@ home

I feel so @#$#% lucky to be alive sometimes, it makes me want to weep.

Okay okay, you've heard this before, though mostly in Paris. But now I'm home, and it's a perfect evening after a few stormy days, mild and sunny with a breeze. I just went for a walk in the soft dusk light, around the neighbourhood and through the Necropolis cemetery, where I saw an amazing number of robins, at least eight in one patch, plus a beautiful nuthatch, a small striped woodpecker, and a wild huntress, a sleek tabby with a white belly hunting for dinner. Not to mention my dead friends - this time I thought about Adeline and Norman, more lost names, and the tiny gravestone of John, who died in 1877 at the age of 3 months four days. All there under a canopy of huge, more than a century old trees.

Came home through the tranquil streets - on a holiday Sunday, even the distant Don Valley Parkway is quiet - and at home, I bit into a new kind of apple bought at the St. Lawrence Market yesterday, a ginger gold - my God, it's divine. And so I just had to write to you.

My son was just over for a bit. He is such a fine man, struggling, yes, at 25, to find his place in the world, as most of us did at 25. But a good, good man. He wants to set up a catering/party planning business. If any of you out there needs help with an upcoming party, he's your man. He's funny, relaxed yet focussed, brilliant at animating a room, with years of experience serving drinks and making food - plus his friend Doug who wants to do this too has taken hospitality courses, and you'd probably get Anna thrown into the deal, also an amazing cook and party planner. A highly recommended team. From an only slightly prejudiced source.

Sam and I had a take-out Indian lunch from Rashnaa on Wellesley Street, one of our favourite traditions, and then started to watch a movie I'd rented, "Cairo." But he was texting the entire time and just couldn't take it - it's a slow, sweet chick flick. Off he went, taking all that humour and energy back to the other side of town. And I went for a walk.

Last night I got free tickets so took my neighbour Monique to see "Love, Loss and What I Wore," the show Nora Ephron and her sister put together. I wasn't expecting much, and to tell you the truth - and when have I ever done otherwise? - it was even more flimsy and shallow than expected. A bunch of tidbits, not a meal - a lazy evening of writing, made possible by the energy and commitment of a bunch of talented actresses. Especially offensive was the fact that they'd made almost no effort to make the show relevant to Canadian audiences, with references to American stores and traditions that are meaningless here, and suddenly a confusing mention of the Habs thrown in to make us feel good. At home after, I wrote to all my friends in the theatre - Why aren't we rich? Let's put together a show about our favourite underpants and get rich.

Sigh.

Time for more apple, a glass of wine, a piece of corn from the market. No one is hammering or sawing right now, only the sparrows twittering their evening twitter in the ivy and the neighbours playing with little Juliette, who's 2. Earlier today, the crabby cat actually climbed into my lap and stayed there for a few minutes; it's as if she's practising how to be a cat.

Praise be, praise be for small mercies, and for home.

PS. These blog posts are now being spammed. I keep thinking a faithful reader is writing to share some comment, but it's spam. I'll have to figure out how to keep them out. In the meantime, let's just ignore the creeps.