There are two things frankly I hadn’t anticipated. One, that this day would ever come. It’s the last day of October, the end of our tenancy at 100 Jamieson Street. And two, that I would feel so moved by the event. Precipitously I have been jerked from anxiousness to bewilderment. With unexpected fervour I am recalling those we have known at 100 Jamieson Street and the inexpressible memories arising.
Cooking is not one of my preferred activities. Eating, yes; but cooking, not so much. I have wrestled with cooking from time to time; and while my productions are on occasion acceptable, I prefer instead to devote myself to food choices rather than food preparation. Fortunately for me there are endless possibilities within the realm of either raw or prepared foods, everything from cereal to veggies to oysters on the half shell. Because the predominant social avenue for cooked meals is luncheon or dinner (when one can unnoticeably sidle up to the trough with apparent dignity and convention) I confine my personal culinary exhibitions to breakfast.
Though I am constantly amused by what I perhaps mistakenly call serendipity, the re-evaluation of the philosophic pursuit as investigation of the proximate cause does little if anything to enlarge upon the credibility of the result. Whatever the thesis, the overriding empirical data is conclusive; namely, everything is connected. It is from this patent connection of incidents and memories that I derive the capital of my literary vocation. Obviously each of us can say without hesitation that within our sphere of activity and acquaintance, everything is connected. If it were otherwise it would only be through the eyes of another, clearly a logical impossibility. Yet to accept the more cogent conclusion that by definition we spring from all that we see or know is considered less persuasive or at least less dynamic.
What a unique maturity it is for me to be fleetingly nestled in the middle of Almonte mere steps whence once worked or resided many of the colourful people whom I first met here over forty-six years ago and many of whom are no longer whinnying among us (John Hawley Kerry, Elizabeth Schoular, Bob Morton, Bill Gomme, Marg Campbell, Percy Baker, Stan Morton, Nick and Jean Magus, Carson Johnson, Raymond A. Jamieson, Louis Peterson, Elizabeth Kelly, Henry Wendzich, Bob France, Des Houston). We are poised to straddle the nearby Mississippi River, capturing meanwhile the height of my professional grounding in this idyllic country town. I should add too that not a little of my erstwhile social engagement in Almonte has been reignited by the serendipitous acquaintance of one Mr. Campbell who yesterday, as I was about to mount the staircase to our Mill St Apartment, introduced himself as the contractor working on outfitting the new restaurant immediately beneath the hotel apartment where I now sit, writing and projecting into the setting sun in the southwestern sky on what I believe will be one of the last magnificent autumn days.
To the quip about sausage and law (the two things one mustn’t watch being made) I’d like to add a third surveillance prohibition; and that is, moving. Essentially, keep out of the way! The “packers” are at the apartment now. It’s after 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon. They’ve been there since 9:00 o’clock this morning. Luckily for me, as chance would have it, I had an early morning appointment in Ottawa so I was on the road before they arrived. Although I have kept in touch remotely, I frankly have no precise idea what they are doing. There have been reverberations about dishes and the particularity of wrapping each piece before putting it into a box. The paintings are reportedly being housed in independent sleeves. Certain small pieces of furniture have been wrapped “as is” to avoid removing the sparse contents of the drawers. More alluring is the advice that the new console has coincidentally arrived this morning from North Carolina.
It is to be predicted that unpleasantness happens but no one likes to think it really will. Yet it does. And it did. We learned this morning by telephone call from the Property Manager of our new digs that the elevators are not working; at least they are not approved by the certifying agency to be useable. This impacts our scheduled move on the morning of November 2nd. Apparently the elevator people were recently on strike. Now that they are back in gear they are first attending to the most urgent places such as hospitals and nursing homes. Our place pointedly qualified as a “retirement” residence but even so they do not anticipate approval of the lifts until late in the afternoon on November 3rd by which time we have planned to be miles away.
Whenever one is told (usually by someone in a fit of comic hysterics) that “It’s easy!” one has to question the unvarnished purpose in sharing the intelligence with oneself (usually recovering from the embarrassment of a petty defeat like opening a can). Indeed there is a case to be made for the proposition “It’s easy!” though I would be more approving if there were added the subjunctive clause, “… if you know what you’re doing”. Be honest, whenever that happens, that we can’t figure out the simplest thing, our immediate reaction is unease. Yet equally certain – but far more mortifying – is our discovery thanks to the input of the comedian that indeed it is perfectly stupid! In the end it is easy!
The world is much as it was fifty years ago. Cities and towns have grown; infrastructure has been modernized. Children are seen walking to school. Politics is as enigmatic as ever. Technology has awakened an era of precision and accessibility. Wrist watches have recaptured utility over cosmetics. Doing anything and everything remotely or on-line is now the fashion; it attaches to university courses, employment, stock trading and shopping. Some worry an isolation is developing. I believe functionality will trump novelty and curiosity; and that we shall restore our erstwhile itch for socializing. The parasitic stigma of technology will in time lapse unobserved like air, rain and sunshine.
This too is another of those instantly gripping directives worthy of scrutiny; viz., “Say what you mean!” Not always a pleasant task; one which may come with embarrassment. Who among us has not been told the bullying mandate at least once? Indeed there are perhaps less complimentary renditions such as when one has been caught in a deceit. Saying what you mean is not for the pusillanimous!
It is conceivably an amplification to speak of downtown Almonte. There is only one central business street in Almonte and that is Mill Street on which was historically conjoined the post office, Peterson’s Ice Cream Co and two of the town’s woollen mills (one at the top of the hill by the Old Town Hall, the other at the bottom of the hill opposite Doc Metcalfe’s hydro station) with limited retail and service shops between the two mills. Yet our recent discovery of the Mill St Apartments has encouraged the more ambitious denomination thanks to its cunning utility within the realm of our current private affairs. Just this afternoon upon returning home I responded to an enquiry from another resident about “where you are” by reporting “we’re in the middle of the fray”. Pointedly Rob Prior’s new “fully furnished luxury suites ready for your extended getaway” answers our temporary residential needs ideally.