loving Jane, with sand

And now for something completely different … here I am in chilly, cloudy Florida. I’ve rented my house in Toronto for a week to three couples who flew in for a local wedding, so here I am in my mother’s condo north of Sarasota, listening to people complain about the record cold. Indeed, crops have been damaged by frost. But to a Canadian in December, it’s still a steam-bath around here. About 15 degrees now, but it will go up to 20 tomorrow, they say. I enjoy the neon snowflakes and electric wreaths attached to the palm trees, the waterfront bungalows covered with sparkly lights and Santas. There was a picture in the local paper of a classic snowman, with button eyes and stick arms, made on the beach out of sand.

I came down to do some business for my mother, and for a reading week for myself. If you can believe it, I came down without any keys, a long story, so yesterday, my first full day here, I spent the morning trying to get my mother’s spare car key from the super. Then I was able to drive to Publix and get some groceries and to the Chamber of Commerce to email. (The super can pick up someone’s free wifi in the building, but I, for some reason, cannot.) I walked on the beach shivering in a hoodie.

And then I began to read “Pride and Prejudice,” which – a collective gasp of disbelief – I’ve never read. It’s true, I admit it shamefacedly. I’ve read “Emma,” and that’s it. Getting my English degree involved spending far too much time with gloomy Thomas Hardy and hardly any with sparkling Jane.

Once I’d started reading, I couldn’t stop, so that was it, my heavenly day in Florida, reading bundled up by the water, reading at the dinner table (I cobbled something together; I think it involved peanut butter), till finishing just before midnight - laughing out loud sometimes and talking to her as I read. “Oh Jane! How could you do that?” I groaned at the end, when Elizabeth and Darcy FINALLY confess their love, and the author discreetly moves back so, for a bit, we can’t hear what they’re saying to each other. But I understood – she was protecting them. It was a very private moment, after all.

What a fabulous book. Colin Firth’s stunning Mr. Darcy was in my mind, and many others of the perfect cast of the recent dramatization, though not their Elizabeth Bennett, who was lovely but just not right; I created my own, sharper, faster and leaner. There are many joys in the book missing in the film, of course, including the whole last bit where the engaged lovers lovingly review their foibles and mistakes. And mostly, what’s missing in the film is Jane Austen’s voice, the welcome intrusion of her sharp sense of humour and keen satirical eye. Here she writes of plain Charlotte Lucas, preparing to accept an offer of marriage from the bombastic, dreadful Mr. Collins.

Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meeting him accidentally in the lane … In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of them both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men … The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained.

In other words, I think, she will marry him for his house but, though she doesn’t want him courting forever, is in no hurry to get there. Here’s another fantastic passage, after Elizabeth and her aunt Mrs. Gardiner have visited Mr. Darcy (who we know is in love with Elizabeth, though she does not) at his mansion, setting off the jealousy of Miss Bingley, who wants Darcy for herself. She recalls how poorly Darcy once spoke of Elizabeth.

“But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time.”

“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but that was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s beginning the subject.

End of chapter. It was their discussing of his fruit that made me laugh out loud. Those people were so bloody discreet, incomprehensible! Oh, it’s all delicious. I join the legions in love with this extraordinary writer.

So now I settle in to a quiet few days, more reading, editing and writing work, a bit of barefoot running on the beach. I'm posting now from an ice cream store at the nearby mall, watching the supersized and the elderly (and the supersized elderly) stroll past. At Publix, I loaded up with good cheese and extremely cheap good wine, and interesting things like sushi, edamame salad, noodles made from quinoa. But no bread - not a decent loaf of bread in the place.

The first night, I turned on the TV (just to make sure it works, you understand) and found the White House arts honourees on PBS. I watched a tribute to Merle Haggard, and then – just by chance – one to my very own Paul McCartney. What are the chances I’d turn on just in time for that? Didn’t even know it was happening. I have to tell you that though I adore the man’s music, he shouldn’t stand near President Obama, who is still, despite his travails, the handsomest man on the planet.

Last night, no TV, only Jane. Tonight: “The Rachel Maddow Show” which we don’t get, and a documentary about Jerusalem.

Unless I rustle up another great book. Who needs the sun when there’s Jane Austen?

DONE! Ho ho ho.

We survived another one, the crabby cat and I. She hates Christmas because the house is full of smells and noise, and all her favourite sleeping places are occupied with human beings making merry. And that is exactly why I love the day. But the rest, the pressure, the exhaustion, I am doing my best to bypass, which is only possible, of course, when your children are adults. And even then ... my daughter is nearly 30, but I still want her to be pleased with her gifts, to feel special and loved, to sit amidst an increasing mountain of paper, as she used to when she was small.

We all got through with grace. Sam gave me a gift card for four hours at a spa, which is going to feel mighty good in February. Anna gave me what I'd asked for, a big beautiful jar of homemade vegetable soup, a pot of her homemade salsa and other treats, a book of Provencal cuisine from which she'll make the recipe of my choice, other books. Holly, who knows me well, gave me a Beatles t-shirt and Beatles playing cards. A lovely fundraising calendar of naked women on Gabriola Island, from Patsy. Oh, and my favourite gift, from Anna - a "Pinko bike rider" button to wear proudly on my coat.

And then, Sam went to get the turkey from the fridge in the empty basement apartment, where we'd stored it overnight, and discovered that the departed tenant had set the fridge to its coldest setting, and the 20 pound bird, fresh the day before, was frozen solid. I emailed our guests to delay their arrival an hour, the bird spent some time under running water, and in she went at last, fully stuffed if a bit colder, wetter and later than usual.

In the afternoon, while the roasting bird filled the house with the familiar smell of Xmas and Thanksgiving, we watched "Despicable Me" which I'd rented for just this occasion. Sam however was really sick with a wretched chest cold and went to lie down; Anna went to email and Facebook on my computer, so finally it was just 60 year old me, watching a children's movie - and enjoying it thoroughly. Highly recommended, even for those of you over eight.

Then time to make the rest: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, green beans, bread sauce, gravy, peas, cranberries. My daughter is a forceful presence with very strong opinions about how kitchens should be run, which is unfortunately not the way I run mine. She took over, did a thorough clean, organized everything, and got us in gear. There was only one meltdown, a tiny clash, shall we say, of tiny personalities, and then, yes, there was the minor accident described below in a note from my Turkish friend, who celebrated his first Christmas dinner with us:

Thanks a lot for having me and sharing the Christmas spirit with me.

I still can't believe how you cooked all that food. The turkey looked and tasted amazing, so all the other food. Your teamwork was impressive. While Anna and Sam was cooking and preparing food like pros, Beth was drinking wine and experimenting with burning the house.

Yes, there were flames shooting up on the stove, at one point, so I grabbed the nearest glass of water and threw it. I don't do fire well. As those of you who follow this blog can understand.

Then, guests there, everything ready and the blessed moment, six people sitting down with heaping plates, clinking glasses, good wishes, and an enormous quantity of disappearing food. Stories, laughter, dessert. Sitting around bloated and warm. The clean-up, so fast with my professional team that I didn't lift a finger. Then the gradual departures, loaded with presents and leftovers, except for the coughing boy who went upstairs to his old bedroom to sleep, as he had the night before. It was weird, he said, waking up on Christmas morning in my old room.

Not for me, it wasn't.

Today, a slight hangover for me and a heaping plate of leftovers for us both, loading him down with more to take home, admonishments to drink juice and take care of himself, and off he went. Empty house; Xmas over. So I did what any normal red-blooded woman would do on Boxing Day under the circumstances - I went shopping for shoes. I'd seen a pair in my vast size the other day and rode my bike over in the bitter cold to see if they were on sale today. You'll be happy to hear that they were! And they're the prettiest and yet most comfortable shoes I've ever owned. At least, they are today. And then a new lipstick almost free with my discount card at Shopper's, and back to dismantle the hibiscus, put away the cards, take down the stockings, store all the bells and whistles.

Wearing my elegant new shoes, my luscious lips silent, I'm stroking the sleeping cat beside me and listening to the birds settle for the evening. Thank you to the universe for health, family and friends. Christmas 2010 - over and out.

Forget your perfect offering

It's nearly midnight; a quick note before my Neo-Citran and I snuffle off to bed. Tonight began another Xmas tradition; from now on, I want to spend the evening of December 23rd with Leonard Cohen, locked in a passionate embrace.

Tonight I decided to lie low and wrap presents while watching the DVD my dear friend Annie gave me for my birthday - Leonard Cohen, live in London in 2008. What a treat! The man is gorgeous, his voice mesmerizing and soul-shivering, and the new Buddhist Leonard is so humble and sweet. He grinned at the audience like a gleeful boy, he kept saying, "It's an honour to play for you tonight," he spotlighted the extremely talented members of his band over and over. And he struck a final blow for ageists everywhere - the man is 75, he looks not like the wild man of Canadian poetry but like John Kenneth Galbraith, but when he sings "I'm your man," those lines of furious sexual passion rocked me to my slippers. He is the sexiest 75 year old man alive. Holy God.

"I did a long study of religion," he said, "but then cheerfulness crept in." "So long, Maryanne," heaven. "Suzanne." "Sisters of Mercy," one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Another of his songs had lines that seemed particularly relevant to Christmas.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in.

I wrapped and watched and sang along and, of course, had a tear or two at the end. Thank you, beautiful Leonard. Now everything is wrapped, and I'm almost done. A friend visited this afternoon and remarked on how relaxed I was, and I can tell you, it has been many, many years since I was relaxed on December 23rd, if ever. We have old videotapes of the family at Christmas, and I'm so unlike my real self in them, that thirty-something woman dealing with the demands of young children, parents and other relatives and a husband who wasn't around much and her own soul that had not yet had the gift of many years of psychiatric explanations ... Incredible tension and sheer exhaustion, trying to be and do everything for everybody, feeling responsible for every bit of it, wanting it all to be right, presents, house, tree, food, everybody's happiness. No wonder she looks and sounds as if she's underwater, trying to surface.

And then divorce, the horror of the children having to go back and forth and all the other wretched rips and tugs of this time of year for the divorced. And then, for a bit of added stress, I undertook to produce the local Christmas pageant for 9 years, so this day was spent making last minute calls, planning and preparing the event, with all the rest still to do.

Now someone else produces the pageant, the children are adults, and I have partially resigned from Christmas. Most of what's wrapped under the tree is second-hand, with new books and a few other needed items. It looks great, lots of wrapped packages, but there's not much money invested. There are many ways I want to spend money on my loved ones; rushing out to load up on December 23rd isn't one of them.

Somewhere, I have always been afraid that the kids would not forgive me if their dreams didn't come true on Christmas morning. Well, now we know - I can't make their dreams come true, and I think they've forgiven me for that. We've forgiven each other.

Two friends have just come through serious operations and are well again; that's what's important. We're together, that's what's important.

Let's eat.

A bribe and a red harangue (PUN!)

It's here, my Christmas cold. I am snuffling my way through the merriment. Despite Cold FX and much hand-washing, it hit last night, and today I've been through half a box of Kleenex. But luckily - and not coincidentally, I'm sure - I have no teaching, nothing more than Xmas errands and visits with friends to force me to haul my bones from home. So I'm staying put.

As I snuffle, I have been thinking. It's time, my dear friends, for me to find someone to travel with. Some compatible person or persons. In all the years since my divorce, not a single friend has said to me, there's someone you should meet. So I am offering a bribe.

My dear friend Nicky, when she was living with a long-term boyfriend, told me once that when she wanted to have sex and he didn't, she'd offer him $65. She'd get up and write him a cheque, and usually he'd give in, laughing, and they'd do as she wished.

So here's the bribe: the person who introduces me to someone I enjoy talking to, and might even eventually enjoy travelling with, will be rewarded with $65.00. Sixty-five smackeroos, cash or cheque, made out to that perspicacious soul. I would like to meet someone - male or female but preferably male - who might be fun to hang around with and who might want to go places with an interesting middle-aged woman addicted to red wine, cheese, chocolate and books.

Though I can sense you all rushing to your address books (or whatever passes for them these days) in order to earn yourselves this windfall, please do not contact me in the next few days, because my nose is red and I'm sneezing too often to be my usual sparkling self.

Speaking of sparkling selves: my daughter had a great adventure on her journey to Ottawa last week. She flew Porter the day after I did, and was in the lounge waiting for her flight when she realized that right across the aisle from her, also waiting and alone, was our federal finance minister, Jim Flaherty.

It may surprise you to know that my daughter feels strongly about things and is not shy about expressing her opinion. Her dislike for Mr. Flaherty, a neo-con former Mike Harris henchman, is as intense as mine. She decided she should speak to him, but didn't know how to approach him or what to say. Finally she realized that she'd be filled with regret if she didn't; she went to the bathroom to compose herself and figure out her speech. "I thought I should be quick," she said. "I didn't want to get arrested and disappoint Grandma," whom she was flying to visit.

So she came out of the bathroom, smiled at him and shook his hand. "I may never have this chance again, Mr. Flaherty, to tell you what I think," she said. "I think that you and your dear leader will never be forgiven for your inaction on climate change, your unCanadian policies towards immigrants, and your utter neglect of anyone in this country earning under $100,000 a year."

She turned to go, leaving him speechless, and turned back. "And speaking of legacies, how's Brian Mulroney playing out these days?"

WOW!!! What a girl. Am I proud or what!

"I have a voice!" shouts the King.

I am a list-maker. There is no situation, I'm sure, that could not be improved with a list or two. How I survived before the invention of stickies is a mystery, but the second I saw one of those little yellow squares clinging to a wall, my list-making assumed a whole new dimension.

But there is nothing like Xmas to provoke the frantic making of endless lists. Who's coming for dinner, what we need, when we should get it and how (without a car); lists especially, of course, of people who need presents, people who might need presents if they appear on the doorstep with one for me, people who should have a present whether they give me one or not (the women at Doubletake.) People to phone and write to, the Xmas letter to write and email, the house to decorate. Etc. You know all this, because you're reading this while taking a break from your own lists.

This year, something different - we're not going to buy a tree from our neighbours the Kims on the corner. Instead, I'm going to move the giant hibiscus that lives inside in winter into the living-room, and hang lights and baubles from its sturdy branches. A hibiscus doesn't smell piney, no. It doesn't look remotely piney. But it's big and green, and that will do.

This Xmas, my daughter is leaving on Dec. 26th to visit her father and his extended family in Florida, and as of Dec. 28th, I have rented my house for a week to a family celebrating a wedding in the neighbourhood, and I'm using the money and the excuse to go to my mother's condo in Florida, to begin preparations for its sale this coming year. So we'll be dispersed right after the day. No one needs a tree hanging around, dropping needles and getting in the way. This year, at least.

Since if you follow this blog, you know my second-hand shopping habits, it'll be no surprise to you that I do Christmas that way too. Usually, if I find something for one of my kids or friends in Goodwill or Doubletake or the Sally Ann, I give it to them right away - but starting in about August, I hang onto it all. There are big brown bags upstairs, labelled with the names of the recipients, filled with the bits and bobs I've been procuring for months - sweaters, funny things, stocking stuffers, a treasure or two. I'll go out to buy new books, and socks for my son, and perhaps a gift certificate to something - movies or the Y or something useful. And I'll give them some money. I'll do anything to obviate the need to go into a store at this time of year and shove through the crowds looking for some way to spend money while trying not to hear "The Little Drummer Boy" for the thousandth time. This is the antithesis of Xmas, to be avoided at all costs.

How people do this year after year, I don't know. Why do we equate the spending of money with caring and love?

**********************************

Great joy yesterday - I saw a truly superb film, "The King's Speech." It was everything I'd heard it to be and more, a fantastic treat, acting, directing, cinematography, and script. To be savoured. I loved it especially because it's about my work too. When the King shouts, "I HAVE A VOICE!", that is what I hope for every one of my students. "Find your voice and trust yourself to use it," says the Ryerson blurb for my course. The film shows you much about that process. I suggest you see it immediately, if not sooner.

I'm finishing Christopher Hitchens' memoir today - it's acerbic and often bitter, a great antidote to Xmas, but I've had enough. He's terribly clever and articulate, but it's far too long. I greatly enjoy his turns of phrase. He calls televangelists like Falwell and Robertson "tethered gas-balloons of greed and cynicism once written up by Martin Amis as 'frauds of Chaucerian proportions.'"

Here is what he - delightfully - says about Ronald Reagan:

I did not at all like Ronald Reagan, and nobody then could persuade me that I should ... There was, first, his appallingly facile manner as a liar. He could fix the camera with a folksy smirk that I always found annoying but that got him called "the Great Communicator" by a chorus of toadies in the press, and proceed to utter the most resounding untruths...

Up close, at press conferences, the carapace of geniality proved to be flaky: I was once within a few feet of his lizard-like face when he was asked a question he didn't care for ... and found myself quite shaken by the look of senile, shifty malice that came into his eyes ... Nobody was less surprised than I when Reagan was later found to be suffering from Alzheimer's disease: I believe it will one day be admitted that some of his family and one or two of his physicians had begun to suspect this as early as his first term.

If the image of the leader of the free world in power while suffering from Alzheimer's isn't an antidote to the glib, saccharine side of this holiday, I don't know what is.

home again, home

Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, pecking at my feeder along with the plain brown sparrows. What an extraordinary flaming colour he is - a bird that glows. She keeps her colours hidden.

I'm back from a trip to Ottawa to visit my family. My mother, 87, and aunt, 90, are lively and well, and my daughter spent an entire day there cooking for the ladies and my brother and family - buckets of soup and chicken pot pies for them all to take home, and a massive dinner one night. But to tell the truth, it was not an easy or happy trip. I can only say that there are times when being with family feels like home, and there are times when it does not.

Last night, back in Toronto, I welcomed most of my Thursday home writing class at a potluck Xmas dinner, ten of my favourite people along with our esteemed guest W*yson, and I thought, this is what's so wonderful about friends: I've chosen them, and they have chosen me.

So yesterday was spent cleaning and cooking for the big party, at which we feasted first on a grand repast and then on words. A gathering of fine storytellers, full of turkey, cakes and wine on a snowy night - what pleasure. Today, my student Sarah King has an essay in "Facts and Arguments" in the "Globe;" she brought it to class a few weeks ago, we all agreed it was ready to go and she should send it in, and here it is, a funny, wise piece about bedbugs. Her first publication, the first of many, I'm sure.

This morning, in a private coaching session, student Arlene told me that she enjoys my blog and the blog book because "I feel I'm walking along beside you, and I'm seeing what you're seeing." I was grateful to hear that - because I guess that's the most we can ask as writers, that when we embark on our journey, you agree to come with us.

Right now, Arlene, what I'm seeing are a few soft white flakes spiralling down, and the flash of a scarlet bird.

a last message

Awoke this morning to a long discussion on CBC radio about the difference between freezing rain and sleet, and what exactly is a "weather bomb." Only in Canada, you say? In any case, the rain out there looks pretty damn cold, and I'm just heading out the door, to Ottawa for my Christmas visit. If I don't get there, I love you all, but especially the two people who, lucky sods, will carry my genetic material on into the future.

P.S. An hour later: Don't tell my downtown friends, but I'm at the Porter airport, which is politically incorrect but so extremely handy for visiting Ottawa. Sure enough, the flight is delayed. If any of you needs to reach me, I'll be picking up email and phone messages from there, and Susan and Jenny will be keeping the home fires burning. Not literally, I hope.

I had an idea at 3 a.m., about being a tour guide in Paris, to which I'm thinking of returning next April - would you like to come to Paris for a few days and have me shepherd you around for a small fee? All my favourite museums, restaurants, shops, being escorted by bus and foot hither and yon ... At 3 a.m., the name PARIS @ BETHED seemed like a good idea. Not so much in the daylight, at the airport. Think about it and let me know. Merci.

warm thoughts on a cold day

The round of Christmas parties has begun, I'm just back from one, and with weeks to go, my pants are too tight already. Drinkies and snackies and merriment - mmmm. And a merry swelling in the waist region to you too.

Saw the new Harry Potter movie a few nights ago. This film is meant for children?! Please do not take a child to see it. It's about Fascism, the takeover of the world by the dark forces of hatred and the vilest intolerance; good people of whom the authorities do not approve are dragged off for torture and death, lovely Hermione has "mudblood" carved into her flesh like an Auschwitz tattoo ... it's powerful stuff and I love all the actors, but ye gods, it's not for children.

And continuing in that serious mode - I just watched Paul McCartney on YouTube, singing the original version of "Yesterday," entitled "Scrambled Eggs," with Jimmy Fallon on his show. Jimmy Fallon is a comic who used to be goofy and now has his own show and is wearing a very expensive suit - that's all I know about him. I know a lot about dear old Paul. What I do not know is ... why is he doing this stupid @#$#@$? Apparently tomorrow, he's hosting "Saturday Night Live." He doesn't need the money or the exposure, so why?

A wonderful dinner on Wednesday night with some of my oldest friends from university days in the late sixties - and speaking not about myself, of course, but about them - what a vibrant, accomplished, interesting and attractive bunch of women they are. One of life's great gifts - old friends, people who were there decades ago, who've followed you through all those stages, transitions, crazy times and hairdos, and are still, for some incomprehensible reason, there. A blessing.

And speaking of blessings ... this week our charming and debonair new mayor was inaugurated by the dignified hockey commentator Don Cherry, who spoke of his love of this city with such depth that I had tears in my eyes, liking especially his warm embrace of the opposition - i.e. the "left-wing pinko weirdos" he mentioned with such tenderness. I hear there are "pinko cyclist" buttons available now. Please, if any of you finds one, send it to me. Send me fifty; I'll wear them all. Let's all wear pink from now until this band of barbarians has been sent fleeing back to the outer circle of hell, i.e. Etobicoke, from whence they came.

Speaking of tears in my eyes - I just finished "Must you go," the book Antonia Fraser published about her extremely happy marriage to Harold Pinter. This is the book of which both Eleanor Wachtel and Michael Ondaatje disapproved but which I thoroughly enjoyed. Two hard-working, well-known Londoners found a very great love in their forties, and lived it to the hilt until his death not long ago. It's a great joy to read about a rarely happy marriage .

One entry especially hit home with me. Antonia is speaking with an old friend, who has known her since childhood, about the fact that she has fallen in love with Pinter and will leave her husband.

"You have a special problem," says the friend to Antonia, who is from the British aristocracy, very well-educated and the author of several books. "You are a woman and a strong character, yet you want your husband to be stronger. Women with strong characters who want to dominate are always fine because there are plenty of weak men around. Also plenty of strong men for weak women. But yours is a special problem."

I understand this problem, and I think my daughter does too, the particular problem of a woman of strong character who would like a mate to be as strong, if not stronger, but not in a domineering way. Hard to find. Lucky Antonia found such a man in Harold Pinter. Who would have thought that the acerbic author of "The Homecoming" could write streams of sweet love poems to his bride?

And finally, with all the bad news, Mayor Ford and Don Cherry, Obama wavering in the wind, Haiti and London exploding, and winter - oh God, winter, bitter and grey, it's so hard to get out of bed - here's something amazing: to quote the "Star," "Another 17 U.S. billionaires have pledged to give away at least half of their fortunes in a philanthropic campaign led by Warren Buffett and Bill Gates. A total of 57 billionaires now have joined The Giving Pledge, which was launched in June."

The Gates, it says, have given away more than 28 billion dollars. Hard to comprehend. 57 billionaires pledged, and the Giving Pledge was only launched in June. Well, in these cold, dark times, if the giving away of billions isn't a warm light, I don't know what is.

If you want to send just a tiny bit my way, guys, just the teensiest fraction, I promise to share it with everyone I know. Address on this website.

ol' man whatever

Folks, playtime is over; the serious business of winter has begun. Windy and cold, fat flakes tumbling and staying on the ground. Now my bird-feeder comes into its own, hosting a great flurry all day. I don't know how those tiny birds keep warm during these bitter months, but at least the ones around here can find something to eat.

I went to One of a Kind for the first time on the weekend, to troll through the overwhelming assortment of crafts, but mostly to visit an old friend with a booth there. About 15 years ago, when I went back onstage to do a show in Vancouver, Wendy van Riesen was brought in as a replacement for an actress who'd gone off to do a movie. Wendy and I had several long scenes together, and as we worked, I remembered what the theatre is really about - sharing, expressing, giving. She gave that to me with her passionate honesty and generosity. When the former actress came back again into her role, I had changed so much on stage that we could hardly work together. She wanted laughs. I wanted truth.

Wendy too eventually left the stage and created a company called Dahlia Drive. She creates one of a kind dresses out of slips - old slips, black and pink and white, that she hand-paints and cuts and shapes. They're lovely and unique, like Wendy herself. We had a grand reunion. Check out her website www.dahliadrive.com.

This week, too, a parade of successful students came to visit: Laurel Croza's gorgeous book "I Know Here" is on quite a few Top Ten lists, and the fiendishly energetic Louise Binder came by with the first half of her memoir that we've been working on for nearly two years. On Saturday night, I went as every year to the tree lighting at Riverdale Farm - a gathering of neighbours to sing carols with the Cabbagetown Community Choir, and then to gasp when someone illuminates the lights on the big pine as we sing "Oh Christmas Tree." And cocoa.

It's looking mighty Christmassy out there right now. Time to put my head under the pillows, and hide.

Fox News yuck

More shenanigans from the Fox News North people. Please download and sign to prevent them from removing our brains and substituting a pile of viciousness and slime. Many thanks.

http://www.avaaz.org/en/dont_pay_for_sun_tv/97.php?cl_tta_sign=de8504605924443ae27870c75a788dc5

And:

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

If writers were good businessmen, they'd have too much sense to be writers.

Irvin S. Cobb, author and journalist (1876-1944)

Sigh.

a literary soiree

Now I know what Cinderella would have done, if possible, as soon as she got home from dancing with her prince - she would have opened her MacBook and told all in her blog. ("It was great, yeah. But where is my @#$# Manolo???")

Last night was a marvel; this morning, in my dressing gown, I wonder if it was real - yours truly in the bar at the Four Seasons, part of a stellar group that included Michael Ondaatje. But it must have been, because though I still have both my shoes, here beside me is a notebook with some scribbles.

Last night's event was sponsored by the Toronto Public Library, part of their speaker series at the Toronto Reference Library: a celebration of 20 years of "Writers and Company," with Eleanor Wachtel, the best interviewer of writers in the world, being interviewed herself by Michael Ondaatje. It sold out fast, so Eleanor kindly procured me a ticket. Several mournful people were hovering around the door as I went through, hoping for returned tickets. "After so many years of leestening to the program," a woman with a strong Russian accent told me, "I vant to see her."

Inside, a crowd of book-lovers of the most fervent sort - i.e. the best people on earth. I had a glass of wine with friend and U of T colleague Alyssa York, whose new novel "Fauna" has been on several recent Top Ten lists, and her husband Clive, watching the literati of Toronto stream by. I found a seat in the second row, behind the Eleanor claque, which included uber-editor Ellen Seligman and uber-publisher Louise Dennys.

What a treat was in store for us all - two hours of laughter and fine conversation. In the introduction, Eleanor spoke of how welcoming Ondaatje had been to her after her tentative arrival in this city from Vancouver, and he said how lucky we are to have such a resource on national public radio, this woman who is "curious, intelligent and alarmingly well-read." And then he proceeded to interview her. Eleanor has a wonderful sense of humour and perfect comic timing, so there were many laughs; some of the greatest ones came when she couldn't help herself and turned the tables back, asking Michael questions about his own life. But he resisted.

She told us that in childhood, though her older siblings were an academic inspiration, there were few books in the house; that, hard as it is to believe, she loved to read books like "Sue Barton, Student Nurse" and later, "The Magnificent Obsession." "Reading," she said, "is company." (Michael asked her if she ever wanted to read trash. "Life's too short to read bad writing," she said. "I have too many great books to read, including the books by dead authors that you only read in the summer.") She told us that for many years, she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life; she started in print arts journalism. "I never wanted to be a writer," she said. "I subscribe to the obsession theory of creativity; you have to be so driven, work so hard to do it well. I was never driven enough."

And they were off, telling stories, these two phenomenally accomplished Canadians who are comrades, and discussing writers. Eleanor talked at length about J. M. Coetzee, the South-African Nobel Prize winner and one of the most difficult of her interviewees, who insisted on writing down all her questions before he'd answer them and later who agreed to be interviewed as long as she did not ask about his work, his life, or South Africa.

They discussed a mutual favourite, W.G. Sebald, who spoke, in a clip that was aired for us, about "the weight of memory" that "might sink you." Physical pain can be controlled, he said, "but mental pain is without end. I have no great desire to be let off the hook. We have to stay upright through all that." Of all his melancholy, mysterious and beautiful books, Michael O's favourite, FYI, is "The Rings of Saturn." And Eleanor's favourite poem is Ondaatje's own "The Cinnamon Peeler." Michael quoted bits of many of her interviews; he too spends an hour in his kitchen on Sunday, listening to the world's writers on CBC radio.

Eleanor spoke with affection about writers as diverse as Oliver Sacks and Jim Harrison, and told us how, though she'd dreaded interviewing Philip Roth who could be sharp and dismissive, he was warm and open with her. But as the 500 faithful fans in the audience know, that is no surprise, because he was being interviewed by a master. At the end of this feast of talk and laughter, the elderly woman next to me, who was dressed from head to toe in leopard print, said, "There's something in her beautiful voice that makes people want to tell her the truth."

The interview will be edited down to an hour - how, I can't imagine - and aired soon on the program. Don't miss it. Sundays from 3 to 4, CBC 1. Let me say that again: Sundays from 3 to 4, CBC 1. Don't miss it.

After Eleanor and Michael had signed books, the gang decided to go for a drink. Which is how yours truly, Cinderella, ended up at the Four Seasons with Eleanor Wachtel, two CBC producers Mary Stinson and Susan Feldman, Eleanor's friend the Montreal academic and writer Sherry Simon, my old friend the actress Nancy Beatty, who's a good friend of the Ondaatje's, and Michael and his wife Linda Spalding, co-founder and editor of "Brick" magazine.

As you can imagine, the conversation among these ho-hum people was profoundly boring. Nothing to talk about, no new ideas, no sense of humour. I didn't sit entranced as they talked about the raft of books they'd just read and about famous writers who are close friends of theirs. I didn't argue with Michael Ondaatje about the Antonia Fraser/Harold Pinter book, which I'm so enjoying and which is despised, it seems, by most writers.

"But it's romantic, they're so in love and he writes poems for her," I said.

"Terrible poems!" said Michael Ondaatje.

"No they're not," I said.

"Terrible," said he.

Or maybe ... could it be? ... I did.

snowless in Toronto

Just had an email from Penny in Sheffield, England - the city is paralyzed by snow, schools cancelled, streets impassable, neighbours chatting as they shovel. Lots of snow last week in balmy Vancouver. Whereas here in snowy Toronto, a flake or two. I'm looking out at the yard - the grass still green, the parsley, rosemary and thyme on the deck still alive, despite the frost. Soon, yes, it'll be our turn. No rush, weather gods. No rush.

Teaching is winding down - U of T and Ryerson and one home class end-of-term feast over, another last class feast next week. One U of T student just sent me an email: I will contact you about coaching. Because you are so generous and smart and talented! And I trust you completely.

I thank you for those very kind words. If only! I am working privately with eight memoir clients, who astound me with their courage and dedication. And FYI, yesterday, my blog book went on sale at the gift shop at Riverdale Farm. It's a beautiful shop, perfect for that beautiful place - full of local crafts and tasteful, quirky things relating to animals, the country, farms, this neighbourhood ... highly recommended.

Some good television on Bravo these last few days (looking at a fat blue jay on the deck - what a huge bird, swaths of grey and bright blue and black) - "The Genius Within", about Glenn Gould, and last night, a dance piece about Nureyev. The Gould documentary was extremely moving, showing him as both a man and a genius - how his increasing eccentricity destroyed his life, his loneliness, the tragedy of the far-too-early death at fifty that he had predicted. What a legacy. I've made it a project, for my next vacation, to listen to both his "Goldberg Variations," the early one and the late, to follow the journey of his soul. And to immerse myself, too, in the heavenly soul of Johann Sebastian Bach.

I was angry at myself last Friday - missed out on getting tickets for the debate about religion between Christopher Hitchens and Tony Blair, which sold out instantly. A friend reported:

It was blatantly obvious from the beginning that Tony Blair certainly is not an intellectual. I had to remind myself of that continually. In all fairness, he is a politician, and a successful one at that. But Hitchens wan't sufficiently challenged. Blair's arguments wore very thin after they were repeated over and over, whereas Hitchens still dazzles with his remarkable depth of knowledge and ability to bring it to the fore, so quick "on his feet", despite the fact that he is so terribly ill. As you know, his Cancer is terminal and he probably won't live too much longer.

I was sorry to have missed it - the triumph of the atheist. So when a few days ago, I phoned to get tickets to the event tonight celebrating Eleanor Wachtel and the 20 years of her "Writers and Company," I was furious with myself again to find out that too was sold out. I wrote to Eleanor to inform her of my despair, and she called last night to tell me there'll be a ticket waiting for me. Lucky me!

She'll be interviewed tonight by Michael Ondaatje, in front of 460 of her most ardent fans. Including moi.