Notwithstanding the allowances afforded people of my advanced age and decrepit condition, one cannot but feel inexcusably languid when bemoaning the effort required to manoeuvre oneself from under the duvet onto the edge of the bed after a prolonged though at times disturbed sleep. Indeed I considered myself entitled to a laurel for having attacked the procedure as early as I did at 8:20 am this morning. Once again last night the overhead Hunter fan had made an almost imperceptible clicking sound on repeated revolutions. In my midnight distress and darkness I had attempted to rationalize the minor annoyance by thinking of what Hemingway might have endured in Cuba on occasion;  or what Oscar Wilde must have felt when complaining, “One of us has to go, me or the wallpaper”.

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At noon I gulped down my usual measure of Tylenol Arthritis and Advil pills. Reality was again overtaking me. My last dose was at 1:20 am this morning. Thus fortified it was onto my tricycle careering along the newly cemented sidewalk to avoid clipping between the two parked cars at the front of the townhouse. Onto the 15 MPH Max laneway, around the shaded corner past the guardhouse at the gate, swinging slowly along the curve, headed southwesterly into the sun blazing across Florida Bay in the direction of the distant Everglades.Then off the laneway across the white stone gravel down to the beach at the edge of which I stationed my tricycle, scrupulously though likely superfluously locking it, attaching it to the sign prohibiting golf carts beyond. From the basket at the back of my tricycle I removed my stick and white and blue striped towel nonchalantly slinging the towel over my left shoulder, emblematically proclaiming my insouciance. I then crippled my way to the picnic table nearby on the beach. I gratefully plopped myself onto the end of one of the heavy wooden benches, removed my boat shoes, putting my iPhone into the left shoe discreetly – though again probably unnecessarily – pushing it into the toe, Apple Watch into the right shoe toe followed by the house key with its totem pole key chain I picked up years ago on a whim at some remote gas station en route south, lip balm and my prescription glasses; shirt off, cast between the bench and the table, towel onto the table. For the first time since our arrival on Key Largo last week I was now ready to wade into the sea.

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Every time we travel we remind ourselves before leaving that we must remember to take less clothing with us.  Invariably we pack far too much, including not only smalls and undergarments, but shirts, pants, socks and shoes.  In other words, everything. Once we arrive at our destination the world of fashion takes a sharp turn in another direction; viz., comfort. This translates to the most rudimentary apparel. I prescribe my commentary by restricting it to the male old fogey routine; and, by the way, we have long ago forsaken the necessity to have anything appropriate for the theatre or upscale dining. Our standard of social convention is strictly confined to waterfront dining where one tends to see motorcycles parked outside; and we have dumped any activity which extends beyond eight o’clock in the evening.

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Although we began the day religiously before 7:00 am (we planned to beat the Saturday morning rush at Publix), what followed was by some standards I am sure less than charitable. I ended picking a fight, well not exactly, more just confronting the obvious, with the estate agency, the condominium property management and the bicycle vendor. Like most people (though certainly there are exceptions) the Parties of the Second Part were initially at least not entirely receptive of my intelligence no doubt in part because it was a Saturday morning and either they hoped to have had more relieving tasks at hand or they were already swamped by other cantankerous customers (such as tourists and paying clients so often behave).

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Everything – excluding perhaps the Universe – has its perimeter; namely, an outermost boundary. At my advanced age nearing three-quarters of a century I most certainly have mine. My training in Freemasonry has cultivated the concept of limitation captured in its iconic symbol of the compasses. Notably the “G” in Freemasonry may refer not only to the “Great Architect of the Universe” (or what commonly refers to god) but also to geometry which identifies a different association entirely; namely, that of parameters, a numerical or other measurable factor forming one of a set that defines a system or sets the conditions of its operation. Perimeters and parameters are not the same thing though they are frequently mistakenly used as such.

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Editor’s Note:  Herewith a copy of an email sent to me November 11th, 2022 by Mrs. Fiona St. Clair.  I felt the narrative was too delicious to abandon unrecorded into cyberspace. Apart from one or two boarding school chaps and a more remote childhood soulmate, Fiona is my most long standing friend. We met in undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall in Toronto, Ontario around 1968 when I was 20 years old.  Serendipitously we extended our alliance to post graduate study when I attended Dalhousie Law School in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Subsequently we prolonged our friendship to Ottawa, Ontario when I articled with Macdonald, Affleck, Barristers &c.; and again when I was a Don at Devonshire House, University of Toronto while attending Osgoode Hall in Toronto. Fiona adjudicated debates between competing houses of Devonshire House. She was exceedingly popular with the boys! Since that time we have crossed paths in Ottawa, Almonte and Florida.

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Many young people are better educated than their parents. Education combined with empathy is enforcing a new trend, an awakening of the woke generation.

Woke:

Adjective:

having or marked by an active awareness of systemic injustices and prejudices, especially those involving the treatment of ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities;

disparaging of or relating to a liberal progressive orthodoxy, especially promoting inclusive policies or ideologies that welcome or embrace ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities.

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When I awoke this morning and narrowly spied the margin of yellow sunlight glaring through the bedroom shutters I instinctively felt as though I had overslept as I have lately done following our long road journey of 2,800 Kms from Canada to Key Largo. To my gleeful astonishment it was only 8:30 am. My communion with the real world has traditionally begun with the sound of an alarm which by the way since retirement and downsizing I no longer possess. It pleased me I hadn’t frazzled the critical morning hours of the day. In keeping with my fecundated boarding school habit I made my bed, discharged to the laundry basket whatever clothes were laying about then began a punishing waddle to the bathroom for a shower (this business of arthritis is serious let me tell you).

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If you can’t “find your groove,” you feel off track and out of whack. But when you’re “in the groove,” everything is working smoothly and you’ve found a good routine.

Though I have no reason to be shamefaced for saying so, I am a creature that prefers routine to the unusual. I say this reluctantly because so often the prosaic is contrasted unfavourably with the inspired. And while I acknowledge the benefit of enterprise, I find the drill or regiment of the groove is paramountly persuasive in the conduct of my daily affairs.

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