Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 76
July 12, 2020
moaning on Sunday
A lovely lovely day. And yet - what did I do? How is it now 6.30 p.m.? How is it now mid-July 2020? I do not understand time.
Okay, so I'm still alive and so are my family and friends, that's a big win. What should I have accomplished? Well - starting a new book, that's the big thing. Or a series of essays, or even one essay. Instead I've been reviewing the number of essays I've already written and wondering what should happen to them. I have no idea. So why write something new? No idea. I bought a year's subscription to Medium, an online magazine that accepts submissions, and have no idea how to proceed.
However, good news. Someone has rented the apartment downstairs for August, and now someone else for October on, at least for a few months, possibly for longer — a couple who sold their Cabbagetown house to move to the country and now miss the neighbourhood and the city so want a pied à terre in town. Could not be more perfect. Let's hope it actually happens.
So that's a huge relief.
Here I sit writing to you - I who have barely been outside these walls for weeks, no, months. An occasional sortie to the grocery store, that's about it. I did go to the veg garden first thing this morning with Q tip in hand, ready to pollinate my female squash plants, only - they're all male! I found one female flower and she had been devoured by something. It's a fraternity back there. I wrote to Backyard Urban Farm Co. and will book an online consult with them about squash and raspberries.
And while I'm at it, the birds have refused to eat the seed from my feeder for weeks. I cleaned it out and put in fresh seed - nope, they would not come back. It's like the Little Free Library - you attempt to do something for your neighbours but it costs. The Library, incidentally, is fine - the guy who used to steal all the books has moved on. But the missing birds - why, I ask, WHY?
Okay, so I've kept myself fed, and the house more or less clean, and I do exercise every so often, and the house runs, and the piano gets practiced a bit, and emails get answered, and yes, I'm teaching two courses via Zoom and working now with three editing clients. Picked my first perfect cucumber today, and many beans. But still - it's a whole day, 12 hours or so. What happens? I read articles about productivity all the time. But I am not productive.
I do, however, check FB and Twitter regularly, and the papers and the New Yorker. I am up to date with what's going on in the world. I think.
Oh, and yesterday I took a webinar from the Writer's Union of Canada about taxes for writers, which turned out to be taught by Tova Epp, a writing student from long ago, a lovely woman whom I remember fondly and who had lots of good advice about taxes.
In a few weeks I will be seventy. Is it time to roll the bottom of my trousers? Will the mermaids sing to me? I think being more productive involves lifting my bum out of this chair. Aye, there's the rub.
Okay, so I'm still alive and so are my family and friends, that's a big win. What should I have accomplished? Well - starting a new book, that's the big thing. Or a series of essays, or even one essay. Instead I've been reviewing the number of essays I've already written and wondering what should happen to them. I have no idea. So why write something new? No idea. I bought a year's subscription to Medium, an online magazine that accepts submissions, and have no idea how to proceed.
However, good news. Someone has rented the apartment downstairs for August, and now someone else for October on, at least for a few months, possibly for longer — a couple who sold their Cabbagetown house to move to the country and now miss the neighbourhood and the city so want a pied à terre in town. Could not be more perfect. Let's hope it actually happens.
So that's a huge relief.
Here I sit writing to you - I who have barely been outside these walls for weeks, no, months. An occasional sortie to the grocery store, that's about it. I did go to the veg garden first thing this morning with Q tip in hand, ready to pollinate my female squash plants, only - they're all male! I found one female flower and she had been devoured by something. It's a fraternity back there. I wrote to Backyard Urban Farm Co. and will book an online consult with them about squash and raspberries.
And while I'm at it, the birds have refused to eat the seed from my feeder for weeks. I cleaned it out and put in fresh seed - nope, they would not come back. It's like the Little Free Library - you attempt to do something for your neighbours but it costs. The Library, incidentally, is fine - the guy who used to steal all the books has moved on. But the missing birds - why, I ask, WHY?
Okay, so I've kept myself fed, and the house more or less clean, and I do exercise every so often, and the house runs, and the piano gets practiced a bit, and emails get answered, and yes, I'm teaching two courses via Zoom and working now with three editing clients. Picked my first perfect cucumber today, and many beans. But still - it's a whole day, 12 hours or so. What happens? I read articles about productivity all the time. But I am not productive.
I do, however, check FB and Twitter regularly, and the papers and the New Yorker. I am up to date with what's going on in the world. I think.
Oh, and yesterday I took a webinar from the Writer's Union of Canada about taxes for writers, which turned out to be taught by Tova Epp, a writing student from long ago, a lovely woman whom I remember fondly and who had lots of good advice about taxes.
In a few weeks I will be seventy. Is it time to roll the bottom of my trousers? Will the mermaids sing to me? I think being more productive involves lifting my bum out of this chair. Aye, there's the rub.
July 11, 2020
sexing the squash
Again, today, blessed rain. After Wednesday's storm we went back to extreme heat, but there's relief today for both people and plants.
Nope - it's an hour later and it's hot sun again. Sun sun go away! More rain please.
Just talked to my son the bartender, who's back at work in a tense environment - they're very busy, distanced outside; he wears a mask (in the heat which feels with the humidity like 40 degrees), washes hands constantly, no menus, people order from their phones - they're doing their best. But a neighbour place just had a bunch of cases and had to shut down again. I've invited him for dinner, but if he comes, we will be sitting far apart.
On Thursday, spent the afternoon in my friend Lynn's sublime swimming pool that's like a little lake, sheltered by overhanging trees. On the crowded bus back, though, did not enjoy the company of so many of my fellow Torontonians, masks and all.
I've been enjoying online theatre - the Apple family from the States, monologues from Britain - clever clever stuff being done by creative people using what tools they have, like YouTube and Zoom. Much admiration.
My daughter and I are battling about political correctness, the Harper's letter, and J.K. Rowling, on FB. We adore each other, but on FB, we are polar opposites duking it out in this public forum. An interesting modern dynamic.
Oh, and about the garden: my squash plants are enormous but there are no baby squash appearing. I went to Dr. Google - apparently I have to pollinate them myself. Using a Q-tip, I have to take pollen from the male plant and pollinate the female. Mon dieu - my squash are binary and cisgender. I want squash that can pollinate themselves!
I have no wise words today about pandemics, isolation, creativity, focus, social media, cancel culture, our poor neighbours to the south, our foolish PM's carelessness. On today's list: have sexual relations with squash, pray for rain. Busy busy busy.
PS Who knew these plants had such rigidly defined gender roles? I was just out sexing them, but I'll need to pollinate early in the morning; all the flowers are shut up tight. I'll harvest a few flowers to eat as well. Farmer Beth. Amazing.
Today's treat: Macca with two kittens and Martha my dear. He became a farmer too. I heart.
Nope - it's an hour later and it's hot sun again. Sun sun go away! More rain please.
Just talked to my son the bartender, who's back at work in a tense environment - they're very busy, distanced outside; he wears a mask (in the heat which feels with the humidity like 40 degrees), washes hands constantly, no menus, people order from their phones - they're doing their best. But a neighbour place just had a bunch of cases and had to shut down again. I've invited him for dinner, but if he comes, we will be sitting far apart.
On Thursday, spent the afternoon in my friend Lynn's sublime swimming pool that's like a little lake, sheltered by overhanging trees. On the crowded bus back, though, did not enjoy the company of so many of my fellow Torontonians, masks and all.
I've been enjoying online theatre - the Apple family from the States, monologues from Britain - clever clever stuff being done by creative people using what tools they have, like YouTube and Zoom. Much admiration.
My daughter and I are battling about political correctness, the Harper's letter, and J.K. Rowling, on FB. We adore each other, but on FB, we are polar opposites duking it out in this public forum. An interesting modern dynamic.
Oh, and about the garden: my squash plants are enormous but there are no baby squash appearing. I went to Dr. Google - apparently I have to pollinate them myself. Using a Q-tip, I have to take pollen from the male plant and pollinate the female. Mon dieu - my squash are binary and cisgender. I want squash that can pollinate themselves!
I have no wise words today about pandemics, isolation, creativity, focus, social media, cancel culture, our poor neighbours to the south, our foolish PM's carelessness. On today's list: have sexual relations with squash, pray for rain. Busy busy busy.
PS Who knew these plants had such rigidly defined gender roles? I was just out sexing them, but I'll need to pollinate early in the morning; all the flowers are shut up tight. I'll harvest a few flowers to eat as well. Farmer Beth. Amazing.
Today's treat: Macca with two kittens and Martha my dear. He became a farmer too. I heart.
July 8, 2020
rain at last
Thank the good lord, it's raining. Thundering, actually. If there's one thing the people and gardens of Toronto need right now, it's a good soaking, after many days of torrid, possibly record-breaking heat. My only concern is that the epsom salts I sprayed on the raspberry leaves last night might be washed off, and I'll have to do it again. Otherwise - rain on, McDuff, thanks.
As I write, my neighbour and her boyfriend are outside under their deck umbrella. His voice is so loud, I can hear him clearly, every word, even through thunder and downpour and my closed doors. Amazing. What lungs, that he never stops talking at the top of! I wonder if anyone has ever asked him to keep his voice down - can he possibly have gone through life bellowing like that? Perhaps a lack of awareness that there are other people on the planet, with functional ears? Let us ponder. If it goes on, I'll have to block him out with headphones, as I do now on a regular basis. And then there's the cigarette smoke. I know. First world problems.
Yesterday was a busy day, Covid-style. At 3 I had a phone call with an editing client who is starting a new book. At 6 an appointment at the Y to pick up the stuff in my locker; they let me in through the staff entrance, masked, and I traipsed through the empty building, so silent, the floors shining. It made me sad. I emptied my locker because we have no idea when the Y will open - when it will be safe to go there.
At 7 I took in the friend of a friend's book launch on Zoom, and at 8 I attended Ringo Starr's 80th birthday party on YouTube with a group of his talented friends, including Sheryl Crowe and, of course, at the end, Macca - at least, Ringo drumming "Helter Skelter" not long ago with Macca. Ringo is a sweetheart, everyone seems to love him, including his grandchildren and - yes - his great-grandchildren. He's 80 and rocking; puts my own upcoming 70th in perspective.
And then the last two hours of the doc on women's suffrage. Canada granted women the right to vote two full years before the U.S. did - and how close the vote was there, even at the end. But when I looked it up, I saw that France and Italy didn't grant full suffrage till 1945! Unbelievable! And of course many Muslim nations only a few years ago. Strongly religious countries, it seems, are not fond of liberated women. What's sad about the tale in the U.S. is that the organizers of the movement were forced to choose between suffrage and racial justice - because white women who wanted the vote did not necessarily want to share that privilege with African-American women.
It's still pouring. He's still shouting. Time to practice the piano - make some loud messy noises of my own.
Here's your treat for the day - the new profile picture of my handsome boychik. Aka the giraffe.
As I write, my neighbour and her boyfriend are outside under their deck umbrella. His voice is so loud, I can hear him clearly, every word, even through thunder and downpour and my closed doors. Amazing. What lungs, that he never stops talking at the top of! I wonder if anyone has ever asked him to keep his voice down - can he possibly have gone through life bellowing like that? Perhaps a lack of awareness that there are other people on the planet, with functional ears? Let us ponder. If it goes on, I'll have to block him out with headphones, as I do now on a regular basis. And then there's the cigarette smoke. I know. First world problems.
Yesterday was a busy day, Covid-style. At 3 I had a phone call with an editing client who is starting a new book. At 6 an appointment at the Y to pick up the stuff in my locker; they let me in through the staff entrance, masked, and I traipsed through the empty building, so silent, the floors shining. It made me sad. I emptied my locker because we have no idea when the Y will open - when it will be safe to go there.
At 7 I took in the friend of a friend's book launch on Zoom, and at 8 I attended Ringo Starr's 80th birthday party on YouTube with a group of his talented friends, including Sheryl Crowe and, of course, at the end, Macca - at least, Ringo drumming "Helter Skelter" not long ago with Macca. Ringo is a sweetheart, everyone seems to love him, including his grandchildren and - yes - his great-grandchildren. He's 80 and rocking; puts my own upcoming 70th in perspective.
And then the last two hours of the doc on women's suffrage. Canada granted women the right to vote two full years before the U.S. did - and how close the vote was there, even at the end. But when I looked it up, I saw that France and Italy didn't grant full suffrage till 1945! Unbelievable! And of course many Muslim nations only a few years ago. Strongly religious countries, it seems, are not fond of liberated women. What's sad about the tale in the U.S. is that the organizers of the movement were forced to choose between suffrage and racial justice - because white women who wanted the vote did not necessarily want to share that privilege with African-American women.
It's still pouring. He's still shouting. Time to practice the piano - make some loud messy noises of my own.
Here's your treat for the day - the new profile picture of my handsome boychik. Aka the giraffe.
July 7, 2020
Sorry in summer
Yesterday I emailed a friend who lives on a farm in Prince George and has a big raspberry business. There's something wrong with my raspberries, I wrote in despair, do you have any idea what this is? And sent pictures of the yellowing striated leaves with brown patches, the shrivelled fruit.
She thinks it's a magnesium deficiency, and the cure is a spray of Epsom salts. "And afterwards, you can have a bath in them," she wrote. I'm off to Shoppers to buy Epsom salts for my deprived raspberries. What a wonderful world.
Yesterday was my father's yahrzeit - July 6 the day he died in 1988, 32 years ago. I celebrate every day the gifts he gave.
How I wish he could see another form of his legacy - his great-grandsons, including the one who looks a great deal like him as a boy. Eli and Ben rode over with their dad Thomas yesterday, all the way from their house to mine, a long hot ride. Tall 8-year old Eli has done it before, but Ben is four, and a small four at that. But tough as can be, wanting to do everything his big brother does. Thomas gives him a push every so often, when he tires. They spent the afternoon here, with lunch and then to the splash pad on Wellesley, hours of delight.
And for me too, as I sat watching children scream with joy under the sprinklers. Around me the parents - one a trans man with many tattoos and a pierced lip, beaming as he guided his tiny daughter to the edge of a puddle; a mother with the sides of her head shaved, a naked woman tattooed on her back, and many cutting scars on her thighs; a Black family, an Asian family, an East-Indian family, all the children a multi-coloured blur of activity. Ben never stopped running.
A game of Sorry to cool down,
and then to the new ice cream store on Dundas East for their second ice cream treat of the day. What are Glammas for? I had a Muskoka Mocha cone, delish. And then, after an exhausting afternoon of running and shrieking, they set off, riding back across town. Very tired when they got home, another gift for their mama, who was grateful for some time off.
And I watched a PBS documentary on suffrage for women. I knew about the suffragettes but didn't know quite how brutally hard it was to convince men to allow women to vote. We take so much for granted. But I do try not to take anything for granted. Especially them. And this.
She thinks it's a magnesium deficiency, and the cure is a spray of Epsom salts. "And afterwards, you can have a bath in them," she wrote. I'm off to Shoppers to buy Epsom salts for my deprived raspberries. What a wonderful world.
Yesterday was my father's yahrzeit - July 6 the day he died in 1988, 32 years ago. I celebrate every day the gifts he gave.
How I wish he could see another form of his legacy - his great-grandsons, including the one who looks a great deal like him as a boy. Eli and Ben rode over with their dad Thomas yesterday, all the way from their house to mine, a long hot ride. Tall 8-year old Eli has done it before, but Ben is four, and a small four at that. But tough as can be, wanting to do everything his big brother does. Thomas gives him a push every so often, when he tires. They spent the afternoon here, with lunch and then to the splash pad on Wellesley, hours of delight.
And for me too, as I sat watching children scream with joy under the sprinklers. Around me the parents - one a trans man with many tattoos and a pierced lip, beaming as he guided his tiny daughter to the edge of a puddle; a mother with the sides of her head shaved, a naked woman tattooed on her back, and many cutting scars on her thighs; a Black family, an Asian family, an East-Indian family, all the children a multi-coloured blur of activity. Ben never stopped running.
A game of Sorry to cool down,
and then to the new ice cream store on Dundas East for their second ice cream treat of the day. What are Glammas for? I had a Muskoka Mocha cone, delish. And then, after an exhausting afternoon of running and shrieking, they set off, riding back across town. Very tired when they got home, another gift for their mama, who was grateful for some time off.And I watched a PBS documentary on suffrage for women. I knew about the suffragettes but didn't know quite how brutally hard it was to convince men to allow women to vote. We take so much for granted. But I do try not to take anything for granted. Especially them. And this.
summer bliss
Yesterday I emailed a friend who lives on a farm in Prince George and has a big raspberry business. There's something wrong with my raspberries, I wrote in despair, do you have any idea what this is? And sent pictures of the yellowing striated leaves with brown patches, the shrivelled fruit.
She thinks it's a magnesium deficiency, and the cure is a spray of Epsom salts. "And afterwards, you can have a bath in them," she wrote. I'm off to Shoppers to buy Epsom salts for my deprived raspberries. What a wonderful world.
Yesterday was my father's yahrzeit - July 6 the day he died in 1988, 32 years ago. I celebrate every day the gifts he gave.
How I wish he could see another form of his legacy - his great-grandsons, including the one who looks a great deal like him as a boy. Eli and Ben rode over with their dad Thomas yesterday, all the way from their house to mine, a long hot ride. Tall 8-year old Eli has done it before, but Ben is four, and a small four at that. But tough as can be, wanting to do everything his big brother does. Thomas gives him a push every so often, when he tires. They spent the afternoon here, with lunch and then to the splash pad on Wellesley, hours of delight.
And for me too, as I sat watching children scream with joy under the sprinklers. Around me the parents - one a trans man with many tattoos and a pierced lip, beaming as he guided his tiny daughter to the edge of a puddle; a mother with the sides of her head shaved, a naked woman tattooed on her back, and many cutting scars on her thighs; a Black family, an Asian family, an East-Indian family, all the children a multi-coloured blur of activity. Ben never stopped running.
A game of Sorry to cool down,
and then to the new ice cream store on Dundas East for their second ice cream treat of the day. What are Glammas for? I had a Muskoka Mocha cone, delish. And then, after an exhausting afternoon of running and shrieking, they set off, riding back across town. Very tired when they got home, another gift for their mama, who was grateful for some time off.
And I watched a PBS documentary on suffrage for women. I knew about the suffragettes but didn't know quite how brutally hard it was to convince men to allow women to vote. We take so much for granted. But I do try not to take anything for granted. Especially them. And this.
She thinks it's a magnesium deficiency, and the cure is a spray of Epsom salts. "And afterwards, you can have a bath in them," she wrote. I'm off to Shoppers to buy Epsom salts for my deprived raspberries. What a wonderful world.
Yesterday was my father's yahrzeit - July 6 the day he died in 1988, 32 years ago. I celebrate every day the gifts he gave.
How I wish he could see another form of his legacy - his great-grandsons, including the one who looks a great deal like him as a boy. Eli and Ben rode over with their dad Thomas yesterday, all the way from their house to mine, a long hot ride. Tall 8-year old Eli has done it before, but Ben is four, and a small four at that. But tough as can be, wanting to do everything his big brother does. Thomas gives him a push every so often, when he tires. They spent the afternoon here, with lunch and then to the splash pad on Wellesley, hours of delight.
And for me too, as I sat watching children scream with joy under the sprinklers. Around me the parents - one a trans man with many tattoos and a pierced lip, beaming as he guided his tiny daughter to the edge of a puddle; a mother with the sides of her head shaved, a naked woman tattooed on her back, and many cutting scars on her thighs; a Black family, an Asian family, an East-Indian family, all the children a multi-coloured blur of activity. Ben never stopped running.
A game of Sorry to cool down,
and then to the new ice cream store on Dundas East for their second ice cream treat of the day. What are Glammas for? I had a Muskoka Mocha cone, delish. And then, after an exhausting afternoon of running and shrieking, they set off, riding back across town. Very tired when they got home, another gift for their mama, who was grateful for some time off.And I watched a PBS documentary on suffrage for women. I knew about the suffragettes but didn't know quite how brutally hard it was to convince men to allow women to vote. We take so much for granted. But I do try not to take anything for granted. Especially them. And this.
July 5, 2020
the bliss of haircuts and Hamilton
Not my happiest place, inside in the AC, but better than the alternative, the suffocating heat outside. Soon it'll lessen and I'll go water the parched garden. It's rosé time, solitary today.
Yesterday, to the market; at 7.45 a.m., there was a lineup outside that moved quickly. Such deliciousness inside, all local.
Though, feeling guilty, later I also went to NoFrills and bought cherries from Washington and mangoes from Mexico - but I promise, I will only buy local produce now till the end of summer.
A few hours later, Helene, a friend of my former hairdresser Ingrid who has closed down her business, came to cut hair in the garden. She does hair for film and TV, and she cut my hair and then Monique's. What a lovely place to have a haircut, on the deck under the pergola. And now my head is lighter. The first time since February! Never has a haircut been so welcome.
That night's treat - I borrowed Anna's log-in and password for Disney+ and watched Hamilton the film. I saw it on stage when it played here in the winter before theatres closed down, and marvelled at its ferocious energy and confidence, its eclectic musicality and originality, overwhelming, breathtaking. Despite the historical complexities it details about the creation of the United States of America, which we Canucks don't know much (or perhaps care much) about, I felt that again about the film. My ex told me recently that Lin-Manuel Miranda, the phenomenal talent who wrote the book, lyrics, and music and also starred as Hamilton for some time, is now a billionaire.
The music! I have "The room where it happened" on the brain and can't get it out! Just one of the best musical moments ever, yet one of many. I defy you to listen to it without snapping and tapping and wanting to dance. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WySzEXKUSZw
Joy.
This afternoon, Jane Ellison's 1 1/2 hour class, then cooking some stuff from the market while listening to Eleanor Wachtel. And now the heat has faded, I can open the doors and go water. Only 20 tonight. Tomorrow, only 31. It's going down.
Yesterday, to the market; at 7.45 a.m., there was a lineup outside that moved quickly. Such deliciousness inside, all local.
Though, feeling guilty, later I also went to NoFrills and bought cherries from Washington and mangoes from Mexico - but I promise, I will only buy local produce now till the end of summer.A few hours later, Helene, a friend of my former hairdresser Ingrid who has closed down her business, came to cut hair in the garden. She does hair for film and TV, and she cut my hair and then Monique's. What a lovely place to have a haircut, on the deck under the pergola. And now my head is lighter. The first time since February! Never has a haircut been so welcome.
That night's treat - I borrowed Anna's log-in and password for Disney+ and watched Hamilton the film. I saw it on stage when it played here in the winter before theatres closed down, and marvelled at its ferocious energy and confidence, its eclectic musicality and originality, overwhelming, breathtaking. Despite the historical complexities it details about the creation of the United States of America, which we Canucks don't know much (or perhaps care much) about, I felt that again about the film. My ex told me recently that Lin-Manuel Miranda, the phenomenal talent who wrote the book, lyrics, and music and also starred as Hamilton for some time, is now a billionaire.The music! I have "The room where it happened" on the brain and can't get it out! Just one of the best musical moments ever, yet one of many. I defy you to listen to it without snapping and tapping and wanting to dance. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WySzEXKUSZw
Joy.
This afternoon, Jane Ellison's 1 1/2 hour class, then cooking some stuff from the market while listening to Eleanor Wachtel. And now the heat has faded, I can open the doors and go water. Only 20 tonight. Tomorrow, only 31. It's going down.
July 3, 2020
Les Blancs, and scams
I'm on interminable hold with Visa, with that horrible music playing; I was stupidly scammed twice in April, buying stuff to help Anna with the boys - a bouncy castle and a table pingpong set, both, it turns out thanks to my friend Google, scams. My kids tell me Visa sometimes refunds those purchases, so it's worth a try, though they make it as painful as possible to wait. Of course they do.
What's weird is that a tiny package arrived from China today with a cheesy bracelet inside, worth, it says on the package, $5. Maybe there's some law that even if you pay for a bouncy castle, if they send a $5 bracelet, they can't be charged as scammers. Who knows? The description of contents is "hand catenary sofa cloud made with magnets." Aha. That helps!
I thought that I should write something about turning 70, so I started to compile a list of all the ways I've been lucky in life, and then of all the ways I'm not so great. More in the first list than the second, happily, but it's an interesting exercise. I told Monique about it yesterday, and she said, for the second column, "You're too nice, you don't set limits, and it's too easy to take advantage of you."
Yes. True. Viz: sofa cloud made with magnets. But there are plenty of worse flaws on the list than gullible. On the plus side: first of all, being white, female, healthy, smart, half-Jewish half-British in heritage and Canadian in citizenship, with a sense of humour. Can't beat that for lucky genes.
The heat wave continues - we're all stuck inside, it's just too damn hot. 35 degrees yesterday, around that today, to continue into next week. Much much watering to do. Poor garden. But first thing in the morning, before the inferno, it's paradise out there; I do my morning inspection, floating through my personal park. Talk about lucky! Picked rhubarb yesterday and made rhubarb-mango compote for my friend Rosemary's visit, but she cancelled - too damn hot, particularly for someone with a heart condition. So I'll have to struggle to eat it all by myself. Lots of beans and lettuce still, too. Cooked some beans with cherry tomatoes and garlic. Lucky.
Tonight's treat: Anna has shared her Disney+ password with me, so I'm going to watch Hamilton again, this time with Lin-Manuel. The show here was so good, I can't imagine the original being much better, but I'll see. Last night, Les Blancs from the fabulous National Theatre in London - an extraordinarily prescient, timely play by Lorraine Hansberry, finished after her death by her ex-husband - a powerful exploration of the legacy of colonialism in Africa. A bit melodramatic, but a true drama in the best sense of the word.
Joyful news: my friend Margaret in Vancouver is now a grandmother. Son William and wife Christina just had a daughter, Faye Catherine. Margaret and I were pregnant together, with Anna and William. The world moves on to the next generation, and the next.
And then, there's this. Yes.
What's weird is that a tiny package arrived from China today with a cheesy bracelet inside, worth, it says on the package, $5. Maybe there's some law that even if you pay for a bouncy castle, if they send a $5 bracelet, they can't be charged as scammers. Who knows? The description of contents is "hand catenary sofa cloud made with magnets." Aha. That helps!
I thought that I should write something about turning 70, so I started to compile a list of all the ways I've been lucky in life, and then of all the ways I'm not so great. More in the first list than the second, happily, but it's an interesting exercise. I told Monique about it yesterday, and she said, for the second column, "You're too nice, you don't set limits, and it's too easy to take advantage of you."
Yes. True. Viz: sofa cloud made with magnets. But there are plenty of worse flaws on the list than gullible. On the plus side: first of all, being white, female, healthy, smart, half-Jewish half-British in heritage and Canadian in citizenship, with a sense of humour. Can't beat that for lucky genes.
The heat wave continues - we're all stuck inside, it's just too damn hot. 35 degrees yesterday, around that today, to continue into next week. Much much watering to do. Poor garden. But first thing in the morning, before the inferno, it's paradise out there; I do my morning inspection, floating through my personal park. Talk about lucky! Picked rhubarb yesterday and made rhubarb-mango compote for my friend Rosemary's visit, but she cancelled - too damn hot, particularly for someone with a heart condition. So I'll have to struggle to eat it all by myself. Lots of beans and lettuce still, too. Cooked some beans with cherry tomatoes and garlic. Lucky.
Tonight's treat: Anna has shared her Disney+ password with me, so I'm going to watch Hamilton again, this time with Lin-Manuel. The show here was so good, I can't imagine the original being much better, but I'll see. Last night, Les Blancs from the fabulous National Theatre in London - an extraordinarily prescient, timely play by Lorraine Hansberry, finished after her death by her ex-husband - a powerful exploration of the legacy of colonialism in Africa. A bit melodramatic, but a true drama in the best sense of the word.
Joyful news: my friend Margaret in Vancouver is now a grandmother. Son William and wife Christina just had a daughter, Faye Catherine. Margaret and I were pregnant together, with Anna and William. The world moves on to the next generation, and the next.
And then, there's this. Yes.
July 1, 2020
Canada Day - a silent celebration
Canada Day, 2020. How infinitely lucky I feel to live in this country, to have lived here almost all my life. My daughter would be the first to point out Canada's flaws, and there are many, no question. But to me, our namby-pambyness, our colonialism, our forms of racism, are outweighed a hundred times by what is good here, most of all, right now, a sense of shared responsibility for our fellow citizens that is so very lacking to the south of us. The ferocious American need for individuality is what has made their country great, and what is destroying it right now: an inability to see that one small action, say, wearing a mask, may be uncomfortable for the self but is necessary for the greater good.
Thank God, again, for Tommy Douglas.
Mind you, I went this morning to a place I call Planet Rosedale; my friend Carole, teacher of my favourite Y class for 30 years, held a Canada Day class in a park in Rosedale, a 15 minute bike ride away. Rosedale, a 'hood of unimaginable wealth, is barely on earth, as far as I could see - mansions, wide streets, enormous old trees, this lovely, beautifully maintained park - I think my grandsons from Parkdale, with its cluttered, filthy streets lined with often angry homeless people, would be bewildered here. I couldn't help but think, as I rode along the smooth, freshly paved roads, about how ghastly the streets are in much of the rest of the city - along Gerrard to the south of me, for example, barely navigable, so pitted and rutted. But in Rosedale, for some strange reason, magnificent boulevards of fresh flat asphalt.
Inequality war aside, the class was fun; I was the least fit, but no matter, we were together. Carole had posted exercises on trees so we went from tree to tree, doing sit ups and pushups, and I, avoiding any running, though the others were keen. We have missed each other and our routine.
The city and the 'hood are quiet today, on this holiday. I am waiting for the new tenant to arrive, a young woman who'll live downstairs for the month of July. Final shop yesterday to replace the missing towels and bath mats. The place is gleaming.
Yesterday Annie came for lunch - a salade niçoise with green beans and lettuce from the garden, and of course rosé. We watched a webinar together put on by the Friends of Allan Gardens, about pests that eat vegetables. There are so many! I'm terrified. But I've ordered some "food friendly diatomaceous earth" which will fix everything. Stay tuned. Oh, and he also said - apply fertilizer in the morning and kill bugs at night. Your tip of the day.
RIP to Carl Reiner, a happy, loving man who made the world a better place. Listen to his Shakespeare!
https://www.facebook.com/newshour/videos/10158766712658675
Thank God for Tommy Douglas and comedians.
Happy Canada Day to you all. May you have many good laughs today. And so, on into mine.
Carole. She's the grandmother of three grown women and has run 50 marathons. (Hint: She's bionic.)
PS. And she just wrote to say that those roads in Rosedale were just as pitted as anywhere else until recently. I'll take her word for it.
Thank God, again, for Tommy Douglas.
Mind you, I went this morning to a place I call Planet Rosedale; my friend Carole, teacher of my favourite Y class for 30 years, held a Canada Day class in a park in Rosedale, a 15 minute bike ride away. Rosedale, a 'hood of unimaginable wealth, is barely on earth, as far as I could see - mansions, wide streets, enormous old trees, this lovely, beautifully maintained park - I think my grandsons from Parkdale, with its cluttered, filthy streets lined with often angry homeless people, would be bewildered here. I couldn't help but think, as I rode along the smooth, freshly paved roads, about how ghastly the streets are in much of the rest of the city - along Gerrard to the south of me, for example, barely navigable, so pitted and rutted. But in Rosedale, for some strange reason, magnificent boulevards of fresh flat asphalt.
Inequality war aside, the class was fun; I was the least fit, but no matter, we were together. Carole had posted exercises on trees so we went from tree to tree, doing sit ups and pushups, and I, avoiding any running, though the others were keen. We have missed each other and our routine.
The city and the 'hood are quiet today, on this holiday. I am waiting for the new tenant to arrive, a young woman who'll live downstairs for the month of July. Final shop yesterday to replace the missing towels and bath mats. The place is gleaming.Yesterday Annie came for lunch - a salade niçoise with green beans and lettuce from the garden, and of course rosé. We watched a webinar together put on by the Friends of Allan Gardens, about pests that eat vegetables. There are so many! I'm terrified. But I've ordered some "food friendly diatomaceous earth" which will fix everything. Stay tuned. Oh, and he also said - apply fertilizer in the morning and kill bugs at night. Your tip of the day.
RIP to Carl Reiner, a happy, loving man who made the world a better place. Listen to his Shakespeare!
https://www.facebook.com/newshour/videos/10158766712658675
Thank God for Tommy Douglas and comedians.
Happy Canada Day to you all. May you have many good laughs today. And so, on into mine.
Carole. She's the grandmother of three grown women and has run 50 marathons. (Hint: She's bionic.)PS. And she just wrote to say that those roads in Rosedale were just as pitted as anywhere else until recently. I'll take her word for it.
June 28, 2020
saying goodbye to Michael Enright
11.45 a.m. Is there a more Canadian experience than this – listening to all 3 hours of CBC radio’s Sunday Morning, with occasional tears in my eyes, as people famous and unknown pay tribute to its extraordinary host? After twenty years on the program, Michael Enright is leaving. I don’t think his departure is voluntary, I think he has been eased out - made redundant, though they're giving him an hour somewhere else. The fact that he’s a superb interviewer and journalist, empathetic, erudite – no. Out.
I understand perfectly the need to foster new talent and to listen to diverse voices. But to throw out an expert in his prime – IMHO, stupid and short-sighted once again. If it ain't broke, let's break it!
Now I'm laughing as he and Robert Harris sing a Frank Sinatra song, with just the right mix of self-deprecation and absurd courage. So good. He makes it sound so easy. Like Peter Gzowski - one of the last great voices from the golden age of radio.
I have had to find things to do while listening – I cleaned out a kitchen drawer and the fridge, then moved to the bedroom radio and folded t-shirts and stowed winter stuff, then moved to the office radio and sorted the pile of notebooks and file folders. And now, just sitting listening. But soon I’ll chop the red cabbage and start cooking it, while being informed, entertained, educated, enlightened, inspired. Kept company. That’s what good radio does, and how vital it is, especially now, in lockdown.
Thanks to all involved.
10.30 p.m. Good news: the sparkling basement apartment is rented for the month of July! A great help. The coreopsis bought and planted not long ago is blooming, but something relentless is devouring the buddleia. More green beans today - soon enough for a meal, along with the delicious red cabbage. At one I did Jane's class from Vancouver, thinking - this pandemic has hurt many. But for me, there have been small blessings, like Jane's class on Zoom; foregoing the hairdresser and learning that I actually like my hair longer; the daily bond with Monique; gardening more; slowing down. No shopping, no gallivanting, just hunkering. Appreciating beyond measure my house and garden to hunker in.
Watched a bit of Hard Day's Night yesterday for perhaps the twelfth time; it was on TCM. I channelled my 14-year old self while marvelling again at how much they loved each other, how their exuberance and joy bounces right off the screen, how funny they were. "The place is surging with girls!" complains their road manager. "Please sir, can I have one to surge with, please sir?" says John.
And then I watched I am Not Your Negro, James Baldwin, excoriating about American racism, eloquent and unforgettable.
This is what I saw first thing this morning. Sending love to you too.
I understand perfectly the need to foster new talent and to listen to diverse voices. But to throw out an expert in his prime – IMHO, stupid and short-sighted once again. If it ain't broke, let's break it!
Now I'm laughing as he and Robert Harris sing a Frank Sinatra song, with just the right mix of self-deprecation and absurd courage. So good. He makes it sound so easy. Like Peter Gzowski - one of the last great voices from the golden age of radio.
I have had to find things to do while listening – I cleaned out a kitchen drawer and the fridge, then moved to the bedroom radio and folded t-shirts and stowed winter stuff, then moved to the office radio and sorted the pile of notebooks and file folders. And now, just sitting listening. But soon I’ll chop the red cabbage and start cooking it, while being informed, entertained, educated, enlightened, inspired. Kept company. That’s what good radio does, and how vital it is, especially now, in lockdown.
Thanks to all involved.
10.30 p.m. Good news: the sparkling basement apartment is rented for the month of July! A great help. The coreopsis bought and planted not long ago is blooming, but something relentless is devouring the buddleia. More green beans today - soon enough for a meal, along with the delicious red cabbage. At one I did Jane's class from Vancouver, thinking - this pandemic has hurt many. But for me, there have been small blessings, like Jane's class on Zoom; foregoing the hairdresser and learning that I actually like my hair longer; the daily bond with Monique; gardening more; slowing down. No shopping, no gallivanting, just hunkering. Appreciating beyond measure my house and garden to hunker in.
Watched a bit of Hard Day's Night yesterday for perhaps the twelfth time; it was on TCM. I channelled my 14-year old self while marvelling again at how much they loved each other, how their exuberance and joy bounces right off the screen, how funny they were. "The place is surging with girls!" complains their road manager. "Please sir, can I have one to surge with, please sir?" says John.
And then I watched I am Not Your Negro, James Baldwin, excoriating about American racism, eloquent and unforgettable.
This is what I saw first thing this morning. Sending love to you too.
June 27, 2020
Furnished apartment to rent in Cabbagetown
FURNISHED APARTMENT IN DOWNTOWN TORONTO
Spacious one-bedroom basement apartment in Cabbagetown, in the heart of central Toronto, steps from the streetcar and the shops and restaurants of Parliament St., an easy distance to Ryerson, U of T, inner-city hospitals, and downtown, yet startlingly tranquil. The apartment has a private entrance through a gorgeous garden, a high-ceilinged living-room with dining space and kitchen, dressing-room, bathroom with huge shower and washer/dryer, and a bedroom. Fully furnished.
Rent reduced to $1600 a month including all utilities and hi-speed wifi. Someone quiet and reliable with references, please.
Kaplan2721@rogers.com
If you know someone coming to Toronto who needs a lovely central place to stay, please let them or me know. More info and pictures available.
Spacious one-bedroom basement apartment in Cabbagetown, in the heart of central Toronto, steps from the streetcar and the shops and restaurants of Parliament St., an easy distance to Ryerson, U of T, inner-city hospitals, and downtown, yet startlingly tranquil. The apartment has a private entrance through a gorgeous garden, a high-ceilinged living-room with dining space and kitchen, dressing-room, bathroom with huge shower and washer/dryer, and a bedroom. Fully furnished.
Rent reduced to $1600 a month including all utilities and hi-speed wifi. Someone quiet and reliable with references, please.
Kaplan2721@rogers.com
If you know someone coming to Toronto who needs a lovely central place to stay, please let them or me know. More info and pictures available.
