I’m getting serious now. In my Other Life I would be totally organized by now, with all my mailing done and shopping almost finished—for family and food and all. Just parties and baking to do. When I lived up north, no parties, like now—no parties. I have memories. I may deal with them later. That’s another blog.

I’m trying to finish my memorial tribute to my friend Moishe Black, who died recently. i woke this morning wondering why I can attempt to write to/ for him and. yet cannot get started with my tribute to my travel friend, who died in October. I guess I hadn’t acknowledged that I would never see her again. There was more to say. We were unfinished. I had seen Moishe when I knew it was the last time.

We had met in Winnipeg after he retired and returned to Canada. A couple of times an informal reunion of old colleagues (including his wife) brought us together for some easy light nostalgic conversation. But later, I saw and spent. a little time with the two of them and that was it.

I had a grant to go and write in East End, Saskatchewan, in Stegner House (look it up). Rail access had become more difficult after Canada’s rail system shrank, allowing priority to freight over passengers. To reach East End, I had to get off the train in Saskatoon and take the bus to Regina, and another bus or a friend to drive west to East (I know). Coming back I made the connection by staying overnight in Saskatoon and catching an early morning train on its way east to Toronto—another 2 days’ travel. So I managed to see my friend again.They were living in Saskatoon. Moishe had retired from his last job at the university there. I was planning to take them to lunch, but they insisted I come to them, and they walked me back to my hotel. That gave us more time to talk. He was in the early stages of Alzheimers but his long-term memory was intact and the three of us enjoyed reminiscing. Moishe came up with his delightful puns and humour that I remembered and loved. We all had a good time, the last time.

We said goodbye then.

Please don’t all of you who are left die at the same time this coming holiday season. That’s a lot of memorial tributes to write.

I’m just putting together my Christmas list. The prezzie lists are easy because they are of people I see all the time, well, not all the time, with lockdowns and such, but I know where they are. My greeting list of people who are still here on the planet takes a bit of checking. Just starting it the other day when I had a phone call from a friend in Winnipeg, one of the ones on my greeting list, actually. She called to report the deaths of two old friends, one from university days and one from university, marriage, parenthood and couples-bonding days. Long time.

That finished my Christmas letter research for the day. I had to do some private memory searching. Which brings me to my Christmas Generic. (one size fits all??) One person and another, I’m remembering a lot of my past.You are, too, your past, I mean.

Moishe Black and I met at the beginning of our double honours French and English studies. We signed up at third year, though students were allowed to wait a year to commit themselves.. We were the only ones who knew what we wanted early on. He was even more specifically committed: he intended to go to the Sorbonne for his postgraduate studies. He did, too. He earned a PhD and returned to France to teach and write. It was years before I saw him again.

But during those first three years we coincided, taking an identical course of studies, we came to know each other intellectually better than I had ever known anyone in my life. We didn’t study together but we were reading the same stuff. It got so that durjng a seminar or any kind of serious academic discussion, one of us would hold up one finger knowing the other would have the same reaction. Thinking was fun. Learning was fun.

I learned more from him and his family. They were close, they were intellectual, classic and intent. His older sister was intent., too. She went to Radciffe/Harvasrd. They were all smart. They welcomed me into their midst and shared some of their passion with me. After dinner I would sit with them in the living room listening, not talking, just listening to music. That’s how I met Beethoven and learned to listen and went on from there. More anon, some time. Fun.

OOPS—As usual, I am pressing the wrong buttons and losing copy. Tired, I guess. So I’ll continue this tomorrow.