Sitting with my dear friend on a very hot day, as she wrestles with her brand new if refurbished iPhone (much less expensive than in France) – she has been online solving problems with various experts most of the day but is getting there. I in the meantime went to recuperate from last night’s dance party in the hot tub at the Y, and then on to Queen’s Park for what was not a demonstration against our hideous premier, but a picnic, a peaceful gathering on the grounds, just to remind them we’re out here and not going away. Anna was there of course with her boys, and I was proud to see that Eli had written his first protest signs. His education in democracy begins. Meanwhile, Ben was kicking a soccer ball and trying to squash the bubbles a young woman nearby was blowing for him. Our people.
“I HOPE NEXT ELECTION DOUG FORD LOSES.” He told me what he wanted to write and I helped him spell it. We all agree with you, sweetheart.
On Thursday, a thrilling event – former student and editing client Rollande Ruston launched her book “If the Rocks Could Talk” at a gorgeous house on Admiral Road. We worked for several years, going back and forth, and she produced a beautiful book about her childhood in the Gaspé, not just a personal tale but an important piece of social history – she has traced her family back to the 1700’s. She was kind enough to speak at length about my class and help in getting her book out, and I spoke of how much hard work and dedication she put into it and how proud I was of her and the book.
And then leapt onto my bicycle and tore home for my 6.30 home class, just made it in time. The term begins, and how glad I was to see those faces and to hear their words.
Last night’s Let It Go dance party was a triumph of one kind if not of another. There weren’t enough people for me to break even – in fact, I lost $150 on the venture. And I discovered that not everyone enjoys dancing to even one Glenn Miller piece or to an obscure but terrific African musician, whom I’d gone to considerable lengths to discover and include. By night’s end there were about 25 people, 10 or 15 fewer than I’d hoped; they were dancing madly, which was a joy to see, but periodically something would come on and clear the dance floor. Except for me, Lynn, and Jean-Marc, who danced to everything. My people. Old friends came, friends from the Y and from the neighbourhood, but I had done too little to promote it. Lesson: I am good at ideas and producing and lousy at marketing. I knew this but didn’t fix it.
However, very early, a middle-aged woman came alone, very shy, didn’t speak to anyone, but she danced and danced. And she is exactly the person this was for. So I hope it happens again, only next time, the playlist should be by someone younger, and someone else should promote it.
Madame and me getting ready to dance.
This morning, my body ached from head to foot – three solid hours of dancing plus a little bit of worrying about venue, attendance, money, music. A soak at the Y helped, and a kindly protest. Soon Lynn and I will go out to meet our good friend Eleanor Wachtel, who is fitting us into her very busy schedule, and then we’ll celebrate our last night together (at least in Toronto – she goes to Montreal tomorrow and I go there Wednesday) with take out fish and chips accompanied by a good Chablis and Randy Bachman on the radio, followed by HBO. And talking. Talking talking talking. She leaves tomorrow. I am already bereft.