spring yes it is

Last night, my home class sat outside on the deck for the first time, with birdsong and the scent of lilac. John and I had spent much of the afternoon on house projects, including an hour putting up the pergola in anticipation of the hot sun which will surely arrive - and stay arrived - any day now. Bill spent much of Wednesday cleaning windows and scouring out the very full eavestroughs, and Dan finished painting the front porch and door. The garden is coming together slowly, though the guy who usually helps me with it has vanished, so I'm on my own. My mother used to talk about the "little men" who helped her. "I've found a little man to do that," she'd say; though he often was six foot tall weighing 250 pounds, he was always little. I too am utterly dependent on my raft of little men, without whom I would not be living here. Many thanks to you all, guys. Gardening helper needed, asap! 

Anna texted me yesterday: What time was Ben born, do you remember? I knew it was very early in the morning but not exactly - it's a blur, for some strange reason - so went to my blog. There, in July 2015, all the details - just after 2 a.m., 6 pounds 10 ounces. It's a wonderful thing to have your life's chronicle at your fingertips.

I'm gearing up for three big events: the Wayson memorial on Sunday, getting the house ready for a family who are moving in Wednesday to stay while I'm away, and my departure to Anna's Wednesday night and to Vancouver Thursday morning. Right now, getting the garden in shape for the memorial attendees and going over the many hundreds of emails I have from Wayson to pick a few to read, to share his voice. People who can't attend have been sending me beautiful notes to read. I gather that the main event for him will be at the International Authors' Festival in October. I'm glad we're gathering to celebrate and remember now.

Looking out - the hot pink bleeding heart showering its delicate beauty, the mauve lilac, the shining white lilies of the valley and dogwood in full bloom, and mostly the million shades of green, the birds at the feeder, a few veggies planted, Wayson's gardenia in bud, getting ready to flower - and l am profoundly glad and grateful to live here still, in my own paradise. Yes, a paradise that is constantly disintegrating, time-consuming, enraging sometimes, but thanks to my little men, is standing. More than that, is beautiful. As the world gets uglier, incomprehensibly more filled with hatred - just read an article about the rise of the far-right worldwide - it's more important than ever to try to find and relish beauty and neighborhood and kindness. My daughter is spending today renting and driving a U-Haul to help a friend, a woman who left an abusive husband and spent 3 weeks living at Anna's with her son, to move. She puts her time where her heart is.

The other day, as I rode the Dundas streetcar to Ryerson, there was a father with a little boy in a wheelchair. Two stops later, another family got on with an older boy in a power wheelchair. The first dad flipped up the side bank of seats to make a space for the new chair, and the dads chatted about Sick Kids - "What an awesome place," about their boys' surgeries there. Eventually, everyone around them was chatting and smiling. We're watching Toronto bond, too, over the Raptors - a fantastic picture in the Star of the crowd outside the arena last night, every colour under the sun.

It's good to take heart, because it's easy to lose heart, too.

So very True

A glorious Sunday evening, mild and quiet - no sounds but birds and scattered neighbour voices, and the background rush of the city, of course. I'm feeling my shoulders start to lower from around my ears and my stomach to unclench. So True is a small event, but it's my event, my baby and responsibility; I care for every writer who's reading, whom I've edited and tried to guide through the process, and then I have my own talk and reading to do. So, a tiny bit of stress, small as it all may be.

In fact, this time I was really concerned about the size of the audience. Our last event was seven months ago instead of three or four, and as we know, I am the worst marketer in the world. It was due to start at 2, and by 1.45 there were not many there. And then they streamed in, so by the end we had a respectable 55 or so - not as many as we have had, but a great crowd.

And it was fabulous, eight beautiful well read true stories, including two that, even after all this time, brought me to tears. The crowd was happy, the readers were happy, and I the producer was happy it was over and I could go home and sit in my garden and veg.

While looking at the million things I have to do out there. Ah well. Manana.

Yesterday, a day of intermittent thunderstorms and hot sun, Anna was desperate to get the kids out of the house, so we met midtown, discovered a great playground where my grandsons' antics made the elderly Chinese couple sitting nearby laugh out loud. We went to Open Doors, an event where for a weekend, many usually closed buildings are open to the public. So we opened the doors to the Native Child and Family Services building on College, where there's a long house for meetings and smudge ceremonies on the ground floor and an actual sweat lodge on the green roof along with traditional plantings of sweetgrass, sage, tobacco. Amazing - in the heart of downtown Toronto. Very glad to know it's there.

My grandsons are what you call a handful. Ben is a climber and a talker, never stops moving his body or his jaws, and Eli is stubborn and ferociously determined. Adorable, both of them, but I do feel for their mother. Luckily, despite annoyances and arguments, they love each other a lot.

The ride home on the streetcar:

On Friday, a great treat - I'd been offered a facial at Sweetgrass Spa by my friends John and Sylvie; Sylvie works there. I arrived early and had a swim in the lovely pool and a soak in the hot tub, and then Natasha worked on my face until it glowed. Much needed after renovation and winter. Too bad about all the wrinkles, but a little glow goes a long way.

I'm reading an article in the New Yorker about the mortal dangers of noise pollution, so feel doubly grateful for this tranquil garden. Even though it keeps reminding me there is so much, so very much, to do.

Oh - and in my peripheral vision, I understand there was a big basketball event in this town yesterday. Go Raptors go. I guess. Sorry, it's just not of much interest, tall millionaires bouncing basketballs. Now the success of Toronto writers and storytellers - there's something that matters.

And now I'm going to go cut my very small lawn.

So True

Wednesday was the electricians; Thursday was the termite guys, drilling into the foundations of my house all around the perimeter and injecting poison to keep the vile beasties out. They told me they saw a termite tubule climbing up from my neighbour Monique's basement, so she'd better get her perimeter poisoned too, asap. There are also rats now, living somewhere nearby, and always, raccoons, mice, skunks, and, yes, possums.

At the same time, the stove repairman came, a snappy Israeli who took one look at the interior of my oven and opened his bag. He'd brought the part and for a mere $417, my stove is like new. I asked him to listen to the weird noise my fridge makes, but of course, while he was here, the blessed appliance purred silently.

In the afternoon, a Creative Nonfiction meeting with 7 other committee members via Zoom; our conference is coming right up, and next year's, back in Toronto in May 2020, is already underway. Judy has asked me to be on the board. Of course I will.

Yesterday morning it was the same chilly spring we've been having throughout May. And then, at 2.15, it was summer. Suddenly it was hot, and everyone sprang inside to change clothes. Time to plant. Though it's still cold at night, for a few more days.

Last night, our rehearsal for So True on Sunday. How privileged I am to hear the stories, to help shape them so they hit hard. Six of the eight readers were here for a final edit and to hone their reading skills. I cried twice - such powerful words, beautiful tales. What joy.

Don't miss it.

Harry Potter in Parkdale

Sitting here just now, home after teaching at Ry tonight, glass of wine in hand, when an enormous raccoon sidled up to my back door and peered at me through the glass. I wonder if he's feeling the cold too. What a strange spring it has been - cold and hot and cold. Or, as a friend said, "This is what spring is!"

Sunday I went for a walk/jogette down the Don Valley Trail, where the trees are the freshest green and things are just starting to grow. Walked back up through the Farm which is as beautiful as it has ever been, thousands of tulips, daffodils, narcissus - just stunning.

That night, to my piano teacher Peter Mose, who'd invited the fascinating Alan Gasser to speak about his life and his singing and choir work, specifically, his interest in Georgian music, strange atonal music from the Caucasus Mountains. He distributed song sheets and we ended up singing some. Now that's a unique experience, singing atonal Georgian music on a rainy Sunday night in Cabbagetown.

Monday was Eli's seventh birthday party, and luckily the sun was out. When I got there, I asked him how many kids he was expecting. "Oh, about a hundred," he said casually - and seriously. "I have a hundred friends."

I thought, this kid is seven and he has a hundred friends; he's set for life.

In fact, there were only about 20. That is, 20 kids around the age of seven, plus Ben at 3 who wants to be part of everything his big brother is part of. And with the miracle of my daughter's organization and Eli's dad Thomas's keeping an eye on things, much was the joy. They tore through the back yard and ended up in the laneway behind, rocketing up and down on bikes, skateboards, scooters, and a wagon, screaming with pleasure, while the parents sat with a beer in the yard and Anna prepared the usual mountain of food in the kitchen. It was the best yet, she said after, and I believe her.

What was marvellous, as always, was the multicultural nature of the group, from every corner on earth. One of the guests was a young woman Eli describes as his girlfriend, so I checked her out with a critical eye. Cute, very cute. But is she good enough for my grandson? Stay tuned.

I gave Eli, among other things, a Harry Potter wand and glasses. Big hit. "He and Ben are waving the wand and turning each other into lions," Anna told me next day.

Today, Mr. Wu the electrician arrived to try to ascertain what was wrong with the dead kitchen outlet and the stove. After much inspection, they concluded that the outlet is broken and will require a great deal of destruction of drywall to fix, so - not happening for now. The stove, which stopped working at exactly the same time, is not a result of the broken outlet, it simply broke all on its own. Of course it did. A repairman arriving tomorrow. And so it goes. On and on into the broken reality of 308.

But despite this chilly spring with so much rain, despite the fact that I might have to buy a new stove, maybe a new fridge, the ongoing crippling expense of this ridiculous house - despite all that, I am newly strong and cheerful. I know where things are. After a long chaotic winter, I'm organized and together.

Lucky lucky lucky. And I will not forget it.

celebrating green

Allen Gardens - a mass of colour. Better late than never.

As my friend Ken said yesterday, I love long weekends in the city in the summer, so quiet and empty - everyone's at the cottage. Today, this stunning Sunday morning of the long weekend, my garden, though so far almost untouched after winter, is beautiful, forty-six different shades of green with my own splashes of colour - daffs, tulips, a snowball viburnum with shining white puffs of bloom, further back a flowering dogwood, and on the deck, two bright red geraniums that survived the winter and the reno and are in bloom.

I slept soundly and woke to my sunny, tidy, renewed bedroom. Yes, a few electrical glitches perhaps in the house, a broken appliance or two - Lani wrote yesterday to offer me a gas stove she never uses! -  but things, more than ever before around here, are fixed and in their place. It's astounding.

And it's a relief, after months of waiting, to know what's happening with the memoir. I realize now I was overstepping to send it to the most successful editor in Canada (currently), whose taste, I see in the things he works on, is the opposite of mine. His wording says it all: "beautiful but gentle," as if these two things cancel each other out. I'm going to reread, see what I can rework, and send out to small presses. I've worked on it for 3 or 4 years - what's another? Onward.

Ken got in touch to say he was sorry to read about the rejection and the on-going struggles in the house and could he take me to lunch? He certainly could. So yesterday, we had our favourite date, a documentary and food. The Biggest Little Farm is about an idealistic couple in California who move from the city to an abandoned 200 acre farm, determined to farm the old way in harmony with nature. As they find out, nature is not harmonious - coyotes massacre their chickens, snails and birds attack the fruit trees, mastitis threatens their prized pig Emma. And then come the wildfires. But they prevail. The husband, who shot and directed, was a wildlife photographer before this venture, so the photography of plants and animals is gorgeous. But there's an unpleasant air of self-congratulation hanging over the film. Through all the stress, we never see the couple argue, never find out where they get the funds for the massive investments or where the young people who pour in to help them are housed and fed. Many lyrical shots of ladybugs, dogs, pigs, leaves in the sun. But - I am very fond of these things too.

And then lunch with one of my dearest old friends and a bike ride home to work in my own back 40. Happy Victoria Day weekend to you - I hope it's beautiful but gentle where you are, too.