Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 74
August 15, 2020
Beth puts in a workday
Exhausted; it's 6.30 p.m. and I actually WORKED today, worked hard. At least, hard for someone who's usually messing around at home; even teaching is extremely easy in comparison with what most of the world does every day, I'm embarrassed to say.
I spent the morning warning up my body and voice and turning into a neurotic, hypochondriac actress once again, and this afternoon sitting in a studio for 3 1/2 hours, taping the audiobook. In that time we did less than 60 pages of a 230 page book, and I'm a pretty fluent reader. So, lots more to do.
But how lucky I am to have this studio and its technician, a young U of T graduate with a Master's in music technology called, mysteriously, Cu, who is incredibly skilled. He ensconced me in front of a state-of-the-art microphone, fired up his enormous console and we began. Beside me I had: a thermos of tea with lemon and honey, throat lozenges, snacks, sweater and socks in case it was chilly - which it was, those went on and the tea was drunk and the snacks were eaten. Neurosis, thy name is BK.
But it was great. I used to do a lot of radio and voiceover, though have not for years, and was nervous about going back to this part of my life. I don't like listening to myself, as I over-enunciate, sound prissy, like I'm trying too hard. But once I got started, it was as if I'd been doing this all along. Wonderful Jason was there to get me launched, sympathetic about my concerns - this is not only you going back to acting, it's your own words you're reading, he said. And my own life I'm exposing, I said.
But that's the job.
After we stopped, I watched Cu do his editing magic - taking out hesitancies or mistakes, watching the row of vertical lines that is my voice. We have the day off tomorrow to listen to today's tapes and see what worked and didn't, then Monday and Tuesday we're at it again, and then a break till the following week, as I'm invited to Ruth's cottage Thursday and am determined to go; I really need to get out of town for a bit. Nicole is all set to move in here and look after garden and cat.
But tomorrow, also, I have to go and have a Covid test; understandably, Ruth would like to know I'm safe before I arrive on her island. And given my headache and sore throat - neurosis? Covid? - it'll be good to do that. I feel like my body is disintegrating, so many hours sitting with the computer, writing email blasts and MailChimp announcements, taking another webinar on book marketing for writers - terrific - speaking to the publisher, emailing my kids and friends. Somewhere in there, I try to do some exercise with the computer, and I try to cook. But not much. Not enough.
It's all overwhelming, sometimes. Particularly when I actually have to work.
Tonight, vegging.
PS One funny thing: when you're doing audio work, you should try to avoid dairy which creates phlegm. I realized today how much my diet revolves around dairy - milk for breakfast, yogurt, cheese, mayonnaise. Could hardly imagine how to eat without. Nuts. Meat and potatoes. More nuts. Bread. As soon as I got home after taping, I had slabs of my favourite Quebecois cheese, la Sauvagine. Reward. With, of course, wine. Trying to tune out the Bellowing Boyfriend next door. Definitely need to get out of town.
I spent the morning warning up my body and voice and turning into a neurotic, hypochondriac actress once again, and this afternoon sitting in a studio for 3 1/2 hours, taping the audiobook. In that time we did less than 60 pages of a 230 page book, and I'm a pretty fluent reader. So, lots more to do.
But how lucky I am to have this studio and its technician, a young U of T graduate with a Master's in music technology called, mysteriously, Cu, who is incredibly skilled. He ensconced me in front of a state-of-the-art microphone, fired up his enormous console and we began. Beside me I had: a thermos of tea with lemon and honey, throat lozenges, snacks, sweater and socks in case it was chilly - which it was, those went on and the tea was drunk and the snacks were eaten. Neurosis, thy name is BK.
But it was great. I used to do a lot of radio and voiceover, though have not for years, and was nervous about going back to this part of my life. I don't like listening to myself, as I over-enunciate, sound prissy, like I'm trying too hard. But once I got started, it was as if I'd been doing this all along. Wonderful Jason was there to get me launched, sympathetic about my concerns - this is not only you going back to acting, it's your own words you're reading, he said. And my own life I'm exposing, I said.
But that's the job.
After we stopped, I watched Cu do his editing magic - taking out hesitancies or mistakes, watching the row of vertical lines that is my voice. We have the day off tomorrow to listen to today's tapes and see what worked and didn't, then Monday and Tuesday we're at it again, and then a break till the following week, as I'm invited to Ruth's cottage Thursday and am determined to go; I really need to get out of town for a bit. Nicole is all set to move in here and look after garden and cat.But tomorrow, also, I have to go and have a Covid test; understandably, Ruth would like to know I'm safe before I arrive on her island. And given my headache and sore throat - neurosis? Covid? - it'll be good to do that. I feel like my body is disintegrating, so many hours sitting with the computer, writing email blasts and MailChimp announcements, taking another webinar on book marketing for writers - terrific - speaking to the publisher, emailing my kids and friends. Somewhere in there, I try to do some exercise with the computer, and I try to cook. But not much. Not enough.
It's all overwhelming, sometimes. Particularly when I actually have to work.
Tonight, vegging.
PS One funny thing: when you're doing audio work, you should try to avoid dairy which creates phlegm. I realized today how much my diet revolves around dairy - milk for breakfast, yogurt, cheese, mayonnaise. Could hardly imagine how to eat without. Nuts. Meat and potatoes. More nuts. Bread. As soon as I got home after taping, I had slabs of my favourite Quebecois cheese, la Sauvagine. Reward. With, of course, wine. Trying to tune out the Bellowing Boyfriend next door. Definitely need to get out of town.
August 13, 2020
the greatest blessings
They weren't expected till the end of the month but arrived yesterday. Opening the first box and holding the newborn for the first time is an overwhelming moment for a writer. Joy. I sent a birth announcement to friends: she's here, the perfect size, weight, and colour, so far missing only a comma on page 19.
And, from Nova Scotia:
And, from Nova Scotia:
August 12, 2020
blessings
Many thanks to all you kind folk who've sent sympathy for the water explosion here. But here's the thing: it could have been so much worse. John told me about a friend who was away when a tap exploded at his house. He came back a week later to a flood; three stories of drywall had crumbled down to the floor. I was here. John got here.
And ... Beirut. For context.
John came with a new part for the toilet upstairs. This is what broke off: the round plastic bit of this $7.99 part.
And then he spent a couple of hours ripping the sodden carpet from the stairs. Built in 1887 and quite lovely in their worn-out nakedness.
Answering my cry of despair, Lani and Chris wrote to suggest, helpfully, that I move to a smaller community, like Stratford or Niagara-on-the-Lake. Thank you, but no. I'll find a way to stick it out here. Almost everything and everyone I hold dear is in Toronto. Including, on this beautifully cool quiet morning, this:
And ... Beirut. For context.
John came with a new part for the toilet upstairs. This is what broke off: the round plastic bit of this $7.99 part.
And then he spent a couple of hours ripping the sodden carpet from the stairs. Built in 1887 and quite lovely in their worn-out nakedness.
Answering my cry of despair, Lani and Chris wrote to suggest, helpfully, that I move to a smaller community, like Stratford or Niagara-on-the-Lake. Thank you, but no. I'll find a way to stick it out here. Almost everything and everyone I hold dear is in Toronto. Including, on this beautifully cool quiet morning, this:
August 11, 2020
disaster from the water gods
Yesterday, I made the terrible mistake of assuming life was going swimmingly. Jason and I had just had a productive meeting, during which I booked a nearby sound studio, Number 9 on Gerrard, to record an audiobook of the memoir. A big project but one which seemed to fall surprisingly easily into place. Even better, after Jason left, Anna phoned to tell me how much they are all enjoying their Nova Scotia retreat.
I was chatting with her on the phone when suddenly water started squirting - pouring - out of the light socket in the dining room. Terrifying. And then the smoke alarm started shrieking. It was as if the house itself was possessed. I ran upstairs to see water pouring out of the smoke alarm above the stairs and out of the door frame of the nearby bedroom, pooling in inches on the floor. I dashed up to the third floor, thinking that my tenant had left a tap running - water was squirting violently out of the wall in his bathroom, the floor was awash in water. All the alarms in the house screaming, water running down walls everywhere.
Total panic. Drenched, I called John.
15 minutes later he appeared. I'd tried but couldn’t turn off the house's water system in the basement because the shut off valve had been changed, it’s a lever somewhere that I couldn't find. But he turned it off. And though water was still squirting and the alarms were still screaming and the carpeted stairs were soaking wet, we made our way to the third floor where John eventually figured out that the toilet had somehow pulled out of the wall and disconnected from the pipes. He managed to stop the waterfall and disconnect the alarm.
Major clean up - every single towel in the house, every rag, every bucket. Luckily neither tenant was home at that time. Poor Robin upstairs came home and went into shock. The woman in the basement initially was furious about the wet carpet and wet floor and lack of towels, but forgave me.
And then my dear friend Suzette arrived at the door for dinner; though I’d sent her several messages of warning she didn't get them. And despite everything, despite the kitchen being full of the pots and bowls I’d used to catch water and the sodden towels covering the deck, we made a nice dinner and evening. Luckily our food was all made.
In the middle of it all, as I was mopping floors and trying to get ready for my friend, I found the cat on the stove, trying to eat our pasta dinner from the saucepan.
I drank too much. There was a huge cleanup after. The paint on many walls, from attic to basement, is damp and damaged. Can’t even think about it.
As I've quoted many times, my last handyman Len told me I must have offended the water gods in a previous life. And it certainly seems so, this house a litany of leaking roof and skylights and flooding basement. But - a toilet pulling from the wall and flooding a four-story house - have you ever heard of that?
In the night, I awoke, feeling as if my body was electrified, currents charging through, zapping me. I thought I was having a heart attack and came down to look it up on my phone. It said something about anxiety, and also about MS, that it might be an early symptom of MS. Put the phone down. Not going there right now. Ate some peanut butter, my soporific of choice, and managed to sleep. When the stores open will ride downtown to buy fresh towels and bath mats for my tenants, as theirs are in garbage bags on the deck. John is arriving at some point with new parts for the toilet upstairs, and then we're going to tear out the carpeting on the stairs, too sodden to save.
What if John hadn't been home yesterday? The thought makes me sick. I wonder, for the millionth time, about a nice little condo somewhere.
But where? Any ideas? Up for a move.
PS Just dropped a heavy bottle of maple syrup on my toe. It hurts. Time to give up? Back to bed? Back to the womb?
I was chatting with her on the phone when suddenly water started squirting - pouring - out of the light socket in the dining room. Terrifying. And then the smoke alarm started shrieking. It was as if the house itself was possessed. I ran upstairs to see water pouring out of the smoke alarm above the stairs and out of the door frame of the nearby bedroom, pooling in inches on the floor. I dashed up to the third floor, thinking that my tenant had left a tap running - water was squirting violently out of the wall in his bathroom, the floor was awash in water. All the alarms in the house screaming, water running down walls everywhere.
Total panic. Drenched, I called John.
15 minutes later he appeared. I'd tried but couldn’t turn off the house's water system in the basement because the shut off valve had been changed, it’s a lever somewhere that I couldn't find. But he turned it off. And though water was still squirting and the alarms were still screaming and the carpeted stairs were soaking wet, we made our way to the third floor where John eventually figured out that the toilet had somehow pulled out of the wall and disconnected from the pipes. He managed to stop the waterfall and disconnect the alarm.
Major clean up - every single towel in the house, every rag, every bucket. Luckily neither tenant was home at that time. Poor Robin upstairs came home and went into shock. The woman in the basement initially was furious about the wet carpet and wet floor and lack of towels, but forgave me.
And then my dear friend Suzette arrived at the door for dinner; though I’d sent her several messages of warning she didn't get them. And despite everything, despite the kitchen being full of the pots and bowls I’d used to catch water and the sodden towels covering the deck, we made a nice dinner and evening. Luckily our food was all made.
In the middle of it all, as I was mopping floors and trying to get ready for my friend, I found the cat on the stove, trying to eat our pasta dinner from the saucepan.
I drank too much. There was a huge cleanup after. The paint on many walls, from attic to basement, is damp and damaged. Can’t even think about it.
As I've quoted many times, my last handyman Len told me I must have offended the water gods in a previous life. And it certainly seems so, this house a litany of leaking roof and skylights and flooding basement. But - a toilet pulling from the wall and flooding a four-story house - have you ever heard of that?
In the night, I awoke, feeling as if my body was electrified, currents charging through, zapping me. I thought I was having a heart attack and came down to look it up on my phone. It said something about anxiety, and also about MS, that it might be an early symptom of MS. Put the phone down. Not going there right now. Ate some peanut butter, my soporific of choice, and managed to sleep. When the stores open will ride downtown to buy fresh towels and bath mats for my tenants, as theirs are in garbage bags on the deck. John is arriving at some point with new parts for the toilet upstairs, and then we're going to tear out the carpeting on the stairs, too sodden to save.
What if John hadn't been home yesterday? The thought makes me sick. I wonder, for the millionth time, about a nice little condo somewhere.
But where? Any ideas? Up for a move.
PS Just dropped a heavy bottle of maple syrup on my toe. It hurts. Time to give up? Back to bed? Back to the womb?
August 9, 2020
Seventy - true or false?
I just looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. "You're 70 fucking years old!" I said to her, that familiar face looking back, the face that could be 33 as far as I'm concerned. It's just surreal, simply not possible, it does not compute. 70 is my grandmothers who were creaking and slow and OLD. It's decrepit and on the way out. Nothing to do with MOI.
But here we are.
The campers in Nova Scotia are happy. Sam is very busy because both the Raptors and the Leafs are playing big games today. The Leafs. In August. Talk about surreal.
Today I was indeed a crabby old lady, however. After a week of listening day in day out to sawing and drilling and hammering, in mid-afternoon I marched, carrying a printout of the Toronto noise ordinance, into the yard on Spruce Street where the construction had been carrying on all day and pointed out that the rules say, NO CONSTRUCTION NOISE ON SUNDAY. It turned out not to be the horrible developers who have wreaked havoc in the 'hood but a nice guy who works during the week and can only build his deck on the weekend. But still, I begged him for myself and the 30 or so other families in the vicinity, especially for those of us without cottages whose gardens are our retreats, to please give us some peace today.
And he did.
I have the feeling that silence, or even relative silence, will soon be one of the great luxuries of life for those of us living in cities. We had silence today, here, at last. I came home and sat outside for the rest of the day, relishing what was not filling my ears. I'm trying to finish Aubrey McKee because I have to go pick up another library book soon. Alex Pugsley is a very good writer, exploding with ideas, words, amazing details, superb dialogue - but again, as often before, this crabby old lady thinks he needs and did not have a good editor. EDIT. CUT. TOO MUCH. Less is more. Etc.
I also mailed a letter to the CBC complaining about a news anchor who stumbles on foreign names, sometimes 2 or 3 times in a row, and sounds as if she barely understands what she's reading. But it's her enunciation that drives me insane; she can't pronounce even simple words, particularly the suffix 'ing.' Talkin seein doin. "Returnin to our top story." On the CBC National News.
I also tried to watch a new TV drama, starring Seth Rogan as a modern day schlub and also as his own great-grandfather who was miraculously preserved for 100 years in pickle brine. I wanted to like this Jewish folk tale, but it was just too stupid.
So yes, crabby, with an occasional finger or leg cramp, some memory gaps, a sometimes achey back, a resigned sense of what I will never get to do in this lifetime. I guess I am 70. Unbelievable as it may seem.
Here's the good news: I did watch Modern Times on TCM by and with Charlie Chaplin, stunning. And it's summer, and that means peaches and other good things. Hooray for the Saturday St. Lawrence Market. Appreciated even by the very old. And very crabby.
But here we are.
The campers in Nova Scotia are happy. Sam is very busy because both the Raptors and the Leafs are playing big games today. The Leafs. In August. Talk about surreal.
Today I was indeed a crabby old lady, however. After a week of listening day in day out to sawing and drilling and hammering, in mid-afternoon I marched, carrying a printout of the Toronto noise ordinance, into the yard on Spruce Street where the construction had been carrying on all day and pointed out that the rules say, NO CONSTRUCTION NOISE ON SUNDAY. It turned out not to be the horrible developers who have wreaked havoc in the 'hood but a nice guy who works during the week and can only build his deck on the weekend. But still, I begged him for myself and the 30 or so other families in the vicinity, especially for those of us without cottages whose gardens are our retreats, to please give us some peace today.
And he did.
I have the feeling that silence, or even relative silence, will soon be one of the great luxuries of life for those of us living in cities. We had silence today, here, at last. I came home and sat outside for the rest of the day, relishing what was not filling my ears. I'm trying to finish Aubrey McKee because I have to go pick up another library book soon. Alex Pugsley is a very good writer, exploding with ideas, words, amazing details, superb dialogue - but again, as often before, this crabby old lady thinks he needs and did not have a good editor. EDIT. CUT. TOO MUCH. Less is more. Etc.
I also mailed a letter to the CBC complaining about a news anchor who stumbles on foreign names, sometimes 2 or 3 times in a row, and sounds as if she barely understands what she's reading. But it's her enunciation that drives me insane; she can't pronounce even simple words, particularly the suffix 'ing.' Talkin seein doin. "Returnin to our top story." On the CBC National News.
I also tried to watch a new TV drama, starring Seth Rogan as a modern day schlub and also as his own great-grandfather who was miraculously preserved for 100 years in pickle brine. I wanted to like this Jewish folk tale, but it was just too stupid.
So yes, crabby, with an occasional finger or leg cramp, some memory gaps, a sometimes achey back, a resigned sense of what I will never get to do in this lifetime. I guess I am 70. Unbelievable as it may seem.
Here's the good news: I did watch Modern Times on TCM by and with Charlie Chaplin, stunning. And it's summer, and that means peaches and other good things. Hooray for the Saturday St. Lawrence Market. Appreciated even by the very old. And very crabby.
August 8, 2020
Bravo Macron
Went to bed last night with earplugs in because of the raucous party across the street. Unfortunately, removed them in the night, was awakened at 7.15 a.m. by workmen unloading a truck also across the street. They're doing a renovation there, as well as in a house at the end of my garden, hammering, shouting, drilling all day. @#$ city living.
Right now, however, 8.30 a.m., silence. Birdsong. Nan sleeping nearby, as she does 23 1/2 hours of the day.
The family and best friend Holly left in their swish rented van at 7 a.m. yesterday -
and made it to Quebec City by 5. Anna wrote to say the kids were troupers during a ten hour drive with few stops. She'd rented at a motel with a pool, so straight into the water they went. Today, heading for New Brunswick.
Another fearless traveller: President Macron. My friend Juliet, in the blog to the left, writes that her French friends grumbled about his trip to Beirut, but the world community applauds it and so do I. Leadership, compassion, and courage - not something we see much of, these days. Bill Maher interviewed an army man last night, and they speculated about what the U.S. army would do if Trump loses, refuses to leave, and calls on his rabid followers, with their many millions of guns, to take to the streets. How many neo-Nazis in the American army? they wondered.
What a time of madness. But particularly there, to the south of us.
Thursday was madness around here. The plumber was destroying the basement to get his camera into the pipes to check for trees roots, and much else was going on, when the power went out. A crane had fallen on wires nearby and a small part of Cabbagetown was the only section of the city affected - for most of the day. I had a tenant moving in Friday morning with chaos in the basement and no power, no computer, phone running out of battery. Finally the plumber went to get his noisy generator and finished the job. It cost me $1000 to find out there are hardly any tree roots in my pipes. "Worth it for peace of mind!" he said cheerfully. Perhaps.
But yes, there's a massive Norway maple a few feet from my front door, one of the biggest trees in Cabbagetown, and my basement did flood with sewage twice, a long time ago, because of tree roots in the pipes. A nightmare. So you can understand my anxiety.
So dependent on this little silver Mac - nearly went crazy without it during the blackout. Though the machine itself is driving me crazy in another way: something is wrong with my trackpad's cursor, it leaps about with a mind of its own, jumping many times as I write or deleting at random. Enraging.
Thursday night, I had a ticket to a Music Toronto concert online: the Miró Quartet playing a late Beethoven string quartet, Op. 130. I was able to cast it to my television and lie on the sofa watching a superb quartet play one of the masterpieces of Western civilization. Unfortunately, before the end of the piece, during the famous Grosse Fuge, it cut out; the little circle went round and round, and the concert was over. But it was a treat. They're online playing this piece; I will finish the concert sometime soon.
Will we ever go out again? Or will we spend the rest of our lives in pyjama bottoms, on Zoom?
Yesterday, Day 14 of the Zoom exercise program I signed up for, I finally did a bit of exercise from Day 5. Will try to catch up. I've discovered it's fun not to exercise - more time for sitting around reading. Isobel just sent me this marvellous poem by Barbara Kingsolver. Yes!
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/aug/08/poem-of-the-month-how-to-do-absolutely-nothing-by-barbara-kingsolver
Right now, however, 8.30 a.m., silence. Birdsong. Nan sleeping nearby, as she does 23 1/2 hours of the day.
The family and best friend Holly left in their swish rented van at 7 a.m. yesterday -
and made it to Quebec City by 5. Anna wrote to say the kids were troupers during a ten hour drive with few stops. She'd rented at a motel with a pool, so straight into the water they went. Today, heading for New Brunswick.Another fearless traveller: President Macron. My friend Juliet, in the blog to the left, writes that her French friends grumbled about his trip to Beirut, but the world community applauds it and so do I. Leadership, compassion, and courage - not something we see much of, these days. Bill Maher interviewed an army man last night, and they speculated about what the U.S. army would do if Trump loses, refuses to leave, and calls on his rabid followers, with their many millions of guns, to take to the streets. How many neo-Nazis in the American army? they wondered.
What a time of madness. But particularly there, to the south of us.
Thursday was madness around here. The plumber was destroying the basement to get his camera into the pipes to check for trees roots, and much else was going on, when the power went out. A crane had fallen on wires nearby and a small part of Cabbagetown was the only section of the city affected - for most of the day. I had a tenant moving in Friday morning with chaos in the basement and no power, no computer, phone running out of battery. Finally the plumber went to get his noisy generator and finished the job. It cost me $1000 to find out there are hardly any tree roots in my pipes. "Worth it for peace of mind!" he said cheerfully. Perhaps.
But yes, there's a massive Norway maple a few feet from my front door, one of the biggest trees in Cabbagetown, and my basement did flood with sewage twice, a long time ago, because of tree roots in the pipes. A nightmare. So you can understand my anxiety.
So dependent on this little silver Mac - nearly went crazy without it during the blackout. Though the machine itself is driving me crazy in another way: something is wrong with my trackpad's cursor, it leaps about with a mind of its own, jumping many times as I write or deleting at random. Enraging.
Thursday night, I had a ticket to a Music Toronto concert online: the Miró Quartet playing a late Beethoven string quartet, Op. 130. I was able to cast it to my television and lie on the sofa watching a superb quartet play one of the masterpieces of Western civilization. Unfortunately, before the end of the piece, during the famous Grosse Fuge, it cut out; the little circle went round and round, and the concert was over. But it was a treat. They're online playing this piece; I will finish the concert sometime soon.
Will we ever go out again? Or will we spend the rest of our lives in pyjama bottoms, on Zoom?
Yesterday, Day 14 of the Zoom exercise program I signed up for, I finally did a bit of exercise from Day 5. Will try to catch up. I've discovered it's fun not to exercise - more time for sitting around reading. Isobel just sent me this marvellous poem by Barbara Kingsolver. Yes!
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/aug/08/poem-of-the-month-how-to-do-absolutely-nothing-by-barbara-kingsolver
August 7, 2020
mourning Brent Carver
Terrible sadness: the magical performer Brent Carver died on Tuesday at his family home in Cranbrook, B.C. He was only 68.
There was no one else like Brent anywhere, let alone in the theatre business. He did nothing for ambition or success; it was all about the art. And his was a great art, done with a profound sensitivity; he was one of those people who are almost too sensitive for this nasty planet. He was kind, thoughtful, generous. Shy, unassuming, reticent. He was magnificently talented, with superb acting ability and a glorious singing voice - and, lest we forget, a beautiful face and body.
My particular sadness, as I've posted on FB, is that I've written about him in Loose Woman and was looking forward to sending him a copy hot off the presses in a few weeks. I tell about The Club, a musical in 1978 in which I had a big part, and how on preview night, I was consumed with my usual self-deprecating fears. The show did not go well. At the bar afterwards, Brent sought me out, took me to a quiet corner, sat me down, fixed me with his beautiful eyes. "You're so close, Beth," he said, putting his arm around me. "One more big push of confidence, and you're there."
A vote of confidence from one of the best actors on earth, who took the time to deliver this message: it gave me such a boost that I did manage that push of confidence and sailed through the opening to a whole new stage in my career, thanks to Brent.
Many years later, I was at a preview starring a young actor I knew from our Vancouver days together. As I watched, I felt exactly as Brent must have, watching me. I wrote the actor a letter and brought it to the Stage Door the next day to deliver it, telling the story of Brent's gift and saying, I feel that too, with you - you're so close, one more big push of confidence, and you're there.
I hope it helped.
I last met Brent in December 2012 at a Leonard Cohen concert in Toronto; we were both transfixed by the haunting beauty of Cohen's performance. But that's what you do too, Brent, I told him, and reminded him about The Club. Since he was living not far from me, I invited him to lunch or dinner, and he responded with a vague assent which we both knew meant no; he was introverted and deeply private, just not a social animal, so unusual for an actor.
I'm glad I had the chance to remind him of his kindness in person and am trying to find an address for his family so I can send them the book. I'm sure there are countless stories of people Brent helped, but mine is there, on paper, forever.
All my love to you, dear friend. And thank you.
There was no one else like Brent anywhere, let alone in the theatre business. He did nothing for ambition or success; it was all about the art. And his was a great art, done with a profound sensitivity; he was one of those people who are almost too sensitive for this nasty planet. He was kind, thoughtful, generous. Shy, unassuming, reticent. He was magnificently talented, with superb acting ability and a glorious singing voice - and, lest we forget, a beautiful face and body.
My particular sadness, as I've posted on FB, is that I've written about him in Loose Woman and was looking forward to sending him a copy hot off the presses in a few weeks. I tell about The Club, a musical in 1978 in which I had a big part, and how on preview night, I was consumed with my usual self-deprecating fears. The show did not go well. At the bar afterwards, Brent sought me out, took me to a quiet corner, sat me down, fixed me with his beautiful eyes. "You're so close, Beth," he said, putting his arm around me. "One more big push of confidence, and you're there."A vote of confidence from one of the best actors on earth, who took the time to deliver this message: it gave me such a boost that I did manage that push of confidence and sailed through the opening to a whole new stage in my career, thanks to Brent.
Many years later, I was at a preview starring a young actor I knew from our Vancouver days together. As I watched, I felt exactly as Brent must have, watching me. I wrote the actor a letter and brought it to the Stage Door the next day to deliver it, telling the story of Brent's gift and saying, I feel that too, with you - you're so close, one more big push of confidence, and you're there.
I hope it helped.
I last met Brent in December 2012 at a Leonard Cohen concert in Toronto; we were both transfixed by the haunting beauty of Cohen's performance. But that's what you do too, Brent, I told him, and reminded him about The Club. Since he was living not far from me, I invited him to lunch or dinner, and he responded with a vague assent which we both knew meant no; he was introverted and deeply private, just not a social animal, so unusual for an actor.
I'm glad I had the chance to remind him of his kindness in person and am trying to find an address for his family so I can send them the book. I'm sure there are countless stories of people Brent helped, but mine is there, on paper, forever.
All my love to you, dear friend. And thank you.
August 6, 2020
the cat and the birds
The birds are back! For months, they've ignored my feeder; I scoured it out twice, bought premium black sunflower seed - no birds. I called a bird store; they had no idea what could have driven them away. But now, suddenly, they're back. Of course, because now I'd rather they weren't there for the next month; I am cat-sitting for Anna, and her cat Nan, though old and sick, is a ferocious hunter. So, not going outside, which does not please her. To show how displeased she was, she puked twice last night - not on the hardwood floor, no, she specifically chose both living room rugs.
I love cats and have missed having one - can't have one because of said feeder. But it's nice to have a furry beast sleeping nearby.
Anna and family have rented a van for their trip to Nova Scotia, leaving early tomorrow, driving first to Quebec City. A whole month without seeing my boys. Luckily, I'll be kept busy cleaning up puke.
Tons of noise - the plumber is in the basement. I asked him to come check for tree roots in my pipes, and of course it turned out to be complicated, because - my house. He had to cut the drywall open. A bit later, a piano technician is coming to install a device that will mute my piano, so I'll not be so shy about practicing. Then John comes to repair the cut drywall, Nicole comes to help me clean the apartment downstairs for the new tenant coming tomorrow, Ruth comes so we can go for a walk, and then dinner with Cathy, who has flown back from Newfoundland, and Monique, and Cath to spend the night. At 8.30, I have a Zoom ticket from Music Toronto for a string quartet.
A busy day. Luckily the weather is heavenly; the terrible July heat is gone, and it's a perfect breezy summer day.
In the meantime, I'm trying to get word about my book out there and waiting to hear from various colleagues. And I'm reading a novel called Aubrey McKee by Alex Pugsley, who's the cousin of my high school friend Ron. It's about growing up in Halifax, and so many of the names he mentions take me back there - Mahon's Stationary! Quinpool Road! The Public Gardens. Too bad - I was supposed to be going back to my Maritime roots this summer, but nyet. Next year maybe.
I am watching the birds and trying not to think about the horror that happened in Lebanon.
I love cats and have missed having one - can't have one because of said feeder. But it's nice to have a furry beast sleeping nearby.
Anna and family have rented a van for their trip to Nova Scotia, leaving early tomorrow, driving first to Quebec City. A whole month without seeing my boys. Luckily, I'll be kept busy cleaning up puke.Tons of noise - the plumber is in the basement. I asked him to come check for tree roots in my pipes, and of course it turned out to be complicated, because - my house. He had to cut the drywall open. A bit later, a piano technician is coming to install a device that will mute my piano, so I'll not be so shy about practicing. Then John comes to repair the cut drywall, Nicole comes to help me clean the apartment downstairs for the new tenant coming tomorrow, Ruth comes so we can go for a walk, and then dinner with Cathy, who has flown back from Newfoundland, and Monique, and Cath to spend the night. At 8.30, I have a Zoom ticket from Music Toronto for a string quartet.
A busy day. Luckily the weather is heavenly; the terrible July heat is gone, and it's a perfect breezy summer day.
In the meantime, I'm trying to get word about my book out there and waiting to hear from various colleagues. And I'm reading a novel called Aubrey McKee by Alex Pugsley, who's the cousin of my high school friend Ron. It's about growing up in Halifax, and so many of the names he mentions take me back there - Mahon's Stationary! Quinpool Road! The Public Gardens. Too bad - I was supposed to be going back to my Maritime roots this summer, but nyet. Next year maybe.
I am watching the birds and trying not to think about the horror that happened in Lebanon.
August 4, 2020
report on aging
A quick report - so far, 70 hasn't been great. Immediately, Sunday morning, I wasn't feeling well and of course these days, that's terror. I was achey with a sore throat and did almost nothing, and then one of my fingers went into painful spasm - arthritis? The day after my birthday, just to make a point? I've made the mistake of paying for an online exercise program which arrives every day; I've now not done 11 days of exercises.
Yesterday was not much better, still feeling lousy. The only bright spot, a meeting with Jason about our on-going project to launch this book. And John arrived to fix things, none of which got fixed, because - my house. I watched two episodes on Netflix of "Call My Agent," a French drama about the entertainment industry - good, not great. Lovely to see Paris in the background, though.
The weather has been very strange, too - heavy and very rainy.
Today, feeling better, fingers fine, I guess I'm not dying after all, which is good because it was a busy time - meeting Anna at Sick Kids hospital where Ben was going for a fitting. They'd hoped his club foot would be fixed by now, but it's still turning inward so he has been fitted for a special cast to wear at night. While he and his mama did that, Eli and I toured the Eaton Centre, my first shopping expedition for months, to buy books for their excursion to Nova Scotia and children's Scrabble for here, new sneakers for him - he wanted the gleaming gold ones but we compromised on the ones on sale with a BIT of gold - sandals for his brother, Body Shop body butter for his mother and me. Then a restaurant lunch; Eli and I got there first and played Scrabble while we waited. Anna is organizing a four-week trip starting with a very long drive, with a two-week quarantine when they arrive, so - complicated. If anyone can do it, she can.
Many emails - from the publisher, two new tenants, my boss at U of T. Trying to find a venue for the book launch, almost impossible, no one will commit because everything may shut down again by September. Nobody knows how to navigate this new world.
Watched part of the Trump interview for Axios until I couldn't watch any more. If you put it in a comedy, we'd say, too broad, ridiculous.
Can a zucchini get too big? That's my question for today.
Yesterday was not much better, still feeling lousy. The only bright spot, a meeting with Jason about our on-going project to launch this book. And John arrived to fix things, none of which got fixed, because - my house. I watched two episodes on Netflix of "Call My Agent," a French drama about the entertainment industry - good, not great. Lovely to see Paris in the background, though.
The weather has been very strange, too - heavy and very rainy.
Today, feeling better, fingers fine, I guess I'm not dying after all, which is good because it was a busy time - meeting Anna at Sick Kids hospital where Ben was going for a fitting. They'd hoped his club foot would be fixed by now, but it's still turning inward so he has been fitted for a special cast to wear at night. While he and his mama did that, Eli and I toured the Eaton Centre, my first shopping expedition for months, to buy books for their excursion to Nova Scotia and children's Scrabble for here, new sneakers for him - he wanted the gleaming gold ones but we compromised on the ones on sale with a BIT of gold - sandals for his brother, Body Shop body butter for his mother and me. Then a restaurant lunch; Eli and I got there first and played Scrabble while we waited. Anna is organizing a four-week trip starting with a very long drive, with a two-week quarantine when they arrive, so - complicated. If anyone can do it, she can.
Many emails - from the publisher, two new tenants, my boss at U of T. Trying to find a venue for the book launch, almost impossible, no one will commit because everything may shut down again by September. Nobody knows how to navigate this new world.
Watched part of the Trump interview for Axios until I couldn't watch any more. If you put it in a comedy, we'd say, too broad, ridiculous.
Can a zucchini get too big? That's my question for today.
August 2, 2020
the new decade begins
The house is silent. It's grey and raining, thank the lord. I have a quiet day to count my blessings and recover from yesterday's celebrations.
As predicted, Sam cooked an extraordinary meal. I picked mint and basil and he made hors d'oeuvres - prosciutto rolled with mozzarella and mint, tomatoes with mozzarella and basil. He made a salad of quinoa and peppers grilled on the barbie and he grilled pears, zucchini, and carrots with the tops on, all divinely tender and sweet. He caramelized onions for the steak and made a platter of grilled mushrooms in balsamic and wine. And then the meat - marinated chicken, pork shish kebabs, huge steaks, and trout on a plank. (Oh, and while he did that, he made an Instagram Story video about the process and posted it.)
In case that weren't enough food, Anna brought her famous leek and bacon dip and an eggplant dip from a Middle Eastern market. And at the end there was double chocolate fudge cake with Pol Roger champagne and a topping: Happy 70th Birthday Ma. Sam said they had trouble with that - don't you want to say Mom or Mum? No, he said. MA.
Incroyable. We were supposed to be eleven but two didn't make it, so all that food for nine adults and two children. Somehow we made a hefty dent.
Tried to distance but it was hard, and I did hug everyone with my face averted. Couldn't not hug. We all sat on the deck and then had two tables in the garden for the meal. The boys disappeared periodically to the end of the garden and later played Sorry with Uncle Sam and did puzzles - and of course, had screen time on various devices to give adults some peace. Even the weather cooperated - clouds emerged, just enough to block the heat and make the afternoon fresh and mild.
Style report: I'm wearing a silk dress bought 20 years ago at Goodwill, usually worn as a nightgown, and Auntie Do's "diamond" necklace.
Throughout, Holly, who brought me a superb bottle of Amarone, was in the kitchen doing dishes. She ran the dishwasher before the end of the soiree. Today, there's chaos, but only a fraction of what there would have been without her efforts.
So lucky. Blessed. Blessing: when she was preparing the boys' meals, Anna asked if I had cucumber since that's the only vegetable Ben eats. I said, Sure, and went to the garden to pick one. Blessing: Anna brought paintings by the boys and an embroidered wall hanging she'd commissioned from an Indigenous craftswoman of Marilyn, my turquoise bicycle. Other welcome gifts: many e-cards and FB greetings and a call from Dustin, Sam's good friend from high school - "Hi Ma!" More good wine, a plant from Cathy in Newfoundland, a journal from Lani in Ingersoll, a donation to Medicins Sans Frontieres from Ken: "In gratitude for the 70 years of Beth Kaplan." LOL.
Blessing: telling a story about seeing a water snake at the cottage, and Ken and I together reciting the beginning and end of a favourite D. H. Lawrence poem: "A snake came to my water trough, and I in pyjamas for the heat, to drink there."
Blessing: to sit with old friends who are like family for us all - Holly my other daughter; Ken, Anne-Marie and Jim, Monique - wonderful interesting people. And we thought of those not there: Wayson who wouldn't miss a party, my parents who'd have relished every minute, far-flung loved ones.
Just read an article in the NYT about how great it is to get old - that though there are certainly problems of the body, the spirit is often stronger than ever before. And so it is. I have health, work, a home, and we have each other. We live in this peaceful country, in one of the great cities of the world, though both flawed, as Anna would be the first to point out. My new book details that I spent many young years confused about my path in life: what should I do? Who should I be?
I know the answers now. See below, plus new book coming out. (Holly took the picture at the end of the night; Ben hates having his picture taken so she paid him $5 cash to smile.)
Heart overflowing. Grateful. Onward.
As predicted, Sam cooked an extraordinary meal. I picked mint and basil and he made hors d'oeuvres - prosciutto rolled with mozzarella and mint, tomatoes with mozzarella and basil. He made a salad of quinoa and peppers grilled on the barbie and he grilled pears, zucchini, and carrots with the tops on, all divinely tender and sweet. He caramelized onions for the steak and made a platter of grilled mushrooms in balsamic and wine. And then the meat - marinated chicken, pork shish kebabs, huge steaks, and trout on a plank. (Oh, and while he did that, he made an Instagram Story video about the process and posted it.)
In case that weren't enough food, Anna brought her famous leek and bacon dip and an eggplant dip from a Middle Eastern market. And at the end there was double chocolate fudge cake with Pol Roger champagne and a topping: Happy 70th Birthday Ma. Sam said they had trouble with that - don't you want to say Mom or Mum? No, he said. MA.Incroyable. We were supposed to be eleven but two didn't make it, so all that food for nine adults and two children. Somehow we made a hefty dent.
Tried to distance but it was hard, and I did hug everyone with my face averted. Couldn't not hug. We all sat on the deck and then had two tables in the garden for the meal. The boys disappeared periodically to the end of the garden and later played Sorry with Uncle Sam and did puzzles - and of course, had screen time on various devices to give adults some peace. Even the weather cooperated - clouds emerged, just enough to block the heat and make the afternoon fresh and mild.
Style report: I'm wearing a silk dress bought 20 years ago at Goodwill, usually worn as a nightgown, and Auntie Do's "diamond" necklace.Throughout, Holly, who brought me a superb bottle of Amarone, was in the kitchen doing dishes. She ran the dishwasher before the end of the soiree. Today, there's chaos, but only a fraction of what there would have been without her efforts.
So lucky. Blessed. Blessing: when she was preparing the boys' meals, Anna asked if I had cucumber since that's the only vegetable Ben eats. I said, Sure, and went to the garden to pick one. Blessing: Anna brought paintings by the boys and an embroidered wall hanging she'd commissioned from an Indigenous craftswoman of Marilyn, my turquoise bicycle. Other welcome gifts: many e-cards and FB greetings and a call from Dustin, Sam's good friend from high school - "Hi Ma!" More good wine, a plant from Cathy in Newfoundland, a journal from Lani in Ingersoll, a donation to Medicins Sans Frontieres from Ken: "In gratitude for the 70 years of Beth Kaplan." LOL.
Blessing: telling a story about seeing a water snake at the cottage, and Ken and I together reciting the beginning and end of a favourite D. H. Lawrence poem: "A snake came to my water trough, and I in pyjamas for the heat, to drink there."
Blessing: to sit with old friends who are like family for us all - Holly my other daughter; Ken, Anne-Marie and Jim, Monique - wonderful interesting people. And we thought of those not there: Wayson who wouldn't miss a party, my parents who'd have relished every minute, far-flung loved ones.
Just read an article in the NYT about how great it is to get old - that though there are certainly problems of the body, the spirit is often stronger than ever before. And so it is. I have health, work, a home, and we have each other. We live in this peaceful country, in one of the great cities of the world, though both flawed, as Anna would be the first to point out. My new book details that I spent many young years confused about my path in life: what should I do? Who should I be?
I know the answers now. See below, plus new book coming out. (Holly took the picture at the end of the night; Ben hates having his picture taken so she paid him $5 cash to smile.)
Heart overflowing. Grateful. Onward.
