It is a not uncommon devotion of the elderly (and the rich) to preoccupy themselves with limitless travel throughout the globe. Seemingly there is a race by those who putatively have the most to lose to see everything, everywhere before time runs out. The more exotic the adventure, the more exquisite it is retailed. The prescription far outdistances any chat about getting to know whatever is at hand. By comparison, armchair philosophy is viewed as utterly exhausting (even though it nourished some of society’s most strategic logicians and empiricists, the likes of David Hume and René Descartes). Indeed the more remote the travel venue, the more challenging the familiarity and very often the more expensive the enterprise, the better. There is a perception conveyed when talking to these labouring vagabonds that the Holy Grail (or some other equally nebulous goal) is always within reach.
My erstwhile physician shared with me this morning an article from The Times to which he subscribes.
The Times is a British daily national newspaper based in London. It began in 1785 under the title The Daily Universal Register, adopting its current name on 1 January 1788. The Times and its sister paper The Sunday Times (founded in 1821) are published by Times Media, since 1981 a subsidiary of News UK, in turn wholly owned by News Corp.
Our dearest Nancy, this rhyme is far from fancy,
For we have but a diffident poetic bent.
Yet rounding the 80th corner bespeaks by any order
A premium that’s truly Heaven sent!
While gossip is at first blush and from toffee-nosed reserve normally identified as malicious, I think we can all agree it is mostly just chit-chat or at the very worse whispers or rumour. Sometimes we quip that it is “dirt” (which I interpret not as idle or scandalous talk but rather the latest news). In whatever manner we characterize the enterprise, gossip is little more than scuttle-butt or blather, none of which is especially offensive. If the unconstrained conversation involves details that are not confirmed to be true, this element speaks more to its vitality than its intention. I hardly adjudge a chinwag a court of law. If the canards were to become offensive it is probably because we collectively view the aspirant as a busy-body (though pointedly that seldom succeeds to diminish our compelling interest in what is being advanced). Being a tittle-tattler is entirely another matter. Spilling the beans is Okay.
Things change quickly. I am not now talking about losing one’s hair or putting on weight. I’m talking about life in general. It’s impossible to keep pace with the overall speed of things. One day you’re starting your own business; the next, you’re leaning on a Rollator chatting with former clients. In the interim we’re intent upon accomplishing everything we can before it all ends. The speed of things is unsurpassable (if you’ll forgive the pun).
It has been a recurring theme of our recent transition from the other side of the river to here that I am positively tickled by the fortuity. Today was yet another case in point. This morning as I rode upon my tricycle along Spring Street parallel to the river, I encountered an elderly lady hooked to a mobile walking device similar to my own Rollator. She was accompanied by a younger woman. I asked if they were related; and indeed they are, mother and daughter. Immediately their respective beautiful and abundant gray hair sanctioned the relationship. To my discredit, I slowly recalled that I already knew the daughter (though in my defence I had not seen her for a very long time). I mention all this because it was shortly thereafter upon my return home that I chanced upon my elderly neighbour with her similarly constituted daughter from British Columbia.
Shrews are fiercely territorial, driving off rivals, and coming together only to mate. Many species dig burrows for catching food and hiding from predators. The saliva of these little beasts packs a potent punch to its prey in the form of a neurotoxin. Shrew is an offensive word for a woman who is considered to be unpleasant and easily annoyed, and who argues a lot (Cambridge University Press).
The adjective volcanic is suggestive of or resembling a volcano; potentially explosive; volatile: a volcanic temper.
It is I reckon a stretch to dub today a Family Day if one were to assess the entitlement by the number of family members who figured in the day’s elaboration. There were only I, my partner, my sister and her husband who were the components. Nonetheless this narrow focus was sufficient to inspire the goodness and spirituality which inevitably are summoned by the most modest conversancy with family.
The Indian Curry Pot was not what I had expected to see mid-afternoon today on this brilliantly sunny Friday in the Ottawa Valley as I nonchalantly drove up the hill from Burnstown to Renfrew. Yet in spite of having been arrested by the unanticipated sign I blankly continued driving past the property where the sign appeared. Moments later however my curiosity overtook me. I turned back. As I prepared to drive onto the property – which looked suspiciously abandoned – another car from the opposite direction also turned into the property. The driver of the other car alighted and approached. She explained that she was the owner of the property where the Indian Curry Pot had formerly been housed. The retail venture, so she informed me, has since relocated to nearby Calabogie. She spoke glowingly of the food and kindly detailed further contact information for the eatery.
The mirror image of the shoreline trees upon the polished surface of the river is obstructed by an indifferent butterfly. The air is incomparably still; the sky is lucid. I luxuriate in unaccustomed reconciliation.