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the cold wins

Full-on sick today, folks, with a raspy voice and headache. By the most amazing coincidence – NOT – this is the first Tuesday in months that I do not have a class, as my Tuesday group ended last week. Nothing to do today except lie around coughing and working on my manuscript.

Heaven.
I opened the door to get the paper this morning, and two stunning women in twinkling saris were on the sidewalk, greeting each other in Punjabi or Urdu. How great to live in a Canadian city where I can open my front door and be in Bombay or Bangladesh or Sri Lanka or Lahore. Or Bogata, or Kingston, Jamaica, or whatever a city in Kazakstan is. It’s Pride Week coming up too, so the city’s gay population is swelling. I do not think the two ladies in saris, like our mayor, will be attending the Gay Pride parade. Maybe one day.
And there, too, was the mailman, back after the strike. I am sorry he and his union didn’t get what they wanted; glad that my “New Yorkers” will start arriving again. Always the selfish consumer.
Spent Sunday afternoon, as usual, cooking and listening to Eleanor Wachtel, who was interviewing four fascinating women writers. I just wrote to thank her, and she replied that she’s just back from Banff and the Whitehorse Poetry Festival. Such a dull life, has that woman. I also wrote to congratulate my cousin in New York on the passing of the gay marriage bill, and asked if I could be the flower girl at his and Henry’s wedding. Apparently, there’s quite a list of flower girls already. Can’t wait.
My Monday group came for the last class of term; our feast included Sonia’s homemade rhubarb cake. I gathered my courage and read them two short excerpts from the memoir, wondering how it would go over. It went over, and most importantly, they laughed at some bits. I was so hoping they would. After they’d gone, I realized I was completely drained from the stress of hope and fear – my soul and years of work on display, awaiting judgement. Ah, the serene life of the writer.
Today there’s the farmer’s market at Riverdale Farm and a marathon reading of War and Peace at Nathan Phillips Square, neither of which I’ll get to, probably. There was just a brief shower, so I don’t even have to water the garden. I’ll sit sipping lemon and honey and smelling the damp jasmine, camellias, lavender and roses. And then I’ll do my best to rip open my insides and smear them all over a piece of paper.
Ah, the serene life of the writer.
PS Just back from the farmer’s market – had to go, it’s a perfect day and I needed bread. Now I have a loaf of dark Red Fyfe and one of sourdough, fresh oak-leaf lettuce and the first Ontario strawberries, delectable, some sausages from a small family farm, and best of all – the George Brown student chefs were out in force, scores of them in their white aprons and tall hats, selling small portions of a variety of dishes. I brought home a small grilled sandwich – an exotic cheese with caramelized onion and poached pear – !!! And for later, pulled pork on a blini with avocado and salsa. With that, despite my throat and hot head, I’ll have a little glass of rosé, or two. I feel better already.
But the War and Peace Marathon, unfortunately – not so much.
A friend sent me this, a survey about PUBLIC LIBRARIES. We need to defend them. Please take a minute to fill it out.

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3 Responses to “the cold wins”

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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