Paul McCartney's triumphs and Dan Aykroyd's music

As if the man doesn't have enough honours and success, he's #1 on the NYT Bestseller list! Honestly, could you just slow down for once, Paul? I've asked for his book for Christmas, hope Santa is listening. And excitement is building because Peter Jackson's three-part Get Back film launches Nov. 25. I know some of my friends laugh at my adolescent fan girl enthusiasm, but there are many, many millions of Beatle lovers just like me. It's a fine club to belong to.

                                                                        Sigh.

Even louder sigh. #1 on the NYT Bestseller list. Sigh sigh sigh sigh sigh. 

Yesterday, Ken and I were going to see Dune, our first movie in a theatre in nearly two years. But it was such a stunning day, I called his cell, and both of us had had the same thought - this might be the last lovely day of the year, let's see a film when it's dark and raining. We met at Queen's Park instead and sat people-watching in the warm sun under a shower of gold, orange, and scarlet leaves, then rode along Harbord and stopped for lunch at a restaurant with a patio until a sudden rainstorm had us hustling inside. While waiting for the rain to stop, which it soon did, we FaceTimed our dear friend Lynn in Provence - how surreal is the technology, that there on the little phone in my hand was our laughing friend in southern France. She and I meet regularly now on the Zoom screen; I sent her the link to Nicky Guadagni's fabulous daily dance party, so Lynn and I now dance together several times a week, as we did when we were teenaged roommates, when Danny Aykroyd used to come to parties at our apartment with his favourite record, the music from the film Psycho. Yes. We danced to the screechy stabbing music. That was Dan.

It's a gloomy day - perfect for Dune. Let's make another date, Ken.

Remembrance Day

Amazing news: I got my booster shot today. My doctor's office emailed that all their patients over 70 could apply, so I did, though it's been a bit less than six months since my second shot. They said that was okay. As well, I'm a real mixed bag, since I've had AstraZeneca and Moderna — and now Pfizer. That vaccine smorgasbord also is okay, apparently. 

How grateful, yet again, to live in Canada! The appointment was at Women's College, a ten minute bike ride from home; the line-up of us old folks was orderly and moved fast. A very old couple, she with a walker, were behind me. "My wife goes first," he said. "My mother said so." Made me laugh.

My arm is a bit sore but my spirits are high. I know, we should not be getting boosters when the rest of the world is waiting for their first shots. But I was not going to say no. 

Before that, I went with Ruth and Jean-Marc to the first Cabbagetown remembrance day event, at Carlton and Parliament. There were readings including, of course, In Flanders Fields, and a talented young trumpeter played the Last Post; I talked to him after, he just graduated and is looking for a trumpet job, please let me know if you hear of anything, he's really good with a pure, sure sound. There were two minutes of silence, and we finished by singing O Canada. I cried, as is my wont. Singing O Canada at a joyful event makes me cry, let alone when we are thinking about those killed in the vileness that is war. Today we remembered Corporal Ainsworth Dyer, a 25-year old soldier originally from Jamaica who grew up in Regent Park and was killed by an American drone in a friendly fire incident in Afghanistan. In case death in war isn't tragic enough. 

Much chatting before and after with neighbours who've been friends for over three decades. And then on this lovely mild day, Ruth and I did another walkabout in our favourite place, the Necropolis, where the young solider is buried. Glad to be alive, even as the leaves tumble and the light fades, and remembrance makes us thoughtful and sad. 

Ruth takes on corporal punishment

Incredible as it seems, the corporal punishment of children is still legal in Canada, protected under an archaic law. But not if my dear friend and longtime writing student Ruth Miller has anything to do with it. Here's her editorial in the Star today. Hope you can access it.  

https://www.thestar.com/opinion/contributors/2021/11/09/canada-must-get-with-the-times-and-make-corporal-punishment-of-children-illegal.html

My dad believed in whacking — slapping his kids on the side of the head when anything annoyed him. I know he was beaten by his father. I never hit my kids, though I can tell you, I was pretty close on occasion. Once my daughter pushed me so to the brink of rage that I raised my hand. She looked at me cooly and said, "If you touch me, I'm calling a lawyer." She was 13. 

In fact, as Ruth points out, thanks to Canada's dreadful law, her lawyer would have had nothing to go on.

Parenting is the hardest job, and doing it as a single parent, as so many do, is 100 times harder. But still, there's no excuse for hitting. None.

Dad was a veteran of WWII and as a Jewish medic in the American army had seen close up the horrors of the Holocaust. He made mistakes as a father, but he was a great man. However, if hitting us had been illegal, as Ruth suggests, he would have been even greater.

Tomorrow I will be remembering him, and my mother, who spent the war working on farms in the Land Army and cracking codes at Bletchley Park, with love and respect.

praise for "Loose Woman" and writers in general

We have been blessed with a few of those marvellous late fall days, the special last days of heat before the cold comes in for good. Yesterday people were out in shorts and tank tops and will be today too. Heaven, especially because it's so short-lived.

I received a most welcome email today, from the eldest daughter of my friends who are called in the memoir Gail and Alain. She wrote about having read Loose Woman, which contains an account, in honest, intimate, and sometimes unflattering detail, of her family's long ago life. I'd wondered if any of their five kids, three of whom actually appear in the book as small children, would read it and if so, what they'd think. 

She wrote: I loved your account of a free - not just loose but curious and alive person who has seen l'Arche and my family's craziness for real. I cannot count the times I thought I did not have the words to describe what that life has been. Your book does this in wonderful and touching ways. And for all the times that pre-date l'Arche in your story, you tell of moments that we can all relate to, as we grow and discover life and the world. Your description of Gail and Alain is so sensitive and brings objectivity to my lived experience. Finally, it's incredibly funny. 

So thank you for this book, I loved it - and good luck for the next one.

 

I wrote back to assure her that her parents were sent the manuscript to vet before any attempt at publication was made. The travails of the memoirist: writing about people who are very much alive; the great relief when they appreciate what's on the page. I've known this fiercely idealistic, lovely, hilarious young woman, now a mother of three herself, all her life. How glad I am to have her stamp of approval. 

What I want to write next is about my fascinating and appalling parents, who are not here to complain or object. I just re-read last year's attempt at embarking on the story — 38,000 words, half a book, I'd say — and was chagrined to conclude that it doesn't really work. The problem is voice — tone. Finding the right tone and POV helps find the way to start, and I'm off. But finding tone and voice and starting place can take years, at least, for me. 

I take heart as a floundering writer from the words above, and also from the words of the first reader of Loose Woman for the Whistler competition, who chose it as a finalist and whose review spoke of "the author's distinctive personal voice — smart, insightful, and humorous. She consistently engages the reader with her authenticity and candor." And more nice things. 

The reviewer concludes: The story will resonate with folks who listen too attentively to the voice of the inner critic. It's a beacon of encouragement to stay open to the epiphanies of the soul, trust their innate wisdom, and show the same love and respect to themselves that they offer to the world.

I may have written that, but when my inner critic takes over, as she so often does, I need to be reminded of it on a regular basis. I will try to trust my "innate wisdom." Hard as that is, sometimes. 

Thanks to all who write to writers and give them, in their solitary endeavour, a boost!

A surprise inclusion in the Writers' Union of Canada newsletter:

Speaking of giving writers a boost, I watched the Giller awards last night. The maxim goes, If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. So I will not say anything, except that the event is a welcome celebration of the craft of writing fiction.

Stonehenge and fame

Females! They do everything together. Talk about teamwork.

What an amazing picture. A bush book club. A kaffeeklatsch with snacks. Pass the brie, girls. 

I was briefly famous today. In the letters to the Editor in the Star, one writer began, "Letter writer Beth Kaplan was wondering who's buying all those expensive condos downtown..." and proceeded to answer. (Developers.) So at least one nice person read my letter! And then later, on Instagram, to my amazement, I saw this: 

In the immortal words of! Fun. Alas, such fame, though welcome, is fleeting and does not pay the bills. 

Last night I watched a doc about Stonehenge. How they discovered the quarry in the Welsh Preseli Hills where the bluestones came from, and then, laboriously, how they tried to figure out the method of dragging them - perhaps on sledges - and that they were erected closer to Wales first and then four hundred years later moved to Salisbury Plane. All research done with various complex pieces of scientific equipment. Riveting. From 2300 BC! 

I've been there twice, once at fourteen with my parents, and in 2012 with a British friend. In 1964 we could walk around the stones and actually touch them; now you're kept back by barriers. They're just as awe-inspiring, though. Memorials to the dead, they think, to the ancestors. Stones, like the ancestors, are eternal. 

Documentaries forever. 

The tourist.

It was a stunning day and is going to be so all weekend - warm and bright. The leaves are gorgeous, a cavalcade of red, orange, yellow. This is right outside my house:

The city looks good, for once. Even if the developers are buying all the condos.