Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 55

Ingersoll visit, book club heaven

It's summer and busy — visiting time. On Monday we rented a car and drove with the boys to Ingersoll, Ontario, the small town where my old friend Lani (featured several times in Loose Woman) and her partner Maurice live. Both have had significant health crises but are doing fine now, thank you very much. In the course of the day, the boys nearly wore them out, especially Mau who gave a vigorous frisbee lesson and nearly killed himself in the process. Lani wrote, Mau just came upstairs and said, and I quote, "Oh god I can't tell you how happy I am from today!"

And next day, "Mau says even his face is sore from having so much fun yesterday." I know how he feels.

Love the Paris motif in Mau's crowded and fascinating garage workshop.

Later we drove to Woodstock to stay at a Holiday Inn with a pool; after a full day of activity, the boys spent another hour diving and splashing, and then, the best game of all, trampolining on the two queen beds, flinging themselves from one to the other, and piling all the pillows on the floor and jumping onto them. They did eventually sleep, I think.

Today my brother Mike and his son Jake are in town from Ottawa and coming for dinner with Anna and the boys. Though he's double vaxxed, Sam isn't well with symptoms that sound suspiciously Covid-like. Let's pray not. 

Yesterday, a huge treat: I was again invited to a book club that had read Loose Woman. Six great readers with many good questions and thoughts - we talked for hours. What pleasure for a writer, who works in isolation, to make contact with an audience. One said, "This story of a woman's journey - I could relate to all of it." The hostess wrote this morning, Thank-you so much for sharing yourself with us last night - your wisdom, your humour and your humanity overflowed. 

Very kind; many thanks. And they bought a bunch of books! Another reader sent me the review she posted on Amazon: Nostalgic, touching and often humorous memoir of a talented, yet self-doubting, actress finding her way at the height of the woman’s lib era. Great evocation of the 70s ... Made me laugh, cry and want to punch some of her men friends in the face ... Just a great read!

 

On another note, I and other bloggers have been scolded by a fellow blog writer for focussing on petty things like gardens and television programs rather than the disaster in Afghanistan and other world issues. 

So yes, all this is totally self-serving as half the world burns, the other half floods, and murderous lunatics take over as Covid variants prowl. Believe me, I'm aware the world is falling apart. I fear in my bones for our planet. But what good does it do to wring my hands here? 

The garden is a symbol of hope and beauty and constantly renewed life. Great TV, films, and books prove that creative people are still doing what they do, despite all. More hope. We need hope right now. I do, at least. 

Here in the peaceable land of the very lucky and grateful, the birds are at the feeder and I'm cooking for company. Onward.

garden love

Be still my beating heart. What a welcome sight this is!

I was away five days, and since getting back, it's taken two days to wrestle the garden to order - pruning, staking, cutting the grass, filling the bird feeder, watering. I even for the first time used the leaf blower John returned to me. It may be that like a person with a needy pet, I can't leave my garden for long in summer. But it's worth it.

It's hard to believe that with some help, I created that profusion of colour, haven for bugs, bees, butterflies. If only my expert gardener mother and aunt were here to see it, they wouldn't believe it. I had zero interest in gardening and knew nothing about it until about 25 years ago. 

Yesterday to the market - many peaches, blueberries, strawberries. Oh summer, you bless us. Very lucky with the weather - apparently last week it was steamy in the city, but now it's mild and fresh and even cool in the evening, aka perfect. Another excursion tomorrow, just for a day and night — Anna, the boys, and I off to the very small town of Ingersoll to visit Lani and Maurice, one of the boys' favourite grownups. Mau showed Eli how to make a loud whistle with an acorn cap and then brought out his homemade skateboards = friends forever. 

I've watched two good films - finally saw Nomadland, an amazing achievement for the young woman who wrote, directed, and produced it. Frances McDormand is mesmerizing, unique among American actresses in allowing her naked, un-carved up face on the screen, and what a lovely, expressive face it is. Was surprised to enjoy Percy, about the Saskatchewan farmer who was sued by Monsanto for growing seed that had blown onto his land. It's infuriating that all the leads are played by Americans, and Canada is barely mentioned, but it's a good David and Goliath film.

Have not been once into my office with its long clean desk. But my fingers are itching. It will soon be time.

Sky Ladder and goodbye

After a gloomy morning, yesterday turned into the most beautiful day of all. I'm hanging onto every moment because I go home soon. What's especially magical here is that we are on an 18-acre island with two cottages, Ruth's and that of a reclusive elderly man on the other side. We do hear the people across the lake with their crowded lakefronts and big modern cottages, and the sound of boats going by, but otherwise, the loud rustling of trees and lapping of water, our own noise, the chittering of birds and chipmunks, the whir of hummingbird wings as they sip at the feeder hanging near the window. 

This cottage is nearly invisible from the water, hidden in the trees. Because it's on a point of land, we can sit in chairs positioned to see the sun rise to the east and set to the west, with the swimming place facing south. Last night we went down to the dock to try to see the Perseid meteor shower. We missed it, but I lay on the dock and Ruth leaned back in a chair to take in the Milky Way and the stars. How much we need to see the stars, to remind us what minuscule specks we are. I see the night sky once or twice a year, when I get out of town.

Yesterday, a flock of small birds that Ruth identified as red-breasted nuthatches swarmed the oak and pine trees near the deck, gossiping to each other. The chipmunk by the lake is always busy. The heron lands and stalks gracefully, and the loons give out their quavering cry. Beavers have done a lot of damage to the trees here but are otherwise invisible. No raccoons this year, Ruth says, but apparently otters, sometimes. Inside, she's battling mice and ants. "We don't belong here," said her son once, as he set a mouse trap. This is their home. But luckily for me, it's Ruth's too.

Last night we watched another amazing doc, Sky Ladder, about brilliant, crazy Chinese artist Cai Gui-qiang who makes spectacular art with fireworks. It's about the obsessive nature of art making, and what happens when an idealistic artist achieves fame and financial success - how to hang onto the spirit that made his career. And it deals with Cai's compromises in working for the Chinese government, creating the fireworks display for the Beijing Olympics and other events. Brilliant but crazy and compromised.

I finished Other People's Letters, a fascinating read. "Had lunch with Balanchine," she writes, and later, she visits Vita and Harold at Sissinghurst and many other famous people, many princes and counts. Now I'm reading a book I picked from Ruth's shelves, Best Canadian Essays 2019. Yum. 

For our last night's dessert, Ruth made blueberry peach pie.

And at dusk we watched the sun go down.

Thank you, universe. Thank you, Ruth.

My Happy Family - highly recommended

Last day in paradise. After two days of threatening warnings of thunderstorms that never came, leaving us with perfect sunny weather, today is grey and drizzly. We may not be tromping through the forest or diving into the lake with such alacrity. But then again, the weather may turn in an instant. And a day inside with books and music and a full fridge is not a hardship. 

I've never been a swimmer. I blame the Waeg, the club in Halifax that wouldn't let us join because my father's Jewish; all my non-Jewish friends learned to swim there. I taught myself the crawl in my twenties. But in any case, I'm not fond of being cold and wet. So even on the hottest days, I usually just get in, flail around, get out.

Here, I've done some actual swimming, staying in for an actual ten minutes. A new experience. And a special treat - Ruth gave me permission to go in without a suit. I wait until no boats are passing and get in and out quickly. Even more delicious.

So four days have passed reading, tapping on the computer, cooking, eating, drinking, forest bathing, dancing or line dancing online, doing a bit of work, and much jabbering. Our politics align, our taste in films and many other things, and despite two strong, opinionated, independent women navigating the kitchen, and the fact that Ruth has been running this place for over 50 years and here comes Betty Bossyboots, we've not had one disagreement. Well, yes - over which direction to put the knives in the dish drainer - blades up or down - and how much water to use to soak pots in the sink. Otherwise, nyet.

In the evening, terrific movies on Netflix. Tuesday night, a stunning film from Georgia, "My Happy Family," highly recommended if a tich long. In Georgia, many generations live together. A long-suffering woman who lives with her husband and two grown children, her nagging mother and very old father and the various partners of her kids, decides to rent an apartment and live alone. We cheer for her as she struggles to find herself in the chaos. An amazing film, very well acted, written, directed, with the added treat that every so often, a group of men break into song with gorgeous Georgian polyphonic harmonies, and our heroine sings as well.

Last night, an extraordinary, very quirky documentary, "Dick Johnson is dead," about facing the death of a loved one head on. The filmmaker celebrates her kind, gentle father, whom we all fall in love with through the film, as his daughter stages various silly ways he might die, and his memory fades. The ending is tremendously moving. Ruth and I wept, the best kind of empathetic tears.

Tomorrow, we take the boat across the lake, possibly in the rain, and I will wait for the bus home - a long bus ride back to the steamy city, where Robin has been keeping the plant running. I will miss this, and my friend, very much. But - onward.

making friends with white pine

Ruth and I have founded the Kahshe Lake Amateur Naturalists Society; she is president and I am secretary of KLANS. (Ignore please the negative connotation of that word. We are benign.) Yesterday I said, I don't know what all these trees are - which are pines, which firs, which hemlocks? She got out her books, and we did some research; today on our walk, we gathered specimens of needles and took photographs of trunks. 

Our conclusions: lots of gorgeous white pine with their long soft needles, with some red pine, red oak, Eastern cedar, Eastern hemlock, and balsam fir. And one we can't figure out. Many kinds of mushrooms - another day's research. And some beautiful lacy fungus. On the walk, it felt like we were saying hello to friends, now we know their names. Most of them are enormous, growing out of sheer granite. How do they anchor themselves and begin to grow? What do their roots attach to? 

My trusty leader and president:

We've had a gift today; severe thunderstorms were predicted from morning till night. It's now nearly 4 of a lovely day, periodically clouding over but not a spot of rain. We've been outside nearly all day; I've swum twice, we've done our naturalists' walk and sat at our office table. I did some work, she's nearly at page 100 of Tom Stoppard. Tonight's dinner: trout with local green beans and corn. 

Last night we watched Rachel Maddow for a dose of hideous reality - the Americans deliberately, willingly slaughtering themselves with Covid. The family of a dear friend in Europe has Covid - her husband, who's fully vaccinated, and two grandsons are ill with fevers and coughs and will have to socially isolate for weeks. Yet Americans are willing to die for the freedom to ignore what the government and scientists recommend. Beyond comprehension. 

At noon, while Ruth was attending her Pandemic University course, I sat outside with my earbuds looking at the trees whose names I now know, the lake, the rock, sky, bluejays and hummingbirds, waterlilies, loons, chipmunks, moss, lichen, shrubs, Ruth's herbs and annuals in pots. I listened to Bach's Concerto for Oboe and Violin, so exquisitely beautiful, and - you know what's coming - wept with gratitude, that I am here to listen and see and smell. And relish.

greetings from paradise, Ontario

Just received this lovely thing:

Your faithful correspondent writes to you today from paradise: my friend Ruth's cottage on an island in Muskoka. We drove up yesterday morning, loaded the boat with our many supplies, drove the boat across, unloaded, had lunch, had a nap, walked around the island - "Forest bathing," said  Ruth - read, talked. It was supposed to rain but held off till night. I had a swim. We ate exotic Persian food brought from Cabbagetown for dinner - chicken stew with walnuts and pomegranates on saffron rice - watched the first episode of a Turkish series, Fatma, then the gripping Unforgotten on PBS; after Ruth went to bed I watched Professor T. 

Paradise! She and her husband bought this cottage more than 50 years ago, with an outhouse and propane heat. Now it has many mod cons including high-speed internet and cable TV. How that's possible on an island in the middle of the Muskoka forests, I don't understand. Nothing nearby, the only noise boats on the lake, birds, the lapping of waves, the wind in hundreds of huge trees. Hummingbirds at the feeder, chipmunks chattering, Ruth and I talking, talking.

It'll be hot and sunny today but thunderstorms are predicted for the rest of the week. She'll take me to the bus home on Thursday. Today she's watching her Pandemic University at midday, while I dance with Nicky online. She's reading a massive biography of Tom Stoppard. I'm reading a magnificent book, Other People's Letters, by Mina Curtiss, a fascinating woman who seventy years ago knew everyone who was anyone. I had to special order the out-of-print book, interested because she's dealing with letters and a diary written years before, as I will do in my next pieces - how does she make it work? She does, she really does.

I was invited here last year, too; the journey to this cottage is the only travelling I've done in a year and a half. Being in this place of such beauty and tranquilly and comfort and friendship is a feast for the soul. 

Here we are sharing an office yesterday:

the terror of the empty desk

Brava to the Canadian women's soccer team and all the others battling Japanese heat!

Summer is whipping by. Time makes no sense any more. It's August?! I never know what day it is. But things are good. I've an appointment in two weeks for a CT scan; then we'll know what needs to be done. 

Second, of vital importance: I at last, laboriously, cleaned off my desk. It was snowed under with papers and files and clippings and magazines - New Yorkers I need to keep for one reason or another. But now - pristine. Now I need to sit here and do something. As in - write something.

Look at that long empty expanse. Terrifying. Quick, some comforting clutter!

In the meantime, I sent another essay to an American online magazine. So now 3 essays are circulating, awaiting the inevitable no. At least, I hope they at least say no, and don't just ignore the work completely the way many places do. This part of being a writer, figuring out where a piece should go and submitting and waiting waiting waiting, then probably sending out again — this is not fun. 

But my desk is clear. That's fun.

Have been watching a doc about Obama. He's like a mirage, an intelligent, gentle, sensitive, thoughtful, highly educated American president. Watching him at the funeral of the pastor murdered by white supremacist Dylann Roof, in a church filled with African-Americans, begin to sing "Amazing Grace" - watching everyone stand up and join in, hands in the air - so deeply right, so wise and brave. As someone said, He represents the best of America.

Followed, incomprehensibly, by the absolute worst. Still out there, in all his greedy, vulgar, racist, vile malevolence. 

City Life: Last night, in the heat, a group of young neighbours returned at 1 a.m. and stood in the street exclaiming happily at top volume to each other. Who does that in the middle of the night? At about 3, I heard what were unmistakably gunshots. At 7, below my bedroom window, my neighbour's daughter was picked up by a very noisy woman chatting at top volume. 

On Sunday, I'm going to Ruth's cottage for a few days. It will be good to get out of summer in the city, even this city that I love. Robin will be here, watering and guarding. 

A message that resonated with me:

And this one too, from the Toronto Star. I don't know who those people are who share my birthday. I know Momoa is a big hairy man, but Tempest Bledsoe?! But otherwise, it's not wrong.

August 1st

FOR TODAY'S BIRTHDAY 

With a sharp and studious mind, you make an excellent problem-solver, writer or idea -person. You not only see the vision, but you can also see the steps needed to make that vision come to life. People trust you. They often seek you out for words of advice, as they know that you're going to give them practical wisdom. You're also going to give them the truth. This is not only because you're smart, but because you pride yourself on a strong moral code. Expect your smart decision-making to pay off this year in your career as well as in love.

BIRTHDATE OF: 

Jason Momoa, actor/producer; Tempest Bledsoe, actress; Chuck D, rapper/author.

having her cake and eating it too

Today I worked on Zoom with a fine student writer, who said, "I won't ask you how you are - I read your blog." It's funny to meet people who know far too much about my life. She said, "I couldn't do it." Reveal herself, as I do. I guess it comes easily to me because - I'm not sure why. Having been an actress? Keeping a diary since I was 9? Maybe earning my living convincing writers to reveal themselves?

I don't teach again all month. A welcome break. 

Not much to reveal today, except that I had a wonderful birthday party. My happy, demonstrative personal chef came over to barbecue ... 

Anna came with the boys, my other daughters Holly and Nicole, my dear best friends Ken and Annie. Sam and I had made and cooked all the food in advance, so it was very relaxed, we just had to heat it all up. Even so, I was exhausted by the end. But very happy.  Hope my guests were too. 

Today, a beautiful day, working on an essay, watering, eating leftover chocolate mousse cake, and taking my first piano lesson in months. He made me play the first, easy movement of the Moonlight Sonata twice. I know it by heart but forget passages, my fingers forget, and then it comes back. Somehow, despite my clumsiness, it feels like a piece of my soul, the best of me, flows through those fingers.

Leos roar on their day

71 years ago my mother gave birth alone at the Polyclinic on West 50th in Manhattan. She laboured without anesthetic and then when she was ready to push they put her to sleep, so it was hours before we met. And then, British peasant that she was, she wanted to breastfeed, to the horror of the other women in the ward and the nurses; in 1950's America, breastfeeding was vulgar, for animals. 

We made it through. Thank you, Mum. I'm sure part of my lifelong good health is due to your cooking good healthy foods through my childhood. Your homemade brown bread, devoured warm with melting butter, your apple pie, your mac and cheese - MMM. 

A blessed quiet day with treats already - the usual cavalcade of good wishes on FB from friends near and far, some very far, another reason it's hard to consider giving up this guilty pleasure. John came by to fix things. The cardinals are at the feeder. Someone left a gorgeous book in the Little Free Library; anything by those great souls Alice and Martin Provensen is a glory. 

I danced. Actor Nicky Guadagni almost every day produces an hour of dance music for her friends; we dance with each other on the Zoom screen. August 1st is her birthday too. She played Macca singing that fabulous rocker, "Birthday." A present from him, too. 

Lynn sent a picture from Provence - our mutual friend Isabel with some light reading. It's thanks to Isabel the book exists; working at L'Arche in 1979, she took time off that summer, provoking the need for a new assistant. Moi. 

Lani sent this marvellous card:

LOL. So true. For my daughter. For myself.

Happy birthday, Nicky. Here's to magnificent Leos everywhere! 

pre-birthday rant

More from my favourite Blowing Own Horn department: U of T sends anonymous assessment forms to students when the term ends, and then forwards them to the teachers. Mine included this:

What recommendations do you have for improving this course to enrich the learning experience for future students?

None whatsoever. Beth Kaplan is an outstanding instructor who is an expert in her subject matter and is able to communicate it masterfully to the various learning levels of the students.

Suggest more strongly purchase of the tutor's book on writing which I just now obtained and which is very valuable

So kind! Thank you. Especially appreciate the suggestion about the textbook "True to Life." 

Turned on the Olympics by accident the other day and saw the one race I feel remotely connected to, women's rowing, because one of the eight powerful young Canadians is from Cabbagetown. It was thrilling; I was shouting, Go girls go! You can do it! as they pulled ahead and stayed ahead the whole way. Gold! It's surprising how much a gold medal matters at a moment like that, when it really does not. 

I turn 71 tomorrow. I know, impossible to believe in one so young. But something is happening; I am turning into a crabby person. I see things all the time that infuriate me, big things and small things, and I've upped my "crabby complaint letters" game. I've always believed in writing letters of complaint and also of praise. But I fired off 3 last week, one about the constant drag racing at 3 a.m. on the Don Valley Parkway, the racers unimpeded by the slightest attention from police, and two about truly stupid articles in the Star. I'd write a letter to the BC Health agency that awarded people who got the second vaccine a big yellow star, but what's the point? Or to register my disbelief that recently a new store opened in Toronto, a luxury vegan clothing store — for dogs. May I puke politely? 

I find this New Balance ad offensive, do you? The sexualizing of a very young girl, giving her a closed, almost surly face and a provocative off-shoulder shirt - in what way does this ad sell children's running shoes? Especially in our age of #MeToo and Jeffrey Epstein?

I tried to complain to New Balance but can find no way to get through. So I'm complaining to you.

Focussing on these small things is a way of avoiding the big things - the physical and moral disintegration of our planet. I started reading a book highly recommended by Judy: The Industry of Souls, by Martin Booth. The writing is wonderful, but it's about the gulag. I don't think I can bear it.

Change of plans. Tomorrow, 80% chance of thunderstorms, 0% chance on Monday, so my Sunday birthday party with family and a few friends has been deferred a day. I will spend my birthday in blessed solitude. A day to contemplate my over seven decades, try not to be crabby, and maybe actually do some work.

PS In case you're a very young reader who doesn't understand the significance of the yellow star, here's one that was torn off an overcoat and given to my American soldier father after the liberation of Paris from the Nazis.