celebrating fathers

Yesterday, when I took Eli home after his sleepover here, his father Thomas was at Anna's when we arrived. Though he and Anna are no longer a couple, Thomas lives nearby and is very involved in his son's life. He is so unlike our family - very quiet and anti-social - but the more I watch him, the more I appreciate what a thoughtful and gentle father he is. He had bought a big box full of sports stuff - volleyball, badminton and lacrosse equipment - and when I left, father and son were assembling the net. Nothing could have given me greater pleasure than that sight. Then Anna texted to say Thomas had taken the training wheels from Eli's bike and taken him riding. Our boy, at just three, is nearly riding a two-wheeler by himself. This is what dads are for. Not in a million years would I have helped him do something so risky so soon.

Today is the 27th anniversary of my father's death of stomach cancer, far too young at the age of 65. I turn 65 in a few weeks, so this is a year that haunts me. I'm burning a candle for him and walked to the Necropolis, the beautiful old cemetery where his ashes and my mother's are scattered, to have a chat, tell him we're all doing so well - his children, grandchildren, and, soon, two great-grandsons. How I wish he could have met them. He would have been 92 - and a force to be reckoned with still, I'm sure. He must have taught me to ride a two-wheeler, though I unfortunately don't remember. But I was certainly a hell of a lot older than three.

Where my parents now lie - is this a dell? A glade? These must be old Anglo-Saxon words, no? In any case, a shady nook. No babbling brook nearby, however - just the Don Valley Parkway.

I wandered around the Necropolis, communing with the peaceful dead and reading stories on tombstones.

Alexander and Jane lost all six of their children, most at the age of one or two. I checked their own inscription, on the other side: Jane outlived everyone, including her husband. Imagine.

Someone called Euphemia Denham who died in Edinburgh - with a Star of David. Could she possibly be Jewish?!

The Necropolis. Built 1850.

 Loving modern stones.

Another couple who lost all their children, both James and Gladys in 1903 - an accident? An epidemic? And Mary at the age of one.

I walked back, feeling the breath in my lungs and, after a fantastic massage on Saturday, the lack of pain in my back, grateful to live in a time of ever-improving health care, especially for the very young. Back to the comforting soft beauty of the garden.

 The roses are fading but magnificent. Instead, the jasmine is on its way.

The last gardenia. 

Western Canada is burning - my Vancouver friends write that they can hardly see through the yellow air from smoke. I thank again those who marched yesterday - up to 10,000, according to the Star - to try to make us reconsider the way we treat this infinitely precious planet.

saving the world

Summer Sunday. Listening to Randy Bachman, resting after a strenuous time with Eli, who had another sleepover last night. At 10.25 p.m. he was still chattering while I was catatonic, but then he stopped at 10.30, and slept till 8.30. I had an hour this morning with coffee before he appeared for pancakes and much, much talk. At one point he told me, again, that's he's three, and I asked him how old he thought I was. He considered thoughtfully. "Five," he said. I'll take it.

 I am in awe of the glory of the garden's inhabitants. Why do they bother to be so beautiful? Because they're flowers. That's what they do. They enchant the bees and lucky us.

Eli and I went Saturday evening to the Bloor St. Viaduct for a "bestibal" - an event celebrating the "suicide veil" they've constructed there, and also the Pan Am flame which was due to arrive. By chance, we were there when it did - that's it, on the walker of that lovely old lady. Eli was entranced by all the police.

And by the ice cream Glamma provides. I lecture his mother about sugar - and shower her son with it.

 The march and demonstration this afternoon - Justice, Jobs and the Climate, with Jane Fonda and David Suzuki, among many others - finished with a picnic in Allen Gardens. Great to see so many like-minded people, pro the planet, anti Stephen Harper. Enough to save the world? I'm afraid not.

I hope someone recited this, which I'll read to Eli sometime soon (never too early to start getting political):

jam

Perfect, just perfect, today, yesterday - mild and sunny. I'm grateful for my very pregnant daughter that it's not too hot. The breeze is a lifesaver.

Last night, the last class of term for my Thursday group, our potluck readathon - a delicious dinner on the deck with a glass or two of Prosecco - is there any better drink for a summer night? - and then they read one gorgeous moving beautifully written story after another. Very proud, I am. One more class to go, Ryerson next week, and then I'm done teaching till September, except for my garden workshop in August. I love my job, but it's also good to get a break. As Jon Stewart knows.

Speaking of Jon - once more, may I mention my love and respect for him? As his days count down, he is more and more frank and open about the appalling Republicans, more openly furious about various idiocies. It's a joy to watch, particularly because we know that soon, he'll have a well-deserved rest. Except - I hope before long he's back in some way. Because I can't imagine life without his wisdom, his humour, his counsel. That a man with such a goofy, sometimes sophomoric sense of humour should have such gravitas - wondrous.

My summer playground and writer's retreat:

Today's crop.

I know, for those from warmer climes, this ain't much - but we haven't had much hot weather here yet. My raspberry bush is a miracle - I took a cutting from my mother's enormous raspberry patch (oh her jam! how I miss her jam!) in Edmonton in about 1993 and planted it here, but it never did much. Last year, moved it to another spot - and whammo! I go down twice a day to pick and eat.

Finally - in the boring old person department - I'm dealing with something odd. I'm my usual bouncy self during the day, but at night, I've developed back pain so severe that it keeps me awake and at times gasping out loud, as jolts of electricity course through my back. Very weird - because I have no other symptoms and am fine during the day, it's just at night it hits. Since Monday. I'm having a massage tomorrow and will see my doctor next week if it doesn't get better. Believe me, I immediately thought - heart attack! Lung cancer! Please let me live long enough to see my grandsons grow up!

Probably just the disintegration that comes with turning 65. Or I need a new mattress. In any case: phooey.

I see in today's Star that there's a not-to-be-missed concert at the aptly-named Hard Luck Bar this weekend: a band called Goatwhore, celebrating the release of their latest album, "Constricting Rage of the Merciless." Gosh, that sounds like fun. Can't wait.

So true!

And:

Happy Canada Day!