today's heroes: Joe Biden, Mandy Patinkin, Pa Leadbeater

Gloomy, grey, very wet - ah, spring. Good for the flowers, but your faithful correspondent is not going out today. Yesterday, spent more time delving into the boxes of paper in my office and discovered that what I thought was my British grandmother's diary was in fact my grandfather's. There is definitely a diary-keeping gene, and I inherited it from Percy Leadbeater; he never stopped chronicling. One I found broke my heart: in 1980, after my mother had brought her parents, who were in their mid-eighties, from London to Ottawa and installed them eventually in a longterm care facility where they shared a room, my grandmother was taken to hospital one day. Two days later, Pa wrote MARION DIED. 

And then continued with what he was watching, eating, doing. Life must go on. They'd been married 62 years. 

And more tears - found a tiny daytimer kept by my mother in 1944, hardly filled out; my mother emphatically did NOT inherit the diary gene. But on Wednesday November 29, along with what I assume are her Bletchley shift times - " 4-12" - she wrote one word: "Kap," her nickname for Private J. Gordin Kaplan, whom she'd met the Saturday before. On Wednesday, they got together again, and with that one tiny word, my hope of life began. 

Amazing, no, to have this light into the past? A blessing, but overwhelming too.

Speaking of shining light, one of my favourite shows is PBS's Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates, an impishly warm and wise man. This week it was Audra McDonald and the wonderful Mandy Patinkin, who wept on learning how much of his family had been wiped out in the Holocaust, something he hadn't known. And he passed on a saying: "As long as one person remembers you, it's not over." He said he was going to treasure the memory of his family, even those he did not know. 

Mandy was performing his Yiddish songs in Toronto some years ago; the concert was expensive so I didn't go, but I did go to the Stage Door and leave a gift for him: my book Finding the Jewish Shakespeare. I wanted him to play my great-grandfather in the Spielberg film adaptation of the book. My great-grandfather died aged 56, so it's a little late now.

Sigh.

Great cheer however: I watched the last 20 minutes of Biden's speech last night with my mouth hanging open. Did he use a teleprompter at all, or did he simply pour out one marvellous ambitious project after another? The man, I texted my family, is a fucking miracle. 

As long as one person remembers you, it's not over.

The Oscars, and The Father

Yes, I watched the Oscars, sort of, while also reading, flipping to other channels, and finally with relief turning to "Couples Therapy" which provided more drama. I understand trying to keep the magic alive, creating an intimate space in a train station, but those enormous gowns looked absurd in a small space. Though Chloe Zhao and Frances McDormand paid no attention to the dress code, no breasts toppling out or un-walkable shoes for them. 

I'd seen a mere two of the nominated movies - "Soul" and "The Trial of the Chicago 7" - both terrific. Tried briefly but abandoned "Mank" and "Ma Rainey." I'd also seen two of the prize-winning documentaries: "My Octopus Teacher," which I loved, and the short "Colette," about an elderly Frenchwoman honouring her brother, who was in the resistance and died in a concentration camp - very moving. 

People have complained bitterly in past years about the lack of diversity of the Oscars. This year, they were as satisfyingly diverse as could be, both in presenters and winners; many of the speeches were about racial justice. So afterwards, people complained about the venue and the ending. I guess we just like to complain. Well, I can't talk, after my bitchfest.

Have to say, Brad Pitt is still one of the best-looking men on earth, even with a silly little ponytail. 

Last night, I watched two other winners: the best animated short, "If something happens I love you" and "The Father." Devastating, both of them, and brilliant, one about the aftermath of gun violence and the other about losing your mind to Alzheimers. Anthony Hopkins deserved that Oscar; he gives a master class in acting with truth and courage, showing what it's like not to understand what's happening around you, absolutely stunning, but then they all are, every actor, the whole movie. Florian Zeller, the very young, very handsome Frenchman who wrote and produced it as a play first and now this haunting film - what a blazing talent.

I read a funny article in the paper - there's a Frenchman in space, at the space station, so they had to create gourmet freeze-dried food for him, including boeuf bourguignon and lobster. Mais bien sûr! 

Yesterday I was on a Zoom call with neighbours I've known for over 30 years. Duncan Fremlin is creating a video memory of the Cabbagetown baseball league, which ran in the Sprucecourt school playing field every spring through the nineties. I told them it was heaven, going across the street twice a week to stand with other parents watching our kids play in a field ringed by forsythia in full bloom. How lucky we are still to be here, still to be friends. One of the father coaches - one of the best things about the league was the involvement of many fathers - said he had fond memories of "Beth's daughter Anna, so very outspoken." Anna had told me that though the fee to join was very low - $12, I think - some of her friends from Regent Park couldn't afford it, so she simply snuck them onto the teams, "got them jerseys and everything." 

Atsa my girl, the same at twelve as at ... nearly forty. On Monday my outspoken daughter will be forty. How is it possible that girl hitting a home run on a mild spring evening against a bank of forsythia is now 40, watching her own children play? And I am 70. 70. 

Luckily, so far I think my aging brain is still in play. More or less.

In which Beth launches a bitchfest

It's a heavenly day here. The cardinals are busy - perhaps eggs or babies somewhere? There, a white cabbage butterfly, the first of the season. And oh, the sweet green now bursting from branches - that tender incandescent green of spring, never has it felt so welcome. Nature, ignoring our human crises, getting on with business. 

So what better day for a bitchfest? I'm 70, and I get to be crabby every once in a while.

I'll start with the reasons I leap up to turn off CBC radio: Vocal fry, yes, females who speak as if reluctantly dragging their voices from the back of their throats - cannot listen. Some of the more inane patter, cannot listen. ("Seeing your husband drop dead in front of you - how did that make you feel?") 

But lately, it's wording due to political correctness that has me slamming off the sound. And that wording is: "pregnant people." Or "pregnant individuals." 

We are no longer allowed to say "pregnant women." The word "pregnant" has been in the news a lot recently because they've decided they're high priority and need to be vaccinated asap. None of them are women; all of them are people or individuals.

I will learn to say 'they' when looking at a single person, if that's what they want. But I will never say "pregnant people." How many human beings are there in the world? Almost 8 billion. That means almost 4 billion women. How many of them of child-bearing age - shall we be conservative and say a quarter? That means nearly a billion women have been wiped out by this new way of speech, in order to be inclusive of - how many trans women or trans men on the planet will bear children - 12? 50? 100?

My daughter says, Times change and we have to change with them. True. But the sometimes preposterous lengths we on the left go to be kind is one of the ways Trump got elected and a drum the Republicans keep banging. Absolutely, we must protect trans people in every way conceivable, no question there. But what got J.K. Rowling viciously censored was saying we should not need to wipe out women as a category in order to do that. 

Next bitch: an entire generation of young people who are incapable of walking outside without a take-out coffee in one hand. It's as if the hand is fused in that position, like Barbie's feet always ready for the stilettos - the hand curved, waiting for the Starbucks cup, which is, need we say, non-recyclable and ends up littering the streets and parks. While we're bitching about that, why isn't there a recycling tax for companies that use non-recyclable materials and produce a ton of garbage? When Starbucks and Tim Hortons moved into my 'hood, the garbage on the streets quintupled.

Speaking of which, masks. Who takes off the mask and throws it into the bushes or the gutter? A lot of people; they're everywhere. I had a nighttime fantasy that I'd make it my job to walk the 'hood picking up garbage and masks. David Sedaris does it in England and has become famous; they've named a garbage truck after him. But here there are a lot of people in need of work; why doesn't the city hire them to pick up thousands, millions, of coffee cups and masks? 

Okay, blood pressure settling. 

I spent part of yesterday reading my British grandmother's daytimer, realizing how very poor they were - retired schoolteachers on a pension, counting every penny, long lists, page after page at the back of what went out and what little came in. And then the journal itself: every day, she writes "M,A,E" - morning, afternoon, evening: the weather, the activities - going to the shops for Marmite and marmalade, and in the evening, the telly. I was there at theatre school that year - 1971. It's nice to read that I dropped in for tea every once in a while. 

There's a sparrow sipping at the water dish on the deck - so delicate, the way they bend to sip and then tilt their heads up to swallow. I went to the market this morning and have lots of fresh veg - time to make a stew, I think. Do I feel better after that rant? Not particularly. Do you? I'm sure not, perhaps I've stirred up complaints of your own. Ah well. It's been a long hard year. We're allowed an occasional bitchfest. And now, with sunshine and birdsong, cheer returns. 

justice, blessed relief, and snow

Anna and the boys were over yesterday; we were about to go to the playground when she checked her phone and said, "The verdict's coming in soon!" TV went on; the boys swirled around us while we held our breath and watched - and eventually wept. We had to try to explain to two small boys why a police officer had been convicted of murder. It was not easy.

Thank god, a moment of justice in an unjust land. It's hard to imagine, given the cellphone footage, that the verdict could have gone any other way, as countless other verdicts have in the past. The blessing of cellphone cameras and the courage of witnesses. 

Like Harvey Weinstein and others trapped by the march of time and social change, Chauvin launched his career in a certain system, where white policemen could do whatever they wanted, including murder, and get away with it; he's the first to publicly find himself in another. It will not be easy for him in prison, where I assume he may be surrounded by men he helped put away.

Eli had brought homework, so while he did it, Ben did some careful, laborious writing of his own. He asked for the spelling of NO CHICKENS, followed by NO ROOSTERS. Not sure why, but definite rules have now been made which I'll do my best to obey. I'm blessed to be able to spend time with my grandsons and give thanks that this pandemic, unlike polio, spares children almost entirely. One of the greatest blessings of all. 

I sent this picture to Ben's grandfather in Washington, and he replied, Always nice to have clear rules of engagement, especially concerning poultry. 

Snow! Very pretty. It won't last, in fact, it's melting already. Just a reminder of where we've been. 

Couples Therapy - if you're a couple, a must see

Oh this is such a strange time, these long solitary days, everything closed, the air full of fear. Online petitions for Doug Ford to resign. Somehow time vanishes, swallowed up, another day gone.

Today would have been my penpal Barbara's 71st birthday had she not died after a heart operation in 1966 at the age of 16. It was that plus other stuff, one of those @#$@ days; I badly needed a walk so went to the Necropolis to commune with the Cabbagetown dead. But it's spring, hard to be mopey for long.

My house, hidden by forsythia. What a colour!

The magnificent magnolia outside the Necropolis

Sunday night is TV night - 60 Minutes along with The Eighties (flipping back and forth during commercials), The Simpsons, Us - which shows us the fabulous European cities - Paris, Amsterdam, Venice - we might never see again; a new Netflix series, Mare of Easttown starring Kate Winslet as an exhausted, angry cop, which was so relentlessly depressing, I stopped after half an hour - the small town underbelly of America, hopelessly dysfunctional people who eat absolute garbage throughout - the ghastly food a subplot, along with poverty and murder. 

And then, a standout: Couples Therapy on Crave, fascinating, reality TV, real couples seeing a very wise, patient therapist. You watch them in their entrenched positions, not listening, feeding their resentment, and her attempts to pry them loose and open them up. Fascinating. 

Today the long list came out for the Stephen Leacock Award for humour writing; I'd entered with the faintest hope, and sure enough, Loose Woman was not on the list. All but one on the long list are men. Writing competitions these days are predominantly women, by far, except for humour. Does this mean we don't have a sense of humour? No, but it does mean - I know this from my classes and from my men friends - that for men, humour is a powerful defence mechanism which allows them to tell their stories without seeming vulnerable or weak. And more power to them, God knows, we need to laugh now more than ever. Bring it on. Please.

On the other hand, here's another fan of the book, a student from at least a decade ago: I finished reading Loose Woman last night and had to write to tell you how much I enjoyed it. Such a riveting read, and the sentences so well-crafted, just leapt off the page. I felt like I really got a peek into that young woman's mind and heart. I have recommended it to others, some of whom, like me, are former students of yours who I've kept in touch with over the years.

I needed that today. Thank you!

Oh, and I finished a longish article and sent it to a magazine. It's not funny enough either, but luckily, that's not what these people are looking for. Stay tuned.