Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 50

Penelope Jane Harris, 1948-2019

It's been an intensely emotional day. I was re-reading an essay I've written, sent out, rewritten, about my best friend when I was 12, in Halifax. Penny was older, with thick black hair and very pale skin; she was an only child, had been adopted. We invented a world together, an island where we were fraternal twin orphans. We kept two diaries, one for our real lives and one for our island selves. 

It's too long a story to tell here; you'll have to read the essay. Only now I have to rewrite it. She moved away and she and I lost touch; when we reconnected by chance 42 years later, I learned that she had been severely abused as a child by her adoptive mother. We began to write to each other again and then lost touch again, in unfortunate circumstances. I've tried through the years to Google her, to no avail. Today for the first time, I Googled Penelope instead of Penny. And what came up instantly was her obituary: Penelope Jane Harris, 1948-2019. She died in Vancouver in August 2019. I was shattered. 

Then what came up was an article in the Prince George news. In April 2019, a woman named Penelope Harris gave two parcels of land to a First Nations community near Prince George. She'd bought them as an investment and never used them, wanted to give the land back to the people who owned it first. She was honoured in the community, given a ceremonial jacket. There are pictures, so I was able to see her, with white hair, but it's her. My Penny. 

This is someone I haven't seen since 1995. But it's her. My best friend when I was twelve. 
She died four months later. 

It's a story I've been working on for years that now has a completely different ending. I called the phone number associated with her name; it's disconnected. She had no family. I want to find someone who knew her, who can tell me about her life. 

And then my friend Antoinette, who sends out poems to her meditation group, emailed a poem I'd sent her by my beloved friend Patsy, who died this year. So both Patsy and Penny were with me all day. 

Yesterday my brother came for dinner with his lovely girlfriend and my gang. It's never easy but it was fine. Tonight two of my friends from university, Suzette and Jessica, came for dinner. Jessica is moving to Montreal next year. 

Flux, my friends. Three things we can be sure of: taxes, death, and flux. 

Here's Patsy's poem:

winter light
deep in november, the seaholds the light for us
beneath heavy cloud coverthe water’s surface is smooth
as polished pewter, slow waveswith a sheen like rippling silk
a luminosity floods the mindand lingers through the days
in the long nights, when the airis clear and sharp with cold
the sea becomes a mirrorfor stray stars and a waning moon
as darkness descendsa radiance remains

Paul McCartney's triumphs and Dan Aykroyd's music

As if the man doesn't have enough honours and success, he's #1 on the NYT Bestseller list! Honestly, could you just slow down for once, Paul? I've asked for his book for Christmas, hope Santa is listening. And excitement is building because Peter Jackson's three-part Get Back film launches Nov. 25. I know some of my friends laugh at my adolescent fan girl enthusiasm, but there are many, many millions of Beatle lovers just like me. It's a fine club to belong to.

                                                                        Sigh.
Even louder sigh. #1 on the NYT Bestseller list. Sigh sigh sigh sigh sigh. 
Yesterday, Ken and I were going to see Dune, our first movie in a theatre in nearly two years. But it was such a stunning day, I called his cell, and both of us had had the same thought - this might be the last lovely day of the year, let's see a film when it's dark and raining. We met at Queen's Park instead and sat people-watching in the warm sun under a shower of gold, orange, and scarlet leaves, then rode along Harbord and stopped for lunch at a restaurant with a patio until a sudden rainstorm had us hustling inside. While waiting for the rain to stop, which it soon did, we FaceTimed our dear friend Lynn in Provence - how surreal is the technology, that there on the little phone in my hand was our laughing friend in southern France. She and I meet regularly now on the Zoom screen; I sent her the link to Nicky Guadagni's fabulous daily dance party, so Lynn and I now dance together several times a week, as we did when we were teenaged roommates, when Danny Aykroyd used to come to parties at our apartment with his favourite record, the music from the film Psycho. Yes. We danced to the screechy stabbing music. That was Dan.

It's a gloomy day - perfect for Dune. Let's make another date, Ken.

Remembrance Day

Amazing news: I got my booster shot today. My doctor's office emailed that all their patients over 70 could apply, so I did, though it's been a bit less than six months since my second shot. They said that was okay. As well, I'm a real mixed bag, since I've had AstraZeneca and Moderna — and now Pfizer. That also is okay, apparently. 

How grateful, yet again, to live in Canada! The appointment was at Women's College, a ten minute bike ride from home; the line-up of us old folks was orderly and moved fast. A very old couple, she with a walker, were behind me. "My wife goes first," he said. "My mother said so." Made me laugh.

My arm is a bit sore but my spirits are high. I know, we should not be getting boosters when the rest of the world is waiting for their first shots. But I was not going to say no. 

Before that, I went with Ruth and Jean-Marc to the first Cabbagetown remembrance day event, at Carlton and Parliament. There were readings including, of course, In Flanders Fields, and a talented young trumpeter played the Last Post; I talked to him after, he just graduated and is looking for a trumpet job, please let me know if you hear of anything, he's really good with a pure, sure sound. There were two minutes of silence, and we finished by singing O Canada. I cried, as is my wont. Singing O Canada at some joyful event makes me cry, let alone when we are thinking about those killed in the vileness that is war. Today we remembered Corporal Ainsworth Dyer, a 25-year old soldier originally from Jamaica who grew up in Regent Park and was killed by an American drone in a friendly fire incident in Afghanistan. In case death in war wasn't tragic enough. 

Much chatting before and after with neighbours who've been friends for decades. And then on this lovely mild day, Ruth and I did another walkabout in our favourite place, the Necropolis, where the young solider is buried. Glad to be alive, even as the leaves tumble and the light fades, and remembrance makes us sad. 

Ruth takes on corporal punishment

Incredible as it seems, the corporal punishment of children is still legal in Canada, protected under an archaic law. But not if my dear friend and longtime writing student Ruth Miller has anything to do with it. Here's her editorial in the Star today. Hope you can access it.  

https://www.thestar.com/opinion/contributors/2021/11/09/canada-must-get-with-the-times-and-make-corporal-punishment-of-children-illegal.html

My dad believed in whacking — slapping his kids on the side of the head when anything annoyed him. I know he was beaten by his father. I never hit my kids, though I can tell you, I was pretty close on occasion. Once my daughter pushed me so to the brink of rage that I raised my hand. She looked at me cooly and said, "If you touch me, I'm calling a lawyer." She was 13. 

In fact, as Ruth points out, thanks to Canada's dreadful law, her lawyer would have had nothing to go on.

Parenting is the hardest job, and doing it as a single parent, as so many do, is 100 times harder. But still, there's no excuse for hitting. None.

Dad was a veteran of WWII and as a Jewish medic in the American army had seen close up the horrors of the Holocaust. He made mistakes as a father, but he was a great man. However, if hitting us had been illegal, as Ruth suggests, he would have been even greater.

Tomorrow I will be remembering him, and my mother, who spent the war working on farms in the Land Army and cracking codes at Bletchley Park, with love and respect.

praise for "Loose Woman" and writers in general

We have been blessed with a few of those marvellous late fall days, the special last days of heat before the cold comes in for good. Yesterday people were out in shorts and tank tops and will be today too. Heaven, especially because it's so short-lived.

I received a most welcome email today, from the eldest daughter of my friends who are called in the memoir Gail and Alain. She wrote about having read Loose Woman, which contains an account, in honest, intimate, and sometimes unflattering detail, of her family's long ago life. I'd wondered if any of their five kids, three of whom actually appear in the book as small children, would read it and if so, what they'd think. 

She wrote: I loved your account of a free - not just loose but curious and alive person who has seen l'Arche and my family's craziness for real. I cannot count the times I thought I did not have the words to describe what that life has been. Your book does this in wonderful and touching ways. And for all the times that pre-date l'Arche in your story, you tell of moments that we can all relate to, as we grow and discover life and the world. Your description of Gail and Alain is so sensitive and brings objectivity to my lived experience. Finally, it's incredibly funny. 

So thank you for this book, I loved it - and good luck for the next one. I wrote back to assure her that her parents were sent the manuscript to vet before any attempt at publication was made. The travails of the memoirist: writing about people who are very much alive; the great relief when they appreciate what's on the page. I've known this fiercely idealistic, lovely, hilarious young woman, now a mother of three herself, all her life. How glad I am to have her stamp of approval. 
What I want to write next is about my fascinating and appalling parents, who are not here to complain or object. I just re-read last year's attempt at embarking on the story — 38,000 words, half a book, I'd say — and was chagrined to conclude that it doesn't really work. The problem is voice — tone. Finding the right tone and POV helps find the way to start, and I'm off. But finding tone and voice and starting place can take years, at least, for me. 
I take heart as a floundering writer from the words above, and also from the words of the first reader of Loose Woman for the Whistler competition, who chose it as a finalist and whose review spoke of "the author's distinctive personal voice — smart, insightful, and humorous. She consistently engages the reader with her authenticity and candor." And more nice things. 
The reviewer concludes: The story will resonate with folks who listen too attentively to the voice of the inner critic. It's a beacon of encouragement to stay open to the epiphanies of the soul, trust their innate wisdom, and show the same love and respect to themselves that they offer to the world.
I may have written that, but when my inner critic takes over, as she so often does, I need to be reminded of it on a regular basis. I will try to trust my "innate wisdom." Hard as that is, sometimes. 
Thanks to all who write to writers and give them, in their solitary endeavour, a boost!
A surprise inclusion in the Writers' Union of Canada newsletter:
Speaking of giving writers a boost, I watched the Giller awards last night. The maxim goes, If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. So I will not say anything, except that the event is a welcome celebration of the craft of writing fiction.

Stonehenge and fame

Females! They do everything together. Talk about teamwork.

What an amazing picture. A bush book club. A kaffeeklatsch with snacks. Pass the brie, girls. 

I was briefly famous today. In the letters to the Editor in the Star, one writer began, "Letter writer Beth Kaplan was wondering who's buying all those expensive condos downtown..." and proceeded to answer. (Developers.) So at least one nice person read my letter! And then later, on Instagram, to my amazement, I saw this: 

In the immortal words of! Fun. Alas, such fame, though welcome, is fleeting and does not pay the bills. 

Last night I watched a doc about Stonehenge. How they discovered the quarry in the Welsh Preseli Hills where the bluestones came from, and then, laboriously, how they tried to figure out the method of dragging them - perhaps on sledges - and that they were erected closer to Wales first and then four hundred years later moved to Salisbury Plane. All research done with various complex pieces of scientific equipment. Riveting. From 2300 BC! 

I've been there twice, once at fourteen with my parents, and in 2012 with a British friend. In 1964 we could walk around the stones and actually touch them; now you're kept back by barriers. They're just as awe-inspiring, though. Memorials to the dead, they think, to the ancestors. Stones, like the ancestors, are eternal. 

Documentaries forever. 

The tourist.
It was a stunning day and is going to be so all weekend - warm and bright. The leaves are gorgeous, a cavalcade of red, orange, yellow. This is right outside my house: The city looks good, for once. Even if the developers are buying all the condos.

Letter to the Editor and Shuggie Bain

It's November of the Year That Vanished. Frost tonight, they say. My son is in mourning; the other day, a good friend of his, a young woman, had a relapse with drugs and alcohol and committed suicide. I just found out that a friend from the Y, a fit woman younger than I am, has Alzheimer's; she got lost driving in the summer and totalled her car. If the vote in Virginia was a referendum on Biden, as everyone wants to make it out to be, then things look bad for the embattled Dems, and thus the world. 

So, given all that, I am going to stop reading the novel Shuggie Bain. It won the Booker this year, was described by Lynn in France as perfect, and is indeed beautiful, stunningly well written with immense sensitivity. It's a devastating portrait of life in Glasgow under Maggie Thatcher - blasted lives, dire poverty, damaged, brutal people, a mother sunk by alcohol and bad choices, and a dear good child desperately trying to save her and survive. I've read 100 pages, and that's enough. Not that I am looking for light or fluffy or cheery. But that desolate I cannot take in the early days of November, as the light grows dimmer, the days grow colder, the government of the United States flounders, and its monsters loom. As well as our own: suicide. Alzheimer's. Homelessness. 

Yesterday, the Star printed my letter to the Editor. It was originally three times as long, about several things; they reduced it by many words and issues. But it makes its point. (Last week, as the billionaire Rogers family battled for control of their company, we learned Mayor Tory is paid $100,000 a year to sit on their board in his "spare time.")  

The city I love feels dangerously out of control.

For the first time in a while, I took a bike trip through downtown. What I encountered is a hellscape: high-rise buildings going up on almost every corner, overwhelming noise and dirt, concrete trucks and other huge pieces of equipment blocking sidewalks and streets.

Who are these thousands of expensive new units for? Our parks are home to desperate people living in tents, yet luxury buildings are going up with no provision for affordable units.

This metropolis is being battered by a pandemic leading to unemployment and business failure, by gun violence, drug addiction, snarled streets, unaffordable housing, hunger, and homelessness, overseen by a tone-deaf premier who has eyes only for the suburbs.

Perhaps our dull, decent, admittedly hard-working mayor should not be devoting his spare time to a company board. The citizens of this once-liveable city deserve undivided focus.

Allen Gardens, serene city park, where there are many tents, as there are in every city park. Winter is coming. 

Today, back to the Y, where they've decreed that though we must wear masks in the halls and change rooms, we don't have to wear them any longer as we exercise. We could understand Carole as she told us what to do; we could breathe. Though the place is still nearly deserted, it started, barely, to feel like old times. Now I ache from head to foot, not from the flu vaccine that I got on Monday, but from Carole. That's why I go to the Y - because I never push myself the way she pushes me. 

Skyped with Lynn for an hour this weekend. And thought, again, is there anything as heartening as getting caught up with an old friend? We laugh and laugh. She sent me a recent photograph of her in her wedding dress; considering that it's fifty years and five children later, it fitted amazingly well. Brava, my beloved friend. Be well. Promise! 

I won't be moving much for the rest of the day. Naptime. 

Hallowe'en's been

Hallowe'en: the usual madness in C'town, many hundreds of kids swarming the streets, especially on such a lovely mild night. Annie came for dinner and we went for a walkabout. The vulture with a red head on the tree is cackling and shrieking, as are the ghouls in the driveway. Loved the man accompanying his kids - a unicorn and Batman - dressed as Sriracha Hot Sauce.  

Across town, Ben, who is crazy for anything to do with transit, was an airplane. His brother was Homer Simpson, with pingpong ball eyes. Afterwards, the spoils were inspected and categorized with surgical precision. Treats for days. 
Saturday, a huge treat for me - lunch with two dear friends; Ruth is still in my home writing class and I'm hoping to lure Merrijoy back. Merrijoy is nearly 94, Ruth is 82, and the two of them are magnificent and inspiring - vibrant, beautiful, energetic. They put me to shame as they talked about the operas they've watched and the courses they've taken on Zoom, the recent in person trips to the art gallery, the films and books and ... I'd done none of it. May we all age with the verve and grace of these two marvellous women. 
May we all have as good a sense of humour, of being game for anything, as Mr. Sriracha Hot Sauce.

stunning

My friend Judy is in Lake Louise right now and sent this. Wanted to share it immediately to lift whatever spirits need lifting on this gloomy wet morning. O Canada. How lucky we are. 

found found found

My engagement bracelet, back where it belongs, where it has lived since March 1980.

Age spots. Swollen fingers - some of my rings barely fit any more. But the fingers are still typing. I will be typing on my deathbed. With, I hope, this bracelet still on my wrist.

It's 5.30 p.m., getting dark, and there's silence. I'm used to silence, to a house that's empty except for little old me and a tenant or two. Annie who's a recent widow finds the evenings very difficult; during the day she and her husband were busy and separate, but the evenings were together. Now she's alone and the evenings are long and silent. I'm used to being alone. But still, the advent of the cold dark season is hard. Luckily, my gas fire now works. So I'll hunker. There will be much hunkering in this house from now till next May.

Just as I'm always too early for flights, I like to be more or less prepared for Xmas by mid-November, so I'm getting ready now. Ben wants anything to do with the Titanic, and Eli wants a Fitbit. He's 9 and he wants to track his heart rate and footsteps. Maybe I should get one too - matching Fitbits for my grandson and me. Do I want to know that much about my inner workings? Maybe not. 

Anna loves the Métis artist Christi Belcourt who recently had a sale of her prints. I'm getting her one. Don't tell; luckily she never reads this blog. One way to get through the long dark days of winter is looking at the joyful colours of Christi Belcourt. 

 PSAmong the really great gifts I will not be considering for my grandsons: Tim Hortons hockey-playing Barbie. Well, you've gotta admit, they're trying.