The unwitting knowledge that the year is 2020 at last percolated sufficiently to entice me to do something about it! The number 50 sprung to mind. Why, I haven’t a clue other than the possible literary veneration of a solid round figure. The ambition to “cover” 50 years was diluted to embrace a broader – and less meticulous – description of 5 decades. This watering down was nonetheless still a bit of a bore, threatening to be but a tedious repetition. Though the subject matter might not be changed, the format unquestionably required alteration.  What follows is a so-called “broad stroke” for the entirety of my life from 1970 – 2020. Its uniqueness if any is that it captures only the most salient recollections.

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Earlier this afternoon during my constitutional drive – as I soared noiselessly in the balmy summer air with the windows and the landau roof open – I bemoaned my fate. I resigned myself that wintering in Florida this year is unlikely. Admittedly it is mainly a concession that as a result of the pandemic the world has changed inalterably. At the same time I was no more willing than usual to bend to defeat. Instead I pondered the possibility of couching in a seaside drawing room overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in the Province of Nova Scotia.

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Certainly within the current pandemic – and admittedly so even when otherwise – we don’t often get invited for tea. Today’s singular invitation was from new friends who moved here from nearby Village of Clayton. The Village of Clayton – again, not unlike many other adjacent small rural communities such as Pakenham, White Lake, Playfairville and McDonald’s Corners – is a source of enormously diverting intelligence. Though the Town of Almonte amalgamated in 1999 with surrounding Townships to form the Town of Mississippi Mills, originally Almonte had a population of no more than 4,500. Not to be outdone by our hosts at the tea party today, I related several anecdotes about the erstwhile Village of Almonte.  Indeed one story involved Arnold Craig whose wife was from Clayton. Arnold regularly publicized that when inviting her to a dance at the Agricultural Hall in Almonte on Water Street he took care to put gravel in her shoes “so she’d feel at home“.

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In its broadest terms life is either personal or public.  Or as my erstwhile chain-smoking philosophy professor may have preferred, “The world is divided into ashtrays and non-ashtrays.” In either instance the compelling authenticity of the global thesis is a binary conclusion. At first blush the variance of the internal and external world – or the difference between what transpires within our orbit or beyond – might be imagined identical or at the very least similar. This however is not necessarily so.  The adage holds undiminished that, “It depends how you look at it!” The frozen truth is that what one sees outside very much depends upon what one sees inside; and, depending upon the view, the perspectives may or may not coincide. And more importantly the perfect picture may be more within than without.

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We were invited to dine last evening in the Village of Ashton with long-standing friends. Before our departure we mechanically agreed there was no chance of going home hungry. Nor in retrospect were we mistaken. Indeed our host and chef succeeded beyond even the usual abundance. To my admittedly prosaic imagination it was a singularly tasteful meal which both opened and closed with delectable morsels in faint compounds of fresh herbs – including the blissful mint in the homemade ice cream!

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Have you a dream?  Perhaps an imaginary rustic cottage on a cliff overlooking the crashing sea? Or maybe a sudden view of the Ocean on the other side of a mounting ribbon of highway rising high into the blue and billowing ether. It might instead be an endless path across the nation – reminiscent of Highway 64.

“U.S. Route 64 (US 64) is an east–west United States highway that runs for 2,326 miles (3,743 km) from Nags Head in eastern North Carolina to just southwest of the Four Corners in northeast Arizona. The western terminus is at U.S. Route 160 in Teec Nos Pos, Arizona. The highway’s eastern terminus is at NC 12 and U.S. Route 158 at Whalebone Junction, North Carolina.“

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What is the allure of shopping! You say to me, “What is the answer?” and I say to you, “What is the question?” The question – to put it in a more manageable form – is simply this: “Can humanity escape the retail world?” Astonishingly no matter how old or experienced one is in matters retail there are seemingly no end of contortions surrounding even the most purposeless acquisition. The casual watch manufacturers know only too well of what I speak. Watches – like any other technology, cosmetic or fashion – are undergoing constant alteration seemingly to capture the current popularity of a Hollywood star or whatever preposterous heights or depths the watch manufacturers’ advertisers consider current – whether flying with a Breitling or diving with a Rolex. Really? How gullible are we then? Apparently more so than is good for us!

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Perhaps it is no coincidence that as a Toronto Conservatory pianist and an amateur photographer I should have a keen affection for music and motion picture soundtracks.  The attraction is especially commanding when the soundtrack captures the drama at times to the extent of a spiritual level.  Examples are the theme songs of Casablanca, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, a Clockwork Orange, Jurassic Park, Star Wars and Romeo and Juliet to name but a very few.

“I do think we are all musical receptors, at a very deep level,” says Brand. “We have that in our ancient DNA, and because film music is working at a deeper level than language and intellectual thought, maybe it’s hitting us all at that level. In a funny way, talking about that means that you recognise it, but it doesn’t change its power.”

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Nothing surpasses a rainy Saturday for remorseless indolence. Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, baguette bagel with butter and a strong, black coffee. The natural interruption of drizzle nicely camouflages the day’s tarsome agenda. Besides I need a break from routine. Today is instead devoted to negligence and indulgence of the first order! Again I am reminded that we’re not saving it for the funeral!

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Getting out of bed in the morning at any particular time is never guaranteed – more so on a weekend when there persists the customary hang-over treatment. Most often we haven’t any scheduled appointments which would prompt the Drill Sergeant into parade ground routine. Today – Sunday – was no exception.  Yet when I succumbed at last this morning to the allure of a new day it was approaching nine o’clock. I recall having voided my bladder shortly after five o’clock this morning.  I then took my initial collection of pharmaceuticals and pain killer which I presume afforded a soporific effect. Nonetheless my awakening was nurtured moderately by a taste for discovery.

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