After dinner this evening, still recovering from Fairbairn’s maple syrup enhancing the fruit for dessert, and while sitting languidly on the balcony overlooking the glassy river and the young corn shoots in the field, I saw a woman in the distance. She was running along the gravel road. Her determined effort was, I thought, exemplary.  But as positive and engaging as was her enterprise, it little compared with the excitement and elevation I derived from having just hours before consumed the content of a thoroughly unanticipated email from an old boarding school acquaintance.   I hadn’t until then read a more exacting detail of prep school upbringing than that of Holden Caulfield.

Holden Caulfield (identified as “Holden Morrisey Caulfield” in the story “Slight Rebellion Off Madison”, and “Holden V. Caulfield” in The Catcher in the Rye) is a fictional character in the works of author J. D. Salinger. He is most famous for his appearance as the antihero protagonist and narrator of the 1951 novel The Catcher in the Rye. Since the book’s publication, Holden has become an icon for teenage rebellion and angst, and is considered among the most important characters of 20th-century American literature. The name Holden Caulfield was initially used in an unpublished short story written in 1941 and first appeared in print in 1945.

The email was from Bobbie Ball, the chap who distinguished himself in our final year – and while writing our graduate exams – as the “Mad Bomber” . Each night – probably after midnight – he would sneak into the room of one or other of the Upper Six class and smack them in their sleep with a water bomb (I’m guessing an otherwise innocuous balloon filled with water). Thankfully he never succeeded to trash me – though I believe he may have tried but was somehow thwarted in his attempt.

It is only recently – and by casual circumstances – that I have reconnected with Bobbie. His email – for which I have his approval to repeat – is in my opinion a model of sublimity. His unassuming countenance is unique. And I have subsequently learned why; viz., if you’ve got it, you don’t talk about it. And he’s got it! In spades!

Like so many insightful pieces, the probity lies between the lines, the sphere of the unspoken but intimated. Considering the acuity of what he has said, I am not convinced even Bobby fully grasps its depth. The latent turmoil of the precocious mind is not to be understated.

June 11, 2025
Somewhere in northeastern or central Ontario.

Hi Billy.. so I have been reading your very interesting and evocative Substack daily for about a month now.  It is a wonderful thing to hear your voice describing your world in a passion that is as unfamiliar to me but as colorful and striking as your stylized photos.

Since 1969, a lifetime ago literally, you had disappeared from my radar as I had from yours. I am enjoying having the intervening years unveiled by your writings. I knew you lived somewhere near Ottawa but that was it. So the Bill Chapman I knew for less than a decade has come to life for me. It seems like a good opportunity to flesh out my journey from then til now.

Part one… I was born in Durham Ontario a town of population 2,500. My dad was a small town pharmacist and the mayor. My mother was a victim of bad luck.  She developed rheumatoid arthritis early in her thirties and suffered the gossip of a small town when the mayor ran off to Toronto with a twenty year old who worked in his store. She died in the spring of 1960 with my sister and I alone in the house.
Five months later my father remarried and I was  somehow off to St. Andrew’s.

I spent the first months at the school so lonely I cried my eyes out on the front steps of MacDonald House daily. The teachers moved me to the back of the class because I posed no threat to their rule.  My new step mother convinced me to join the treble choir so yes I was lucky the bullies didn’t target me.

But… when I went home to Don Mills for Thanksgiving my new step mother was gone and my dad said I could leave SAC at Christmas if I was still sad. Well that never happened.  By Christmas I had the place figured out. I loved it. As for the bullies they steered clear after watching the wild man on the sports fields. By the time you arrived in grade ten I was comfortable.

In the summers I worked as a caddy and club cleaner at the Donalda Club. Morning til night they kept me busy seven days a week. In the summers I worked in a veneer factory and in grade twelve summer cleared a 12 acre swamp for a sewer company in Markdale.

St Andrew’s raised me.  There was no love but it became clear to me life is a game and if you can figure out the rules you can survive. In later years I described it as a round table top.  You can play safe and stay in the middle or you can venture out to the perimeter edges.  Lean over, test your balance put one foot in the dark side but don’t be stupid and fall off the edge.  It is almost impossible to get back up.

I started as a new boy at SAC but through tenacity and guile wound up as a prefect.  The place worked for me.  It doesn’t for everyone.  My son included.

Then it was off to York.  I lived at Glendon first year and commuted to the main campus. There were a few of us (at Glendon Hall).  You, Reed Osborn, Dave Love, Murray Shields (deceased last December), plus Gord Lownds, Martha Davis, Bill Rutledge , Jamie Sifton and others (Bill Mulock, Michael Perley).

Second year I went to the main campus and took a break from the St Andrews mode. A radio station was starting and Jaimie Crookston recommended I join. So the rock and roll king came to life.  Along with Chuck Azzarello, later with CHUM fm and then a long career building CFRA radio in Ottawa as program director, we spun the discs.

My first ever girlfriend dropped me and I graduated with a degree in political science.

While working as a hustler on the midway at the CNE that year Jamie Sifton of the broadcasting family recruited me to join him at CFJR radio in Brockville .  Six to midnight and weekends.  I was on the Air at the sound of the seaway. I was fired after ten months for being too out spoken.

To be continued…🙉🙈🙊

Photo courtesy of: just stephen

For most of us the pathway is forward.  This is so whether what we achieve by that prospect is actually an advance or an improvement. We instinctively prefer going ahead, looking straight in front of ourselves as opposed to sideways. And yet we may inadvertently discover by a sideways glance that we have overlooked something of value.

There is nothing predictably surreptitious about a sideways glance; it is however indirect and unconventional, maybe even unorthodox. The sideways glance is assured however to reveal what we may have been missing. Nor is the sidelong regard limited only to the physical sphere of our lives – though that too can be unveiling. Once again the commonality is the unanticipated fizz of perspective.

In my limited experience with this particular viewpoint I have discovered that it enhances the relative importance of things, affording an overall sense of proportion. The journey forward can be mistakenly marked by peril or unintended destiny. The venture may as well oblige far greater energy and other resourcefulness than that which a sideways glance might conveniently occasion. The sideways glance is by definition the road less travelled; it is frequently a hitherto unopened source of interest and reward.

With this enthralling element in mind this sunny morning, I undertook an adventure on my tricycle to the other side of town – that is, over the Maclan Bridge in the centre of town by the Old Town Hall to Jamieson Street where we used to live and where now resides my friend and erstwhile legal assistant.  It is her 80th birthday today, a celebration I feel confidant neither of us predicted when we began working together on March 1, 1978, the day we opened the law practice together. She sat in the place of the esteemed Evelyn Barker, LA and I in the place of Raymond Jamieson, QC (who was about 84 years old at the time, having retired from 54 years of law practice). The old office at 74 Mill Street on the second floor was about as antique as they get! Little did we imagine our perspectives would change so extravagantly over the ensuing half century.

Propelled by the novelty of my excursion to the other side of town, I was kept alive by the sight of so many long-forgotten landmarks and associated personal recollections as I streamed by one hint after another, past the Elizabeth Kelly Library, onto Church Street and Tait McKenzie Street, then past Thoburn Street and Vaughan Street before finally connecting with Jamieson Street – all critical names in the history of the Town of Almonte. Benji excitedly barked and greeted me as I knocked upon the door but no one was home.  So, in keeping with the purpose of my outing, I struggled to secure the envelope containing my birthday wish in the brass door handle. Then I reversed the position of my tricycle and pushed off – back towards the other side of town, over the bridge and around the corner at the Doctor’s House made locally famous by Dr. William Mostyn, MD who built the place around 1863 and where thereafter lived an uninterrupted succession of qualified medical practitioners.

As I was about to navigate the turn onto Brougham Street in front of St. Paul’s Anglican Church, a sideways glance informed me of a gentleman with a set of keys in the act of opening the door of the former Land Registry Office where I began my legal career in the Town of Almonte a half-century ago. The gentleman had his back to me.  I called out, “Sir, may I ask a question?”  He turned and revealed himself.  He was by coincidence a chap for whom I had worked many years before. After sharing the usual congenialities, he advised that he was the new owner of this ancient building, the construction of which I believe pre-dates the Old Town Hall.  He and I both knew as well that the architect of these initial Land Registry Offices (I believe he said there are about 24 of them throughout the province) had constructed them upon an identical model.

What however he confirmed distinguished this particular Land Registry Office is that it is the only one in the province not located next to a court house. This seemingly inconsequential fact is however pregnant with meaning.  In the County of Lanark the county seat is the Town of Perth where the ancient stone court house is located and adjoining which is a Land Registry Office virtually identical to that in the Town of Almonte . The fact that the Town of Almonte had its own Land Registry Office independent of that in the county seat speaks to the thriving importance of the town at the time of confederation.  The vibrancy at that time was of course the wool growers’ trade – nurtured by the position of the Town of Almonte along the roaring waterfalls of the Mississippi River and the railway line which Bennett Rosamond had exacted from the Montreal board of directors.

Ken Friesen Audio Services

Reportedly the construction of this monumental building has sustained itself to perfection over the many years. I am excited to witness the evolving work to restore the building to utility (both it and the new Land Registry Office are now closed – a response to technology and on-line electronic registration). It forms a part of what is already an historic society in the immediate neighbourhood, including George Slade’s old house at one end of Clyde Street (initially converted by Ian Lecheminant from a wood burning home to a magnificent antique once owned by my erstwhile physician), along with the Doctor’s House, Judge Hugessen’s former mansion (now The Monte), the Anglican Church and Grant Campbell, QC’s former mansion along the Mississippi River.

It is not uncommon for me to encounter a fellow septuagenarian or octogenarian who proudly proclaims the occupation of his or her grandchildren.  This morning’s brief and unexpected meeting while waiting at the grocery store was however of a singular nature. The proud grandfather remarked that one of his grandsons worked at the grocery store and the other studied civil engineering at Carleton University – then adding (significantly I thought) that everyone needs to find their niche in life.  Amazed by this unique and profound reflection, I instantly agreed. We’re not all made out for the same occupation or pursuit.

The instant agreement between me and the grandfather on this preeminent summary was not overlooked. We nodded our further approval. I asked only, “What does he look like – does he have black hair?”  Previously I had seen a young fellow moving carts about. The grandfather confirmed the boy had black hair and that he was 22 or 24 years old; and that he handles cart removal and other activities in the store.

By utter coincidence as I sat in my car in the handicap parking space awaiting my partner in the grocery store, another gentleman (whom I have known for 40 years or more) approached and we began an animated exchange which as usual involved local history.  He reported upon another young man who had begun his working career as a truck driver/delivery man and who went on to become a successful businessman. I haven’t the precise details; but what is seminal to me is that change is an inevitable part of the full story. This is not to diminish the initial expression; rather to highlight the variety of later possibilities.

Of foremost importance however is that employment of any description is noteworthy; and, like anything else in life it is a matter of perception. How we see ourselves is as far-reaching as what we do. I am reminded, for example, of my own beginning in life as a young law student. Before my final year of study I had a summer job with the office of the Judge Advocate General. On the condition that I commit to work with JAG for five years after being called to the Bar, JAG would pay all my law school, provide paid summer vacation and immediately appoint me to the rank of Captain. Impressive as it was, I declined the offer.  I opted instead for private law practice; and, within four years I had opened my own law practice in a small rural village. I distinctly recall the raised eyebrows of certain of my family and friends. While, in retrospect, I can see that I may have made a doubtful choice within certain context, I have to this day never regretted my decision to work and live in Almonte.  It is one of two choices I have made in life which I consider unassailable. And, yes, should you care to know, the other is my life partner.

The separation between working in a grocery store and studying civil engineering is no different than that between an urban law practice in a firm and that of a rural sole practitioner; which is to say, of course the spread between the two is astronomic! And the decision to opt for one or the other is critical to life’s meaning. Neither is assured to afford complete happiness; the prospects of either is open to debate and assessment; neither is incontrovertible. Strangely nonetheless the niche which each of us chooses is guaranteed to affect our well being and state of mind. And be assured that the calculation of that niche will colour the rest of our lives. Unhappily I have heard more than once of young men who, in an effort to gratify a father’s wishes or to preserve what is perceived a family tradition, have made the wrong choice; that is, they did not find their own niche in life.

Contrary to DNA, bloodline, ancestry or any other additive, we must each find our niche in life sooner than later. Failure to do so will only delay the inevitable or contaminate the present. The lack of familial support in the chosen pursuit is an embarrassment to the family, not the child. I know of nobody who is contradicted or disappointed by the adage, “If you do what you like, you’ll like what you do!”

A rainy day such as we’re enduring today permits me to withdraw from my customary – and admittedly tedious – habits. Outdoor cycling, for one, is adjusted to the concrete plateau of the subterranean tomb. It also enables me to linger beneath the duvet for longer than I prefer, on the theory that an occcasional day of prolonged relaxation is never a bad thing. A rainy day further stimulates those delicate but mesmerizing thoughts – reflections upon the state of one’s union with the Universe at large, the uncommon withdrawal from the pressing demands of a monotonous agenda into the realm of unrestrained contemplation and wistful conjecture. The raindrops on the windows subdue the world beyond, as does the grey atmosphere discolour the sunlight. The shades of springtime are uniquely contrasted in the diminished effulgence, distinguishing the flourishing greenery while softening and darkening the river, its once placid sheen now fettered with creases and distinctive arrows by the whistling southern wind.

Continue reading →

There is no amount of vaporizing or philosophizing that will overcome two blunt truths: 1) we are devoted to pleasure; and, 2) anything contrary to that proposition is avoided.

Continue reading →

The alnage was first ordered in 1196, during the reign of Richard I, that “woollen cloths, wherever they are made, shall be of the same width, to wit, of two ells within the lists, and of the same goodness in the middle and sides.” This ordinance is usually known as the Assize of Measures or the Assize of Cloth. Article 35 of Magna Carta re-enacted the Assize of Cloth, and in the reign of Edward I an official called an “alnager” or “aulnager” was appointed to enforce it. His duty was to measure each piece of cloth, and to affix a stamp to show that it was of the necessary size and quality.

“It is in this manner that money has become, in all civilized nations, the universal instrument of commerce, by the intervention of which goods of all kinds are bought and sold, or exchanged for one another.”

“Nothing is more useful than water; but it will purchase scarce any thing; scarce any thing can be had in exchange for it. A diamond, on the contrary, has scarce any value in use; but a very great quantity of other goods may frequently be had in exchange for it.”

Excerpt From
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
Adam Smith

What immediately occurred to me was the value of water on a desert? Testing and evaluating is a complex process.  It is however an undertaking in which we routinely engage, often without the expertise of an assayer. As frequently we are prepared to accept our evaluation with or without the scrutiny or the analysis. There are some for example who prefer the weight and feel of sterling silver to the look and substance of gold.  Determining value isn’t always about cost or price. When the more generous mining of gold in North America was discovered, the value of it in Europe declined commensurately. Talking about Bitcoin far surpasses anything explicable but just because it is electronic doesn’t mean it is any less worthy than a copper penny once was. Cryptocurrency is effectively just another exchange/barter vehicle for the popular savants. Until however it graduates to a more controlled environment (such as we now have for banks) I am steering clear of it.

Meanwhile my interest in measurement and value is confined to everyday exploits – once those affecting my merchandising of legal opinion, now surrounding matters of more common acquisition. Strangely I have always been drawn to stamps of authenticity – some of which (like precious metals and exotic foods) relate directly to ascertainable weight and cost of production – others of which (like vehicular engineering and accessories) are more personal and ambivalent. For the even less transparent realm of intellectual perspicuity (everything from religion to accounting) there are a myriad of symbols adapted and adopted to portray the intended worthiness of the product. Once again the ultimate value of the product is aligned with the inscrutable weight of personal choice.

It is useful to keep in mind when assessing the accuracy of the evaluation that the party advancing the value has often a material interest in the outcome.  This influence – frequently called advertising – varies in significance from balderdash to science. The regularity of the testing process is itself an added measure of success or failure in the final outcome. Obviously nothing in this world has an irreconcilable or incontrovertible substantive value; the final measure and determination of content and quality is subjective. In daily practice we accept the conveniences of wealth and value; but it is a reminder that underlying those determinations are not flawless rules, rather cooperative choices.

In the result it “pays” to recognize the guiding principles in the measurement of each pice of cloth.  Wool – clearly a foundation of the British economy for generations – has for many been replaced by synthetics. Attacking the less demonstrable assessment of things and ideas remains open to a limitless array of features affording a happy consequence. Some of the assessments drive sustainability and environmental advantages.  The Chinese are producing an inexpensive electric vehicle of commendable character – far removed from the North American “land yacht” vernacular.

But the ultimate matter of interest is that value emanates from within. This is not to diminish a diamond. It merely highlights that the inherent value of anything is what each of us considers it to be independently of others. Assaying our own lives is a combination of weigh scales and personal choices. Just as there is no one calculation of value for anything, there most certainly is no arbitrary determination of ourselves and the choices we make in the fulfillment of the barter of our time on this planet.

“…a narcissistic, ignorant convicted felon whose rambling speeches and incessant lies make you think he’s slipping into dementia. Backed by his craven administration and assorted billionaires, his regressive policies and actions have reduced the country’s standing on the global stage from shining beacon to an absurdist version of a tinpot dictatorship, albeit a nuclear-armed one.”

David Suzuki

Continue reading →

There a tangible evidence of smoke in the atmosphere as the residue of extraordinary forest fires continues to spread across the province. Initially I had mistaken the grey smear for a mist – but it turns out to be more of a smog. Some say they can detect the smell of wood burning.

Nevertheless our casual entertainment yesterday was fired as we whimsically orchestrated a late afternoon jaunt to the golf club where we – and our grandnephew – lingered on the flagstone patio overlooking the fairway for a modest but fulfillng meal. And when we had finished our relaxing nosh and an after-dinner elongation while watching the geese and their goslings by the river, we further amused ourselves by driving to Scoops in the Village of Pakenham where we treated ourselves to ice cream sundaes.

Continue reading →

One wonders whether philosophy or religion any longer form a part of Western society. Reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius has failed to engender anything approaching either complete interest or enthusiastic embrace. Modern gossip is that religion of any description is doubtful even though admittedly stimulating for some (often a mixture of wishful thinking and coffee hour). Stoicism and epicureanism compete for convenient interpretations of “Don’t worry, be happy”. And finally logic is the blunt instrument by which the means and the end are respectively sanctified.

Continue reading →

The St. Lawrence Seaway is part of that notable border separating Canada and USA.

The seaway opened in 1959 and cost C$470 million, $336.2 million of which was paid by the Canadian government. Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada and President Eisenhower formally opened the seaway on June 26, 1959 with a short cruise aboard the royal yacht HMY Britannia after addressing crowds in Saint-Lambert, Quebec.

The international division has in the past normally been acquainted with our journey to or from the USA. Most recently it signalled our return to Canada in early April from Hilton Head Island, SC. Today the passage along the Ivy Lea Parkway parallel the River marked a brief outing associated with our investigation of Recess Café in Portland, Ontario along Hwy#15 beyond Smiths Falls. We didn’t stop at the Café today but we intend to return. It has already formed part of our catalogue of immediate excursions, those that we save for lovely summer days or similarly propitious moments.

Recess Café

From the hinterland of Lanark County we first entered Gananoque, then blended onto the Ivy Lea Parkway. Everything we saw was impressive. As you might expect there have been many changes over the years. Strangely the latest riparian residential development in Gananoque was reminiscent of British seaside resorts, tall, lots of whitewash and engineered for maximum views of the water. Meanwhile the building of grand “cottage” or summer homes along the Seaway is distinguished by Torontonian opulence and excess as the resourceful urban capital makes its way incrementally eastward.

My day was happily punctuated by my erstwhile physician who FaceTimed me late afternoon. As fond as I am of speaking and sparring with him, today’s conversation was highlighted by his account of a calamity he had experienced with a new automobile, a misfortune similar to the one I was forced to endure earlier today. Allow me the privilege to conceal the details of these misadventures in the interest of preserving focus upon the most salient point of the coincidence; namely, that misery loves company. Admittedly any disruption of my vehicle is for me catastrophic; but equally persuasive is the knowledge that my pain is not entirely unfamiliar or uncommon.  It is a strange way to overcome a sting but the medicine works!  I shall hereafter rise above what many would discern as a paltry complaint.

The remainder of the day was marked by a superb evening meal prepared by my marvellous partner and chef; and, listening to Beegie Adair at the keyboard – always a soothing way to recap the ventures of the day!