So many notes on too many scraps of paper, Faithful Reader. They meant something several days ago, perhaps even a week ago. Some famous writer went to his grave muttering something like, “Never more.”

Or was that a tame crow, taught to speak? No doubt I shall do something like that. “Look for the key” in a voice filled with urgency and just a trifle wild-eyed. Gertrude Stein’s last words were, “What is the answer…? What is the question?” I really like that.

It would not surprise me if four words, “Where are my keys?” were to be my last. A good part of my life has been spent looking for keys. I have a box filled with keys that fit none of the current locks, F. R.

How does one accumulate keys? Why do others stray?

I do not call on reinforcements of friends to help find the keys. They ask obvious questions. “Where did you have them last?” “When did you last have them?” “Did you look in your coat pockets?”

Between spurts of manic house-cleaning disguised as key-searching, I have been reading a gigantic Emily Carr autobiography, The Complete Writings of Emily Carr. Also useful for pressing flowers, it is 893 pages. She lived an unorthodox life from 1871 until 1945.

Known mainly as a West Coast painter, it was a Toronto Art Gallery of Ontario exhibition where, as a school girl, I first encountered her work. The first visible painting stopped me in my tracks.

Oddly, my eldest daughter reacted similarly when Carr’s work returned to Toronto. I thought I had read all her writings until I found this worn but not abused copy at the Dundas Valley School of Art.

I am reading a note that a previous owner had left in it. I trust it was not as a book mark because it was less than halfway. “R” had written a note to Margaret. She says she had known and loved Carr since she, “R”, was 17 years old. “She sure was her own woman! It is a long one and I hope you read it to the end.”

I was delighted to accompany a grand-daughter to the Dundas Little Theatre production of Looking. Just what we all need, F. R. Hilarious local live theatre.

Reasonably priced. No parking problems. A bar and light refreshment counter at intermission. Not a bad seat in the house. Meet your friends there. I do.

Or collect a few to enjoy an evening. Norm Foster, an Ancaster playwright with more than 40 of his plays produced, has a sense of humour that catches the ordinary ridiculousness of everyday situations.

This year DLT celebrates its 50th anniversary season. The current theatre was not always home, nor was it always a theatre. Dundasians know it is built over the old outdoor swimming pool.

There was a time when the roof leaked. I was a town councillor and when the irate call came, my humour fell flat. “Just drill a couple of holes and let it drain into the basement/pool.”

My rapt interest in Emily Carr’s book let the Grammy Awards slip past. I was delighted to learn that Leonard Cohen was among five Canadians recognized. I do trust you are not muttering, “Who is Leonard Cohen?”