It is a palpable deceit to submit to or overtake the authority of another without proof of entitlement to do so. The thesis is fundamental to democracy; namely, the consensual definition to be governed by the rule of law. In Canada, the recognizable legal authority and root of competency derives from the British North America Act, 1867. This is the stuff that kept Sir John A. Macdonald our first prime minister awake at night and likely occasionally intoxicated.
Today was Car Church. I had an appointment (booked weeks ago, delayed by the winter tyre frenzy) with Reid Bros GM Canada dealership in Arnprior. I’m guessing as well it doesn’t help that this is hunting season in Renfrew County. Public school teachers are not the only ones who enjoy statutory holidays!
My late father Cecil George William Chapman DSO was born in Hillsborough, NB in 1918. He attended University of New Brunswick (“Up the Hill”) in Fredericton, NB for undergraduate studies (electrical engineering) from which he graduated at the end of the Great Depression when he was 21 years of age. Having lived through that entire era naturally explains a great deal about my father whatever its reverberations may have been.
The Great Depression (1929–1939) was an economic shock that affected most countries across the world. It was a period of economic depression that became evident after a major fall in stock prices in the United States. The economic contagion began around September 1929 and led to the Wall Street stock market crash of October 24 (Black Thursday). It was the longest, deepest, and most widespread depression of the 20th century.
It is, as you might justifiably concur, my eternal ignominy to arise late in the morning. The tardiness violates every prescription for health and advancement advanced by Benjamin Franklin to modern day Naturalists. I might also include Immanuel Kant and his doctrine of transcendental idealism. In any event it really doesn’t matter the day of the week, whether a business day, Saturday or a religious day. I haven’t any longer a commanding perception of the day of the week particularly now that retail is unabated and I am an infidel. More rudimentary no longer have I the blaring alarms of prep school or the exigencies of a law practice to preserve me from Protestant disgrace. Even the awareness (or at least the well-founded suspicion) that my long-standing friend MIchael Tweedie JD (an avowed and published jurisprude late of the Superior Court of Justice) arises regularly before dawn hasn’t as yet had a persuasive effect upon my progressive indolence.
Already Sirius XM has converted its ’40s popular hits channel to Christmas music, everything from Bing Crosby singing “Winter Wonderland” to Willie Nelson adding his signal voice to whatever.
“Winter Wonderland” is a song written in 1934 by Felix Bernard and lyricist Richard Bernhard Smith. Due to its seasonal theme, it is often regarded as a Christmas song in the Northern Hemisphere. Since its original recording by Richard Himber, it has been covered by over 200 different artists. The song’s lyrics were about a couple’s romance during the winter season. A later version of “Winter Wonderland” (which was printed in 1947) included a “new children’s lyric” that transformed it “from a romantic winter interlude to a seasonal song about playing in the snow.” The snowman mentioned in the song’s bridge was changed from a minister to a circus clown, and the promises the couple made in the final verse were replaced with lyrics about frolicking.
Old age, so I have unwittingly and a shade reluctantly lately smoked out, is unqualified and uncompromising. I had previously attempted to bend the branch. But I was up against a powerful grip. The inflexibility of old age isn’t poetic; it isn’t a dreamy world in the verdant pasture of life. Its defeat of willingness is harsh and relentless. Its unconditional nature is utter and outright. The most workable resort, I have concluded, is the one guided by accommodation. This I think you’ll agree is not a preferred recipe; it is distasteful medicine especially for those of us who are keen upon independence and latitude. The prescription ensures instead unparalleled limitation. We cannot do all the things we used to do. And more exacting is the growing narrowness of our performance in spite of our willingness to cooperate. We are repeatedly alerted to the impending necessity to make compensatory decisions about where we’ll go and what we’ll do when we get there.
It is infrequently that we have such an animated confab as we did late this afternoon with old friends at a local beanery. Our dining partners, a married couple each younger than us by about two decades, live nearby but hail from Northern Ontario where the Trans-Canada Highway precipitously turns west towards the distant prairies. They have from the moment we met – which at table today we speculated to be about 2012 – characterized what I have since come to observe from acquaintance with others from Northern Ontario the outstanding features of intelligence, devotion, assiduity, skill and spirit. And they as we adore their pets (a cat and 2 dogs). Our commonality is otherwise impossible to distinguish except as fortuitous for we met entirely by accident on the beach of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina when I asked to pat their French bulldog Max, little then knowing they too were Canadians who likewise resided in the Ottawa Valley. We’ve been munching and conversing together ever since.
“He learned by rote those commonplaces which all sects repeat so fluently when they are enduring oppression, and forget so easily when they are able to retaliate it.”
Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay
“The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 1.”
It is at times thorny to know where to go, whether straight ahead, up or down, left or right, in or out or around a winding curve beyond which there is no end in sight. Do we engage at our risk and peril? Or were it better to remain rooted to the spot. But at what place? The one whence we came or the one whither we go? There’s no map to tell us the direction or distance of our travel or when to stop or start. Like the precipitous and shifting skies above us, there are no time limits or boundaries or mandates. Certainly there are cautionary urges and impulses; signals on the horizon; and guide books, everything from apocalyptic and biblical to modern and green, spiritual and psychological plus the gauzy dreams in our head.
“Sir George Jeffreys, Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench, was a man of quick and vigorous parts, but constitutionally prone to insolence and to the angry passions. When just emerging from boyhood he had risen into practice at the Old Bailey bar, a bar where advocates have always used a license of tongue unknown in Westminster Hall. Here, during many years his chief business was to examine and cross-examine the most hardened miscreants of a great capital. Daily conflicts with prostitutes and thieves called out and exercised his powers so effectually that he became the most consummate bully ever known in his profession. Tenderness for others and respect for himself were feelings alike unknown to him. He acquired a boundless command of the rhetoric in which the vulgar express hatred and contempt. The profusion of maledictions and vituperative epithets which composed his vocabulary could hardly have been rivalled in the fishmarket or the beargarden. His countenance and his voice must always have been unamiable. But these natural advantages,—for such he seems to have thought them,—he had improved to such a degree that there were few who, in his paroxysms of rage, could see or hear him without emotion. Impudence and ferocity sate upon his brow. The glare of his eyes had a fascination for the unhappy victim on whom they were fixed. Yet his brow and his eye were less terrible than the savage lines of his mouth. His yell of fury, as was said by one who had often heard it, sounded like the thunder of the judgment day. These qualifications he carried, while still a young man, from the bar to the bench. ”
Excerpt From
The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 1
Thomas Babington Macaulay