wild life

There is something amazing and beautiful in my bedroom. Visible only in sunlight, a minuscule spider has built a web in front of my window, long almost invisible silver threads coming down from the ceiling and continuing to the table below, and there, in the middle of a perfect little web, he or she waits. A dot. I have to be careful, every morning, not to disturb my companion, this tiny artist, hunter, homebuilder.

And yesterday, I was watering the veggies at the back when a male cardinal landed on the birdfeeder not two feet away and began cracking seeds with his beak, spitting out the shell and snapping up the seed inside. Cardinals are usually very cautious, but this guy has no fear, paid me no mind several times through the day, so I got to admire his extraordinary orange feathers with a brown tinge, the bold crest on his head, his black neck and face. How I love the fact that while we humans fuss and fume, the creatures around us go fiercely about their business. After "Endeavour" on Sunday night, (and what a great series it is) I watched the last half hour of a nature documentary about one day on earth, showcasing zebras, dragonflies, sharks, and other magnificent creatures from around the planet. At the end, they talked about urban wildlife and showed adorable raccoon babies knocking over watering cans - in Toronto. Our claim to fame.

Our other claim to fame - producing mini-Trumps whose goal is to tear the city apart, limb from limb. But let's not push up my blood pressure so early on this beautiful morning.

I woke early Sunday and spent most of the day finishing this draft of the memoir, sent it off late afternoon to the young editor I've hired to read it. She doesn't know me or my work, so can come to it fresh. I do have hope, I think it's much better, but we'll see.

Yesterday, got a bi-annual royalty cheque, $121.57 - whee, I'm off to the South Seas! Seriously, it's thrilling that my two latest books, published in 2014 with no marketing whatsoever, continue to sell, however slowly, especially the writing book. Just received a note from the wife of my high school crush, to whom I gave the writing book.
Enjoying your book and find it very helpful and thought-provoking. In fact, I was talking about it to a few people and sent them photos of the cover,  isbn number, the back cover, etc so they could order it. I believe a really great read is one that you have to stop - and put down - and digest - and really think about. That’s your book.

It's my birthday tomorrow; today is about cooking, as we're having the celebration tonight, a small gathering. I went to the butcher, St. Jamestown Steak and Chops, told Mark, the owner who's been a friend since we moved here in 1986, that it was my birthday, and he gave me a big packet of marinated spareribs as a birthday gift. "Sixty-eight," I told him, and he said, "That's how many people are coming to your party?!" LOL.

The sun is shining on the huge patch of towering yellow golden glow, the Rose of Sharon is hosting many happy pollen-coated bees as always, two perfect white gardenia blooms are scenting the air. My aunt will be released from hospital to an extended care facility next week, and then we'll continue the debate about where she will, as I said to her, celebrate her hundredth birthday in two years. My son is at the cottage of a family who are good friends of his, getting a week of much-deserved r and r. (He's on the left; on the right, in a pose I do not associate with him, is Matt, the father of the family and the computer genius who has saved my digital life.)

Anna, Thomas, and their boys will be here tonight, along with Wayson, my dear friend Ken, and my oldest friend Ron from Halifax days, who is one week younger than I. I will give thanks for the breath in my lungs, and that, despite the vile madness afoot in the world, despite the wilfully blind, lying lunatics, the racists, the fascist thugs doing their best to take over - how did it happen, that these loathsome creatures suddenly have so much power? I mean, Steve Bannon in Europe, really? - I will celebrate human goodness, the power of family, the growth of new young citizens of the planet.

I will take them up and show them the tiny dot in my window, another life, as important as ours.

Ottawa

Ye gods, it is a young person's game, the raising of children. I've just spent three days and nights with my grandsons, aged 3 and 6, and though they are a marvel and I adore them, they have drained every last bit of energy from my body. I'm in a daze, but at least now I get to sit in my silent house and recuperate. Their mother has to keep right on going. Good thing she's 30 years younger than I.

Our journey to Ottawa had its difficulties, largely juggling the needs of my 98-year old aunt in hospital with those of two very energetic little boys. Luckily, we had a vital secret weapon: their mother, my daughter Anna, who planned the journey within an inch of its life. They had their snacks packed in cases with freezer packs, little tubs filled with cucumber or squares of cheese, a playlist of travel songs we'd all enjoy and another specifically for Ben with his favourite songs, especially Old McDonald Had a Farm and Justin Beiber's Despacito, neither of which I ever want to hear again. On the way there, she located a fabulous playground in Kingston, more or less half way, and on the way back, an even better playground in Belleville. So we broke the journey to let the wild animals out of the back of the car; they ran and climbed and slid and swung and got soaked in the water park, and then we managed to strap them down and set off again.

Even so, the last hour, both ways, was excruciating, with one very small boy making sure we knew he was not enjoying his enforced imprisonment. And of course coming into Toronto there was gridlock, and screams from the back. By the end I was flinging stuff back there - candy, crackers, books, anything to buy a few more minutes of peace, while Anna maneuvered the car magnificently under pressure.

In Ottawa I'd rented a 3 bedroom airbnb house which was perfect, mostly because it was so plain, there was nothing in it to break - well, almost nothing - and a playground around the corner, which she took them to once and I, twice. They had a great visit with my brother in Quebec while I spent the day with my aunt, and then next day, after a morning in the terrific Museum of Nature, they all came with me to visit her. The boys had made paintings as gifts. It was a beautiful and moving encounter, 3, 6, and 98.

She and I had some tough work to do to figure out what's next for her, but finally, after consulting with her doctor, the occupational therapist and the social worker, and mostly, with her dear friends back at her apartment building whom I went to see one evening, the answer for me was clear: it's time for assisted living. She looks as if she's being condemned to death when she considers this, but I now have no doubt that once she's there, she will find much to enjoy. And she is beginning reluctantly to accept this.

We visited her again today on our way out of town. At the end, Anna took the boys to the hospital Tim Hortons to buy a box of Timbits each, guaranteeing peace for the start of our journey, and I stayed for a last farewell with my aunt. Next week, when I turn 68, it will be my first birthday since the age of three without a card from her. We had a tender hug - she is so frail, so tiny and bent - and she got her walker and came with me to the door of her room to say goodbye. As I walked down the hall, I kept turning and waving, as she stood waving. She made me cry. Such a trouper.

And then the paradise of an hour and a half in the car with two sleeping children stuffed with Timbits and my beautiful, calm, wise daughter. We of course had to moan about what the despicable Doug Ford is doing to the city of Toronto and many other political issues about which we are in complete agreement. At one point, at the end of the trip, when Ben was screaming, I wondered for a second if it's worth it to have children. And then I looked at my daughter.

Eli's painting for Auntie Do

 More art from the artists

The Museum of Nature - a terrific place with real dinosaurs

 Do receives her magnificent artworks

 Hanging around at the playground

One pushing down the tree, the other holding it up.

Home. In the garden, three huge cucumbers, tons of beans and tomatoes. I need to sort out my life. The adventure continues.

still crazy after all these years

First, thanks to all who wrote after the shooting on the nearby Danforth, to ask if I'm okay. We in Canada like to think those hideous events are the domain of countries full of unhinged lunatics like school shooters and Trump, not here. But sadly, we have our share of lunatics; we have Doug Ford, and we have gun violence.

Is there any flowering tree as indefatigable and glorious as the Rose of Sharon? Mine is bee heaven - swarming with them, as they zoom inside the fat flowers and splay themselves all over those generous white pistils, often two at a time, buzzing furiously. This is MY pistil, buzz off!

Today I went to see my shrink. My tenant Carol liked to go for therapeutic massages and acupuncture and other healing therapies. I have my shrink. It has been well over a year since I've talked to her, and today was the day. Only 50 minutes - had to talk fast! It's been nearly 30 years since I started with her, and there she is still, a little woman in a nice room, listening, listening, listening. Needed a tune up - feeling overwhelmed, under pressure, fallible. So lucky to have someone who knows me so well.

The renovation on Spruce Street is agony - day after day of drilling, sawing, hammering, huge loud machines. So much for my tranquil summer in the garden. I'm wondering now if it's a mistake to stay here. But surely it'll be over soon. And then my own reno will start.

Speaking of the tranquil garden, I've been getting nice notes about the workshop, will share a few with you:
Brad: I can't stress enough how re-invigorated I was by today's workshop. You work magic.

Jennifer: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful generosity in opening your home today for this gathering. I have never done anything like this in my life and it was an honour to be there. I have always had trouble getting out of my 'intellectual' brain and giving myself permission to write from the gut, and your encouragement (and the encouragement of nature) had a transformative effect. I will carry your garden with me everywhere I go now, and put myself into that space in order to 'pull down' the words that so often elude me at desks and in cafes. 

Marlane: I want to thank you for the wonderful day in your lovely home and garden. The writers and their stories were remarkable. You are a generous teacher and  hostess.  

Lynne: Sunday's workshop was truly special. You did a fabulous job of bringing a sense of calm and trust to the group, and wonderful ideas to get us writing! Thanks for all that, and the lovely hospitality in your home.

So - it works. Glad to hear it. And a bit of income in high summer doesn't hurt either. Especially with two little boys to buy ice cream for tomorrow, on our way to Ottawa. Happy summer to you all. Let's forget politics for awhile and concentrate on flowers and the ice cream running down some very small chins. 

Write in the Garden = A+

A happy exhaustion: the day-long writing in the garden workshop just ended. For the first time - I've been running these since 2011 - the day dawned wet and cold. Sudden shift, clearing rooms in the house for people to meet in the living room, not on the deck, and to write inside, not scattered through the garden.

But it went beautifully; after lunch the sun actually came out, I sponged off chairs and tables with a towel, and we spent the rest of the day, till 5.30, outside with the birds and the scent of lavender and gardenia. You would not believe how extremely good the stories we heard were, how powerful and moving and funny - and of course, true.

I love my job.

Some were recent students, some students from years ago, and one a neighbour who has never done any creative writing and read about the workshop in the Cabbagetown news. Everyone came through magnificently. And lunch, I have to say, was pretty good too - two different quiches and four salads: tabbouleh, pasta, cucumber, and kale, featuring my very own tomatoes, kale, cukes, and beans, as promised. Coffee, dessert, wine and cheese - and through it all, stories stories stories.

I love my job.

Now for a month, except for editing work for private students and compiling a playlist for the dance evening in September, the only work I have to do is keeping myself and the house and tenant and the upcoming renovation going, clearing out the excess here, and trying to finish my memoir. And getting to Ottawa and back with Anna and the boys in one piece, and celebrating my 68th birthday with family and friends. That's all.

That's enough.

I got this lovely email this morning from a stranger. An early birthday gift. Thank you.
Greetings from Africa. (I’m on my honeymoon). I just devoured “True to Life” in about two hours and found it to be compassionate, encouraging, clear, funny and very helpful.  

Music to my tired ears.

vegetating with the vegetables

Someone at the Y asked today, Seen any good movies lately? Not a one. Have I been anywhere except my kitchen and garden and the Y? It doesn't feel that way. Besides, oh yes, Ottawa.

On Tuesday I spent the afternoon celebrating Ben's third birthday with him and his family. We picked up his big brother from day camp; what joy to see them run to hug each other and set off hand in hand, one tiny for his age and one very tall. Sometimes they try to murder each other, and Ben will be one tough dude from a childhood fending off his teasing, mischievous brother. But more importantly, they adore one another. So they're set for life.

Wednesday night was a potluck dinner with the Word Sisters, a group of fascinating, accomplished women who work in publishing - editors, publicists, agents, and one lone writer and teacher lucky enough to be included. They casually toss out hallowed names to me - Knopf, Penguin, Louise (Dennys, legendary editor), Ellen (Seligman, ditto.) We sat outside in Rosemary's garden sheltered by her enormous trees and ate delicious offerings - "I didn't know when I assembled this group 8 years ago," said Marilyn, "that you were all such good cooks!" Dinah brought sangria stuffed with fruit she'd marinated in vodka for days: lethal. I brought gazpacho, made with my own cucumbers, mint, basil, and cherry tomatoes. Rosemary said it was like drinking the garden.

But mostly, this week, I have been ploughing through the rewrite of the memoir. It's funny how that goes - either I can't stand the thing and won't go near it for weeks, or I am addicted to it and can't get away. I've been so focused after supper, yesterday and today, I forgot both days to call my aunt, which makes me feel very guilty as I've been phoning her daily. A quiche I was making for my workshop on Sunday burned to a dark brown crisp. I have found another editor, someone who doesn't know me or the story, who can read the manuscript fresh, an objective pair of eyes I will need a lot when I'm done, as I have no idea if this new draft works or not. I think it's better, but is that wishful thinking? Is it good enough?

Today, across town to rent a car with Anna; she will have it for the weekend and then next week we go to Ottawa again. Road trip with two hyperactive young boys - hooray!

Every morning, I juggle the best and the worst. I read the newspaper and mourn the latest horrors going on in the world. And then I go into the garden to pick raspberries, cukes, tomatoes, and now beans, to water and smell and revel in the glory of it all.

And on Sunday, I get to share it all with ten writers who'll spend the day there and get to eat burned quiche. And a lot of tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans.

northern capitals: Helsinki, Ottawa

You know who is going to save the world from the maniacs currently running it? Another kind of maniac - the comedians. I just watched Sacha Baron Cohen pretending to be an Israeli operative speaking to American politicians and gun supporters about kinderguardians - training children as young as four - and younger - to use pistols. From the Guardian: Cohen as Morad (“Are liberals using school shootings to further their anti-tragedy agenda?”) gets various gun nuts in and outside Washington to promote arming pre-schoolers. “Fill the Puppy Pistol by pushing his lunchbox into his belly and sending the naughty men for a really, really long timeout,” says one, joyously. The gun lobbyist Larry Pratt notes that if children are young enough, “if they haven’t developed a conscience yet, they can make very good soldiers”.

The interview is beyond nauseating yet hilarious - but it's not a joke, it's true, at least, the people he's talking to mean every loathsome word. The level of criminal idiocy on display defies belief. Almost enough to make one give up on humanity. I don't think I can bear to watch more than this one brilliant segment.

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jul/16/sacha-baron-cohen-guns-children-toddlers-who-is-america-reality

However. We have no choice, we live here on this endangered little planet, and we have children, grandchildren, friends, homes, gardens, books, and many other things we love. Somehow we have to get through this insanely murderous time, while the most ghastly human beings on the face of the earth, Trump and Putin, dominate the conversation worldwide. Right now, dominating the news feeds with Trump's lunatic display in Helsinki. Mind-blowing. Nightmarish. Grotesque.

I am just back from Ottawa where I spent the weekend in the geriatric ward of a hospital, and let me tell you, it's not a place you want to linger. My aunt is not unhappy there; "I'm in a four star hotel!" she exclaimed, as yet another drooping beige meal was delivered to her bed - the man across the hall horking up his lungs, the woman in the bed across the room catatonic while her big sons sat silently beside her. People in wheelchairs struggling to manoeuvre the halls, a very determined old woman with a walker marching up and down, back and forth.

As did my aunt. She got out of bed several times, despite back pain, and we trucked up and down the halls and to the dining room where the TV lives, and watched a bit of the World Cup. I discovered her TV had been disconnected and got it connected it again so we could watch Wimbledon and the great British baking show and other shows that gave her pleasure. Otherwise, if there's no one around, she's just lying there dozing. No wonder she's losing muscle and brain. She's never been vague before, so forgetful, so disoriented.

On the march, up and down the hall.

A not unhappy camper, 98 years 3 months old.

In an open drawer in her apartment, where I stayed, this was on a cigar box. Everything is marked and listed. If you want sealing wax, you know where to go.

There's a lesson here: I tried to get her to move to assisted living a few years ago and was pilloried by her friends who felt I was forcing this wonderfully independent woman to go somewhere she didn't want and wasn't ready to go. No doubt I was, and she did indeed have a few more years at home. But now - now when the situation is fairly dire and it looks like she will never go home again - she's at the mercy of the system. At the most vulnerable time of her life, she'll have to go wherever they put her and be surrounded by strangers. It makes me very sad.

And what this means to me is more back and forth to Ottawa, as happened during the end time of my mother. Only Do is a tough old bird and may go on for a long long time, even if she's somewhere she doesn't like. It is not a pretty picture and fills me with despair. And in the meantime, in the background, my friend Wayson, who came over for dinner, is watching CNN and it's all about hideousness. Soon we are going to watch a doc about Robin Williams. So we can laugh before we cry.

Tomorrow is Ben's 3rd birthday. I missed his party on Sunday but am going over tomorrow with sidewalk chalk, a puzzle, and I hope a harmonica which I have to go out and search for tomorrow. It's a privilege to spend time with loved ones at the very beginning and at the very end. Though often, it won't surprise you to learn, these loved ones make me cry.

And here, a thought from your old-fashioned correspondent:

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart. -Iris Murdoch, writer (15 Jul 1919-1999) 

good times

Just so you don't think I'm in a permanent funk, dear blog readers, I'm here to tell you I had a GREAT DAY! Up really early again and a full morning of work with real progress on the rewrite of the memoir. I think I've broken the logjam, which is big news. I hope. Perhaps not, I'll need to get someone else to look at it at some point, but for now, it feels like something is working.

I know, I've said that before.

My dear Lani wrote me the sweetest note, urging me not to burn out and insisting I come visit and sit in the quiet of their small town home. I will try to get there. I did feel close to burnout, it's true, just deeply irritated and ready to fly off the handle. But today, more equilibrium.

Oh, and a lovely note from my piano teacher, Peter Mose:
I was at the TSO to hear Beethoven’s 9th led by Peter Oundjian in his departing concerts as music director. A fellow seated one row in front of me was reading your book on memoir writing before the concert, and it had all sorts of underlining and highlighted passages! I couldn’t resist bending over and chatting with him. He was singing your praises from a class at the UT. 

Now that's an image I like, my writing book and Beethoven. A tenuous connection, but a connection nonetheless.

The bad news is that my attached neighbours have bought some kind of outdoor sound system. I managed to sit outside today with earplugs. Maybe they'll get tired of it. The good news is that the cucumbers are enormous, the beans are thriving, the raspberries are delicious, and the kale is taking over.

I'm off first thing tomorrow to see Do in hospital in Ottawa. She also is in a better mood and seems to be looking forward to my visit, even if she'd rather I don't stay at her place and steal all her valuable stuff, as I will certainly do.

No, I understand, she has had some pretty bad days herself, much worse than mine, stuck in hospital and in pain. She has much more right to be crabby than I.

Carol will be here watering and bringing in the newspapers. Maybe I should tell her to throw them away.

Below, the story of my life ...

terrible, no good, very bad day

The bad day did NOT start cheerily at 7 a.m., like yesterday, but late, because I was awake for hours in the night worrying about my aunt. Her caregiver called last night while I was having dinner on the deck with my dear friend and former student Jason, to tell me how worried she is.

Beautiful day; hot. John the handyman arrived at 10 and we set out to tackle the tree roots that clog up the drains, by pouring in a solution that destroys them - and also erupts and spreads all over the floor. Floods. Much cleaning up. Then other things needed to be fixed. Thank God for John. This while I'm on the phone to Ottawa trying to decide whether I'm needed there while my poor old aunt is in hospital. Decide I am. Have a fight with a relative who knows how to push all my buttons, which roils me so much, my heart won't stop pounding. But life is too short. Let it go. (Easy to say.)

John leaves, and immediately the computer man Matt, my personal genius, arrives with a new router. Two hours later, after much up and down and to and fro, testing, failure, success, he has set up the internet anew in this house. I'm still trying to deal with Ottawa, and in the middle of it all, heard the birds outside calling Danger and ran out with my water pistol to chase away the horrible grey cat who hides in the bushes and tries to kill.

Booked Ottawa - flight, car. Very expensive because last minute - but it's important to see my aunt, who is marooned. I will miss Ben's 3rd birthday party on Sunday. Never again, I hope, but as his mother said, he won't remember, he's three. More talking to Ottawa to let Do's friends and caregiver know I'm coming and will be staying, for the first time, in Do's empty apartment. At least I don't have the hassle and expense of an Airbnb.

Also dealing with the ongoing thefts from the Little Free Library, the renovation plans which are flying to and fro, students who want private sessions, my own disintegrating body, the garden which needs fertilizer, weeding, and planting, (the beautiful multicoloured hydrangeas at the front are dying and I don't know why), cancelling Anna's friend Nicole who was coming on Saturday to help me throw things out. Carol my tenant is still here till Sunday, so at least I can leave without worrying about the house and watering.

And then the coup de grace - I finally got through to Do in hospital to tell her I'm coming, and she was furious and attacked me. Why didn't I ask if I could stay in her apartment? Why am I coming now when I'm back in two weeks? Someone must have given her a very negative view of my visit.

I confess, it did feel as if I should just hang up and go back to bed. But I did not, and we're fine now. But again, one of those days when it felt like I was trying not to be smashed by baseballs hurtling my way. And, of course, trying not to look at the news, because it makes me puke - now not just what's happening down south but also here in Ontario. Gut wrenching. Maybe there's a desert island?

And as for thinking about writing - the only words are LOL.

But the Thai boys are safe.

Macca tickets and "Yellow Submarine"

It's 7 a.m. and I've already had breakfast. This happens rarely - I once resolved never to get up before 7, because then I'm groggy all day. But this morning, after a solid 6 hour sleep, I was wide awake. If only I usually slept that way, I'd accomplish a great deal more with my life. Instead I'm awake at 4 for an hour or two, making lists - of my faults and failures, of things to do, sometimes useful lists, sometimes very much not. But when I get a solid chunk of sleep, I can do anything with the day that follows.

Yesterday's adventure was trying to get tickets for the Macca concert in Montreal in September - this time not just for me, but also for my bestie Lynn who by coincidence will be in Montreal then, leaving for home in France the next day. They've put through a complicated system to avoid scalpers, but I thought I was ready: I had to register as a genuine fan, then they emailed that they'd send a code to enter when the tickets went on sale at exactly 1 p.m. on Tuesday. I had a Fringe theatre ticket for 1 p.m., but so much for that; if you want good seats, you have to be online the instant they go on sale.

So at 1, I was waiting, trembling, for my code. No code. Kept refreshing my email - nothing. Finally I wrote to Anne, the Macca lunatic who follows him around the world, who wrote back cheerfully that she'd already bought the most expensive seats for Quebec, Winnipeg and Edmonton (at an average cost of $1500 each, plus plane fare and hotel. I am the thriftiest person on earth by comparison.) "They texted me my code early this morning," she said.

Ah. The word is texted. The code was on my phone! So then began the rigamarole of getting through another complex system - identifying road signs to make sure you're not a bot. I'm not very dextrous on my phone so finally figured out how to transfer the code to the computer. By the time I did that, it was 1.40 and almost all the sections were sold out. I managed to get seats, way at the back, but seats. Exhausted. But Lynn and I will go and see him together. And then I booked a B&B close by in downtown Montreal. So we'll spend the day being flâneuses in Montreal, seeing the concert, walking home. What fun.

In similar mode, Monday I was sitting at home at 6.40 p.m., braless in my sundress in the extreme heat, clicking on movie times, when I saw that the remastered version of "Yellow Submarine," which I first saw 50 years ago in the summer of 1968, would only be on nearby till Thursday, and the other days I could not go, it had to be right then, Monday at 7. I got dressed, hopped on my bike, and was sitting in the theatre 20 minutes later as the ads for previews began. And what fun the film is - a real stoner trip, incredible colours, funny, clever word play, and of course music. I remembered favourite lines from the Blue Meanies: "Funny, you don't look blue-ish."

Chief Meanie: Ah, the hills are alive... 

Max: [sings] ... with the sound of music! 

Chief Meanie: [Punches Max] Who did it? Who is responsible for this? 

Max: Rimsky-Korsakov? 

[Chief Meanie shoots him, Blue Menial #3 stomps him into ground]

Max: [Poking his head up from ground] Guy Lombardo? 

The Chief Meanie says, "Max, it's no longer a blue world. Where can we go?"
Max: "Argentina?"

I was going to take Eli, but it's not right for a 6-year old. He needs some Beatles indoctrination first. Though he knows I'm the proud owner of an actual yellow submarine.

And now, as the clusters of mauve phlox scent the kitchen through the open back door, it's 7.45 a.m., and this industrious early riser is off to work.

Beth's Let It Go Dance Party Sept. 14

The dance party is back on! As if I needed something else on my list, this has now become my production. Well, I'm the one who wants somewhere to go dancing like a mad thing, so it's my job to make it happen. And it'll happen while my dear Lynn, who also loves to dance, is here in Toronto. A celebration of our 51 years of friendship.

Come one come all to the Let It Go Dance Party!

Good For Her - yes and no

This evening, the world is too much with me. Old complaineypants here.

An hour ago, the police were at my door, after another altercation with the insane man up the street who regularly steals all the books from my Little Free Library. I saw him carrying off a stack of books, shouted for him to put them back, and will not tell you what he replied. The police can’t do anything – the books are free, so he’s not really stealing. But two handsome courteous cops came to listen to me. They said I could call the fire department because he’s got books everywhere in the rooming house, or else to take down the library, for now. Will probably have to do so. 

Before that, I came home to find the internet gone, spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Rogers running up and down turning modem and router on and off. It looks like the router just decided to die. WHY O LORD? she cried to the heavens.

Before that, I rode across town to the Fringe Festival. I’m interested to see how it works, because maybe one day I’ll consider taking my Beatles’ talk on the road. I saw Kander/Ebb, a young man who idolizes these Broadway writers in a fanboy show; he sang with chutzpah but a bit flat. After, in the same venue, BikeFace, a solo show about a young woman who has loved bikes all her life and eventually cycled across the country. I was hit with nostalgia - first because I myself had performed in the theatre, which is in an old church; Cruel Tears played there in 1977. And in the break between shows, I walked a block over to Markham Street and there found the house I lived in in 1973-74 – I rented the front room on the second floor, friends rented the other two bedrooms, and we shared the kitchen and bathroom. It was a joyful commune. British John made Guinness in a garbage can in the bathroom; if you went in there at night, you had to turn on the bathroom light and wait until the cockroaches ran away before entering.

Ah youth. I was sad to see what they’ve done to Mirvish Village up the street, rows of lovely old houses with shops, restaurants, bookstores and galleries – all being smashed for more condos. The city is a madhouse of construction, scores of massive skyscraping condos going up everywhere, noise, drilling, smashing, trucks. Hateful.

My aunt is still in hospital. It breaks my heart to talk to her every day, to know she’s stuck in there. I’m going in a few weeks but wish I lived closer. And children still stuck in a cave in Thailand, and in detention in the States - I can't bear to think about it. 

Okay, the positive – I stopped at Harbord Bakery on the way home for the first time in years – I used to come here regularly when I had a car. Everything everywhere is changing, but not this place – exactly the same for decades, with the same people running it and serving. Very reassuring. And nearby Good For Her, a sex shop for women; I popped in to take a look - so startling, it made me laugh, rows of different sizes of rubber penises in interesting colours. A unique experience. 

The terrible heat has broken – it’s much milder and breezy, beautiful. My son was over for a bit, my dear friend Isabel Huggan came for dinner, the little guys are coming tomorrow. All is well. I just need to let it go. Let it go. Kander and Ebb should write a song. 

Dad in his labcoat

Maybe 1954? Chased out of the States by McCarthy. Lucky Canada.

And another gift on this special day - a truly beautiful TED talk by Lidia Yuknavitch, a fabulous woman.
https://www.ted.com/talks/lidia_yuknavitch_the_beauty_of_being_a_misfit#t-766537

thinking of my father

We are back to glorious summer, fresh, clear, breezy - sweet soft scent. Heaven.

Today, July 6 2018, it is 30 years since my father died. July 6 1988, early in the morning, in his own bed in their beautiful home in Edmonton, my mother holding him in her arms as I held her in mine. As I've written, at the moment of his death, I felt his soul fly out the window, and I felt part of him return and enter me. I felt his spirit enter me.

I just wrote to my brother that if Dad were still alive today, what is going on in the world would kill him. This is a man who thought Richard Nixon was as vile a human being as it was possible to be, the worst president imaginable. What a surprise lay in store for the world.

I'll try to find a picture of him to post, at some point.

Ryerson only ended on Wednesday; now my summer really begins. Well, except for seeing editing clients, my garden writing workshop in a few weeks, and of course, my own writing work. And all the rest.

Because I've been feeling crabby and put upon, I'd like to share a few delightful photos with you. I give you John and Paul: the early days, juvenile delinquents in the making. For your summer pleasure. And, need I say, mine.

And here's my favourite teddy boy:

I guess we were all that young once.

Sigh.

old loves

Once upon a time, I was madly in love with this guy.

He was 16 and I was 15. I'd spent almost 4 years in a school with only girls when I walked into the classroom of the Halifax Grammar School, a private boys' school that had just gone co-ed, to find 16 16-year old boys and 2 other girls. It was mayhem. The boys were not happy to have girls in the class, and the teasing was brutal. As those of you who've read "All My Loving" can attest, I was a hot bath of hormones, ready to move on from Paul McCartney to a real boy, with 16 to choose from.

I chose him - tall, athletic, handsome, aggressively self-confident and macho, head of the students council and a hockey player - the least likely guy for me in the class. Later I understood - I was desperate to love but terrified of the reality of a relationship, so perhaps I chose the boy least likely to engage back. In any case, I spent that year adoring but also fighting with him about the Vietnam War, which he approved of. And then my family moved.

Many years later, my ex encountered him during a business venture in New York and knew exactly who he was - or had been, at 16 - from my stories. And then he read my book and encountered his young self and how I'd felt back then. He said he was floored, that he'd had no idea.

So last night, during what he said was a nostalgia trip to Canada, he and his wife took me out to dinner. I dug out our yearbook, which most of the class had signed for me, much of it juvenile and startlingly sexist - what we put up with in 1966! One guy wrote, "Roses are red, violets are blue, Beth's shoulders are blue, after I'm all through!" This guy wrote, "The people who criticize society are those who cannot get into it." My English teacher wrote, "Best wishes to one of the lights of my life." He opened the door to "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" and was one of the lights of mine.

My friend and I had a grand catch-up, though it made me sorry to find out he has not moved on in his politics and unapologetically voted for Trump. ("I voted for Obama twice," he told me. "Big disappointment.") So we spent the evening arguing, just like the old days.

His wife, his third, is wonderful - kind, interesting, thoughtful. I was astounded to find out she dated the poet Billy Collins and went with him once to George Plimpton's house on the East Side. Now that's royalty! No idea how she voted. But my friend is very happily in love with this woman and she with him. And it's good to know people of different political stripes, especially ones that go back more than 50 years.

Speaking of old old love - the excitement is great already. Macca is coming to Canada in September! To Montreal! I've already booked my flight and I don't even have a concert ticket yet; they go on sale next week. He's 76; how much longer can he do this? It will be my beloved friend Lynn's last night in Montreal before she flies back to France, so she'll be there with me.

Old love, old friends, the music of the still-beating heart.

hope on Canada Day

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/29/arts/television/alexandria-ocasio-cortez-interview-stephen-colbert.html

Meet Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a fabulous young woman.

And then scroll down and watch Jon Stewart. My, I miss him.

More hope: my cousin Barbara and her husband Dan at the march yesterday in Washington against Trump's immigration policies. It's her fifth anti-Trump march, and she said there were more young people there than ever before. Her sign says, "Cruelty is NOT strength."

Another fabulous young woman on the march - my daughter went to a rally today in support of indigenous rights.

So - let's keep our spirits up.

I had a long talk with lots of laughter with a fabulous old woman, my 98-year old aunt Do, still in hospital. How can we get her out? And - my doorbell just rang. It was Megann Willson, who is running to represent this riding in the fall election. She's terrific and on the ball, and I'm throwing an event for her in September so my neighbours can meet her. I told her to check out Alexandria, above. We're on the move. May the forces of kindness and decency, at last, prevail.

Happy Canada Day to you all, Canadian or no. Our country has its flaws, but oh, how incredibly lucky we are to live here.