To a degree taking delivery of a new motor vehicle is not entirely novel to me. I have repeated the ceremony regularly throughout the past forty-five years beginning 1975 when my father bought me my first automobile, a green 4-cylinder manual transmission Ford Mustang. This afternoon I re-enacted the ritual by completing the purchase of a Lincoln Aviator.  Aside from having stuck with Ford Motor Co – what I regale a “domestic” manufacturer – a good deal of the event today was considerably different not only from forty-five years ago abut also from just last year.

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As I drove into Ottawa early this morning to take my car to the dealership for replacement of a defective Sirius module, it pleased me to be doing something of substance.  Quite apart from the disabling influence of the pandemic, being retired means I seldom have much of a pressing nature other than groceries or a visit to the pharmacy.  Having this duty to fulfill made me feel relevant once again! As well it got me out of bed earlier than usual which naturally entails the advantage of a longer day – and the incomparable benefit of an afternoon nap!

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The corner of Bayview Avenue and Lawrence Avenue East in Toronto, Ontario, Canada is where I attended undergraduate philosophy studies at Glendon Hall in what was the former Wood Estate. It was surrounded on one side by Mt Pleasant Road and on the other by Post Road, Park Lane Circle and the Bridle Path. Nearby were Sunnybrook Health Sciences Centre, Sunnybrook Park and Edward Gardens. Just a short way north, south of York Mills Road, resided E. P. Taylor who coincidentally was a native of Ottawa and a graduate of Ashbury College. It is no surprise that when many of us from St. Andrew’s College were introduced to the bucolic campus in North York’s exclusive environment through Principal Escott Reid we were smitten and made the radical decision to apply there for admission rather than to Trinity College, University of Toronto where most graduates of the “Little Big Four” namely Upper Canada College, St. Andrew’s College, Trinity College School and Bishop Ridley College traditionally sought admission.

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The theme of revival at this time of year is inescapable whether prompted by springtime regeneration or the mixed metaphor of legal and spiritual extension of contract validity with the Holy Spirit. Either way the transition from winter dormancy is acute. The awakening this year is however noticeably diminished by the pandemic. The certainty of the natural and spiritual reinvigoration contradicts the pervasive uncertainty of the future.  Already people are starting to talk about foregoing handshaking interminably! The fluidity of global acquaintance is under attack! And with it comes a blunt admission of our mutual interdependence though not exactly the familiarity we had anticipated.

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There are few people who warrant the designation of flâneur.  It initially had the connotation of wasting time but has since acquired the incomparable ingredient of Parisian superfluity. The French have sought to expropriate the singular denomination much the way they have with Champagne.

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Normally my life is undemanding.  That is, there is certainly little required of me; and generally I require as little of myself (other than what is to be expected of moral behaviour generally). There was a time when from the moment of my awakening I contemplated the list of matters urgently or necessarily requiring my attention.  But those days of imperative or what I whimsically call my days of “service to the rich” have thankfully concluded – and beneficially all considered if I may add. Today however I was overtaken by the necessity of detail – most of which was admittedly of no pressing importance. My spectacles needed to be tightened; and my sunglasses (the ones I keep in the car – the Maui Jim’s) needed to be cleaned. As it turned out more than one pair of my glasses required adjustment; and naturally they all had to be cleaned afterwards.  Those obligations alone would have been sufficient occupation.  The further prerequisite was the location of the optical screwdriver which I customarily leave in the front compartment of the shaving kit I use when traveling.  The shaving kit is in turn left in my favourite Briggs & Riley bag. The bag is stored at one end of my clothes closet, at the bottom of whatever other portables I customarily bring back from Florida after our winter sojourn.  This meant I had the laborious task of emptying that part of my clothes closet then withdrawing the screwdriver and afterwards reassembling the lot!  Whew!  So much for trifling detail!

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Who hasn’t gleefully shared their stories of serendipity! Yet as much as I relish a good yarn I am bound to declare upon sober consideration that there isn’t anything attaching to coincidence except  what we make of it. Certainly there’s no metaphysical or abstruse significance. Nonetheless the unfathomable import attaching to commonality is neither irrelevant nor entirely negligible – no matter by what failed reasoning or inspired spirituality it is arrived at.

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As I have unfailingly remarked on numerous occasions leading up to this much-awaited episode, today is the end of our 14-day quarantine imposed by government order upon those of us returning to the homeland from abroad. It has, I can tell you, been a much greater imprisonment than I ever imagined.  And not one I hasten to repeat – in spite of Baker Bob’s enormously soothing Nanaimo bars!  The unaccustomed lethargy over the past two weeks has all but paralyzed me (or at the very least stiffened those once mobile limbs).  I never until now fully appreciated the text-book advantage of exercise. Stretch! Stretch!

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Tomorrow – Tuesday, April 7th – will mark a clean slate, a fresh start following precisely 14 days of quarantine. It is forecast to be sunny and warm. That’s nice! The last time I was out of the apartment was Monday, March 23rd when I mistakenly visited Lincoln Heights Ford to have the air pressure in my tyres increased (and subsequently the same day to have a replacement Sirius radio module ordered). The events continue to this day to be a moderate embarrassment, the punishment of which is relieved by my sincere misconstruction of the current social restrictions v-à-v those we had cultivated in the United States of America as recently as March 19th when we mournfully left Longboat Key to return home. I can’t recall ever having felt so robbed of a month of my lifetime, not even when lying in the hospital for about a month after my heart stopped while bicycling. That at least was an adventure of sorts! Shamefully I have yet to discover how to readapt the comparatively minor vacation interruption to the larger scope of just being alive. There lingers an imperturbable sense of violation and trespass – though without the benefit of having someone to blame. Blame I find is always so conveniently distracting.

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The Times recently posted an article by Lord Plush Bottom that in lieu of practicing self-isolation we should instead all man-up and get out there to spread the virus more quickly. The philosophy is strangely akin to that of the aristocrats sending the boys “over the top” in order to accelerate the defeat of the colonial enemy. The theory is that immunization is paradoxically achieved through pervasive exposure (“herd immunity“).  It is the same theme of conditioning which attends the vaccination process. Presumably most people (which pointedly in this instance includes the tea-sipping members of the upper crust) will have little if anything to endure from exposure. The avoidance is however notably indiscriminate. Certain of the herd will not be so successful. That too has become a tolerable statistic related to people over 60 years of age and especially those with so-called “pre-existing conditions” which is to say, currently contaminated with enfeebling drugs and as a result having an already weakened immune system. The unfortunate destiny may be dismissed as “their time had come” which I can tell you as one of the prospective applicants is not a purely intellectual reflection. I confess to having as yet certain unexpressed ambitions (though in fairness I hasten to add my unwavering conviction that life owes me nothing).

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