Patrick fixed the ‘critical error.’ I’ve absolutely no idea why the annoying glitch happened or how he fixed it. That’s what having a tech-savvy 24-year-old in your life can do. Grateful! Onward.

There are days when I fear for my city, that it’s headed 100% in the wrong direction. And then there are days like today, when I am overjoyed to live here.

It’s been the perfect fall weekend, hot and windy with an undertone of chill, a hint of what’s to come but is not yet upon us. So le tout Toronto is out in force to celebrate. Today, I’d heard there was a garlic festival at nearby Allan Gardens, so I rode over expecting a few wan garlic farmers. Wrong — a huge festival, packed, mountains of garlic but also prepared food, jewelry, many things on sale. The smell was heaven. I bought a big bag of garlic to plant and share and eat.

Went straight from there to visit Ron Hume who at 93 has just published another book, with the help of AI. His thesis — we are guided throughout our lives by various structures: parents, schools, workplace, family. But then we reach retirement and old age and have no structure and no guidance; no one tells us how to live a good life as we age. Ron is addressing that in his books, including the new one Making the Most of Life’s Last Act. It begins, “At ninety-three, I have reached the age at which people sometimes ask me for the secret of a long life.

They usually lean forward when they ask, as though I might reveal a closely guarded formula involving kale, deep breathing, and a tablespoon of something unpleasant before breakfast.

I am tempted to tell them the secret is good genes, sensible habits, blind luck, and the ability to avoid stepping in front of a bus.

The truth is less satisfying…”

His energy, humour, and focus are a marvel.

A bit later, I set off for Word on the Street in the heart of downtown. I’ve been going since the very first one in 1990, before I’d published anything myself, always inspired and interested but later sad, too, because my books have never been on sale there. I’ve spoken at several WOTS events but only online. Today was no different; a few of my former students had books on display, but not me.

I realize I’ve never had the chutzpah to flog my books, unlike many writers I know who always have copies or promo material with them. Promotion needs to be relentless. I can’t do it. And early in my writing career, I didn’t have the self-confidence to insist on the value of my books. Yes, that makes me sad today.

On the other hand, I recently received this: “I have finally started reading your fabulous book, All My Loving. It is such a delight, I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love it. I am both trying to read it as fast and as slowly as I can to make it last. You have captured perfectly how a teenage girl thinks and feels and it is so wonderful.  I cannot wait to give it to my daughters to read. I find it so joyous that I sit grinning on the subway as I read it.”

Good for the heart. But the book is more or less invisible.

WOTS was fabulous today — again, packed, and this time, people were not just browsing but buying, thrilling to see all those publishers and booksellers so busy. Pamela Mulloy of The New Quarterly, one of Canada’s best literary magazines, said it was their best weekend ever. I went to a talk by Patrick Lennox, Linda McQuaig and Neil Brooks, and my former student Miriam Edelson, whose book Confronting the Resurgent Right I helped edit (and, she showed me, am thanked in the acknowledgements.) Miriam spoke about the horrifying rise of the far right, Patrick about the appalling separation referendum sponsored by MAGA in Alberta, and Linda and Neil about the corrosive power of billionaires. If we’d had pitchforks, we could have started a revolution right there on David Pecault Square. But we did not.

And then rode home along the bike lanes not yet torn out by our fat cat premier, to sit on the deck with rosé and cheezies and write to you.

Much else to tell. Last post I assumed I’d have to sell the house before long. Then I thought, what do I absolutely need in a place to live? Well, I need tons of light because I am a lightoholic. I need tranquillity because I am a quietoholic. Some green garden space, and nice neighbours, and being conveniently close to many shops and transit and downtown.

What that means, in fact, is that I need to live RIGHT HERE, where I have all those things. This house, as I’ve said before, has kept and is keeping me alive. I live here FOR MY HEALTH.

So, another plan. I need to figure out how to make more money somehow — more workshops and classes, or sell more books, ha!, or write a bestseller, yes, there’s a great idea, let’s do that! — and to spend less, so I can stretch my money, and then take out a hefty line of credit, to be paid back when I do sell. I will re-evaluate my situation in five years when I’m 81 and again, if necessary, five years after that, at 86, when I really do assume I’ll need to move somewhere easier. But that gives me ten years of light and quiet and convenience and neighbours. It also means I hope to rent downstairs before long to someone who will help me run this place in return for reduced rent. And I will figure out some arrangement to rent more of upstairs when I move to the main floor.

All remains to be worked out. But there’s a plan. Sort of.

Yay.

Thursday, my friends Anna and Tom came in from Stratford; Tom, a painter and sculptor, was giving a talk at the Toronto School of Art where he has taught for many years. His talk was brilliant, about his process, about composition and structure, accompanied by slides of his work through the decades. Wonderful. A former writing student of mine was there who’s also a student of Tom’s, plus friends from different facets of my life = much talk. Then Anna and Tom came over to spend the night, so we had a grand chatter, a big snack, and a big breakfast next morning. They’re vegetarians, so I made a cauliflower-leek frittata for them. Dear friends indeed.

Saturday the market — the corn still sweet and juicy, and now, the pleasure of apples.

I realized after teaching the second class on Tuesday — how lucky to have a job I like so much and can still do at 76, and that, it seems, I’m good at. Very satisfying, a true gift. So far, although I appreciate his efforts, I do not need to read Ron’s book. But I will, to write a review and help him with promotion. We starving old writers need to look out for each other.