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.

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Americans, aside from having a guaranteed fodder for entertainment in the evening news, are completely worn down by the gambits of President Donald J. Trump who is clinging to the gates of the White House with tiresome conviction. In the process the members of the Republican Party have succeeded to contaminate themselves as pusillanimous bastards.

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This morning – amid a dusting of snow – we bicycled 12.93 kms according to my Apple Watch and the resulting Activity Summary on my iPhone. I can think of no reason other than the childish amusement with a toy that I should persist in keeping track of such unimportant detail. Obviously we knew where we had gone and roughly how far. Yet the manufacturers have succeeded to engender a hopeless preoccupation with record and accounting. There are other related averages and totals for workout time and calories none of which sadly has done anything to reduce my protuberant belly. Nonetheless we both agreed that the venture today was invigorating. The horizon for such Olympic endeavour is narrowing as we incrementally approach what will assuredly be a dump of snow that will make any future adventures perilous.

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Christmas Eve is ten days away!  The buzz has as usual heightened upon every turn!  Throughout the Town there are charming front-door wreaths, glistening lights on trees, magnanimous exchanges of greetings by regular mail and email, non-stop sentimental carols on the radio and appetizing evidence of seasonal cooking and treats. This is the first winter we’ve spent in Canada – specifically, in the cold – for years and years. Certainly we occasionally hearken back to fond memories of the southern Atlantic coast or the green shores of the Gulf of Mexico but we have succeeded to rise above the pandemic interference and now seek to derive whatever benefit we can from this wintry clime.

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As Sartre put it: “Do you think that I count the days? There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.”

The quotation above was sent to me by my long-standing friend Dr. Franz B. Ferraris of whom I am quite certain – though without any tangible proof – that he subscribes to a like reflection upon the immediacy of the present. The unspoken sequel to the remark is that we’d better learn to make the best of what we have while we have it. By coincidence as we bicycled through a light snowfall this morning we passed an acquaintance walking her little white dog.  She triumphantly exclaimed to us as we went by, “Isn’t it amazing!” This clipped addition to the conversation underscores the great surprise or wonder of life.

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As the illumination of December 25th draws near, the indisputable resplendence of Christmas carols is enough to make almost anyone react sentimentally. And if the undercurrent of sacred inspiration doesn’t succeed to shape the listener then one is as assuredly overtaken by the unconscious hearkening to the past, to memories of people no longer whinnying among us, to pictures in our mind of distant events now softened by regret or dismay. All told it is sometimes a dreadful effect – captured for example in the melancholy song “I’ll be home for Christmas“.

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I have always considered it odd that I relate so unreservedly and eagerly to what I conjure up to be my native roots.  This is admittedly a popular adornment these days – what with all the media attention to historical connections of Europeans with Africans and First Nations. It is naturally unimaginable what may be the precise – if indeed any – insinuation of the “blithe Spirit” or whatever it is that so magically produces an alignment with the fleshy enlargement of the past. But I am nonetheless convinced of the connection. For one thing, my skin tans remarkably well in the sun. For another, my ancestry in Canada goes back to about 1798 or thereabouts, a fact which in my opinion renders it highly probable that somewhere along the line there was communication by the interlopers with the residents. I cannot help being influenced by my unadulterated affection for silk and the notable suggestion that the native Indians acknowledged both heterosexual, homosexual and “Two Spirit” denominations.

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Over forty-four years ago in June of 1976 I arrived in Almonte with my purebred Yellow Labrador puppy appropriately christened by me at the kennel as Lanark Drummond Beckwith of Rosedale (a reference to three of the townships in the county).  Mr. Justice Alan D. Sheffield (one of the principles of Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers &c. by whom I was hired as a junior) arranged for me to rent a house belonging to Rev. and Mrs. Geo. Bickley on Martin St S not far from the current lookout by the Mississippi River at the end of St. Paul Street.  Rev. Bickley was then the presiding minister at St. Paul’s Anglican Church on Clyde Street near the Land Registry Office. My move into the house was a bit frosty thanks to the stiff objection Mrs. Bickley registered to my request to store some of my belongings in the garage before the former tenant had fully moved out.

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There are moments when suddenly and stunningly it feels impossible to move. It is an unconventional sensation because the governing knot is at once both indescribable and unseen. Without the evidence or explanation of an obstructing rail (or a psychotic gloss) there persists near paralysis. Seemingly there are seasons of emotions. And just as the frozen weather can provoke a stark reality so too can an unexpected coolness of instinct. Both are natural; both are normal.

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The day is distinguishable for several reasons.  One, today it’s snowing in the genre of a palpable storm, the first of the season. Two, yesterday I finally had the MRI I’ve been awaiting for over two years. Three, tomorrow is the last day before my birthday. In the result I am feeling energized. These three almost unnoticeable events have succeeded to relieve me of an equal number of preoccupations. As odd as it may seem the uncharacteristic transition to Canada for the winter is now complete. The elastic has been broken. No longer is it necessary or desirable or possible to cling to the past. A quick examination of our agenda for the next several months discloses nothing but repetitive performances of strictly functional purpose.

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