Turning Sixty In The Technology Age

I must stress at the outset of this post that I am not dissing my parents. They are capable seniors living in a digital age that is not fully designed for their needs. The stories I am about to tell you in this missive are true, but I am not ridiculing them. I am simply stating their truth.

I am about to turn the page on another decade, and I must say that I am very stressed at the prospect. Sixty. It is a really big-sounding number. SIXTY! I often roll it around in my mouth and try it on for size, but it isn't fitting. It is like a bra that is two cup sizes too small. SIXTY F***ING YEARS OLD!

Yes, I am aware that the alternative sucks. Yes, I am aware that I don't look sixty. (Yesterday, I was told by someone not that much older than that throat-catching number that she thought I was forty-five. She is my new best friend.) Yes, I am aware that age is simply a number on the calendar and that you are only as old as you feel. (Whoever said that probably only lived to fifty-nine.) Let's be frank. Sixty is a big freaking number. 60!

Nobody can claim that you have half of your life in front of you at sixty. When scientists talk about things that will occur by 2050, I do the math and realize that my odds of seeing those things happen are slim. The Divine Spirit willing, Younger Son will be sixty in 2050. Holy Shit. None of this is meant to depress you, dear reader, but I am simply being realistic. Sixty is a big freaking number.

Many things have impressed this reality upon me over the last eighteen months. Some of them were simply age questions. For example, I couldn't get my fourth Covid vaccination for months because I wasn't sixty. Sixty was that magical age line for the government between protecting older people and those of us not there yet. I wasn't old enough. Sixty is the age when my out-of-country insurance will increase. I was fifty-nine when I left Canada, so the premiums were less. Next year, watch me hit the stratosphere. 

But, nothing has convinced me more of my age issues than dealing with my parents and theirs. My parents are amazing people. They are both in their mid-eighties, live independently, exercise regularly, and handle all of their own banking, shopping, cooking, and medical needs. They both have a decent amount of computer/smartphone literacy in that they have a basic understanding of email, online banking, texting, FaceTime, Zoom, and (God help me) social media. But my octogenarian parents are still trying to learn these skills at an age when the outside world assumes that everyone understands everything and the never-ending technological changes.

Simply put, technology for people of a certain age is a bitch. We laugh at their ineptitude, but it isn't at all funny. When I tried to explain to my dad that he couldn't actually "call" an UBER, he was befuddled. When I tried to explain to my mom that her cellphone wasn't operating correctly down here in the Southern Home because her service provider was a shitty company, she couldn't understand the difference between a service provider and her actual handset. She asked The Husband to look at her phone as if that would change the problem. When I asked my dad to call said shitty service provider and deal with the situation, he kibbitzed with the operator until they lied to him and told him everything was fixed. I have spent hours lately fixing their cable, internet, and cell phones and updating all of their devices. And here's the thing. I AM NOT MUCH BETTER AT ANY OF THIS THAN THEY ARE. I married a techie and birthed one; I am not one. And don't even get me started on lost and forgotten passwords. Is it all caps or lowercase? Did you use numbers or symbols? Did you write it down anywhere? Did you save the password with facial recognition? Do you use facial recognition? The possibilities and computations are endless. (We are beginning the labourious task of documenting all of their passwords in a notebook. It will take a while.)

To make matters worse, my wonderful brother bought them new phones before they came south and set everything up for them. And yet, they are still using their old phones occasionally because some critical apps, like my dad's hearing aides, are only useable in Canada and can't be duplicated in the U.S. app store. And...we need access to the Canadian app store from down here which we don't have. Do better, Apple.

I am in technology hell. 

Last week, The Husband and I spent two hours with a Breezeline technician because the modem in my Other Dad's condo was fried. He has yet to arrive, and we wanted to ensure everything was copacetic before he came. I had spent over an hour on the phone with Breezeline a few days before explaining that the modem was fried. After they disconnected me twice, I insisted on the in-person visit. The technician did indeed replace the modem, but he had to reset all of the network passwords. He wasn't permitted to change the network name or password to something more personal, so he left instructions with The Husband on how to do it. But you can't use an iPhone to do it. He stressed this. It will lock you out of the network. The next day, The Husband and I took his laptop to Other Dad's condo to quickly reset the name and password. 

Um...no!

It wasn't possible to do it over the internet even though we were connected to the WiFi. It locked us out of the system. Thanks to the Divine Spirit for my techie. He hardwired Other Dad's desktop computer directly into the modem so that he could access the network. But...his wireless mouse and keyboard were dead, logical after a hiatus of several months. So, he had to plug them into the wall to charge. Three hours later, we were back in his unit to change the password and network name. Without The Husband's knowledge and skill, we would have been fucked.

My brother sent me an email last month warning me that my parents' email verification would change in December. All that we needed to do was input their passwords for their email. That and update all their devices to the latest iOS and find all those passwords to access them. My dad last updated his iPad 45 weeks ago. I'm fucking serious. 45 weeks. The updates took a while. So far, their email is still working. Pray for me.

I have an excellent idea for a business. Tech support that is specifically designed for seniors. Not the Geek Squad, which expects you to understand the basics and employs less than adequate people. I'm talking about a tech support who will come to your home and deal with everything, from password retrieval to how to program your digital TV recorder. Don't tell them how to do it, just do it for them. Don't offer them explanations and instructions; order that UBER for them. The employees' prerequisites need to include Job's patience, a love of people (my dad will make them coffee, and my mom will ply them with chocolate chunk cookies), an aversion to judgement, and an understanding nature. We expect our seniors to be able to navigate new apps and phones every month. It is a loser's game. Let's find a way to make things easy for them. They are twentieth-century people living in a twenty-first-century world. Only some people have access to a techie.

I see myself in my parents. I fear the day when I fear technology. I am scared that there will come a time when it is all just too complicated. I don't want to burden my techies any more than my parents wish to burden theirs. Every time something goes haywire, I hear the exhaustion in my mother's voice. "Two years ago, I could do it all," she says. She's right. But two years is still two years. We don't get younger.

Sixty is a big freaking number. I'm not expecting sympathy. I'm blessed. But I need to acknowledge the fears before I embrace the excitement. That post is coming before the end of the month. The fears are real. This, too, shall I overcome. 

. 

Go Vote

Tomorrow is election day across Ontario. Tomorrow we choose the leaders involved with our most personal municipal decisions over the next four years. Tomorrow, we citizens choose our mayors, councillors, and school board trustees. It is democracy in its purest form, yet it is a right that too many of us take for granted. In 2018, only 41% of Torontonians chose to exercise their franchise. That number was way down from the 2014 vote, which saw almost 55%. (In fairness, that was the year we turned out to turf The Fords.)

By all accounts, this mayoral election is a slam dunk, so says the media, which has pretty much abdicated its responsibility to hold the current office-holder to account for his record. John Tory hasn't held a single news conference during this election cycle, and he has only participated in a paltry two debates, both held on weekday afternoons. He has spent most of his time campaigning for friendly and vulnerable councillors who will continue to support his agenda. (Whatever that might be because he hasn't laid out a single new policy initiative, nor has he pointed to a single accomplishment after eight years in office.) That said, his most involved challenger is Gil Peñalosa, a city planner with zero political experience and a raft of great city-building ideas but no real thoughts on how to implement them. We Torontonians are poorer for the lack of a strong challenger to the mayor and a proper debate about our city, and it has allowed him to probably coast to an easy victory tomorrow.

This ridiculous coronation is our fault. We have allowed ourselves to buy into the idea that the man who saved the city from another disastrous term of Ford is indeed a good mayor and city manager. He is a decent man and was a decent manager during Covid, but his failures are everywhere, from overflowing garbage bins to a white elephant rebuild of the Gardiner. Simply put, John Tory is a terrible politician, but that isn't the point of this post. This post is designed to inform you of what you accept if you choose not to vote.

If you choose not to vote...

* You are saying that you are perfectly fine with the homeless situation in our city.

* You are comfortable with the state of our roads, transit, and parks. 

* You are ok with the lack of a strong Vision Zero plan to address the carnage on our roads that claims the lives of pedestrians and cyclists on a daily basis.

* You are fine with police abdicating their traffic enforcement role and allowing the police budget to balloon out of control.

* You think essential services like garbage bin collections, broken water fountains, shuttered public bathrooms, pothole repair, tree limb collection, and pruning are functioning at a high level.

* You are content with the shuttering of city programs because of staffing shortages and poor compensation.

* You are happy with the province turning the Ontario Place grounds into a luxury spa rather than increasing our downtown greenspace and not having a mayor express his opinion.

* You are perfectly content with a stormwater management plan that doesn't exist. 

* You thought that the clearing of snow from city roads and sidewalks during the mega storms last season was done efficiently.

These are just a few of the things that you are abdicating responsibility for if you skip voting tomorrow. 

I can't make you go out and vote. I can only hope that if this post moves you, you will rethink your apathy. 

Vote in whatever municipality you live tomorrow. Vote for your city. Vote for a better quality of life for everybody.

We are all in this together. 

 

We Just Ate Our Way Across Paris

Can we talk about food?

I am not a foodie. I have lived a vegetarian lifestyle more often than not for more than forty years. I have tremendous problems with dairy. So many things cause my digestive tract to revolt. But, early on in this trip, I decided to eat the foods I wanted, swallow copious amounts of Lactaid, and let the chips fall where they may. I mean, after all, this is Paris. How can one walk through the winding neighbourhoods and NOT stop at a boulangerie, a fromagerie, or a simple café for chocolat chaud? 

As The Professional Volunteer stated, "When in Paris, all the rules are out the window." 

And so...I ate the cheese. And it hurt. And I ate the croissants and the pain chocolat. And I suffered. And I ate the pain perdu made with croissants and tons of butter. And I farted. And I luxuriated in the baguettes slathered in butter. And I didn't care about the calories or the carbs because it was delicious. And I ordered an apple clafouti to delight in. And I finished every single bite. And we splurged on macarons because it is a moral imperative. And I drank champagne at the Moulin Rouge. And got a bit tipsy. And I ate a charcuterie board filled with cheese and fruit. And my lactose intolerance was very angry with me. It is simply impossible to come to Paris and not eat. If you can come here and stick to your diet, you are better humans than I am. But here's the thing. Why would you want to? I am in one of the world's great food capitals, and I'll be damned if I am going to let Jewish stomach issues or eating plans based on carb deprivation stop me. I figure that we are walking our asses off and that exercise is helping. My clothes still fit, and I am happy. I think that counterbalances the crazy snacking. My doctor may have something to say about my food porn excursion when I see her on Wednesday for my yearly physical, but I'll take the hit. "Come to Paris," they said. "Eat your way across the city."

Much has happened since I last posted, but I will hit the highlights at the bottom. Tonight is our final evening, and I just wanted to say how beautiful this trip has been. The weather has been close to perfect, except for a miserable rainy day yesterday, and even that didn't deter us. How can one go wrong on vacation with good friends, good food, and wondrous sites in one of the most beautiful cities in the world? I will count myself amongst the very fortunate.

A few random thoughts.

* If you plan on coming to Paris, play the tourist. It is really fun to do it that way. We went to the Moulin Rouge and had the best time. It is so kitsch and goofy, and yet, it was a blast. And the food was surprisingly good.  

* I can't imagine coming here and not visiting the galleries. Every single one was spectacular. We capped off our art tours with a visit to Giverny and Monet's house and gardens. The Husband figures he took at least one-thousand photos there. The rain stopped and was glistening in the gardens. I can't adequately describe it. It is a must-see. Monet did what most of us would love to do. He created his ideal space, then took that inspiration and put it on canvas. Simply stunning. We then drove to Auvers-Sur-Oise to visit where Van Gogh spent his final summer. We ate in the same café that he did and visited his room upstairs. We walked many of the same fields that acted as his muse in those final seventy days. He was incredibly prolific during this period, painting eighty canvases in seventy days. We stopped by the cemetery where he rests on our way out of town.

* I am less than enamoured by churches, but I must say that Sainte-Chapelle is a wow. The stained glass windows are off the charts. The chapel is small, but the windows left me breathless. The depictions of familiar bible stories had me searching the panels. I was less enthused by the illustrations of Moses with horns, but I cannot change some things. 

* As of last night, we had walked close to ninety kilometres. Add in a few more for today, and I am truly exhausted. I feel good about my exercise between the stairs and the uneven streets. Not a bad trip for activity.

* I loved Montemarte and the Jewish quarter. Rue de Rosiers was simply lovely, even in the rain. Every store seemed to have a mezuzah on the door, and we had terrific falafel. There are several memorials to the martyred Jews of France, and somehow we stumbled across them all. We even saw plaques dedicated to children at a school who didn't return from the camps. My heart was in my throat. We climbed to the top of the mountain and were gifted with a lovely view of the city. The Jews of Paris have done an excellent job of keeping the flame alive.

* As I said earlier, the weather has been near perfect. The rain yesterday was kind of yucky. We didn't let it stop us and managed to get to Sainte-Chapelle, Place de Vosges, a parfumerie for Twin Son's Better Half shopping, and Victor Hugo's house. The Husband and I were so tired last evening we came back to the hotel with a baguette and butter and ate dinner on the floor of Twin Son and His Better Half's room. Worked for me.

* I sometimes think that certain things are done explicitly for the tourists. In Montmarte, I saw an older gentleman playing La Vie en Rose on the accordion. Touristy but effective. I gave him a few Euros.

* This is an expensive city. Don't kid yourselves. There are ways to do it without breaking the bank, but it is costly. There is a refinery strike ongoing here, and it is pushing gas prices to crazy heights. The lineups for gas remind me of the 70s. If you think inflation is bad where you live, you should be in Europe now. It is off the charts.

And so, Paris 2022 draws to a close. We head to the airport tomorrow with too many calories in our stomachs and songs in our hearts. 

Au revoir. A bientôt.

Salut!

Monet's gardens

The sunflowers are a nice touch.

The stained glass at Sainte-Chappel

This is pain perdu made out of croissants

A Few Stories From Paris

We have done a great deal since the last time I wrote. Museum visits, a trip out to Versailles, a creepy tour of the catacombs, and a hike up Montmarte. At the bottom, I will give some highlights in my quick thoughts portion of the post, but for now, I wanted to tell a few short stories of human interest.

A couple of days ago, while we were touring the Louvre, The Husband and I happened upon an elderly gentleman who was taking a breather in the Dutch Masters' rooms. Twin Son wanted to view some Rembrandt paintings, so after we had pretty much exhausted our initial tour with Carinne, she took us to the other side of the museum to see the great man's work. While we were there, The Husband nudged me as he wanted me to look at the older gentleman sitting next to him. The man had to be in his eighties with a face that looked like it had seen a lot. Upon a closer look, it was evident to both of us that he wasn't in very good shape. He was slightly stooped, and while he was making a concerted effort to look his best, his jacket had definitely seen better days. There were tears under both sleeves and across his shoulders. He sat quietly in the Dutch room, dozing. None of the docents bothered him as he took his afternoon siesta, and I wondered if he was a regular visitor to the museum. As Carinne explained some of Rembrandt's work to us, I was captivated by the old man and wondered aloud to The Husband what his story might be. This old man's face stuck with me as we departed from The Louvre. 

Yesterday afternoon, we met up with Carinne again for our private tour of Musée D'Orsay. We were terribly excited to get up close and personal with The Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. Honestly, this tour has been circled on my calendar for months. The brushstrokes and vibrant colours simply jumped off the canvases and did happy dances on my retinas. I absolutely love this period of artwork. The great works of Manet, Monet, Cezanne, Pisarro, Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gaughin, and Toulouse-Lautrec are so plentiful here that I was experiencing a type of sensory overload. I honestly didn't know where to look first. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store. I was recounting a story about my grandfather and a Degas copy (I'll tell you that story below) when I looked up and saw him again, the same gentleman in the same torn jacket. The coincidence was striking. Once again, he was just sitting in Impressionist Room, taking in the art and the people, and nobody bothered him. As we were leaving the museum, The Husband pointed him out to me for the final time. I have made up a dozen stories about this old dude in my mind. Does he spend all of his days in the museums? Who pays for him? Is he a senior art historian? Maybe he is a retired professor? Perhaps he is a widower and remembers happy days spent in the museums with his dear wife? I honestly have no idea, but I cannot get this gent out of my mind. The odd thing is that I believe that if I went back to one of those two museums today, I think we could find him. A small story from our time in Paris.

A few random thoughts.

* I promised you the story of my grandfather and the Degas. My grandparents had a large painting in their living room that looked like a copy of one of Degas' ballet scenes. It was a recreation of a ballet master holding court during a rehearsal. It was over their sofa, and the memory of it was embedded in my cerebral cortex. Many years later, when The Husband visited my grandfather for the first time, he saw the painting and noted it was done by a cousin of his who had survived the concentration camps. He must have been influenced by Monsieur Degas. I would have loved to have been able to keep that painting, but a surly aunt descended on my grandparents' house after their deaths and absconded with it. I have no idea where it is today. Seeing Degas' paintings of the ballet school in Musée D'Orsay left a large lump in my throat. 

* I forgot this little tale of our visit to Monet's Water Lilies. As we sat in the room breathing and taking in the atmosphere in silent contemplation, a guy sitting next to The Husband was scrolling through his phone, watching cat videos. I have nothing else to add to that atrocity.

* The Palace at Versailles is the definition of opulence. Every room is more garish than the last. I wonder if Agent Orange got his sense of style from Louis XIV. The gardens, on the other hand, are breathtaking. I could spend weeks there.

* We took a jaunt over to the catacombs, and I will admit to being more than a bit freaked out. I don't do bones well. Over six million souls are entombed down there; honestly, it is a really cool place to visit. I just felt like a voyeur disturbing the dead. As we made our way to the surface, one of the security people checked my backpack for any bones that might have been absconded. Why would anyone think to do that?

* The Pantheon was a bit more my speed. Death with dignity. The tombs of great French writers, thinkers, scientists, and politicians are laid to rest here. I got more than a little excited seeing the graves of Marie and Phillipe Curie and Josephine Baker. 

* We have had excellent guides on this trip. Carinne, who The Professional Volunteer encountered during an online experience, was truly incredible for the art museums. If anybody is coming this way and would like a private tour through any of the many art museums of Paris, contact me offline for her information. Today, we arranged a private tour of Versailles and Bertrand, our guide, was funny, knowledgeable, and a real character. I have taken tours worldwide, but I think doing it privately is the way to go if you can make it work. We have learned and seen so much.

* The Professional Volunteer spent part of her youth in France and has many warm memories. Thanks to The Divine Spirit for her and Twin Son's Better Half's ability to speak French. Things would be far more difficult without the two of them and their language skills. While she was here many years ago, The Professional Volunteer had a portrait of herself done in Montmarte. With a photograph of that picture in hand, she found another sketch artist in the same area to draw her today. It was a charming nod to a memory of her parents.

* I am not usually a sweets eater, but eating French macarons in Paris is a must. The shop windows at the boulangeries are art. 

A few more days to come with a couple more posts to enjoy. 

The old gentleman

Van Gogh Self Portrait

Degas' dancers

Paris at night

Versailles

Some of the 100,000 acres of gardens at Versailles

Retrieving a memory

Art Touched by God

People often ask me if I believe in God.

Aside from it being an extraordinarily personal question, there is never a simple answer to deliver. I have spoken in this space about finding God in the natural beauty around us. I see God in my granddaughters' faces. But today, I remembered that there is something in a talented genius that makes me believe they had been touched by something divine.

We have spent most of the last two days here immersed in the power of artistic inspiration. We were awestruck by our visit to the Eiffel Tower. The intricacies of this engineering marvel had us wondering how somebody came up with an idea like this. Designed initially as an artistic icon, a gigantic piece of street art, if you will, there is really no other possible use for the tower. And yet it has become the cultural touchstone of this city. The interlocking beams and gears made me think of those K'nex sets my boys used to play with. As we ascended to the top and looked over the thriving city, I understood what Monsieur Eiffel was going for. He wanted the citizens of Paris to look upon their home and remember how they all fit together as one community. When they see the tower, they know that they are home.

It is difficult to imagine Paris without its historic and thriving art scene. Visitors come from around the world to observe some of civilization's most significant pieces and works. During our visit to the Rodin gallery, I posed the question, "Am I moved by his masterpiece Le Penseur because it is iconic, or is it iconic because I am moved by it?" In other words, has pop culture so profoundly appropriated some of these works that we have misplaced our sense of awe when we see them? I felt the same way when we squeezed in at the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa this afternoon. Does she deserve her status as the "world's most famous painting?" Carinne, the private guide we hired for our afternoon at the Louvre, posited a theory. She believes that Mona has become so famous not because she is Da Vinci's best painting but because she was stolen in 1913 and disappeared for more than three years. When she was finally recovered, her story was widely covered in the press, making her far more famous than she deserved. Carinne steered us to a few other of Leonardo's works, and when she pointed out his use of brush strokes and light, it was far easier to imagine how his gift might have been divinely inspired. And while I loved Rodin's Thinker, I was far more captivated by his busts of Victor Hugo and Clemenceau. It is fascinating to realize that what we think we love isn't that which is most popular.

I never doubted how I would feel at Musée de L'Orangerie. This is the place that houses Monet's Water Lilies. It is difficult to articulate how I felt sitting in the two rooms accommodating the eight massive canvases. Offered to the French state by Monet following the Armistice in November of 1918 as a symbol of peace, the Water Lilies are considered to be one of the seminal works of the twentieth century. The rooms were designed to Monet's specifications so that the viewers would have a contemplative environment to view the work. I could have spent days there. Every time I looked at a different part of the painting, I saw something different. I was drawn into his colours and natural beauties with a soothing calm that almost frightened me. I have always been drawn to the Impressionists and have seen many works in person, but this experience was life-affirming. There is beauty in the world, and God certainly touched the hand of Claude Monet. 

A few random thoughts.

* We have walked our feet off in these first four days. According to my wildly inaccurate Apple Watch, we have logged about 45KM on foot. After hours in the Louvre this afternoon, I thought I might require a foot transplant.

* I have still not gotten over the thrill of sitting in an outdoor cafe on the streets of this city. I don't suppose that I ever will.

* Quiche, crepes, and clafoutis taste better when eaten in Paris.

* I was shocked at the mall at the base of the Louvre. There were times when it felt like Yorkdale. Welcome to the twenty-first century. 

* Nobody does public space and green space like the Parisians. Watching people sitting in properly maintained parks, reading newspapers, having coffees, and just generally enjoying the outside makes me long for what Toronto has yet to discover. 

* I love the multiculturalism of Paris. People from all over have made this place their home. I have heard many languages. I know that France has had issues integrating immigrants, but it makes me happy to see them try. 

Venus de Milo

Le Penseur

I Love Paris In The Autumn

There is an exhilaration that comes with travel. The excitement of seeing new things, the tastes and smells of foreign delicacies, and the sheer power of willing oneself to try the once considered ridiculous. 

There are also tremendous hassles with travel. The cattle call of airlines, the sleep deprivation, and the inability to remember overpacking for a trip is never a good idea.

I have a mantra when I travel. Go with the flow. If you expect to sail through customs, you probably won't, so breathe, wait patiently, and go with the flow. If it is your wish to not hit rush hour traffic in Paris, you absolutely will, so go with the flow. If you expect a smooth ride to the airport and then get rear-ended on the Gardiner Expressway, well...what choice did we really have? 

I am chalking up the limo accident as an omen. If this is the worst thing that happens on this trip, I will take it. Nobody was hurt except the car of the moron behind us, and the driver was so sweet that we volunteered to be witnesses for him should he have issues with his boss or the insurance company.

The other little hitch in our travel has been the presence of this virus that just won't let go. The coughing and headaches have been persistent, but neither of us is letting them stop us. Like I said, go with the flow. (in this case, a nasal flow.)

We arrived in the City of Lights at daybreak, and after a bit of kerfuffle at customs, we were off in a taxi to our hotel in the very funky and happening ninth arrondissement. (The Follies Bergére is around the corner from us. We can hear the excitement through our windows.) We couldn't check in until three in the afternoon, so rather than risk sleeping on a park bench, we headed out to a corner cafe to grab some breakfast. The weather was perfect, so we sat outside, ordered a baguette and a beverage and soaked up the atmosphere. It was really enticing to think that the six of us were having breakfast on the streets of Paris. There is nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, like a French baguette with butter. I have been off most carbs for a long time now, but what is the point of being here if I'm not going to indulge in some of the best food in the world. Of course, my French is stalled at a grade thirteen level. My Spanish is far superior, but it is easy to confuse the two languages. I ended up ordering a petit dejeuner para dos personas. My embarrassment knows no bounds.

We walked our feet off. We wandered through dozens of Parisian streets and neighbourhoods on little more than a few hours of sleep. The architectural marvel that is Haussman's design leaves me breathless. It is easy to get lost on the narrow streets and the crazy curves, yet I can't think of a better way to pass a day than getting lost in Paris. I am enamoured with the white stone and marble and the wrought-iron balconies. The nineteenth-century cobblestones are still evident in many areas and have been melded together with modern asphalt. Paris is an extremely modern city that maintains its old-world charm. That first day, we simply meandered through town. We found ourselves down by the Seine, and I half-expected Gene Kelly to pop up and dance with Leslie Caron on the left bank. There is a reason why so many songs and movies have been written about Paris. It is simply a city that charms. As the Professional Volunteer remarked as we strolled down the Champs-Elysees, "I am walking on the Champs-Elysees, eating a pain-Chocolat, on a warm October Saturday, with good friends. What could be wrong?

A few quick observations.

* For a city known for its food, we are having some issues finding good vegetarian cuisine. I feel the need to explain to people that vegetarian doesn't mean tofu cooked in beef broth.

* I am desperately seeking a Diet Coke. They seem to have gone missing in Paris. They have regular and Coke Zero, but the manna of my existence is awol. The habit may be kicked.

* It is unseasonably warm and sunny. I am not complaining, but I didn't pack for summer. That said, autumn in Paris is trés magnifique. The leaves are starting to turn, and the parks are all dressed. I am writing this with the windows open and a warm breeze wafting through the room. What a lovely time of year. 

* The Batobus is a marvellous innovation. For the price of twenty Euros, you can hop on and off a boat down the Seine, stopping at points of interest, all while viewing Paris from the water. We could see the construction of Notre Dame from an angle not visible on land. The entire back side of the cathedral is missing. It is impossible to describe the devastation adequately on television. It needs to be seen. That said, the reconstruction is well underway, and it is massive. It could take decades.

* My friends indulged me and trekked a bit to find Shakespeare and Company, the first English language book store in Paris. It was founded in 1919 by American Sylvia Beach. It attracted some of the great literary ex-pats of the time and became a kind of salon. Ms. Beach was the original publisher of James Joyce's Ulysses in 1922 when no one else would dare touch the controversial novel. I felt like a visit there was a bit like visiting Mecca.

* This is one expensive city, and yet, so is Toronto. But I feel like Paris has earned it and Toronto hasn't yet. 

A Return to Travel

Are there people out there who still follow this blog/journal?

It feels like a long time since I wrote anything that didn't involve a movie review or a letter to a granddaughter. Covid has been a viral writer's block. Is that oxymoronic? I mean, how many times do you need to hear me bitch and moan about science deniers, politics, or the general malaise I feel. But I hope to address that dearth of writing over the next ten days. 

Why you ask? What has me in a writing mood again?

Travel!!!

Yup. The Husband and I are finally on the move again. Aside from a quick jaunt to Walt's Happy Kingdom with the kids that managed to infect us all with Covid, we are embracing the vagabond lifestyle again. I won't spoil the destination just yet, and for those in the know, please don't ruin the fun for other readers. I will post a picture or two upon our arrival. 

I will say a few preliminary things. We are going to a place where my language skills are suspect and probably will get me into trouble. (It has been a long time since I used this language.) I hope to keep the barf/motion sickness stories to an absolute minimum. In other words, no ships. We are once again travelling with Twin Son and His Better Half. It has been more than four years since we all vacationed together, so we are excited to rejoin our favourite travel buddies. And...we have added to the band. I have thought long and hard about some pseudonyms for them, strictly for blogging purposes. Everybody give a hearty DawnPonders welcome to The Professional Volunteer and Her Curmudgeon. I am so excited to welcome them to this space. Also, The Husband and I have been battling colds for the last week. (NOT COVID. MY MOTHER HAD ME TESTED!) The amount of medications we are lugging is obscene. Hopefully, flying won't be painful.

So, we broke out the big suitcase, organized the packing cubes, found the converters (a tiny destination hint), grabbed our passports, and we are off. The rest is yet to be written.

So, tell your friends that I am back amongst the bloggers. I hope that you will follow along, but I will understand if you don't. Watch your social media feeds for updates and for The Husband's photos. He is the second-best photographer I know, and his work is phenomenal. 

In the meantime, enjoy your Thanksgiving, Canadian friends. Chag Sukkat Sameach, Members of the Tribe. And...

GO JAYS! #nextlevel (and for my Cleveland family, GO GUARDIANS!) Cheer loudly enough so that I can hear you. (I can't believe that I am missing the first round of the playoffs, but we booked this trip months ago. I will follow along at a different time zone.)

Darkly Irish at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

A caveat. I love Ireland. It is, most assuredly, one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. I love Irish theatre, literature, actors, and films. I believe the Irish create some of the most original and innovative art in the English-speaking world. So, knowing my quirky love of the Irish and with great excitement, we chose our final film for TIFF 2022, The Banshees of Inisherin. 

Writer/director Martin McDonagh reunites his In Bruges costars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson in one of the strangest and darkest comedies of the year. Set on a fictitious island off the coast of Ireland against the backdrop of the Irish civil war, McDonagh sharply examines the contours of friendship and how relationships can rapidly devolve. Farrell's slightly dim Padraic simply cannot fathom why his lifelong friend, Colm, doesn't want him in his life any longer. This is a career-defining performance from Colin Farrell. He imbues Padraic with such pathos and likeability that it is impossible not to feel his pain. Gleeson is his equal in every way, and as the relationship descends to its depths, it is Gleeson who maintains the equilibrium. The rest of the cast is spectacular as well. Kerry Condon is phenomenal as Padraic's worried sister, who can't wait to flee an obviously bizarre situation, as is Barry Keough, a troubled kid who simply cannot fathom the weirdness around him. There isn't a misstep in the entire film.

Whereas McDonagh's previous film Three Billboards in Ebbing Missouri, was frenetic and tough, Banshees relishes a more languid pace and environment but with no less sharpness and bitterness. The film really does belong to Mr. Farrell, and his win for Best Actor at the Venice Film Festival portends a busy awards season for him. 

TIFF 2022 was an abbreviated one for us, but we hit home runs with all three of our films.

Dawn and The Husband give The Banshees of Inisherin two enthusiastic YUPS.

TIFFing with The Fabelmans

Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

When was the last time you went to a movie after 8:00pm? How about even later than that? When selecting our films for this year's edition of TIFF, we were dismayed by how many of our favourites were limited to late-night viewings. TIFF has evolved over the years, but no change seems as pronounced and noticeable as limiting many daytime screenings to industry and the press. We used to be able to attend a screening at noon; now, many of those times are severely curtailed to the public. I don't know if this is a product of returning to a post-pandemic festival or if it is a natural outgrowth of the industry, but I am less than enamoured by the policy. TIFF has become less the "People's Festival" and more an industry standard. I'm not impressed.

It is how we found ourselves in a theatre for a 9:00pm showing of Steven Spielberg's semi-autobiographical The Fabelmans. This film is Spielberg's first ever shown at TIFF and is definitely a hot ticket. There is no hiding the highly personal nature of this film for the great director. He takes us back to his childhood and adolescence and shows us, in muted detail, the influences of his art. It is a love letter to his parents, siblings, and the movies. While we weren't fortunate enough to be at the screening he was at, Mr. Spielberg felt it essential to have his three sisters in the audience at the premiere on Saturday. I suspect he mined their memories as well for this film. I am pretty sure he couldn't have made this film while his parents were still alive. His father died in 2020 at 102, while his mother died at the ripe old age of 97. He probably needed some distance from them to make such a personal piece of art. 

While it is fun to surmise how Spielberg came to many of his ideas and film techniques, this movie is really Michelle Williams' tour de force. She plays his flighty and fabulous mother with such conviction that I almost felt like I was witnessing Leah Spielberg through Mitzie Fabelman. She imbues this highly complex character with so many layers and subtleties. Ms. Williams will undoubtedly be recognized during awards season, and I won't be surprised to see Judd Hirsch with a nomination as well.

Spielberg doesn't shy away from his Judaism or the antisemitism he faced as a young man. It obviously informed his character a great deal, and the importance of his place as an outsider is sprinkled throughout his films. That said, there was one bit of Judaica that really bugged me. At the film's beginning, the Fabelmans are lighting a chanukiyah, and they are doing it wrong. They are lighting it from left to right rather than from right to left. It was a raspberry seed in my Jewish tooth. I realize this is picayune from a Jew, but I guarantee it will be noted by many upon the film's release. Is there anybody out there who can get word to Mr. Spielberg so that he might remedy the problem?

It seems almost cliche to say that a Spielberg film is fantastic, but The Fabelmans is fantastic. It is a character-driven film that gives tremendous insight into one of the greatest artists of his generation. I just wish that I could have seen it at a more reasonable hour.

Dawn and The Husband give The Fabelmans two enthusiastic YUPS.

We Are Back In Person At TIFF

 

Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment.  TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery is the most fun I've spent in a movie theatre in three years. It is also the only time I have spent in a movie theatre in three years. Rian Johnson's sequel to his 2019 sleeper hit Knives Out is a loving homage to Agatha Christie with a touch of Monty Python thrown in for good measure. I will not spoil it in any way except to say that the cast is first-rate, the story is wonderfully entertaining and Daniel Craig is marvellous once again as the loquacious detective Benoit Blanc. To say more would be to ruin the fun and the numerous surprises that pop up throughout the film. 

Netflix is the producer of this movie, so my guess is that it will have a debut on the streaming site within months. Rush to your televisions or computers to watch it and please, please, please, refrain from reading any press or spoilers. It will destroy the film. I don't even want to tell you who is in it. Enjoy it as a Glass Onion virgin. And, if you haven't yet seen the original, what the hell are you waiting for. Movies like these are rare these days.

Dawn and The Husband give Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery two enthusiastic YUPS!

A Letter To Talia On Her First Birthday

Dearest Talia,

I have started and erased this letter so many times now. I have committed to writing to you and your sister on birthdays, and I have been successful. I haven't missed one yet. But, for some reason, this year has felt different, and the writing hasn't come with ease. Perhaps it is because the world around us feels very broken, and I want these letters to have a modicum of hope. The generations in front of you have certainly messed things up with great flair, but I need to believe that there is a phoenix in the embers of our collective pyre that will rise with you and the promise you hold.

I think there is another reason that writing this year's letter has been far more arduous. Milestone birthdays can be really joyous, as is this your first. This past year has been filled with touchstones for you; your first smile, your first giggle, your first strawberry, your first babble. Each one is a barometer of your growth and a measure of the person you are becoming. I simply melt while watching the gleam you get in those big blue eyes when Molly comes to play with you. I love watching your curiosity spark while trying to figure out a new toy. I adore that you growl like a baby raptor when you are "hangry."  I am amazed at how you eat anything and everything, and you never seem to be sated. Seriously. Where does it all go? So much food in such a tiny human. Milestones. Each and every one of these deserves commemoration. There are so many more to come, and I can't wait to cheer them all. Turning one is a tremendous milestone. May it be the first of many. 

But, milestones can also be a time of reflection and contemplation. As it happens, I, too, am celebrating a milestone birthday this year. Last week, I had a conversation with someone dear to me. This person was incredulous at the idea that turning sixty might bother me. I explained that while I am not upset at the thought of getting older, this particular birthday feels different to me than previous "big ones." It somehow seems more ominous and finite. Now, don't misunderstand. My health is good, and I am not complaining, except for the various minor aches and pains that seem to be on permanent rotation through my body. I am forever looking in a mirror and seeing new lines and creases that didn't seem to exist yesterday. And while these don't perturb me all that much, they are a tangible sign of aging. Aging for a one-year-old is the excitement of impending first steps. Aging for a sixty-year-old is the realization that changes can be ominous. I'm taking a few more medications and sleeping far fewer hours. I have parents who require more assistance and children who need less. 

But, if the pandemic and its inherent isolation have taught me anything, it is that we should celebrate whenever we get the chance. So, I look forward to turning sixty with a bit of trepidation and a whole lot of excitement. I will never forget that I've been blessed with the presence of both of my parents well into their golden years and that they, in turn, have been blessed to know their great-grandchildren. I have a partner who adores me, and even though you might have suspicions about him, your Zaidy is the best. My sons are good men, and they love their families. Positive male role models are at a premium these days. Your daddy, your uncles, and your grandfathers are genuinely five-star. Look to them when men confuse you. Your mommy has become my daughter in all ways. She will be your rock, and, if you allow her, your confidant. Finally, your sister reminded me that teaching and bequeathing are sacred responsibilities. She is blazing the trail for you. She is your best friend and your best teacher. The two of you are my everything. My milestone birthday may be a bit more daunting than yours, but I never lose sight that I am grateful to be celebrating it. So, cupcakes for everybody.

Talia, you have much learning and growing to do. I am so excited to watch you unfold. Your name comes from Hebrew, which means "dew from heaven," and that is precisely what you are. You have been a bit of "mayim chayim," water of life, to all of us this year. While the world around you has been a bit chaotic, you have been the calming influence. You observe before you react. You study and then decide. You speak with authority even though you are speaking your own language. You are gradually finding your place in this crazy family. I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be at the back of the line. 

Happy First Birthday, נכדתי היקרה, mi nieta, my darling granddaughter. You are a milestone. May the coming year bring you health, joy, excitement, wonder, and peace. Learn, grow, be strong, be wise, and be happy. I love you with all of my being.

Love,

Bubby

An Update From My 60s Project.

Depending on my mood, I promised you a series of posts that would celebrate or lament my upcoming milestone birthday at the end of the year. In typical Dawn fashion, I have found dozens of things far more essential to occupy my time and writing has become an afterthought. And while surfing the intertoobs for comfortable socks was a massive priority during those many months of lockdown, reconnecting with friends and family has taken precedence over fiddling around in this space or any space online. There are people to see, places to go, and celebrations to attend. We do so with great caution, masks, and lots of testing, but off we go. This brings me to how lovely it has been to see all of the happy pictures on social media over the last few days. Photos of newly minted graduates, happy couples celebrating engagements, weddings, new digs, and brand new babies have filled my timelines. It is a happy reversal from the usual doomscrolling, and with the improved weather, my disposition has definitely shifted. To facilitate my reemergence into the land of human interaction, I was in desperate need of some new clothes.

I can't possibly be the only person on earth who spent significant chunks of the pandemic clad in yoga pants, sweatshirts, and Crocs? It was almost as if my lifelong fashion choices had been validated by seven billion people. Every few weeks, I would slip on a pair of jeans to make sure that they still fit, but comfort was definitely the watchword of the lockdown. And now I find myself in a crisis of conscience. What does an almost sexagenarian wear to a wedding these days?

An aside. How great is that word? Sexagenarian. I am all a flutter at its provocativeness. I realize that its roots have absolutely nothing to do with erotica, but I very much like the idea of a sexy sixty.

Where was I? Ah yes...clothing.

I have never enjoyed clothes shopping. It is the furthest thing from a passion, and I have always been far more about functionality and comfort than style. Also, I loathe trying on clothes at a store with the fiery passion of the seventh circle of hell. One simply hasn't lived a full and complete life until one has had a salesperson remark on the size of one's breasts or the glaring lack of one's butt. These are encounters that have been imprinted on my psyche, and a lifetime of positive affirmation statements won't diminish them. In addition, trying on clothes that countless others have already squeezed themselves into seems unsanitary right now, but accepting social invitations means dressing in something more than a tank top and workout bra. Knowing that several weddings and functions were coming up this spring gave me the "dry heaves" when figuring out an outfit for my figure. So, I did the unthinkable.

I surfed the intertoob waves. 

I can hear the screams of derision coming through the screen. 

Yes, I shopped online for a dress for my nephew's and almost niece's wedding. And, here's the kicker.

I WAS SUCCESSFUL!!

I am as stunned as you must be. It isn't like I'm an easy fit. The options don't exactly overflow when you are under five feet tall, have short legs, a long waist, and big boobs. Standard sizing has been one of the banes of my existence. But, I was running low on options. Omicron was everywhere, and I was extraordinarily uncomfortable venturing into a store. I don't sew. (The Mother of the Groom/aka The Yin to the Lil' Bro's Yang, is the artsy one in the family, and she is making her dress. I have no doubt it will be of Vera Wang quality.) So, I was left with the intertoobs or sackcloth and ashes.

In February, I was in the Southern Home and was taking a cursory peek at some online dress shops. I was looking more for the style than an actual dress. I was stunned to find a shop that carried a variety of appropriate petite outfits that 1) didn't make me look like a dowager, 2) had a variety of colour palettes, 3) were made of fabrics that were both easy to keep and very forgivable in all the right places, and 4) wouldn't make me feel as though I was mortgaging my grandchildren's future education. I closed the computer and said no. This can't be possible. But, Jeff Bezos and internet cookies changed my mind. 

The site followed me around the web to Amazon. It seems as though this shop also has an Amazon shop that carries the same merchandise. They were willing to ship the dress via Amazon Prime with a one hundred percent refundable return policy. And on Amazon, it was thirty percent cheaper. I hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send. I figured that I would simply return it when it came and was wholly unsuitable.

The next evening, the dress arrived at my door. The Husband was incredulous.

"You know you'll hate it, don't you?" he said. (Everybody needs a supportive partner.)

I went into the bedroom, slipped off my sweats, and tugged on the dress. When I tell you that it fits as though it were made to measure, I am not exaggerating. It doesn't require hemming; it covers my problematic body areas; it's comfortable; I can wear a regular bra, and it has a bit of bling on the hip. I walked into the other room to show The Husband, and his reply was,

"How did you do that?" (SUPPORTIVE!)

Still totally flabbergasted, I made my way to my mom's to show her. I was confident that she would have some concerns because moms are trained to see the big picture. 

She stood stunned, and her only question was, "Do you have shoes?"

I DO!

The dress is now hanging in my closet, awaiting the chuppah this weekend and two other functions later this spring. 

A lifetime of shopping trauma had led to this moment. It was the most accessible and least miserable retail experience in my almost sixty years. 

There is a moral to this story. Clothing can look great and be comfortable. There are ways to dress without torture and expense, and we women shouldn't have to wait until we are sixty to figure it out. So, fuck standard sizing, fuck hating our bodies, fuck overpaying for an outfit you will only wear once, and fuck others telling you what is fashionable.

Here's the dress.  I promise to post a photo of me in it after the weekend. 

A Letter To Molly On Her Fourth Birthday

 My Dearest Molly,

I wrote the first of these missives a few weeks after you were born, and I have continued to post them annually on your birthday. As you approach your Flashy Four, I find it difficult to gather my thoughts into coherent sentences. The world is a really shitty place right now. (Yes...Bubby cussed. It is something that Bubby does, and I rarely apologize for it.) I wish it wasn't, but I promised that I would never lie to you. Sometimes, things are difficult. Occasionally, we all feel overwhelmed and exhausted. It isn't weak to admit that we are tired, need help, and need to lean on others. How I wish I was turning four like you, and the only care I might have is whether Mommy and Daddy will let me watch Paw Patrol after dinner. I hope that when we talk about this miserable era one day, you will only have snatches and glimpses of memory. I hope you recall how hard everybody worked to keep your life as normal as possible. I hope you remember how you readily accepted wearing a mask and how it became a mantra for keeping you and your friends healthy. I hope that you remember how wonderful your preschool was and the outstanding teachers that put joy in every day for you. 

I hope...

Last week, you and I sang some of our favourite songs from Encanto. Unsurprisingly, you know all of the lyrics and most of the choreography. Daddy says that you are a sponge. You hear or see something once, and it becomes a part of you. I asked you if you had a favourite character. Your answer was typically long and winding, as you named off the entire Madrigal family. I asked you if you could guess who my favourite Madrigal was. Excitedly, you yelled out, "Luisa!" "How did you know that?" I asked. And you said, "She's the strong one."

You were absolutely correct. Luisa is the strong one. She can move mountains, and she takes responsibility for everyone else in the family. But, I also told you another reason why I love Luisa. Luisa is strong, but sometimes she cries. You asked me, "Why does she cry?" I told you that sometimes everybody feels sad, and it is absolutely ok to cry when we do. You knowingly nodded your head. It was like I was having a mini therapy session. It was an intense and philosophical conversation to have with a four-year-old. You then showed me your Paw Patrol pups, and the universe was in total balance again. You gave me permission to cry that day, and I will be forever grateful. 

Four is such a magical age. Four-year-olds are the "in-between," not really babies or toddlers but not quite ready for the prime time of memory-laden childhood. But, oh, the things you can do and the things you say. Four-year-olds speak their minds without the filter that comes with age. Oh, how I wish I could utter some of the things you do and get away with it just because I'm four. There is a purity to your thought that is marvellous. It is yet to be tainted by rules of civility and propriety. Only young people and old people can live their lives without any shits to give. Those of us in the middle are stuck dealing with decorousness and etiquette. Enjoy it while you can, dear one. The decorum police will soon be on your doorstep.

You are a whirling dervish of imagination and chatter. There are times when I am sure that your parents just turn on the TV so that you will stop talking. I love it! I love listening to your stories. I want to crawl inside your brain and watch it work. I am in constant awe of everything that comes out of your mouth. Don't stop talking, Molly. Keep expressing yourself in ways that get you noticed. Tell the world how you feel and never hide your emotions. If someone calls you a chatterbox, tell them that you are loquacious. Words matter, and how we use them matters. Never allow yourself to be defined by somebody else's negative perception.

Are you stubborn? No, you are strong-willed. Are you picky? No, you are discerning. Be yourself, but be kind.

Kindness is in such short supply these days. People have forgotten how to interact and behave. And yet, I see it in you all the time when you comfort a friend who is having a difficult day at school or in the gentle way you treat Talia. Kindness matters so very much. We often forget that we need each other, and if we forge a bond of compassion and empathy, we can get through the difficult times together. Always return to kindness, Molly. There will be times when anger takes over, and your words might be sharp, but trust your kind heart. It will not fail you.

I have been so impressed with how wonderful a big sister you are. Talia is still so new and still learning so much. I love how you make it your mission to make her smile and laugh. Nobody makes that baby laugh harder than you. She adores you. I watch her face light up when you come close. She trusts you implicitly and wants so much to be like you. Sisters have a bond that is unlike any other. She will be your best friend, biggest fan, and best confidant. She will probably also be your biggest nemesis, aggravation, and irritant. Remember the good stuff and minimize the bad. Your relationship with your sister will be your most important and enduring. Cherish each other and work together. Always be there for her. 

You have grown so much this year. There is some wariness, and that is normal. I believe in caution, but it is essential to never let nerves overtake your desire to try something new. There are so many exciting adventures awaiting you this coming year, and it is my hope you dive in with both feet and embrace all that is offered. 

I am in constant awe of you. I love who you are becoming and am fascinated by what fascinates you. You are in ceaseless motion, and I wish I had a tenth of your energy. Keep dancing with joy. Continue to help with the cooking and baking because they feed both body and soul. Keep trying new things and embracing fresh escapades. Never stop asking questions and never settle for the easy answers when you feel them lacking.

Happy 4th Birthday, Molly. Celebrate it with dance and cake because life is always better with cake. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love,

Bubby