Some NYC pictures

Click to enlarge.

I walked along 47th St., the centre of the diamond trade, shop after shop stuffed with diamonds. These were the biggest - ridiculous rapper necklaces.

Phew! Near Times Square.

A comedian I know from I think the Daily Show interviewing hapless tourists in Times Square. 

Just not enough people here.

They don't build theatres like they used to. What a beauty this one is. This year's Tony winner is here.

So many people on every street, selling all manner of food from their tiny booths. Love this one - Kwik Meal, "Like us on Facebook, give us a review on Yelp."

Old New York - a Sarah Lawrence backpack with flowers and an aloe leaf. 

They just don't build libraries like they used to. The New York Public Library, with its two famous lions, is utterly magnificent inside and out. And nearby is Bryant Park, another oasis in the jungle.

mourning the Queen in New York

Here I am at Cousin Ted's at 77th and 3rd in NYC, watching BBC news, feeling sad. Shortly after I landed here, I got word of the death of the Queen. She was 2 1/2 years younger than my mother, who grew up with her. My British grandparents adored her. Hard to believe we saw her tiny figure two days ago in her kilt, and so fast, she was gone. 

Also just after landing at La Guardia, I turned on my email and got word that the long list for the CBC nonfiction competition was out. I'd entered an essay I wrote about my father's death, one of the most meaningful events in my life. But my piece was not included in the 31 essays on the long list. And for once, I do not take this as a commentary on my talent as a writer, but on the judging in competitions. So what I say is: Phooey.

Today I saw a magnificent exhibit on Matisse's Red Studio at MOMA, and one thing it showed is that he was disparaged by critics, often cruelly, early in his career. He just kept going and doing what he needed to do. I'm not comparing myself to Matisse, God knows. But the lesson is - keep going. At almost the same time, I received word my piece for the Globe's First Person section will run Sept. 23. The editor wrote, "It’s a lovely tale." She and I disagree about the Oxford comma, but that's all. 

Though I may not keep going in New York. I'm overwhelmed. It's very hot, it's so crowded, it's so noisy, I walked all day and my feet hurt. Once again, in this madhouse, I see the end of humanity. Human beings are not going to give up consuming until there's nothing left to consume. 

I'll buck up. More anon. There will be pictures.

the problem with travel

Exactly why I declared I would not travel during Covid! It's nearly 3 p.m. and I have spent the day so far on hold. First with Aeroplan, because I haven't received a boarding pass email from Air Canada. Waited an hour, tried another number, gave up, I'll get it at the airport. 

Then with the province of Ontario, trying to download an electronic version of my vax certificate. I have a printout but not the electronic version on my phone, and the website will not let me in. Hates me. Have tried 3 different government sites to get help. One wanted me to download Chrome which ended up being even more complicated. One told me to call border services, where I ended up somehow getting information on the legalization of marijuana. 

Surely the printout should be enough. But I don't want to be caught out in case. 

My friend Patrick to the rescue. He's coming over to see if we can download through his computer rather than mine. 

Took another Covid test awhile ago, again negative. Have a sore throat, feeling fragile. Maybe I'm just stressed because this is the first international travel since spring 2019! And I don't want to leave my chair. I love my chair. Why am I doing this to myself? Plus getting to the airport many hours early because of chaos there. Plus, as my son kindly has pointed out, I'm flying back from New York on Sept. 11. 

ADVENTURE. Get away. See something else. Rip up these roots, even just for a few days.

But right now, I'm regretting that decision.

However, the great thing is - this trip is not urgent. If something happens and I can't go, no biggie. So relax, you idiot! 

Relax? What means this word?

PS It's 3.40 and my shoulders are finally moving down from my ears. Patrick guided me through the ArriveCan app, which is convoluted and ridiculous, and we simply scanned my printout so it's on my phone. Problem solved. The minute he left, out of the blue, I got an email from Health Ontario offering a download of my vax certificate, and it let me in instantly, after refusing for two days. I didn't ask them to email me. The world works in mysterious ways. I now have more vax certificates than I know what to do with. 

It's a beautiful day. I've been on the phone all day. Time for a walk in the sun. 

PPS. I know. First world problems. 

Beth's workshop at the Parliament Street library, Thursday Sept. 22

The day before yesterday, a summer bug hit. I actually took a Covid test, which was negative, but felt lousy and wondered about my trip to New York on Thursday. Today, though, better. And what a stunning day it was too. Fall is in the air, and yesterday was cool and gloomy, but today the sun is hot. 

On Saturday, which was very hot, there was a powwow just down the street in the Regent Park park, and my daughter's group was providing the food. There she was in her ribbon skirt, grilling bison burgers, which were delicious. There was a big Indigenous crowd, many dancers in jingle dresses or feathers, lots of kids, loud drumming. At the same time, the big Muslim population of Regent Park was also out, so there were women in niqab, boys in long white tunics with little white caps ... and many others of all nationalities. As always, I marvelled at the diversity of my city and especially my neighbourhood.

I'm so grateful to my local library for 36 years of great reading that I offered to give a free memoir writing workshop there, which will take place Thursday Sept. 22. I posted about it on IG, and someone replied Coincidentally, I happen to be reading True to Life as you post this! I actually just finished the exercise of writing as my negative voice and then defending my writing to the devil👺 The exercise opened me up to writing the first truth I’ve put on paper in months. So what I’m saying is, I’ll be there! 😂

So the good news is, at least one person will be in attendance.

I'm also working on a podcast about memoir writing with my young tech assistant Patrick; we taped one episode that I've heard and another that I haven't yet. There will be a series of talks and some interviews with local nonfiction writers. No idea what to do with it all. Stay tuned. 

Tomorrow night, the Cabbagetown Short Film Festival, produced by my friend Gina. Wouldn't miss it. Now packing for NYC. Just hope this sore throat vanishes. 

exploring Dad

September. The days are glorious, the evenings getting cooler, the tomatoes are taking longer to ripen. We're all moving into reality mode. I'm beginning to prepare for NYC and for teaching. And for the Big Job.

Bravely got out and opened a box marked "Dad." Instantly swamped. My father was a voluble man who was a public figure for decades, made speeches, wrote articles, was much written about in newspapers, and he and my mother kept all of it. I mean, all of it. His last CV, which I just found, is 33 pages long, including pages of scientific articles. I found essays he wrote for his BA from City College in 1942, including "Some Notes on Music," for which he received a 95, "Splendid." There's a file marked "Poetry" — doggerel he wrote throughout his life, one to my mother Sylvia, "Ode on the Sylvian Bum," about how my mother's bottom is always there to keep him company. 

Speeches and articles about peace and science and nuclear fallout and public education and racism and the Vietnam war and so much more. Piles and piles and piles. I want my kids and grandsons, and the reading world, to meet him — and my extraordinary mother too. Where to start? 

One of the boxes

An article from Weekend magazine, 1958, about nuclear fallout. That's me, aged 8, eating Strontium 90-laced corn.

The man himself. A certain charisma, no?

Not to mention that my mother kept all my letters to her, and I wrote to her constantly; just unearthed another huge pile of those. Just after we bought a house: We have not had a second of doubt since we made the offer that we'll be happy in the house for 3 or 4 or 5 years, anyway. On and on about what we love about the house in which I still happily live, 36 years later; we moved in on Sept. 1 1986.

A brief note, sent in October 1988, just after my father died; Sam had just turned four. There are typewritten lines of gibberish, and underneath I wrote, Sam asked me to read this, which he had just assiduously typed. "I think," I said, squinting at it, "it says, My name is Sam Dobie and soon I am going to school and this afternoon I go to nursery school."

"No!" he cried. "That's not what it says."

"What does it say then?" I asked. He looked at it carefully.

"It says, 'I love you, Grandma!'"

So then I stop, and remember, and celebrate, and weep a tear or two. Ah well. Bird by bird, as Anne Lamott would say. I'll keep delving and try not to drown.

I have a locker mate at the Y, a lovely woman who insisted on buying Loose Woman to take on vacation in the spring. When she got back, she didn't say anything about the book, and I concluded that she hated it. Too much information perhaps, I surmised. Recently, inspired by the NYT life hack, "Always make the call. If you're disturbed or confused about something somebody did, always pick up the phone," I tentatively asked if she'd read the book, prepared to say, I understand, you hated it, no problem. 

"Oh yes, I loved it!" she said. "Just loved it. Your books always sound just like you. It was like talking to you."

Writer John McPhee once said, "Writers come in two principle categories: those who are overtly insecure and those who are covertly insecure." And some of us are both.