August 2008 - pictures

The woman with the brown hair (not unfortunately her own natural-born colour) has just turned 58, and the woman with the white hair is about to turn 100. It's true - that's Muriel, who will be one hundred years old in October. May we all age with such beauty, grace and vigour.

The view from the big rock at sunset, and during the rain.  Of which there was a considerable amount, but it didn't matter because it was beautiful.

Oh my friends, what a majestic country this is.  I'm just back from four and a half days of silence and space - trees, sky, water.  These are Canadian necessities that every summer should provide, but without a cottage, I usually don't find them.  

A friend rented us a cabin near Killarney Park, south of Sudbury - we were in a tiny place with a sprinkling of cockroaches, a leaky ceiling and a million dollar view.  It was hard to drag me away from my perch on the big rock in front of the cabin overlooking Georgian Bay, but we hiked and/or canoed every day - lungs full of sweet fresh air, eyes flooded with green.  The hikes were so solitary that if we found a nice lake, and as you can imagine there were a few, we'd take off our clothes and swim.  We saw dangerous wildlife only on our last morning - four giant black bears, happily ripping apart garbage bags at the town dump.

And best of all, when it rained, we were not in a tent, we had a roof, electricity, an indoor toilet and hot running water.  Bliss!  Oh the memories of camping in that very park with small children in the rain - one time when there was a near- hurricane, I drove the kids over to the bathrooms and they simply slept in the car.  But no, this time, just us, grown-ups who liked to read when it was pouring outside, as it was often often often, during this summer of rain. Today, driving back, was a downpour of biblical proportions - we needed an ark.

I had a chance to finish "Eat, Pray, Love" -  several friends have dismissed the book, but I was engaged all the way through.  She has a marvellously alive and honest voice, and I enjoyed her journey.  I also read a book called "The Writer's Chapbook" - a compendium of snippets about various facets of the writing life by a stellar assembly of writers.  I was sitting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, listening to a gathering of the world's greatest writers talk about our craft.  I think they would have enjoyed the view, too.

Just back from Muriel Duckworth's hundredth birthday party, and I am feeling seriously deprived of family.  What a fantastic bunch was there to celebrate with her - scores of cousins, nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren ... And while we were toasting Muriel, word came through that one of her son's daughters by one of his marriages had just had twins.  

Through it all, Muriel refused to rest - greeted everyone, up to date and interested, though she occasionally had to be reminded who she was talking to.  There were neighbours of 48 years from her cottage in Lake Memphramagog, where she grew up and has been returning to since moving to Halifax in the forties; fellow Quakers and peaceniks; old friends. And the joyous tumble of family.

As well as this great event, it was a proud day for me as a teacher.  First, my former student Laurel Croza's story "The Whirlpool" was printed in the Star, where it won second place in the Short Story Competition.  And a moving story it is, written in the voice of an adolescent girl with Laurel's usual empathy and skill.  

And in the just-out September issue of "Real Health" magazine is an article on the writer's group that formed after a term in my class at Ryerson; they continued to meet for years, and when one of them, Liz Maxwell, died suddenly, the others formed a press and published a book of her stories, to raise money for liver research. 

So - much to celebrate today.  And tomorrow I'm going on vacation - driving off with my friend Oksana to a cabin near Killarney Park, for a week of hiking, canoeing and reading the "New Yorker" magazine.  Happy Summer to you all.  

Write in the Garden, August 24

I recently received a card from one of the writers who came to the July workshop.  

"Dear Beth," she wrote, "I have been searching for the right words to express my deep appreciation to you for making July 13 such a memorable day.

You have a special gift for creating a safe learning environment and for supporting all of our efforts.  You seem to have this endless well of positive things to say without ever passing judgement.

It was a joy to be there, with you and the others.  Your garden is magical, and you created a magical day for me."

A great birthday gift, this lovely card - not only for the feelings it expresses, but just that it's so beautifully written.  

There is room for only two or three more writers in the next workshop, August 24th.  

the joys of summer

Mmmm, peaches.  A Canadian can never have too many peaches, because all too soon, we are once again peachless.  At least, sweet juicy local peaches, not hard rubber balls flown in from California.  

Another summer treat - visitors.  My friend Patsy Ludwick has been visiting from Gabriola Island.  We met 38 years ago, in 1970 - I was working backstage at Neptune Theatre in Halifax, about to go to theatre school in London, and she was a brilliant, fierce and beautiful young actress who had just graduated from that school.  We were housemates in a little cabin in a cove, and that year on August 1st, for my 20th birthday - is it possible? Was I ever 20? - she wrote "Happy Birthday" signs and placed them all over the house for me to find - in the fridge, in the coffee pot, even swimming in the toilet.  And then there was a party.  

And now we sit eating peaches, middle-aged ladies, not as lovely and fresh - oh God, back then, glossy hair and skin, flashing eyes and burning, ardent idealism about what we would do in life. All that, gone.  But now, we are so much happier and at peace.  We both started as actresses and ended up leaving the theatre for writing and the teaching of writing, though in very different ways -  Patsy is a dramaturge and writing teacher on Gabriola Island, and I in the middle of downtown Toronto.  But that nearly four-decade bond could not be stronger. 

And tomorrow I am going to Muriel Duckworth's hundredth birthday party.  Muriel is one of the great human beings of the earth - a Quaker peace activist, serene with a grand sense of humour, open, warm, generous, kind.  

It occurs to me that if Patsy and I, who have known each other for 38 years, live another 38, I will be 96 and she will be 100.  One of her grandmothers lived into her hundreds; my genes are not so formidable, but I will try.  I'm looking forward to that get-together.  Another joy of peaches - even without many teeth, they're still good.