It is I am certain an inevitable consequence of moving to a new residence that one confronts the convergent ineluctability of having to get rid of stuff. Often the same stuff one previously planned to get rid of. Or it may be that since the last decontamination you have unwittingly succeeded to build a reserve which inexplicably you set aside for some unspecified though propitious moment.
Don’t ask me why, but for some reason I am reminded today of what was informally called “Closing day” when I was practicing law. It was, like this, a Friday (though normally at the end of the month) in the spring or summer when people customarily traded in real estate and it was always frantic. It was a day dedicated to dealing with mortgage companies and banks, skipping to and from the Land Registry office, exchanging telephone calls between solicitors’ offices and with clients, preparing paperwork and delivering keys. In all, a busy day from start to end. And usually regaled, as we were today, with balmy weather beneath blue skies and fluffy white clouds. The sylvan image is in this instance all the more mindful because of our recent entitlement to a spectacular upriver view from our new apartment.
Returning home from a holiday is ideally a matter of mixed attraction. That is, on the one hand, sorrow to abandon what has hopefully been an uplifting vacation; and on the other hand, solace to recapture familiar habits and territory. Assuming that being spoiled with service (meals, drinks, entertainment and tours) characterized much of the holiday, going home provokes more personal involvement in day-to-day carriage. Although the detraction from such fleeting attention is a moderate deprivation, there is nonetheless advantage to regaining one’s own bearings to satisfy daily wants and necessities.
In youth his habits had been temperate; and his temperance had its proper reward, a singularly green and vigorous old age. At fourscore he retained a strong relish for innocent pleasures: he conversed with great courtesy and sprightliness: nothing could be in better taste than his equipages and his table; and every cornet of cavalry envied the grace and dignity with which the veteran appeared in Hyde Park on his charger at the head of his regiment.
Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay Macaulay. “The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 3
Crystallizing the moment has forever been an obsession of mine. The ambition has seemingly taken on a heightened interest and proximity wth age although I suppose it was no less evident when I was practicing law, calculating the explicit terms of a contract, partnership agreement or an inter vivos trust.
Mr. Jared Laginski, supervisory agent for our feudal lord Inverness Homes, was hot off the mark this blustery mid-week morning. He arrived here before 8:30 am and directly addressed the outstanding mechanical and structural pickles affecting our recently built residential unit. I belief he had already been to a hardware store to collect a new fire monitor in anticipation of having to replace the existing unit which appeared to have been the source of last evening’s freakish alarm.
Likely we’re more vivacious about crowning our trifling domestic duties (now that we’re back on home turf) than warranted. It was after all only last Thursday, less than a week ago, that we landed upon our personal territory from the radically ridden United States of America. Yet we have been overcome by what is a moral imperative and an admitted passion for reconciliation. The zestfulness is fed by the incremental energy arising from the consummation of each step along the way. As a matter of record the proceedings have been marked by distinct accomplishments relating in particular to our shift from our former habitat at Jamieson Mills across the river to new digs at Riverfront Estates. Some of the strokes have been less than triumphant but each has progressively advanced our synthesis with the Canadian environment, even to the point today for example of reconnoitring at the Smiths Falls hospital on Cornelia Street West with a scandalously young anaesthetist Dr. Thomas Gutcher regarding my upcoming left knee surgery on May 24th with Dr. Mark Roberts.
Sitting at my desk, looking upriver towards the Village of Appleton, I cannot but marvel at the imagery! We have endured heavy rainfall for the past two days, grey skies and what would normally be perceived overall as a mournful atmosphere. Yet thanks to the proximity of the Mississippi River my perception of the day is placated.
Last evening my 88-year old mother (born 1926 deceased 2018) telephoned me to ask that I review with her on the morrow a collection of historical papers which my late father had left behind, documents, letters and photographs going back to 1929. She hesitatingly admitted that the papers were making her sad. I naturally understood that it was part of my mother’s process of adjustment to my father’s death that she should eventually distance herself from the past in many ways, including the disposal of this material.
It has been some time since I have felt quite as chuffed about our current circumstances as I now do! It is a blustery rainy day in the Town of Mississippi Mills in the Country of Lanark and Province of Ontario but we are insensible of the weather – except to rejoice that we now have a screen door installed on the balcony door through which the otherwise unpleasing north wind may howl thankfully (it’s a summertime thing). The singular chap who by design works every day of the week for six months of the year (before retiring to the South Pacific for the winter) attended upon us as promised to assess the request for a screen door installation. We hadn’t anticipated that he would complete the installation today.