To start with something nice: a woman I’ve never met sent this to a mutual friend: “I’d like Beth to know how much I’m loving her book, Midlife Solo. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried and so many of her thoughts have rung true. I’m not quite finished, savouring each essay, but I will be recommending it to my book club next week.”

Merci infiniment! Always happy to meet book club members.

And my third Local Heroes column appeared this week, about Asja and the Great Hall Bookshop she opened, brave and wonderful soul that she is. I hope this helps.

And my friends Lynn and Denis, famous from my books (in one, cleverly disguised as Gail and Alain) just announced their visit here at the end of August. Last time they came I got very stressed about feeding two French people for a week. This time I am determined not to stress. If it’s sandwiches, it’s sandwiches.

Ha. I will stress.

I’ve spent the last few days confronting mortality, or at least aging. My new financial advisor has forced me to think seriously about the future — where to grow old and how to pay for it. Old friend Duncan, a banjo-playing real estate agent to whom I turned for advice, took me to see a well-known cooperative apartment building in south Rosedale where a number of artsy Cabbagetowners have moved as they grew older. A warm vibrant community, he said.

I hated it. I hate those long carpeted corridors of closed doors. Poky rooms, poky galley kitchens, balcony overlooking Danforth traffic. No no no.

So I will age here, as long as I can, in my leafy paradise in a perfect location that comes with a cost — the amount of work to maintain this old house and be a landlady and a gardener. Worth it, while I can. And when I can’t, we’ll deal. I will plan for a renovation, turning the two upper levels into a big separate apartment and the main floor for me. That means major decluttering. Major. Forty years in this house, and everything has a story. It’ll be tough.

Chris said to me, “What you really want is for things to stay as they are and for someone to give you a lot of money.” Yes. That is what I want. Can we arrange that? Sigh.

Meanwhile, much going on. It’s summer. I went out to look at my glorious William Morris rosebush loaded with buds and found a bunch of them blackened and chewed. Horrors! I sprayed like crazy. There are so many vicious destructive enemies in this world. Let’s not even think about the obvious ones. Though of course we do, all the time.

Good things: had lunch with Brian Richmond, a theatre director I worked with in the mid-seventies and have not seen since. We recognized each other immediately, despite a few tiny changes in appearance. He’s had an interesting life, and mine has not been dull, so much to discuss. Many old friends in common. Show biz.

I enjoy giving blood. People are so kind and friendly. I’m O Positive, like 80% of Canadians, so my blood is needed. Something small I can do. Plus free Cheeses! Win/win.

I enjoy the free talks I give at libraries, to thank the TPL system for what they’ve given me for many years. Did one recently, and was sent this afterwards: Beth’s in-depth knowledge, passion and delightful sense of humour shone through in her talk about memoir writing. She not only gave candid advice on how to get started and how to craft a memoir, but shared insights on why we chronicle, and why it’s universally important. Beth’s presentation was informative, entertaining, and inspirational. 

 Again, mille fois merci! Below, a display of banned books. Thank God for librarians.

On the other hand, I applied to teach at the Kingston Writersfest, as I did last year, and received a no, as I did from San Miguel. Although I’m not well-known, I’ve been told I’m really good at what I do, so it’s frustrating there’s no interest. Is it because I’m an old white woman? Surely not, many writers and writing teachers are old white women. Perhaps they always want fresh blood.

Also on the con side: I have self-diagnosed the pain on my left side as piriformus syndrome, a kind of sciatica, from biking, climbing stairs, and too much sitting, all of which I’m guilty of. I can be fine, walking along, and then suddenly YOW. Have to be careful at the Y.

On the plus side: The basement suite has been rented sight unseen as of Sept. 1, by a student from Vancouver who says it’s exactly what he was looking for. A great relief. The space is available if you’re visiting TO in July and August. Let me know.

And I finished a marvellously rich book, Lost and Found, by Kathryn Schultz, a New Yorker staff writer, Pulitzer winner, fantastic nonfiction writer. She writes profoundly about losing her adored father and finding the love of her life at around the same time, about death and marriage and what it means to be alive. Spectacular.

Con: As I write, I’m on hold with Rogers to report a spam email I got the other day, saying they’ve gained access to my computer and have photos of me doing disgusting things,  threatening me with exposure unless I send a lot of money. Makes me laugh — I guess they’ve photographed me typing an essay and scrolling through FB. I’d ignore it except it came from my own email address, and although I keep trying to delete it, I can’t. Enemies everywhere.

Plus: watched yet another documentary about Woodstock, which, when I saw the ads in the NYT back then, I considered going to and am deeply grateful I did not. There’s something horrifying about the overwhelmingly massive crowds and the rainstorm and the mud, but the event was also very beautiful — the complete lack of violence, how the surrounding towns pitched in to feed the kids when the food ran out, how Max Yasgur, the conservative farmer on whose farm the hordes landed, spoke with such warmth about what he witnessed. Another time. It seems very far away now.

Plus: the Tony awards. Chris hated them. Yes, there was a lot of razzle-dazzle, segments from over-the-top musicals, but the evening is about honouring theatre and theatre artists, and I will always love that.

Eli’s first 14th birthday party was cancelled because of torrential rains. A small version happened recently. He’s the tallest, wearing a catcher’s mask on his head. Baseball is god, except the World Cup is in Toronto these days, and Canada plays today. You know what these kids will be watching this afternoon.

It’s hot. The miracle of the garden — not long ago it was a long strip of brown, and now every inch has filled in with green perennial growth. Despite all, despite the enemies on all sides, including on my rosebuds, what a wonder it is to be here on this planet. Yes, getting old, shrinking, with fresh pains. But glad glad glad.

Onward.