We estimate that it has been eight years since we last saw Toronto. We have – rather, until recently we had – two friends (one of whom just died) who in particular drew us to Toronto (that is, when we didn’t go with them instead to cottages in Muskoka or Prince Edward County). Now we’re planning a return visit to Toronto for the memorial gathering for our late friend. As common as it sounds, the memorial reminds me not only of our dear late friend but also of Toronto (which I know he too loved).

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The Ontario provincial election is on June 2nd. We voted today in the advance poll for our area at the arena in town. It is the first day of ten days of advance polls open until May 28th. We chose to attend the advance poll in the rain today thinking we’d thus escape the crowds.  Turns out we were wrong on both counts: no rain, no crowds. At the arena entrance was a greying, heavily bearded official , one of the so-called “volunteers” (read: party hack) to greet us and to offer the ubiquitous hand sanitizer. He directed us to the elevator to the second floor, a large room overlooking the arena/skating rink/curling lanes below.

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From the moment I threw back the duvet and flung my shanks overboard earlier today – I hesitate to use the words “this morning” because I was so treacherously late arising – I have conversed with an uncommon buoyancy.  And even more strangely the blitheness has continued uninterrupted throughout the remainder of the shimmering day. It makes one wonder – is it something I ate?  Or just a good slumber? Or perhaps the ineffable weather about which everyone was celebrating as we mingled with JB and another while bicycling in the neighbourhood surrounded by yellow and violet spring flowers, wide spaces of yellow dandelions judiciously left untouched for the moment? It might even be something insidious such as the “risk of harm from cannabis resulting from daily or near-daily use over a prolonged period of time“. Other times I imagine the enchantment is luck of the draw, a chance formula ignited by the unpredictable combination of events occurring over a stretch of days, even months, even a lifetime. It can take a long time for things to rise up after penetrating reflection. And then there’s the more immediate preserve of hair and product; as well as how the steel cut oats and kéfir were perfection; the apple was crisp and clean; the brown toasted bagel sodden with butter and peanut butter that dripped from my fingers onto the Crown Derby sideplate as I bent to consume a crunchy morsel.

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Say what you will about the provincial health care system, the University of Ottawa Heart Institute is terrific.  I speak on this occasion more precisely of the pacemaker clinic at 40 Ruskin Street, Ottawa. I now visit that office every year about this time to have my Biotronik pacemaker checked by a specialist nurse who afterwards reviews the data with a physician. To date – that is, since the implantation of the pacemaker in 2018 in Florida following a spill from my bike on the beach – the tiny device continues to churn.  The report today was that I have about 8 years left before the batteries run out.  Naturally I will not repeat the quips that the staff has heard all too often following the likes of that pronouncement!

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Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay
“The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 3”

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Earlier today after my breakfast and a short but expiative bicycle ride about the neighbourhood – and while driving to the city for a car wash as is my wont – I first went to see the construction site of our new digs adjacent the Mississippi River just to catch an updated glimpse of what’s coming. As I approached the building site, and within the preceding parkland which borders the edge of the River, I saw two young men, shirtless and dripping wet emerge from among the cattails and bulrushes, seemingly getting out of the RIver after a refreshing swim on this sultry summer day. The temperature was 30°C. Only moments before, at the intersection of Martin St S and St Paul Street where there is a boat launch and protective sails hung above a quiet sitting area, there had been two men, one a slender athletic man, the other a paunchy older man, similarly attired and glistening from water stepping onto shore apparently having likewise sought relief from the humidity. Forty-six years ago it was I who swam with my Yellow Labrador puppy in the cool waters of the Mississippi River from the identical launch. My residence was then only steps away on Martin St S.

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The Square and Compasses (or, more correctly, a square and a set of compasses joined) is the single most identifiable symbol of Freemasonry. Both the square and compasses are architect’s tools and are used in Masonic ritual as emblems to teach symbolic lessons.

Some Lodges and rituals explain these symbols as lessons in conduct: for example, Duncan’s Masonic Monitor of 1866 explains them as: “The square, to square our actions; The compasses, to circumscribe and keep us within bounds with all mankind”.

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Throughout my life I have prided myself to be acquainted with interesting people, people who are as often themselves well connected and who seemingly likewise profit from knowing the right people. Not unexpectedly the consequence of such nutritious alliance is frequently added benefit.

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When an extended-family member from the city asked me today about “a nice little tea room in the country” it got me thinking. There are presumptions about the country, some favourable, others not so, we all know that. The Town Mouse vs the Country Mouse has been going on for a long time. But the enquiry today hinted at a greater depth than was readily apparent.

“The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse” is one of Aesop’s Fables. It is number 352 in the Perry Index and type 112 in Aarne–Thompson’s folk tale index. Like several other elements in Aesop’s fables, ‘town mouse and country mouse’ has become an English idiom.

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In the summer of 1963 I was 14 years old, travelling with my sister (age 12) and my parents from Montréal, Canada to Le Havre, France aboard the QSS Arkadia. Apart from an Irish priest (he may have been an Archbishop for all I know) he and our family were the only ones in First Class. My mother (who was a devout Roman Catholic) spent time drinking with the priest. My father did not drink. We all dined together.

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