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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Fiona
Toronto, Ontario
October 3, 2022

The other day I, too, didn’t get out of bed.  This was not an existential moment in keeping with one of my favourite Russian books called Oblomov, about a nobleman who decided to spend the rest of his life in bed.  In fact, there was absolutely no particular reason, neither medical nor emotional; rather, I just felt an overwhelming desire to indulge in a rare sense of lassitude. My life has been blessed in that I have seldom faced the morning with dread (medical issues notwithstanding) as my work and family life have brought me nothing but joy and satisfaction, so I was, fortunately, never driven to call upon that deeply instilled Protestant work ethic to launch me into the day.

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In retrospect I don’t imagine there was ever a time when getting out of bed was easy. The imperative may occasionally have had a visceral draw  – say, if there were a cheerful component to the day’s agenda (like going for lunch or buying a new car).  Otherwise getting out of bed is normally about as enticing as having to brush one’s teeth after dinner; that is, a duty to be fulfilled.

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It is befitting that our communion at table today was at the Pelican Seafood Market & Grill on Bank Street in Ottawa.  Over ten years ago we and our hosts Alana and Jay (and their erstwhile French bulldog Max) first met on the North Atlantic shores of Hilton Head Island, SC. At the time of our fortuitous introduction we hadn’t any idea that we all hailed from Canada, much less Ontario and even less from Ottawa. You see, the evocation as I rode upon my bicycle and they ambled upon the beach near Coligny Beach Park was their French bulldog Max who instantly put me in mind of our former French bulldog Munro. I stopped to ask if I might pat their little dog.

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Yesterday we brunched at the golf club with my niece Jennifer and her close friend and colleague Charlotte.

I had always recognized my niece’s affection for animals (including humans) in distress. She and her friend live on a farm in the country where they are among other things combining this natural affection with equine therapy.  My niece has ridden her own horse since she was a child.

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it’s not just about getting there; it’s about getting it right. That means the objective is on one level different for each one of us; but it also means we have to be satisfied with what we’ve achieved and how we did it. What makes this task easy is that there is no one to tell you what to do or how to it.

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Everyone whom I have encountered today, whether while bicycling, while awaiting the elevator or by email, has unanimously proclaimed the rapturous magnificence of this autumn day! My singular communication with a new acquaintance has bountifully introduced me to an equally unique poet named Gerald Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889). He is reminiscent of John Keats (1795 – 1821) even William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616).

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
Shakespeare, Macbeth.

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