Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 48

Ann Patchett, Lucy Grealy, Truth and Beauty

Very beautiful out there - fresh snowfall. Happily, I can enjoy the view from my kitchen chair - a bluejay at the feeder - as I have nowhere to go. And even if I did, I would not go, because I'm still not sure of my health status. My friend the public health nurse pointed out that Omicron can take up to 7 days to manifest, so this cold may still turn out to be the dreaded thing. I'm a bit better today, though, so there's hope. I'll test again on Wednesday. Whatever this is, I don't understand how I got it, with all the distancing, masking, hand-washing. How insistent and strong these viruses are. Powerful enough to cripple the entire world. 9400 new cases in Ontario today. Scary! 

In the meantime, I just had some of my turkey soup for lunch; it was so good I stood up and headed to the fridge saying, "Maw soup!" which is what my son used to say as he sat in his highchair pounding his spoon. Maw soup! The fridge is full of food, the house is warm, soon I'll put on the fire. There'll be a nice warm Netflix and many mags and books to keep me stimulated. Sam says I must watch Station Eleven, so I will.

Last night, as I tossed in bed with a stuffed nose, something came to me: the first paragraph of an essay I've been struggling to write for years. It must have been inspired by the Ann Patchett book I'm reading in bed: Truth and Beauty, about her friendship with the writer Lucy Grealy. It's so good, so vividly written, I felt energized and inspired. This morning I wrote out my idea and think it's a good beginning. Now to write all the rest. That's all. Just write all the rest. 

I want to be Ann Patchett when I grow up. Though I've just discovered the controversy she endured after the publication of the book; Grealy's sister wrote a long article in the Guardian accusing her of being less good a writer than Lucy, using the friendship for her own gain, a "grief thief." The problem for all writers of memoir: real live people who don't want their stories out in the world. Well, too bad, I say, at least about this one. Patchett brings Lucy, disfigured, egotistical, voracious, and brilliant, vividly to life. 

Here, yesterday, before the snow, is Lady Cardinal on my deck. Wish you could see her flashes of red - her red beak - her perky crest. She's my favourite. 

Xmas and Omicron recap

The most important gift for me, this year, is the little yellow line on the Covid test I just took for the second time: again, negative. Robin on the top floor definitely has it, but after my negative test Friday, we decided to go ahead with Xmas. An hour after everyone left that night, my nose started to run; I'd developed a bad cold. A cold, or (dun dun dun - danger music) THE THING?

So, just took a home test again; what a relief. If my symptoms continue I'll find a PCR test, in the meantime keeping away from people, which isn't hard as we're all frightened and burned out. Ruth just wrote, "Everyone's kids and grandkids have it. It's the thing to do." 

I'll sit by the fire and read. Perhaps I'll write in the journal Anna gave me with the beautiful fountain pen from Lynn, wearing my new lambswool scarf from her. Anna also gave me a gorgeous hooked rug from Tatamagouche, Nova Scotia, and Sam a special pillow that's supposed to help with sleep - how well they know me. The hamster, now called Little Hamlet the Fearless, was the best present for the boys. When they got home with him in his big plastic house, he was the source of much interest from Naan the cat. "Oh thank you for bringing me this delicious snack!" Sam said in Naan's voice. "Just how do I get the wrapping off?" 

For many years, we always had guests - my parents or other relatives, people we called homeless waifs, who needed a friendly place at Xmas. But recently, just us. Though it was so low-key, I still find it stressful, hoping everyone is content and full. Anna was thrilled with her Christi Belcourt print, and Sam, who loved his visit to Ireland years ago, with his W.B. Yeats framed poem - "Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams." Thomas spent much time assembling a Lego Titanic with a million little pieces - it said "For 6 up," what a joke! - and the Playmobil rescue centre with helicopter and boat. There wasn't a single argument about anything. The boys played quietly for what seemed like hours. The fire made us all overheated. Dinner was wonderful. It was all the best.

Except for Sam, who had another friend in the bar industry commit suicide recently. There's an epidemic, my kids told me, of opiate overdoses and suicides, particularly now, as everything shuts down again and it all seems hopeless. It is a harsh, cruel time for many on our already burdened planet. 

Today, resting, solitary, sneezing, making two big vats of turkey soup. I took poor Robin, isolating in his suite, a plate of our Xmas dinner and today will bring him some soup. I took down almost everything Christmassy; when it's over, I can't wait to put it all away and now there are no children here to object. Thanks to the stars for the James Webb telescope that just launched; for the life of Desmond Tutu. For family. For health. Above all, right now on our battered planet, for hope, and health. 

Before the chaos ... 
Ready for the feast
The chaos - Hamlet's house
Assembling the rescue centre
Little Hamlet the Fearless.
Anna as always had brought two huge loads of laundry, so after everyone else had gone, she stayed behind until it was dry. We sat by the fire as she meticulously folded stacks of t-shirts and pants and rolled countless pairs of socks, and we talked. No, THAT was the best present. We disagree about a few things, largely because I love Canada and though she does too, she will not forgive its sins. "Do you have any idea what people in South America think about Canadian mining companies?" she asked. Yes I do and I prefer not to think about it. 
My daughter has a conscience and a heart as wide as a house. What a blessing.

it's looking a lot like Covid

So - everything here up in the air, right now. My top floor tenant Robin, who came home a week ago from nearly 3 weeks in London, took one of my home Covid tests, and it was positive. He then had a more official PCR test and is awaiting the results. He has no symptoms, and he and I have not been dancing together, no spewing droplets here, but he does live in my house. 

Sam is nervous and does not want to come until we know Robin's status. He was due to come over this afternoon bringing various things we need, including a cage for - yes! - Hamlet the hamster. When I got to the pet store at noon, I learned they'd sold 5 hamsters already this morning, and I bought the last! Thank heavens I got there in time. He's happily ensconced in a temporary cage with seeds, water, a cardboard house, and a toilet roll to chew. 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ... except Hamlet.

Anna is sanguine about the risks, as am I - we both assume we'll all get this thing at some point. She was extremely busy yesterday preparing big meals for scores of Indigenous elders. Sam came to help her. I am very proud of my children. 

But I always feel that Christmas is one hell of a hard and exhausting job for women. Name one man who does half of what women do to prepare the day: presents, tree, meal, even setting the table and decorating the house - it's a huge job, and it's done, almost exclusively, by one sex. When I think of what Xmases used to be for me, it's a wonder I survived - buying presents for the kids from me but also from relatives who sent money so I could buy something from them; my demanding gourmet parents and others arriving for the holiday and various meals. To add a little more stress, I produced the pageant on Xmas Eve and was also dealing with divorce, the kids going back and forth from one household to another, perhaps a little more fragile than kids who stayed put. 

None of that, now, and yet there's still stress, many lists, do we have everything we need? Will everyone feel loved and cared for? Should I rush out and get more? It's crazy. No wonder people snap. The city is insane today - a fresh snowfall that's melting already, the roads and stores jam-packed - how is this in any conceivable way a festival celebrating the Prince of Peace? 

And now, here, we may not be celebrating at all. But I will cook the turkey and there will be presents, no matter what. My tree is very small but my heart is big. At this point, I wrap everything. I bought a bag of Thomas's favourite almonds at the market yesterday; they're under the tree. Now time to fill the bird feeder, so everyone, with feathers and without, has enough. At least, everyone around here. How very many, I know and I mourn, will not have enough. 

Maybe one day these boys, in the Christmas pyjamas Holly buys them every year, will realize how lucky they are, to be so loved.

My ex just wrote that because of infected cast members they had to cancel all the Xmas theatre programming he's been working months to produce. I hope against hope no one around you tests positive, except for joyful good spirits. 

Merry Christmas to you all. 

PS: Robin took the home test again: positive. I just took it; it's like waiting for a pregnancy test. Mine was negative.  Negative! HOORAY! All systems go.

Bletchley Park; Joan Didion

The hamsters have just arrived at the petstore! Tomorrow I'll go to choose Eli's small friend. How will we wrap a hamster in a cage? Carefully. 

I lost my sense of humour briefly today, as have I'm sure many others. This morning I kitted up to ride my bike to the farmer's market, which was open specially: helmet, warm pants, scarves, huge mitts. And then my bike lock would not work; nothing, including WD40, would open it. I took an Uber down instead and loaded up with eggs, bacon, sausages, 3 lbs of coffee beans, 4 lbs of nuts and more. Was intending to walk home but it was cold and the backpack was heavy; John, my saviour (and a fierce anti-vaxxer), picked me up halfway and drove me home. He counselled a hair dryer to warm up the lock. 

Off to No Frills for many necessities, another heavy pack, and then I wanted to ride to Mark the butcher to pick up the turkey. I simply breathed heavily on the bike lock, and it opened! What I don't know about high tech. 

By noon, I was bushed. There was a text exchange with my kids about the food for Saturday, and I simply told them what else is needed. Tomorrow, wine and hamster. And bank. My wallet is empty. 

Reading a fascinating library book, Genius at War: Bletchley Park, Colossus, and the Dawn of the Digital Age, by David Price. Again, I marvel that my mother worked at Bletchley for two years, in Hut 8 which dealt with the German submarine and navy Enigma codes, and she never spoke of it. Thousands of workers were sworn to secrecy, told during the war that if the Nazis invaded, their families could be tortured to obtain information. After the war, there was concern about the Russians finding out what the Brits had been up to. And so almost until the end, she never spoke of it. On her resumé for the war years, it says "Foreign office," which is what they all said their war work was. 

What a story it is - a bunch of brilliant, eccentric Brits, Alan Turing and others, inventing an incredible machine that decrypted German codes, saved the world, and led to our computer age. Over and over, a clash of personalities might have derailed the project but did not. My clever, talented young mother right in the middle of it, and for almost all my life, I knew nothing about it. I did not understand why during my childhood she was restless and often unhappy, why she lived through her children. Now I know she'd had an urgent and important job during the war; after, she worked with refugees in northern Germany. And then she crossed the Atlantic, got married, and had two children, and that was that. 

RIP Joan Didion, a hero to all authors of non-fiction. How many writers are superstars whose death is reported on the national news? She had a tiny, frail body housing a ferocious mind, a probing eye, an indomitable spirit. Almost as soon as her husband dropped dead at their dinner table, she began to chronicle her devastation in beautiful clear prose. An inspiring writer. 

Just looked at my calendar for next week, usually so jammed: almost nothing. Was supposed to see Kathy on Tuesday but her son has just tested positive so she's in quarantine. I'm going to see a movie with Ken and have dinner with Ruth on NYEve. Otherwise, nada. Hooray!

Usual week. 

My neighbours have decorated their giant spruce again this year. It illuminates my nights. 

May your nights, at this cold, busy, often difficult time of year, be illuminated too.

She has returned for real, with the Silverback Mac

Oh my friends, happiness is this little machine in my lap, purring like a sleek grey pussycat. All my Macs have had names, since the first one, MacZine, and the second, Fleetwood Mac. This one is Silverback Mac. Home, with all new insides, the operation covered by AppleCare. An expensive two-year old machine should not need to have its insides replaced after two years. Wouldn't Steve Jobs be appalled?

I can type quickly with all my fingers, look things up easily, print, work on my hundreds of documents. It's ridiculous; not that long ago we survived extremely well without these machines, and now we cannot live without them.

Someone wrote to me about Loose Woman:

I finished reading Loose Woman last night. Loved it. It was interesting reading about your life, full of change and reflection, achievements and growth, watching you grow up, and mature. And I was simultaneously paying attention to the structure and how you moved the narrative forward - events and reflections. I left you 5 stars.

I heard from Hippocampus, a nonfiction magazine to whom I'd submitted an essay about my childhood friend Penny: the nicest possible no. 

While we're unable to accept Secret, we read this piece carefully and found much to admire in your writing and in this story. We hope you find it reassuring that your work made our shortlist for our current issues-in-progress.

Our readers found this piece to be poignant without being maudlin, rich in detail, risky, and well-written. If you do revise this, however, our readers suggest building out the ending more, and also honing in on which part of the story is most important to you. If it's the present, you could add more reflection, sharing more about yourself and about how this experience affected your life. If it's the childhood experience, reflection would serve us well there, too. What does it mean to be a friend? How did you feel during the various stages of the friendship?

As writers ourselves, we understand the submission process can be just as challenging as it is rewarding. We wish you only the best in your continued work, and we hope to see your name in the queue again soon.

All the best in your future publishing endeavors,

Is that not marvellous? If only all rejections were as generous and thoughtful. 

The next few days: getting wine, going to the market for veg and nuts and to Mark the butcher for our annual turkey - 35 years of buying our turkey from him. The great challenge is finding a hamster for Eli. Anna had already bought the cage and we decided I should get the hamster, only the local pet store is sold out and there are none at the Humane Society. But Menagerie just called; they're getting six new hamsters in tomorrow. PHEW. Reserve one hamster please! 

These are the death-defying issues I need so urgently to share with you. HI FRIENDS! I'M BACK!

Pix!

Anne savage
Winifred petchey marsh
Emily carr and glorious baskets
Rascals on the hill

Garden in the snow

 

I’m back, sort of

 Omg! Incredible! I tried to post here from my phone but it needed a password that’s on the computer. Today I finally learned how to download my documents to the phone and have access to all those passwords. And here I am, dear bloggees, struggling to write on this tiny rectangle.

I’ve missed you! It’s so automatic for me to process life here, with you, I found it hard to deny myself that pleasure. Not to mention no access to any of my documents and many other things. I am addicted to my computer, no question about it. You don’t realize how much of your life is sewn up in that little machine until suddenly it’s not there anymore.

So just to tell you I am alive and well. This new variant is wreaking havoc, things cancelled right and left, people terrified. Monique was going to cut my hair today but she appeared at the door in an enormous medical mask to say her son has just arrived from the states and she’s not allowed to see anybody for many days. It’s all terrifying and sad. I am careful but less frightened than many people I know. I just assume we are all going to get this at some point.

Luckily it snowed the other day, very beautiful, and the boys came over yesterday with Sam for tobogganing. Joyful excitement, flushed pink cheeks, rolling in the snow, just normal life for an hour or so. Last week I went to the McMichael Gallery in kleinburg with Annie, to see the exhibit uninvited: Canadian women artists in the modern moment. Superb work by women who were ignored in their time. A major exhibition, profoundly stirring. 

More to tell but I’m going to post this and see if it works, and also see if I can upload photos at some point. I feel like a teenager, clinging to my phone. How very quickly technology has addicted us all. But then if it weren’t for technology, there would be no blog and I’d be writing in my lonely diary for another year. So cheers, here’s to sharing words with the world through our machines.

The Chef, Succession, and a sick Mac

 WAAAAAH! Saying goodbye to you for a few days - something is wrong with my MacBook Air which is only two years old. The return key does not work and the shift keys don't either, sporadically. The tech ogre who haunts me has struck again. Have to take in this beloved machine and wait. So I won't be here for a bit. This should be a new paragraph but it isn't because no return key. So just to say I had an amazing day with my son yesterday; he was cooking a complicated squash/carrot/ginger soup in vast quantities to give as a gift to friends and family, and we were talking, the liveliest and most interesting conversation. Then we watched two episodes of The Chef, an amazingly accurate Israeli series about, yes, a chef, the life of restaurants; we had to keep pausing so Sam could tell me stories about his life in restaurants. Mon dieu, I am glad he is considering getting out and finding another business; it's a brutally hard way of life. But a terrific series.                                                                                                                                             And then - I inserted a paragraph with the space bar - after we'd eaten his delicious soup and he went home, I watched the season finale of Succession. Haven't been watching because I just don't want to spend time with disgusting rich people, but have heard so much about the superb writing and acting. And sure enough, superb it was - gripping. And there, as a key character, was my friend Harriet Walter as Logan's second wife, getting married in a sublime spot in Italy, wearing designer clothing and looking incredibly elegant, as rich as can be. She wrote me that the shoots have been a lot of fun. A Guardian article about this phase of her life - she's exactly my age, 71 - says she's getting more work and becoming more high profile than ever before. Go, Harriet! An inspiration to us all. And now I'm off to Riverdale Mac with my sick machine. A bientôt, I hope.  

PS The Jewish Shakespeare on Jeopardy!

Forgot to mention some excitement from last week: Pam, a friend and blog reader, wrote to let me know that the Yiddish theatre was a subject on Jeopardy last week, and she knew some of the answers because she'd read my Jewish Shakespeare book. 

From an Israeli newspaper: But it was Ed Hashima, a professor of history at American River College in Sacramento, California, who dominated. He correctly responded to four of the five clues, racking up points as he identified one play as the Yiddish “King Lear,” named the Jewish holiday of Purim as being tied to Yiddish theater’s origins and answered that Marlon Brando’s acting teacher was Stella Adler, who grew up in a family of Yiddish theater royalty.

The old man and his Yiddish King Lear on Jeopardy! 

Sam is over and we tried putting my outside Xmas lights on the cedar tree outside, with perhaps limited success - but we tried. Well, he did. Merry Everything. 

"Wakefield" and piles of paper

A plug for a show I've enjoyed immensely: Wakefield, from Australia, the story of a psychiatric nurse of Pakistani origin who is wrestling with past trauma himself. The depiction of the patients at the clinic is extraordinarily sensitive, the casting and acting fantastic; the series incorporates dancing and music, flashbacks and fantasy sequences and lots of grit. Excellent. Well worth your time. 

Yesterday was extremely mild - 14! Like early spring. Today colder but sunny. I'm at my desk with my face in the sun. Happiness is. My young assistant Nishat came over to help with organizing. As I may have mentioned (!), I'm drowning in paper and photographs, the detritus of my past, my parents', my grandparents', all of it has ended up here. 

So I showed Nishat - the two big plastic boxes plus the accordion files of family photographs plus the cardboard box under the spare room bed; the suitcase, big box, and file drawers filled with diaries from 1959 on; the research materials for various books in drawers and boxes; the stacks of letters - a whole box to and from me, several boxes from or to my parents. And more, much more. As my daughter said, sighing in despair as she looked at it all, "Mum, if you don't deal with all this, SOMEONE ELSE will have to." And we both know who that someone else will be.

The problem is that it's useful. I could not have written my memoirs without all this material; the diaries and letters brought back details long forgotten. And for my ongoing writing, there's all this juicy material. I just have to know where it is and be able to access it when needed. Hence, Nishat. We just did a reconnoitre this time, as just looking at it all exhausted me. She suggested we start throwing stuff out, but no, I need to check it first. It will be a long process.

For example, as we dug, I found a photo I'd been looking for, of me with my long lost childhood friend Penny Harris, whose obituary I just found; she died in 2019. I'm writing a story about her, about us. In 1995 I was appearing in a play in Vancouver, my last acting job; she came backstage and we met for coffee. I'd been so stressed I'd lost ten pounds and looked ghastly, and I seem for some reason to be wearing suspenders, but it was joy to meet my old friend again. Memories flooding back, thanks to the photo. Thanks to the piles of the past littering my life.

I have five weeks now with no teaching, though perhaps some editing work for various clients. Almost all the Xmas gifts are hidden in my bedroom, many of them from Doubletake. The poinsettia given to me last December, that lived all year in my office, is blooming again. It's beginning to feel a lot like ...