Home to another gorgeous day, thank you Lord. While I was away, the crabby cat, who was being fed by my tenant Carol, jumped onto the kitchen counter, knocked down a half full can of food and devoured it. It’s great that she’s getting her own breakfast.
I just reread a letter I brought back from Ottawa, my grandmother writing to my mother in September 1967, a missive that also begins with news of cats. Only after extensive reportage on her feline friends – “Sooty is in as often as possible from next door and has a snack every time…” – does she move onto family. On page 2, she writes that close family friend Connie Gibson was thrilled by Beth’s – my – final exam marks in “Lit. and Eng.” …
… because when Connie saw Beth at 5 or 6 years old, her extensive vocabulary and ability to write imaginative prose caused Connie to exclaim, “That child will be an authoress, a gifted writer” and she thinks B. is now well on the way to fulfilling her forecast! Journalism is a good opening, tho’ there are hoards about, but Beth, after university, would surely be a top-notcher. Drusilla Beyfus is one woman journalist I admire and I understand she is a contributory editor of the Times mag besides being on T.V. panels and doing freelance work. It seems full of interest, a life like that. I hope it wouldn’t be too much like hard work for Beth.
There, in 1967 – in 1955, actually – my path laid out for me, the next Drusilla Beyfus. What a gift to read what a friend saw in me when I was five years old. I have criticized my mother for being a hoarder – and if you saw the amount of paper stuffed into her apartment, you’d understand. But that quality is a gift too, especially to us authoresses.
You notice I’m skipping over that gentle slam about hard work… and wondering whether I’ve lived up to that promise. I suspect that Connie Gibson expected a bit more.