Thanksgiving

Tall young man carves 20 pound turkey as

avid guests await.

Handsome beetle finds a home

in a pretty rose. Is this an analogy?

BK interview by Julija Sukys

I'm a member of the Creative Non-Fiction Collective, a group of Canadian non-fiction writers who exchange ideas and information via the Internet, and have started to meet once a year. A Collective member, writer Julija Sukys, has undertaken to interview non-fiction writers who interest her and to publish these extensive interviews on her blog. She read "Finding the Jewish Shakespeare," and asked to interview me. The result has just gone up on her blog, below.

What a gift to a writer - a reader who reads closely, carefully, with great interest, and asks insightful, lively, probing questions. A spectacular treat. Which led to much, much blather from Beth. Thank you, Julija.

http://julijasukys.com

burbling thanks

Okay, I know it gets boring, all my joyful burbling - but this is the best morning ever. 10 a.m. on a holiday Monday, utterly tranquil, 20 degrees and sunny already with fresh dew on the garden. The rose by the fence has put out three, three new orangey-pink blooms for the pleasure of my Thanksgiving guests; the hibiscus is blooming red, there's a new bright red begonia, a bright red mandevilla, the pink geraniums ... The birds are at the feeder, the stuffing is made and ready to go into our bird and into the oven, the multitudes will assemble late afternoon. The newspapers are filled with stories about the election surprise for Stephen Harper - how this fine, intelligent country handed him a majority and then turned Liberal or NDP or even Red Tory provincially - what the hell is happening in Alberta? I'll have what they're having - and keeping our oily Prime Minister in check. Woo hoo!

I've done some work this morning - oh, I am pregnant now, the memoir is gestating, growing, I'm poking and polishing and ripping apart, the most fun work of all. So satisfying, I feel it right in my gut, the growth of this artefact that's from me and of me and will one day have a life of its own.

Time now for a walk; I'll go to the Necropolis and commune with the dead, and to the Farm to celebrate the living and smelly. There is so much wrong out there, but I don't want to think about it today. Today, this one little corner, so far ... omigod, I'd better shut up, if I talk too much, it'll all go wrong. So I'm saying this in a whisper, a tiny little voice - today, in this minuscule corner of the planet, we appreciate family and friends, food, gathering, peace. We are all grateful.

And ... I'd like to apologize to Nancy Shevell, now Dame McCartney, or whatever the wife of a Sir becomes. I was snide yesterday, Nancy. Yes, perhaps a tiny bit jealous that you've grabbed the most eligible bachelor on the face of the earth, aging rocker though he is. You have a lovely demeanour and have made the man extremely happy. He deserves happiness, he has given so much to the world. I thank you, and on this beautiful Thankgiving day, I wish you nothing but joy.

Though I still think that diamond is just a little bit too big.

The Story of My Life

another Mrs. McCartney - sigh

It's all right, my friends, really it is. It's 8 a.m. on a brisk Sunday morning, and I've just read in the "Star" that my beloved Paul, Sir P. McCartney, is going to marry his Nancy TODAY. We can all rejoice that she seems a lot nicer than the last one, though I do confess, I find her CLINGY. In every picture, she's stuck to his side or draped all over him; when he was being honoured in Washington, she was seated in the row behind, and though he was sitting between the Obamas, who might perhaps have had interesting things to say, she kept bending forward over his chair to engage him in chat. However, I think he likes that kind of thing. She's very pretty and low-key, she has tons of money, she has a job in her father's company, sort of, I gather.

Yes, this is the third time he's marrying someone other than me. All my friends will turn to me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. And once more, I have to say - all I need is love. Not more; not marriage. I don't want to know the real Paul McCartney, thank you very much, his morning breath and his boxes of hair dye. I'm pretty sure I'd like him if we met; just yesterday, I read that he never misses his daughter Stella's fashion shows in Paris. He is a steadfast father and a musician non pareil, and he has engaged this Toronto writer in a sweet romantic fantasy since she was 13 years old. Which, incidentally, is providing great material for her next book. Which I hope, one day, he'll read.

May this generous man and musician be granted great joy and much creativity. May his happiness translate into many more songs for us. If she'll just leave him alone long enough to get to work.

Meow.

Speaking of uncovering the real man: A new book has been published about Obama, puncturing

that particular rose-coloured myth, exposing the many arrogant, greenhorn mistakes he made the minute he arrived in the White House. He wasn't ready for the Presidency, says the writer, he ignored key advisors, he maltreated his female staff who were relegated to the sidelines - it goes on and on. You see? Sometimes the myth, sadly, is so very much better that the real thing. Not always, luckily; the reality of Nelson Mandela is as good as the myth, if not better. But that's rare.

There is one thing about the Paul story, though, that gave me a twinge. One of my longterm fantasies - just there, way down, at the back of the brain - has been to own - even, perhaps, to be given - a vintage diamond ring. I have no idea where that came from, I'm not a diamond kind of person, but there's something so beautiful and unique about the settings and the way they're cut, and of course, there's no worry about provenance since the stones were mined so long ago. When I read that Paul has given Nancy a vintage diamond ring, I thought, of course he did. He knows.

I hope she appreciates it, and him.

I hope she acquires a nice absorbing hobby that keeps her busy.

Meow.

P.S. I just Googled the story and saw the actual ring. It's just a big honking diamond, quite ugly. One day, I'm going to find the ring I want, Victorian I think, discreet, delicate, and I'm going to buy it and become engaged to myself. Until death do me part.