Much has been written about the historic magnetism of jewellery. The sometimes apocryphal accounts cover the period of Cleopatra’s rule and the Egyptian pharaohs to the current day of rappers and the nouveaux riches. None of it in my opinion more succinctly and cleverly captures the competing elements of the draw than the casual observation of Debbie Berling in a recent email to me. She wrote,  “The allure of Beauty in its many guises”. And she ought to know.  She is the former owner of a family business of luxury jewellery.

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Given the indisputable cheerfulness of my being late this afternoon following my unaccustomed armchair snooze, it is arguable I had a disquieting sleep last night. I prefer to characterize the overnight drama as an absorption in matters outstanding; that is, stewing over those curious thoughts which arise only in the middle of the night and which are as frequently mere irresolute repetitions. The upshot is that after my somniferous relapse and resulting recovery I am now in that enviable state of euphoria which I have no doubt is vitalized by the well-known and common analgesic called sleep.

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The odd thing about Louis Audette is that, as much time as we spent together over the twenty years or so I knew him (from about 1973 until his death around 1995 at the age of 87), I reckon that neither of us would, if pressed, have much to say about one another. It is rather like talking about one’s relatives at length – not normal or usual in the ordinary course. Certainly, after a couple of drinks, given the right stimuli from the current conversation, memories of him would surface, usually in a humourous vein, but I cannot honestly say that we had a “close” relationship. We just got along and more or less tolerated one another’s inadequacies which seemed to have been painfully obvious to each of us respectively, for at least as long as it took to have numerous drinks and dinner (and then more numerous drinks):

Stayed in Ottawa last night, following another marathon of alcoholic abuse at Uncle Louis’ – not to mention the venison which his steward (Jeffrey) managed successfully to convert into something resembling a Michelin product.

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Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow
Try to remember the kind of September
When love was an ember about to billow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow, follow

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Aside from the incomprehensible abbreviations surrounding hybrid automobiles, the more compelling resistance is the uncertainty about where to charge them. Whether indeed one needs to charge them at all. Or may we instead rely upon a regenerative capacity when driving in dinosaur mode? And what’s with the plugs and hook-ups for 110v or 220v? And do we need special electrical installations? And what about those government incentives?  Do we need to apply? Or are they deducted at source?

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If one were to penetrate (as I did earlier today) the country inroads of Lanark County and Renfrew County, it would be impossible not to marvel at the scenery of Eastern Ontario. The autumnal feast of hues is at its apogee. The black shiny ribbon of newly paved highway wound me tranquilly through the serene villages and hamlets that dotted my purposeless circumnavigation.  Admittedly it invigorates the environment and oneself to drive amid the uncommonly balmy fall air with the car windows open and the landau roof retracted beneath an azure dome and the yellow sunshine. Curiously there was little traffic either following or approaching me. Such unparalleled serendipity! On one occasion I caught myself uttering a reflective praise to the supernatural!

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There are certain things which are just too late in life to reckon. Call it a missed opportunity. Christian names for example. If I had been given the chance to choose a name for another human being I am quite certain it would not have been a task lightly undertaken. My instinctive postulation is that the name would have to be one which captured a specific flavour not just some annoying spelling. For me a name not only symbolizes something but also forecasts a disposition, preferably along the lines of refinement and certainly nothing associated with country music or bohunks.

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We’ve had one of those exceptional days today when things go precisely as you hoped they would.  And now it’s the cocktail hour, time for an espresso and some of that new CBD stuff we bought at the local Hooch Store. I’ve also got Beegie Adair playing the old favourites. She’s great! It feels like a Friday or Saturday evening. You know, that happy-go-lucky feeling when everything is boomps-a-daisy!

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There he was. Alone on a mountain like a god with his head lost in the sweeping clouds. But the sun was bright and the sky clear. Who could ever know?

Moving and breathing as one; a complete and perfect person, unsmoked, fresh and quivering with nerves not nervousness. What a difference.  Between death and life! It’s vigour, I tell you, He’s alivel He’s alivel

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At the time – that is, when I was fourteen years of age – football was considered leagues apart from those who played cricket instead.  Given the medical diagnosis decades later that minor head concussions can be a perilous thing, I put football at the top of my list of things I wish I’d never done. I’d like to say football had something to do with my current spinal discomfort but that would be pushing it.  You see, I played defensive end which meant I was as far removed as possible from the scrimmage and the centre of battering generally. Those deep field runs in pursuit of an atmospheric lob were far less punishing than banging headfirst into one another.

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