Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 78

We Are All Broken

It's early on a fresh Thursday morning; after a hot few days, there was a violent ten-minute downpour last night, and it's cooled down a lot. Miraculously nothing was destroyed in the garden, including the fragile bean plants. I've had several salads from my lush lettuce, tho' that's all from the garden so far.

I dreamed last night about going back to the Y, the first Covid dream that I remember. I was nervous and kept asking people if I should wear a mask or not. But it was the showers I wanted most, being relaxed and naked in a room full of other naked women standing under hot water. Without masks.

Maybe time for me to do a bit of exercise. I dread finding out how much muscle I've lost. But then - there's been a lot of strenuous cleaning. That counts.

However, good news: the contract for the book is done. Tomorrow I'm going to meet the publisher to talk about cover and interior images. After months searching for the right title, it was suggested by Judy; it's a chapter title, a quote from Vanier, but also a famous saying. And the subtitle, after more flailing, came to me at 4 a.m. the night before last. TA DA:

We Are All Broken:

losing myself in theatre
finding myself at L'Arche

a memoir

Order your copies today!

And the apartment is nearly done; pictures went up on the walls yesterday and more repairs. John told me his bill, for stuff he has bought for me and for his time, will be $1000. Makes me wince, but worth every penny.

So after extreme stress for months, two issues are resolved simultaneously. Of course, I have to get the book out and into the hands of readers, an uphill task, and I have to find a nice quiet person to live downstairs. But we're on our way.

Last night I watched another Hot Docs doc - There's No Place like This Place Anyplace, a wistful elegy to Honest Ed's and Mirvish Village on Markham St., a whole city block sold to a developer and torn down. Ed's was a vital resource for low-income people, and the Village housed many artists and galleries, bookstores, centres. Gone, though there will be some affordable housing and green space. I lived just below the Village on Markham Street in 1973-74, in a second-floor room with a kitchen shared with friends. When I was leaving for B.C., we had a farewell dinner party in the backyard, eating around a pingpong table lit with candles stuck in wine bottles. I was 23. Sigh.

I also watched John Oliver rage about the police: systemic, acceptable, even encouraged racism going back more than a century, a shocking story. Today my daughter is helping to organize an anti-racism protest at her kids' school, and I will be there. I know, people say we're all distancing and then we're gathering in the hundreds or even thousands at protests, it doesn't make sense. But I will be there. In a mask. Fully clothed.

Yesterday at 5, a walk with Monique instead of an aperitif: here's a Purple Robe Black Locust in the tranquil Necropolis. Beauty.

9.30 a.m. and all's well

In bed, at 4 a.m., I thought: in the world right now there's a murderous pandemic, there are race riots and millions of people demonstrating about appalling systemic injustice, and you're moaning about having to clean your basement apartment.

I apologize. A little perspective here. My world has shrunk a great deal, as yours has, and so the importance of this house, which always looms huge in my saga, is bigger than ever. As you may know, I have no work pension and only a small government pension. My children are certainly not going to be able to support me in old age. This house is my security, my future, my health plan, my retirement residence, my nursing home. Not to mention providing comfort and memories going back 34 years. And vital income from tenants, who have almost aways been reliable and sane.

But still - perspective.

It's a beautiful tranquil Tuesday morning; there's a distant steady murmur of traffic, more than last month though still nowhere near normal level. Just birds in the trees and an overwhelming profusion of green. Today - joy! - two library books I've had on hold since the winter will be waiting for me in the parking lot of the building at precisely 11.30; I gather a librarian will be there, though I'm not sure exactly how this works. At 2, a Zoom talk with Judy about our books - BTW, all is not in any way resolved with the publisher, unbelievable as that may be. At 3, a Writer's Union webinar on maintaining a digital presence, and at 6.45, a surprise birthday party on Zoom for a writer colleague who's turning 70.

Oh - and I'm happy to report that the doc First We Eat was voted one of the top five audience favourites after the Hot Docs festival. Though a mutual friend, I wrote to the producer/director/star in the Yukon, Suzanne Crocker, and we've been corresponding. She says it meant a lot to hear from a super-fan in Toronto. Poor filmmakers, so much work on their films, and then no premiere gathering, no applause as feedback, just a silent audience at home on their computers or phones. Brutal.

It's an amazingly full life from right here, in my kitchen. Nothing, nothing to complain about.

bad/good

It was as I forced myself to wash out the toilet plunger used in the basement apartment that I thought, here I am, for hours on this glorious day, doing these vile things. This is punishment. I was bad in a past life. Or I am being punished for my good fortune in living here, having my life.

I know, silly and apocalyptic. But it's not quite over, the penance of downstairs. I just opened the bathroom cabinet and found - splashes of blood? Whatever it is, it doesn't want to come off. Who sprays blood, or something else that's red and more or less permanent, on the inside of a bathroom cabinet?

I know you don't want to hear any more about this. So I'll stop. It's almost over. But there are surprises.

On Saturday, Sam cooked a stir fry for me while entertaining my aperitif partners Monique and Cathy. Very good to see him, even if we can't hug. Here's a shot he posted on Instagram, of his solemn past self at work.

Yesterday, I rode to visit Isabel Huggan, here from France though soon going back to sell her home there, now taking care of the pretty house of a dear friend of hers who died recently, which will also soon be for sale. It has a lovely small garden and a sunny artist's studio - I wish I'd met her friend. For a moment I thought, this house is a more manageable size and I wouldn't have to be a landlady, I could sell mine and buy this! But no, I'm stuck here, I love this place and my neighbourhood too much, despite everything. It was fun to contemplate a move, though.

Isabel and I had a great catch-up over much rosé. And when I got home, Monique asked me over for another glass, so I was roséd out. Good thing I didn't have any energetic plans for the evening, just watched a bit of a PBS special honouring Joni Mitchell. I didn't know Graham Nash wrote one of my favourite songs, "Our House," for her when they were a couple. What a life she's had. Oh, and Isabel's friend was also a lover of Leonard Cohen's. These lucky women.

First We Eat

Today I feel as if I've crawled up out of a deep hole or out from under a heavy rock: light and air, a huge weight lifted. The two issues that were weighing me down are resolving at a rapid pace. The basement apartment - I'm sure you're sick of hearing about it - has been miraculously transformed into somewhere livable. The divine Holly finished off yesterday by washing the appallingly dirty floors. John has repaired the broken chairs and doors and other broken things. I washed the windows and freezer, the stained cushions and rugs. And today Dan the painter came to freshen the whole place, fill the holes in the walls, make it pretty again. Standing down there, it feels as if I've scoured my soul and come up clean and clear. I will not think about the cost.

So - very soon, a lovely fresh fully furnished one-bedroom basement apartment in a fabulous location with an adorable landlady will be available for rent. If you know anyone suitable, please let me know.

And at the same time, today, the contract for the book has been finalized. Soon I'll meet with the publisher/editor about cover and internal images, and we'll be underway. Another incredible relief. Today I spoke to a book publicist who might be interested in taking me on. I've done no writing for ages, have been buried in Pinesol and vacuum cleaners and Windex and stain remover. But soon - soon - my writer life will begin again.

This morning it was very hot; John brought me a new fan which went on right away, a blessing. Then a downpour. And right now, the sun is out again on the wet grass and trees, the smell sublime, everything glistening.

I know, my friends, that everything I've described over these past weeks - the destruction of my basement apartment, my anxieties about the book - are first world problems. I own a house and can pay for the publication of my book since no one else wants to publish it. I do not take any of these privileges, my great good luck, for granted. Grateful to the tips of my toes.

The other day I bought a ticket for the Hot Docs Festival and sat in my kitchen watching a doc called First We Eat, by and about a woman in Dawson City, in the Yukon, who decides that for a whole year her family should eat only what is grown or produced locally. This means not just no imported vegetables and fruit but no salt, no sugar, no coffee or tea - no bread, even, because there's little local wheat. Brutal. It's beautifully shot in this gorgeous wild part of the country, with full acknowledgement of the hard work of the local farmers and the wisdom of the local Indigenous people.

This is real pioneer stuff, people who need to kill a moose to have meat for the winter. It made me think carefully about the food I eat - the mangoes and avocados trucked all the way from Mexico, and other exotic fare. Doubly so because I have just finished Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, about the same thing - eating local food, growing your own. But even she didn't ban salt, sugar, coffee. The Yukon filmmaker's charming children are hilarious as they endure her foraging in the bush and producing inedible wilted greens or rock hard bread from some strange grain - but they get through with grace and learn a vital lesson about our world, and some of the food looked delicious. Well worth watching. And how great that I could sit in my kitchen and experience the beauty of the Yukon through a year of seasons. https://firstweeat.ca/about/

All this, as people all over the world, and of course my daughter and her family, protest police brutality and systemic racism. And then the NYT convulses after publishing a Republican op-ed advocating harsh military intervention. And my right-wing friend writes to say he looks forward to visiting me in November after Trump wins again.

I was about to say, over my dead body. But between riots and the pandemic, perhaps that's a bit too literal.

There's a sparrow perched on the gardenia on the deck, where one glorious flower is just opening. It's Wayson, come to visit, to say, Onward. I hear you, my beloved friend.

kind words about my memoir

On a cheerier note - just came up from the basement and found an email from my friend Judy, to whom I'd sent the memoir manuscript last week:

I read your book in one great rush and really enjoyed it. I especially enjoyed the long section of your time at L'Arche. Very moving and wonderful writing! You've got a story very worth telling and you tell it very well. 
I hope you find a way to get the publicity this book deserves.
Thank you! Perhaps, at this time of global pandemic, rising fascism, and race riots, the world will not welcome this memoir of personal epiphany and change, called "beautiful but tender" by one editor. Perhaps this is the worst possible time to release such a book. What choice do I have, though, but to send it out into the world to make its way?

Trump the fascist

An editorial in the Washington Post today: "Is it time to call Trump the 'f' word?" I wondered - fucker? failure? But of course, it's fascist. And yes, yes it is. As we've been saying for years, just when you think he can't go lower, the situation cannot get worse, he does, it does, deep into a pit of unimaginable vileness.

This does feel like a turning point, though. Surely the spotlight on police actions will never again be turned off. Another article today about police officers fired yesterday for relatively minor offences - a racist FB post, pushing a peaceful protestor to the ground. Enough. Enough. Enough.

My daughter is quick to say that racism in Canada is alive and well, and I know it is. But we do not bear the deep wound of slavery here - in fact, the reverse, we welcomed freed and escaping slaves. Our racism was directed more to our Indigenous peoples. But I know it's very much still here. How tragic that human beings have historically been insular, intolerant, tribal.

Before we moved to Ottawa in 1983, I was there looking for a house for us to rent; my dear aunt Do drove me to meet the couple who might sublet their house to us. On the way, she said, "When you introduce yourself, use your married name, not your maiden name. It'll just be easier, won't it?" It took me a moment to realize - she meant I'd be more acceptable if I didn't use my own Jewish last name. She would never have called herself racist, and yet she was. I carry it too. My children don't understand why I used to feel the need to say, "I met an interesting black writer." They're offended by that, because they don't register race the way I do. Growing up in Halifax, I did meet Haligonians of colour, because my parents were involved in the civil rights movement; they helped the Freedom Singers come to town. But my schoolmates were all white, and I had not a single friend of another race; my most exotic friend was adopted. My grandsons' schoolmates come from every background on earth. Colour is invisible to them.

Year by year, we are learning a different way to be with each other. But obviously, it's not happening fast enough.

In the meantime, today I'd like to post pictures of my heroes - my friends Nicole and Holly, who spent yesterday downstairs in the filthy basement apartment cleaning - washing walls, shelves, cupboards, floors, doors. Holly spent hours just scouring the fridge and scraping off the smiley face scrawled in crayon on the wall. They chatted and sang as they worked on a beautiful afternoon. Grateful. Onward.

gettin' 'er done

Big day here, as those of you who follow this blog will attest: the basement apartment has finally, after many weeks of turmoil, been cleared. The tenant came back with a helper and a big truck provided by a family member, and they packed the truck with bags and boxes. I just filled my garbage bin with the garbage they kindly left behind - a broken drawer, a broken mirror.

Now the cleanup and repairs begin. Just the unspeakable fridge will take many hours, not to mention the walls and floors, the broken things, the hole punched in the bedroom wall, and so much more.

I spent the day with my dear friend and handyman John, who faced a list of 16 chores when he arrived, and we got through most of them. We put up the canopy of the pergola, under which, on this hot sunny day, I am sitting right now in blessed shade, with a glass of rosé already though it is only 4.30.
Some jobs were small - my bike basket bent out of shape so unusable, the front door not closing properly, a door in the apartment off its hinges. And some big, especially the RootX treatment we have to put down the basement drain once a year in I hope a successful effort to keep the roots of the vast maple out front out of my sewer pipes. They invaded once and believe me, you don't want to hear about it. The sink upstairs was plugged, the toilet handle in the apartment was broken. Etc.

While John did his chores, I started power-washing the deck with the noisy machine he'd brought. I hate them, but I guess it's the only way to clean outdoor, mossy wood. In an hour of noise and spray, I got less than half done. Why, why exactly, do we own houses?

I know, first world, rich white people problems. America is consuming itself. As someone wrote cynically and truthfully on Twitter, if it was Putin's goal in 2016 to destroy the U.S., he is getting the best return on investment of anyone ever.

But the garden is green and gorgeous and growing, and yesterday, I walked in the Necropolis, which after being closed for weeks is open limited hours now. It's beautiful and peaceful there, and I commune with my former neighbours - this time, a man who is buried with both his sons, one who died at a year old in 1896, the other who died in battle in 1917, age 20. Heartbreaking.
The book contract is under negotiation, two sparrows are mating in the tree in front of me right now, as I write, and we are still alive, my friends. It has been beyond fraught, this spring, and is getting worse. What a brutal year 2020 has been so far.

an only slightly bitter rant about publishers

After the sweltering heat of last week, today there's sun and a chill breeze. The city is still; I'm hearing birds like never before, exotic new trills, wish I knew what song belongs to which bird. The Gardiner Expressway is closed this weekend for repairs, and Bayview is closed for "Open Streets Toronto," so I took a long quiet bike ride almost down to the lake, surrounded by bikers, walkers, runners, skateboarders ... a vision of what this city could be if they ended their worship of the bloody car. It's so quiet and the air so sweet, it's hard to believe this is the heart of a metropolis.

I have started a chronicle I'm calling The Journey to a Book, about my efforts to get this memoir published, to share with students and any CNFC colleagues who might be interested. So I made a list, just of what I remember of my efforts over the last two years to get the book into the world.

Since 2015 I have worked with 5 editors, 4 of whom I paid, including a copy-editor at the end. (Rosemary, dear friend, read and commented for free.) After thousands in expenses and many drafts, in  2018 I started to try to find a publisher.

I contacted 4 agents, 2 of whom are friends, all of whom said no.
Over a year and a half, I sent either a query letter or a full submission, which is a convoluted lengthy process as they all want something different, to 20 publishers, big and small. Sometimes submissions, written specifically for a certain press, are many pages long.
I received a no, eventually, sometimes after months, from 10 of them.
I received a maybe from 2, one finally saying no, the other nothing.
I heard nothing, not even an acknowledgement of receipt of my query or submission, from the 8 others.

Fellow writer Judy urged me to be patient; "This is an important book, surely someone will want it," she said. @#$# that, I replied, though more politely. Enough. I understand that publishing is in dire straights, especially now after Covid. The one publisher who got back to me promptly to say, "I like your book" and express interest in publishing it, took five days to think about it and finally tell me the pandemic has so crushed his business, he can't take on any new projects.

So this list is why I'm going with a hybrid publisher who's a respected editor. I will pay for the process, have artistic control, receive much of the royalties if there are any, and most of all, will hold the book in my hands before I die.

As for much more important matters: the protests continue, as they should, and my family is doing its part.

screenshots

Oh this is needed today! Every article spot on. Thank you, universe. Ah - just tried to post it but can't, so here's a screenshot. Hope you can find the whole NYT parody - it's hilarious (all but headlines in Latin. Click to enlarge.)
And this - heartbreaking, as Anna's kids get ready for the demise of their beloved cat Naan. "I love you a lot Naan. We all do Naan but I love you the most. You are moving on to a batr place."
And this - a screenshot of me yesterday, on Zoom, about to start the class and admiring my new long hair. Ten students, eight beautiful stories in nearly 3 hours - Zoom works.
Okay, time to get busy - did the Zoom line dancing class with Gina - at the end of this pandemic, I will be a skilled line dancer! Then a mutual support Zoom meeting with Judy, she reading my stuff and I reading hers, priceless. Now a quick piano practice, especially because my tenant Robin has gone to the office today - he has been home for 10 weeks, and I'm shy to make noise on the piano when he's here. But today he's not and I can pound to my heart's delight. And then, lots and lots of work. It's hot. The garden is joyful. And I'm not bad myself.

"Being Canadian" and "Mrs. America"

Another long silent day punctuated by contact: Robin my upstairs tenant, a hello and a chat; a phone call with a writing student wanting direction with her memoir; a chat with another wanting to buy the writing book; tonight, a Zoom class. Plus email and text messages, replies to this blog, all the Likes on FB and Twitter - for people sitting alone at home, we sure are dealing with a lot of voices.

The rain is just beginning. I went down the street first thing to get more plants from Jay's and got them in just in time. What a gorgeous smell. Today's garden joy: the delicate puffball magnificence of allium.
Sadness across town: Naan, Anna's beloved cat, has cancer and is scheduled to meet her maker on Saturday. She's a marvellous creature who has had a great life, coming in and out the window, being fed and petted by neighbours as well as her own family, and putting up with a remarkable amount of roughhousing from two small boys until they went too far and got a quick swipe of the claws. Anna wrote, "We're feeding her all her favourite things: eggs and ham last night, smoked salmon this morning, fried chicken for dinner; tomorrow she'll get her own can of tuna and some butter for dessert. I haven't told the kids yet."
I don't envy her that. I remember going through it with several cats here, especially Snoozie, our beloved Persian; Anna liked to dress up the poor creature and push her around in her doll carriage. Ten years later a vet came and administered the injection while I held her in my arms. Oh these pets whom we love so. My mother said, after the death of her beloved beagle Tippy, that she would never get another dog, the loss hurt too much.

Last night I watched the amusing documentary Being Canadian - Canuck comedian Robert Cohen who lives in L.A. crossing Canada to understand this country better. He interviewed many well-known Canadian comics, and one question dealt with was: Why does Canada produce so many world-class comedians? You could ask that question, and many have, about Jews, and I put it down to the same issue: when you're dealing with bullies, you learn to be funny. Canadians are powerless outsiders, living beside the biggest bully in the world. Make 'em laugh is one way to survive.

Then I watched the next episode of Mrs. America, which is extremely well done, about the early years of the feminist movement and the rise of right-wing anti-feminists, starring the fabulous Cate Blanchett as Phyllis Schlafly and Rose Byrne as Gloria Steinem. It's very fair, not demonizing the appalling Schlafly even as it shows her narrow-minded nastiness as she uses lies and propaganda - and members of the Klan - to further her cause, and her hypocrisy as she fights for women to stay in the home while she herself is out campaigning, leaving her own home and children in the hands of her Black maids. It's painful to watch the birth of the Tea Party, and I may have to stop; in the end, Schlafly and her minions defeated the ERA. But not the feminist movement. A fascinating docu-drama.

Lots of rain now, a gentle, welcome sound, the heavenly scent of growth and green. Onward.