grownups discuss things they wrote as kids

A day of catastrophic rains - though not like Paris, of course. Dark and gloomy, then very hot and muggy, then dark and then thunderous rain again. Anna was supposed to go to a barbecue with three small children. Perhaps she did not. Or, knowing Anna, she suited up and got them in their boots and went. Anna loves barbecue.

I had a marvellous meeting with a kindred spirit - Dan Misener, producer of the hysterical storytelling event Grownups Read Things They Wrote as Kids, which I did once a long time ago, reading my Macca stuff to general hilarity. Dan and I connected as story geeks and radio geeks. His show was on the CBC last summer and was acclaimed as one of the funniest shows ever. So naturally it was not renewed. Because we are talking about the CBC here. Sheesh.

Dan has come to most of the So True events, has taped a few for us, and is full of ideas about what we do as producers of story-telling events. We talked for hours. He's 32, that is, less than half my age. He has never heard of a bunch of things that are second nature to me, and vice versa. I will learn a lot from him. What fun.

And then, radio geek that I am, I cooked food for the week while listening to one of Eleanor Wachtel's best shows on CBC - interviewing Julian Barnes in front of a live audience, he relaxed and very funny, such warmth between them, truly she is a master at what she does. Highly recommended and surprisingly moving. And then danced around to Randy Bachman, ate a vast dinner, did more work sitting in my chair. My friend Nettie Wild is on her way from the airport, to stay here for a week. Life is as always chock a block. (Where did THAT expression come from?)

Now listening to raccoons scrabbling and shrieking.

Today's treat, what we all need:

And today's downer/wisdom:

True and sad. And Mohammed Ali is dead, and, I just heard, so is Bobby Curtola. Bobby Curtola - Fortune Teller! "You can see it all in your crystal ball..." Loved that song. I bet that my friend Dan has never heard of Bobby Curtola. I need some Prosecco.

of teeth

The little family visited today, to take in the fun fair at Sprucecourt School across the street. But it was very hot and the lines for the bouncy castles were very long, so we didn't last long. And I made a terrible faux pas while we were there. We ran into a schoolmate of Anna's, F., whom we had not seen in a long time. 20 years ago, he was a funny, interesting boy with a very neglectful mother who fed him little but Coke and sweets, and by the time he was 18 his teeth had rotted, making him look like a bum. I thought it was a shame such a nice young man would be handicapped in life by looking so terrible and got a bright idea: I persuaded a very wealthy friend to pay my Quaker dentist to remake F.'s mouth.

Me on my white horse - Lady Beth the Good. Sigh.

The dentist tried to teach a boy who had never brushed his teeth dental hygiene, fixed what he could and gave him implants. But it took so long my rich friend got impatient and refused to pay the second half of the huge bill. So when I could, years later, I paid my dentist back. I had not seen F. since. And now here he was, by the bouncy castle, with his children. I asked to see his teeth and exclaimed in disappointment that the whole top row were missing again. Anna was furious, saying I'd humiliated him in front of his kids. I wasn't thinking and was sorry, but still. An expensive philanthropic project was for naught.

I am a deeply flawed person. Should I even be telling you this story?

Okay, as Anna would say. Let it go.

It's 9.30 p.m. and there's that smell - I never know if it's skunk or my neighbours smoking weed. Tonight it's the latter. I as usual am sitting, sitting, sitting cloistered with reading and editing work. There's a deadline: the manuscript goes to my editor in 2 weeks. And there are 3 library books on the go: the new Paul McCartney biography by Philip Norman, which I'm ashamed to say I'm reading cover to cover; a great book called "New Order: a decluttering handbook for creative folks," which just might change my life; and the intimidatingly huge "The four seasons farm gardener's cookbook" which shows you how to lay out a vegetable garden. As you can see, I am not reading the great literature of the world. Not right now, anyway.

Here's the good news, from a serious study. Go for it, I say.

Drinking champagne every day could prevent dementia and Alzheimer's.

Write in the Garden July 24

gga

Beth's new subscription option

Readers, my beloved friend Grace, who's 24 and who comes to help me with social media, has updated my blog. As you'll see on the left, there's an addition: if you want automatic updates about blog posts, please enter your email address, go through the simple procedure, and once a day, if I've posted, you'll receive notification of my golden words and dewy prose. Yay!

Forgot to tell you, speaking of golden words - during the recent visit of Anna and her two boys, we were all sitting in the living room when Eli, who just turned four, turned to his mama and said, "Mum, how do babies get out of their mummy's tummy?" There was a pause as Anna considered her options. "Did Ben come out of your mouth?" Eli said. Anna made up her mind - he knows the names of body parts, no euphemisms in this family.
"Babies come out of their mother's vaginas, Eli," she said. Pause. He grimaced and pushed his face into the sofa cushions. And then he popped up.
"Mum," he said brightly, "can I have some goldfish crackers?" And that was that.

Later, he said to me, "Glamma, do you wear diapers?" And I wanted to say, "Not yet, Eli. Check in later," but I didn't.

So much fun.

Robin Phillips and Shakespearituality

Just heard from my student Kathy, a university psychology professor in her day job, that after I sent a contest outline to her class, she decided to send in a piece she'd read at So True. And she was a finalist. She did not win, but just entering is a feat, let alone placing in the top finishers. This is the second student whose So True piece was a finalist for a prize - Grace's was too. Brava to you both! Kathy wrote:
Of all the instructors I have had, you have been the one that has truly moved me forward, so most of the credit goes to you. Thanks for your continued mentorship. 

My great great pleasure.

Perfect days - not muggy and too hot, as it was last week, but fresh and sunny and breezy. Good to be alive, thank you June! And on top of that, I ran into a male friend yesterday. "Beth, you're still a hottie," he said. "What's going on?"

I have to tell you that of all the things I aspire to in my life, being a good teacher and editor is high on the list, and being a hottie is pretty far down, if not at rock bottom. And the "still" - well, I guess that means, "at your age." He made me laugh - I had barely brushed my hair, was in old yoga pants, my favourite "Stop Stephen Harper" t-shirt and Birkenstocks; if that's his idea of a hottie, so be it. But still. It means I'm alive, and it's June.

Yesterday, I went to see the documentary "Robin and Mark and Richard III," at the Bloor, made by my friend Martha Burns and her friend Susan Coyne. And all I could think, as I watched this brilliant man illuminate the play, was, "Why didn't someone do this before? Why wasn't Robin Phillips filmed as he directed at Stratford, in his prime? Why isn't there a full-scale documentary about him?" This is one hour of Robin near the end of his life, going over two speeches of Richard's with an actor famous for goofball comedy. And yet it's riveting, supremely moving, to hear the passion and detailed knowledge in Robin's words, and to watch Mark McKinney transform under his focussed guidance. It's a master class for actors. "Half an actor's job," he says, "is to recall all the emotions."
"Technique is the pathway to the emotion," he says, as he talks about "Shakespearituality," what a brilliant word. At the end, he gives his favourite line from Shakespeare: "It is required you do awake your faith." I Googled - it's from "Winter's Tale." "The line takes my breath away," says Robin. "When I hear it, my heart stops."

He was a very difficult man, no question. My ex-husband worked with him, on and off, for years, and there were nights when the phone rang at 3 a.m. with yet another hysterical Robin demand. He was nearly impossible sometimes. But he was worth it, because he cared so deeply about what he was doing, and most of the time, he did it so very well. He knew so very much. We see a parade of great Canadian actors - Brent Carver, Martha Henry - and the great Maggie Smith speak with enormous affection and respect about his work and his person. His time at Stratford encompassed the flowering of Canadian culture. Thank you, Robin, for all you gave. You are much missed.