Sunday, 10 May, 2026
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I have so many photos and so little to say, really. Yet I always manage to say a lot. A friend told me I might say too much – well, that’s a bit of misquote, but it refers to my entire family’s predilection for stream of consciousness speaking and, in my case, writing. Ho hum. Should I apologise? Not really, but I will say that, for my cancer journey, especially, I am writing as much for myself and my recovery and survivorship as to entertain or educate. It’s just one reason I kept it separate. I am very conscious of my habit of speaking aloud what I’m doing or thinking. I don’t suppose I will change, but I do my best not to overdo it, and I acknowledge this every day. For those who read me, or listen to me, sorry not sorry applies. This is who I am.
We have a friend. He was Krish’s closest friend in high school and we still see him a few times a year. He’s a quiet soul but with definite opinions. He’s also gay. This has been a curiosity for Krish, who asks, was he always? Yes, I say. Hmm. I love that his partner is his opposite. Not loud, but vocal, doesn’t care much what you think of him or his lifestyle. It’s an interesting dynamic. Yesterday we went to his birthday dinner at his chosen restaurant. Krish and I don’t like the food, but I said it was about the birthday boy, not us. WheelTrans picked us up an hour late, and we raced (can I even do that?) in, then needed to leave before the cake had appeared. Damn. The only CIS people there, this time we found someone to chat to. Interesting guy. Maybe we can meet again.
I lived in San Francisco in 1969, and my best friends were a bunch of gay men who lived next to us. We shared a back porch, and we crossed it at will. Chats, communal dinners, even sleepovers were common. It was a good city to be gay. Toronto in the early 70s was that place too. There was no overtly gay village, but it did exist more loosely in its current location. My husband’s boss owned a gay nightclub in the area, and we often went to support them. We even helped with the food table they’d put out as part of admission. They infamously used dog food for pate – I’m serious. I’d dish it out. In those days, I loved the cabaret. Now I can’t be bothered with it. We made many friends, some infamous, some famous, and we lost them. My family reads my blog, so I’ll be discreet and say we also lost a family member whose gender would now be considered pansexual. Did we know that? I know I did, but then my life experience helped. Other people in my life helped me get there. I’ll leave their stories out for now. Anyway, no time for photos of Toronto’s gay village this time, but I’ll be back there in early June to catch up.
There’s news. The Old Man is alive! We both saw him, or what we thought and hoped was him, walking to the bus stop with a cane. No WheelTrans for him! We kept looking out the back window, and still the garden remained untouched. I told Krish that Torontonians often don’t plant until what’s called the May Two-Four weekend (so called because it’s the date around which the holiday falls and the Canadian slang for a case of twenty-four beers (a “two-four”) the most popular drink for the weekend, and to take to cottage country (more about that in a minute). Before that, frost is a deterrent. People plant seedlings to take out once the danger has passed, or they buy small pots of vegetables and herbs to start their own gardens (again). But they’re usually preparing their gardens before that – tilling, filling in the soil, planning out their patches. We had seen nothing. This week, that changed. Someone was out there turning the soil and then sowing seeds. Certainly not the Old Man judging by their energy, but perhaps a child or a friend. We hope he’ll be out there himself when the work isn’t so heavy and we look forward to following our own personal next-door drama.
Meanwhile, they are hard at work getting the restaurant patio ready for the summer season, which will begin in June. Yesterday, on our way in from the birthday dinner, I could see right into the restaurant. I normally pass it in the day and it’s not really visible. I was surprised at how modern and sophisticated it looks in there. The back garden patio is another story. It’s what Krish calls Muskoka style. For the uninitiated, Muskoka is north of Toronto in an area people here call cottage country, where people have summer cottages near the lakes and park forests. In the restaurant’s backyard, there are plants, wood chips, wood stoves, fire logs, and the like. If you’ve been to cottage country, it’s logical. There are no lakes, but there will certainly be mosquitoes.
The chef-owner, Justin, is from Actinolite, hence the name of his restaurant. Actinolite is not Muskoka County. It’s considerably south of there. Actinolite can sound romantic if you only know the restaurant, but it’s named after the form of asbestos that was mined in the area. Ouch.
The staff, mostly Justin, is getting the side and back of the restaurant ready for summer. There are planters and the herb gardens that border the seating area are growing. The most favoured herb is lovage. It began sprouting about a week ago and has grown so quickly that it shocked me. We’re invited to pick any herb we want, and we used a lot of lovage during our last stay here. It tastes like celery leaves but without the bitterness.
Today is Mothers Day here, and I’ll meet my son, Robin, at the Waterworks, which is a food hall in his general area, in Toronto’s Fashion District where once all the tailors could be found. I’ll add photos. Our meeting is not about Mothers Day, but just because. When I told my autistic son I wasn’t sure where to meet because everywhere would be busy today, his response was ‘Why will it be busy?’ I’m used to it.
(Later) My visit with my son was great. We went to Waterworks, a lovely building, which I thought I’d documented before and need to look at more closely again before saying more. My lunch was dreadful, but who cares? (What I do care about is not having taken a photo of us together.) The day exhausted me – I did a lot more than I thought I could. That’s a good thing. So is mother and son time.
Friday Photos:
