The instant we set upon our two-wheelers this morning we were moved to proclaim the magnificence of the day! Though I know the winter season does not officially commence until December, and without wishing to detract from that date, I have always attached import to October 21st as though it were a celestial or astronomic signal of change. Not infrequently as today the weather was divine. But the trees which have been exotic this year are showing precipitous signs of autumn’s incalculable passage.

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Longer ago than I care now to recall I was invited by John G. Jamieson to dine at his grand home on the eminent street where historically had lived the owners of the town’s now long-forgotten woollen mills. He informed me it was to be a black tie affair. At the time I felt honoured by the invitation which portended an elegant taxonomy. It would however prove to be a less than venerable and a more than unintended social engagement. Continue reading →

It’s late in the day on a Thursday afternoon. Outside the air is cold. I am projecting through the drawing room sheers over the head of my limited edition (2/25) bronze sculpture Îrhe Wapta by Don Begg. The horizon is a mixture of grey and white, a prolonged and erratic tarnish upon the sky. The vermillion roses blend among the dark emerald leaves and in a bold and exuberant proclamation stem from the elaborate Lalique vase. Roberto Cacciapaglia mists the apartment.

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John Hawley Kerry died today. His son, Glenn (executor and long-time business associate), telephoned earlier to give us the news. According to my records John’s date of birth was August 5, 1929.  So he achieved his 93rd year. Reportedly he had cancer.  When I saw him last (shortly before his birthday) he looked well and professionally attired as always.

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Looking down the hallway I can almost see a light,
The signal of a new path across my prow of sight.
The flicker of a presence which yet is undisclosed,
The promise we’ve awaited and for many months proposed.

We’re leaving where we come from to get to where we go
The swaying sea it’s hot-tempered winds may drift us this I know.
I’ve never tried to get there without a clean and measured plan;
The parallels sometimes infect an unpredicted span.

You ask me what it means to reckon with design
Amidst these many stars we’ve so perilously aligned.
The whisper of perfection in the azure sky above
Splashes waves of cool upon the deck and vanishes like a dove.

Your idle hair is dense and glistened by the sea;
Your lips are moist but purged by salt that I can see.
A trail of former magic scurries down the hall
I have no sense or logic where it leads at all.

Should I meet the others when tacking on the lee
I’ll hail and grasp them to come along with me!
We’ll parade upon the fathoms that glide us far above;
I’m set upon my future and the people whom I love.

“For men of that sort are so greedy after excitement that they far more readily forgive a commander who loses a battle than a commander who declines one. The politicians, who delivered their oracles from the thickest cloud of tobacco smoke at Garroway’s, confidently asked, without knowing any thing, either of war in general, or of Irish war in particular, why Schomberg did not fight. They could not venture to say that he did not understand his calling. No doubt he had been an excellent officer: but he was very old. He seemed to bear his years well: but his faculties were not what they had been: his memory was failing; and it was well known that he sometimes forgot in the afternoon what he had done in the morning. It may be doubted whether there ever existed a human being whose mind was quite as firmly toned at eighty as at forty. But that Schomberg’s intellectual powers had been little impaired by years is sufficiently proved by his despatches, which are still extant, and which are models of official writing, terse, perspicuous, full of important facts and weighty reasons, compressed into the smallest possible number of words.”

Excerpt From
The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 3
Thomas Babington Macaulay

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October 17th, 2022
Mississippi Mills, Ontario

My dearest Deborah!

Thank-you for your note.

You’ve touched upon an undeniably heady subject; viz., frugality. While my late father and my sister (my only sibling) were/are provident, my late mother and I were by comparison profligate. The only thing that has lately dampened my prodigal behaviour is an exhaustion of my appetite for things. This is partly due to downsizing, basically getting rid of the tons of stuff one no longer needs or wants to take care of (much less insure). When we sold the house we jokingly insisted, “If it doesn’t go in the dishwasher, it’s out!”  Secondly, when one gets to be my age (73) it is never certain when the bomb will go off. Accordingly the utility of getting new stuff rapidly diminishes.  Finally there are very few (if indeed any) new things I wish to acquire. Least of them is real estate.  We openly penalize real estate as a money pit and a hoodwinking. It is a conviction recently made more compelling by the storms and environmental changes.

Buyer Beware!

Though a confessed voluptuary, material goods have never been an expression of status with me; rather they constitute an expression of art and metaphorical substance. When you mentioned the fluctuation of the market and its affect upon sales, it is a cycle applicable to the practice of law as well.  What I believe is a more cogent tide in any business is the alteration of it because of the internet.  People everywhere seemingly wish to do business from the privacy of their home; that is, without having to do so in person. I now find it exceedingly more convenient to buy what little clothes I need on-line not only because I can stay at home but because I can filter the precise size I wish to buy without either disappointment or accommodation. The narrative to which I have had some exposure is doing business of almost any nature on the internet with an unseen advocate located anywhere throughout the world (often in Asia). It will become a challenge for federal and provincial/state governments to control this burgeoning vernacular.  In the matter of a last Will and Testament for example (or even something more exotic such as an Inter Vivos Trust Agreement or Shareholders’ Agreement) there is nothing illegal about a client choosing a document on-line and employing it (though without the professional liability insurance attached).  Nor I venture to say is it assured that the quality of the documentation will be any worse than what local lawyers might produce. There is further the possibility that through the marvels of technology and its employment for thorough preliminary questions and answers, the resulting product may prove more acute than the office rendition.

Anyway, to get back to my “artistic” theme of materialism, it is a well-know adage in the art world that the last thing people traditionally buy when they have money to spare is art.  The inhibition arises not so much from the economy as the prior exhaustion of perceived necessity (an eventuality we all will face in my opinion). As I mentioned to you previously one of my favoured artistic expressions is jewellery. That’s where the metaphor arises for me (for example the durability and allure of certain metals like gold and platinum). For over 50 years I have had custom made jewellery (in addition to the usual brand name stuff). I have always distinguished jewellery from paintings by observing that the jewellery is portable (which, given my current immobility is both meaningful and irrelevant).

There are decidedly thresholds beyond which spendthrift habits are damaging. If however one constrains certain of those erstwhile bad habits, the accumulation of funds can I believe be as precipitous as the former pattern of loss. Clearly I am no one to talk about money management. The succinct Barnum book is a far more instructive look at the matter.  Paradoxically our familiarity with Longboat Key vitalized this book because it was Barnum who initially proposed the installation of certain vegetation (possibly the Australian Pine) which overtook the island and as recently as several years ago was the perpetual subject of removal.

There!  That bit of expiation is off my mind!  Sorry to be so tedious.

Cheers!

Billy

The autumn crush is upon us! It is a supremely fleeting moment, an evanescent season of life. I feel compelled to acknowledge it in spite of its annual recurrence. Soon a rush of cold north air heralding the looming Arctic snow will brush the fragile leaves and loosen their petiole from the branch to the ground. Everywhere we bicycled this morning the maple trees were resplendent with intoxicating grace.  The woody perennials, one after the other, were unparalleled artistic productions.  In the direct sunshine the tarnished yellow leaves were iridescent. Nature crushes it once again! After our brief but wholesome neighbourhood ride in the cool autumnal ether along the Ottawa Valley Trail through the middle of town past the Old Town Hall we punctuated our tour by driving to the other side of town to inspect the progress of construction of our new digs along the Mississippi River.

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As my late father bluntly disparaged when I told him of my intention as an 18-year old undergraduate at Glendon Hall to study philosophy rather than economics, “It’s your bed, you sleep in it!” Though his intention may not have been to deflate me (and it didn’t), the remark hardly encouraged fruitful discussion except to relate in demoralizing detail his view of the matter. It heralded the chilled nature of subsequent communications between us for the remainder of our mutual existence.

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For someone such as I who is so shamelessly irreligious it is a pitiful confession when I say that lately things have gone so remarkably well that I suspiciously wonder when the tide will turn! This conjecture that misfortune automatically follows beneficence is about as close as my mystical confrères get to the subject of spirituality. I haven’t yet undertaken the nervous habit of crossing my fingers or looking into the sky for descending saucers. I shall accordingly adopt the high road and carry on, not as though this is all perfectly natural and to be expected (which I don’t for minute think it is) but unelaborately as though the accomplishment is both gladdening and memorable (which it unquestionably is).

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