Not long ago I received (by email) a “selfie” of my elder niece (and goddaughter) and her handsome partner. I knew in an instant that it was a good shot. This seemingly idle observation of mine was all the more significant because of the casual, unwitting nature of the photograph. It was after all a “selfie”, an artistic flirtation not uncommon among the XYZ generations (basically, anything after The Beatles) and normally undertaken with a minimum of scrutiny or artistic devotion. It wasn’t a calculated composition; it was a whimsical snap. There was no posing. Yet it spoke to me.  It was a keeper. But how to do so? Storing things had proven to be a disengaging exercise. It complicated the matter when I added the ingredient that my niece is a professional photographer, primarily equestrian; but anything else she touches regularly proves to be equally memorable. Her skill is not discretionary or exclusionary. Here, I reasoned, was an opportunity.

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Forgive me – my apology for endless repetition – but I am compelled as a matter of duty to relate today’s encore brilliance. A simple matter, yes, perhaps; but one which nonetheless warrants unqualified attention for its splendour. It has been another glorious late autumn day in our tiny town – beaming yellow sunshine through the towering cumulonimbi, a fresh breeze, dry roads and cooperative traffic.

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If there’s one thing I like, it’s a quiet life. I’m not one of those
fellows who get all restless and depressed if things aren’t happening
to them all the time. You can’t make it too placid for me. Give me
regular meals, a good show with decent music every now and then, and
one or two pals to totter round with, and I ask no more. Bertie Wooster by P. G. Wodehouse

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When I transitioned early in my law career from a downtown urban firm to a main street rural sole proprietorship, it wasn’t long before I confronted the grid maps of the townships in the County of Lanark. These and survey matters in general frequently initiated any title searching. The preliminary education was understanding the difference between the fifth line and the fifth concession (the latter being the grid definitions of the townships in the county).

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There is not in all England a town so blatantly picturesque as Tilling,
nor one, for the lover of level marsh land, of tall reedy dykes, of
enormous sunsets and rims of blue sea on the horizon, with so fortunate
an environment. The hill on which it is built rises steeply from the
level land, and, crowned by the great grave church so conveniently close
to Miss Mapp’s residence, positively consists of quaint corners,
rough-cast and timber cottages, and mellow Georgian fronts. Corners and
quaintnesses, gems, glimpses and bits are an obsession to the artist,
and in consequence, during the summer months, not only did the majority
of its inhabitants turn out into the cobbled ways with sketching-blocks,
canvases and paintboxes, but every morning brought into the town
charabancs from neighbouring places loaded with passengers, many of whom
joined the artistic residents. E. F. Benson

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Today is the beginning of the month of November.  My immediate association is Armistice Day on November 11th.  It was always a dull grey day, as frequently with frigid temperatures. Usually rain, though seldom snow. Today’s weather is less mournful but nonetheless predominantly bleak. In prep school there was an hour “off”, perhaps marked by a brief assembly in chapel to memorialize the event.

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For the second time in as many years I have received an email containing an aggressive claim of an alleged copyright violation. It relates to the use by me of a photograph on my web site. The first accusation of copyright violation came from a woman whom I know. She had emailed the photograph to me. If I recall it was a snap of her (and possibly a companion) rowing on the river. I must have made the mistake of using the photo with my daily blog (and pointedly without having acknowledged whence it came). I accordingly removed the photo from my blog; and, I advised the woman. I haven’t heard from her again.

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Of all the things I’ve scribbled since I began keeping a diary at age 14 years, the one thing about which I’ve never written is Canada.  This is alarming for two reasons: 1) it’s the background of my entire life; and, 2) after having spent 6 months each year straddling the border between Canada and the United States of America, and having lived through the reign of both Nixon and Trump and opined upon each of them, it’s about time I said something about Canada!

Canada, second largest country in the world in area (after Russia), occupying roughly the northern two-fifths of the continent of North America. Wikipedia

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As dull as it has been – the driving was dreadful, I could barely see in front of me – the day has been uncommonly bright. Perhaps I should alter the metaphor “bright” to “salient”. My early morning meeting with a dermatologist for a body scan has disclosed four possible locations of skin cancer or melanoma. I never doubted the possibility. Something is going to get me! It is consistent with the previous identification and removal. We await the biopsy. Continue reading →

Marilyn – to whom I am forever indebted for having introduced me to my beloved French bulldog Monroe (yes, I know, you catch the eponymous connection) – has distinguished herself as a exponent of animal rights. Of lesser but nonetheless material import, she is a source of pearls of wisdom. Today she sent me “Three simple rules in life” (noted below).

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