Ah, paper! Such treasures it holds in an agglomeration of ideas: all the little scribbles and notes I write to myself. I've gone through a stash of paper, taking notes on notes (huge list of people i have to write. Does anyone else feel this compulsion/need to communicate?) I'll try to get through it all; haven't forgotten what I want to get back to. So:

1) Sherpa, noun: (pl. same or Sherpas) a member of a Himalayan people living on the borders of Nepal and Tibet, renowned for their skill in mountaineering.• informal a civil servant or diplomat who undertakes preparatory work prior to a summit conference. ORIGIN from Tibetan sharpa ‘inhabitant of an Eastern country’.

Hold on. This is not word-search tonight. Early evening yesterday I was heading for the hall towards the elevator in my wing when I met a neighbour from a lower floor heading the same way. I was carrying the planting paraphernalia, the picnic equipment,my big handbag (water, sunglasses, tickets), a couple of shawls (I get cold easily) and the mail I had just picked up. My friend said, "You're loaded like a Sherpa," and took some of my stuff to carry. I could have made it with two trips or a buggy but I didn't want two trips. I wanted to get HOME after the outing to Stratford. With my friend's help, I was that much sooner on my sofa, collapsed in front of the Jays game. But her word stayed with me: Sherpa.

Of course, I know what a Sherpa is, but I had never used my neighbour's simile. That got me thinking about all the little familiar expressions a person uses, perhaps exclusively to oneself, or common to the family. Some of the words may have been in the family for one or two generations; others come up fortuitously, as required. Actually, I think about them all the time. As a playwright, I look for them and use them. They are called "tags" - not to be over-used but useful shorthand for identifying the speaker and attitudes.

My son Matt picked up an expression, I guess from a fellow worker who called his work place "the hellhole". Matt would say, "Have to go back to the hellhole tomorrow." I suggested he might like to try saying "salt mines" It's old-fashioned; my father used it. It refers, of course, to the salt mines in Siberia, infamous in an earlier time for horrendous working conditions. Today we might use the Third World factories and their workers who produce low-priced clothes for us. Bt how would are say it? Back to the sewing machines?

We all speak in metaphors and similes and time-worn cllches and family expressions. How dull, stale and flat would our communication be without those tools. Actually, it is stale.

Catch you later, alligator. In a while, crocodile. (ugh)

Here, right here, in front of a Blue Jays game, playing a new four-game series against the Baltimore Orioles at home. And I'm at home, thank goodness, and not at all sure I can stay awake. Please God, no extra innings!

My arm is better, still taking physiotherapy Tuesday and Thursday, and gaining increasing range (hurts a bit), and swimming every morning, back to my regular 30 minutes this morning, plus a few extra exercises. You don't want to know all this.

Yesterday I went to my first Stratford play of the season, A Comedy of Errors. This first choice depended on the date - an afternoon matinee in early June - in order to plant red geraniums on my husband's grave, with a little help from my friend who drives, bless her. I not only don't have a car any more; I also don't have a driver's license. I opted for an Ontario Photo ID. Did you know you can't have both? i.e. a driver's license and a Photo ID? I had to sign an affidavit stating that I have given up driving forever. Well, they didn't say forever but we know, don't we? So my friend drove and I supplied the tickets and a picnic.

You know about the tickets, don't you? When my husband died in harness (he was administrator of the Stratford Festival), they gave me two tickets to every performance every summer. They never thought I'd live so long. Neither did I. I try to pay for my tickets with the biggest donation I can manage.

The drive was long, the geraniums looked fine, my companion was interesting and a good driver. All good. BUT - it was one of the worst, if not THE worst, production I have ever seen at Stratford. I wasn't disappointed, I was angry. I have a very open mind, always ready to accept a new twist, a different approach, an intriguing idea, BUT not this one. Remember, this is world class theatre and I am ready to make my assessments based on that level. Ah, BUT - this one didn't work for me on any level. I don't mind innovative casting, if it works. I do mind casting that affects the entire production. I think Shakespeare would mind, too.

And that's all I have to say about that. I don't want to go into detail. If you have a comment, let me know and we can discuss it privately. Next.

Well, the weekend: It started a week ago when my daughter drove from Boston to give me two extra days before the Family Celebration began. Her impending company gave me a much-needed deadline to try to clear my office. It was like parting the Red Sea: I didn't really clear the papers but I hid them effectively. As soon as I sort them out, they'll be on their way to Archives at the University of Manitoba, and that will feel good. Two of Kate's daughters arrived by planes (from separate sources) and the three of them stayed in a airbnb because I have no space for three extra bodies. I can cook for them, though.

My older son and his wife barbecued chicken for all of us- other uncles and aunts and cousins - and we all played Pass the Baby and counted generations (at least, I counted). I roasted a chicken the next day for anyone who needed food. After the girls left, Kate and I had a salad with warm chicken breast strips. She left the next morning and I coped with laundry and leftovers. I had a friend for lunch and served a salad (chicken & egg). I ate leftover combined chicken salads the next day, Then I made curried chicken salad wraps for the picnic yesterday. I don't want any more chicken for a while (but I have to make bone broth).

And all the while my arm/hand is getting stronger.

I have to get back to work. One of these days I'm going to write like Mary Beard (see Mary Beard's Blog) - when I start living like Mary Beard.

Too late.