First, importantly: I just counted over 100 buds on the William Morris rose. There was a bit of rust on the leaves which I cut off, and one small errant caterpillar trying to pillage, now gone. I go out every day to make sure my rosebush is okay. That I can manage.

Less important but very disappointing: I just heard from the San Miguel conference that I will not be asked back next year. I’d applied to teach memoir again next February, sure it would be a go since I heard such positive things about my workshop this year. I loved being there, meeting all kinds of people, surrounded by writers, not to mention the joys of Mexico and the three days at the airport in Mexico City with John Irving. But no. I don’t understand it, but that’s life. For once, surely it cannot be because I’m an old white woman, because many of the teachers there are the same, not to mention the attendees. Obviously, they have someone better in mind.

No, cut that, no bitterness, girl. Who knows why? No point thinking about it. I’ll find somewhere else to go next winter.

But on top of that, PicRights, the bottom feeding bullies who troll the net looking for what they call copyright violations are still hounding me, insisting on many thousands of US dollars in payment because years ago I shared a few New Yorker cartoons with you. Now of course all deleted. If I don’t pay, they threaten legal action. I’ve already paid several hundred dollars to a lawyer for notes back to them defending myself – my blog, a minuscule diary-type account of my personal life, how could that possibly interfere with the livelihood of New Yorker cartoonists? But there you go. Surreal and very unpleasant.

And at his work yesterday, my son was bitten on the ankle; the swelling was so big and immediate, he went to a walk-in clinic which thinks it was a rat bite. Tetanus shot and blood tests.

Plus everything that’s happening south of the border and elsewhere. Nauseating.

However — roses. The weather is good, hot. The lineup waving signs at Grandmothers Against Racism this morning was smaller, but still heartening, lots of cars honking approval at us. “You guys are amazing!” said one woman, though it’s hard to see what’s amazing about standing with a sign, to indicate we care about human life and human rights.

My neighbour’s daughter goes to Rosedale Heights School of the Arts, where Sam went, and she recently asked me to sign a petition to keep the principal, who’s been there 33 years (!!) at the school; the school board wants at long last to transfer him.

And then she said, Isn’t that your son?! It certainly is — the petition features Sam and Barry Sketchley at a school reunion some years ago, a picture I took — chosen I guess to represent every happy student from the school. LOL. Oh, and feel free to sign! Barry is not replaceable.

I went with Annie to see Jane Austen Wrecked my Life again and liked it even more the second time. It’s bilingual, sweet, not particularly deep but well cast and shot, lovely to look at, interesting quirky characters including my friend Liz, fabulous music, and it’s about writing, what’s not to like?

Carole is the lithe, athletic grandmother who teaches the Wednesday Y class a group of us have been taking for over 30 years. When I noticed her 77th birthday would fall on a class day this year, I emailed the others suggesting we do something for her. A card was smuggled around for everyone to sign, and after the suggestion of a Lululemon gift card, I went to the mall and bought one; many class members contributed. We gave her the card and gift after the class today, and she was surprised and moved.

But I confess: I organized this out of strict self-interest. I need this class, need Carole’s positivity and energy and the bonds all of us have made in the gym, this strange collection of friends in shorts and spandex and sneakers. So the more Carole knows how grateful and appreciative we are, the better. Pure selfishness, on my part.

And best of all, yesterday a dear friend took me to lunch and told me the most beautiful story. He was adopted at birth, had a great childhood and little interest in finding his birth family, but finally, at age 75, did the Ancestry DNA test and found a close match who turned out to be his half-sister. And through her, he met his birth mother, who’d given him up at 22 and now is a vigorous 97. She at last embraced the son she gave up 75 years ago, and he now has a whole new family and knows where he came from.

His story made me so happy. We can forget, in the chaos and violence of our current reality, the only things that really matter —family, connection, love.