Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 52

farewell to Gabriola

Part of Chris's living room. Our view at the Surf restaurant at the start of dinner. The two of us at the end, after pumpkin pie - friends since 1975. 

There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed.

Today, my last day on Gabriola, I told Chris there have been 3 places I've visited regularly in my life that I think of as heaven. One was my uncle's little hotel the Kingsley Club on the semi-deserted east coast of Barbados, where the dining room was open to the breeze and birds flew through. We visited 3 times as a family; my kids were young but when a tour bus came through, Loris let them help behind the bar, opening soft drinks. Maybe that's where Sam got his love of serving.

The second was the small apartment on the rue Claude Bernard in the Latin Quarter of Paris that I rented 3 or 4 times from friends, with a huge south-facing window that opened onto a courtyard and heavy shutters that swung closed at night.

And the third is here, Chris's house on Gabriola, the one big room inside with his stone fireplace, the fire always going, and everything - even his plates and cutlery, his pots and pans, let alone his decor items - beautiful, and trees trees trees trees trees. 

My uncle sold the hotel, my friends sold the Paris flat, and one day, perhaps, this big property will be too much for Chris, and I will once more be exiled from occasional visits to Eden. But perhaps not. 

Yesterday was visit with Shari day - walks in the woods and making meals. 

In Chris's courtyard in front of one of his out buildings - his studio. Showing Shari his huge garden.

I roasted a chicken and veg for our dinner, and we had a long meal with intense talk of adoption: Chris was adopted at age two by a dreadful couple and found his birth mother when he was in his forties. Shari - it's no secret, she sings about it every concert - had a baby boy when she was 15, gave him up for adoption, and found him when he was 40, in a very happy reunion. So they were on opposite sides, the baby given up, the mother who had no choice. 

Shari left at dawn today. While Chris went on his dog walk, I danced with Nicky Guadagni's group in Toronto. 

Chris and I later walked again in Drumbeg.

Now I'm outside tapping and sniffing the crisp, smoky air, and he's watching the Great British Baking Show, one of his faves. Tonight I'm taking him to dinner at the Surf, which overlooks, surprise! - water, rocks, and trees. Tomorrow I walk onto the small ferry from Gabriola to Nanaimo, walk or cab to the big ferry terminal, walk on for the two hour ride to Horseshoe Bay outside Vancouver on the mainland, and then wait for the next ferry to Bowen Island, where Shari will pick me up. A three ferry day. It's predicted to rain from morning to night. 

Boo. But that's life on the rain coast of Canada. Salut. A bientôt. 

PS In the middle of this idyllic retreat, my FB Messenger was hacked. Friends sent me screenshots of someone pretending to be me sending messages. My friend wrote back, "I don't think you're Beth," and the hacker replied indignantly, "I Beth." Today, he wrote to someone else, pretending to be me, "Did you see the Fox news?" I guess this person doesn't know me very well. 

No. I Beth.

quiet pleasures

A silent Sunday - and I confess that I'm congratulating myself for my luck, in having the most interesting friends who live in the most gorgeous places. Chris has made his home into a kind of paradise. And now Shari Ulrich is here. She brings another kind of joy.

Shari and I met in 1975 in the Kootenays. A supremely talented vocalist and instrumentalist, and beautiful, she was one of the touring trio Pied Pumkin. I was an actress with a band of lunatic hippy musicians and actors called the Valhallelujah Rangers, after the Valhalla mountain range where we lived. Where I lived briefly, for a summer and fall, fleeing back to Vancouver before winter fell. 

Shari, still performing, writing, and recording her own songs, now lives on Bowen Island. She decided visit us on Gabriola and while here, do a house concert last night. Wherever she goes, local people sponsor an event; people pay what they can and all proceeds go to Shari.

She was invited for dinner first, and so was I. So interesting to see another Gabriola house and find out about the owners, who sponsor all the musicians coming here. And then, after a great meal, to sit in a warm living room and hear this sublime musician play mandolin, piano, violin, several kinds of guitars, and harmonica, making us laugh while she switched or tuned. Some of her songs are heartbreakingly personal and moving; even if I didn't know her, she'd feel like a friend by the end. And then back to Chris's in the island dark, in the smoke-scented air, to sit by the fire, stroke pets, talk. 

The nights - so dark, so quiet.

Yesterday it rained much of the day, but today there's sun. Sunday is the big dog walk, an hour and a half on a trail with 15 or so ecstatic dogs, tearing through the brush, playing, wrestling, dashing off on a scent. I walked at the head of the line in order to leave some of the chatter behind, most of it about dogs; I wanted silence. The trees - what to say that's not a cliché? Sentinels, majestic, towering, magnificent. And moss, carpets, cloaks of green. It's a rain forest, after all. 

A birch grove.

Home to make lunch - a salade Niçoise since Shari, like Chris, is very careful about what she eats. Tonight I'll cook a Thanksgiving chicken. 

Toronto feels very far away - as it is. I could not live here. I couldn't bear to be stuck on an island, dependant on ferry schedules and far from many amenities that - even if this past year I haven't used them - are a necessity to me - theatre, music, and more. But visiting here, as perhaps you can tell, is balm for this city-stressed woman. With very good taste in friends.

visiting Patsy

Just have to post these right away. A moving day in the sun.

Chris and the dogwalkers
Where we walked ...
Fred the beautiful Bengal
Sheba the adorable
We visited the Gabriola Cemetery to visit Patsy. 
Is this not the most beautiful place to find eternal rest? 
Drumbeg Park
A man and his shadow
Chris's house
Fred and Ethel.
 

Happiness is. 

West Coast pix

Sitting on the seawall, watching the rain over UBC. (Click to enlarge.)  O Canada. It's October.
Where Edgar and I lived when Anna was born - Grace Court in the West End, on the third floor on the right. 40 years ago; an incredibly happy time. I visit it every time I come to Vancouver. 
The ferry to Granville Island
Another ghastly Vancouver scene My mother's name was Sylvia - and today, October 8, is her birthday. She would have been 98. 
The view from the Sylvia restaurant
People are building inukshuks - stones piles on stones - everywhere. 
Sigh. What we miss in cities: a vista.
The South airport
Ryan the pilot
Landing in Sylva Bay. The most beautiful day for a flight. 

Gabriola beauty

And now for something completely different: Planet Gabriola. 

In Vancouver Thursday, a walk in Stanley Park with Bruce and lunch outside - seafood chowder for me, of course - at the Brewpub. And then one of my favourite journeys in the world, a walk along English Bay to catch the little ferry to Granville Island. I went to my favourite shops there, the hat shop to buy yet another beret, the paper shop where I bought yet more pens, and through the food market to buy saucisson sec for Chris. It's a simply gorgeous place. And then the little ferry back, dinner again at the Sylvia, sitting by the window, watching the clouds. 

Yesterday morning, a long walk along the seawall, and then out to the South airport to catch the float plane to Gabriola. I got to sit in the co-pilot's seat again, as I did last time, beside Ryan the handsome pilot. A stunning 20-minute flight low over Georgia Straight before skimming into Sylva Bay.

I burst into tears. I've been to Gabriola many times, but for the first years, before Chris moved here too, it was to visit my beloved friend Patsy, who as you know died earlier this year. I've wept three times so far, missing her. Today on the dog walk this morning with Chris, I told someone I've asked Chris to take me to where she is. "You mean in the cemetery," said the woman, and the tears poured. One of my oldest friends, not in her little house in the woods, with a clump of the stray cats she fed and cared for snoozing on the porch, but in the cemetery. 

But Chris is here, thriving though struggling still sometimes with his speech issues. His house is a haven. He's a man of exquisite taste; every corner of this log house holds something interesting and beautiful - including his pets, Sheba the white Labradoodle who's woolly like a sheep, and the Bengal cats Ethel and Fred. 

I always think of Gabriola as Brigadoon - an island floating in the mists of time. Chris has made lots of good friends here, mostly through Sheba; he goes on big dog walks and small dog walks with different groups, today the smaller one, five or six women and their diverse array of canine companions, a cheery, chatty group on an hour-long walk through the woods. I am forest bathing and meeting lots of dogs.

I'll share some photos in a separate post. Right now I have to go cry again. 

the Sylvia Hotel

Writing to you from bed in my tiny room at the ivy-covered Sylvia Hotel in Vancouver's West End. I've had many a drink in their famous bar, which overlooks beach, water, and mountains, but have never stayed here. It was built in 1912; there are marvellous pictures downstairs of people lounging just in front on the beach, the women in long dresses and giant hats and the men in suits but with their shoes off, toes in the sand. I love that it's so old-fashioned, the room have keys, not computer cards, and the windows open. The first thing I did was open both windows for that bracing sea air.

Had the most painless travel experience: an Uber to Union Station, the UPS train to Pearson, going straight to security since I had my boarding pass already - no one checked my vax status or the weight of my carryon bag and backpack, heavy with books. I was as usual far too early. The plane left exactly on time. Since I'd booked the flight on points, I paid a bit extra to be in a special row with slightly more room; I had the window seat, and there was an empty seat next to me. The lady on the aisle was a friendly companion. Of course, all of us masked all the time, the new surreal world of seeing only eyes.

Someone had left "A Great Reckoning," a Louise Penny Inspector Ganache book, in my Little Free Library, so I brought it to read on the plane, and how fun a read it is. I do not usually read murder mysteries but now understand the appeal. She's a masterful writer who creates vivid characters with a few swift strokes, has done a huge amount of research on all kinds of subjects, recreates meals in mouthwatering detail, and includes a meaningful subtext - here, how the police are trained for good or ill. When I looked up, we were landing, 15 minutes early. I have a Compass card from earlier visits, so walked off the plane onto the Canada Line and was downtown half an hour later and thence to the Sylvia. If only travel were always like that! 

Though until now I've always stayed with friends, I appreciate that in a hotel, I'm not bothering anyone, not creating laundry and hassle, and can do whatever I want, whenever. 

It wasn't raining. My friend Tara came over and we walked on the seawall, sitting on a bench for a long time watching a shaft of rain pouring onto UBC on the other side of English Bay, and then we had dinner at the Sylvia, at a table by the window, watching glorious cloud formations, the occasional burst of sun gleaming gold on the water. Seafood chowder, crab cakes, calamari - I'm going to eat as much fish as possible while here. Tara is the most interesting woman who knows everyone who's anyone and is trying to save the planet. I adore her.

One thing I marvelled at on the way: we flew across the US midwest - Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana - and honestly, it looks like there's nothing and nobody there. I guess there are far-flung ranches and farms, but from way above, it looks like a vast flat expanse of green and brown with no human habitation. I kept thinking: Trump country.

Today it's supposed, of course, to rain all day, but I have rain boots and an umbrella. And I just ordered a room service breakfast! Died and gone to heaven. I'll post pictures when the downloading works. Onward.

departure imminent - will she get there?

As always, before going on a trip, I'm going nuts. Got up at 3.30 a.m. to email my new collaborators Nishat, my 20-year old tech assistant, and Ron, my 88-year old mentor. Nishat came Sunday with her ring light to tape a video of me talking about the book, which we're going to send to book clubs. 

But even with the script on a music stand nearby, I couldn't remember bits of the five minute speech and kept blanking. Nishat said she could edit out the blanks and cobble it together, but when I saw it, I thought it looked pretty bad and we should redo it when I get back. After sleepless hours, I got up to tell them so. We're going to decide what to do before tonight.

And for a tiny bit more stress, my downstairs tenant is moving out next week and another short term tenant will move in while I'm away, so I'm arranging for cleaning, greeting, key exchange etc.

It's raining, which is good as it's getting me ready for the Wet Coast. I'm wearing my red rainboots on the plane because they're so heavy, only I saw yesterday they have a split, now repaired with duct tape. I will cut an elegant figure in sweatpants and duct-taped rainboots, no question. 90% chance of rain in Vancouver Tuesday and Wednesday. Of course! 

On a happy note, I received the design proof of the essay on Alice Neel going into The New Quarterly in November. It's gorgeous. I sent it to a few friends, and here's what they said: Lynn: Honestly, this is amongst the best you have ever written. 

From Abigail: Oh, Beth, what a wonderful essay. Now I'm jealous of that life! How thrilling to have been Alice Neel, and in those days. It's really just wonderful, and I love how your father shines through everything. Thank you for letting me read it. 

Abigail finished, You sure can write. Which means more to me than I can say. Especially as I run around today feeling guilty that I blew the taping.

My longterm student Bill, a very funny Irish curmudgeon, has a piece in the Globe today that I edited. He was concerned it would come across as sexist. I said, Yes it's sexist, but it's also funny and true. He has 74 comments so far, some from appreciative laughing husbands, and others, from scornful wives. Understandable, but as someone pointed out, It's humour!

www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/

Last night, dinner with Anne-Marie whose sister Chrissie is visiting from England, and new friends Emil Sher the writer and his wife Kathy; Emil, Kathy, and I have so many friends in common, it felt like we'd known each other forever. Food, wine, great company on a dark rainy night - blessings. 

Anna and the boys are on their way home from Nova Scotia; I'll just miss them. They've had a magical time. 

We will all go back together next summer, which means I'll be running around then getting everything done. Always worth it, once I've managed to drag myself out of this chair and the house. Here's part of the list: furnace, plants, garden, fridge, papers, toes, recycling, garbage, money for cleaner, birds, print, dishwasher, make lunch for plane. And this is with Robin on the top floor keeping the house going - watering, mail, deliveries. Etc. 

I walked by the Beach last night on the way to Annie's, the lake dissolved into mist. Soon I will be in the land of the big trees. Talk to you soon, from B.C. At least, that's the plan. Or as other friends might say: God willing. 

friends

Such a beautiful day, it was hard to do anything inside. I have a serious job to do; I need to memorize a script for a taping on Sunday, for this marketing push Ron is organizing for me. It's so hard; I haven't memorized anything for years. When I gave my long talks about my books, I'd have notes nearby, even if I didn't need them. But here, it all has to be in the head. Yikes.

My dear Macca has just released his second children's book. I bought his first, of course, and read it to the grandsons, who wandered off mentally and then physically halfway through. Ah well. The man can do many things; perhaps children's books are not one of his greatest skills. Looking good at 79, however, is.

The country is furious at Trudeau yet again, for taking off with his family yesterday instead of mourning the Indigenous dead. Yes, he should have known it would look like he doesn't care. But at the same time, the man has three young children whom he presumably didn't see at all during the gruelling election weeks. He'd made a speech about reconciliation the night before, but that's not good enough for the press. Can we cut him some slack? Absolutely not. Let's hunt him down and stick a mike in his face while he's walking on a west coast beach with his kids. 

Made a new friend through FB: Rona Maynard, esteemed writer and editor, came over for a chat. Her writer mother Fredelle used to live nearby and has a plaque in front to prove it. Rona and I, it turned out, have a great deal in common, including being half-Jewish with little connection to that half, and working late in life to send our essays out into the world. We are reading the same books and have much the same taste in writers. Lots to talk about. We're going to exchange writing. Hooray.

Lists lists lists, to get ready to leave Tuesday morning. Here's one thing I've been doing: fixing up the basement apartment for my friend Bea, who moved in last night. New rug, moving things around, giving the oldest stuff to Sam, who takes it all for his small overstuffed apartment. Bea is settled. Looking for a new tenant for November, however.

No writing, just lists, landlady work, gardening work, reading library books to return soon, including two by Abigail Thomas. Oh, and looking after Anna's cat Naan, who pukes regularly. It's a wonderful thing, to share one's space with another species; I'm enjoying it, despite the puking. She's great company. And so pretty.

Truth and Reconciliation

It's been an important day in the life of this country: the first national day of Truth and Reconciliation with the nation's Indigenous peoples. The CBC has dealt with nothing but, and many of us are wearing orange shirts today. 

We - we settlers, as Anna would say - grew up knowing nothing about the suffering of Indigenous children in residential schools. It's good we are being forced to learn. In only a couple of years, this country has taken a huge turn toward the truth. During a trip to Berlin years ago, I was impressed by how open the Germans were in dealing with their appalling history; there were reminders of the Holocaust all over the city. Canada is getting to that stage with its own appalling history. 

My job is to help beginning writers uncover and tell their truth. I feel as if my country is doing just that.

In other, less vital news: I went back to the Y yesterday for the first time since last year. Word went out: Carole is teaching again! I've been going to her class Wednesdays midday for decades, and here it was for the first time since March 2020, Wednesday midday, with Carole. Of course, it wasn't the same. My Covid credentials were sternly checked, we had to wear masks at all times even when exercising, and in the gym, Carole was standing masked behind a plexiglass shield; despite her mike, we couldn't understand a word she said. But we were there! The rusty lock on my locker opened. And I didn't fall over by the end, though it hurt. Art, Elisabeth, Lolita, Margot, Debra - I've been sweating with these Y friends for many years. So good to be back.

Today, my home class - a hybrid, two here and four on Zoom. We heard essays on porches, penises, puzzles, the past on an island, and policy, Canadian cultural. What a diverse group and again, how stimulating to see and hear from them all. 

I'm trying to be less frazzled as I get the basement suite ready for a new short-term tenant tonight, prepare the garden to go to sleep, get ready to leave my nest, and try to imagine what I'll need for BC besides rain boots. But frazzled is my second name. 

Here's the last garden bouquet of the year, I think, lots of mint and rosemary among the flowers:

And student Sam couldn't make the class tonight because she was up north. But she sent this pic of her with her husband for your hit of beautiful, flawed Canada on the last day of September.