From There to Here with Jane Hawtin

There are times when I stand disorientated in front of a large group, wondering how the hell I arrived at this point where I am facing a crowd of people who are just about or already have watched our documentary, My Mother, the Nazi Midwife and Me. 

            I always call it ‘our’ documentary because although it’s about me and my life, what’s on that screen is really the result of one woman’s farsightedness and tenacity.  And that woman is Jane Hawtin, my friend, executive producer, director, whisperer of key questions, advisor on how to heavy-up on the make-up for an unrelenting camera, and the driving force behind what’s up there for all to see.          

            It requires an ocean of determination to take a jumble of words and images, and shape it into something that will impact those who view it.  Jane’s indomitable spirit is what held our little team of three that includes editor, Jason Acton, together.  Unafraid to ask questions (and listen carefully to the suggestions), change direction, follow her instincts (always sound) or to invest more than her heart and soul, Jane is the reason why I am standing in a spotlight, slightly dazed.

            It started innocently enough with a simple dinner.  Jane had come from Toronto to spend a week with me in Montreal.  Although we had known each others for more than a decade (and liked each other enormously from the start), we had only just reconnected after many years without a word.

            We were chatting about what I was up to.  Writing a novel, I said, and going to Germany with Anna Rosmus of ‘Nasty Girl’ fame, to do some research.  And then, I recounted how Anna had corroborated the story my mother had told me for years about too many babies dying in the DP camp which was why I was born in Anna’s hometown of Passau.

            Jane looked at me with her big brown eyes and her mouth pursed in an ‘O’ something she does when she’s had a stirring thought or a revelation.  “But that’s a documentary,” she said.

            My reply, tinged with gallons of self-doubt was, “Do you really think so?”

            We went to Germany with two cameramen, no script, no confirmed broadcaster, and no clue as to what we would find when we got there.  Angels were sitting on our shoulder at many turns in the road but it takes one to recognize one.  Jane’s finely-honed instincts seemed to know when something was right and she seized every opportunity.

            We came home after five days in Passau and weren’t quite sure which o story line was the right one to follow.  Nor did we know who the midwife was.  It took another two years to track down the source of the story – Salomon Brunner - but we still didn’t have the midwife’s name.  It was also a time when Jane needed to heal after a terrible accident.  The hurdles Jane had to overcome would have daunted a lesser warrior.  Anyone else would have surrendered.

             In the end, however, through all the trials and tribulations, the outlay of personal cash, the uncertainty of how we would market this, when the doc was finally finished, we had a national broadcaster in less than a month after completion, and in less than three, an international distributor.  After chugging uphill for so long, you can imagine how this dizzying increase in speed can cause me to wonder how I got from there to here.  The answer to that question is that, to my great good fortune, my story fell into the hands of an angel-warrior named Jane Hawtin.  

 Happy Birthday, Jane

https://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Mother-the-Nazi-Midwife-and-Me/497591100290986

A Month of Sundays
Edward O. Phillips
Cormorant Books
$22.95
paper
252pp
978-1-77086-211-1

The Golden Guy

Review by Gina Roitman   •  Posted on mRb  May 15, 2013

If Edward O. Phillips’ novel, A Month of Sundays was a film, it could easily fall into the category of screwball comedy, a genre that featured urbane characters, a few loveable scoundrels, and a fistful of snappy dialogue liberally sprinkled with wry observations. As a novel, it’s just as delightful despite a storyline that begins and ends with a death in the family.

In this, his latest novel in the Geoffrey Chadwick series set in Montreal, Phillips tackles the double-barreled bane of getting old and of dealing with the grief of losing a loved one. Chadwick is a retired lawyer, a gay man who found love and a binding relationship with Elinor, his wife and closest friend. As the story begins, Elinor has just died and Chadwick is planning her funeral while juggling the onslaught of emotions that comes with loss.

Despite his grief, Chadwick is always ready with a wry observation. He opines that gay men “are perhaps the last bastion of what may be considered to be an outdated and quaint civility,” which may be why he has neither a cellphone nor the inclination to check his email every hour. To honour Elinor, he plans a party in celebration of her life and gets out the Rolodex to hand address the printed invitations.

His party planning and reminiscences of Elinor are interrupted by the arrival in his life of a son he never knew he had. Suspicion morphs to pride when the son, conceived hastily one night in college, turns out to be a dead ringer for Chadwick in more ways than one. The middle-aged Harold, a retired schoolteacher, has inherited Chadwick’s quick wit and love of repartee, as well as a penchant for Broadway tunes. When Harold accidentally breaks his ankle, preventing him from returning to Toronto, Chadwick sees it as an opportunity to bring them closer together and offers Harold a bed in which to recuperate. What starts out in hope, however, ends in sad resignation. Chadwick discovers that Harold does not resemble him in the ways that truly matter. And in this too, there is a loss to be dealt with.

Phillips has created a memorable cast of characters including Chadwick’s controlling sister; a boozing buddy who’s committing suicide by martini; and his 97-year-old mother who, though mostly silent, comes to life through Phillips’ deft descriptions: “Colour leached from her hair, her skin, eyes. She gave the impression light could pass through her, that she cast no shadow.”

The writing is often evocative, such as this description of a young niece: “With Jennifer, I feel I exist for her even when I’m not in the room.” But what come off best are the observations that, when not biting, often nip at the funny bone: “When I was in college…the only thing worse than being in bed with a live man was being caught with a dead woman.”

By the end of the novel, Phillips has handed his alter ego two dead women, and still has made the journey between a wonderful read. A formidable feat.

My Birthday Blog: January 19, 2013

Sixty-five and counting!  This is an opportune moment for an open letter to all my female friends and family who are working their way to the mark upon which I have landed today in a state of grace.   

I’m sitting in my office, with Neil Diamond on deck reminding me of the years that were, but what I’m reveling in is the year that can be. 

We all travel at the same speed, that is, one day at a time, (and a year is about as far as I can plan) but I have to admit that life does tend to speed up when you’re busy with other things. 

Sometime around my mid-forties, I began to notice that I was losing track of a few weeks per annum.  I looked everywhere for them but it soon became clear: they had evaporated.  I chastised myself for being careless, for wasting or misplacing my time.  But it continued to get worse. In fact, over the years, an increasing number of weeks have continued to vanish. I’m now down to having only 37 weeks per year.

Age, however, has taught me the trick of adaptation. So I’ve learned to cram more into every day – more people, more projects, more loving, more of just about everything.  Sometimes, I feel like I’ll bust open with so much crammed into my life. Which is why I have no time for artifice.

I have learned to say what I think (always mindful that words can sear and scar) and have no expectations about the affect my words may have on others.  In short, I don’t anticipate anything although I hope what I say and do is helpful. It’s a case of accepting that one cannot do better than their best. I try to do my best.  That’s one of the Four Agreements I think.

Somewhere along with those vanished weeks, a part of my ego evaporated as well.  Not the part that can’t believe the face in the mirror or the softness around the waist (in short, I’m still vain) but I lost that portion of ego that needs approval and recognition for who I am.  That might sound boastful, I know, but it was an element of learning to acknowledge the progress I’ve made in my life.  It’s not ego to be proud of the kind words gathered from friends, family and colleagues.  And it’s lovely to feel valued but I still hold my own council.  I am ever more the pragmatist and so, I am the arbiter of what are my successes and failures. 

I am now two years past the age at which my mother died of cancer.  She would say I am tempting the evil eye (ptuh! ptuh! ptuh! Kinenhora) when I say I have never felt strong and more able to fulfill my potential than at this very moment.  If I can accomplish half of what I have started, I will be grateful. 

Some of us are late bloomers.  At 65, my buds are just beginning to open. And for this and so much more, I am grateful every day.