My new book “Midlife Solo” is now available.

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sweet

Sweet – 7.30 a.m. on a perfect summer morning, the air fresh and perfumed. Just me and you.

You’ll be relieved to know that I’m not seeing my grandson for a few days. Amazing that I have turned into the cliché of a doting grandmother so fast, but now, instead of whipping photographs out of my capacious handbag for every passerby, I post them on my blog for hundreds to enjoy. Because I am a MODERN grandmother.

Though the word ‘grandmother’ still rings strangely in the ears. It has nothing to do with me. I am a loving woman of a certain age with a new baby in her life who’s a close relative. I think that’s what I’ll go by from now on.

Tonight, at the oddly named No One Writes to the Colonel, a venue at College and Bathurst, there’s an event called Raconteurs: Music. A bunch of people telling stories, including the aforementioned woman of a certain age. It starts at 7.30 and there are tickets left. Fun times. Wheee!

Distress in Ottawa – my mother is now not sure she wants to stay in the assisted living place; she wants to go home. So difficult. I’d want to go home too, but she cannot – she needs the nursing care, the meals, the safety of the residence. She is not happy. What to do? We can only try to convince her that she is in exactly the right place, help her see the advantages. This is the pattern of her entire life, as well – she’d agonize over making a decision, delay it as long as possible while looking at every side of the issue countless times, finally decide, and then immediately seek more advice and change her mind again. It’s been that way with every decision, from buying a few yards of material to choosing where to live. And all loved ones can do is listen patiently. I’d love to help set her mind at rest, but I know there’s not much I can do.

I fell down the stairs again. It’s becoming a new fun game around here. Luckily, after the last time, I put a soft mat at the bottom and moved the furniture away in case it happened again – so this time I landed on the mat and was not much hurt. Is this part of growing older – hurtling down stairs?

Big son came to visit yesterday with the usual large bag full of food; ate and stretched out on the sofa with the last “Game of Thrones,” tattooed limbs flung in all directions. And fell asleep – my baby. My daughter and I now laugh ruefully about how hard it is to keep hungry sons fed. Once my boy was smaller than Eli, and now he’s the tallest person I know. They’re equally handsome, though.

Got two books out of the library yesterday – Alison Bechdel’s “Fun Home” and Spalding Gray’s “Life Interrupted.” Bechdel is a graphic artist famous for her “Dykes to Watch Out For” panels in alternative newspapers and mags; she has a new book out about her mother. This is a graphic memoir about her childhood, particularly her father, and it’s superb – moving, incredibly honest, profound. Highly recommended.

I’m not going to mention all the stuff in the newspaper that makes my heart heavy. I’ll sit in the shade with a cup of coffee and later a glass of rosé and read a good book, and wish peace of mind and body today for those I love. And for those I don’t even know, as well.  I wish you a sweet and peaceful day. And now it’s time to start mine.

P.S. Silly moi. Just talked to my brother, who said he visited Mum yesterday right after her diatribe to me about leaving Amica, and she said not a word to him about not wanting to stay. So I called her, but she couldn’t talk because, “My torturer is here,” she said gaily, her physio lady who’s “super, I wish you could meet her.”

I got caught again. How many times O Lord!!!!!

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2 Responses to “sweet”

  1. Maybe we should rename the staircase in your front hall "Beth's Falls".

  2. beth says:

    HA HA!!!
    Or as they say now – LOL.

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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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Chris Walks
This blog evolves. It once was about travels. Now it’s a reason to be at the keyboard that I value.

Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan is a writer living on the Sechelt Peninsula on the west coast of Canada.

I walk on. With my feet, and in my mind as well.

Carrie Snyder
Wherever you’ve come from, wherever you’re going, consider this space a place for reflection and pause.

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