Work Experience

My brother Francis used to say that kids are born workers, and then we teach them out of it. While he had a point, I’m not sure I agree with his statement completely. I think kids are often more about trying to please and earn positive reinforcement, which can happen when they help out and an adult says, “Good job!” or “You’re so strong!” Eventually, they grow out of the desire to work for praise alone. I know I did.

When I was ten, I got my first paid job outside my family. My parents' friends owned a bakery and when they found out I would like to earn some money, they offered me the chance to press tart shells for them for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings. I would put a little pre-made ball of dough into a foil tart tin, which I placed on what looked like the platform of a microscope, and pull a lever. Pulling the lever activated the metal press which flattened the dough into the tart tin. Although a simple task, the dough had to be perfectly centered. I remember getting a little frustrated at first, and I was soon pretty bored by my one task. I also found the heat of the baking room mixed with the smell of doughnut fat oppressive. I didn’t last long working there. I inherited a small paper route from a sibling next, and that was more to my taste.

As soon as I was eleven, I was legally allowed to babysit. Babysitting was much more interesting to me than pressing tart shells. My mom always told me I had a knack with little kids, and I suppose I did have, although I never really thought about it. Our neighbours a few doors down had two little girls. They hired me for my first babysitting job. Unfortunately, the littlest girl sometimes cried a lot when her parents left. My mom told me to call her if I felt I couldn’t cheer up the little one, and she would come over and help, which she did once. I began to babysit for more neighbours and word got out the kids didn’t loathe me, so I got a regular calls. Sometimes, the eldest kid would not be much younger than I was, and I would always tell them, "I'm not here to babysit you, just your little brother/sister. We can just hang out." I continued to babysit off and on until I was in my late teens, even when I had other jobs, especially if the kids were fun and/or cute, the families paid well, and they had good snacks. 

Tutoring was another side gig I enjoyed from Grade seven through college. In college, I tutored two boys from Hong Kong, helping them with their English. In those days, the international students from Asia generally chose an English name. The two students I worked with chose Otto and Dominic. When I asked Otto why he chose that name, he said, "Because he was a king. The greatest!" No lack of confidence there, but they were fun, teachable boys. My tutoring job led to a summer job as an ESL assistant. I helped kids from Japan, Hong Kong, and even one from Vietnam improve their English so they could eventually get a job in finance or a hotel - the reason their parents sent them to Canada. Some of the kids were homesick, so I did my best to joke around with them and make them feel at ease.

I'd got my first ‘real job’ when I was fifteen. I worked in the canteen at my local ski hill. The hill, now famous for its delicious, healthy fare which spawned a successful cookbook series, was still in its grilled cheese, burgers-and-fries stage back when I was working there. My bosses were two women from Vancouver who'd won the contract to provide the food service that year. They gave me and my coworkers a ride to work Saturdays and Sundays which was very kind of them. Those days were long and I still had five days a week of school and extra-curriculars. Fortunately, it was only a winter gig. The best part of that job was we all took turns doing the various tasks in the kitchen so no one got stuck working the fryer all day. My favourite task was working the till, so I could talk to customers (and cute boys), but we all got a turn and that was fair.

I didn’t go back to the ski hill the following winter because I was offered a year-round job in a sporting goods store within walking distance of my parents' house. I sold footwear, children’s bikes, and cross-country ski packages. My boss was a triathlete, so I left the more serious bike sales to him if I could. I also bought a road bike with some of my earnings and started spending many evenings and summer days off riding. My boss had made sure it fit me perfectly. That bike and I had some very happy times together pedaling out to various beaches with or without friends - earned money well spent. The filming of Steve Martin's movie Roxanne happened in our town that summer, too, and I was thrilled when the actors would come into the store. 

Other jobs I held during my college days, when I still lived at home, included sales at an outdoor sporting goods store (I had to learn a lot about canoes, backpacks, and hiking boots), dishwashing and till at a busy café, housesitting, more babysitting…all jobs within my scope of teenage ability. I took my success for granted.

Then I tried tree planting. My brother Stephen was putting himself through university tree planting. Lots of people I knew from my various jobs tree planted all summer and then travelled or skied all winter. Tree planting was a great way to make a lot of money in a short time. The fact that it was grueling, physical work, and I hadn’t so much as picked up a shovel in my life, didn’t dissuade me from convincing myself I needed to try it. I asked my brother to put in a good word for me with his company, which he kindly did. His company, run by a couple of local brothers, held a two-week training camp for new hires. We were to be bussed out to the cut block for the day, then bussed home for a period of two weeks to see if we liked the job - seasoned treeplanters like my brother lived in camps or motel rooms near the cutblock. I lasted one day. My achilles tendons were shot after several hours of climbing around steep, fire-blackened terrain in caulk boots. I also hated it. A friend of my mom’s found out I had tried tree planting and was horrified. She and her husband had run a tree planting company and she knew what kind of people were successful at it. Apparently, I was not that kind of people. She had been running arts festivals and fairs in our town for a few years, and was amazing at it. She was a visionary, tough, kind, and funny. She offered me a job. I worked for her for three wonderful summers as an administration assistant on a student grant. The best job ever for the best boss. 

By the age of nineteen, like many GenerationX kids, I had been working solidly for nine years. My family didn’t have a lot of money, so we kids all got jobs to buy and do the extra things we wanted, thus leveling the playing field a bit between the 'haves' and the 'have nots' in our schools. There was always work for us because we were generally polite, cheerful, conscientious kids who showed up on time and did what we were paid to do. Working kept us(mostly) out of trouble, put money in our pockets, and expanded our skill sets. We learned to get along with a variety of people in a work setting, behave professionally, follow instructions, manage our money, and sometimes, how to stand up for ourselves. By the time I was  applying for my first adult job, I had a decent resume with more on it than, 'I know how to keep my room clean'. 

I am so grateful I had so many opportunities to work, learn, and earn spending money as I was growing up. Working helped my shaky confidence to grow and taught me a bit about how the world works. I learned through trial and error what sort of jobs I had aptitude for. My husband and I encouraged our kids to get jobs when they were old enough. They had lots of energy to burn and a strong desire to buy things we couldn't afford after housing them, feeding them, and paying for extra-curriculars like sports and music lessons - so, working was a natural fit for them. 

I hope kids will always have the opportunity to expand their horizons by working. I hope AI doesn't take all the entry level jobs away, robbing our children of such great opportunities for growth.

'til next time, 

Rebecca

 

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I was out for a walk the other day, revelling in the perfection of a sunny spring day, when I noticed an elderly woman working in her yard. She turned to greet me and I said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?" She must have misheard me because she replied with, "Thank you". It was then that I realized that she had a beautiful front garden on the other side of her walkway, jam packed with perrenials coming into bloom. She must have been used to compliments on her garden, which explained her reply. "It will look much nicer in a week or two," she said. "I'll be sure to walk this way again," I said. As I picked up my pace once more, I felt a glow inside my chest. I am truly inspired by people who can create and maintain a beautiful garden. 

From my observations, you either have a green thumb or you don't. Mine is somewhat beige. My middle sister's is a bright shade of Kelly green. She only has to touch a plant and it seems to thrive. When I lived in a house with a yard I did my best to create something of a garden. I did alright with flowers, but my vegetable gardening was limited to a few containers of tomatoes, cucumbers and basil on our south facing deck. I grew some mildy successful garlic in the ground, and, with my husband's help, maintained the raspberry canes and rhubarb that were planted before we lived in the house, but that was it. Once upon a time I had tried to grow a vegetable garden, but I learned that my back didn't respond well to garden work, and I wasn't very successful in any case. Now, on my condo's small deck, I grow a few culinary herbs and some pretty, easy care flowers like geraniums, petunias, and marigolds. In summer I like to eat supper at the little table we have on the deck and enjoy the flowers. 

Even though I don't garden myself, I can see how satisfying it is to grow your own food. I belong to a veggie co-op that was started by a farmer friend. She is an excellent gardener. Both her thumbs, and probably her big toes, too, are bright green. Her daughter has inherited her love of growing food and is now making it her life's work. I feel so lucky to benefit from her hard work and her aptitude for farming. By the end of May I will be picking crunchy lettuces, mild, sweet spinach, and crisp red radishes, not to mention long ruby stalks of rhubarb.

I live in a very rich food-growing area, famous for its berries. Soon there will be luscious strawberries followed by plump raspberries (my favourite) and toothsome blueberries in abundance for sale in the many stands along the rural roads of my region. We are blessed to have a long season of weekly farmers markets with everything from fresh veggies and fruit to baked goods, canned jellies and jams, local honey, and flowers. Even though I sometimes wish I had the ability to grow my own food, I would say that I make many a local grower happy by purchasing from them. That has to count for something in the food chain.  

I have a niece who is an accomplished gardener. I asked her once if it was possible to both love gardens and loathe gardening. She said, yes, that's why she is employed by people who don't want to or can't do it themselves. When I had a yard to care for, I had a love-hate relationship with it. I wanted the results, but the ongoing work to maintain it was a challenge. On the other hand, I had a friend who loved working in the yard so much that as she aged she decided she had to set a timer for one hour so she wouldn't overdo it. Another friend was so dedicated to her garden that she got up every day in summer at 5:30 to beat the heat and work in her garden. I am a little bit ashamed that I am never going to be one of those people. If I were wealthy and had a house again, I would tend a little patch of flowers and leave the rest of the yard to the professionals. 

If you're a dedicated gardener, I salute you. I'll walk by your house and feel that glow in my chest that comes from appreciating the beauty of your work. I hope you know that. 

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Warm Thoughts

There comes a time every winter, usually in early March, when I announce to anyone who cares, "I am ready to be warm again." 

I enjoyed a preview of that warmth a couple of weekends ago when my husband and I went to Penticton to see our younger son play in a concert there. Penticton, like much of the Okanagan, is generally drier and warmer this time of year than where we live, and it did not disappoint that weekend. It was so warm that, after the concert, we stood very comfortably outside the theatre talking with our son for a good half hour. It was so warm that in the morning, we went for a walk and had to shed our jackets and scarves, even though there was a light breeze. I felt every muscle in my body relax in the warmth. I turned to my husband at one point and said, "Maybe we should retire here." He responded by drily informing me that Penticton is at least thirty-five degrees celcius most of the summer. "Oh, but it's a dry heat," I scoffed, knowing full well that he was right - I'm not a big fan of thirty-plus temperatures. 

My dad's parents were Snowbirds. They joined thousands of other retired Canadians every winter and went down to the California desert. My Nana suffered with arthritis, and the dry heat made her achy joints feel a whole lot better than they did during the wet winters in her home in South Surrey/Whiterock. My grandparents even bought a home in Rancho Mirage, outside of Palm Springs. When they turned eighty, however, the medical insurance skyrocketed and they decided to sell up and remain in South Surrey each winter. I'm sure it was hard for them to say goodbye to those hot, dry, comfortable winters down south. I wonder if they ever thought of retiring to Penticton. I wish they were around to ask. 

I don't mind winter at all. I don't yet have crippling arthritis or suffer through Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) or anything like that. I don't mind rain, either, as long as it doesn't rain incessently for days and days on end. I like being cozy with fluffy duvets and blankets tucked under my chin while the winter weather rages outside. I like making hot soup and warm biscuits for supper. I enjoy skiing and rambles on a snowy trail. I like the views of the mountains from my windows when the leaves are off the trees. Come late spring, those mountain views are filled in with masses of green growth. I like watching the flames flicker in the fireplace and taking hot baths on a cold night. But, even I, friend of winter, reach my seasonal limit. After months of wearing layers upon layers, walking down the street with my shoulders hunched against the cold, hands thrust in pockets Bob Dylan style, I'm ready to stand tall with my shoulders back, wear a sunhat and flowy dress and reclaim my outdoor comfort!

You know that first day in spring when you feel warm enough to walk down the street in a t-shirt? That is always a moment of bliss for me. The air temperature is neither too hot, nor too cold. That is my sweet spot. I am so looking forward to that moment in spring when I don't have to decide which jacket to wear, but we are not there yet. On this last day of March, the season is still hovering between winter chill and spring thaw. A sunny day still ends in a freezing night. A warm, mild day filled with bird song and blooming flowers can easily Jekyll and Hyde into a raw, frigid morning where the snow line descends on the mountains overnight. 

Spring is definitely happening, though, and for that, I say "Welcome Spring, and thank you for all your many gifts of beauty and cheerfulness, and the hope of many, many warm days to come."

Happy Easter, everyone!

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Everybody Hurts Sometimes

I have never been a person with great reserves of energy, but I have generally enjoyed good health. Lately I have been thinking a lot about the years when I was raising my kids. I am more than grateful for those decades when a bout of bronchitis, back pain, or a stomach bug were the worst of my issues. As regular readers of my 'letters' know, after I had turned fifty and my kids were grown up, I spent a year and a half recovering from a head injury. At no time was I close to dying, but I felt like I might be. Concussions can be that bad. A few of my friends checked in on me regularly and that meant the world to me. One friend even brought my family meals every week for the entire summer. That whole experience shaped me in so many ways that I find it hard not to talk about. (I am sorry if you're tired of hearing about it. I try not to make it my whole personality.)

'Life and death stuff' is what my friend who went through breast cancer treatment calls more serious health crises. As we get older and have more experiences with Life and Death Stuff, we internalize those experiences and use them to empathize with and give help to our friends whose turn it is to go through a crisis. In the best case scenario we are part of a supportive community, taking turns looking after each other, understanding what is at stake. In the process, we, ideally, become better friends, siblings, daughters and sons. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was on the phone with a dear childhood friend. I had texted her to say, if she wanted a ski buddy the next day at her local hill, my husband was on his way there for a flying two-day ski break, and would welcome her company. She called me and said she had the week off and would probably be able to meet my husband at the hill, that is, if her mother-in-law who had recently broken her kneecap didn't need her. I asked if our mutual friend who spent the winters skiing at our hometown hill was still in town. My friend said, no, she'd had to go home to Ontario a month early due to her father-in-law having a bad fall and needing support, and her husband who had planned to join her for her ski break this year didn't get to come even for a week. (As we get older it seems more friends and families in our sphere are 'going through it', doesn't it?) We were both sad that I had not been able to make the trip due to a flareup in my sinuses. Driving a long day over three mountain passes would not be helpful for my condition.

My husband has an appointment in April with an orthopedic surgeon who will look at his knee that has been operated on twice and, according to a recent MRI, has all kinds of issues. Amazingly, even though he is usually in some pain, he persists with the skiing and the trail running, depending on the season, but has added strength training to his regimen in order to support his weaker areas. His knee has recently failed him a couple of times though, and his upcoming appointment with the surgeon is welcome. On a walk at our local river trail the other day, my husband and I were passed by dozens of young runners. I sighed. I miss running, but it's not a wise thing to do when you have a blockage in your sinuses, even when the rest of you is fine. I enjoyed a passing philosophical thought as a twenty-something woman blew past us. 'It's her turn,' I thought to myself. 'I'm glad she is making good use of her healthy body. I hope she's really enjoying herself today.' Aloud to my husband I said, "I miss running. But, in the words of REM, 'Everybody hurts sometimes'." He said something encouraging like, "You'll be able to run again. This is just a temporary setback." I'm on the cancellation list for the Ear, Nose and Throat doctor, so I hope I don't have to wait too, too long for an appointment. The scary date of '2027' was said by the ENT's receptionist. The blockage in my sinuses totally clearing up before then would be even better. 

I get down on myself when I am sick. I think, 'Why am I not stronger?' I prefer to be the helper, not the helped. I hope my personal experiences with illness and other physical and mental challenges have made me a better person, though. When my close friend developed breast cancer I knew what pain was, I knew what self-advocacy within the health care system looked like. I knew the toll illness takes on our mental health. I could actually help her in a meaningful way, and that felt good. When she was through treatment and her friend got cancer, she could be an empathetic, helpful, and knowledgeable friend to her. She felt privileged to be able to do so. Their friendship deepened and that is a beautiful thing. Perhaps, after all, the meaning of hard times and loss and grief is to help us grow into deeper humans, capable of more empathy. The world could sure use more of that right now. 

'til next time, 

Rebecca 

Menopause is Weird

If I had known more and been better educated about perimenopause I would have realized I was fully in the midst of it in my forties. Instead, I was baffled by the changes in the way my body was starting to react to certain, normal, everyday things I had long taken for granted. My morning monster mug of energizing coffee started giving me anxiety and heart palpitations. The patch of skin between my eyebrows was breaking out in some sort of flaky rash. I was putting on weight out of nowhere, it seemed. I also began to feel...flat. Things that used to bring me great joy and excitement now brought very little of the same. For years I had been a collector of transferware dishes and other collectibles. The thrill of the hunt got me out the door and to the thrift shops and garage sales. Now, when I spotted a potential find I was like that Pete Davidson character on Saturday Night Live who when asked to do something potentially amazing or crazy, just shrugs and says an underwhelmed, "Okay". Up until my mid to late forties, I could still get carried away with ethereal highs and devastating lows of emotion. Now, there was just more anxiety, occasional bouts of inexplicable tears and way less outbursts of delight. And more headaches. Sad. 

Interestingly, it was my husband who first noticed some of my symptoms as being perimenopause. When he had worked at the big hotel by the lake he was the head of a department of about eighty women, many of them middle aged. In the summer he noticed they were always trying to cool off. He bought fans and brought them popsicles, regularly. He noticed they were often in tears. He learned to be much more understanding and patient with them. Thank you hotel ladies! 

I have been a late bloomer all my life, and I didn't start having any hot flashes until a couple of years ago. Even then, they have not been a major symptom for me...yet. Lack of sleep has been my major challenge. Sleep medication has become my trusted friend. I use it sparingly as I try to employ more natural methods of encouraging sleep like magnesium bis-glycinate and meditation, but I can honestly say prescription sleep meds have been a life-saver more times than I can count. 

The internet is an enlightening and often overwhelming source of information on perimenopause and menopause. A tiny bit late in the game for me, but very handy for those in their mid thirties and onwards. Being able to identify and relate to what other women are dealing with is a huge plus. I remember the first time I came upon a list of symptoms posted by one good source. It was a revelation. Itchy ears? Check. Frozen shoulder? Check. Pain in your hip? Check. Caffeine making you anxious? Check. Increased sinus issues? Check. Wide awake at 3 am? Check. Dry, itchy skin? Check. Racing heart rate? Check. Just not feeling like the old you? Double-underlined-in-bright-red-ink, checkity check check! Other symptoms are minor for me. For example, I don't have (many) wild mood swings or (much) rage, but I am very sympathetic to those who do. Brain fog? I've had a head injury, so that one's already part of the picture. One thing's for sure, I understand my mother much more now. She had a hard time during 'The Change'. She barely slept with the night sweats she was enduring. She developed much less patience, but (mostly) repressed it. She felt off a lot of the time. I get it now, Mom!

The internet can also be a source of fear-based marketing for we women of a certain age. Strength train or your bones will turn to chalk, so you must walk your ten thousand steps in this weighted vest! Take this seventy-five dollar supplement or suffer dire consequences! Your body is drying out and you're going to look like the crypt keeper if you don't ingest these oils! Women who don't take Vitamin D get dementia six hundred times more than women who don't! Your doctor was wrong about hormone replacement causing cancer, but you could develop blood clots! EAT ALL THE PROTEIN but somehow lessen your cholesterol intake! 

My doctor when I asked him for some advice on dealing with my symptoms: "Oh, we don't know that much about menopause" (Sees the glint of steel in my eyes) "But-but-but some women say such-and-such herbal supplement decreases their symptoms by about twenty-five percent. Can I offer you a new kind of sleeping pill?" Poor guy. It would be easier for him if I simply had a heart condition. (At least I haven't completely lost my sense of humour. Also a life saver.)

I'm in the late stage of perimenopause. I feel I'm gaining some of my equilibrium back, but I am not the same person I was before this whole experience. The last ten years have been rather punishing. If not 'gold tested in fire' I've definitely been 'cheese tested in frying pan'. Perhaps all this menopause stuff sets us up well for the indignities of old age, which, as Bette Davis* said "ain't no place for sissies." 

My advice to young women? Enjoy your estrogen while you've got it. Really.

Until next time, 

Rebecca

*I've always thought Mae West said this, but the internet says not. 

Hoping Mechanisms

One day last week I let myself get buried by all the commentary blasting out from social media on the current events in our world. I felt desperate and sad and despairing and afraid, and I couldn't get to sleep that night. I vowed to not let that happen again, and so far this week I have not. Watching the news to stay in the loop is one thing. Absorbing all the ways in which celebrities and various social media regulars emotionally share their responses to it is quite another. I am not saying they don't have the perfect right to share their responses, it's just that I don't have to subscribe to all of it. The human body was not created to be a full-time disaster response machine. We need to be informed, yes, but we also need fresh air, we need healthy boundaries, we need creative outlets and meaningful pursuits, we need community, and we need, most of all, hope.

I remember during the first year of the Covid pandemic, someone wisely said that how you respond to crisis affects how your children will respond, so be calm and carry on. Answer their questions simply and honestly but don't dwell on the negative and don't freak out every time the news gets worse. Go to the trusted source for advice on how to cope. For me that was listening to Bonnie Henry calmly and compassionately deliver her updates. She never failed to help me feel under control and hopeful that we would all get through that trying time together. For anxious me with one teenager still living at home, staying visibly calm all the time was a tall order. I had to develop a routine of coping with my anxiety as I had also lost my job due to Covid. I went for long walks every day listening to a lot of Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. I made healthy food for my family. I did little art projects. I reached out to family and friends. I watched the World War II-era mystery series Foyle's War from start to finish to remind myself that humanity had lived through tough times before and we would survive...well, most of us would. 

The lessons of the Covid pandemic still apply in the bizarre world climate of today. Having access to 24/7 news and commentary doesn't mean we don't have the power to choose when and how much we absorb. We are all different. Some people can take a lot. My husband for one. He can get up in the morning and hit the internet on full blast. It doesn't seem to put him on the wrong foot for the day. I have to ease in with 'coffee and contemplation' as my brother-in-law Brent calls it, with some prayer to help me keep perspective, journal writing, Wordle and Connections puzzles. Then, I might look online for some funny content. I'm not ready for anything more serious until at least mid morning. At least one day per week I avoid social media altogether to concentrate on creative projects. I need that healthy boundary to remain hopeful and would argue that most of us do.

Years ago my eldest son came home from high school and said, "Hey Mom, do you want to hear the world's shortest poem? I heard it in English class today." "Sure" I said. "Okay, here it is" he said. 

Hope? Nope.

That was the poem. Although probably the honest feeling of the poet when they wrote it, flat out depressing. 

I prefer this one by Emily Dickinson:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Hang on to your little bird, friends. We will get through this.

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Heard any Good Books Lately?

I have recently discovered the joy of audiobooks. I still read a lot of paper books, but it can be hard to read them while on a walk or while cooking or working on a puzzle, and last week I dropped my copy of  To See Every Bird on Earth by Dan Koeppel in the bathtub while I was reading it. Audiobooks are hands free. All you need are listening ears, an attention span of sorts, and a subscription to Libby (free through your public library - amazing), or Audible, or Spotify, or any other platform you might find audiobooks on. A few clicks and you're off to the races.

My mother often read to my brother and me when we were little and sharing a room, and when I was in Elementary school teachers read books to the class. My grade five teacher read us The Borrowers by Mary Norton. Those hours became my favourite among the many I had to spend in school. As soon as my teacher began to read I was immersed in the world of those tiny house guests and their adventures. My imagination was captured and I was carried along by my teacher's voice, which was quite pleasant as I remember it now. Being read to is something I had forgotten as an adult, and I am enjoying it. As long as the voice on the audiobook is expressive (without being overly so) and pleasant, and the story or subject is interesting to me, I am happy to listen for as long as my attention or circumstances allow.

The most recent audiobook I listened to was The Third Gilmore Girl by Kelly Bishop. This wonderful autobiography, read by the author, hooked me from the first to the last page. Kelly Bishop played the matriarch of the Gilmore family on a comedy/drama show called Gilmore Girls, which is a series I have watched several times through, first, when it originally came out on the WB network in the early 2000's, and then years later with my girls when Netflix aired it. The show has gained a new and dedicated audience by being on Netflix, which produced a four episode reunion of sorts in 2016. The snappy and clever dialogue and quirky characters written by Amy Sherman-Palladino and her husband, Daniel Palladino, the detailed sets, pop-culture references and complex family dynamic tick fans' boxes for quality entertainment. I admire and respect how Kelly Bishop plays her complex character Emily Gilmore so convincingly as the sharp-tongued yet vulnerable mother desperate to have a better relationship with her daughter Lorelei without really knowing how to go about it. When I found out Kelly Bishop had written a book about her life and her role on one of my favourite shows, of course I wanted to read it. Or listen to it.

Kelly Bishop's autobiography is, to my mind, best heard in her deep, distinctive voice. I would have enjoyed reading a paper copy, but somehow, hearing her tell the story was like sitting down with a beloved aunt who has lived an amazing life and wants to share it with you. From her first days as a ballet dancer, to her Tony-award winning role as one of the original cast members of A Chorus Line on Broadway, to her memorable parts in movies and television, her story is fascinating and encouraging to anyone who has a similar dream. She shares the ups and downs, and through it all the reader/listener is impressed by her grit and determination, and also her lucky breaks, which occur often just when she needs them most. Now in her eighties, she is still working as an actress. The end of her book brought me to tears as I walked with my headphones on, listening in the cold sunshine. She is such a trouper. And she thanks her mom, who was also a trouper, for everything. I like when they thank their moms.

I tried out a new audiobook yesterday. I got about ten percent into the second chapter before I knew it wasn't for me. The reader's voice grated on my nerves. I also could not relate to the story. That's okay, there are plenty of other books to choose from. I went on the Libby app and requested another book I have been meaning to read, A Pocketful of Happiness by one of my favourite actors,  Richard E. Grant. I hope it's read by the author, too. The app said there was a six week wait for a copy to become available. Just like at the brick and mortar library, there are waits for popular books on the Libby app. I will have to find another book to listen to in the meantime. Any recommendations? 

'til next time, 

Rebecca