I first heard of the Masonic Lodge from a member of the Ottawa police force in 1973 while I was articling on Sparks Street, Ottawa at Messrs. Macdonald, Afffleck Barristers &c. upon my recent graduation from Dalhousie law school. He and I had chatted somewhat sparsely in the steam room of the health club of the Château Laurier Hotel about his upcoming initiation to membership.  Apart from the overall obscurity of the subject he knew little more than I about the matter. It was at the time a fraternity shrouded in secrecy.

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Sherlock Holmes is a fictional detective created by British author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Referring to himself as a “consulting detective” in the stories, Holmes is known for his proficiency with observation, deduction, forensic science and logical reasoning that borders on the fantastic which he employs when investigating cases for a wide variety of clients including Scotland Yard.

Although I cannot recall precisely when or where I read it – though most certainly it was before I imagined owning a computer much less relying upon the internet for intelligence –  I have this image of Sherlock Holmes as an addict of nefarious combustibles specifically laudanum of which I believe opium is the active ingredient. This in turn left me with a very pleasing though no doubt erroneous visual impression of vermillion flowers tossing about in a breeze upon a lush hillside perhaps somewhere far, far away.

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To our pleasing astonishment my erstwhile physician turned up today at the golf club for breakfast with his son.  Only a week ago the two of them (and their respective ladies) had returned from a jaunt to northern Italy. The four of us assembled outdoors under an enormous umbrella on the flagstone patio overlooking the first tee and awaited arrival of our coffee. We quickly began a review of the highlights of their recent voyage which included my erstwhile physician’s daughter, her husband and their newborn daughter from Australia. In fairness my erstwhile physician and his family are all so well traveled that they speak of the Greek isles or the Swiss summits with but casual reflection. Nonetheless we together celebrated the latest of northern Italy’s topographical and nutritious splendours including truffles and a variety of tartare.

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Having had the questionable notoriety of maintaining a line of credit contemporaneously with every chartered bank in Canada, I am openly convinced of the utility and therefore the propriety of money lending. Life to me is all about capital and the use and expression of it.  It is a conviction applied equally to matters temporal and otherwise. It’s all about using what is at hand. And enjoying it!

Lest there are those of you who are inclined to bemoan the fate of the borrower, be assured that I for one would never qualify any of the three imperatives; viz., principal, rate or time. To me they are merely features of the product, the acquisition of which is akin to buying a car or house.  Indeed that is precisely what I did with the money among other things! If there is anyone for whom I cradle the slightest regret it is for the money lender himself. What an abuse having repeatedly to count and account such a taxingly minute digestion called money! It is most certainly an appetite of the select few, people devoted constantly to the elongation of their primary source of nutrition. And what guarantee have they!  King Louis VIII of France died of dysentery on 8 November 1226 in the Château de Montpensier, Auvergne. It is but a doleful reminder than none of us is spared; or, speaking more proximately and pragmatically, “Don’t save it for the funeral!” As such the business matter is but a game of roulette for the initiated.

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When the grandfather clock clanged six times this evening, I finally aroused myself from bed. Except for an austere interruption midday to drive to the pharmacy to replenish my supply of drugs for neuropathy, I had been in and out of bed repeatedly since about ten o’clock last evening. It is only now however after having taken two pills that I feel at all normal.  The twitching and convulsions of my lower limbs appear to have been arrested measurably. Since I haven’t a chill or sore throat or upset stomach, I am attributing the malaise (never was there a more appropriate word) to the former dearth of Lyrica. I ran out of pills about two days ago when I discovered to my alarm that my supply was at an end. The requisition was delayed pending approval by my family physician.

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Although I don’t recall ever being told to “Go to your room!” the mandate most certainly captures a uniqueness which has for me more than an uncertain resonance. As I now like to quip, I grew up as a cave dweller.  In boarding school the singular privacy was one’s rooms.  I employ “rooms” in the plural because until I was appointed a Prefect in upper school I shared a room with another chap. In either instance one’s room or rooms was/were considered a haven of retreat from what was otherwise universal disclosure beginning with the Great Hall where we all dined, then chapel, classes, the locker room, the playing field, the tuck shop and the common room, not to mention the showers and the “cans”.  Preserving the intimacy of one’s private devotions was a matter seldom accomplished other than by arising before the morning bell.

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Because it isn’t every day that one can so eagerly proclaim life’s serendipity I rather thought it felicitous to do so on this occasion. I have to tell you, it was with more than a little smugness this morning that we withdrew from the Service Ontario counter, by-passing with appropriate complacency those who had meanwhile gathered in line behind us, having accomplished an unwittingly speedy amendment of the documentation relating to our driver’s licence and health card. By unaccustomed luck when we arrived there mid-morning only one person was ahead of us and he was speedily addressed, leaving it to us and to us alone to complete our appointed tasks.  As I say however by the time my photograph had been taken and the documentation obsequiously signed, a fairly lengthy group had gathered behind us awaiting their turn. Their impatient demeanour I might add was positively mournful in comparison to our own skip-and-a-jump as we bounded au dehors!

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Being a good listener has never been something of which I am often accused.  Instead – so it seems – I prefer to identify the slightest acquaintance of what others say or are attempting to say with what has happened to me. The most casual similarity is apparently sufficient for me to redirect another’s monologue to my own account.  Overall it is a bad habit albeit one which I pretend to diminish as an attempt at conversation. But I confess it most certainly fails the test of accommodation. Listening is hard when it is sprinkled like particles of bread upon the waters of participation.

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I might usefully amend the title of this entry to read instead, “What little I know of the grand homes of Almonte” because in the past 46 years of my currency in Almonte I have never taken photographs of the interior of any of the grand homes I have visited; and, my sparse knowledge of the history of the mansions is limited to what is either popular information or my personal evanescence.  Accordingly I apologize at the outset for what I am certain will be shallow observation.

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We were all taught not to do certain things. Like pick your nose or cough without covering your mouth. The instruction was part of what is called propriety, the state or quality of conforming to conventionally accepted standards of behaviour or morals. You may be amused to discover that the etymology of the word propriety is nothing directly associated with what we sometimes call “proper” but rather the word for property.

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