When my father was approaching 92 years of age and still living with my mother in their own home – on the heels of a lifetime of diplomatic excesses such as first class tours on transatlantic ocean liners, private planes, private clubs, cooks and chauffeurs – it was not uncommon to hear him say, “All I want is peace and quiet“.  Not an appetite which at the moment resounds especially well for me. Nor I suspect would my late mother have had much truck with it.  Indeed her routine remark upon returning from a diplomatic tour was, “Instant poverty!” She rather disliked the Cinderella theme of a night at the palace.

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As the cable news networks and Donald J. Trump continue onward together in their daily broadcasts for popular attention (and whatever corporate or political gain they hope to embrace), the issue remains, Why do they believe “The Big Lie”? The ammunition is directed at the Republicans for the most part and certainly at the mysterious pool of Trump supporters which allegedly prevails (though growingly with less and less authenticity). The reputed Trump insurrectionists are steadily cast as a blow-up rental version of Confederate militarists and white supremacists. The other reprise on the networks is the disgraceful conduct of Republican Congressmen and Senators who have with ignominy contradicted the truth for personal gain.  The unfortunate Marjorie Taylor-Greene has in the process acquired the familiarity of Alfred E. Newman. I put her survival in the same arena.

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The phrase derives from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount: “You are the salt of the earth.” (Matthew 5:13) Jesus meant that the common people he was addressing – fishermen, shepherds, laborers – were worthy and virtuous. … Back then salt was highly prized as a preservative of food – so precious that it was used as money. Roman soldiers were sometimes paid in salt, giving us the word “salary,” derived from the Latin word for salt – “sal.”

Anyone who has tasted Maldon sea salt flakes knows the value and reward of salt; and, hence its treasured metaphoric use.  Oddly the historic narrative of salt – unlike its now popular usage – is a resource deriving from not added to the mix. Indeed it was that peculiarity – a bastardization such as, “It’s what you get out of life not what you put into it that counts” – which prompted me to appraise what exactly I had been given by similar percolation from the ground upon which I have walked throughout my lifetime.

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The problem I find knowing people who contribute to society is that they are as a result partially impenetrable.  I mean to say, getting together with a chap and his wife who have so clearly devoted a good deal of time, capital and energy to improvement all ’round, it soon becomes apparent that progress marches on and that nothing happens by accident.  I can only speculate that they must have consumed countless hours in the creation, institution and management of their latest projects (both commercial and domestic). This at least was the overall sensation which insinuated our Sunday afternoon foregathering on their exquisite deck overlooking the tranquil, meandering Rideau River and the distant traces of historic architecture across the water in the Village of Merrickville.

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No doubt there are as many narratives of motoring – that is, of driving one’s favourite motor vehicle – as there are drivers. Considering what I believe is the undeniable mingling that transpires upon the roadways – that is, the jockeying for position, the attempts to impress with speed or appearance, the exhibitions of rage, the clamour for priority, the insistence upon speed limits and the preservation of dutiful lines – I can only assume that the experience is for each of us as singular as any other communal activity.

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As lugubrious as it may plumb, wholesale recognition of one’s decline and impending doom is but the first step towards defeating intolerance of the perilous decomposition. To my undying credit – catch, if you will, the skilful innuendo – I have succeeded to camouflage my incremental inadequacies through the plausible mettle of science. Consumed as we all currently are by evolving pandemics which threaten to scour the face of the entire globe, it appears that for most of the worldwide population – other perhaps than Republicans and Trump allies in the United States of America and what I consider the vulgar generally  – science is our saviour.  Naturally it offends those swallowed up by erstwhile religious fabrications and the falsities of ignominious politicians to accept there is anything as palpable as science in face of competition from the mystical and misplaced alliances with constitutional freedom of rights.

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With his customary flourish the country gentleman had telephoned yesterday to invite us for dinner and a swim this evening. The primary intention of the congregation was however quite patently removed from either food or water. Rather it focussed entirely and quite unreservedly so upon the initial gander at His Lordship’s new granddaughter Sofia. She and her parents are visiting from the South Pacific.

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Regimentation, I have perhaps belatedly learned from personal experience, has its appeal. My boarding school upbringing was part of a strict system or pattern – basically a combination of academic and social routine, detailed daily physical exercise, military battalions and the Church of England. These Stoic expressions were naturally designed to manipulate the membership physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. Though there were occasional academic pursuits which afforded conspicuous mental stimulation and development, most were primarily ceremonial, formula and memorization. Apart from that operative condemnation however the general spirit of the endeavours was worthy, the most wholesome of which was nothing more grand than the seven o’clock alarm which awoke the Upper and Lower School every morning.

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This morning at 8:30 am sharp – on what has proven to be a glittering summer day – we rallied for a restorative breakfast with old friends in the Village of Appleton at the Mississippi Golf Club on the patio overlooking the first tee. Between mouthfuls of crispy bacon and sips of black coffee I shared with the two young gentlemen, Grayson and Crosby (aged 12 and 10 respectively) that we have the singular distinction of having known their father Paul and Uncle Steve when they were about the same age; and naturally their grandparents Dave and Barb (who were then our next door neighbours); and, their mother T (whom we met when their parents were first dating before they married). The alignments cover almost half a century. In this sometimes frantic world, long-term acquaintances are infrequent – at least ones which survive by design. It is even rarer that alliances grow organically about an initial orbit.

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There’s only so much one can eat.  While sailing through the countryside today for a Sunday afternoon drive I revered the sight of the yellow-crowned emerald corn stalks reaching to the blue sky, row on row, up and down the expansive fields. But the thought of having to struggle with bits between my teeth after gnawing on a fresh cob of boiled corn rapidly diluted the romanticism of the project. There are so many less preposterous ways to dine! Anyway the more pressing obstruction is that for two people living alone there just isn’t the threshold for nature’s summertime bounty.  At roadside stands the crops are persuasively sold in bulk from the piles of freshly gathered vegetables. The measure of my daily consumption is plotted in halves of tomatoes, half a green pepper and half an English cucumber. Besides if I had much more I’d have no place to store them properly. The best I can do to subscribe to summer’s bounty is to look at the grocer’s for the Ontario label and grab what’s available.

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