While the holiday may originally have been intended to celebrate singular presidents of American history (namely, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln) and commensurately to educate the nescient public, I fear the purpose and focus of the occasion has long since degraded to that of a mere holiday and commercial enterprise. In fairness for those who reside in the northern limits of the United States of America toward the Canadian border at the 49th parallel, the holiday is no doubt a welcome respite from the cold and snow which by contrast in Key Largo for example is entirely wanting to an Olympic degree.

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The proposition, “Will you be my Valentine?” inspires memories of anonymous school aged missives sent from secret admirers to those secretly admired. It was a an acceptable occasion to express burgeoning youthful passions many of which were destined to be unrequited. Nonetheless the moment conveniently fulfilled and exhausted the erstwhile yearning.

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By the most undeniably and deliciously serendipitous encounter late this afternoon while wheeling my tricycle to the upper end of Buttonwood Bay I met Dan the Man and his wife Vicki Porter.  Dan told me he formerly performed with Tommy Hunter OC, a Canadian country singer legend popularly known as “Canada’s Country Gentleman”. Not long after our confab when back home I was scanning the internet, then listening to “Pt 109” by Dan Furmanik from the compilation “Titanic: Epic Songs of the Sea”, an interruption from my scheduled interlude of Bailèro by Victoria de los Ángeles, Orchestre des concerts Lamoureus & Jean-Pierre Jacquillat.

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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.

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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).

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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