First, the good news: NO JETS ON TORONTO ISLAND. Thanks to PM Carney and the feds for putting a stop to yet another of Doug Ford’s preposterous, city-brutalizing ideas. Please God, let’s be rid of him and his gang of crooks. And of the massively crooked gang to the south, too. Please.

And the wildfire smoke is gone, or at least I don’t notice it. But then, I hardly noticed it even when it was really bad. Oblivious.

The bad news is that I was hacked. I got an email invitation to a Labour Day dinner from a dear friend I haven’t seen in a long time, asking that I RSVP. I clicked and clicked but could not get through. The next day an email arrived from Anita in Helsinki saying I’d invited her to a Labour Day dinner but it would be hard for her to get there. That’s how I discovered my email list had been hacked; many people received the invite and are now also hacked. I posted a warning on FB and IG, changed my email password, reported it to Rogers. In fact, I had to spend hours with Rogers because my email got screwed up, and did again today.

Horrible. What do the @##@ hackers get out of this, besides a lot of email addresses? I guess we’ll find out.

The cardinal is very noisy right now. Cardinals have so many songs. Is he calling, or celebrating, or defending his turf, or showing off for his little light brown missus? Several robin fledglings with spotted breasts are hopping about; they’re pretty fearless, which scares me. I found a dead mouse this morning. Maybe cats invade my yard at night. They know the crabby lady will chase them away during the day.

Other pests: the fuchsia has been attacked by rust, and something is devouring a lot of flower foliage, which is speckled with holes. Nature, red in tooth and claw, and also rust, beetles, and slugs. But still, it’s glorious. Many tomatoes about to ripen, two big cucumbers ready to pick. No matter what I do, it seems the only veg that’s guaranteed to be successful under my care are tomatoes, cukes, and basil.

Busy times. My garden workshop last Sunday was marvellous, twelve writers from 10 a.m. till 5.00 on a spectacular day, mild and sunny with a breeze. Here are a few of the testimonials people sent afterwards:

“Even though you’ve been doing this for quite some time, I hope you never get tired of hearing what a tender yet invigorating leader you are. You make hard seem easy.

What was most valuable about the day? Sitting down and focusing on my life story writing and walking away with 5 pieces. The food and atmosphere were marvelous.

How to make the experience better? Nothing but pastries for lunch.  😀

What worked? Being comfortable with vulnerability, mine and the others. Being an archeologist taking the time to examine my own artifacts. It all worked for me.

The day is a powerful experience because we’re not bound by being critiqued, and the writer has the opportunity to move others, not just ourselves. You provided a space where participants could be open and vulnerable with each other while sharing private thoughts and experiences.

I was very moved by all the contributors and I’m very grateful that people like you are so talented at bringing people together.

Thank you for exposing me to the wonderful people I would have never otherwise met. Boy, was I tired last night! Closing with the hope you can make room for me in your next workshop ~ January 2027.”

Yes, there’ll be a Winter Writing Workshop in January in the house. Stay tuned.

And then, I went across town to a small celebration of younger grandson Ben’s eleventh birthday. Just family; his mother of course will at some point produce a spectacular event for about a thousand children. These boys are impenetrable creatures from an incomprehensible planet, but I love them a lot.

A pensive Ben contemplates his cake. Elijah is pretty tall for fourteen. His much-decorated uncle is six foot eight.

Gearing up for my trip to B.C. in early August. At 4 a.m. the other morning, I realized I was overscheduling, and in the morning changed my itinerary, losing one island and a friend who visits Toronto anyway for more time with Chris who does not travel. It will be an interesting trip.

Rona Maynard came to sit in the garden yesterday for much writer talk — how to survive as a freelance writer getting old, the dilemma we share. She’s far more successful and well-known than I, but we share the same concerns.

She is of the opinion, as are several other writer friends, that my project of turning my parents’ letters into a book will be of little interest to the general public, but if I am compelled to do it, I should. I am and I will. I’ve been reading the files of my own early scribbles, and realize that since the age of six, I’ve never stopped writing, a constant never-ending flow of words on the page, in stories, poems, and especially letters.

I was a lucky child. Not a happy child for many years because I was the family scapegoat. But at the same time, there were piano and ballet lessons and drama classes with me performing on stage, radio, and television; we travelled and did interesting things, and my parents had interesting friends. And best of all, I grew up near a big park in Halifax, a relatively small city right on the sea, what a gift. The smell of salt and fish on a rainy day is the smell of my childhood. The moan of the foghorn. Lucky.

Went to interview José the Cabbagetown shoe-mender for my latest Local Heroes profile in The Bridge. What a dear man. The profile will I think be in the next issue.

Finished Pick a Colour, which won the Giller. There’s no question Souvankham Thammavongsa  is a very good writer, but this book did not move me. Now, however, I’ll know more about the nail salon workers if I ever go back to have my nails done; they’ll be talking about the customers while pretending not to. Am now reading Barney’s Version by Mordecai Richler which someone left in my Little Free Library. What a rich world he creates. It reminds me of John Irving in the detail, the terrific dialogue, the research. The length. Mordecai is funnier.

Saw the first half of a superb documentary on the Brontës, their many tragedies — dead mother, dead siblings, their own too-early deaths — their isolated childhood and intense absorption in their fantasy worlds. What a great beginning for these extraordinary writers. Although this Haligonian did not grow up on the wild and tangled moors, I too spent many hours lost in fantasy worlds and invented a great love. The power of the imagination to save a child’s life.

Speaking of which, there’s a doc about Mary Oliver at Hot Docs this afternoon which looks wonderful. It’ll be on PBS on August 25.

There’s the noisy cardinal again, telling us all about his life — his musical version of letters, stories, memoir. I should join him for his workshop: Sing in the Garden.