America dubiously occupies the world stage by the discredited virtue of its widespread wartime aggressions and international hostile manoeuvres; while at the same time provoking (and attempting to dilute) the appearance of violent internal civil conflict. When remarking both currently and historically upon Americans, it requires little effort to uncover the perceived threat of communism, socialism and the so-called Radical Left. Everywhere there is a manifestation of the invasive effect of difference, toleration and unrestrained democracy. Often the only palpable warning of the infection arises from political ambition, separated from a logical deductive consideration of the premises.

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Notwithstanding the current withdrawal of Canadians from the United States of America, after having spent 6 months of the year there for the past decade, I continue – as though by irrepressible habit – to remark upon the domestic differences in the two latitudes.  As mundane as it may sound, one of the primary differences relates to my driving habits.

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My stockpile for idle amusement is admittedly finite. Inexplicably I hesitated this morning – an unparalleled springtime day – before launching onto the county roads for a routine but undetermined dawdle about the local countryside. There were however conditions precedent first to be fulfilled. After our conjoined and modest constitutional in the exercise room on the stationary bicycle and treadmill – and upon afterwards having sponged up the invigorating Vitamin D while briefly reposed on the balcony – the outstanding weather at last communicated its irresistible magnetism.

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It isn’t often nowadays that we inhabit the ranks of the skilfully employed even peripherally; nor that we commence our daily wheeze early in the day.  Today however was an exception.  We were underway sharply at seven o’clock this morning, preparing to break the fast at the golf club at nine o’clock with our friends B&G from along the Rideau Canal southwest of Ottawa. Last evening we telephoned to arrange the impromptu foregathering.  Fortuitously they were both available. The weather today was ideal, a summery day of balmy air and sparkling sunshine.

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More as an accreditation of the universal limits of modernity, an indifferent blotting up of the history of the locale surrounding the nation’s capital (including our beloved Town of Almonte) discloses a number of pungent similarities, among them waterways, railways, grist mills and woollen mills. That – and the fur trade – constitute the underlying commercial development of our country so far as I can recall. It illustrates too that the identity of the United Empire Loyalists was a chart not entirely determined by the unsettling events of 1764 in the United States of America. Indeed, one occasionally stumbles upon archival fragments whose very language discloses the breadth of the British imperial world: “Sundry Negroes on Nichola Town Estate late the property of George [?] Esq. now belonging to Charles Spooner Esquire … Port of Grenville in Grenada.”

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Following breakfast earlier this morning and afterwards our constitutional exercise in the small downstairs gymnasium we began an uncertain pathway for a drive into neighbouring Renfrew County and round about.  The routine motive of a car wash was superlative in the Scotch mist. Equally evident was the traffic.  For a Sunday morning in particular, the number of cars (in both directions) was noticeable if not downright unusual. Where was everyone going? We speculated that it was the weather. The dank drizzle had apparently dampened the springtime partiality and instead inspired people to go shopping – or to do whatever else indoors – to avoid the wet and chill outside. Malls are ornamental parklands. Though earlier upon leaving town we saw more than one person dutifully and somewhat ruefully walking their dog in the rain. Barring that vested imperative, it is recognizably a choice day to escape the weather or to admire it from one’s drawing room desk.

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Today I revisited “L’Étranger” by Albert Camus.

Considered a classic of 20th-century literature, The Stranger has received critical acclaim for Camus’ philosophical outlook, absurdism, syntactic structure, and existentialism (despite Camus’s rejection of the label), particularly within its final chapter. Le Monde ranked The Stranger as number one on its 100 Books of the 20th Century. In Le Temps it was voted the third best book written in French in the 20th and 21st century by a jury of 50 literary connoisseurs.

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Years ago I recall having been introduced to the communal benefit of a well written obituary. What follows is an example:

Meed was born in New York, New York, in 1944 to Alan “Tamey” Wetterau and (Ethel) Cary Moncure.   At age 5 they moved to upstate New York, where life centered on the vibrant artists’ community of 1950s Woodstock. There, Meed was surrounded by teachers and mentors of all kinds, so that although “home life” was a moving target, Meed became an accomplished painter and sculptor and a NY Board of Regents Scholar by the age of 18.

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Suddenly things have changed. For the better. The sunny morning – though surprisingly fresh – began unequivocally. Upon awakening I simply answered duty. Mainly, I had an early morning appointment with a dermatologist, the doctor who – upon referral to him by my GP months ago – identified a malignant tumour associated with skin cancer. He commented today while peering through his fancy dermatoscope that we fortunately caught it early enough to ensure it hadn’t spread rampantly through the lymph nodes. I’m booked to see him again in six months. If – as I predictably quipped – I make it that far. He ignored the humour. He bluntly speculated the subsequent return will be a year afterwards. Clearly though he’s unconvinced the initial problem has vanished. The succinct dialogue was not unlike an encounter with a funeral director, polite but uncompromising.

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Many times I have driven by a motorist stranded alongside the highway.  Sometimes the driver is wandering curiously around the vehicle as though searching for an overt obstruction; other times, he is lying beneath the vehicle apparently intent upon remedying a flat tire or a mechanical defect.  Whatever the eventuality (and aside from the predominantly forlorn nature of the sight, it is often impossible at high speed to discern the precise dilemma), I have always whistled mournfully upon seeing someone in despair. Never however have I authentically imagined that my turn is next.

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