Tom Allen's kind words, but another friendship lost

A stellar day yesterday, beautiful warm weather, spring bursting open. Opening my email first thing, I found a note from CBC host Tom Allen. In the nineties, I wrote a number of essays for Fresh Air, the show Tom was then hosting, and some of those pieces are in my new book, so I asked Tom if he'd consider writing a blurb. He's a busy man, with his daily radio work and both a film and a stage show he has produced to see to, but he immediately agreed, so I sent him the manuscript. 

Yesterday he sent this: It is such a joy to read your words again. I hear your voice saying them and your warmth and honesty. It really is lovely, and the story never disappoints. Congratulations - again, you're an inspiration.

Will this do as a blurb? "There is a thread of gentle truth woven through Beth Kaplan's writing. Clear and strong through calamity and reflection, it winds around us and draws us in." 

Does it get better than that? Beautiful! Thank you very much, Tom. I'm waiting to hear from the publisher, so the manuscript is languishing, as manuscripts do. But I hope soon we'll "get the show on the road," as my mother used to say. 

I had my sixth Covid vaccine yesterday, which made me think, again, of an encounter the day before, when I stopped to greet an acquaintance, an amusing singer of old rock and roll who works a lot locally with his band. We were bantering, as we have for years, when Covid came up. And suddenly the expression on his face darkened, and he began to rant. "You're an anti-vaxxer!" I exclaimed in shock, because I'd thought in my foolishness that all artists, at least the ones I know, would think the way I do.

That unleashed a tirade, linking the word anti-vaxxer with anti-Semitism, how people used to call him a dirty Jew and now they call him an anti-vaxxer. I said, "Anti-Semitism is hatred; vaccines are science," and a fresh tirade ensued about how Dr. Fauci was wrong about everything. I said, "My father nearly died of polio. The day the polio vaccine was invented was one of the best days of his life." 

"This has nothing to do with polio," he retorted. 

"But it's about the life-saving effectiveness of vaccines!" I said. He turned away, saying, "We have nothing more to say to each other."

Another one down. What I found most shocking was the level of resentment and paranoia, the instant assumption, as he told me, that I was condemning and mocking him. I am absolutely open to an intelligent discussion, but not a furious rant. 

To me, this was another sighting of the vast, nearly limitless well of white male (and sometimes female) grievance that has opened up and is threatening us all. It was there all along, bubbling underneath, but has been brought to the surface by Trump, Fox News, and the Republican party. The sense that the world is out to get you, that minorities and immigrants, women, gays, trans people, and especially the government, are the enemy — it's toxic and incredibly dangerous, and it's everywhere. News outlets have discovered that anger fuels interest, which is why we constantly hear so much of PP's voice. Anything they disagree with is "fake news," because only they are in possession of the truth, and the rest of us are sheep being led to slaughter. I've been told so. There's no way through this impenetrable wall of complaint, misinformation, and fury. 

The only consolation is that in this country there are fewer guns. To the south, these men are randomly slaughtering fellow citizens. The world has never felt so precarious, though I did live through the Cuban missile crisis, which was close. The thought of this once friendly, funny musician, his face twisted with rage — makes me sad but also frightened.  

On a cheerier note, I've just read The Wind in the Willows, inspired by the program Wonderland, about children's books, that I'm watching on Monday nights. To my surprise, this novel is definitely more for adults than children, full of long lyrical passages about nature but with the funny exploits of the egotistical Mr. Toad and his friends Ratty, Badger, and Mole, to provoke laughter. A lovely book that, as the program pointed out last night, is also about the power and solace of male friendships, its author Kenneth Grahame a closeted gay man. 

My parents gave it to me for Xmas 1958, when I was seven. I finally read it sixty-five years later.

Paddington 2 and the coronation

Two welcome days of brilliant sunshine Friday and Saturday, perfect for us. Sam and the boys arrived late Friday afternoon, and we went straight to the schoolyard nearby to play baseball. It used to be basketball but now it's baseball; they've been several times to watch the Blue Jays play, and Eli's on his school's team. They'd brought their mitts and I have a bat and tennis ball, so we were all set for vigorous play. And then over to the playground for our game of Monster, which involves me chasing them around the climbing structure making growling noises. 

Eventually: exhausted Glamma. I assure you, my own dignified grandmothers did not pitch baseballs or play Monster. 

I'd made meat sauce WITH NO VEGETABLES even cut up very small, because they can detect a vegetable a mile away. Much spaghetti was devoured and then ice cream. And then a great treat: we put on the film Paddington 2. I'd heard great things about it and so had Sam, but it exceeded all expectations. Could not recommend it more highly, with or without children to watch with you; it's charming, warm-hearted, beautifully made, and hilarious, with of course a cast of many of the best actors in Britain. Seeing Brendan Gleeson, after his melancholy turn in Banshees, playing a loony, psychotic but adorable prison chef, is a marvel. And Hugh Grant playing the villain, having the time of his life. 

Saturday morning we watched a bit of the coronation; Ben asked, why are they giving him all those things to touch? God knows. Still, it's an amazing spectacle, so much pomp and glitter; the boys kept talking about how many billions the things were worth. Ben said, I wouldn't want to be king; everyone would want to steal my jewels. 

Good thinking, kid. 

We made a chocolate cake for Anna's birthday, with icing, the boys very helpful keeping beaters and mixing bowls licked clean. 

More baseball. And then home across town, an endless tortuous journey on the TTC. 

Coming back, I despaired even more for my city. So many TTC routes diverted or shut down due to limitless construction. The King St. bus I was on stopped dead at Spadina; a streetcar was stuck ahead and nothing could move. I got out, intending to walk up to Dundas to get the streetcar, but there was a huge Falun Gong demonstration clogging all the streets around, fuming cars lined up for blocks. I walked 2 1/2 miles home, passing various notices alerting us that perfectly good buildings are about to be torn down to put up bigger ones. Traffic out of control, poverty, homelessness, garbage, noise abundant. Nobody in charge. 

However, that evening, a delight: Ron Hume's 90th birthday just up the street, in his garden, with Babs, his great love, by his side. Ron published his first book, How I lost 25 million dollars and found true happiness, at 89. He wrote the story of Babs's life next, and now will work on a book about being old. He said somebody once told him the secret of longevity: Choose the right parents. Ron certainly did. 

We should all be so lucky. 

About the coronation: I know it's ridiculous, a king and queen in sparkly crowns, in a gilded carriage, in the 21st century. I know they're expensive and some of them are useless. But some of them work very hard, especially Anne, have real class and worth and mean a great deal to the people they meet. And it's moving to see centuries of tradition adhered to so faithfully, in a magnificent abbey where kings and queens have been crowned since 1066. The monarchy is not something I condemn, though I don't defend it either. It's there, and we're not going to get rid of it anytime soon, so let's put them to work, and let's enjoy the spectacle. Those Brits certainly know how to put on a fine show. 

It's raining.

It's spring. With worries.

It does feel like the real thing, at last — spring. The city gardens are gorgeous with tulips, hyacinth, daffs, trees in bloom — redbud, my favourite. 

But the city is a mess. Construction everywhere, cars jammed even more than usual, and our city fathers in their wisdom are cutting back on TTC routes, to make things even worse. The homeless encampment in Allen Gardens has grown; it's a village now, with pets, suitcases, and camping chairs outside the many tents. Yesterday, walking on Parliament Street, I was accosted for change five times in a few blocks, and this is a relatively tranquil neighbourhood; my kids in Parkdale live with far worse. 

And the level of discourse — I leap up to turn off the news on the radio when PP begins to speak; just hearing his nasty relentless voice causes me to break out in hives. Scream about every little thing, rile up the base, provoke people into fury, and then pretend surprise when raging men wreak havoc. I'm sorry Trudeau has announced he will run again, although it was predictable; he likes a good fight. But the hatred for him personally, however misplaced and misguided, is so polarizing and intense. 

The thought of PP as Prime Minister makes me want to vomit. Imagine a man that small and limited and aggressive on the world stage, a man without a platform, just hatred and accusations. 

So on this beautiful fresh day, worries about my city, my country, the world. But at least I am better; the bug has moved on. Luckily, because I need my energy today; this afternoon Sam and Bandit are getting the boys after school and coming here for a sleepover. It was Anna's birthday on Wednesday, and her gift is a night off. Tiggy is having a sleepover of her own in my tenant Robin's room, because she and Bandit, as you can imagine, are not friends. 

Sam took this recently - his happy dog. 

How lucky I am. On Saturday I'm going to a 90th birthday party, and yesterday I spent time with my friend and tech assistant Patrick, who's 20. Tonight with a 7-year-old, a 10-year-old, and a 38-year-old. It is a good thing to know people at all stages of life, to find out how they see the world. 

How old are you, and how do you see the world? 

all kinds of nice things today

A cup runneth over day. Though rainy and grey, yet again, and the world still a dumpster fire, lots of good things happening around here.

In response to my last post, Ruth wrote, You may be a loner but one who has more friends than anyone, all over the world and of all ages.

Including you, dear friend.

I wrote to several former students to ask if I could use what they'd said about their class with me on my new website. Ali, an IT consultant, wrote back, I have always been thinking about you and the wonderful experience I had with your classes. It is my honour if you put that note in your web site. It was very honest and from the bottom of my heart. Once you told me “You are a man with a big heart”. That was one of the best and most encouraging feedback I ever had, not just because of the words and the sentence, rather because of its connection to my inner layers instead of usual compliments that stay on the surface. 

I meant it, Ali. You are.

And another student, a former sportswriter, replied, For sure, use my quote. Happy to help you, since you've helped me so much! He sent me the title of his book, to be published next year by McClelland & Stewart, that he credits me with helping him begin. 

Happy to be contributing something, however small, to this sorry world. 

Speaking of which, U of T term began last night, a smaller class than usual which means each student gets more individual time. A fascinating bunch, as always. 

And I went back to the Y today for the first time in nearly two weeks. I'm still not back to health and have been more or less motionless with this bug, so expected Carole's class to be disaster. But it was not, I got through. I owe so much to the Y and to Carole, who works to make every class different, different routines and music, just superb. 

I'm back, baby! Sort of. More or less. Life returns. 

Yesterday, went to a free Hot Docs screening for seniors of The Last Relic, about the difficulties and dangers of trying to protest in Russia — idealistic, extremely brave people arrested for holding a sign at a rally, going through a Kafka-esque trial, time in jail, much time arguing with each other, in Yekaterinburg, a city where many are yearning to go back to Stalin's Soviets or even the Tsars. We in Canada have no idea how lucky we are. My daughter — even Ruth and I, probably, incorrigible lefties like those in the film — would last ten minutes in Putin's fascistic Russia. But — God, I love documentaries; yesterday I spent two hours in Yekaterinburg! This fabulous festival is 30 years old. Bravo. 

Someone left a Vanity Fair in the Little Free Library; it's just a series of articles and ads about phenomenally expensive clothing and watches and everything else. I sent this to Sam with a note: found your look for spring.

I mean. Really? I won't look at the Met Gala pictures, have no interest in the criminally absurd 1%.

And - the whole country mourns. Got out my records, thinking of young BK with her long hair and her Goya nylon string guitar, trying to learn "Early Morning Rain." Canadians musicians rule.

He was a difficult man in youth, if you really listen to songs like "That's what you get for loving me" or "Sundown" ("Sundown, you'd better take care/If I find you've been creeping down my back stairs" - as awful as John Lennon's menacing "Run for your life"). But mostly — melancholy sweetness, stunning music, and later, a fine man supporting many good causes. Thanks for all you gave us, Gord. You made us proud. 

On being alone versus loneliness

I just read a long essay by well-known Canadian memoirist Sharon Butala, reprinted from The Walrus, about loneliness. She writes that she has been a loner since childhood and is now lonely as an elderly widow living far from her son and her good friends. 

Surely being a loner is a prerequisite to being a writer. You can be an extroverted writer, but you still need to like being alone for long periods. You need to enjoy your own company.

 I should be lonelier than I am, considering how alone I am much of the time. Lucky to have tenants with whom to chat briefly, dear neighbours, children not far away, friends, students, a vast vibrant city outside my door. Also - this buzzing machine and its instant connections bringing the planet and its stories and histories into my kitchen. The television, the radio. The garden. The cat. Books, newspapers, magazines. The Y. 

And most of all, I guess, that since I've always been something of a solitary extrovert who started a diary at the age of nine, I'm used to having my own thoughts and feelings keep me company. Shouldn't I be sick of myself by now, after seventy-two years of listening to my @#$#@ brain yammer? Well, no, I guess not. I guess that's a good thing, since here I am, yammering these thoughts out to lucky you. 

 The world continues to terrify: more articles about how AI is going to destroy us; a man in Texas who slaughters his neighbours for requesting quiet so a baby can sleep - how is that even possible? Here, more grey drizzle every day, good for the plants, not for the spirits. Whatever this bug in my lungs is is hanging on, though diminishing. But still there. PHOOEY.

I've been working on material for a revamp of my website, making lists of the nice things people have said about my teaching and books. Quite heartening, if I say so myself, and of course I must say so myself since no one else will. There will be a few quotes of fulsome praise. Since that's what websites are for, at least partly, sez this extroverted introvert. 

In a few minutes, I'l watch Wonderland about children's books and then A Small Light about Miep Gies. Last night, Call the Midwife made me weep, as it always, always does — Sister Monica Joan, come back to us! — and then a new version of Tom Jones which I resisted because the Albert Finney version was so glorious. But this one is good too, strangely getting into the British involvement in the slave trade, as Sanditon did too. Obviously, national guilt emerging, even in revamps of centuries' old texts. I taped Succession but didn't watch it, read the summary today instead, enough vile machinations for me. 

It's silent here, sitting in this chair where I spend most of my days. There was sleet, briefly, batting on the skylights; the fridge is chugging. That's it, right now. I can hear the rushing of blood in my ears. 

Much, much better than NOT hearing the rushing of blood in my ears.  

Heard an interesting interview on Tom Power today, a jazz pianist, Brad Mehidan, who has made a beautiful album of Beatles' songs. Almost entirely, I note, Macca songs. Can't play him without Spotify, but even better is the exquisite original. Cheer of the day, to keep you company, in case you're lonely. Sing along. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vs7U4xfkAfI