Mid-March is well known for its March Breakers; that is, the crowd from nearby northern communities in Canada and the USA who are intent upon relieving themselves of the yawning isolation of winter in the hopeful warmth and indulgence of southern latitudes. Predominantly the short-term visitors on Buttonwood Bay are children under adolescent age, usually escorted by their parents who are in turn the progeny or in-laws of the owners or winter residents. Inevitably these children and their escorts overtake the pool nearest their residence. Thee are three pools on Buttonwood Bay.

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No matter how far away one travels, the memory of friends is an inescapable and recurring theme. And while I have enjoyed the acquaintance of people whom we’ve met during our sojourns, they are (with few exceptions) not of the same depth and breadth of those whom I consider more penetrating friends. To be fair to our winter acquaintances, in spite of our repetitive encounters by the pool or sea, there are sustained limitations which naturally embargo the relationships.

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As I have lately willingly confessed in another of my “blurbs” (as Mrs C is wont to call them) I have fairly exhausted whatever there is to say about almost any topic arising from my experiences. And while I continue to accept this primarily as true it nonetheless fails to diminish my inexhaustible pleasure in a running commentary upon those same subjects. Which is to say, upon my vapid life. Indeed I unabashedly derive considerable entertainment from the overt acknowledgement of my particular worldliness.  Clearly I am now beyond apology for what is restrained sophistication. Permit me by contrast (and in the spirit of cooperation) to observe that I rather relish the arrant simplicity of it all. The literary environment is notable for its cathartic effect unrelated to its dynamic effect. It is but another form of self expression not terribly remote from the banjo or harmonica though obviously for a limited audience.

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We are just now approaching the noon hour, far past the rosy-fingered dawn, and I am yet at the breakfast table, fiddling on my iPhone and MacBook Pro computer, sipping what has become cold coffee, having just munched on a sliced green apple. There is an uncommonly cool wind blowing from the kitchen window through the patio door overlooking the marine inlet. It is not a beach or pool day.  The northern wind of 35 km/h has reduced the ambient temperature to a chilling 65°F. Pavane Op. 50 is my background stimulation.

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It is undoubtedly not uncommon upon the cusp of one’s exit from this world to find oneself unwittingly contemplating the horror of it all.  What an abrupt conclusion it is to confront the seeming inutility of it all, the sudden vacuum, the absence of convincing purpose to anything that follows and maybe even to what has preceded. It is a very uncomfortable feeling to be staring one another in the face and having no certainty about what one thinks, no certainly about what to do or where to go or why. Gone is the once seemingly natural appetite for performance, those erstwhile magical themes that once governed us sufficiently to promote early morning application and late night carousing, the now unendurable devotion to labour and money and love.

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We haven’t often the occasion on Key Largo to lament the weather. Given the mere particles of rain drops thus far today I am uncertain whether a complaint qualifies; rather the modification may be no more offensive than ambivalence. Nonetheless the variance is sufficient to inspire a remarkable number of reconstructions from the ritual resplendence of dazzling brilliance from within a cloudless azure dome.

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Most certainly I am not the first to be intrigued by heraldry (though annoyingly I haven’t yet figured how to research the provenance of each motif that has drawn me to be indiscriminately and inattentively downloaded). Combined with this transport in armorial bearings is my recent acquaintance with an App called Keepsake.  It is devoted to the retail of frames for one’s photographs, all of which naturally is conducted on-line without the necessity to attend a so-called “bricks and mortar” site. I have applied the initial “Start Framing” link to an assembly of possible frames for various photos I have taken or stolen from somewhere on the internet.  When I find a preferred frame I capture it in a screenshot which I then edit as required (mostly just cropping to get rid of the unintended paraphernalia and advertisement). I am of course left only with the framed image but I usefully employ the same on my web site (which gets at least the same if not more views than our drawing room walls).

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The expression “NOCD” (“Not our class, Darling”) was one to which I was introduced years ago by Frederick aka “Freddie” Innes (or Innis, it doesn’t matter, he continues I am sure to be as preposterous now as he was then). He mentioned the quip while the two of us were sitting, sweating on the upper level of the two-tiered wooden bench in the sauna of the private health club at the Château Laurier Hotel in Ottawa.

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A strong cup of coffee is an ideal start to the day!  Since DD introduced me to the all-in-one Spinn espresso maker I have been absorbed in the variety of coffee makers on the market. This is however but one more intrusion upon my now burgeoning frugality. I hasten to add that my parsimony is far less a product of miserliness than boundless satisfaction.

Spinn Coffee Maker

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As soon as I have published this and after having pressed the little green button to Send to Everyone I shall delete my Substack account.

I began Substack almost exactly one year ago on March 25th as we were then preparing to leave Hilton Head Island after having spent the winter there to return to our beloved home in Mississippi Mills, Canada.

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