Preposterous doesn’t begin to describe Four Points by Sheraton hotel on Fairforest Road in Spartanburg, South Carolina.  Our first clue developed when approaching the massive concrete construct which was reportedly built (or refurbished) for opening in July, 2022.  It is located nearby the Sheriff’s offices and a Community Services building, historically an unlikely and moderately off-putting proximity for a putatively high-end business. Overall the situs of the hotel is remote and hidden, a suitable introduction and small compliment to what proved to be a surreal and other-worldly experience.  Its planetary entertainment value did nothing to enhance our stay.

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Putting a label on love has never been uncomplicated.  The romantic image of the star-crossed lovers, Romeo Monteque and Juliet Capulet, is perhaps the most recognizable conundrum.  It competes at the polar opposite with Archie and Edith Bunker whose volatile but unquestionable love for one another makes for an equally hard act to follow (apologies to Shakespeare). Then there are those memorable scenes from Room with a View which bring to the fore the uncertain potency of what is most readily visible. Meanwhile the social challenges of love are pointedly addressed in Meet the Fockers. Like the other expositions it unites the enigma with families on both sides of the amorous entanglement.

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Though when we awoke this morning at 4:30 am we hadn’t anticipated doing so – particularly because today was the longest of our 5-day motor trip to the Florida Keys – we have arranged next week for the removal of the oversized furnishings from our new apartment. Our housekeeper is primed to supervise. The movers are the same ones who carted the stuff from our former apartment to the new one only yesterday. As well we’ve harmonized with the property manager. By further resourcefulness we have asked our erstwhile advisor at Cadieux Interiors for substitute suggestions which we shall pursue upon our return.

Cadieux Interiors

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By inexplicable fortuity we have accomplished today what has been heavy on our minds for six months. We have this morning unloaded our possessions in our new digs along the Mississippi River; and, we have this afternoon launched our winter journey to Key Largo. Inherent in these two branches of accomplishment are other transitions and growth.

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Today is November 1st, the start of our new residential tenancy at Riverfront Estates of which Peter Mansfield is the vaunted architect. The occasion, conjoining as it does the awakening of the newly constructed building to its intended purpose, is not without its moment. The cutting of a red ribbon by a municipal official to memorialize this astronomic local success would not have been incongruous. It is well understood by those following this particular venture that it surpasses expectations. The insinuation of local capital is an additional cause for officiation.

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There are two things frankly I hadn’t anticipated. One, that this day would ever come.  It’s the last day of October, the end of our tenancy at 100 Jamieson Street. And two, that I would feel so moved by the event. Precipitously I have been jerked from anxiousness to bewilderment. With unexpected fervour I am recalling those we have known at 100 Jamieson Street and the inexpressible memories arising.

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Cooking is not one of my preferred activities. Eating, yes; but cooking, not so much. I have wrestled with cooking from time to time; and while my productions are on occasion acceptable, I prefer instead to devote myself to food choices rather than food preparation. Fortunately for me there are endless possibilities within the realm of either raw or prepared foods, everything from cereal to veggies to oysters on the half shell. Because the predominant social avenue for cooked meals is luncheon or dinner (when one can unnoticeably sidle up to the trough with apparent dignity and convention) I confine my personal culinary exhibitions to breakfast.

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Though I am constantly amused by what I perhaps mistakenly call serendipity, the re-evaluation of the philosophic pursuit as investigation of the proximate cause does little if anything to enlarge upon the credibility of the result. Whatever the thesis, the overriding empirical data is conclusive; namely, everything is connected.  It is from this patent connection of incidents and memories that I derive the capital of my literary vocation.  Obviously each of us can say without hesitation that within our sphere of activity and acquaintance, everything is connected. If it were otherwise it would only be through the eyes of another, clearly a logical impossibility.  Yet to accept the more cogent conclusion that by definition we spring from all that we see or know is considered less persuasive or at least less dynamic.

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What a unique maturity it is for me to be fleetingly nestled in the middle of Almonte mere steps whence once worked or resided many of the colourful people whom I first met here over forty-six years ago and many of whom are no longer whinnying among us (John Hawley Kerry, Elizabeth Schoular, Bob Morton, Bill Gomme, Marg Campbell, Percy Baker, Stan Morton, Nick and Jean Magus, Carson Johnson, Raymond A. Jamieson, Louis Peterson, Elizabeth Kelly, Henry Wendzich, Bob France, Des Houston). We are poised to straddle the nearby Mississippi River, capturing meanwhile the height of my professional grounding in this idyllic country town. I should add too that not a little of my erstwhile social engagement in Almonte has been reignited by the serendipitous acquaintance of one Mr. Campbell who yesterday, as I was about to mount the staircase to our Mill St Apartment, introduced himself as the contractor working on outfitting the new restaurant immediately beneath the hotel apartment where I now sit, writing and projecting into the setting sun in the southwestern sky on what I believe will be one of the last magnificent autumn days.

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To the quip about sausage and law (the two things one mustn’t watch being made) I’d like to add a third surveillance prohibition; and that is, moving. Essentially, keep out of the way! The “packers” are at the apartment now. It’s after 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon. They’ve been there since 9:00 o’clock this morning. Luckily for me, as chance would have it, I had an early morning appointment in Ottawa so I was on the road before they arrived. Although I have kept in touch remotely, I frankly have no precise idea what they are doing. There have been reverberations about dishes and the particularity of wrapping each piece before putting it into a box. The paintings are reportedly being housed in independent sleeves. Certain small pieces of furniture have been wrapped “as is” to avoid removing the sparse contents of the drawers. More alluring is the advice that the new console has coincidentally arrived this morning from North Carolina.

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