Christmas Eve provides a rare chance to indulge oneself. It is assured that retailers will have anxiously abandoned their duties by noon. During this pandemic most people are content to go directly home; travel is unadvised. Whatever preparation is being made for social gathering, it will no doubt be confined to a predominantly narrow scope, perhaps even a welcome one (with the exception of grandparents who quite naturally pine relentlessly for their grandchildren).
The Winter Solstice has afforded not only the welcome prospect of longer days but also today at least spring-like weather, cool and dry and no new snow. On my return this afternoon from my customary flight in the Aviator to Renfrew County (after having dutifully washed the car and bought as requested some goat’s milk cheese at Grace in the Kitchen for this evening’s meal) the slanting sunshine in the azure sky beckoned. It was a suitable – and an athletically useful – opportunity for a walk in the park at the Village of Blakeney.
Shortly after two o’clock this morning I relented to my toxic mental agitation. Grasping my iPhone on the bedside table I silently withdrew to the drawing room, smalls and hoodie in hand, charily closing the bedroom door behind me. The midnight exit thus stealthily accomplished I next dressed myself in the sparse wardrobe, turned on the overhead light at table then commenced the exposition of what had so consumed me for the previous several hours, having monotonously heard the chimes of the Sligh grandfather clock every hour after eleven o’clock.
Four years ago when Donald J. Trump was elected president of the United States of America many people including myself characterized the sanction of a former television personality as merely a reaction to what almost everyone accepts as the often discredited self-interest of politicians. Trump’s questionable talent and notable vulgarity were dismissed as that of a “fresh face” who spoke “normally” and who was by extension dedicated to the will of the people and the satisfaction of their needs. Where the deduction goes awry is its failure to recognize the identical dereliction of which it accuses others; namely, self-interest. The more important concern about reasoned decision-making was at the time irrelevant.
What it is that so inestimably prompts the gusto of the season is not as easily related as it is perceived. I suspect each of us – given the differences surrounding our respective pasts – has a unique story, some no doubt melancholic, others unforgivingly indulgent, some perhaps merely suggestive like the picture of a sleigh ride in powdery snow through a muffled forest. I am confined today by natural overtures. There is a soft snowfall beneath a mournful grey sky. Granted it has succeeded to contaminate my daily habits of cycling and driving but I am prepared to relinquish such repetitive custom for the more ephemeral conversancy. Besides the chilling rawness of the outside enflames the reddish-brown warmth of the interior. As a mark of my conviction – and to capitalize upon the transient thrill of winter – I am sporting my new cravat (though admittedly with less than the noticeable aptness of outwear).
Bill,
Drop everything and proceed with Denis to the local Brooks Brothers store. For the first time in my life, their polo shirts are 50% off. I finally bought one. Still cost you over $50.00 but it’s worth it to have one. The cotton is amazing.
Go now. There are temptations all over the store.
Merry Christmas,
Mike T.
The clear, cold weather continued today. Fearing that our bicycle tires might contract in the frigid temps we opted instead this afternoon to walk along the Mississippi River. The Riverwalk from the old Town Hall to Metcalfe Park was partially covered in snow and ice so the walking was for me at least at times treacherous. Nonetheless we credited ourselves with an outing of 1.6 kms which I consider a small but acceptable accomplishment. Towards the end of our trek I had opened my sheepskin coat, tucked my gloves in a pocket and removed my fur hat.
My paternal grandfather (George Chapman) was a wholesale fish monger, silver fox rancher and maple syrup producer. He owned a home on the St. John River in New Brunswick (a province adjoining Maine, USA). He had seven children and drove a Packard limousine as a result! There’s a story that when my father’s marriage to my mother was announced, my father’s mother told my mother, “Get everything you can out of him in the first four years because there’ll be nothing after that!” My mother received in addition to her substantial engagement diamond ring several fur coats – among them a lamb shearling and a silver fox called a “chubby” (which was strictly for formal evening wear). There is nothing innately silver about the silver fox. The fur is actually black but through the tanning process the colour is altered.
Where to begin! Today was a master stroke of incomparable attainment! The unparalleled zest hasn’t the trapping of anything profane as commercial achievement or gloating victory. Rather it is the consequence of unpredicted fortuity. The coup is particularly gratifying because it followed a sleepless night after an evening meal which because of its infrequent pungency provoked a moderately unsettled repercussion. At two o’clock this morning I succumbed to my persistent wakefulness by withdrawing from the virginal lair to pursue a less hostile environment in the drawing room. When at last I returned to bed, I slept painlessly until shortly before nine o’clock this morning. If the Stoic revival weren’t then enough to inspire a determined address of the day, any hanging back was abruptly quelled by the sound of an incoming telephone call from an HVAC manufacturer in Ottawa advising that the filters ordered last August had arrived and were ready for pick-up. The delay had been precipitated by the pandemic and the corporate shift to produce masks instead.
The polar temperature today – minus sixteen degrees Centigrade – was a record so far for the season. After yesterday’s near chilling cycle along the old railway line we knew better than to attempt that finger-numbing adventure again today. So this afternoon in the interest of fresh air and exercise we opted instead to walk along the Ottawa River at the Nepean Sailing Club in Andrew Haydon Park. To prepare for the outing it was first necessary to reacquaint myself with the seldom used closet in the study where years ago I had hung my winter coats and tucked away on the shelf above my mittens, gloves and hats. Until that moment it was a wardrobe I had not had occasion to revisit. Putting on the gear indoors was itself an endurance though not of the boreal nature that was to follow when we commenced our walk.