It was always impossible for me to overlook the imperative of accuracy and assiduity in the practice of law. It made for an acutely refined focus for fifty years of my life. It is naturally axiomatic that one should practice law with precision. Foremost is the necessity to guide one’s client through the shallows without untoward event or exposure. This however was only the backdrop to my personal and existential obsession with particularity.
There are some amusing derivations of words and expressions.
Consider for example the expression “the dog days of summer”.
The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer. They were historically the period following the heliacal rising of the star system Sirius (known colloquially as the “Dog Star”), which Hellenistic astrology connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.
The English name is a calque of the Latin dies caniculares (lit. “the puppy days”), itself a calque of the ancient Greek κυνάδες ἡμέραι kynádes hēmérai. The Greeks knew the star α Canis Majoris by several names, including Sirius “Scorcher” (Σείριος, Seírios), Sothis (Σῶθις, Sôthis, a transcription of Egyptian Spdt), and the Dog Star (Κῠ́ων, Kúōn).
Yesterday Ed Mooney (or “Cigar Guy” as I affectionately call him) from Oak Island (Long Island), New York called to invite me to attend a dinner party devoted to the celebration of today’s Super Bowl. Apart from the coincidence that “Moon” (as he is popularly known to his friends) currently resides on the “island” of Buttonwood Bay Club, his very thoughtful invitation reminded me of the further serendipitous acquaintance I have with the American sport world.
Allow me to explain. This requires more than a bit of elaboration so please forgive the taxing details.
Getting there, it is said, is half the fun. I quite agree. But likewise being there is the other half of it. Being there is more than an interlude. It is not the culminating point of an argument from which all else recoils, fallen from mark. Neither is it a mere step upon the mountainous ascent to the pinnacle. Apparently we’re driven by an inner desire approaching that of hunger to land ourselves on some distant mound or summit where we imagine our native being will be transformed to a caricature of ourselves, free from inflammation and stiffness of joints, sylphlike and youthful, expunged of our nascent obsessions and anxieties. And then we get there and the process recommences. The apogee looms ever higher. Whence cometh the height of perfection!
Since I moved from the city (Ottawa) to the country (Almonte) in June of 1976 and set up my solo law practice at 74 Mill Street in the former office of R. A. Jamieson QC I have never looked back. Not for a moment. Mine was the reverse of the country boy adage in that I had been raised in metropolises such as London, Washington DC, Toronto, Paris and Stockholm. Yet I couldn’t wait to extricate myself from the urban scene. I instantly took to the buoyancy and bravado of country living. I was enraptured by its professional associations with doctors, lawyers and judges; the humour and flavour of the trades and local waitresses; the uniformity of social congregation; the excellence of local retailers and artists; the private pleasures of the golf club, curling club, tennis courts, concert and theatrical performances in the Old Town Hall and the bucolic country road cycles and meanders.
Friday, February 10th, 2023
Key Largo, Florida
Yesterday my longstanding friend Fiona St. Clair emailed me a quip from her residence in Canada. When I replied with a succinct “Groan!” she wrote back immediately to ask what instead I offered as a contribution to daily lightheartedness and humour. I sent her Noel Coward’s ancient rendition of “I went to a marvellous party!” This in turn prompted the following rebuttal which I believe is too delicious to abandon as mere anecdote.
The morning sunlight shone its egg yolk colour through the tissue blind depended on the rain smeared windows. It was just after eight o’clock. A clean-living time to start the day. A gratifying fortuity for my yet unresolved agenda. But first an added descent upon the pillows. The sleep mask arrayed upon my brow. My eyes shut, a darkroom image weeping mercury light. The seduction to sleep, to drift for a moment longer, beyond purpose and obligation. Time to gather one’s thoughts, to recall what it was that perturbed me during the night. Or was it yesterday that I contemplated the correct assembly of life’s puzzles? For an instant I imagined it could be solved by sitting on the edge and watching, steering myself into my own mind.
Is it spring on Key Largo? Have the winter blusters expired? Have the blossoms erupted? I am uncommonly aware this morning of the chirping birds. One particularly sonorous rendition is a drawn out upper then lower note. Another is a rapid upper then lower note. A third is the popular tweet (3 identical sounds in succession). A fourth is a whistle from lower to upper note. They are all high pitched, the latter whistle being the highest and most shrill.
Turns out – much to my shameful incredulity (as I lay by the pool with my eyes closed beneath the radiant yellow sunshine) – that the loud woman I overheard nearby was Canadian. From Ontario. Near Toronto. Her strident voice was otherwise distinguished by two features; one, the frequent repetition of “Oh, wow!” and words such as “awesome!” and “cool”; two, a thankful lack of fillers such as “like” and “ah”. In fact her animated and inspiriting discourse was objectively well-presented, unanticipatedly and spontaneously interjected with cryptic insights into morality, finance and intelligence. Suddenly for example she asserted the importance of “confirmation of others” and the priority of family over money. She knowingly remarked that children often fail to understand the language of adults. There were two additional telling characteristics; one, her voice sounded like that of a man; and, two, her account was distinctly plain and direct (that is, she stated facts without pretence or embellishment, at times self-effacing and rendering a more candidate iteration of facts than is normally predicted in communications with strangers around a pool). In the result hers was a refreshing narrative in spite of being inescapably audible and moderately disruptive.
It doesn’t require far-reaching scouring to unfold in the lives of others a drama resembling one’s own. The details can be punishingly familiar. Though there are limitless ways to live one’s life, the rude conclusion is that most of us assign ourselves to very similar misadventure and overall behaviour particularly in the realm of the visceral (things like food, booze and lasciviousness including that much undefined arena of pornography). Based on the 5 senses (sight, sound, smell, taste and touch), the options are naturally confined. The cerebral scope of drama is by comparison vast; but its products (things like art, literature and music) are normally only background to the more scintillating theatre of existence. One need but recall the opera Le nozze di Figaro as an example.