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

Dance Crazy

Last weekend, the 2010 film Black Swan was on TV. I had never seen it, but I knew it was a psychological thriller/horror film. I have never enjoyed horror as a genre, but I have always loved ballet, so decided to give it a try. The real world has plenty enough horrors for this sensitive gal, and up until quite recently in my life, I had trouble separating fiction from reality when it came to watching anything really frightening or gory on a screen. I can now say, "It's just a movie" (with varying levels of success). I lasted through an hour of Black Swan. (I did say 'varying'). I searched up the synopsis, found out there was a lot of dancing at the end, turned the channel to something else, and then tuned back into the film for the last fifteen minutes. You may say 'wimp'. I say 'self care'. That whole scene with the broken glass tipped the scales for me.

The incredibly competitive nature of ballet, the toll on the mind and body, the sometimes boundary-crossing nature of the student/teacher relationship, and the shortness of the career of a prima ballerina were all aspects of the professional world of dance covered in the film. The two stars, Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis said they had no idea how competitive ballet was, and how rigorous the life of a dancer, until they were making the film. Natalie had danced until the age of thirteen, and still had a fairy-tale dream of it all, while Mila had no experience. They both worked with professional teachers and lived on carrots and some kind of lean protein until they were down from their already svelte figures to those of  professional ballet dancers, a loss of twenty pounds each. They both also said the film changed them and their careers forever. Natalie Portman won her first Oscar for her role in Black Swan, and Mila Kunis was taken seriously as a multi-faceted actor from then on.

Black Swan is meant to highlight the perils of perfectionism, as Natalie Portman's character demands nothing less of herself and descends (further) into madness. I couldn't help but think of real-life dancers like Evelyn Hart, the great former prima ballerina of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. She battled anorexia nervosa throughout her career. She often reached perfection in her dancing, but at what cost I wonder. She also reportedly felt forced out of the RWB on account of her age. She is now teaching and encouraging young dancers. I hope she is a good mentor. 

My mom put me in ballet at age five or six for a year or two, then again at age ten until the fabulous new teacher who said I showed promise moved back to Winnipeg. I took it up again, along with jazz dance, at age sixteen and danced intensively for four years. If I had trained consistently, from age six, my skill would have been much higher, but I still enjoyed my time struggling and striving at the Question of Balance School of Dance. My teacher told us about how her career had been cut short after she was pressured to dance on an injured foot. She was determined not to ruin our bodies, too. We danced in a former schoolhouse with the old cloakroom acting as dressing room and a rural view of the river from the many windows of the main classroom. Our experience was a far cry from the set-in-New York City Black Swan. The other girls were kind and encouraging to me, and we had a lot of fun together. 

I used to lie in bed at night begging God to let me be a dancer. After four years I asked my dance teacher if she thought I had what it took to pursue a career in dance. She suggested a dance-adjacent career like arts journalism or administration. While discouraged, I auditioned for Simon Fraser University's dance program anyway. I remember the audition process being pretty standard if all the dance movies I had watched were anything to go on. I was fairly proud of myself for keeping up to the other dancers and giving it my best effort, even after overhearing a couple of boys backstage rating all of the girls' bodies - I was used to that, too, although it made me angry. I did not make it in to the main program. They sat a group of us down and said we should take a year of dance classes in the department, along with other general first year courses, and reapply the next year. I was crushed, and believed the writing was on the wall. I decided not to attend SFU and went to UBC instead to study English and Humanities with a view to becoming a teacher. All my life people had told me I would make a good teacher. Only my mother had really encouraged me to seek a life in the world of dance. If not for her I never would have tried.

I do think you have to be physically and mentally tough to embark on a career in dance. Black Swan is an extreme example of that world, but the competitiveness and the toll on the body are real. Young girls romanticize careers like ballet and modeling, but they can be brutal for women because they are such demanding and relentless ways of being. Something the current generations are good at is questioning and demanding answers for why the generations before them accepted certain attitudes. My generation grew up with hustle culture, 'no pain, no gain', diet culture, and body negativity, and I know the current generations are pushing back against these social norms. I hope that increasingly, dancers, models, and actors don't have to nearly kill themselves, or shove aside their ethics, for the sake of their craft.

 I still enjoy ripping it up on the dance floor. Once in a while, someone will come up to me and say, "I love watching you dance!" and that's such a good feeling. Some things we can do simply for the joy of it.  

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Yes, #metoo

I would be remiss as a mother, an aunt, a sister, a daughter, and most of all a woman, if I did not somehow in this blog address a certain campaign recently on the minds of most people who roam the many halls of the internet. At first, I did not want to join my voice to the others. I have never been one for jumping on a bandwagon, and I honestly thought I owed no one my own stories, but that pesky issue of sexual harassment keeps on rearing its ugly head, even exposing the seedy underbelly of our beloved Hollywood movie mill. Harvey Weinstein, that other director I can't remember the name of, Bill Cosby, Kevin Spacey, even Dustin Hoffmann all have allegations of sexual harassment against them, with some of them accused of even worse. In an interview, actress Emma Thompson said the allegations against Weinstein were 'just the tip of the iceberg' and her words are becoming more painfully true all the time. These men have all created great art and entertainment which most of us have enjoyed some time or other. (If either Kevin Kline or Bill Pullman turns out to be a perpetrator I am going to need a steep hike up the nearest mountain followed by a very strong beverage. Not that there are any rumours at all, I just really like those guys.) The #metoo campaign hatched a few weeks ago was an emotional one for me as I am sure it was for so many others out there. Introduced by someone in response to the first allegations against Weinstein, #metoo was meant to show how widespread the problem of sexual harassment and assault is. Let's face it. It's a systemic problem and the remedy is long in coming.

Certain types of men abusing their power to use or control women is nothing new, but I suppose many of us had thought our stories were not worth mentioning up until the #metoo campaign picked up so much speed. Many of us were raised not to make a big deal out of minor sexual impositions. "Oh, that's just your uncle George being funny" when he pinched your bum, or "Oh, that's just Mick. He's harmless" when we were invited into a neighbour's tool shed and saw the walls plastered with hard core pornographic images of women. I did not have an Uncle George exactly, but I did have a neighbour like Mick. Mick also had a brother - let's call him Fred - who lived up the street. We kids were always looking to make a dollar or two. Fred asked for some help washing his windows and invited a posse of pre-teen neighbourhood girls up to his place. Five of us walked up the steep hill to Fred's one hot summer afternoon. He answered the door in a tube top, except it wasn't covering his top, it was covering his hips and was the only thing he was wearing. I just about turned around and walked out but the others went in the house so I thought I had better follow. Fred showed us the windows he wanted washed and gave us the cleaning supplies. Then he went back up to his roof to suntan in the nude. We washed the windows as quickly as possible. He invited us to stay for a drink of pop or something but I wanted out of there, so I left. I'm not sure who stayed. To this day I hope nothing worse happened to any of the other girls. Also, to this day, I wonder what possessed Fred to think it was okay to behave as he had, answering the door in such a way, leering at us and making us all so uncomfortable. What a jerk. He would be reported now.

Several years after the 'Fred' incident I was at my local club dancing the night away. I had just met a  nice guy who was visiting from the States and was enjoying myself with him and a large group of friends. Most of us danced in a group on the floor, so I was not paired with anyone when the next incident happened. I was really getting into the music and having a great time flailing about when a man, a much older man than I, came up to me and grabbed my crotch. I was so shocked I went into an immediate rage and shoved that man so hard he flew across the room and fell on the floor. I then turned, grabbed my coat (it was the Christmas holidays) and ran the seven blocks home so fast my feet barely touched the ground. The next day, the nice American boy called me. He said he and his friends had seen what had happened, followed me out of the club, jumped in their car and tried to find me, but I was long gone by then. I never reported what I would now call sexual assault, and I decided it was my liberal, energetic quality of dancing that encouraged that man to touch me. I toned down my dancing for a while after that incident so as not to lead men to think I was open for business, but fortunately I was too free-spirited to let the actions of that one complete jerk determine how I was to express myself on the dance floor. These days I tone it down merely to keep from putting my back out.

I have other, more complex stories, but I choose not to share them in this way at this time. Some things are too personal, too painful or weird to talk about, especially when I didn't feel like I 'won' the situations. Luckily, I learned from those experiences and went on to marry a true gentleman.

When I was reading all the reports of the actresses who came forward in the Weinstein case, I was relieved to know how many of them had been able to assert themselves and escape his greasy clutches. Still, their ability to escape does not somehow erase the attempts on their bodies and their dignity. Where did Weinstein and the others like him, get the idea their desires trumped the rights of their victims? Their attitude has to come from somewhere. Did it come from their own fathers? From other authority figures in their lives? From television or film? I remember watching a documentary when I was a teenager called Not a Love Story, about the world of pornography and its impact on society. The documentary was made by a woman with hidden cameras. She and her crew went inside the seediest sex shops and strip clubs to see what was going on. The filmmaker's conclusion, and it made a huge impact on me at the time, was no matter how small and innocent we think our participation is - maybe we've been to a strip club, bought a Playboy magazine - we have contributed to the incredibly lucrative machine that portrays women as objects and excuses men as users of those objects. Some may laugh it all off as 'just a little harmless fun' but I am not laughing anymore and neither are the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of women who have come forward in the #metoo campaign to share their stories and speak out against abuse, assault and harassment. And, now some young men are coming forward with stories of being used and abused by more powerful men, as in the Kevin Spacey case, and in some cases women as well.

Where will it stop?

It stops with each of us. It stops when we not make concessions for men simply because they do some great things in the world. It stops when we treat other people with less power than us with respect. It stops when we honour and completely respect each other's personal space and chosen boundaries. It stops when we not allow our own ambition to put us in potentially harmful situations. It stops when we truly listen to warnings from others with more experience than ourselves. It stops when we stand up to bullies, not counting the cost to our reputations. It stops when we dismantle the 'old boys network' and its ideas that make allowances for 'boys being boys'. It stops when we parents pay more attention to the true needs of our children, especially our daughters, and work diligently to form the attitudes of our sons. It stops when we are strong enough to see what needs stopping, and act on it.

And to rephrase that old song, "What the world needs now, is justice, sweet justice." We have all the tools to make the world safer for each other. Let's use them.

Not a Thanksgiving Post

A couple of years ago I took the required FoodSafe course for my job. It was offered twice a year at our local recreation facility and the session I took was taught by a former chef who was now semi-retired and touring around the region giving courses and teaching on call for a local university cooking program. The length of the course was, if I remember correctly, six hours long with breaks. With the aid of videos the instructor talked us through all the various chapters of the workbook. The course material was not all that challenging. Much of it was common sense, so between chapters we were treated to several tales from our Swiss-born chef-instructor's years cooking in various places around the world as well as a great deal of lecturing on healthy eating. (North America has it all wrong, did you know?) Many of us engaged in the discussions and at one point I brought up the fact that I make my own granola. Oh no! said he. You don't cook oats! That kills all the good nutrients in them! You soak oats and always eat them raw. He also lectured us on sugar consumption and how none of us needed any sugar not naturally found in fruits and other foods. I, feeling a little bit smaller with my ruined oats, carried on with the course work in between his mini-lectures, and before long, it was time for a break. Most of the students stood up and went outside. I was organizing my bag of snacks and lunch stuff when I happened to glance up and see our instructor cavalierly and within full view peeling the wrapper off none other than a Nature Valley granola bar, chock full of sugar and corn syrup, and yes, BAKED in an oven. Despite my 'shock and horror', we finished the last chapters and took our test. I passed with flying colours and achieved my certificate.

I have often wondered what kind of strange thought pattern allows a person to rage against some particular habit only to turn around (and in the chef's case blatantly) take part in it. Was it Mr. Chef's cheat day? Did he suffer from low blood sugar? Perhaps, but he knew I was staring at his granola bar and yet he offered no explanation. I was left thinking of him as a complete hypocrite.

When I was growing up one phrase I heard often was 'Do what I say, not what I do.' How I was baffled by it when I was young. Did certain people in positions of authority get a pass when it came to hypocritical actions? Perhaps we were only meant we should take the good from what people say and ignore the instances when they, themselves, go against their own direction. I suppose we are all hypocritical sometimes. Tired parents often yell at their kids to stop yelling. Most dental hygienists probably eat sugar at some point in their day (I know this to be true because my daughter worked at a dental office for three years and saw a lot of cake and hot chocolate consumed). Doctors probably don't take their own advice all of the time. Dads are famous for chastising their teenagers for being lazy while they, themselves, sit in front of the football game all afternoon and procrastinate on all the chores to be done around the house.

When celebrities and other famous people prove to be hypocrites we get angry, sometimes rightfully so. The comedian with the great family TV show ends up being a sex predator. The ultra survivor man ends up, against all appearances on his reality TV show, spending each night in a luxury hotel with heat and hot water. America's sweetheart is revealed as a drug addict. The politician campaigns on a promise and gets our votes only to backtrack once in power. And on, and on, and on.

The worst part about being on the receiving end of hypocrisy is the feeling of being robbed. We were led to believe something about a person and built up a level of trust and commitment to them and what they represented, only for that to be yanked away like a ripped off Bandaid leaving pain and even some scarring. I have reached the point where I hold new people I either meet or become interested in due to their work in the public eye with some emotional distance until they prove at least to be relatively constant. Sad, isn't it? But, perhaps safer on the heart. Maybe others do the same with me. I don't make friends as quickly as I used to.

But dammit, I still make granola every week. So there.

Mourning Robin

The growth of children is truly the marker of time passing. Last week I travelled with my four children and their dad to Vancouver Island. The occasion was the 25th wedding anniversary of my husband's employers at the lodge where we lived from December, 1997 to April, 2003. When we moved to the lodge our three older children were four and a half, three years, and thirteen months. Our youngest had not even been thought of yet, although, knowing her, she had probably been planning her entrance for years before it happened.

The last time we went to the lodge was in 2009 when the owner family celebrated the lodge's 50th anniversary of operation. Our children, the older three teenagers and youngest one eight years.

The above is how I started what was to be this week's blog post. After a wonderful family holiday and reunion with friends-of-old, I was high on a cloud of happiness, floating above the earth and its cares. I sat down to write, got a few lines in before I was interrupted. When I returned to the computer I found out that Robin Williams, a comedian, actor, and benefactor admired and loved by me and by millions, if not billions, of people had killed himself. I read the news and sat staring at the screen, shocked and tremendously saddened. As details about his death trickled in over the next few hours I learned of his absolute determination to end his life - he had left nothing to chance. That was on Monday. All week I have grappled with the news and tried hard to understand it.

After my first reaction of sadness and shock I became angry. I thought of all the Iraqi people starving on that mountaintop after being persecuted and driven there by ISIS. I thought of all the people in the world who struggle daily to access the very basic necessities of life. I thought, how does someone with all the gifts and all the priveleges, all the means to do good in the world just throw it all away? I did not blame the man himself, rather, I blamed our society for collectively losing perspective of how lucky we are and how much responsibility we have inherited to try to make the world a better place. That so many people are driven to suicide seemed, in my angry phase of grief, like a giant failure. What terrible lies of the world did people believe if killing themselves seemed the only option?

When I was finished feeling angry, I tried hard to understand the pain and the depths of despair Robin must have had to endure. I remembered a time several years ago when I experienced true depression for the first, and hopefully only, time. I was lucky in that my bout was a short one, only a couple of weeks, but the experience was something I will never forget. During the time in question, I had been trying to force myself to take a job that my instincts were telling me was wrong for me. I am a fairly sensitive person and my body has always had a way of telling me I am on the wrong track. One morning I woke up and despite a cup of coffee, which usually warms, energizes and starts my day off right, I could not seem to cheer up. I could feel myself sinking down into a state I did not recognize. I began to have severely negative thoughts about myself. I began to think if only I had been a better person the world would not be such a mess. I began to assume things about some of the people in my life - I thought they secretly despised me. I felt like a failure and could not shake off my despair for days. My husband and children were baffled by my sad demeanor and gave me what comfort they could. I wrote to my parents who advised and counselled me well, as they had always done, and eventually I began to rise out of my depression. I have never felt such relief as when I could sense that I was back to my normal, relatively cheerful state. When I described my bout with depression to a friend I said perhaps it would serve to give me a better sense of what other people deal with in their own lives, and now, years later, I think it has.

When I think of Robin Williams and the various people and friends I have known who have taken their own lives, I try hard to think of them with great love and compassion. I hope they will find peace at last, although I do believe a journey of some sort awaits their soul on the other side with comfort and joy as the ultimate destination. But, more than that, I try harder to be kinder and more understanding while I am living on this side. I make time to have a cup of tea with my daughter to talk about whatever is on her mind. I write a thank-you note to an aunt who has sent me a card or a thoughtful gift. I visit my friend who suffers from chronic depression, and I give him an extra big hug when it is time for me to leave. I try to judge less, listen more, give people the benefit of the doubt, smile at strangers, say hello to elderly people I meet when I walk downtown to do an errand, thank the checkout person for bagging my groceries. I know these small things cannot conquer someone's depression if they are already suffering from it, but perhaps sometimes I, and others, can just add enough to the positive side of the scale to keep it from tipping over completely to the negative. I have to believe this or the situation seems a bit hopeless for all of us.

The other day I was in Value Village with my family. My younger daughter came up to me, beaming and holding three movies in her hands - a copy of Shrek 2, Disney's Robin Hood, and Disney's Alladin. "Look Mom!" she said.

"Cool!" I said. Then it dawned on me. Alladin starred Robin Williams as the Genie. "Alladin," I said, "especially considering Robin Will..."

She cut me off. "I know!" she said. "Did you know he adlibbed almost all his lines? I've been wanting to see this for ages." The only copy at our local video store had been stolen, and I had given away our copy years ago.

The checkout girl exclaimed loudly when she saw the video of Alladin. Apparently, she had been looking for a copy for ages, too. While I was paying for our stuff, my daughter and son searched and found two more copies of Alladin on the shelf and moved them to where the checkout girl could see them. The checkout girl gave my daughter a high-five.

Perhaps I should follow my daughter's lead and celebrate the genius that was Robin Williams through his many roles in film and television. I remember watching Mork and Mindy when I was a child and hearing my Dad laugh. I did not always get the jokes but I loved to hear my dad laugh. Robin's role in The Fisher King revealed a sympathy for mental illness which we can understand better now. And, he was my favourite Peter Pan. He brought joy to so many people, and boosted our morale, and what he has left behind will continue to do so, but perhaps now we will look with more understanding and appreciation for what it cost him and costs others like him to keep us entertained.

Here is a small glimpse at his genius. God-speed, Mr. Williams.

L.M. Montgomery - a First Love in Literature

In my early years as a dedicated reader of novels, when it came to authors, I tended toward serial monogomy. Noel Streatfield, the author of Ballet Shoes, The Painted Garden, White Boots, and several others was my first real love as a reader, but when the time came for me to move on from her delightful books for children I was at a bit of a loss.

Every time I would talk about needing something to read my family would suggest Anne of Green Gables. "You'll love it," my sisters insisted, and because they insisted I resisted. I finally gave in when I was fifteen - my sisters had all moved out by then - and tentatively began the book that would change my life. I was not prepared to enjoy it, but by the first chapter I was hooked and would remain an Anne fan for life. And not just an Anne fan, but a fan of the writing of her creator Lucy Maud Montgomery. I would spend the next several years scouring second hand book stores for copies of her many books, building up my collection which I read over and over until Jane Austen became my new obsession in my mid-twenties. I credit L.M. Montgomery for helping me greatly through my teen years, for giving me another world to inhabit in my imagination, adding much light to the very real world I lived in every day.

I did not identify with the character of Anne as much as with the general tone, humour and background wisdom of the books themselves. Anne, with her red-haired temper, her heedless ways and her enormous scholarly discipline was not a mirror image of myself, but I did admire her goodness, her loyalty and her literary gifts. I was encouraged by her strength of character and desired to emulate at least some of what she represented. The first few times I read the books I read them for the plot alone. L.M. Montgomery is known for her descriptive passages of the land she loved so well, but I will admit I skipped over many of them to find out what happened next to the people in the books. A good book has that quality, even when you read it for the second or third time and know what ultimately happens, you still want to have the satisfaction of finding out, again, exactly how it happens. By the time I was in my early twenties I still read the books once a year, but by then I was revelling in the descriptions which painted such a beautiful picture of the land, sea and sky of Prince Edward Island and other Maritime provinces. The Blue Castle is set in Muskoka, Ontario and I still read it every few years for its pictures painted so masterfully in words by the author who had moved to Ontario after her marriage.

My mother often said that she liked Montgomery's Emily books even better than the sunny Anne ones. She felt the Emily books were deeper and more reflective of the author's own life as a burgeoning writer. I read the three Emily books immediately after I had read the eight Anne novels, and I could see what my mother meant. I imagined that a lot of authors identified with them, especially those who had known they were writers from a young age. The road to authorship is not easy for the character of Emily; the literary colours in the novels are in various shades of light and darkness, intimating the depth of emotion lived in real life by Montgomery. The happy ending is there, but it is hard won.

When I get into something, I really get into it, so when L.M. Montgomery's journals were published I read them. Her selected journals filled five large volumes and I expected them to reflect the light and happy endings of her novels. What I discovered was that Montgomery's life was a complex blend of light and dark, of longing for the freedom of an intuitive and highly spiritual artist while 'keeping up appearances' in Canadian WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) society of the early part of the twentieth century. I read them during a particularly hard time in my own young life, which perhaps was not fair to either myself or to Montgomery whom I admired so much. Her journals sent me spiralling downwards into a blue funk. I was disappointed in her for some of her choices in life and in love (as disappointed as I was in myself at that time for some of my own choices), and I had a hard time reconciling the author of my favourite books with the author of journals which suggested so much personal disappointment and emotional trauma.

I think, after giving it another twenty-odd years, I might read the journals again. I will probably read them with a more open mind and with much more compassion and empathy this time. In 2008 Montgomery's family came out with an admission that Lucy Maud suffered from depression and had, in the end, taken her own life. Her family revealed the truth in hopes that it would help to remove the stigma surrounding mental illness in our society. And while that news about her death made me sad beyond words, I have a bookshelf full of proof that inside Lucy Maud Montgomery's often troubled heart and mind was also a mystical land of humour, insight, love, and joy of the greatest kind which she shared with her readers through her writing, a refuge for her and for all of those who feel deeply and attempt to live sensitively on this earth.

A mature L.M. Montgomery

For those of you who read the end of my previous post I have an update: My dad was able to go home from the hospital yesterday. Such good news for him and for all my family! Many thanks for your kind wishes and prayers.

Hollywood North goes Bucolic, Part Two

Last summer I wrote a post about a television show being filmed in our little town, which, through the vision of set designers and the skill of carpenters has been transformed into Wayward Pines, Idaho. I wrote about attending the casting call with my youngest daughter and about hoping she would get a call-back. She did not, but judging by the experience my friend Sue had of standing in the pouring rain in the middle of the night for four hours after spending five hours waiting in the high school gymnasium and earning minimum wage for her troubles, my daughter decided that being an extra might be better left to more hearty types on this occasion at least.

The cast and crew of the appropriately named Fox TV show Wayward Pines directed by M.Night Shyamalan have returned once per month since September to film the local outdoor scenes for each episode, and each time they come it seems the weather is either incredibly rainy or punishingly cold. The crew, dressed in multiple layers of black clothing scurry or stand around, depending on their position, drink plenty of coffee and maintain a general demeanor of helpful politeness to our town's citizens.

During actual filming, while the crew handles the flow of traffic around the site and answers questions, I have seen Matt Dillon posing for photos with local groupies between takes and M. Night talking with curious children. Overall, I think our town has embraced the project. The local businesses are benefitting financially from providing services to the crew and from the inconvenience of being part of the set. Our downtown has improved in appearance - so much so, that an artist friend returning briefly at Christmas from his studies in Ontario, and having no idea of the filming taking place, asked me what was 'with' the main street, and was it some kind of downtown revitalization project. The fact is, the additions to our downtown community have improved it and most of us will truly miss the extra pretty buildings, the whimsical signage, and general aura of 'lights, camera, action' which have made our quiet town, temporarily at least, a more vibrant place.

All the initial press about the show indicated that filming would wrap up this February. If the show is renewed for another season I suppose we will get to keep our pretend shops for a while longer, or they will, at least, be returned to us later in the year - I am not sure because I am quite shy about asking the crew a lot of questions. The one crew member I have managed to have any kind of real chat with was telling me about an area of Vancouver where a western-themed TV show is filmed. The set has been up for ten years now and has become a fixture in that community. This morning, not knowing the fate of our own particular set, I took my camera out in the frigid January sunshine to photograph it for what might just be the last time.

On the days leading up to filming, the crew adds the signs and other details to existing buildings:

The Newspaper office becomes a cafe

We suddenly have a theatre in town

This 'stone' bank is a wood and styrofoam facade...

 

 It covers an auto parts store

A welcome addition to our town if it were real

My friend Joanne's print shop becomes the Wayward Pines Chamber of Commerce

The facades that line the North side of the street fool visitors when their storefront windows are decorated and the signage put up: 

And this little sign in a shop window gives an indication of how things really are in the mysterious fictional town of Wayward Pines: 

This evening, the crew are going to 'blow up' a vehicle during filming. I might walk down with my younger daughter and check it out. If it's not too cold.

Click on the photos for an elarged-version slide show. And have a great weekend!

What's in a Signature?

A few years ago I was with my kids in a music store which sold new and used equipment and sheet music, and smelled of musty basements, when I came across a paper-bound 1950 copy of The Trapp Family Book of Christmas Songs. I looked through it, noticing a signature on the inside front cover.

I asked the price of the book and the proprietor said I could have it for free. Surprised, I gladly took the book with me when we left the store. I was not convinced the signature was Maria von Trapp's but I rarely turn down a free book, especially one with beautiful arrangements of old European Christmas carols. Some years, I rarely sit down at the piano except at Christmas time when I pull out all the books of carols I have been collecting for the past twenty years.

A few months after I found the book, my mom, a historian and archivist, came down for a visit. She found it by the piano and began looking through it. She thought the signature might be geniune, but I still did not have a way of finding out - the internet had turned up nothing - short of researching and contacting hard-to-find experts. As far as I knew, the Antiques Road Show was not going to be visiting my area any time soon. As is common with me, after a short time I completely forgot about the whole thing until I was reminded of it this week. My fellow blogger Lucille posted about finding the English comedic novelist Barbara Pym's signature in a cook book she had acquired, and I thought perhaps I should try looking up the official signature of Maria von Trapp. Obviously, this time I had more luck. The signature was identical to the one in my copy of the book.

I then went on to see how much a signed paperback copy might be worth. I found one example selling for eighty-three dollars. Not bad, especially considering my initial investment of zero dollars.

The monetary value of the book is one thing, but the tangible fact of the flowing signature in plain blue ink of such a personality as Maria von Trapp of The Sound of Music fame is quite another. When I was a young girl my mom read me Maria von Trapp's autobiographies while I brushed her hair. When The Sound of Music was re-shown on the big screen in our town, she took my brother and me to see it. Every year between Christmas and New Year's when the film came on TV, my group of teenage friends and I would gather at one of our homes and have our own 'sing-along Sound of Music'. The character of Maria von Trapp has been part of my stock pile of childhood heroes for almost as long as I can remember. When examining the signature once again, I thought of the hand and the spirit that pressed pen to the paper in my posession. I read The Trapp Family Singers again, recently, and watched a biography of her on television. As an adult able to read between the lines, I realized that Maria von Trapp was not an easy person to live with. She drove her children very hard and had outrageous flares of temper - unlike the film, the captain von Trapp seems to have been the mild one who kept the family at peace. The von Trapps were immigrants to America after escaping the Nazi plans for the good captain to fight for their side - that part of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical and film is true. Like many immigrants, they were determined to succeed and make a life in their new country - and Maria was their driving force. I cannot say I blame her. Immigrants must have felt a great deal of pressure in those days, and they must have also felt a good deal of fear at being aliens in a new country. One of her more sensitive children did run away and ended up having shock therapy - a favourite treatment in the 1950's and 60's to treat mental breakdown. The family made a living as a successful touring choir. The book I have would probably have been sold at one of their concerts. They also had a cottage industry in their home and everyone in the family used their considerable artistic talents to make objects for sale when they were not touring. The family carries on with their cottage industry today at their Vermont mountain resort Trapp Family Lodge.

My son Galen, a collector who frequents garage sales in summer came home with a DVD special edition of The Sound of Music and gave it to me last year to replace our old VHS cassette copy. Last summer, my youngest daughter wanted to watch it, so I watched part of it with her. Afterwards, she watched the special interview with all the grown up actors who played the von Trapp children, but when I said I was going to watch the biography of Maria von Trapp, my daughter asked me to please wait until she was either not at home or in bed. She said she was not ready to know the truth about the story and about the Maria von Trapp beyond Julie Andrews just yet. Perhaps she knew instinctively what is said about meeting your heroes -that you shouldn't, at least until you know more about the world and human nature, can look past your hero's faults and celebrate their successes and their contributions to human history.

Another Letter to the World

I began to write this blog in September, 2009, the year I turned 40. Back then I was beginning to think that if I found any more excuses for not writing more regularly I might explode. I had written a novel, a handful of stories and poems, and a small number of personal essays, and fairly satisfied with the results of my efforts, I believed that I was finally getting to a place in my life where I would have the confidence to present my writing to an audience beyond, but not excluding, my immediate circle of friends and family. Blogging was new to me, but a format I soon learned worked very well to help keep me motivated. Feedback from readers was a gift and it is still integral to the process of my slow growth as a personal essayist, for essays are what I seem to create week in and week out on this blog. I read several other people's blogs and enjoy the online community we seem to have created -writing is lonely work and I am in need of companionship just as much as the next person. I would not call this community a writer's group; we do not critique each other's style but merely read and comment, sharing thoughts on the subject at hand. I would not mind critique, in fact I would welcome it, but no one besides myself seems to want to give me any at this point.

While visualizing my blog - before I embark on something requiring a fair amount of effort I have to be able to see myself doing it - I came up with a name for the whole project: Letters to the World. My thoughts and perceptions would come together and be presented as personal essays, but I would think of them more as personal letters, a form of correspondence between me and anyone out there in the world who cared to read my fledgling creations, and one being lost in this age of instant digital communication. (Thinking of my posts as letters also took the pressure off me to present academically acceptable essays.)

Soon after I began my blogging project, I Googled my blog to see if it would appear. At the top of the list of found items under my search for 'letters to the world,' was a poem by the Massachusetts poet and recluse, Emily Dickinson. I felt a sort of kinship with Emily through her poem, and I could sense her reaching out to the world from which she hid for the most part, but touched in a way perhaps not possible through any personal interaction. Although Emily could be speaking on a number of levels at once, I believe that in her poem she embraces all of us writers, more than a century later, sitting in front of our computer screens attempting to do the same.

THIS is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me,--

The simple news that Nature told,

With tender majesty.

Her message is committed

To hands I cannot see;

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me!

Emily published only seven poems in her lifetime. After her death, her family discovered 40 handbound volumes of nearly 1800 of her poems. She and Walt Whitman are paired as 'founders of a uniquely American poetic voice.' (poets.org)

Over at Stella's Virtual Cafe, there's a little story and a great recipe for Chocolate Zucchini Snacking Cake.

Hollywood North goes Bucolic

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. We are within a relatively short distance from 'Hollywood North' after all. Ten episodes of a new television show are going to be made here in our town as well as in other locations around the Fraser Valley. The park on one side of our main street has been transformed by a long row of false-fronted buildings in order to give the appearance of shops on both sides of the street in a 'bucolic small town in Idaho'. Filming is due to begin in the first week of September and happen here intermittently over the next several months.

A temporarily widened sidewalk was poured as well.

The park's flowers bloom behind the framing for the false storefronts

Other filming for movies has happened here in recent years as well, a crash scene from the third X-Men film probably being the most internationally noteworthy. Of course, First Blood, starring Sylvester Stallone was filmed in Hope, a town not too far from here in the early 1980's, and they have been milking that noteriety ever since. There was even a huge public outcry in that town when the district announced it was replacing the famous 'Rambo Bridge'. The popular ABC show Once Upon a Time is filmed in Steveston, which is also near Vancouver, and that little seaside community will probably never be the same. Of course, it remains to be seen whether the show being filmed here will enjoy the popularity of Once Upon a Time. Its director, M. Night Shyamalan has not enjoyed much success in recent years with his projects, but Matt Dillon, the star of the new show is already garnering much attention around here. He is the sort of actor who, in his younger cute-boy days, graced the covers and pin-up centerfolds of teen magazines such as Tiger Beat, but, fortunately, was taken quite seriously by the acting/directing community for his work in the film adaptations of S.E. Hinton's novels The Outsiders, Tex, and Rumble Fish and went on to star in notable films such as Drugstore Cowboy and later, Crash, There's Something about Mary, and Beautiful Girls. 

When my youngest daughter found out that Wayward Pines was going to be filmed here, she immediately leaped to the conclusion that she would somehow be a part of it. She spent the last year taking acting classes with the performing arts school in our area, and I would say she has a fairly pronounced case of the acting bug. Last Saturday, we arrived a few minutes early to a casting call held in one of the conference rooms of a local hotel. Originally, I was not going to put myself in for an extras role, but in the end I decided to have my photo taken along with my daughter. If she was called back, I would have to accompany her during filming anyway, so why not give it a try? The worst that could happen would be that they would ask me to lose ten pounds. Or maybe twenty - Hollywood is Hollywood. The line-up was already out the door, but my daughter and I, along with everyone else, were given forms to fill out and a take-home information sheet outlining the requirements of extras. We met an older man we knew who was also trying out - his son works in the movie business and had encouraged him to come - and chatted with him while we waited. After about 45 minutes we were given a number and asked if we were mother and daughter. A short wait later, my daughter and I each held a sheet of paper with a large '70' printed on it, hers with an 'A' attached to it, and mine with a 'B' while we had our photos taken. The casting staff were friendly but expedient and we were moved along quickly to make room for number 71. As we went out through the doors of the conference room, we walked alongside the line-up, which extended by then to the side entrance doors of the hotel itself. People - the tall and the small, the old, the young and the middle aged, but not many children -  had come from all around for the casting call and I was relieved we had decided to come when we had.

I imagine we will find out quickly if we are to be called back, with filming starting so soon. Extras are paid, but I have no idea how much. It must be enough to make it worth standing hours in line for. Or perhaps people see it as their way into the glamourous movie business. I am not at all sure if I want to be an extra. From what I have seen it involves a lot of 'hurry up and wait'. Each day, according to the requirement sheet, extras must arrive with three possible outfits for their role, and wearing the one they deem the best of the three. They must have their own touch-up makeup if they are women and have freshly washed and styled hair, pressed neutrally coloured clothing, as well as various choices of hats, scarves and handbags. That sounds like a lot of work for me, although I think I can manage the clean hair and the hats. My daughter only sees the positive side of the situation. She just wants to have the experience, and since we live only a few blocks from the film site, I don't mind accommodating her for the few days of filming per month. For her sake, I hope she is called back at least.

This morning, my daughter and I went for a walk downtown. I brought along my camera to capture the work-in-progress that is the fictional town of Wayward Pines, the setting of a mystery show involving Secret Service agent Ethan Burke (Matt Dillon) after he is in a car accident and becomes trapped in a strange, but bucolic (there's that word again) town with no money, cell phone or I.D., and as he tries to leave he realizes he is immersed in a conspiracy. The place was buzzing with men and women dressed in hardhats, work boots and orange safety vests, with machinery, onlookers, and a general vibe of excitement and of working to deadline. Apart from the Fall Fair parade, Pioneer Avenue does not normally see so much action. Our town is, in fact, quite bucolic, and its citizens are not used to fighting for parking spaces along our main street - until now.

Some of the architectural details are prettier than those on the
real buildings across the street

Painting begins

Parking is presently at a premium on weekdays

Our newspaper office will be transformed into a quaint coffee shop.
Some pieces of playground equipment await their placement on the set.

What's so Great about Martha Stewart?

I am not American, neither am I rich (well, not in money anyway), I am artsy, but not particularly crafty, so why have I, every November for the past twelve years, bought a copy of the December issue of Martha Stewart Living? What do I see in that magazine that is so enticing for me to spend 6 bucks on it, read it cover to cover, and then keep it enshrined with all the others on a shelf in my dining room to be brought out and pored over every year? I will attempt to answer these questions, for anyone who cares, in the following post.

Martha Stewart is an American icon by now. She seems to be an expert on everything from breeds of fowl to how to keep foxing (those brown age spots in old books) out of your collection of First Editions. She speaks with the alto voiced drawl of the more laughable New York Yuppies depicted in Norah Ephron and Woody Allen films, and her hair is forever blonde. She will hand roll her own wrapping paper in a faux bois pattern and curl ribbon to emulate wood shavings to extend the woodland theme she has chosen for all her Christmas decorations of a particular year even to her packaging of gifts. She will hand make all her Christmas gifts, be they delicious puddings or be they begonias produced from cuttings of her own perfect plants, and present them in re-usable vessels, such as terra cotta pots made locally in her Bedford, New York neighbourhood and stamped with the name of her farm, or specially chosen bowls from her collections, all wrapped exquisitely, of course, as mentioned above, and personalized with a handmade, thematic gift tag. I'm not sure how many of these gifts she gives out to friends and family, but I am willing to bet the number is a high multiple of ten - at the very least. I also hear Martha Stewart, like many powerful people, only sleeps four hours a night. Go figure.

I started my interest in Martha Stewart back in 1995, when I was talking to a friend about cooking my first Turkey for Christmas. My friend gave me an edition of MSL magazine with an article entitled 'Turkey 101'. I followed the directions to the letter and every year I use the same recipe because it makes for delicious results. How can it not, when basted in a bottle of white wine and lashings of butter? Martha Stewart recipes make up a large portion of my special occasion recipes, as well as some of my everyday ones. My mother-in-law heard I was getting into Martha recipes and bought me one of her cookbooks for Christmas in 1996. The best chicken or turkey stock, the best chicken soup (with leeks and fennel) to cure a cold with, the best devilled egg recipe, the best pumpkin pie recipe, the best gingerbread cookie recipe, are all to be found in that falling apart book. My husband bought me a subscription of MSL magazine in 2002 and, while I enjoyed receiving an issue per month, I was a bit overwhelmed with a new baby at the time, and one solid year of fantastic gardening tips for my nonexistent garden and advice on where to find the best bookbinder for one's antique tomes was enough for me. Fortunately, 2002 was a great year for the magazine and I still have all my copies and refer to them often for the best recipes for coconut cake, quesadillas with caramelized onions and zucchini, various cookies and punches, and for a delicious recipe for the chicken and corn empanadas my daughter has requested I make for her birthday party tomorrow. Her birthday cake recipe is also coming from a back issue.

I remember a party we had to which we invited a few friends for quesadillas and margaritas. I made a rich, hot fudge sauce from MSL for the ice cream sundaes I served for dessert. Like all MSL recipes it makes an overly generous amount (I have learned to halve some recipes, particularly for dessert sauces and such), but I made the full recipe thinking I would have leftovers to warm for a future dessert. No such luck. Three of the women at the party proceeded to sit down around the bowl of hot fudge sauce and polish it off. There went a pound of good quality chocolate, but also, there lay the proof of the appeal of MSL recipes. They just taste so darn good.

Martha Stewart Living is about more than recipes and beautiful, artistic photos of food. The magazine contains ideas and instructions for craft projects, features on wonderful American artisans, decorating ideas for houses and apartments, and even occasional articles on how to invest your extra money in a seaside cottage or mountain retreat (which I ignore because I already spent all my money on chocolate). What I like about the magazine is that it sticks to these themes, and it knows what it's about - gracious, good and healthful living, which celebrates the home and family and those who care for them creatively. It's honest about its purpose, too: good taste and quality matter. I also like the fact that much of what is presented in the magazine to be created at home is approachable for 'the rest of us' if we have the time, the desire, and the energy to make some beautiful, delicious things from scratch for our family and friends, and for ourselves. To be completely honest, I'm a busy person and I do not have time or energy to embark on a lot of projects. The times of year that I do make a point of doing so is in preparation for the major holidays, and most of my chosen projects involve creating good things to eat. So, in that way, I am not a thorough devotee of the great Martha. I am not always looking for patterns to make my own dog bed, or ways to stencil my furniture. But for a new cake to make for Easter, or a pretty ornament to make for Christmas gifts? Yes, I'm there, studying the Martha manual along with all the well-to-do housewives of Connecticut.

Martha Stewart Living put out a magazine for kids for a few years. I bought several issues and found them to be full of beautiful ideas to do with my children. We made batches of marshmallow fudge for their teachers, personalized gingerbread people with the neighbourhood kids, lots and lots of cut paper snowflakes after learning the real way to do so, and various other projects. I taught one little boy I looked after to make paper snowflakes and he and my daughter wiled away many hours making them and taping them up in my hallway. One year, my kids and I made little ornaments out of pipe cleaners - little skiing Santas and skating snowmen, wreaths, candy canes, stockings and tiny deer. The project was so much fun and definitely inexpensive. We sent one to everyone on our list with their Christmas card and a mix-tape of seasonal music. The kids made those pipe cleaner ornaments the next year, too, and the year after that.

The other night I bought this year's December issue of Martha Stewart Living. I brought it home with the groceries, which my eldest daughter, Emma, nearly sixteen, helped to put away. After the groceries were in their proper places, my daughter went to bed, but not before she had picked up the new issue of MSL and asked me if I would let her take it to bed with her before I had had a chance to read it. Emma is a baker, beginning to be a good cook, is crafty and like her mother, loves pretty things and good food. The next morning she said she had stayed up late, reading the magazine cover to cover and getting all kinds of ideas for projects to make. For the past two years, Emma has made a beautiful wreath from cuttings of cedar and holly for our front door at Christmastime. Every year she also chooses some kind of special dessert to make for Christmas, and just the other night, she came up with a prototype for our annual Christmas card. It was lovely, so I said, 'go to it!' and she has. I think I will end up being her assistant for that project - if I can keep up.

Years ago, a woman who immersed herself in cooking, baking and decorating would be called a 'little Suzy homemaker,' conjuring up images of a 1950's smiling housewife in a ruffled apron and pearls, but now, she might be called something like 'the next Martha Stewart,' which means something different entirely. I mean, does the owner and brainpower behind Martha Stewart Omnimedia look like a 'little Suzy homemaker' to you?  Heck, she's even done time in the big house.

Photos found online. Happy weekend, friends! 

The Enduring Legacy of Terry Fox

The Terry Fox Memorial near Thunder Bay
Photo by Tim Van Horn

For the past few years I have kept up my tradition of running the annual Terry Fox Run with my daughter's elementary school. It's not a very long run, but the whole school participates as well as several parents and occasionally a local constable. Just before eleven a.m. I change into my running gear and walk the three short blocks to the school. The day is usually a bit warm for running by eleven o'clock for me, somewhat of a wilting flower in the heat, but I suck it up and go. The event begins with a noisy school assembly and a slide show meant to motivate the crowd, as well as a student-led warm-up, and then we're off to run the route accompanied by a police escort. The kids push to the front, the athletes maintaining their speed to the end, the others flagging after a few blocks, still others, especially the little ones and their teachers, walking the route from the start. The running adults start off at a measured pace, chatting with each other and encouraging the kids along the way. People honk and wave from their cars, and the kids wave back proudly, most of them. As the runners return to the school, and are cheered by the other runners, the first few times are recorded on a timing sheet for posterity and everyone is given bottled water and a piece of fruit. After that, the kids go inside for lunch and the adults go home or continue running now that they are warmed up.

For the whole week preceding the run the school celebrates and learns about the legacy of Terry Fox. The children are encouraged to bring in coins - a different denomination each day - as a donation to the Terry Fox Foundation which raises money for cancer research. Even in this age of mega-corporate charities, especially in the field of cancer, the Terry Fox Foundation seems to be an honest, humble, but by no means minor organization - a lot like the young man for whom it was named.

I remember watching the television news with my family during Terry's Marathon of Hope in the spring and summer of 1980. I remember marveling at this young man from my own province who, with one prosthetic leg replacing the one he had had amputated due to cancer, ran as best he could - a step, step, hop kind of run - 42 kilometers each day, rain or shine with a support van following close behind. The news ran updates every day as Terry made his way from the East Coast of Canada through Quebec to Ontario. I had never seen anyone, let alone a disabled person, doing what he was doing to raise awareness and donations for a cause very personal to him. I think Canada ran those painstaking miles with him, every step of the way, cheering him on in his determination and his cause. Unfortunately in Thunder Bay, Ontario, he learned that the cancer he hoped he had left behind had made its evil way to his lungs. I remember being angry that his cancer had returned and that he would not be able to make it across Canada. In my youthful indignation I thought perhaps he should not have run a marathon a day if doing so made him so ill. I did not realize at the time that he was working toward something much greater than himself - that he was trying to motivate a nation to care about trying to find a cure for a terrible disease called cancer and he was succeeding. "I believe in miracles...I have to,"  said Terry during an interview with the press. Terry Fox died in June of 1981 just days before his twenty-third birthday, but not before he had received countless honors and awards and his dream to raise a dollar for every Canadian was realized. A pledge from a high level Canadian businessman to begin an annual Terry Fox run in order to carry on what Terry started was made in 1981, and this year on September 16th the 32nd annual Terry Fox run was held in countless towns and cities around the world. In 2005 the first National School Run Day was launched and since then, our local schools have taken part in this annual event celebrating this inspiring young Canadian. (My son Galen was so inspired that, at the age of ten he decided to run the route as Terry had - with a step-step hop, 'because anyone can run, Mom.' I talked him out of it, mostly because I thought he may end up injured.)

The Terry Fox runs are, for me, the right kind of 'run for a cause'. I remember when I subscribed to a running magazine and the pages were full of ads for all the runs one could do to raise funds for various charities: leukemia, breast cancer, arthritis, etc. The catch was, a person had to raise two or more thousand dollars just to be able to take part in many of these events. I don't have enough rich friends to hit up for those kind of dollars, or the time and energy that many others have to embark on such a fundraising campaign. The simplicity of the Terry Fox run appeals to me; I only have to show up with a few dollars if I can afford it - Fox himself said, "If you have given a dollar, then you are part of The Marathon of Hope" - and run. I don't have to travel to the city because the runs happen in my own community and at my daughter's school. I, along with thousands of parents across Canada, get to run with the kids, the teachers, and the principal, continuing the efforts of Terry Fox, and I see it as an honour to be able to do so.

***

Before we began our run, my daughter's teacher came to the back of the gym with a pile of stickers. She handed them out to we adult runners and supplied a black felt pen. The sticker read "I'm running for_____".
I filled in the space with the name 'Peter,' the father of one of my nieces and fiance of my sister Pauline. Peter died almost twenty years ago after what began as skin cancer had spread to his lymph nodes and then to his brain. I slapped the sticker on my front and headed off to run in the sunshine for Peter and for Terry. I ran with joy and gratitude for my own good health, knowing full well that I was truly blessed to be able to do so.

Terry Fox
photo by Colin Price, Vancouver Province newspaper

A message for my blogger friends: September is a bit of a crazy month for me and I am way behind on the reading of your latest posts. I apologize, and now that it is October, pledge to read, read, read! My other blog, Stella's Virtual Cafe has not been updated with a new post/recipe in nearly a month and I will get on that as well. Thanks for your patience, but most of all, thanks for reading my blog!

A Letter to Nora Ephron

My son came out of his room this morning with an announcement. "Nora Ephron died, Mom." When I asked him how he found out he gave me an odd look and said, "IMDB" which is the film website he frequents. It took a moment to sort things out in my mind. It was early after all, and I'm always a little foggy in the a.m.

"Goodness! She wasn't very old."

"71" he said. Just two years younger than my mom.

"I suppose you could say she had a full and rewarding life..." still trying to grapple with the fact of her death.

"Well yeah, she wrote some of your favourite movies of all time," he said, a bit forcefully.

"Yes, yes she did. Oh, that's a shame." And I realized there would be no more When Harry met Sally's, no more Julie and Julia's. I felt a bit like a deflated balloon.

If I could emulate any writer it just might be Nora Ephron. Not too long ago I thought about writing her a letter to thank her for her wonderful gift of inspiration to people like me, people trying to be writers. Her wit was amazing, her comic timing was classic, her characters were warm and wonderful and very human, and her respect for the film as a genre showed in all her movies. She loved old movies and frequently used them as a sort of cameo role in her films.

That letter was never written, so I'm writing it now.

Dear Ms. Ephron,


Thank you so very much for your contribution to the world of film. I cannot tell you how much I loved When Harry met Sally. Whenever I see the film, which is fairly regularly, I get more out of it. You managed to say more about friendship and the nature of real love in that film than others managed in five of theirs put together. You achieved that with tenderness, humour, wonderful writing, and a great sense of style (and a little help from Rob Reiner). The film is a feast for the eyes with its New York seasons, costumes and superb interior scenes.


I watched the interview with you on the special features of my DVD edition of Sleepless in Seattle. I loved how you decided to design the whole film, costumes, sets, props, etc. to be as timeless as possible, and it worked. The film is classic for it. The kid makes the film so much better, too. I know you had two sons and I wondered if he was based on either of them, since his wit matched yours pretty well to a tee...?


I won't say much about You've got Mail, except that it didn't really work all that well in my view and I won't insult you by pretending it did. I do appreciate what you were trying to do there to make a sort of modern day Pride and Prejudice as well as resurrect the chemistry of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks which worked so well in Sleepless in Seattle, but it fell a bit flat. I like the children's book store setting, and the costumes though. A lot. There are some great comedic moments, too, just not enough of them.


What can I say about Julie and Julia? I love food, I love good, honest writing, I love good acting. What's not to love about the film? Somehow you managed to make a movie which appealed to the various sensibilities of modern young women, their mothers and even their grandmothers. My fifteen year old daughter has been vocal enough about her enjoyment of the film to prompt her co-worker at the dental office to give her her own set of Julia Child cookbooks.


I've never seen Silkwood and I saw Heartburn too long ago to comment on it. I plan to see both of them soon, though, and probably won't feel complete until I have.


Your legacy is a great one. I and your many, many fans around the world will continue to enjoy your films - some of the best 'chick flicks' ever written. You knew how to deliver a happy ending, and God knows we can all use more of those these days.


With love and admiration for your rare talent, I remain forever your devoted fan,


Rebecca S.