My friends at the Farm

Today was so mild, I went for a jogette in a t-shirt. A woman beat me - she was at the Farm in a tank top! On November 25th in Toronto!

Here are my friends at the Farm today - coming into the barn time for the ducks and feeding time for the pigs. What a noise. And then there's the beautiful Necropolis to the north.

RIDE THE CYCLONE, asap

Quick, my Toronto readers, pick up the phone or go to your computers and book to see "Ride the Cyclone," at Theatre Passe-Muraille. Though it may already be completely sold out. This summer, when I spoke with my friend Janet Wright after her star turn in "Grapes of Wrath" at Stratford, she told me to be sure to see the show. Her son Jacob Richmond is the writer and co-director.

And what an extraordinary talent he is and has. It's a superbly imaginative production - about a choir of high school students from a small Saskatchewan town who die one night on a roller coaster and come back for one last concert, to sing about their own lives. The music goes from gospel to hip hop to a pure Kurt Weil. I saw it with my daughter Anna, who's a hip 30, and she loved it too. A true inter-generational masterpiece. I'm sure it will end up in New York, and you know my theatrical predictions - "War Horse," "Jerusalem" - almost always come true. So see it locally, now, I urge you.

Before the show, Anna and I had dinner at the Epicure nearby; what joy to see my daughter eat. She has always had a hearty appetite, unusual in a young woman from our society - once on a dinner date, she told her beau she was sure she could eat more than he could, and she did. But she has been afflicted with terrible morning sickness for many weeks, almost unable to keep down water, let alone anything else. It has finally passed, and she ate with gusto, looking - yes, radiant, so extremely beautiful. Inside her is my grandchild, a little bigger, now, than a peach. We love you, little peach. I hope you too enjoyed the show.

a grown-up, singing with love

Just back from an exciting night - an event called "Grown-ups Read Stuff They Wrote as Kids." Apparently, this is the 11th such night, in which several hundred people gather to laugh at their own young selves and each other. I'd heard about them but had been unable to attend because they were always on Mondays, when I teach. But my Monday class ended last week, so a few months ago, when I heard about this date, I signed up immediately. It is what it says - adults reading their childhood writings, from sentience to age 18.

Huge problem - how to narrow down my choice of reading material to five minutes, considering that I started writing stories and letters at six and a diary at nine? The mass of paper from my youth is never-ending. I finally picked, of course, my Paul McCartney material, to see how it worked with what I suspected would be a much younger audience.

It was - one woman read from the 70's but everyone else, except me, was a thirty-something, reading diaries and stories from the late 80's and early 90's. And then I appeared, saying, "Let's go back to the magical year 1964." I read a diary excerpt and one of my fantasy stories about my relationship with Paul ("The Orphan", in which he accidentally knocks me, a lonely orphan, down with his Aston-Martin, and, because I'm left crippled, adopts me - but we fall in love and ... ) I ended with another diary entry, written at 2 a.m. in June 1965 after I'd seen the Beatles in concert twice in one day.

They liked it; they really liked it. One young woman, who read a very funny will she wrote when she was nine - "And my clothes should go to the poor" - came up to me after and said, "You were the best." Not so, at all - some of the others were wonderful, moving, honest, and absolutely tears in the eyes hilarious. But perhaps my presentation was the most polished, because I am an actress and couldn't help it making it a show. And also, I realized afterwards, the gift of comic timing, which I was lucky enough to inherit from the Jewish side of my family. Dealing with laughter for a story-teller or actor is like surfing in reverse - you feel the wave coming in, crashing over you, and the trick is to catch it as it starts to ebb, and plunge in again, to keep it rolling and rolling on.

A woman my age, the mother of one of the readers, tapped me on the shoulder during the intermission, after I'd read. She exclaimed at how articulate I was at 13. "Have you heard of the Nun Study?" she said. She told me about a famous study of the brains of nuns, invaluable because they all lived the same way, ate the same food etc. Before they became novitiates, the young nuns-in-waiting were asked to write an essay about why they wanted to enter the convent. It was discovered, after their deaths, that the ones who were most articulate in youth had lived longer or were afflicted with Alzheimer's later than those who were not as articulate. Certain parts of their brains, it was discovered after their deaths, were actually denser.

I thanked my new friend profusely for this information, because, I said, "My grandmother had Alzheimer's, so it's something I fear."

"Well then," she said, "I have given you a gift, haven't I?"

She certainly had. If youthful articulacy is anything to go by, I have a nicely dense brain. Woo hoo!

Here, for your entertainment, is a bit I did not have time to read last night, the beginning of a story about my life as Mrs. Paul McCartney, written when I was 14. Luckily, my view of marriage changed somewhat - though, thinking of the beginning of my own marriage, not that much, I have to say. Oh, there are so many wonderful, sweet tales to share. You'll just have to wait for the book.

October 1965

“I love him, I love him, I love him,” my heart sang as I washed the dishes, polished the floor and made the beds.

“He is the sweetest man on earth,” I repeated as I folded his clothes, washed his socks and tidied his papers.

Work goes fast that way, when one’s whole person is singing with love.

down and up

Zero degrees - it actually feels like November. Outside, as much yellow and brown as green; leaves tumble, squirrels frantically search and bury. Soon I'll get to use my sexy blue snow shovel. Teaching is winding down for the term too - two Ryerson classes and the home class ended this week. Each class has its special dynamic, each student his or her particular kind of growth and courage. How I love my work.

Spent time the other night exploring the last century's heart of darkness - a documentary called "The Rape of Europa," based on a book of the same name - how the Nazis pillaged Jewish art collections and museums everywhere they went. It showed how nations tried to protect their priceless treasures and monuments, not just from the voracious Germans, but from Allied bombs. A group of American G.I's, called the Monuments Men, travelled with U.S. troops in Italy, fighting to preserve art and architecture - and yet so much irrevocable damage was done. We watch young American airmen prepare meticulously to bomb the train hub at the centre of occupied Florence, so that none of the nearby buildings is damaged. Then the Nazis, as they are driven out, blast and destroy the city's ancient bridges and surrounding buildings. Sickening, vicious destruction.

After the war, we see the liberation of bunkers and mines, overflowing with the greatest art in the world. "I could not understand," said one Monuments Man, "how these people had the humanity to appreciate masterpieces of art, and at the same time were mass murderers, slaughtering millions. And I still can't." No one can, sir. The shots of G.I.s, in amazement, holding up canvasses by Vermeer, Raphael, Michaelangelo - tears in the eyes.

The documentary ends now, with a German man whose job is to trace the owners of Jewish religious artifacts unclaimed after the war. With one pair of ornate silver caps for the Torah, he manages to find the family of the murdered owners, and travels to suburban New York to bring the caps home. We see these beautiful objects with their delicate bells being put into place, the Jewish community dancing around with their Torah, the young German, kippah on his head, watching and clapping. We learn that most of the reclaimed art work is now back where it belongs. Over the final credits, though, we watch a parade of magnificent paintings lost, never found. An incomprehensible, hideous savagery. In this story, the Americans are the heroes of civilization. It made me proud of one side of my heritage, of my father, a G.I. in a MASH unit in France.

Luckily, this powerful heartbreaking film ended at 11; I was able to switch immediately to the Comedy Channel and lighten my heart with Jon Stewart. He is having such a marvellous time with the Republican presidential race - comedic gold, each candidate more impossibly idiotic than the next. Two nights ago, he had a hilarious interview with Diane Keaton, and last night, with Martin Scorsese, who, it turns out, is an extremely funny man. Or else, he is with Jon, as is almost everyone. The show is on late, and often I'm drooping, and yet cannot resist a hearty laugh with a smart, handsome man - a smart, handsome man proud of his Jewish heritage - before bed. Especially after watching something like "The Rape of Europa."

November sun

Am I living in Canada? It's sunny and unbelievably mild - I was just out raking leaves wearing a light spring coat. Torontonians are looking around in bewilderment, congratulating themselves. "This just means it'll hit us harder later," said one cheerful soul. And another cheerful soul, my handyman John, stopped by with a reminder of what's to come - a new snow shovel. It's gorgeous, almost ... sexy, bright blue with that new kind of bent handle that makes it easy to lift. "I can't wait to try it out!" I exclaimed, and then thought again. "No, actually, I'll be happy to wait," I said.

Air fares plummeted over the weekend, for some unknown reason, so I jumped - booked my flight to Charles de Gaulle airport and back 5 1/2 weeks later. I was given the option of booking "premium seats," and went for it, so I'll have a bulkhead window seat both ways, quelle luxe!

Here I stand, old rake in one hand and new snow shovel in the other, ready for the next four months. I will deal happily with ice and snow - if there is any - until March 18th. And then I will get out.