Not changing my life, and reading obituaries

It’s August and sleepy; the month is vanishing. Today, I went to the Beach to swim in Lake Ontario with Annie, but though I waded in to my waist, it was too cold to plunge. Achingly cold. Still, we had a picnic by the lake.

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Fleeing!

A few miscellaneous thoughts: Not long ago, I wrote about reading a book by Dr. Michael Mosley called Just One Thing, filled with small life-changing suggestions, some of which I was determined to take up. Changing my life for the better, here we go! So here’s a report back: I have managed to keep up with almost none of them. Not eating for a while after getting up or after supper and many other suggestions — not happening. I do stand on one leg while I brush my teeth, and I’ve tried kefir and beets. The one change I have made consistently, though, is, in bed last thing, to jot down 3 or 4 things that made me happy during the day. That’s a satisfying exercise.

I read obituaries with more attention and interest as I grow closer to the time when I’ll be in there myself. What I love about them especially are the names, the way names have changed through the decades. So for example, here’s the obituary of a woman called Pearl Margaret, whose siblings were Eileen, James, and William, her husband Frank. Her children: Brian, Janice, Frank, Catherine, Jeffrey, Robert. Her grandchildren: Cory, Lindsay, Ryan, Melissa, Alicia, Cari-Anne, another Melissa, Sean, Drew, Wesley. Her great-grandchildren Chase, Preston, Brett, Brandon, Madelynn, Averie, Hunter, Abbigail, Carter, Maddox, and Zoey.

Other great-grandchildren in recent obits: Hudson, Colton, Kendall, Carter, Aphra, Sedley, Aria, Riley, Tyler, Reid, Olivia, Casey, Brynn, Wade, Roman, Orion, Rhodes, Brennan, Isla. Sedley? Orion? Sheesh. I wonder when the pendulum will swing back, and the favoured names will again be Pearl, Margaret, and Frank. I’m glad Elizabeth is timeless, as are Anna, Samuel, Elijah, and Benjamin, old biblical names all. Anna was considering some trendy names for her boys; it’s good that faded.

Law and Order has redeemed itself; I wonder what that strange right-wing glitch was, condemning Canada for not having the death penalty – making a strange point of some kind? I’m watching the old ones, with the superb Sam Waterston as D.A. Jack McCoy. Two nights ago he prosecuted for murder a white supremacist teacher whose inflamed student had killed someone, leading to a fierce debate about the limits of free speech and the First Amendment. Last night’s was about the culpability of American police in the Sixties using provocateurs to infiltrate student groups and destroy the image and reputation of student radicals. Great stuff.

Yesterday, a friend from university days whom I haven’t seen in decades came for a visit on my deck. It’s extraordinary how we can look at people we knew when young and still see them as they were. I knew Deirdre at Carleton U. in the late sixties, but in June 1972, at the end of my year at theatre school in London, I went to spend a few days in Ireland where I knew no one. In Dublin, who did I run into but Deirdre, who was studying at Trinity and invited me to stay with her. Then in 1977, I flew from Vancouver to Toronto to see if my acting career would do better here, and again, Deirdre, housesitting a magnificent mansion, invited me to move in. I had a basement bedroom on one of the best streets in all Toronto. Now, that’s a friend. We’d lost touch during the busy years, but I’m very glad we’ve reconnected. We had much to catch up on.

My dear friend Dorothy, described in Midlife Solo as the woman who taught me to garden, loved buddleias. Through the years I’ve struggled to keep them alive, but one planted last year has grown huge. Many happy butterflies, especially Painted Ladies like this one. Happy Beth, watching them. How I wish Dorothy were here to celebrate with me.

I’m listening to cicadas and birds, that’s it. During the day, there’s construction not far enough away, but now, at dusk, nothing but the patter of my fingers, a few chirps, and that long sizzling cicada note from outside. Oh, and my cat whimpering that she’s starving to death. Enough chatter. There’s work to do.

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