hyper parablabla

Today I saw the endocrinologist at St. Mike's. As usual, I send my prayerful thanks to Tommy Douglas - Dr. Josse and his intern Ray were efficient, thorough, personable. My family doctor had done her job, and the results of all the tests were assimilated and presented. At first, the word 'cancer' was mentioned as a possibility, but soon I was told this was not a threat in my case, not to worry. Fine with me.

I have what is apparently quite a common condition called primary hyper-parathyroidism. One of my four tiny parathyroid glands is malfunctioning, leading to a problem with my body's processing of calcium; an operation will remove the offending gland. Overnight in St. Mikes, only one night if all goes well, and a small scar on the neck. My mother just died in a hospital after spending months there; the very thought of lying in a hospital bed makes me want to throw up. But this operation will fix what's wrong, perhaps improve my osteoporosis. A Runfit-loving cheese-monkey like myself should not have full-blown osteoporosis, but I do. So this operation will help bring my calcium back into functioning order. Good news. Lucky me.

Moving right along.

Oh, and don't do yoga, I was told. Could do damage to the spine. Who knew?

Normally, the first person I'd call with all this news would be my mother. She loved medical things, as someone who'd dealt with every particle of her own body at some point or other. She would have been thrilled to discuss all this. My daughter, whom I told instead, is mildly worried. She has other concerns - Eli now not only crawls, he scrambles, and is pulling himself up on tables, sofas, chairs, bookshelves. Her work has just begun.

Last night, my Tuesday home class blessed me and each other with their courage and craft. And tomorrow, just for a treat, I take the train to Ottawa with my dear friend Lani, to begin the distribution, between my brother and me, of my mother's jumble of possessions. Please God, allow me to keep my sense of humour for the entire weekend, until Sunday late afternoon, when we get home. And then Anna has invited Lani and me to her place to eat nachos and drink beer. They'll watch the Superbowl, and I, the fancy footwork of my grandson, whose fresh young parathyroid glands, I hope, work perfectly.

Amour

First - the big news - his mother called this morning to say that Booboo is crawling - forwards, not backwards. Immediately I went on-line to look at baby gates. Glamma must be ready. Because in this kitchen are not only concrete stairs, but a collection of Fiestaware at a toddler's eye level.

Next, he'll be ready for a car.

Sweet Lady Sybil! Say it isn't so! How can life - or Julian Fellowes - be so cruel? Everyone at the Y was talking about it. "The minute he said 'swollen ankles', I knew!" said one indignant woman in the lounge. "That useless snobbish doctor! Shocking!"

Heavens, there's so much going on at Downton. Why has not a single person pointed out that that poor girl had to turn to prostitution because she was left with a baby and no help from anyone? People are so mean. I love how Carson has the best heart in the world except for fallen women, and the nasty valet sobs when he hears about Lady Sybil. As did I. The Bates stuff is getting tiresome, with all that plotting in prison - enough already, let the guy out. Is Matthew taking over the management going to be the way out of Downton for him? Apparently the actor is leaving the series, and I can't see how this will be done, right now; they can't kill him too. So maybe he and Mary fight so badly that they separate.

Or something.

Such a great way to spend Sunday night.

And a great way to spend a hideously mucky Monday afternoon was seeing a film with my dear friend Ken. Mind you, this film - "Amour" - is not for everyone. It's the story of an elderly Parisian couple who face disintegration and death in extreme close-up, and it was pretty rough going for me, especially right now, bringing back so clearly this last year with my mother - the indignities, the diapers and incoherence, the spoonfeeding, the impatience, pity, confusion and fear. Heart-rending.

But it is a brilliant film, a must see, for its writing, direction, filmography, and for the stunning performances of its French leads. Several scenes - one, a tiny scene between the ill old lady and a careless nurse, and her comeuppance - so raw and real, breathtaking. It's a glimpse into the life of the French intelligentsia, with their gorgeous apartment and cultivated lives. The couple were so formal with each other, so dignified and reserved, that I thought they had only recently begun a relationship, not that they'd been married for decades. As with their daughter - in her first scene, I thought she was having a conversation with a man her mother had recently started living with, not her father. They're not like us, those French.

And yet in the end - in this portrait of dignity, fortitude, duty, and great love - they are. We are all alike.

movies and memories

A bright, cold, peaceful Sunday morning. Last year from December to March, we had some sort of indeterminate season with cold bits; this year, it's called winter and it has hit hard. Good news for Bill my homeless friend, who makes his winter money shovelling for the neighborhood. Bill has appeared regularly at my door with his almost toothless grin and his trusty shovel. He fills the bird-feeder while he's out there. The faithful family retainer.

Yesterday's treat - my first long session alone with my 8-month old grandson, now known officially as Booboo. His mother was very busy, so her roommate Holly brought him over and there we were, Glamma and Booboo, for the day. I was ready: the blanket was on the floor covered with toys and books, and in the kitchen, avocado, banana, yogurt, MumMums, Cheerios, and Arrowroots. With him came bottles, diapers, changes of clothes, wet wipes ... The arsenal. All was needed. He cried once, for two seconds, when he hooked himself in the mouth with a toy fishing boat, and I was not paying attention. Otherwise, he played, he ate, we chatted, and then he fell asleep in my arms. I didn't want to put him down.

I did not think I could love any human being more than my two children, but this boy may just prove me wrong. He owns my soul. He is the personification of joy. Okay, a stinky diaper does take the angel choir down a notch. But just a notch.

There was a moment of sheer terror - he managed to scoot himself off the blanket while I was making up a bottle; when I turned around, he had grabbed my bicycle, leaning against the wall. Nightmare images of it falling on him ... How to be vigilant enough?

For once there are no photos; my hands were full.

The night before, I'd had a powerful dream, a brief moment of sleep during a restless night. My father, mother and I were travelling together. At one point, Dad and I sat looking at my mother, who was sewing in the sunshine, stunningly young and beautiful. My heart was pierced. "She's gone!" I cried to my father. "She's gone." And in the dream, I howled in grief, more than I have yet in real life, though in my sleep, tears ran down my cheeks. I was awake enough to be aware of all this, and yet asleep.

Friends have been writing about their own experience of grief. I'm on track.

Last night, after Booboo went home, TCM handed me a gift - two fabulous movies for an evening of vegging out. "Guys and Dolls," the best musical ever written, and, I'm always happy to note, of the same vintage as yours truly - written in 1950. I first saw it in Halifax in about 1962, in an amateur production in which my school music teacher played Adelaide. I loved it so much, I went twice, and have since seen the movie several times and a few stage versions. How can a silly story about smalltime hoods and the sexual negotiations between men and women in a repressed era become so moving and richly musical? And yet it does. The movie cast is sublime, as are the cars in the background. It's one of my life's tragedies that I never got to play Adelaide. "The female remaining single ..." I've been rehearsing it all my adult life.

Then TCM announced "Captains Courageous" with Spenser Tracey and I nearly turned off the set, imagining a Horatio Hornblower type of flick. But though Tracey is saddled with a ghastly curly wig and an inconsistent Portuguese accent, it's a beautiful film about a boy's need for the love and attention of a father, as well as the courage of fishermen. It resonated deeply on many levels. Has there ever been a face as handsome in a kind way as Spenser Tracey's, as masculine and yet sensitive, humorous - and wounded?

PS Just went to Wikipedia to read about "Guys and Dolls," and found another connection. When I went to the British theatre school LAMDA in 1971 - mentioned in my last post - the star of the school was an incandescent actor called Ian Charleson, who later went on to international fame as the Scottish minister in "Chariots of Fire." Despite his effortless superiority to us, his schoolmates, in every theatrical skill, he was sweet, generous and open, and we adored him; the loss was incalculable when he died of AIDS in 1990, at 40. He died just 8 weeks after performing what reputedly was one of the best Hamlets ever.

But I didn't know he was a singer too - and, it turns out, he played Sky in a ground-breaking production of "Guys and Dolls" in London. If I am ever granted 3 wishes, one of them will be to go back in time and see Ian in this production.

The revival opened March 9, 1982, and was an overnight sensation,^[20] running for nearly four years and breaking all box office records.^[21][22] The original cast featured Bob Hoskins as Nathan Detroit, Julia McKenzie as Adelaide, Ian Charleson as Sky and Julie Covingtonas Sarah.^[23] The production won five Olivier Awards, including for McKenzie and Eyre and for Best Musical. Eyre also won the Evening Standard Award, and Hoskins won the Critics' Circle Theatre Award.

Following Ian Charleson's untimely death from AIDS at the age of 40, in November 1990 two reunion performances of Guys and Dolls, with almost all of the original 1982 cast and musicians, were given at the National Theatre as a tribute to Charleson. The tickets sold out immediately, and the dress rehearsal was also packed. The proceeds from the performances were donated to the new Ian Charleson Day Centre HIV clinic at the Royal Free Hospital, and to scholarships in Charleson's name at LAMDA.^[29]

R.I.P. the indomitable Susan Rubes

Sad news: Susan Douglas Rubes, a pioneer of children’s theatre who founded the Young People’s Theatre of Toronto, has died. She was 87. Rubes died in Toronto on Jan. 23, according to a release from YPT.

An actor, producer and director, Rubes founded YPT in 1966 and developed and produced numerous Canadian works for children. She ushered the theatre into its permanent home in 1977 and was its artistic director until 1979 ...

Rubes led the fight to convince Toronto it needed a theatre for young people. She believed that children should be exposed to professional productions of the highest quality, including classic and contemporary works from Canada and around the world.

“It’s for children – it has to be the best,” she is quoted as saying in a history on the YPT website.

Susan Rubes changed my life, and that of several of my best friends. In 1969, as students in the drama club at Carleton University, we performed a one act play called "Interview" at the Canadian Drama League play competition, and won first prize. Susan invited our director, Bob Handforth, to direct it for a professional school tour out of Toronto, and he asked if he could bring much of his original cast with him. When Actor's Equity, after a great deal of arm-twisting, said yes, suddenly Peter, Suzette, Lynn, Karin, Paul and I, clutching our Equity cards, were on our way to Toronto to begin rehearsals. I was 19; the others, as I enjoy pointing out, were much older. Okay, a bit older. We rented a house in the middle of Kensington Market, and spent from January to May touring southern Ontario schools in a bus, with the addition to the cast of the great Heath Lamberts, who much later was a smash on Broadway as the clock in Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." 

In September '70, I was back at Carleton picking up the pieces of my academic life when Peter and I were offered another of Susan's tours. Another Christmas day on the way to Toronto, another winter and spring on tour. At that point, I thought, this is REALLY EASY, you get offered jobs and they pay you really well, I guess I should be an actress. To clinch the deal, I auditioned for the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, and was one of two Canadians accepted that year. The other was R. H. Thomson. 

It was during that difficult year at LAMDA that I began to wonder if this life was, in fact, the right one for me. But not till 1981, with the birth of my daughter, did I leave the stage to go back to university to get an MFA - in creative writing. 

I wish I'd had a chance to thank Susan - not so much for my own trajectory, which perhaps didn't work out all that well, but for all she did in the arts for children. She was indomitable, with ferocious energy. Thank you, Susan Rubes, for all your hard work, your courage, your vision - and your faith in a bunch of green thespians from Ottawa. 

More bad news today: I was at the Y when we learned that Mayor Rob Ford would not be thrown out of office. There was gloom in the TV room of the Health Club. "How the hell did he get elected in the first place?" was the general tenor of the conversation, a question that has been asked countless times, I'm sure. The massive bulk and pea-sized brain of our own human stegosaurus will continue to loom over us all. Have mercy. 

Big news!

Potential AIDS Cure, Discovered By Australian Medical Researchers, Modifies HIV Protein 

Scientists working in a medical research facility in Australia say they may have discovered a therapy to potentially cure AIDS.

Researchers at the Queensland Institute of Medical Research, led by Associate Professor Dr. David Harrich, say they have developed a form of gene therapy that turns the HIV protein against itself and ultimately stops it from replicating, according to the Australian Times.

Chris just sent this. How thrilling. Let us pray that it works. And let us never forget the multitudes lost to this deadly virus. In the case of the people I knew in the eighties, many of the most talented of Canada's theatre community, young, full of energy and vision, gone. 

thrift shop down the road

Busy is good. Classes start this week - a small home class last night, Ryerson people who were disappointed by the cancellation came to my living room instead; and today, my advanced U of T group, including two students back after taking the course years ago. Good to be at work.

Because I am still in a daze, a fog, a funk. Tonight I kept thinking, Must call Mum. I called her 4 or 5 or 6 times a week, for years. The cat started purring, which she so rarely does. I thought, Must tell Mum. She loved cat stories.

Can't. She's not there.

Okay. Move on.

Someone who IS there: President Barack Obama. How thrilling was that speech, coming out swinging. Of course it'll be nearly impossible to fix all those things, income inequality, climate change, gay marriage, immigration, but I guess this term, he'll try harder. Bravo, you beautiful man.

Several boring medical appointments later - yesterday afternoon, an hour and a half waiting for a thyroid ultrasound at St. Mike's - I saw my doctor this morning. "You won't die tomorrow," she said, which sounds awfully good to me. Something is a little wonky with my parathyroid, two tiny thingies in there somewhere which regulate calcium. I see an endocrinologist at the end of the month. Enough already. The last place on earth I want to sit around right now is a hospital. Driving to the airport on Sunday with my kids in the rental car, we passed the Civic Hospital - where my son was born, where my mother died.

Very cold and snowy here - but nothing compared to brutal Ottawa. To which I have to return soon, to begin the excruciating process of clearing out Mum's cluttered condo. So looking forward to that, as you can imagine. About as much as Obama is looking forward to tackling hardline Republican cretins, I'm sure.

And finally - the bad news. There's a huge hit out now, by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, about how cool it is to go shopping at Goodwill, putting down designer stuff and extolling vintage.

I wear your granddad's clothes
I look incredible
I'm in this big ass coat
From that thrift shop down the road

NOOOO! I have eight big ass thrift store coats. Now all the second hand stores will be even more crowded. Go away!

See? Just not my cheery self. She'll be back. But not today, not in the dead of winter, not while she still wants to talk to her mama.

My eulogy

Several people have written asking me to post what I said about my mother last Friday, at her memorial. Friends know that though she was wonderful, Mum was also difficult, and we had a wonderful, difficult relationship. But I loved her very much, and last Friday was not the time to dwell on anything negative. 

We are not here to mourn but to celebrate. Because my mother had a fantastic life, well-lived. And also, she had so many health problems, it’s a miracle, and a testament to her strength and grit, that she lived so long. My father used to say that so many bits of her had been removed or replaced that he didn’t know this new wife and wanted his old wife back.

My mother was a woman of great joy and many loves. When I thought about this memorial event, I decided to share with you a few of the things she loved most, and so I made a list – because one of the things my mother loved most was lists.

Here are some – not all, by any means - of my mother’s great loves:

1. MEN. My mother loved men. Young men old gay straight. Starting at 4 years old, walking around the Potterspury schoolyard holding hands with a boy called Teddy Leach, also 4. The sad story is that after years of separation, Teddy Leach came back during the war to visit his childhood sweetheart. He knocked on the door; she opened. Their faces fell. She was six feet tall. He was five foot two.

My mother was famous for what my grandmother Marion called “her come hither look.” Once when my parents were travelling, they had to sit separately on the plane. Mum sat down next to a stranger. A few hours later, after much conversation, he turned to her as the plane was landing and cried, “Leave him, Sylvia! Leave him and come with me.” My dad sitting a few rows back, and the man’s wife and children waiting at the airport! Amazing.

Just two months before Mum died, she was in a double room in hospital, where the woman in the next bed had a husband who was handsome, and, more importantly, British. I was sitting by Mum’s bed, watching her sleep, when the door opened and he entered. Like a submarine, her periscope came up; she surfaced and followed his every step, with her intense blue gaze, across the room.

But of all men, my mother loved one man - my father. Despite some years of discord early in the marriage, there was a huge and primal connection between the two. She entertained for him, travelled with him, and held him in her arms as he died. Theirs was a great love story.

2. MUSIC. Music was one of my parents’ most powerful bonds. Mum was extremely musical. Her father Percy was the village organist and choirmaster, and Sylvia, Dorothy and Margaret sang in his choir. Mum played the piano and the recorder beautifully, and in her forties, she took cello lessons so she could play in my father’s string quartet. She didn’t just love classical music, she also loved the Beatles and Sting and many others. After her death I discovered this sheet of paper, on which, in barely legible wobbly writing, she’d taken notes while listening to one of our favourite radio shows, Randy Bachman’s Vinyl Tap. “I’m gonna wait till the midnight hour,” she’d written, in a list of songs and singers. “Wilson Picket.” She never stopped learning, wanting to discover.

3.    HOMES. Houses and gardens. My mother was a wonderful homemaker, in the proudest sense of that word – she made a home for her children, her husband, her friends. Her task was especially challenging because my father had absolutely no practical skills. Mum cooked and baked, she made jams and pies, she gardened, she sewed and knitted. She was the first person I knew to buy an old Victorian wreck of a house and renovate it, as she did on Stewart Street in 1966. She furnished our houses, she fixed things, she bought antiques and art. Right to the end – her condo here was both comfortable and elegant. And even in an apartment, without her own garden, she found one – Bob and Leona’s huge community garden on Poulin, where she made a big patch her own.

4.    ANIMALS. Birds, beasts. A lifelong passion, from the cats and dogs of Potterspury, through our own pet cats and dogs, especially the dachshund Brunie and beagle Tippoes, and finally the bichon frise Farley, in Edmonton. Farley wasn’t even her dog, he was the next door neighbour’s, but he and my mother adored each other. Bev, his owner, told me that Farley had a sixth sense when Sylvia was returning after a trip, and even before the cab pulled into the driveway, he was barking like crazy to be let out. The minute they met, he’d hurl himself into her arms, she’d take him inside and give him “bikkies” and water in special china dishes, and they’d tell each other about their time apart.

5.    ART. She was an artist herself, with a huge talent and a lifelong passion for watercolour, oils, pastels, sculpture – and the work of other artists. Last spring, Mum was determined to see the special Van Gogh exhibit at the National Gallery here; we just couldn’t see how that was possible – she was so weak, barely able to walk. But when she found out that I, coming to visit her, had bought a ticket to see it, she insisted on going too. I said no, impossible, but Mike said, let’s make it happen. Even though we had no ticket for her. 

And so began an excursion organized like a commando raid. By some miracle, Mike managed to get her to the gallery just as I, newly arrived from Montreal, got to the head of the pre-paid ticket line. I begged the woman to sell us a ticket for Mum. With my mother’s baby blues burning into her, she did, and I pushed my mother in her walker past the enormous line-up for tickets, right into Van Gogh. That was her last big outing, and she loved every minute.

6.    FRIENDS AND FAMILY. All of us here, I’m sure, were the recipients of her kindness and generosity. After her death, we received many emails full of appreciation and love. Several donations have been made in Mum’s name to the Ottawa Heart Institute and to the National Arts Centre Orchestra. Mike and I are extremely lucky to have inherited a great appreciation of beauty, music and art, of home and friends and family, from our parents.

Before closing, I’d like, on behalf of my mother, to pay tribute. First, to the health care system of Canada, which served her so well for so long. Thank you, taxpayers of Canada. Thank you, Tommy Douglas.

To Nancy Bell, Mum’s caregiver, who kept her company this last year and brought her special treats.

To Mum’s grandchildren Anna and Sam, who visited, sent notes and photographs and called her faithfully and often, even knowing that sometimes, once Mum was on the phone, it was not easy to get her off, which can really make a dent in your cellphone plan.

To Mum’s newer grandson Jake, who brought her much delight, and to Mike’s partner, beautiful Emilie, who is so welcome in this family, and who has brought us the pleasure of the French language. And to great-grandson Eli, who was awaited with such impatience and greeted with such joy.

Most of all - to two people. To my brother Michael, who looked after Sylvia for years with incredible patience and love. This past year alone, day after day, nearly every day of the week, he came to visit her in hospital and made sure she was comfortably settled in her various residences. I salute him as a marvel of loving kindness, and also as the primary organizer of this event. We should all have someone as caring as Michael there at the end of our lives.

And, last, to sister Do, aka Chumeroo, who was there when my mother was born, when she met her husband, when that husband died, and all the last years of Mum’s life. It was Do Mum called at three o’clock in the morning – over and over and over again – when her heart was fibrillating and she was waiting for the ambulance. One time, Mum was actually inside the ambulance on a stretcher, and she made the medic guys wait, saying, “You can’t go yet, my sister isn’t here.” Do arrived, Mum beamed, and off they went, to spend six hours, 10, 12 hours in Emerg. Do was always there, by Mum’s side. The two of them called each other every morning to make sure they’d lived through the night. They laughed often, remembering their childhood eight decades ago. They played a vicious game of Scrabble. Do was Mum’s lifelong and most loyal companion. I cannot thank her enough.

Or you, for coming here tonight to remember and honour my mother. Many thanks.

blurry shots of Ottawa

Auntie Do - 92! - and her friend Una at the memorial for her little sister

The central part of the sanctuary, when we were singing "When I'm Sixty Four"

Probably weeping, I managed to shoot this - my son, brother, daughter and grandson, in front of the candles we lit for Mum, and the big picture of her on the stage where we spoke.

At Mum's condo: the musician

Uncle and nephew

getting home

Coming down, beginning to accept reality - my mother has been buried and memorialized, and now life without her goes on. Now we're in Ottawa in a blizzard with powerful winds, which means our afternoon flight is already delayed, probably won't be able to land on the island airport and will end up at Pearson hours late. It happened to me last year - five hours late getting home. This time with a baby. However, there are 3 of us to keep him busy. I'd forgotten how endlessly demanding it is, this job.

Yesterday we sat around a great deal, recouperating, and looking after Eli as he chewed on table legs. In the afternoon, my brother came with his family and my son, who'd spent the night there and the morning tobogganing in the Gatineau with Mike's 5 year old son Jake. We were all hung-over, more emotionally than physically. Instead of going out in the rain and snow, as was originally the plan, we ordered Swiss Chalet. Do came, and everyone was happy with chicken and ribs and fries. I said, this is one of the things people miss in France - when the thought of cooking is unbearable, the pleasure of ordering Swiss Chalet.

After they left, Anna discovered she needed more formula, so, despite the injunctions against the place, I went to the local Walmart. Now I know that Walmart at 7.30 on a Saturday night is surreal: bright and desolate . But the formula is cheap, and while there I bought us two DVD's, two of my favourite films - "Marigold Hotel" and "Up." Hard to find a film that works for everyone from 28 year old Sam to 92 year old Auntie Do, but "Hotel" was perfect; Sam managed to rig up the DVD player and find the remote, buried in a basket of junk, and we all sat drinking tea and watching brilliant British actors come to life in India. What a treat.

Today, packing up and trying to get home. Outside the window, again, the landscape is barely visible. No, right now, a complete whiteout. We ain't going anywhere. Inside, safe and warm, a lucky family, closer than ever, and best of all, a happy baby boy, busy eating parnsips.

memorial

Up at 7.30 to take a fussy, probably teething baby away from his exhausted mother, and now, at 9.30, he has just fallen asleep and it's Glamma who's exhausted. My mother's living room is a disaster - we only have a few toys here, but luckily Eli is thrilled with mixing spoons, calculators, little packets of things, his Johnson's baby powder canister. He had a bottle, some banana which he mashed into the table and dropped on the floor, many Baby NumNums, some scrambled eggs mixed with avocado, and another bottle. And then he fell asleep, to the great relief of the old bag whose arms were dropping off, and his mother who has just started the clean up.

Yesterday's event was one of the most important of my life, no question. Several people said it was the nicest service of its kind they'd ever been to. The First Unitarian Congregation is sacred feeling, definitely a church, but with no overt religious symbols, just a warm, dignified, wide open space. There were about fifty people, I think, including family - friends of Mum's from the condo and from her past Ottawa life, highschool friends of my brother's and even highschool friends of mine, from my one year, Grade 13, at Lisgar Collegiate. Mike G. appeared - his mother Helen was best friends with my mother in Halifax in the Fifties and then Ottawa; Helen worked at the CBC and gave me my first job on-camera when I was ten. I hadn't seen Mike in about 30 years, or more, but knew him right away. Clive Doucet came with his wife Patty - Mum was on the board of a community housing project with both Patty and Clive, who later ran for the Mayor of Ottawa. He's a wonderful idealistic man, and another of Mum's crushes. Several of her crushes, whether they knew it or not, were there.

Highlights - my friends Louise and David playing a Shostakovich arrangement for two cellos, in honour of Mum's love of music in general and the cello in particular; both of my children speaking, beautifully and with great emotion, about their grandmother; the chaplain, Kye, calling on people to come up and share a memory of Sylvia with us and to light a candle. Several came up, including friends of my brother's who spoke about how welcoming Mum was to them as teenagers, how they thought of her house as a second home - and how she smoked dope with them once. "The coolest mother," said Colin.

And then Kye said a beautiful prayer of remembrance, and we all sang "When I'm Sixty-four," which was my parents' favourite Beatle song, and my brother, who looked elegant in his first classy suit, wrapped up. We adjourned to the next room to eat and drink and continue to remember, to the strains of Mozart's G Minor Quartet, which Mum had requested. The baby was amazingly good throughout, assisted by generous helpings of Cheerios, the other kids were great, and everyone had a very good time. Do was toasted and celebrated; she looked beautiful.

Now I am truly an orphan. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. There's a blizzard in Ottawa - so much snow outside the window that the scene there is barely visible. But Anna wants to go to Ikea, and I'm game. All is well. All will be well. Bring it on. I'm free.

No, I'm not free, obviously, if I'm going to drive to Ikea in a blizzard for my daughter. But I'm free in a certain way. A great weight has been lifted, whether I should admit that or not. And I am looking forward, with all my heart, to the next stage.

remembering

It's nearly 11, and I'm about as drained as I've ever been. It's snowing in Ottawa, and a very energetic baby does not want to go to sleep; my arms are falling off from holding 23 pounds of wriggle.

3 words about my mother's memorial event tonight: It was perfect.

As you can imagine, there will be more than 3 words about it coming your way. But not right now.

a wonder of starlings

In the midst of packing and rushing about, I just received this from my old friend and student Gerry. Stopped to watch, and be reminded, in the nick of time, how utterly incredible and beautiful is this life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eakKfY5aHmY

frozen faces

More ultrasounds at St. Mike's this morning - this time my thyroid. To think, I'm 62 and have just found out for the first time what my thyroid is, and where. A large camera pointed right at it helped me discover. Something to do with hormones. Again, the team was efficient and polite, even while injecting me with radioactive something or other. I didn't ask questions, entrusting my thyroid to their capable hands.

Last night, I watched "Pioneers of Television" on PBS, this week about women comics. And amidst the laughter, tragedy - they interviewed the fabulous Carol Burnett, Mary Tyler Moore, Joan Rivers, whose faces now are stretched, injected and frozen into a parody of a human face. Moore is an unearthly Chinese mask, barely able to move her mouth or see out of her oriental, eyelined eyes. One who seems to have survived this curse is the amazing Betty White, with a career starting in the Fifties and still going strong -- nearly two years older than my mother and STILL WORKING - her face slightly fixed, but real too.

Then they interviewed the men, Dick Van Dyke, Tim Conway, Ed Astner, with their sags and bags of real aging human flesh. I do think this, like the removal of ribs by corseted Victorians, will be seen as one of the tragic follies of our time - the desperate attempt by wealthy and famous women, and a few men, to beat back time with facial surgery. All that happens is that they look puffy, bland and expensive, like Ralph Lauren pillows. As at the Golden Globes, a few days ago - those sad, empty expanses of forehead.

Tomorrow I go to Ottawa, leaving my kind tenant Carol to care for house and crabby cat. My brother and I will see my mother's bank manager and plan and buy what's needed for the memorial event. There have been many calls back and forth, when will we light the candles, what use to make of the lay chaplain, whether to rent the cutlery and dishes separately from the caterer - ETC. Trying to do my mother justice, honour her, capture her spirit.

Friday my children arrive; the event is in the evening. So here's the relaxing, totally non-stressful weekend - my forceful daughter and her forceful 8 month old, plus my always-hungry and not unforceful son, and mild little moi, staying together in my mother's small, decimated condo with no TV and very slow internet. We spend Friday evening at her memorial, a major event, certainly one of the most important of my life, attended by every one of my most important genetically-related people. Family!

If we survive that, Saturday, my brother has spoken about us all going up to his place in Chelsea. Great idea. Major overload. My daughter says there's a hockey game we can watch there, Leafs (we Torontonians) versus Habs (my brother and his Quebecoise wife.) And me in the middle, giving not a @#$ but - the problem with all these events - unable drink myself into pleasant oblivion, as is my wont, because I am the designated driver. Phooey.

It will all be fine. It will be marvellous. I know that. But right now, all I feel is overload and a little bit of dread. And tomorrow, to add a jolly frisson, it will be minus twenty-four in Ottawa.

PS This morning, leaving the hospital, I walked behind a woman with her slow, elderly father in tow. "You must take in more fluids, Dad, you're just not drinking enough," she scolded, and I felt a punch in the gut, bringing me back to that same sentence, that same anxious solicitous feeling, many times over the last few years.

"Why be happy when you could be normal?"

I have an appointment for the end of January with an endocrinologist. I don't even know what that is, and don't want to know. Went to St. Mike's this morning for an 11 o'clock parathyroid ultrasound, expecting to spend many inefficient hours waiting - I brought enough food and reading material for a camping trip. However, I was called in at 11 sharp, given an injection and asked to lie down for two imaging cameras, one an inch above my head for 15 motionless minutes, which is more of a test than I'd imagined. My experience with the stillness of meditation helped.

That took only 40 minutes; very nice Tammy asked me to come back at 2. I cycled home - incidentally, up the full length of Sackville Street from Queen to Gerrard for the first time, it's open now. Had lunch, did errands, and came back; at 2 sharp, I was called in and rephotographed for another 15 minutes. Impressively efficient. She set up another appointment, to meet another camera at 9.15 tomorrow morning, and a doctor in a few weeks. Something is happening with the calcium in my body, which may eventually entail a small operation. Maybe it's all the cheese, do you think, readers? I pride myself on not costing the taxpayers of this country any health dollars, but that may always not be the case. Briefly.

Reminding me again that health is all that matters. Love and work, all very nice, but health matters most, and so much of it is luck. Wayson, at dinner yesterday, talked about that fateful finger in the sky - one minute he was enjoying the most successful period of his life, writing, teaching, very busy - and the next, he was in an 11 day coma after a heart and asthma attack. You never know when the finger is going to stop and point at you.

I still do not believe that my mother is not in her condo, that all that's left of her is in a small box in my brother's house. Many calls going back and forth about her memorial event on Friday. We have to figure out what the lay minister will do - we are a secular family and Mum was agnostic, but it's nice to have a spiritual dimension, which Mike and I certainly can't provide.

I've just finished Jeanette Winterson's "Why be happy when you could be normal?" It's a spectacular memoir; highly recommended, especially for anyone who's adopted. She writes about her childhood with an adopted mother, whom she refers to as Mrs. Winterson, who's a titanic lunatic. How she escapes, mentally, physically and even sexually, and eventually looks for her birth mother. It's written in real time, as she's figuring things out; the writing is honest, skilful and moving. What's especially interesting is that she wrote the story first as a novel - "Oranges are not the only fruit" - and now is writing the true story as a memoir. What that means to me is that she has matured enough as a writer to deal with the truth.

Ha! Take that, fictioneers!

Golden Globes and "Les Mizzzz"

Had a movie date today - my daughter got the day off from motherhood, her friend Holly took the baby to her nanny job, and Anna and I got to see a movie in the middle of the afternoon. She didn't want to see the ravages of age up close in "Amour," for some reason; her choice was "Les Miz," straight from its big wins for Anne Hathaway and Hugh Jackman last night at the Golden Globes.

Digression and confession time: Yes, I watched the endless Globes - I decided I could waste that much time on one awards show because I would not allow myself to watch the Oscars. We'll see how that works out. Also - I did switch to PBS and watch delectable "Downton Abbey" in the middle. (Is Bates looking more and more like a murderer?!) Still managed to catch the show highlights, especially Jodie Foster's riveting speech. A lesson in public speaking - she kept threatening to go off the rails but never quite did, so we all watched with bated breath. A controlled and intelligent performance - like her onscreen work, only as herself.

She sat all night beside the outcast Mel Gibson, whose face was so vacant with mouth hanging open that he looked as if he'd had a lobotomy. Mostly I watched to see Tiny and Amy, who did not disappoint. Sassy but not cruel. Valiant, for such an interminable show.

So - "Les Miz." Saw it here at the Royal Alex when it first came out, and adored it. I was then married to a man working for Andrew Lloyd Webber, so it didn't help my marriage that I admired this musical far more than anything Webber ever did. Well - the movie version is pretty damn epic. But you want to throttle the director so often - oh for God's sake, give those poor actors a break! It's not enough they have to emote, weep and sing at the top of their lungs with the camera pointed about two inches from their tonsils - they have to do it in the RAIN? I mean.

But the scope of the show and the glory of the performances - Eddie Redmayne, adorable but looking about as French as a pot of tea, Colm Wilkinson as the face of God, Russell Crowe who can't sing really but pulled off a tormented Javert, and especially the incredibly talented and grounded Hugh Jackman ... the sweep of the revolution toward the end, and the finale - spectacular. Tears in the eyes, couldn't help it. My Paris, being liberated, so that American tourists can stand just where those barricades once stood and complain about rude Parisians.

Beautiful Anne Hathaway is also valiant and brave and open, she just works way too hard. Too much tonsil. Too much screw-up-the-face suffering. But there's a Hollywood rule: any actress who allows her nose to run on camera while she cries will get an Oscar.

There's your movie review. What they pay me the big bucks for.

re: today's cancelled Ryerson class

WRITING STUDENTS, I'm sorry if you didn't know that my Ryerson class, scheduled for tonight, was cancelled last week. There was an administrative screw-up; I assume it will not happen again.

In the meantime, you have three options: 1. Several disappointed students are meeting privately with me a few times, at least to get started, to get geared up for taking the class that begins Wednesday May 8. Get in touch with me through this website if you're interested.

2. I am teaching a Life Stories II class at U of T that starts next week. It's during the day, however, and is the advanced section of my course, geared at students who've either worked with me before or have taken writing classes before.

Otherwise, I send you my apologies, and 3. hope that you will come back in May. I look forward to meeting you.

treasures

 This visit's findings from the beach

 I found this box on a shelf: my mother had saved all my gatherings from previous years.

And then I got home and saw my Booboo.

First shopping trip to Doubletake - he picked his own treasure

Holy Batman!

onward

Now at the Sarasota airport, watching the pale-faced Canadians pour off the plane from Toronto, and the red-faced ones wait to return. I'd forgotten but realized, as Shan's car pulled in - I've been coming to Sarasota most of my life. My father's parents moved down here from New York in about 1963, and we used to come down and visit them most winters. Lucky moi. There was a discarded Christmas tree outside Mum's condo today, an odd sight. A real tree.

Okay, here we go. Early departure! HOME.

too hot for a Canadian

Only two more hours in Sunland, before neighbour Shan drives me to the Sarasota Airport and I fly back to the freezer. Today I'm imitating a sponge, a dead battery, trying to soak up enough energy to last until the big yellow ball produces some light and heat up there. Months from now. By the end of March, every year, it's cabin fever time. Get me out of here.

Today I didn't want to get out of the pool, so as I floated up and down and round and round, I listened to the conversation of my fellow residents. So far I've been alone down there, except for the Swiss couple, who are similarly focussed on absorbing rays. But today, a full crowd sitting under the palm trees. They discussed 1. nearby restaurants, rating them from one to ten. ("Breakfast is a ten, but dinner is only a four. Ah wouldn't go back for dinner.") 2. They discussed their cruises - "Ah looove Venice!"  And 3. cuts of meat, the favourite being New York strip aged 28 days.

I confess that as I floated and listened, I said to myself, if I ever get this desperate for something to talk about, shoot me, please. But then I'm a judgemental snob. Just like my mother, incidentally, who'd give us a running commentary on the same subject, eavesdropping as she sat in the shade, under her big hat, doing crossword puzzles.

Speaking of Mum, I realize why this has been such a good vacation, a real vacation, and not just because of sun and sand. It's because I didn't have to worry. When the phone rang, my heart didn't leap, thinking it was "news," as Beyond the Fringe says, "of fresh disasters." Wherever my mother is, she'd safe from fresh disasters, and my brother and I from worrying about them.

I did, however, spy a small hole in the ceiling of the bedroom here, and immediately imagined termites ravaging above. So - not entirely worry free, no, not at all. But that most consuming of worries, my mother's health, safety and happiness, has gone.

As am I from here, soon. Back to grim reality. Bring it on. My feet are sunburned.

life's a beach

Anna Maria Island, today, 4.30 p.m. WHERE IS EVERYBODY?

A-MUR-ICA

Now this is luck, sheer blind luck - apparently I have been here during a record-breaking high in temperature. I thought it was always this nice the first week of January, but apparently not.

The National Weather Service in Ruskin reported a record temperature of 87 degrees at 3 p.m. Wed. at Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport. That smashed the previous mark of 84 degrees set in 1989.

Well, I have appreciated it. Today could not have been nicer. I went in the morning to get a few last groceries, including my favourite American innovation - wine in a juice box. Come on, Canada, get with it! I needed just a little bit to get me through to tomorrow late afternoon when I leave, and there is is - a California CabSauv, 500 ml or 3 glasses, in a tetrapak. I also bought an Amy's frozen dinner - "Sweet and Sour Asian Noodles with Organic Vegetables and Rice Pasta" - ten minutes in the micro and there it is, delicious. I almost bought and didn't, and should have, a special plastic thing that preserves half avocados from going brown. These Americans, they think of the wildest things.

And then the dreary routine - reading by the pool, swimming, reading, swimming, walking on the beach at dusk, watching a fabulous pink and powder blue Turner sunset. I have finished the speech to deliver at Mum's memorial, dealt with the huge hooha about the cancelled class (30 emails at least), talked to my brother about various matters 2 or 3 times a day, checked in at home, read the "Bradenton Herald" and the NYT and the Canadian papers, and finished 2 "New Yorker"s. And begun work. And thought, and sat in silence, and thought some more.

In other words, heaven.

A report in the NYT says that Americans come last, or nearly last, in every health marker among wealthy nations. Amazing - considering the size of the drug department at Walgreen's and the wealth of this wealthiest of nations - that they can't keep their citizens alive longer. Not so surprising, I guess, when they do not know how to enjoy what they eat and keep shooting each other.

But they do have very nice beaches.

vegging

Isn't it ironic - just a few days ago, last term's Ryerson student Nancy published a flattering essay about my course in the "Globe" - and just now, for the first time in years, that very course has been cancelled due to low registration. It's because the Chang School was closed longer than usual over the holidays, until Monday, and the class was due to start next Monday - which meant that by the time it was cancelled today, students had had only three and a half days to register. Absurd. I have written to protest and assume it won't happen again.

Though it's a significant loss of income for me, at the same time, this will be a particularly busy few months, with much flying to Ottawa to settle Mum's estate, distribute her stuff and prepare her condo for sale. So if my class had to be cancelled, this term is better than most.

The U of T class, incidentally, is a go.

It's hard to get too upset about anything when I'm floating about in paradise. Today was sunny, 25 degrees with a stiff breeze, which meant it was never too hot. I walked on the beach, swam, sat reading by the pool, walked on the beach again, read, ate, emailed. The air is damp and soft and smells of the sea, and the sound of the waves of the Gulf of Mexico slapping the beach is the most calming rhythm I know.

And best of all - this country re-elected Barack Obama! They may be crazy, just not THAT crazy. But still pretty crazy. As my Jon loves to point out. Another great daily treat - the actual paper version of the "New York Times." What a wonderful newspaper it is. A special pleasure - all this week, the NYT Bridge column has been about the Edgar Kaplan Winter Regionals. A bridge tournament named in honour of my beloved, much missed Uncle Edgar.

Last night, Mum's good friend who lives down here, Jeannie, took me out to dinner. She told me losing my mother was almost like losing her own, all over again. We had some good laughs, especially when she remarked on how much Mum liked men. "She'd see a man in Publix," she told me, "and be giggling about how handsome he was." This I know, Jeannie. This I know.

Today I talked to ... well, I said Bonjour to the Swiss couple who spend all day motionless, browning by the pool; I talked to my daughter at home and later will make a phone call or two. But otherwise - silence. I look at couples - people walking on the beach, two by two, side by side - with incomprehension, so fixed in solo ways that I don't understand what people in a couple DO all day, together. Or say.

Daniel Mendelsohn and Mary Renault

A moment of bliss this morning - yours truly, weeping under the palm trees. The weather has turned sunny and hot with a bit of cloud - perfect. I went for a walk/jogette on the beach - stopping, as always, to hunt for a few shells - then for a swim - my morning routine in paradise. And then sat by the water reading in the latest "New Yorker" an article by Daniel Mendelsohn about the influence on him in his youth of the Greek novels of Mary Renault. He wrote to her, and she wrote back; they corresponded for decades.

The story is about his coming-to-terms with his homosexuality, which her novels helped him name and accept. Long after her death, a friend of hers wrote to him, and now new friendships have developed.

It made me cry not just because it's a haunting memoir, beautifully written, but because I had just watched on YouTube a long and recent David Frost interview with Paul McCartney, one of the heroes of my own youth. I'd marvelled once again that the man I chose in February 1964 is in fact such a nice guy - incredibly talented and hard-working, but also honest and open, with a sense of humour. Paul didn't influence me as a writer, as Renault did Mendelsohn, but as a girl, a woman, a person. He taught me how much I could love, and how faithfully. He taught me what music can mean.

Now to write that down. Again. Trying, again, to write that story down.

Several other notes from the deep south: yesterday I bought "Time" magazine for the first time in many years, because they chose Obama as their "Person of the Year." A remarkably fair article inside, a genuinely respectful and optimistic analysis of his past and possible future. And the other night, listening to National Public Radio, imagine my surprise on hearing the opening music of Jian Ghomeshi's show at 7. Yes, "Q" is on NPR, just as Jian tells us it is - so I can listen to my Toronto neighbour down here, as pelicans sail past the window.

I'm recuperating from these last months of stress and grief. It's wonderful to be alone in the quiet, though of course I'm not - I have newspapers, books, Daniel Mendelsohn and Jon Stewart to keep me company, not to mention email, Skype and Facebook. (Did you see Jon last night on gun control? Incredibly forceful. I love you, Jon.) Just Skyped with Chris, back from Africa. Watched Fellini's "Juliet of the Spirits" the other night, tender and moving. I'm eating Florida food - tangelos and giant red grapefruit and herring in cream sauce. Writing my speech for Mum's memorial next week.

And beginning, at last, to get back to my own work.

Florida in the drizzle

A satisfied customer writes in the "Globe"

Gloom and drizzle here on Anna Maria Island - and there's hot sun in Toronto! GRRRR. Oh well - it's still sublime, even at only 60 degrees, which is bone-chilling for Floridians; I am wearing sandals, and it's silent. So quiet, except for my mother's exceptionally noisy fridge. I went to Publix for my annual excursion into the heart of America, and marvelled, as I always do, how little actual food can actually be found in that vast supermarket.

A new cereal from Kellogg - in Chocolate and Double Chocolate. Love the subtle nomenclature.

Exciting news from home - today's Facts and Arguments in the "Globe" is by a student from last term at Ryerson, and it's about my course. Thank you, Nancy - I'm glad it meant so much to you. Registration is now open, folks, for "True to Life" at Ryerson, and for "Life Stories" at U of T. Come one come all.

Read this on The Globe and Mail.

Last night - the return of the delicious Downton Abbey. 84 characters and 196 plotlines and lots of class.  Imagine, the concern about white tie versus black tie. Will poor Edith find happiness? Will the mysterious millions from India solve all their problems? Will Maggie Smith ever be able to replicate the most perfect double take ever, when she awakens from a little snooze to find Shirley Maclaine crooning at her? I laughed out loud. Lovely stuff.

Tonight's treat - Jon Stewart returns. Be still my beating heart. I can watch Rachel Maddow too. Much pleasure, even if there is not a glimpse, not one tiny glimmer in the cool grey fog outside the window, of sun.

Pearson Sunday afternoon

Gate F83, Pearson International Airport, waiting to board for Sarasota along with lots of other lucky Canadians. Outside, sleet grey, not too cold but grim, with piles of dirty snow. I have a mini-office on the go - computer on my knees, iPhone on the little table beside me, bottled water, pot of yogurt, almonds and a cheese bun, the ubiquitous snack. A cold just beginning in my nose, which I hope to jam in its tracks with a bit of sunshine. Though apparently it's raining down there, right now.

I want to sit and stare at water and do nothing for a bit. It is my mother's condo; she is everywhere, in the giant Mark Rothko print that climbs high up the wall - the only Rothko I know that's not murky reds and blacks and browns, but vibrant yellow and bright sea blue. In the English teapots and colourful beach towels and tasteful furniture - and also in the twelve boxes of classical records that have been stored under the stairs since my Uncle Edgar's death in 1997. Not willing to let them go, but having no place for them at home, she imported them to Florida and there they stay.

The answer, surely - a record player.

On my way here, in the endless circuit of the airport, the TD bank was giving out free water and snacks, and had a beach chair set up with newspapers. So I sat in the beach chair and read the Sunday New York Times. Now that's travel.

flying

Beautiful boys.

One of those times yesterday when all that matters is drawing breath and thanking the heavens - and eating eggplant curry. My adult children and grandson came over, we ordered Indian takeout, the young mother had a snooze while uncle and Glamma looked after a very energetic baby, who flaps his arms madly as if trying to fly. He scoots on the floor now, but only backwards. When they left, my living room was trashed, and my heart was in flight too.

I had to check the "Globe" today - yes, the obituary is still in. My mother must really be gone. It's so strange to see that familiar beautiful face on that particular page, in a field of strangers. I read all the other obits with interest and sympathy - so much family, left behind. More notes from friends, arriving hourly - including, this morning, a friend from Grade 13 whom I haven't seen in years and who'll be coming to the memorial, moving slowly because she has just had a hip replacement.

And I have a booking for my parathyroid ultrasound the week after next - apparently it takes four hours, they inject something into your neck and then you have to wait till it turns blue. Or something like that. I asked if I could leave during the 4 hours and she said she thought so, so I think I'll go hang out at the Bay.

On another note, I read a bit in the paper yesterday about the evils of sitting around doing nothing. Every hour of watching TV, it said, takes 20 minutes off your life. I don't watch much as it is, but I'll be even more careful with my choices from now on. Incidentally, my 89-year old mother didn't lose many of those 20 minute segments; she mostly watched tennis. And anything British.

And there was a notice in the Star about a "casino consultation website" - toronto.ca/casinoconsultation. You only have until January 25 to fill out the questionnaire and let them know what you think of their @##@@# casino.

Now, out into the snow. I have to pack for Florida; can't imagine what 70 degrees feels like, even in the rain.

cats, dogs, horses, you name it, she loved it

My mother's obituary is in the "Globe" and the "Citizen" today and tomorrow. I've already had emails from Toronto friends. Auntie Do thought it was perfect except that "it didn't mention her love of animals." True - an unfortunate error. If you read it, please add "animal welfare" to the list of things she was passionate about.

Received a great card this morning from friend Lani in Stratford, containing a goofy picture of the two of us in 1978. I didn't know that a death in the family is also a celebration of friendship.

An interesting experience last night - I met with a young man to whom I had been given as a Christmas present. Yes - his mother paid for an hour of my time and gave that hour to her son, who has lost his job in advertising and was writing a screenplay and considering his options. We had wine and cheese and I asked him questions. I think I showed him that his expectations were unrealistic in two directions - on the one hand, a bit grandiose, and on the other, too self-deprecating. He is working with a co-writer who's a perfectionist, has to make everything perfect on one page before moving on to the next, and I told him that's the death of art, that art is messy, that the first drafts need to be flung on the page so you have something to work with, so you can figure out what you want to say. What do you want to say? I asked. What stories do you want to tell? What matters most to you?

These seemed to be questions he needed to hear. I wasn't sure how it would work and he wasn't either, but we both enjoyed our time together. Please, students and bloggees, give me as a Christmas present anytime. I'll work on the bow.

PS Just checked the weather network. Forecast for Florida next week: cloudy and rain, every day. Forecast for Toronto: above average temperatures, due to drop back down Sunday, the day I return.

Ah well.

2013 Colour of the Year

We are on top of the trends here, thanks to friend and student Jason, who makes his living dealing with colour, and who told us first about last year's colour, Tangerine Tango:

In recent years, Pantone has positioned itself as a clear voice on colour in popular culture. No other organization receives the annual coverage and accolades that Pantone does and no other figure in our industry garners the attention that Pantone Color Institute Executive Director, Leatrice Eiseman does when she takes to the media circuit to discuss the upcoming colour of the year. And that colour for 2013? PMS 17-5641, or more colloquially, Emerald.

Photo credit: Pantone, Inc.

Writes Jason: 

Something to remember about Emerald is that it’s a very blue green that stops short of 
teal. At the same time, it is not Grass and it’s not Kelly. 
(Just a bit of colour nomenclature education for you.)

Fascinating. Just watch how much green will suddenly appear, thanks to Leatrice Eiseman and
her protege, Jason. It's because Obama has Irish roots, isn't it? 

singing through grief like a bird

I do not wish you all a death in the family, but I do hope you all come to know the kindness that has been bestowed since the one in mine. Thoughtful notes by mail and email, and just now, my friend, neighbour and student Liz marched through fresh snowbanks and appeared at the door with a lasagna and some buns ready for the oven, and a beautiful note about dealing with her own mother's death, not that long ago - how, after she died, "any sense of discord I'd harboured evaporated. I was no longer conflicted. I simply wanted to honour her. I also felt a great sense of relief." 

I'm with you there, Liz.

She finishes, "My grandfather died on Christmas Eve, and just as you've suggested, it does provide a time for remembrance unlike any other. Although, truth be known, you will need few prompts. You did her proud, Beth."

Liz and I have Halifax in common. The following haunting quote came in a note from Cathy, who now makes Nova Scotia her home too. "Though sickness and death take their terrible toll and they did and they do - one's astonishing heart almost sings through its grief like a bird - a water bird - in the wind and the waves of some vast salty sea." P.K. Page.

Another poet, Buddhist Patsy on an island on the other coast: I'm wishing you peace, somewhere deep inside the maelstrom of Stuff that will continue to whirl for some time. It's a place where sorrow is the natural environment, and at the same time, a lightness, the lifting of a burden: it's just how it is, and if you can accept that - it's just sorrow, it's just lightness, it's just exhaustion - you will find your way through each day, each night. And may you find ways to touch into that same deep peace and sorrow and lightness in your Auntie Do, and your brother, and your kids, and even your cat. 

Yes, even my cat. Who has barely moved from the sofa in weeks.

From Mum's caregiver Nancy, word that many pairs of very large shoes have found a happy home in a family of very tall women - and the five prosthetic breasts I asked her to find a home for - Mum lost her left breast to cancer - will be donated to a clinic. Louise in Ottawa, friend since 1967 who sometimes played the cello in my father's string quartet, has agreed to play at Mum's memorial, and so will her new husband David, a fellow cellist.

Penny in England has just posted a letter to Auntie Do: I feel very sad for the elders as they lose friends and family. They are so very alone with no-one to share their memories. So I now have a number of solo older people I visit dotted around the country, and I go and listen. Ottawa is a bit far but I can still write letters.

They have astonishing hearts, these friends. No greater blessing. 

English rose

This is the picture we're using for the obituary. I took it in Vancouver on May 6, 1981 - three days after Anna's birth. Mum and Dad flew in from Edmonton, and this was at our apartment just after we arrived home with the baby. Mum had baked fresh scones that were waiting, hot, on the table, and bought spring flowers. She was, herself, a spring flower. Age: 58. 

Jean Harris, Charles Durning and my mother

All day, except for the usual Wednesday sortie to Carol's class and then to the library - and the all-important wine store - otherwise, I have sat here all day and evening at my trusty Mac, dealing with Mum. Writing the obit, getting my brother's approval of the six drafts, finding and fiddling with the photo, booking the hall for her memorial event, sending it all to the "Globe" and the "Citizen." Many calls and emails to and from my brother, to Do, to my kids re travel plans, to professional organizers who might help us sort things out, and to Mum's accountants, my cousin in New York and the lawyer helping with financial matters - because there's confusion over Mum's taxes for 2010, on top of everything else, nothing to do with her death. And replying to many condolences. And blogging to you.

Luckily, I had a fresh bottle of wine to get me through. After 5.

I am eating all the tired bits in the fridge and digging into the freezer, because I leave on Sunday for six days at my mother's condo in Florida. My brother and his family are there now for a 2 week respite, and I'll get a shorter one, both trips booked months ago, before all this. It will be good to back off for a bit. I go down usually not as a vacation but the opposite, to get a lot of work and reading done in the damp silence. This time, not sure what I'll accomplish. I'll try to straighten up my brain.

Noting with interest the other 89-year olds who died in December - Charles Durning, the character actor, and Jean Harris, who murdered her lover Dr. Tarnower in 1980. These two disparate folks are now forever linked in my mind, because they lived exactly the same span of time as Sylvia Kaplan - from 1923 to December 2012. A good long life, for sure.

Saw a friend at the Y; as we ran around, she said, "Oh, and how's your mum?"
"She's dead," I said. I've explained all this so often that I don't want to talk about it any more. But it is a shock to nice people, so I'll refrain from saying that. Again, I am touched and heartened at all the messages pouring in, some from Mum's friends and others from mine, from people who read the blog. Thank you all. I am compiling excerpts from her friends' notes to read at her memorial. For example, from her friend Judy in Edmonton:

An incredibly intelligent, gifted, and fascinating person!  She, like your father, was a person who made everyone she knew feel as if he or she was her special and most valued friend.   She was generous with everything: her money, her time, her interest, her praise, her affection.   She was funny, she was empathetic; she glowed with joie de vivre!

All this busyness is good. Wine is good too, and really a lot of food. But mostly the love of friends, descending on me like a mantle of kindness.