Thursday, November 22, 2018

fixing a hole where the rain gets in ...

...and stops my mind from wandering, where it will go...oooo...

Oh Beatles. Haunting me forever.

A swell of gratitude this morning. Kevin who's doing the reno did not arrive at 8.30 with his handyman Ed, as they have the last few mornings; they are elsewhere today. It's very cold outside, and I have my beautiful warm safe kitchen to myself. Teaching ends today - U of T at 12.30, the home class at 6, for our potluck holiday finale class - and I won't work at the universities again until May 2019. My mini-sabbatical begins. I am finishing this draft of the memoir and will get it off tomorrow, substantially improved though perhaps not enough, to the editor I've hired to read it again.

A friend gave me the magazine version of the Atlantic article on Macca that I posted here some weeks ago and just reread. It speaks about his extraordinary talent on bass - the perfect instrument for him, underpinning the others, not showy but vital - and singles out "And Your Bird Can Sing" from Revolver. Have a listen. It's two minutes of utter perfection.

So I'm sitting here, grateful to have a roof, a furnace, and a fridge, to have men working to improve my house but not today, to have a job I love, for family and friends, and for music. Specifically, Macca's music.

A blog-reader has written to ask me to post pictures of the renovation, so I will. Kevin and Ed ripped off the east wall of the basement, to find it rotted with water damage - a water pipe burst years ago, everything was damp, and the roots of the vast maple in my front yard had climbed right through the foundations into the baseboards. It was thrilling to touch the solid chunks of stone put in place in 1887, when this house was built. And it's thrilling to see it all insulated and dry and covered up. The whole eco-system down there has changed - including inviting the centipedes and daddy longlegs who made it their comfortable home for many years to move somewhere else.

This will be a bedroom for the tenant of the basement suite, who'll take over my washer/dryer too. I'll have one upstairs.

I just read a beautiful NYT essay by Maureen Dowd, Of Monuments, Arguments, Vampires and Thanksgiving, sent by friend Bruce, about our splintered, shattered time. The Americans are celebrating Thanksgiving and trying not to kill each other today. To all my American friends, family, and readers - peace on earth, good will to everyone.

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