovely woman who insisted on buying Loose Woman to take on vacation in the spring. When she got back, she didn't say anything about the book, and I concluded that she hated it. Too much information perhaps, I surmised. Recently, inspired by the NYT life hack, "Always make the call. If you're disturbed or confused about something somebody did, always pick up the phone," I tentatively asked if she'd read the book, prepared to say, I understand, you hated it, no problem. 

"Oh yes, I loved it!" she said. "Just loved it. Your books always sound just like you. It was like talking to you."

Writer John McPhee once said, "Writers come in two principle categories: those who are overtly insecure and those who are covertly insecure." And some of us are both.

Annals of Aging #6719

Annals of Aging, #6719: the belly. After a struggle with my weight in my twenties, detailed in Loose Woman - going up and down 20 or 30 pounds - it all settled with motherhood. In the last decades, I've felt particularly blessed. I consume wine and dark chocolate every day, cheese and pasta, bread and peanut butter, not in vast quantities, but plenty, no self denial here. Yet my weight has remained relatively stable, give or take, I guess from moving the body, thank you bicycle, gardening, YMCA.

Until Covid. The weight went up, and I'm struggling to get it down. Not a lot now, 5 or 6 pounds, but it's all in the middle. My belly feels swollen, pregnant, sticking out, to the point that I actually thought something was wrong with me. But no. That's what happens at 72, unless you're willing to stop eating chocolate and drinking wine, i.e. enjoying life, which I'm not. So - stretchy waistbands and loose tops. And complaining.

Speaking of giving up pleasure, on the news tonight: no quantity of wine is healthy, they say, all alcohol leads to heart disease and cancer. Listened to the segment and poured myself a glass of rosé. I'll take my chances. Drink far less than I used to, but it's my only sin, and I'm not giving that up either.

Today my young tech helper Patrick came with his microphone and we taped the first episode of my possible podcast, True to Life: how to tell your story. I sat at my desk and talked for 15 minutes about Why Write Memoir? We'll see how it sounds and if it works. My plan is to do about nine episodes on aspects of craft, and also to interview other nonfiction writers.

I've started a new ritual: going for a walk after dinner. What a treat. I walk to huge Riverdale Park and watch baseball - tonight, three games going, and in the middle, dogs going wild, chasing each other, leaping and rolling, people picnicking on the hill, a wonderful scene. And sky, a wide open sky. As I walked down the hill, I overheard two young women talking about their friend Anastasia. "She's in Colombia getting her butt done. They suction the fat out. And she's getting veneers." 

More Annals of Aging: bristly chin hairs, fading memory, aching joints. But STILL HERE! Butt intact.

Here's an inspiring, youthful, flat-bellied 80: 

New York New York

Life is returning. After two years of sweatpants and t-shirts, I've started to put on actual clothes every once in a while. With an actual bra! The belly is bigger than it was two years ago, so I need big safety pins for some waists, though most of my clothes now, for some strange reason, have stretchy waistbands. 

But more exciting, yesterday, spontaneously, I booked a quick trip to NYC, city of my birth. My dad's cousin Ted has a birthday in early September; I missed his big 80th party because of Covid, so will be able to toast his 81st with him. When we visited Dad's family in NYC during my childhood, there were innumerable relatives to visit; my grandfather had 6 siblings and my grandmother 10, though she wasn't speaking to some of them. But now, since feisty Cousin Lola died two years ago at 98, there's Ted. I tried to get in touch with a young second cousin, but she's in Italy, and her mother lives in New Haven and won't be coming in at that time. 

So my NY family is down to one. Well, and Ted's husband Henry, if he comes in from Northport. Ted lives at 77th and 3rd and works at his father's Manhattan law office during the week; on the weekend he goes to their house on the water in Northport, where Henry lives full time. And so his apartment at 77th and 3rd is empty every weekend. Except if there's a cousin from Toronto, or another friend from somewhere, in residence. 

Besides Ted, I want to see the Matisse exhibit at MOMA. One of my favourite artists:Vermeer, Matisse, David Milne, Kandinsky. 

I thought I wasn't ready to travel again, and I'm not ready to go far, but NYC I think I can handle, especially for 2 1/2 days. Especially on points; the flights are costing $150. Miraculous. What can I take my cousin for his birthday, the man who has everything? 

Ted with Anna and my uncle Edgar's cat Selassie in 1993. Anna in her braces period. Behind them is my uncle's wall of wine bottles.
I get home on Sunday Sept. 11, when the Cabbagetown Festival will be in full swing and Big Anna, as we call her, is coming to stay for two nights. On Tuesday Janet comes to stay and 4 friends are coming for dinner; on Wednesday, Judy comes to stay, possibly for a few days, and on Thursday, I'm off to Stratford, to stay at Big Anna's for 2 days and see some shows. So with New York, that's far more excitement in two weeks than I've had all year. In two years! 
Watched two episodes of Ten Percent, an English remake of the French series of the same name about a talent agency - very entertaining. Still harvesting cucumbers and tomatoes; the zucchini are a total washout, as were the beans. It seems I am only capable of growing cukes, tomatoes, and basil. Gazpacho and tomato sauce for days. It's cooler in the evenings, and this morning, to ride to the market, I was in jeans and a jacket for the first time in months. But ... peaches! Strawberries! It's still summer. 

There's a sign now above my desk, a quote from Helen Humphreys: Write the impossible thing first. So I started yesterday to do that. Got two paragraphs in and had to stop. But started.