A dreary rainy day in the country

Thankfully in my current state of catholic indolence, even a dismal day is now too relevant and important to bypass. Relevant because I have nothing other I would prefer to do than ponder and write about the subject (call it a hobby). And important because I know that time is running out and that there will be nothing other than these trifling ruminations to enlarge my library of accomplishment upon my death.

Today is especially gloomy because the sky is nothing but a bulbed sheet of grey above the swelling fields and indefinite river below; and, perhaps most meaningfully, the drizzle is being pasted onto the 9′ drawing room windows by a forceful southerly wind which, to speak pragmatically and defensibly, heralds the arrival tomorrow of the much anticipated 22°C (so far the year’s record high). I might usefully add by way of further apology that the wet seasonable weather awards the occasion to sit still and admire the topography from our ridge outlook.

There’s another reason it is important not to bypass a dismal day. It is not just because it is a miserable day, but foremost because it is a miserable day in the country.  I am proud to enumerate myself among the rustics (though, between you and me, I candidly acknowledge that I shall never by any strength or prerequisite qualify as a country boy).  Nonetheless in spite of the axiomatic truth, I fully indeed at every opportunity supplied to proclaim my rusticity however speciously or vicariously.  If there were but one tartan I might take as my own, it would be the denomination as rural. I fully blame this frightful presumption upon the late Raymond Algernon Jamieson, QC whom as rightfully I claim as my mentor. When I met R A Jamieson he was older than I am now; he was 82. It was evident to me upon the instant of our introduction that he was a gentleman, a comic and a prize.

Time and again Jamieson proved himself a gentleman.  Not once do I recall hearing him lapse into the vernacular.  He spoke of matters with a generality matching that of one’s health and the weather.  Yet the placidity spoke breeding, which is why it was critical to read his eye (the only one he had) and to catch the humour. Naturally the humour always percolated to the top.  But it was imperative to pay attention because the humour was subtle.  I won’t try you with an example because many of them are distortions of legal maxims, but he never failed to entertain.  And sometimes solely by his behaviour. One morning upon entering my office, he commented that I had a decanter of wine (it was sherry) on the side table.  I asked if he would care for a glass.  He said yes. I gave it to him, he sat down and drank it. All of it. In one gulp. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Seconds afterwards he turned and enquired, “Don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?” At the time he was a minimum of 90 years old.

Jamieson began his career upon graduating from Osgoode Hall in 1921. He started work immediately in Almonte or soon thereafter. I am told his father (and maybe his grandfather) had been practicing lawyers in Almonte. When Jamieson retired in 1976 he had practiced law for 55 years which until the likes of Stan Morton and John Kerry was a singular recommendation.

One detail (just for the record). I believe Jamieson’s mother was a Carss after whom Carss Street in Almonte is named.  Jamieson’s son (“Johnnie” as I so often heard him called) was by all accounts a roaring success evolving from what was originally called “Bradley Air” then became “FIrst Air” (recognized for its northern traffic). In spite of Johnnie’s celebrity my bow is to R. A. Jamieson as the greatest emblem of the rusticity to which I aspire.  My last exchange with Jamieson was thus:

I visited him at the hospital when he was bedridden and 96 years old. He asked, “What’s the news?” I replied, “John Kerry is building a funeral chapel” to which Jamieson quipped, “I’m looking forward to going there!”

That I think you’ll agree warrants the final characterization as prize. And of course one small further matter. How did he lose the eye? The left I think. It was as a child probably from a fall (I never heard of it as a fight). What however was of greater detail to Jamieson was that it happened on his 13th birthday on the 13th of the month. He acknowledged he would never carry $13 but would instead throw away $1.