Onward to 2020

Dear friends, the decade ends in a few hours. Some crazy people I gather are out insisting on wild times. This bird is at home, watching Lincoln Centre Live on PBS, a celebration of Sondheim, other shows coming on later. I will not be watching the ball fall. My oldest friend Ron, from Halifax days, came for dinner; he has had a very tough year, I was glad to host him and listen. He asked me out in 1965 and I said no.

Not an easy decade. My mother gone in 2012, my aunt in 2018, dear Wayson this year. But still, these deaths were not unnatural - Mum 89, Do 98, Way relatively young at 80. But now I fear unnatural deaths begin - friends my age or just a little older, at risk. Loss. Loss. Loss.

Not to mention the planet. Let's not mention the planet, not tonight. Except - Greta. Miracles do happen.

Now watching a documentary about the sex educator Dr. Ruth. Adorable, the quintessential Yiddishe mama. Last week I watched a doc called What is it about the Jews? about why the Jewish people have achieved unparalleled success - many interesting thoughts, which I will elucidate at some point, but one of them is that Jews, unlike Catholics, embrace sex as a natural and vital part of life, meaning that rabbis marry and reproduce, whereas priests ... say no more. And here Ruth is, a Holocaust survivor aged 90 with limitless energy and a fabulous sense of humour, telling Americans how to enjoy sex. A fine way to bring in the new year.

Yesterday was a first - not one but two little boys for the night. And it was wonderful, if like being under seige. Luckily the weather was lovely and mild, so we burned off some steam at the farm and the playground. Big bowls of pasta, a bath with a great deal of splashing and water everywhere, into jammies, stories, lights out by 8.30. Unbelievable! Eli was on the mattress on the floor and Ben in the bed, but when I got up to check on them, they were squished together on the floor. The sweetest thing I've ever seen. And then those faces at my bedroom door at a very late 7.45 a.m.

I'm still watching Dr. Ruth and feeling like a slug. What an amazing woman, a tiny powerhouse.

Today we went briefly to the Y and then home for pancakes, throwing a ball endlessly, reading Spock's beautiful Oh the places you'll go and finally, meeting their mother for the end of the stay.

A late Xmas present - Kawhi Leonard of the Raptors jerseys. Ecstasy. Their Uncle Sam now wants one too, and their dad.

At the Y. The image of my father.

Nicole came to help me clean up from kids and Christmas; it took both of us some time. But now the house is more or less back to rights. Until next time. "Are you going to die soon?" asked Ben.
"I don't think so," I said. I hope not.

Dr. Ruth! Laughing out loud. She keeps asking people - her drivers, strangers, friends - "Did you eat?" I remember my grandmother, always with the food: "Ess ess, mein kind!" She loves everything. Inspiring. I'm only going to be seventy in seven months - that's nothing. Someone just asked her, "Why keep publishing books at 89?"
"What a stupid question," she said.

Happy New Year to you all. May you flourish, may you find joy and laughter, may you be healthy and doing work you love, may friends and family keep you company sometimes but not too often. May our world survive the cretins.

Happy New Year, friends. On we go.

63 Up: the subject tonight is Love.

Calm before the storm - tonight I'm hosting both my grandsons for a sleepover for the first time. Till now, I've not felt ready to handle both bouncing-off-the-wall energizer bunnies on my own - and didn't even have another bed. But yesterday I bought a mattress and squeezed it into the small spare room, and there they will be tonight, wreaking, undoubtedly, havoc.

On Friday to the Hot Docs cinema to meet Ken, Anne-Marie, and Jim, for 63 Up.  It's a unique and phenomenal experience to follow the lives of these British people from age 7, every 7 years to now. All of us in the audience were I'm sure considering our own lives in light of theirs. They've suffered divorce, ill health, estrangements, the death of parents, and one of them has actually died. But they're all fine human beings now, extremely likeable, so much wiser than they were. Perhaps many of us are that way? Even Neil, the adorable sparkling 7-year old who was a scabby penniless recluse by 21 and ended up homeless, struggling with mental illness, is now a civic politician and lay preacher who, amazingly, owns a house in France! I loved them all.

We hope for 70 Up, though Michael Apted the director is in his eighties and may not be up for it. I could watch this series forever. A magnificent achievement.

And then to a pub for dinner with three of my dearest friends, where we discovered the Friday special deal of a bottle of wine for $21. Couldn't pass that up.

Saturday, I happily dispensed with Christmas - took down the tree, put away the wreath and the table coverings and the hooha. Done and done.

Yesterday, to old friend David Rothberg's end of Hanukkah party. A friend from university days, David became a successful businessman; we lost touch during the busy years but have reconnected with pleasure recently. His house in the Annex is impressive, vast rooms with modern art and unusual furniture, including a fabulous very long wooden table that someone said David made himself. I'm not used to such splendour - a young woman greeting us at the door to take our coats, then inside, caterers carving real Montreal smoked meat for sandwiches, platters of other goodies being passed around including latkes, a bartender serving drinks. And the most interesting people in Toronto - David is connected to the film business, writers, everyone. I ran into Ian Pearson who was an editor at Banff when I was there, then David Macfarlane, the superb writer, and his wife Janice Lindsay. Rick Salutin of the gloomy face wandered in, David Young the playwright appeared with a tray of oysters - it was that kind of party. I felt lucky to be there.

Today my Christmas present to myself arrived. Perhaps you remember the winter coat I wanted to buy at Bloomingdales but the last size Large was snatched from under my nose. Well, I found the same coat in a Boxing Day sale online, and it arrived today. I can give away my second-hand coats; with this one, I will never be cold again. In fact, I'm sorry the weather is so mild right now, I want to try it out and it's too warm outside! Never did I think I'd be saying that.

Ken gave me a book of poems by the 14th century poet Hafiz and asked me particularly to read this one.
 
   The subject tonight is Love
And for tomorrow night as well,
      As a matter of fact
   I know of no better topic
         For us to discuss
             Until we all
                   Die!

Agreed.

survived another one

Giving thanks for the breath in my lungs and for so much else, on this mild, gloomy Boxing Day. Anna is feeling better and has opened her presents. I just made lunch - hot turkey sandwiches - for old friend Kathleen, nicknamed Fla, my first roommate when I moved out of home to an apartment in Ottawa at 18. She lives in Montreal, and we see each other rarely.

Then I made turkey soup while listening to CBC 1 play Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet," one of my favourite pieces of music, just magnificent - and it was the National Youth Orchestra of Canada too. He builds such tension, such strident power and darkness, and then the Juliet music shines through - how could a forty-something Russian capture the lightness of a young girl so perfectly? That last note - Juliet's high note of hope, held forever - goosebumps.

And now Shostakovich, something sweet, unlike what I know as his music. Thank you, CBC 1.

Last night, after the family left, laden down with gifts and leftovers and Anna's pile of presents, I did more cleaning up and then turned on the Call the Midwife Xmas special, set this time in the Outer Hebrides. This is a show brimming with heart, just beautiful; I adore it.

Wept - not just for the babies, for the loveliness of the show - but for the world, for the fact that somehow, despite the horror, the doom-laden forecasts, we have no choice but to go on. To love one another, celebrate one another, do our best to be open and caring and generous and kind.

Speaking of kind, a student wrote, on Xmas Day: I took your class at Ryerson a couple of years ago and attended your 'writing in the garden' workshop last summer, both experiences I hold close to my heart. Wanted to share with you that a piece I wrote was published in the Globe yesterday. I'm very proud, and wanted to say thank you for teaching me much of what I know about writing a personal essay. "No beautiful sentences" is something I try to remember! 
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-how-do-i-fill-that-christmas-shaped-hole-when-family-traditions-change/

Now I will walk to the Y to sit in the hot tub and recuperate, and then the real post-Xmas time begins. I have two weeks till teaching begins again, though I do have a talk to prepare for next week. And a fridge stuffed with leftovers and soon, soup. A radio pouring out music. A warm house, a heart full.

Christmas 2019 = the flu

The best laid plans etc. Thank heavens we are not a family that cares particularly about creating a perfect scenario at Xmas. Because we're way off track this year. On Monday morning, Ben and Thomas were sick and Anna was coping with Eli, so I came to get him. Luckily I was pretty organized here for presents and food. So we had that day, a sleepover, and all next day together, by the end of which - after several playground visits in the mild air, where he wanted to play tag - Glamma was utterly spent. There was a lovely moment as I was chasing him around the playground, when I looked up to see a woman in a hijab beaming at us.

Eli and I spoke about missing Wayson - our first Christmas in many years without him. The ache of loss.

Anna by then was also not feeling well, but she came across last night to get Eli after the Xmas pageant which he and I attended together. Thank God, again, that I was not producing this year. The holy family dropped out at the last minute, and they recruited a family which had come to see the production; instead they found themselves gamely sitting in the straw with their baby. Perfection.

Everyone gets a gift of a home baked cookie as they leave the barn. On the way home, as Eli munched his treat, I was explaining the myths of Xmas - the baby in the barn, the star, the Wise Men - and he said, "This cookie is really good!" So much for myths. I realized this time that producing the pageant is like corralling cats - so many things go wrong. And yet it's indestructible because so essentially sweet and spiritual. Standing, singing carols surrounded by hundreds of neighbours, small children, the very old, I always weep. Mary, Stephen, and I started this thing 20 years ago. What a blessing. I wrote to Mary today, it will show well on our ledger sheet when we're standing at the Pearly Gates.

Last night, after Anna and Eli left, I went to Mary's annual post-pageant party in the loveliest house in Cabbagetown, with the fire blazing and a huge feast and people I've known for 35 years, since our kids were very small, and now we're grandparents.

Today, Anna is really sick and Thomas only a bit better, though Ben has recovered. Sam was nearly  here when he had to turn around and go back and get the boys. So the boys are here, and Anna and Thomas are at home, probably will not make it over at all, their stack of presents still under the tree. We cancelled the friends with a new baby who were coming for dinner - risky since there's sickness around - so it'll be the four of us. The turkey, sweet potatoes, and stuffing are in the oven, potatoes are mashed, brussels ready to heat up, crackers to pull. We'll watch The Polar Express, give them a bath, and then Sam will take them home to their poor parents.

No, just learned Thomas is going to come soon. Hooray. We'll be five.

So - Christmas 2019, another memorable one, perhaps not for the right reasons, but c'est la vie. Lani gave me socks that are patterned with library stamps, Lynn sent from France some sparkling peridot earrings, I've been given TONS of chocolate and a big framed picture of ... the Beatles. The racetrack I bought the boys is set up in the dining room and they've been zipping around. Sam just took them to the playground and as everything cooks, Glamma is having a moment's peace with J. S. Bach and thou. The kitchen smells divine.

What matters most is health. My beloved Patsy, dear friend since 1970, had a devastating diagnosis this year but so far is fine. She always sends a beautiful poem for Xmas, and this year was no exception. It's on the tree, with a delicate drawn oak leaf below. It reads:

     each leaf
knows when to
                          fall
to fly with wind
                  then drift
      to ground
  and trusts the Earth
      will bring
            new leaves
come spring

It made me weep, of course.

From my house to yours, I wish you health, both physical and psychic. May you have a joyful day and a healthy, happy, prosperous 2020. And thank you for sharing my journey through this blog. As Wayson liked to say: Onward.
With love,
Beth

it's the winter solstice and all's well

The house up the street. And a Cabbagetown Christmas to you too.

What's different this year? It's Dec. 21 and I'm not frantic! And I realize - this year I'm not producing the pageant on Christmas Eve at Riverdale Farm. It was a tiny bit more stress at a stressful time; I was one of the producers for nine years while my children were at home - Sam playing Wise Man #1 for some years and Anna holding up the illuminated star ahead of the carollers. I quit with relief and then came back after a bit when it seemed they could use a producing hand. And now I've left again; they're a capable bunch. I'll attend on Tuesday evening with the audience, including, I hope, my grandsons, and then we'll go to Mary's magnificent house where the fire is burning and a feast awaits; the smoked salmon is the best anywhere.

On Thursday, a gathering with Y friends, the nicest people in the world, people with real jobs - lawyers, financial analysts, civil servants - I'd never have met anywhere else. It was a great get-together at Fran's but small and noisy. Next year, we decided everyone from class should come here for a potluck. It's fun for us to meet each other with our clothes on. A Y joke.

Yesterday, dear friend Nick Rice and his lady love Beth Anne Cole the actress and singer came for dinner. Nick and I appeared in a number of shows together in Vancouver in the seventies. He is still an actor, dashing off to regional playhouses on a regular basis, and working as a supply teacher in T.O. to keep himself afloat. Heroic.

Sent this to Nick today. Never was a truer word said.

Another no on the memoir arrived in the mail yesterday. It was however a very nice, almost regretful note that gave me a bit of comfort. Onward.

Tomorrow, lots going on, but today, completely alone, had lots of options, did none of them, barely left the house despite the blessedly sunny day — decorated my $20 Charley Brown tree that's tied to the wall to keep it upright and wrapped presents, using colour comics and advertising flyers from the newspaper - thank you Greta.

It's the winter solstice and Chanukah. Whatever you celebrate, may it be without stress.