friends

Such a beautiful day, it was hard to do anything inside. I have a serious job to do; I need to memorize a script for a taping on Sunday, for this marketing push Ron is organizing for me. It's so hard; I haven't memorized anything for years. When I gave my long talks about my books, I'd have notes nearby, even if I didn't need them. But here, it all has to be in the head. Yikes.

My dear Macca has just released his second children's book. I bought his first, of course, and read it to the grandsons, who wandered off mentally and then physically halfway through. Ah well. The man can do many things; perhaps children's books are not one of his greatest skills. Looking good at 79, however, is.

The country is furious at Trudeau yet again, for taking off with his family yesterday instead of mourning the Indigenous dead. Yes, he should have known it would look like he doesn't care. But at the same time, the man has three young children whom he presumably didn't see at all during the gruelling election weeks. He'd made a speech about reconciliation the night before, but that's not good enough for the press. Can we cut him some slack? Absolutely not. Let's hunt him down and stick a mike in his face while he's walking on a west coast beach with his kids. 

Made a new friend through FB: Rona Maynard, esteemed writer and editor, came over for a chat. Her writer mother Fredelle used to live nearby and has a plaque in front to prove it. Rona and I, it turned out, have a great deal in common, including being half-Jewish with little connection to that half, and working late in life to send our essays out into the world. We are reading the same books and have much the same taste in writers. Lots to talk about. We're going to exchange writing. Hooray.

Lists lists lists, to get ready to leave Tuesday morning. Here's one thing I've been doing: fixing up the basement apartment for my friend Bea, who moved in last night. New rug, moving things around, giving the oldest stuff to Sam, who takes it all for his small overstuffed apartment. Bea is settled. Looking for a new tenant for November, however.

No writing, just lists, landlady work, gardening work, reading library books to return soon, including two by Abigail Thomas. Oh, and looking after Anna's cat Naan, who pukes regularly. It's a wonderful thing, to share one's space with another species; I'm enjoying it, despite the puking. She's great company. And so pretty.