by Jeanne Beker
“What does a single mother with two girls need a 123-acre farm for?” demanded my well-meaning mother. I tried to make her understand that I was trying to recapture some of my lost happiness. My mum, who was very much against my letting go of the cottage in the first place, wasn’t convinced. But she gave me her blessing anyway, reluctantly admitting that my dad would have been very proud of this impressive, if daunting, acquisition.
A few weeks before I took possession of Chanteclair that summer, I brought Bekky and Joey out to see it. We were all so excited on the way that when we passed a sign that read “Kittens: Five Dollars,” we couldn’t resist stopping, just to have a look. Of course, we then couldn’t leave without taking one of the irresistible creatures with us. We named him Marcel, put him in a cardboard box, and continued on our way. The girls fell instantly in love with the charming old stone house. They claimed their rooms, Bekky dubbing hers “Alice in Wonderland” and Joey settling for something more bucolic, “The Cow Room.” In the car on the way back, we continued dreaming and scheming, with Marcel merrily mewing away in his cardboard box and Beau sleeping in the back, exhausted. This new feeling of independence was exhilarating. I didn’t have to consult with anyone about financing, or what colours to paint the walls, or what furniture to buy, or what kinds of deals to make with which farmers and tradesmen to help me keep the place going. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
But as the possession date drew nearer, I started to experience a bit of buyer’s remorse, a kind of insecurity about whether I would really be able to handle this grand property on my own, and even a little fear about the isolation and loneliness that it might bring, knowing that I would have the girls there with me only on alternating weekends. Maybe my mother was right and I was a little crazy after all. I tried my best to ignore these nagging doubts and throw myself into sprucing up the place. But in my heart, I secretly prayed for some sign that I had indeed made the right decision.
I wanted Chanteclair to have a French country vibe, so I went on a mad shopping spree, buying a variety of things that spoke of Provence, from hand-painted blue-and-yellow dishes and an antique harvest table to a yellow-and-cream-striped couch and a huge Edwardian birdcage, which I planned to place on the big pine windowsill with its door flung wide open—a symbol of my new freedom. One of the most endearing little things I purchased was a hand-painted plaque with the words “Believe in Yourself” to hang just inside the front door, so I’d see it every time I entered the house.
Just around the time I was set to move in, my friends Steven and Christopher began production on their first season of The Designer Guys. Chris called me and asked if they could have a hand in decorating my farmhouse for the second episode of the show. I balked, not sure if I really wanted a designer-perfect place. I told them I had already started buying things. But Chris and Steven said they would incorporate my purchases, assured me they would only do the living room, and guaranteed that since they knew me so intimately, their riff on the French country theme I’d chosen would be everything I had dreamed of and more.
They asked that I check out a few things they were considering purchasing for the house and urged me to visit a large Toronto furniture store called Elte Carpets. It was located in the northwest end, a part of the city I didn’t frequent, so I begged off and told them I completely trusted their taste. Not long after, however, I found myself in that neck of the woods and decided to drop by Elte just to see what all the fuss was about.
The upscale store was housed in an enormous warehouse type of space. I walked through the front doors, not knowing exactly what I was looking for. But almost instantly, I spotted a big Ralph Lauren sign at the back of the store and decided that area might feature some pleasing items. As I entered the Ralph Lauren section, I saw a round table laden with old trophies—about twenty of them. As a lover of fleamarket finds and interesting old memorabilia in general, I gravitated towards this table. One trophy in particular caught my eye. Sleek and elegant, it was shaped like a kind of loving cup. I picked it up to read the inscription, supposing it had been awarded for something exotic, like curling or maybe even lacrosse. I was stunned when I read the big letters on the front of the cup: “Public Speaking Trophy.” That was pretty seductive. If I ever won a trophy, I thought to myself, I’d want it to be for public speaking. What I read next blew my mind: “Presented by Alnwick Council.” Chanteclair was in Alnwick Township! I turned the trophy around and saw a long list of names inscribed on the back. The very first one my eyes hit was “Edward Coyle, 1954.” Chanteclair had been built by the Coyle family! The hair on my arms stood up as I continued to read the names of winners dating back to 1931. Many of the names were familiar to me, since they could also be found on various landmarks, roads, and villages in the township. The Doris M. Robins who had received the honour in 1945 was likely of Robins General Store fame. The 1933 winner was Audrey A. Mouncey, as in Mouncey Road, just down the highway from my farm. Judith McCracken, possibly from the farm family the next property over, took the award in 1961. The neighbouring village of Fenella was cited beside the names of some of the winners. What were the chances, I wondered, of finding this trophy so far from where it had originated, in this obscure place—a shop I hadn’t even wanted to visit? I had to have this trophy and take it back home where it belonged. I knew this was just the sign I’d been praying for.
It took a while to talk the store manager into selling it to me. It was being used as a prop in the Ralph Lauren department and wasn’t even for sale. But my little story was just too compelling, I guess. The manager eventually sold me the trophy for two hundred dollars, and I left Elte Carpets with the precious artifact in tow, now totally convinced that the gods wanted me to have this special property in divine Alnwick County.
I decided to bring the trophy to Chanteclair on the day Steven and Chris were shooting. On the way to the farm, I stopped by Bev Robins’s store in Roseneath. Standing behind the counter, Bev was flabbergasted to see me with the trophy his sister had brought home some fifty years ago! He began reminiscing about almost every name inscribed on it, relaying bits and pieces of old gossip about these locals along the way. I was thrilled that I had such a monumental piece of Alnwick memorabilia in my possession—and I took it back to my farmhouse.
When I got there, I was amazed by the splendid job Chris and Steven had done, and overcome by all their creative touches. The room had been painted a soft, buttery yellow. The house’s original old windowpanes, found abandoned in the shed, had been lovingly transformed into magnificent wall pieces, one featuring small mirrors, another antique botanical prints. They had brought the outdoors inside by placing urns filled with tall, striking branches they had gathered from around the property on either side of the couch. There were two moss-filled white urns on the windowsills and a lovely hooked rug in the centre of the room. Faux white shutters adorned the huge, deep-set windows. An array of beautiful pillows made out of yellow-and-burgundy toile and blue plaid complemented my yellow-and-white-striped couch. My new pine coffee table had been painted white and then distressed to make it look like an antique. The lovely old birdcage with its open door had been placed on the large windowsill in front of my desk, so I could face this emblem of freedom and gaze out the window at this inspiring new setting while I wrote. A gorgeous French floral print hung over the fireplace, with lovely topiaries atop the mantle. And there in the centre, the guys had placed a small framed photograph—one of my favourites—of my father happily clapping his big hands, eyes closed in joy, that fabulous grin of his just beaming at me.
The Designer Guys camera crew was there to capture my reaction to Chris and Steven’s brilliant handiwork. The living room looked like a dream, and I suddenly felt very much at home. I unwrapped the trophy and showed it to Chris and Steven, recounting the incredible story of its discovery. I then placed it on the mantle, right next to the photograph of my father, and that’s where it still sits a decade later, a constant reminder of the magic that is Chantecla
ir. That amazing memento also serves as a kind of pat on the back from my late, great dad, who, I’m convinced, concocted this sign for me, just to let me know that he approved of my buying this unique and charming country home.
TAKING CHANCES
COMPLACENCY IS OFTEN a danger of aging. We can become so comfortable in our far-from-perfect lives that we just accept them as they are, rather than going out on a limb and trying to make things better. But how can you improve the quality of your life if you don’t take a risk? How can you find what you really crave if you don’t step outside your safety zone?
Call it a midlife crisis, but about six weeks before my forty-ninth birthday, I was overcome by the feeling that I was at the end of a road. I was seized by the notion, more enthralling than disturbing, that I had to do something wild and crazy, push my personal envelope, challenge myself to visit dark places, expose my inner secrets, and get closer to my own truths. I decided to celebrate my midlife awakening by purchasing a brightly painted, life-size fibreglass moose. It was one of several dozen that had been painted by local artists, sold to sponsors, and placed throughout the city in 2000, in an effort to raise money for Toronto’s failed bid for the 2008 Olympics. The project was commissioned by Mayor Mel Lastman, and after the novelty of the moose wore off, the mayor’s wife hosted a charity ball to sell off about fifty of the antlered creatures to enthusiastic bidders, with the proceeds benefiting a number of good causes. The five thousand dollars I spent on my moose went to a women’s shelter. It was definitely a feel-good thing, and the outrageous, friendly looking creature still stands by the side of the pond at my farm, emblematic of that restless, exciting time in my life.
But something else happened to me the week I bought the moose: I was offered a three-week stint in The Vagina Monologues. This controversial, much-celebrated work, based on a book by the American writer Eve Ensler, is a compilation of interviews with women talking in graphic detail about their often-ignored genitals. Ensler originally delivered a selection of these sometimes amusing, often poignant monologues in 1996, in a one-woman show that played cities from Jerusalem to Stockholm. The presentation never failed to garner rave reviews, and before long, some of America’s best-loved actresses, from Whoopi Goldberg to Susan Sarandon to Glenn Close, had been invited to deliver selected monologues for benefit performances. Eventually, The Vagina Monologues evolved into a three-woman show, with two regular actresses joined on stage by high-profile celebrities—people such as Brooke Shields, Alanis Morissette, Calista Flockhart, Claire Danes, Andrea Martin, Julianna Margulies, Amy Irving, and Marlo Thomas. The Vagina Monologues soon became the stuff feminists and great actresses longed to wrap their heads and hearts around. Now, a Canadian company was bringing the show to Toronto, and I was approached to participate.
Up to this point, I had felt no compulsion to see The Vagina Monologues. As a matter of fact, when a friend told me she was going, I cringed, suspecting the whole deal was mere exploitation. I was determined to keep my vagina to myself, thank you very much, and the last thing I wanted to hear was how other women were dealing with theirs. Maybe I was a prude, but the whole concept seemed weird and unsavoury to me. I shuddered at the thought of a room full of women fixating on their privates. I may have burned my bra with the best of them in the 1960s, but what lurked behind my zippered fly was nobody’s business.
So there I was, going through this midlife moment, having bought this extravagant beast of an objet d’art, when the theatre producer Stephen Shinn left a message on my voicemail inviting me to take part in one of the hottest and most talked about shows of the moment. I called back and told him how flattered I was but said it wasn’t my cup of tea. He begged me to reserve judgment until I’d read the script. “Okay,” I said. “Send it over.”
I immediately called a number of male and female friends to get their take on the offer. The response was unanimous: I had to accept! The experience might stir up some forgotten talent in me—maybe I would find a new old calling. My New York acting-school training would serve me well. This was my big chance to revisit places deep within my creative psyche. My anticipation mounted.
The script was delivered the next day in a plain brown envelope. I looked at it as if it were some forbidden fruit, a mysterious package that could change the direction of my life—or at least my sexual aware-ness—forever. I grabbed it and ran upstairs to my bedroom, closing the door behind me for the privacy I craved. Stephen Shinn had said I could choose three or four monologues. I disappeared even further into my inner sanctum. Finally, in my ensuite bathroom, confident I was out of earshot of both nanny and kids, I began reading the script out loud. By the time I got to the end of the third monologue, there were tears in my eyes. I was mesmerized by the honesty and intimacy of the words I was reading, and I slowly got hooked on the profound sense of sharing I knew the performance would provide.
The material was superb—heartfelt, emotional, brave, funny, tragic. I immediately understood why so many women related to it, and why so many famous actresses had jumped at the chance to be part of this unique production. After I got over the initial discomfort of having to articulate some of these sacred and profane thoughts and feelings, I realized these passages were overflowing with a pain and joy that was oddly liberating. I was reminded of my humanity, innocence, passion, and victimization. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get up there and present these daring and powerful monologues. I called Stephen and enthusiastically accepted the honour. I had no idea how I would explain it all to my eighty-year-old mother, who was vacationing in Palm Springs but would be back just before opening night. She was bound to hear about my return to the stage and would be eager to see what all the fuss was about. No way I could allow that!
For my appearance, I was teamed up with two wonderful Toronto actresses, Krista Sutton and Karen Robinson, and we were directed by Kate Lynch, who was a complete joy to work with. Actually, the show was one of the best experiences of my creative life. I’ll forever be grateful for the thrill—after so many years of secretly longing to get back on the stage—of getting the chance to express myself in that intimate little theatre, before a receptive audience.
The monologues I chose included one by an elderly woman talking about having some kind of unexpected discharge, tantamount to a basement flood, “down there”—as in, “There was a flood down there!” I decided to assume a broad character for this dramatically endearing piece, choosing to play her as an old lady from the Bronx, complete with heavy New York accent. This monologue went over extremely well, and people were enchanted by my delivery—especially those who had no idea I had ever been an actress. I was proud as punch that I still had my chops. And there was another factor I secretly relished: I was in the early throes of menopause at the time. Undergoing intense hot flashes up there onstage, as we three performers spun tales of womanhood and the female experience, was strangely invigorating. Both the play and the performance resonated with me profoundly, and it was all because I had taken that risk, ventured out on some scary turf, and transcended my initial small-mindedness.
While I did invite Bekky, who was fourteen at the time, to see the show, I thought that Joey, at eleven, was a little too young. And I never did let my mum come. I told her it might freak her out too much. She reluctantly acquiesced. In retrospect, I regret that decision. After all, it was the role of a lifetime for me. Perhaps I could have been a little more courageous when it came to showing my mother the stuff I was made of. But that stint onstage served its purpose: It helped remind me that I was a true performer whose absolute delight is telling stories. Happily, it wouldn’t be the last time.
IN FASHION
I’ve always been charmed by William Blake’s notion that a world can be seen in a grain of sand. For the past quarter century, that grain of sand, for me, has been fashion. Granted, it can be an arena filled with artifice and illusion. But perhaps because its star players are just people at the heart of it all, the fashion world also provides an astoundingly rich backdro
p for insight into the human spirit.
APOCALYPSE THEN
FOR A LONG TIME, I was enamoured with the fashion world because it seemed so rarefied. Those of us who work in its trenches are, for the most part, die-hard romantics, hell-bent on keeping our glorious bubble intact. This is a world where we all aspire to express ourselves through beautiful and stylish imagery—whether we’re creating it, reporting on it, selling it, or wearing it. So when we all got a loud and unexpected wakeup call smack dab in the middle of New York Fashion Week on September 11, 2001, we fashion warriors were affected in profound and peculiar ways. My own 9/11 experience had me questioning the validity of the business, and left me wondering about fashion’s future.
New York Fashion Week had just got underway. I spent Sunday afternoon at the swish Fifth Avenue penthouse of Denise Rich, the estranged wife of Marc Rich, an international commodities trader who had been indicted in the United States on charges of tax evasion and making illegal oil deals with Iran. (Rich received a presidential pardon from Bill Clinton on his last day in office.) Rich himself was based in Switzerland, but his and Denise’s artistic daughter, Ilona, had come up with a cool new clothing line, and she was showing it to the press at an intimate presentation in her mother’s apartment. Amid Denise Rich’s hugely impressive art collection, a privileged assortment of top editors and stylish socialites sat sipping champagne, eating petit fours, and looking out at the glorious view of Central Park. I remember thinking this was everything I had ever imagined the good life in New York to be about. I was living the dream.