Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 40

cottage life

 All's well. Talk soon.

@#$#&% Rogers!

Written Friday July 8

3 p.m. Horrifying to realize how dependent we all are on our devices and their servers. Rogers is down, swaths of the entire country without internet – a hack or ransomware? Neighbour Stephen said, “It’s the Russians or extraterrestrials." 

Here, since I get everything from Rogers, I have no internet, no cellphone or landline, and no TV. I cannot get in touch with anyone, and my only knowledge of the outside world is from CBC radio, which repeats the same thing over and over: Rogers knocked out, no word on why or when it’ll be back. I can’t check Twitter, the Globe, the local TV news channel CP24. I can’t phone my kids to tell them I’m okay and find out how they are.

 

This morning, went down the street to see if Craig and Joe had internet and found out that the whole country was down; it hadn’t occurred to me. Stayed and talked to them on their enclosed garden patio for an hour and a half. Most pleasant. We discussed the growing violence and intolerance in our world — human vileness, once suppressed, released into the ether by Pandora Trump. Heard about Joe’s coming out as a gay man in Windsor, his first affair in high school, how much the new freedom for gay people means to him now. They are dear friends, wonderful people, but we've never sat and talked at length before. So, the up side. 

I'm supposed to go to a huge party near St. Clair and Spadina tonight, was going to take an Uber. No Uber. Need to check the address to see how to get there by TTC – no Google maps. I have a real Toronto map somewhere, will check that. But how will I get home after? By TTC again, if it’s running. Perhaps I shouldn’t go.

 

Tomorrow, Annie and I were going to drive north to Bracebridge to spend a few days at Ruth’s cottage. But she’s on an island; we have to phone to tell her we’ve arrived so she can come in the boat to pick us up, but now we can't. I hope she’s not alone there now without internet. Will we go? I can’t contact Annie to ask. 

No email! No telephone or texting. If this had been a few days ago and I was supposed to talk by phone to radio stations across the country ... Or had a deadline or was awaiting urgent news. 911 is down, at least for some. I have nothing to fuss about except a party and this haunting feeling of isolation.

What if electricity went down? What if everything suddenly collapsed? I could eat the cucumbers in my garden and that’s about it. Rhubarb. Green tomatoes. Tons of basil. What flowers could I eat? What use are flowers to the hungry? 

Can’t do Wordle. Can’t tape Upstart Crow which I’ll miss if I go out tonight. Can’t text my kids!

Did I use today to work in tranquillity, freed from the tyranny of social media and email? I did not. I had a haircut and watered and read and went shopping at Doubletake, where I bought two plain drinking glasses, a Uniqlo sweatshirt, and a shapely black Irish linen dress I may never wear. Fun. 

Talking to myself, that’s what I’m doing now, since I can’t talk to anyone else. Monique and JM are away. What would I do without neighbours? I’m finding out. Thank God for Joe and Craig, who are often away but home now. 

5.45. Robin my upstairs tenant came home, unaware of the crisis; he was at work all day and they have Bell. He lent me his phone, since he has a non-Rogers server. Tried Annie, Sam, Anna, Thomas, Anna’s neighbour Greg – nothing. Called JM who has Bell, happy to hear his voice if just on the machine, left a message. Got through to Ruth’s phone at the cottage, left her a message about what’s happening, that she can call Robin’s cell if she wants to get in touch. At least we know we can get through to her if we get there, maybe from a payphone in town. 

Supposed to get dressed to go to this party. Maybe best to go and take my mind off this.

9.30. Back early from the party - didn't want to take TTC in the dark - and we’re suddenly back on. 43 emails! Mail coming in but still can’t get many websites or TV stations. It was on and now is going off again. Time to go to bed. 

Next morning: Seems to be up and running fine now. The world opens up. I was frantic yesterday. Something to think about - that dependency. 

Off to cottage country. Alanna Cavanaugh the artist who did two of my book covers is coming over to use the house as a studio while I'm away. 

Last evening, I took TTC to the party, a going away event for old friends curator Jessica Bradley and photographer artist Geoffrey James, who are moving to Montreal, and for Geoffrey's 80th birthday. A huge house, the entire backyard filled with extremely chic art world folks, a jazz band with Geoffrey sitting in on trumpet and their son Charles on bass, then a bluegrass band with their son Matt playing fiddle. Waiters in black circulating with delicious food. Happy to sit with writer David McFarlane and his wife Janice, the only people I knew besides J and G. David joked that when country people imagine what Toronto people do, this is what they have in mind.

Yes, milling about with artists eating gourmet finger food to a jazz band is what we are always doing. LOL. 

Thank you for being there, unseen readers on the other side of this screen, connected by the great powers of the mystical master Mr. Rogers. 

remembering my father

Today is the day my father died: July 6 1988. More than three decades ago. His death, at age sixty-five, both devastated and liberated me. He was a powerful man in life and remains so in death. 

I had a haunting dream last night, the first vividly remembered dream in many months, about seeing a man I once loved desperately (and in the dream still did) with someone else — a good friend of mine, though not someone I could identify from my life, as I could him. It was clear they were lovers. In the dream I realized that once again, I was rejected, inadequate, unlovable to a man, and also betrayed by a friend. Woke up feeling lost and sad. No idea if the dream had anything to do with the date. Dad and I had fixed what was wrong between us, but there'd been harm. 

It's a rose-breasted grosbeak singing to me right now, according to the app, though I've not seen it. The sweetness of the garden wafts in. Thank you for all you gave, Dad, to the world, to Canada, to science, to me especially. You are missed. 

BK yammering on national radio

Life is full of surprises. Yesterday at Monique's cottage, I sat on the deck watching my two friends set off for a preliminary exploration in the canoe when I checked my email. Monique does not have the internet - AAAGH! Withdrawal! - and it can be hard to access mail, but when I did, there was a note from a CBC producer in Toronto wanting to talk to me for a segment on, of course, writing memoir. We did a twenty-minute interview, and she asked if I'd be willing to answer more or less the same questions on a bunch of syndicated CBC programs the following afternoon.

Problem: we were supposed to leave the cottage in the afternoon. But it was supposed to rain all day today - and did - so Annie and Monique were happy to leave early enough to get me home in time for my CBC duties. From 3.20 to 6.07, I did short interviews with hosts from Toronto, Victoria, Sudbury, Kelowna, Whitehorse, London, and Regina, hoping to convince Canadians country-wide about the importance of memoir. 

Activated my actress self; I even drank tea with lemon and lots of honey beforehan for my throat, and Sarah the host in Kelowna said, "You have a beautiful voice." Merci! Jean-Marc called immediately after the Toronto segment to tell me it went well. I hope it sells some books, and/or encourages people to take the course. 

It also looks like I'll teach a memoir workshop at my beloved local library in the fall. Madame Memoir, at your service.

The cottage was a treat, with two dear friends in the sun by the water. Annie and Monique are both much more avid swimmers than I - I barely went in, whereas this morning, they even swam in the rain. Unimaginable. We canoed a bit, read and ate a lot, and talked really really a lot. I confess I'm a bit worn out by all the company; as someone who lives alone, I'm just not used to it. But the trip was a treat. What a gorgeous country we live in. How lucky we are. Have I said that before?

From the deck
Breakfast on Monique's floating dock
Perhaps you can't see them, but there are two big beaver dams on this inland lake.
I found this huge wild turkey feather; Annie's holding it for the shot, but I'm keeping it. They're apparently used for smudging ceremonies.
My lovely French hostess
Picked for our table.
I used the Merlin app to find out what birds were around, besides the jays, crows, and robins, and found the red-eyed vireo, Eastern phoebe, common yellowthroat, magnolia warbler, and ovenbird. I've never even heard of some of them. And, obviously, somewhere, a wild turkey shedding feathers. 

Was relieved when the interviews were over this evening and I could go out and prune the roses. Garden coming along well. The world, not so much. I couldn't access the news for three days, but I gather to my sorrow that things are not substantially better anywhere. Still, I'm glad to be back in touch. Hello! 

having the great good fortune to live in Canada

First things first: the interview on writing memoir for the Globe went up this week. There are a few minor errors - Finding the Jewish Shakespeare is definitely not a memoir, for example - but it's a nice article.

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/article-why-so-many-retirees-are-writing-memoirs/

A tranquil, cloudy Canada Day. As you may know, I emigrated to this country from Manhattan at the age of three and a half months, with an American father and a British mother. Except when my mother's sister Do lived here on and off, we never had family in Canada. Mum had no idea what to do with sweet potatoes; Dad didn't understand Hallowe'en or polite Canadian reticence. 

All of us were profoundly grateful to live here for the rest of our lives.

I've never been more grateful than I am today, as we watch a fellow democracy, our neighbour, screech off the rails into demagoguery, authoritarianism, violence, and outright lunacy. Taking some of our citizens with it. 

My daughter does not celebrate Canada Day, because she carries close to her heart the horrendous injustices done to our Indigenous peoples and to all people of colour. There's no question many reprehensible wrongs were done through the years, with no accountability. But there's a powerful movement afoot now to make things right, more in the last few years than in all previous decades. Toronto's police chief issued an apology recently for racist behaviour from the police force. The membership of the local Black Lives Matter responded by refusing to accept the apology. 

I asked myself, Does that help?

Our prime minister is a pretty boy who comes across as a lightweight, and yet under his government, through the destructive hurricane of the last few years, we've had a lot of progressive legislation and years of stability. We are one of the bastions of support for Ukraine and for reproductive rights. 

And it has been objectively proven that Canada had the second best response to Covid in the G10, after Japan - the second lowest rate of infection and death. Those screaming in the streets in Ottawa today might reflect on that, though of course reflecting is not what they do. 

I'm preparing to go to Monique's cottage for a few days tomorrow, with Anne-Marie. Robin will be keeping the plant and plants going, watering and taking in the mail. I feel so rooted in this house, and this chair, that it'll be good to rip myself out, even just for a few days, and next weekend, a few more days at Ruth's cottage. No plans to travel, almost no plans at all - just sitting here, looking at the garden. I've had one raspberry so far, one pea. The lettuce has gone to seed, but within a few weeks, I'll be feasting on tomatoes and cukes. Right now I hear the robins and the cardinal complaining about the empty feeder; I'm giving myself a birdseed break for the summer. 

If we lived elsewhere, my son would perhaps be in the army fighting a murderous invader. My daughter and I would be on the streets protesting draconian new laws. We could be praying for rain, or for vaccine shipments, or food, or peace. We have the incalculable luck to live in one of the most solid democracies on the planet. 

Today, for myself, I thank Joseph McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover, whose rightwing paranoia and persecution forced my socialist father to take a job in Halifax, Nova Scotia in 1950.

Here's the welcome rain. Happy Canada Day.

Loose Woman, bottom left, on a memoir bookshelf.

Borgen: the best

There was an abrupt change of plans, as often happens in my ex-husband's world, and he rushed back from Winnipeg to the States. So, perhaps we'll see him some more another time.

Sam's event on Sunday night was wonderful - how he manages to barbecue and greet and entertain many friends and keep an eye on his puppy... And then a rainstorm, and still, a success.

Today, another bombshell from the Jan. 6 committee. Evil will out; what a thrilling, historic truth-telling we're witnessing. One is tempted to sneer to the Republicans coming clean, "It took you long enough!" But better late than never. 

A great treat: the next season of Borgen; I've seen most of the past seasons of this fantastic show. All the actors have aged in real time; Birgitte's young son has grown up to be an eco-bandit. I've only watched one episode and can't wait for the rest: political women battling it out in work and life, our heroine suffering through hot flashes. Great stuff. 

Today, last class of the U of T term, and as always, I admire and respect them all. 

Am I getting my own work done? Absolutely not. Speaking yesterday with writer friend Judy in Vancouver, I expressed my discouragement about my lack of progress. She told me she heard a well-known writer say he keeps writing because occasionally, he writes one beautiful sentence. Today, one of my students told me how much my penpal essay moved her, especially the line "It made my breath hurt." Sometimes, one of our lines touches another. It's worth it. Yes, it is. 

The garden: the roses are fading, the dahlias, black-eyed Susans, and hydrangea are coming. The tomato plant on the deck is seven feet tall. 

Peonies at the market on Saturday. Peony envy!

Chris wrote, when he saw this, Who’s that crooked-smiling crippled woman he’s helping?Sigh. Will someone please teach me to smile for the camera? I thought I WAS smiling! And it always looks like I'm grimacing in pain. 
So, that's it. Overseas, incalculable suffering. Here, a perfect summer night. Why are we so lucky? We just are.Economist’s 2022 Global Liveability Index: The top 101. Vienna, Austria2. Copenhagen, Denmark3. Zurich, Switzerland4. Calgary, Canada5. Vancouver, Canada6. Geneva, Switzerland7. Frankfurt, Germany8. Toronto, Canada9. Amsterdam, Netherlands10. Osaka, Japan and Melbourne, Australia (tie)I wonder how long poor Toronto will be on this list.For sheer "I told you so" pleasure, there's this:  https://www.theguardian.com/music/2022/jun/26/paul-mccartney-glastonbury-show-hailed-as-phenomenal?CMP=share_btn_link

celebrating family

Today I'm going to boast about my family. Yes, things in the world are even more dire today than they were last week. The stunning hypocrisy of the religious right in the States is nauseating, enraging - forcing poor women to carry babies they often don't want and can't afford, while showing no interest at all in living children. Loathsome. When the marches start, I'll be there.

But it's summer and roses scent the world. So I'll try not to elevate my blood pressure by thinking of horrors. Instead, I'll think about triumphs.

Edgar didn't tell me, I found out from Anna, that he recently won a prestigious award. The Victor Shargai Leadership Award (VSLA) recognizes individuals, groups, or institutions whose outstanding service and creative leadership have strengthened the Washington, DC-area theatre community. 

Edgar Dobie serves as the Executive Producer at the Tony Award-winning non-profit Arena Stage, which he has led for over a decade. Edgar’s leadership has extended Arena’s reach beyond its stages and into the community, demonstrating collaborative leadership and consensus-building as a champion of theatre throughout the area. His effective advocacy, personal generosity, and commitment to theatre in the life of our community exemplify the spirit of this award.

Ed has always been a theatre manager with a profound understanding of both artists and money - how to keep an organization filled with crazy thespians afloat and functional. Superb at his job, a visionary. He's in Winnipeg at the moment where he delivered the eulogy for his brother Dave, returning tomorrow for a few more days with us, his first family.
Anna was one of the main workers with her group Dashmaawaan Bemaadzinjin last weekend, at a huge Indigenous festival at which they provided much of the food. She recruited her brother who spent two days helping cook vast quantities of chicken.  The one with the tattoos is my boy.
The one with the biggest smile is my girl. 
One of her Indigenous friends wrote to her on FB:Oh Anna.. my sweet, dear, non-practicing wyte. My Nish kwe by association. The greatest ally to every community except her own. Lmao. Chi gzaagin/I love you very much! Chi Miigwetch for everything you do for and with the community. You are so loved and so cherished and we are so, so lucky to have you in our corner. Your heart is just humungous and I'm soooooo blessed that creator allowed our paths to cross. You quickly became a bestie and for that and EVERYTHING else.. thank you.

Sam is over three months sober, figuring out what's next while coping with his energetic pup, who has a heart problem. He's producing a "gofundme" for himself and Bandit tomorrow, barbecuing at a friend's donated restaurant. His dad and I will be there. 

Anyone who wants to contribute is invited to write to samueljacobdobie@gmail.com. He'll be grateful. 

And finally, in the celebration category, I just finished two books by my new favourite writer, Helen Humphreys: Nocturne, about the too-early death of her concert pianist brother, and The Lost Garden, a novel set in Britain in 1941, both exquisite, haunting, beautifully written. I'm embarrassed I hadn't discovered them before now.

Out of the blue, I just started singing one of the loveliest songs from one of my favourite musicals, Chorus Line:Gone
Love is never gone
As we travel on
Love's what we'll rememberKiss today goodbye
And point me toward tomorrow
We did what we had to do
Won't forget, can't regretWhat I did forLove

the heart bursts

7.30 a.m., another hot day dawning; I'm on the deck, swimming in scent and colour: roses, honeysuckle, jasmine, lavender, basil, mint. I'm watching three baby raccoons climbing home to sleep high in my neighbour's giant tree, sparrows crowding the feeder, landing to sip water from the pots on the deck rail. The William Morris roses, though wounded, survived the umbrella attack; the entwined purple Jackmanii clematis has just bloomed to keep it company. So much is ready to bloom. 

Upstairs, in one of the greatest gifts of all, my dear ex-husband is asleep. He's here for the first time in three years to visit us; on Thursday he flies to Winnipeg to deliver the eulogy for his brother Dave, who died of a heart attack a few months ago. Ed arrived Monday, and we had a big family dinner here, utter chaos with three puppies bouncing about, one with four legs and two with two. Ben and Eli got out the wooden play food to play waiter, Ben handing us a written list of choices.

Menue

1. supe

2. pezzi

3. tost, egg, huney, chees

4. egg, scrambi, sunny up 

Delicious.

Last night Ed and I watched Jon Stewart win the Mark Twain award, another man, like Macca, whom I've never met and love deeply, a man who combines marvellous humour with gravitas, integrity, thoughtfulness. Those paying tribute, a stellar, hilarious assembly including Stephen Colbert, lauded his kindness. Few famous, successful men are well-known for their kindness. As we always did, Ed and I laughed in the same way at the same things. We've been divorced for over thirty years. 

Blessings.

This afternoon he and Sam are taking the boys either to the C.N. Tower or to the Aquarium, and tonight we're all meeting at one of Sam and Anna's favourite Parkdale restaurants for dinner. 

Getting old is in many ways not fun; the wrinkles and splotches and aches, for some the terrible afflictions of disease and disability. The knowledge that the days are limited, closing down. But nothing, nothing is better than the sense I'm flooded with right now of having climbed from many days of fear, confusion, and sometimes despair, to this place of utter gratefulness: the smell of roses, the long green stretch of healthy garden, one of the loves of my life about to come downstairs and I will make him a cup of coffee. 

What you won't do for love

A thrilling evening of theatre last night; I'm writing to urge those of you in Toronto and environs not to miss it, though it's only on tonight and tomorrow. 

What you won't do for love is a play David Suzuki and his wife Tara Cullis wrote with a young couple who are actors. It reminds me a bit of My Dinner with André, in that they mostly sit at a table, with scripts, talking. But what talking! It's a profoundly moving discussion of the fifty-year relationship between Tara and David, her founding of the Suzuki Foundation, their adventures together, including in Brazil helping to stop a dam that would have devastated the land of the Indigenous Kayapo tribe. 

There's a great deal of laughter and for me, of course, tears. The young people ask the older couple how they keep from being depressed about the state of the world and the environment. "We're depressed!" they exclaim, but Tara goes on to say they balance each other; when one is down, the other is there for support. Their message, over and over: everything on the planet is interconnected. Every living thing is our kin. We must love our mother, the earth, as we love each other. 

Tara spoke at length about the unpaid work of women which keeps the planet going - how Adam Smith, when he wrote his famous book The Wealth of Nations about the global economy, didn't once mention what women contribute though he was living at home being cared for by his mother. Tara talked about the work of housekeeping, exhausting and unappreciated, because the only way you know your work is worthwhile is if the house looks the same at the end of the day as it did at the beginning. "Environmentalism," she said, "is global housekeeping."

At the end, Tara tells us that though things look bad for us, she thinks we'll find the earth "is more forgiving than we deserve." David tells us that, as he dies, he'll be able to say to his grandchildren, "I did the best I could." 

The play is a call for us all to take heed and do more. 

Afterward, there was a small reception full of interesting people. David introduced me to his friend David MacDonald, whose name I remember from past politics - the one Tory cabinet minister who switched to the NDP. His wife Deborah Sinclair is a fierce feminist. The talk was scintillating. 

And then I hopped on my bicycle and nearly froze as I rode home. 

If you can get there, go. 

On Thursday I saw the Downton Abbey film with Ken. It's delightful fluff, really a documentary about gorgeous vintage fabrics and stunning interiors decorating an absurdly flimsy plot. Fun. 

It's suddenly chilly here. Yesterday the wind was so violent, it blew my deck umbrella right over; it damaged the rosebush, and I rushed out to tie up wounded branches. The weather everywhere is extreme. Our planet needs us. How grateful I am there are people who've devoted their lives to trying to save us all. They too are more forgiving than we deserve.

on writing and gardening

The Life of a Writer, Part 7642: I am waiting. In limbo. The manuscript of the essay collection is out at 8 or 9 publishers, none of whom has acknowledged receipt of it. I assume they have it and are so busy weeping with joy at its beauty that they forgot to get in touch with me.

There's a short-ish essay out at a competition and a long one out at three American magazines, two online. Last week, realizing Saturday is Paul McCartney's 80th birthday, and who should celebrate harder than I, I wrote a piece about him, his life, what he has meant to me and countless other fans. It's time-sensitive so I sent it immediately to two editors at the Globe, then to a bunch of editors at the Star, then to a program at the CBC. One of those editors, who has bought my work before, said not for his section and suggested someone else to send it to. Who like the others did not reply.

I'm not complaining. Well, I am, a bit. But mostly, I just wonder sometimes if the words mean anything, if anyone is out there, or if the pages are simply tossed into the void. HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE? 

On the other hand, as you know, there's the garden, which provides joyful satisfaction every day. This is the year I turned into a real gardener; I was loving but neglectful before. Now I go out every morning with my secateurs to inspect, prune, find the diseased leaves, the toppled raspberries, the tentative new blooms. 

Here's what's not working in the garden so far this season: the infuriating peonies, three healthy-looking plants that have never produced a single bloom. I have a severe case of peony envy as I see the gorgeous pouffy blooms all over the 'hood. And the spinach is spindly and weird, as it was last year. 

What vanished over the winter: the buddleia and a cranesbill geranium. 

What's working, not the plants that wintered over but newly planted on the deck: parsley, chives, dill, tomatoes, lettuce, lavender, basil, dahlias.

In the garden: astilbe, William Morris heritage roses, day lilies, phlox, Jackmani clematis, fall-blooming clematis, Annabelle hydrangeas, climbing hydrangeas, boxwood, lettuce, bleeding heart, ferns, rose of Sharon x 3, coreopsis, huge clumps of rudbekia, echinacea, Mexican sunflower, yarrow, pinks, cosmos, allium, anemone, wisteria, grasses, comfrey, spiderwort, goldenglow, spirea, honeysuckle, holly, hostas, climbing tea roses. 

In the garden cage: a few plants of peas, tomatoes, basil, onions, zucchini, cukes, beans, thyme, oregano, summer savory, sorrel.

At the back: raspberries. And the weeds, goutweed and Virginia creeper, going nuts, because it's too far from the house for me to tend.

No waiting here - every day work to do and beauty to relish. Here a quote from Rebecca Solnit:

Productive outside of the logic of productivity! I feel now that even if my books mean little, I've created beauty on this earth, a small something that was not there before. I hope the garden is my gift to the planet; it is definitely the planet's gift to me.

Another gift: my third grandson and his dad, who visited yesterday.