I spent almost forty years running my own small business (a project my mother correctly observed at the outset would “give me a headache”). I am if nothing else attuned to working for others, not that I necessarily always cultivated the best practices. Like most people however I learned from my mistakes. The duration of my tenure as a businessman at least enabled me to discover what I should be doing even if I hadn’t always the skill or foresight to do so. Being such a well educated veteran it raised my hackles today to reacquaint myself unfavourably with several irksome details of running a business. I’m the first to admit that their sum total hardly amounts to anything more than a trifling inconvenience but this hasn’t sufficient persuasion for me to abandon the account.

My first reminder was this: Don’t assume that people will do what you ask them to do.  This particular point was driven home to me in more than one instance.  The primary illustration was the advice of the car dealer that the car which I had ordered months ago was not exactly as I had ordered it (specifically the wheel size was smaller than I had stipulated).  It bothered me to hear this because in the same breath I was being asked to accept the smaller wheels “if I could live with it”.  For one thing this naturally defeats the entire purpose of ordering a car; one is instantly catapulted back into the commonplace practice of searching for a car that comes close to what you would prefer though not exactly what you want.  The more sinister feature of this foible is that no one had bothered to tell me about this until the very moment that I was at the dealership to conduct the pre-purchase inspection. Nor apparently had the manufacturer bothered to tell the dealership about the unilateral modification.  The General Sales Manager with whom I was dealing mistakenly attempted to dismiss the error by suggesting that the salesman with whom I had been dealing (and to whom the notice of the modification may have been sent) was currently away from the dealership (as he apparently had been for the past six weeks) and may in fact never return.  This left me wondering who if anyone was monitoring this salesman’s business communications during his absence.

Just to step back for a moment from this conspicuous concern, when we first entered the dealership showroom we were greeted by a tall young woman who asked what she might do to assist us.  I told her I was there to see the General Sales Manager to which she replied, “The name?”  That alone perturbed me but I nonetheless responded with equal warmth. “Chapman”, I said, which she then mechanically repeated, “Chapman” and went looking for the GSM.  I would have thought that considering the brevity of my association with the clerk, and that I wasn’t being addressed by a Headmaster while in Lower School, I was entitled to be called “Mr. Chapman” but that expectation clearly failed.  I might add that her appalling reception had been echoed by the young man whom we had encountered at the front desk several weeks earlier.  He too lacked any social polish.  I concede that the shortfall is likely a product of poor training more than intentional indiscretion.

After the GSM and I had engaged in lengthy discussions about what was to be done about fulfilling the initial contractual arrangement (a solution which  at the suggestion of the GSM involved commandeering the wheels and tires from another car on the showroom floor), we were then shepherded to a clerk to finalize the Bill of Sale.  This fellow I knew from previous experience (when we first placed the order) was someone lacking in attention to detail, a fault compounded by what I can only conceive is blanket laziness.  He had for example failed to note on the initial Bill of Sale that a $500 deposit had been paid by me on account (though he attempted to trivialize the omission by suggesting that I “needn’t worry” about the detail which he assured me would be picked up eventually).  He repeated this  theme today when I reminded him that he had not noted on the Bill of Sale that I was to get an alternate set of wheels.  Again he jokingly surmised that I could simply refuse to close the deal unless the correct wheels were installed.  This of course was small comfort to a lawyer who is trained to expect performance of the terms of a contract.  I let is slide on this occasion but only because I later reiterated the arrangement when I sent an email to the GSM in hopes of providing at least some written evidence of the deal we had earlier concluded.  I did however give the clerk a bit of push-back when I insisted that he ensure that there was no dealer ID on the car or the new plates.  I punctuated the point by stressing that this was the third time I had mentioned this point to various members of the dealership and that already I had noticed that there was a dealership sticker on the back of the car.  I also had to remind the clerk that I had asked him to buy new plates rather than simply remove and reinstall my old plates (as the clerk had first suggested when he thought to ward off the installation of the dealer ID, a tact which I informed him wouldn’t work if it was he who installed new plates and I was therefore not part of the overseeing process).  Another thing which disturbed me about this clerk is that when he was talking in my presence to another clerk about the arrangements for the delivery of the new vehicle, he not only referred to me as “the customer” (he clearly couldn’t recall my name and had no intention of looking for it on the Bill of Sale) but also spoke to the other clerk about the delivery of my “truck” (which to my admittedly narrow and obsessive thinking is inappropriate to describe a Cadillac sedan).

In the result the entire experience with the dealership was rather dream-like as we moved imperceptibly from accommodation to accommodation, tainted meanwhile by incompetence, lack of social skills and a general feeling of being merely a number in a factory-like production mill.  Certainly the dealership can tout its ability to be competitive for pricing and that of course is no small matter.  But as always there is a price to pay for any advantage. The repercussion can include not getting what you wanted, or least having to be extremely vigilant about getting it; and having to forgo the privilege of more than token politeness.  Because the experience left me feeling so wary and impersonal, I resolved within minutes of leaving the place that I would never return for routine maintenance.  Of course I know that the sales people could care less if they ever see me again but I have no inclination to feed their system any further.  The bottom line is that the failure of the dealership and the manufacturer to observe the detail of my order contaminated the integrity of the entire business association.  Frankly it is small consolation that I will have pilfered wheels from another vehicle especially one which is last year’s model and the wheels were not intended for the package I had ordered. Naturally I own that these technical caveats are bordering on neurotic.  Nor did it lubricate the friction of it all to be told I could simply abandon the order entirely.  Given the planning that went into the orchestration of this transaction and the limited time within which to refresh it, the option wasn’t embraced by me as liberally as it was offered by the dealer.  Notwithstanding all else, one in my position feels the obligation to behave reasonably and to rise above what for most people are undoubtedly minor adjustments.  Accordingly the deal was made and I was invited to pick the car up the next day.

The next day I received an early morning telephone call from the GSM in which he asked to postpone the scheduled rendez-vous 24 hours to which of course I agreed (particularly as the GSM stated he didn’t want to rush the transaction for fear of missing any detail).  In view of my likely reputation for pickiness it would have been unthinkable of me to have rejected the proposition!

To be honest I don’t think I’ve ever had a car purchase transaction which hasn’t had some element of frustration. The list of new cars I’ve owned includes a Ford Mustang (2), Pontiac Grand Prix (2), Oldsmobile Cutlass (2), Buick Electra, Buick Riviera (2), Buick Enclave, Oldsmobile Toronado (2), Lincoln Town Car, Lincoln LS (2) and Lincoln MKS (4).  The record of annoyances of those deals includes the following: one car wouldn’t go into reverse; another was built lopsided; another dropped out of gear at 100 km/hr; another rattled constantly; another suffered constant computer shut-downs; another etc., etc. etc.  Owning a new car is to be reminded of the adage that nothing is perfect.  Given the truth of that maxim, I have reluctantly dropped my head out of the clouds sufficiently to rationalize the balance of reasons for being satisfied with this particular escapade. Pointedly the GSM most recently said to me that he fully expected that I would be able to answer every question on the subsequent marketing survey “Completely Satisfied”.  I didn’t bother to tell him that I don’t do surveys.  Just as well for him, I suppose.

Post Scriptum

I cannot resist the urge to tell you what happened since we took delivery of the car on Wednesday morning. First let me say that, as I sit here late on Thursday evening after having driven the new car for most of yesterday and today, I am indeed “Completely Satisfied”.  In spite of the number of times I have endured this initially painful process of buying a new car (and learning how to work the various functions), invariably the tribulations have been quelled.  There must be another aphorism there somewhere!  For starters, the GSM in spite of the obvious pressure he suffers to run a large, high-volume operation, continuously maintained a firm hand on the tiller.  I grew increasingly to admire his business acumen and dedication to detail and performance.  He like most people with real talent never paraded it but his direct and summary actions spoke volumes.  He is a man who clearly has no patience for taradiddle. I have to thank him for having salvaged the deal which – again to his credit – he immediately recognized was in jeopardy when the seemingly small detail of the wheel size surfaced. My initial sense of manipulation dissipated on Wednesday once I saw the new car cleaned up, polished and sporting the very handsome replacement wheels (which were an unquestionable upgrade from what had of necessity been ordered but not delivered). The outcome was one of those desirable ones where an error becomes a blessing.

I must also thank the new young salesman who tentatively took the reins from the GSM to complete the bureaucratic details of the transaction (the exchange of keys, payment of funds, signing papers and the like). Granted the GSM nurtured him along right to the end, adding advice and once diverting his poorly calculated tactics, and ultimately reaching the goal.  This salesman distinguished himself as a pleasant person, someone who in any commercial enrolment is an asset even if the performance details require some refinement.

And finally the car itself.  Mr. Cadillac knows what he is doing!  On more than one occasion I wondered if I were sensible to abandon what had been an exceedingly pleasant experience with the Lincoln MKS.  The Cadillac more than passes muster.  I really enjoy driving it.

“I Wanna Go to Marz” by John Grant

Images from the movie ‘Weekend’. A story where two gay men meet and develop a love affair over the course of a single weekend.

A raw material, also known as a feedstock or most correctly unprocessed material, is a basic material that is used to produce goods, finished products, energy, or intermediate materials which are feedstock for future finished products.

The nature of the rank and file (and I include myself in that commonality) is more brute and indelicate than we prefer to believe.  This is so in spite of repeated social training and ingrained behavioural adjustment. The opinion – which I acknowledge must to some people amount to a platitude – does however reinforce the spontaneity and vigour of what might otherwise be dismissed as practised and hackneyed conduct.  No matter how refined or sophisticated we may fashion ourselves our patterns of behaviour are invariably characterized by a good deal of raw emotion and elemental response, hardly the material of robotic and text-book etiquette.

What intrigues me in particular about this observation is that it de-escalates the customary rational retort to the visceral level.  In a word, it makes it easier to fathom where someone is coming from.  If we permit ourselves to be or become confounded by little more than hysterical psychoanalysis, our understanding of others is thereby severely limited.  How much less clinical and more palpable it is to construe the passion of others in terms of appetites and desires, the underlying forces of nature, the building blocks we all share.

The raw material of life is pretty basic – food and protection.  In these two global  categories reside all other mortal concerns.  “Protection” for example includes housing (furnishings, art work, status), financial security and even sex (perpetuation of the species).  “Food” embraces health, socializing and travel (relaxation from hunting and gathering).  Life in its simplest terms reduces to those quintessentials, a slight improvement on the bare-bone necessities of water and air.  If one appreciates this reduction it is far easier to comprehend the thoughts and maneuvers of others.  You can be assured that somehow the gambit is directed to food or protection (in their widest terms of course).  It is not necessary to identify the detail of the scheme; what is however worthwhile is to accept that the motive is fundamental, not complicated or tortuous.  Then begins the real insight into what makes people tick.

Too often when seeking to explain the conduct of others we’re inclined to manufacture incredibly devious ploys for what are nothing more than direct thrusts.  Indeed the more disturbed one is by the events of life, the more blunt is the reaction to them.  When responding to life we haven’t the time or inclination to fabricate intricate channels of expression.  The expression may be love or hate, admiration or disdain, anger or pacification, happiness or jealousy, pleasure or remorse.  Whatever it is, when you brush aside the gloss, the motive will be high-profile in critical relief.  You can’t miss it!  It’s raw material!

“I Wanna go to Marz” by John Grant

Bittersweet strawberry, marshmallow, butterscotch
Polar bear, cashew, dixieland, phosphate, chocolate
Lime, tutti frutti, special raspberry, leave it to me
Three grace, scotch lassie, cherry smash, lemon freeze

I wanna go to Marz
Where green rivers flow
And your sweet sixteen is waiting for you after the show
I wanna go to Marz
You’ll meet the Gold Dust Twins tonight
You’ll get your heart’s desire, I will meet you under the lights

Golden champagne, juicy grapefruit, lucky Monday
High-school football, hot fudge, buffalo, tulip sundae
Almond caramel frappé, pineapple, root beer
Black and white, Big apple, Henry Ford, sweet heart, maple tear

I wanna go to Marz
Where green rivers flow
And your sweet sixteen is waiting for you after the show
I wanna go to Marz
You’ll meet the Gold Dust Twins tonight
You’ll get your heart’s desire, I will meet you under the lights…

I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

William Shakespeare, Macbeath, Act 5, Scene 3

Now this I have to say is an unorthodox week! And a very heartening one at that! As I scan my MacBook Pro calendar for the upcoming week I see for the first time in a very long while nothing more disquieting than a luncheon date with my beloved sister tomorrow and a visit from our cleaning lady on Thursday.  And that pretty much captures the unhurried routine for the remainder of the summer.

As wont as I am to condemn those who clamour about their ineffable lives, I can’t frankly imagine a more preferable circumstance than this. The utter lack of necessity is an incalculable luxury!  For me it is the stuff of dreams (and certainly an agreeable variation on the former rigid demands of employment). The fairy tale nature of my existence is heightened by the top-storey prospect of our apartment. I am able to glimpse the open fields to the southwest where cattle regularly graze.  Our turret is a utilitarian compound of rooms of which every particle is precious to me.  It is compact and exquisite!

While it might be asserted that I am figuratively confined to the constraints of my own mind (which I admit is a very real possibility) I have the relieving advantage of knowing that travel is on the horizon. This enthralling prospect affords me the pleasure of anticipation and the promise of an enlarging experience.

The gallivant will further entail movement in an automobile which for me is infinitely more appealing than being poured into an aircraft seat (and left to “set”) or even restricted to strolling in circles upon the decks of a ship.  It lubricates the adventure that we should  have a new vehicle in which to do it.

I wonder that I am so pliable.  If I were to compare what we’re doing today with what we had planned to do five months ago there is little resemblance. To our everlasting credit we have suffered no reluctance whatsoever in making the alteration. Our design was not to be inert. I like to think that we have risen to the occasion so to speak, to address what needed to be done. The corollary to having done so is that we haven’t any regret.  In fact the modification is more a reward than an imposition or an abuse, all part of the current state of euphoria.

There are so few times in life when its constancy and elation virtually blare at you. Even if I cannot at the moment predict a discernible hiccup it is nonetheless certifiable that eventually my luck will change and we’ll plummet from the skies to the basement, from the ivory tower to the sere and yellow leaf of old age.

In retrospect it is ticklish to know what exactly triggers an argument between two people who are close to one another.  There is after all so much history between such persons and putting one’s finger on the exact cause can be quite the challenge. Most often disagreements of that oddly amorphous nature are between spouses, lovers, co-habitants or friends, people who by their very nature have woven a relationship of an intricate and complicated web. By contrast conflicts with business associates are generally more easily explained as the difficulty is usually beyond personalities and merely debate over something tangible like money or services, but at least the problem is normally an identifiable source. The more personal conflicts among close relationships are less readily explained and quite often the cause is but the proverbial straw on the back of what has been an endless and cumulative complaint.  Certainly in the wake of the eruption between the parties there are infinite renditions of the cause, largely directed at the other person for some purportedly recognizable reason.  The thrust of that reasoning does however erode quickly when hearing the other side of the story (assuming the flurry of anger settles eventually and there is some attempt at reconciliation). In the end the normal result of the conflict is an admission of misunderstanding and all the heated remonstrances which flowed from that initial error are perfunctorily deflated.  The discovery of what fed the fires in the first place is likely found in an analysis of one’s criticism of the other, not for the reason that those criticisms are valid but rather because criticism is the best autobiography.  It may of course set one aback to turn the knife upon oneself but that is usually exactly what it takes to get the point (pardon the pun).  No matter what the provocation in matters of this level of consternation, the resolution lies in addressing one’s own shortcomings, failing which we merely prolong the anxiety unnecessarily and further sting our own conscience, not to mention going off like a rogue missile without any hope of hitting the target.

As in everything, there is an exception.  Sometimes the conundrum is genuinely founded on more than a misunderstanding.  Sometimes there is in fact a problem. And sometimes the problem is not ours. It frequently occurs that the disagreement is but a symptom of the cause.  We silly humans regularly confound what is otherwise the simplicity of life by muddling our personal problems with the unrelated behaviour of others. This confusion translates into blaming others for our own faults.  While it might be presumed that recognition of fault is both unwelcome and inconvenient, the truth is that the task is not so easily dismissed.  Indeed I have sufficient confidence in the desirability of solving problems to believe that were we to know the question, we would seek the answer.  The problem is we sometimes don’t know the question.

Or what is more likely, we don’t want to talk about the problem.  Problems are a bit like any other character trait; viz., they develop incrementally and often imperceptibly.  Given the closeness of the relationship, the depth of the trouble can sublimate and become unidentifiable in the larger picture.  We simply lose sight of whence it came.  Even if we’re astute enough to spot the obstacle we seldom have the conviction to pronounce upon it (which is a strange dilemma considering how readily we normally lay blame at another’s feet).  Having the courage to address someone else’s real problem is far less enthralling.  Certainly there is some truth to the proposition that each of us must ultimately be the one to direct our own behaviour.  But I believe there is yet room for frankness about the problem if not about the solution. To adopt an entirely laissez-faire approach to human relationships is in my opinion just short of turning a blind eye to others. Plus I honestly feel that it is the duty of those who have acquired some wisdom through time and experience to share it with those who haven’t.  If nothing else it will promote a conversation which at the very least is better than dumb silence.

I’m in the dining area of our “open-concept” (the lyrical term for “small”) apartment intently staring at the oil paintings, sepia photographs and polished wood carving hanging on the wall directly before me. I like what I see. I am primarily absorbed in the juxtaposition of the art works; they’re irregularly mounted with a studied lack of symmetry. The combined effect is soothing. Although we each have a desk, the dining table doubles as a communal platform for our laptop computers. Admittedly it is a minor nuisance (as it was this evening when my physician joined us for dinner) to clear the table for visitors, but otherwise we’ve adjusted conveniently to the required space allocations.

As I say, the assortment of stuff on the wall pleases me greatly. It was however a construct which required time and amendment to develop. Specifically the original collection was sparser than it is now.  When my elderly mother broke up her house we “inherited” several further paintings, two of which I had originally gifted to my parents and one of which is a family heirloom. Unquestionably all the artifacts gratify me. I have in the past frequently spoken of the exceeding pleasure I derived from this little apartment ab initio and there has been no subsequent dilution of that embryonic gusto.

Neither have I ever been tempted to weaken the force of the environment by the calumny of some distorted reasoning (for example that my enthusiasm is merely the product of retirement euphoria).  No, this place easily stands on its own and I shall never get enough of it. In short it’s a collection of my favourite things shown to their greatest advantage by daylight from a southern exposure on two sides.

I will however confess to no small degree of complacency, itself an achievement following months of effort.  This smugness is not merely gloating triumph; rather it is the self-satisfaction of having tackled a worthy task and completed it.  I can’t recall the last time I was able to look myself in the mirror and say that there is nothing further I might have done. I have positively no regrets; and indeed I have considerable pride in where we are today.  Each of us in my family circle, in his or her own particular way, is riveted to the idea of getting things in order – more so my elderly mother of course.  It is a matter of some imperative. There are inevitable transitions to be made at the well-defined “stages” of life and we have all reached the “old age” paradigm.  A signal focus of the model is disengaging and letting go, an endeavour which can become as broad as the imagination permits, not just things, but ideas, beliefs and people even. Initially it was not a project which I cultivated but it has become impossible to ignore its compelling nature.  It is virtually genetic, just as nature teaches each of us how to die.  That is perhaps an inappropriately strong rendition of the theory but it captures the unalterable necessity of the enterprise.  I prefer to view the process not as one of declension but rather of fulfillment.  The singular advantage of old age is that the persuasive element of need is overpowering and inescapable. Whereas youth is easily distracted but nefarious appetites and desires, the elderly have the benefit of resolve and goals.  And let’s face it, we haven’t a lifetime before us, so let’s get on with it!

After two days of unbroken interference by extraneous elements with my daily routine – a length of time which I stigmatize as an unforgivable eternity quite apart from the personal trespass – I have gratefully resumed the privilege of my regular habits, specifically the quondam tradition of a morning bicycle ride.  The ritual jaunt is a mere 11.3 kilometres which takes 45 minutes on average to accomplish.  It is for me as mandatory (and revitalizing) as the morning shower!  Increasingly I am plagued by the aches and pains which attend aging but the bike ride assuages my gnawing disturbances on every level, physical, mental and – perhaps most significantly – spiritual.  There is endless science about the advantage of exercise but I don’t need to be convinced.  I have embraced the theory for years!  While I do not describe myself as athletic, if ever I lost the ability to ride a bicycle it would be a deprivation right up there with losing my driver’s licence (which for me is an equally horrid thought).  Already I am contemplating what tricycle I’ll purchase when my equilibrium starts to go.  There are some racy models on the market and they are becoming increasingly popular with sexagenarians and upwards.

I am still in that moment of life when people ask me how I find retirement. It reminds me of a young mother with a new child whose first two years of life are measured in months as though the unfathomable ecstasy were more elongated.  I have not yet fallen into the tedium of pronouncing that I am now busier than ever! Though I confess the vernacular is another universe (and one I never thought I’d attain any more than I’d go to the moon).  I cherish this new-found latitude and I’m not taking any of it lying down!  Instead I am aggressively employing the juncture to round out years of simmering thoughts. I am severely conscious of the limited time that now remains and have every intention of addressing whatever piques my interest. I do not mean that I have the craving to see the world or fulfill impossible dreams.  It is a less preposterous focus of exploring my own inner existence, venting those percolating notions and determining what is within the scope of my compass.

My diligence in this conviction has been momentarily derailed as I have lately undertaken more pressing filial obligations.  But these selfless duties are now nearing their performance and I can once again assume the indulgent delight of uncoiling my own future.  I am sufficiently provoked to seek to lose weight. I have at last awoken to the medical value of the venture (and I am disgusted to think I might otherwise extend the tape measurer another few inches around my already protuberant middle). It is however a singularly annoying quest, one for which it appears the stock observation is, “It gets more difficult with age!” For example I have not had a drop of alcohol in almost two years; for the past year we have bicycled virtually every day, winter, spring, summer and fall; the standard hors d’oeuvres are crudités (no more salted crackers, cheese and smoked oysters); and desserts (other than fresh fruit) are a rarity.  The only relief I have is the intelligence I gleaned yesterday on BBC that there are two kinds of fat, one (the bad kind) which surrounds the vital internal organs, the other (the not so bad kind) that simply insulates one’s body.  Apparently exercise diminishes the bad kind of fat before its benefits extend to the so-called “exterior” fat.  On that premise I can possibly shelter at least some of my dismay.

When I was studying law at Dalhousie Law School in Halifax, Nova Scotia I cavorted with a charming lady and colleague whose father was a local Judge (and whose own father had been a lawyer in Cape Breton defending rum runners among others).  The Judge told me that, if I wanted to be a good lawyer, I would read nothing but the law.  This prescription was certainly no difficulty when I was studying law as the occupation monopolized my time entirely.  Similarly after I graduated from law school and began Articles, then the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall and within two years launched my own law practice which I maintained for about forty years, I continued to have hardly any time to read anything other than the law.  Now my studied recreation is autobiographies, including those of Sir Alec Guinness, Arthur Rubinstein, Benjamin Franklin, P. T. Barnum, Edward Gibbon and Stephen Fry.

One significant element which has dropped off the map is my piano playing. Admittedly my limited (though mildly entertaining) skill had reached its zenith.  Last year I succumbed to the urge to buy an electronic keyboard. With the benefit of technology (and high quality headphones) I have revived my amusement in making music.  I view this most recent diversion as a concession to a visceral need, nothing more.  Its advanced engineering satisfies my curiosity as well; and its portability coincides nicely with our lifestyle which segregates summer and winter habitations.

I have abandoned any pretence for traditional piano playing and supplanted my creative necessity with a more enthusiastic writing commitment. Although it has been four years since the launch of my partnership with The Millstone News I am yet adjusting to the exigencies of a “public” voice vis-à-vis the “private” medium of a diary which, along with an internet blog, was my customary mode of literary expression since the age of thirteen years. Walking the line between general and specific is not as easy a transition as I had expected.

I continue to be drawn into familial affairs, something which rather amuses me considering how little time until recently I spent with my family for most of my life.  I do not for a minute concede that the alteration is a product of misgiving of any sort; I merely enjoy doing what has to be done.  For that at least I can thank my mother who has become exceedingly demanding and expectant in her old age (she’s now in her ninetieth year). On August 17th for example, the anniversary of my late father’s birth, our immediate family trooped to  Beechwood Cemetery to view his grave and lay two yellow roses on it.  The next day (August 18th) marked the exact two-month milestone of my mother’s move to Colonel By Retirement Residence and we pointedly capitalized upon the day to confer with her financial planner following the sale of her house a week earlier.  Today was a more humdrum undertaking.  We visited my mother at the retirement home to ensure her hair-dressing arrangements are in order and to change the batteries of her new hearing aids. Afterwards we picked up a few household provisions for her. The extent of my involvement with the management of her affairs is decreasing daily.  It was an inspiriting change this afternoon to motor to a small café on Mill Street in the Village of Manotick for the fulfillment of no other agenda than a quiet cup of Cappuccino.  When we later arrived home I was entangled in yet another hour or more of diligence following receipt of several letters from Canada Revenue Agency and Service Canada for my mother.  I suppose they are simply reminders that I shouldn’t imagine myself untethered for a while yet.  There was also that little chat I had with my mother’s lawyer’s office early this morning.

Nonetheless it is emblematic of my awakening freedom that I felt moved today to prepare a gazpacho soup.  I have the list of required ingredients on my iPhone because it is one of only three or four recipes which I regularly prepare (that is if you can call working in the kitchen twice a year “regular”). Anyway…I found my way into the fresh vegetable section of the supermarket and bought what I needed.  My attention was abruptly diverted by arrival in the mail of the Canada Revenue Agency stuff (a knee-jerk reaction I confess to have to that particular type of brown envelope) but after an amazingly delightful meal of filet mignon, pan-fried potatoes (in duck fat), beets and feta cheese prepared by His Lordship, I was sufficiently restored to tackle the culinary task I had set before me.  It speaks to the shallowness of my resolve (though in my opinion without diminishing the healthfulness of the dish) that the various vegetables were not all that finely chopped.  I prefer to think of it as a robust “peasant” dish, deliberately lacking in refinement.  I know there are some (without pointing fingers) who are more than a bit snooty about that element of my food preparation, but by contrast there are others who positively commend me for the active choice of ruggedness.  None of this purée rubbish for me!

While it shouldn’t surprise me that the end of what has been routine for the past five months leaves me suddenly feeling aimless, the frozen truth is that my habits are as Pavlovian as any other creature. We now begin the dénouement following the accomplishment of an agenda which frankly accelerated more quickly than anticipated.  Indeed things progressed so very swiftly that we hadn’t either the time or inclination to ruminate upon what we would do when it was all over.  Nonetheless, here we are, at the end of the road, at least at the end of that one in particular.  It was more of a highway than a bi-way and we now have the privilege to adjust our temperament to a more leisurely stroll without having to plan each day in pressing succession.

A year ago my father died; I retired from the practice of law; I sold my law practice; I administered my father’s estate; I administered the estate of a former client; we sold our house; we moved into an apartment; we met new neighbours; and then we went away for the winter.  Upon our return to Canada in Spring we commenced the immediate settlement of my elderly mother’s outstanding affairs including her removal to a retirement residence, the sale of her house, the disposition of her surplus personal effects and generally tidying up her papers, investments and medical issues (including even the purging of  the contents of her purse). That is a grossly succinct account of what has been an unqualified trial on all sides. Today is perhaps the closest I have been to management of my personal affairs in the past year and a half.  The only vestige of my erstwhile preoccupations with my mother is the upcoming conference with her financial advisor, an appointment which is more in the nature of a performance than a confabulation.  The upshot of what we have done in the past five months is to delegate the management of my mother’s affairs to others in perpetuity, corporations harnessed for their personal and proprietary management skills thereby relieving me and my sister of both the duty and care of doing so.  Naturally my sister and I presently have no intention of abandoning our mother but considering my anticipated five-month hibernation and the personal constraints upon my sister, it makes eminent sense to have arranged uninterrupted care and advice for my mother. We no longer need worry about what mother is eating (if indeed she is eating at all), whether she is taking her medicine, whether she has fallen off a step-ladder or down the basement stairs or whether she is depressed by being alone day after day.  We have also built into the scheme the potential for seamless upgrading to assisted living if mother requires it.

The fallout for me is that I am now effectively out of a job.  Granted I still keep tabs on mother’s day-to-day financial affairs but most of that is preauthorized and therefore a matter of record only. Importantly it is something I can manage either here, there or everywhere thanks to the internet and on-line banking. For my part I am at last enabled to merge my retirement and my personal ambitions.  In the short run at least it is an astonishingly difficult transition.  I am so accustomed to having a hand on the tiller that it feels like abandoning ship not to do so.

While it certainly doesn’t amount to a grievous oversight to have lately neglected the contemplation of my own affairs, I confess I am pleased to reignite the interest in doing so.  Sporadically I have dwelt upon the complexities of my private fortunes and misfortunes, a contemplation which has been a protracted analysis and which like any acceptable liquor has required dark and quiet fermentation.  I haven’t the sense that there are any loose ends and I appreciate the opportunity to savour the results.

About a month ago I bought a golf shirt at Mark’s Workwear in Carleton Place. The venture is of no import apart from the fact that my shopping sprees lately have been confined to groceries and hamburgers. The shirt however pleased me sufficiently that I didn’t want to diminish the initial pleasure of wearing it. As a result I have been postponing the petty exhilaration until completion of the sale of my elderly mother’s house. This arbitrary detention is of course a laughable fabrication, a combination of superstition and reward. The sale project (and the collateral undertaking to remove my agèd mother to a retirement residence) have monopolized my attention and exhausted my patience for the past five months. Yesterday the sale transaction finally closed, signalling the end of the substantive administration of my mother’s domestic affairs and the re-opening of the avenue to my personal province. Today as a solemnization I intend to wear my new shirt.

The 2XL Classic Fit shirt (“a relaxed fit to provide superior comfort“) is further described on the manufacturer’s tag as “oatmeal”, both a lovely word and colour.  I initially trolled the racks for a plain white shirt but none was available. In keeping with my binary nature I feel best suited to either white or black but modest accommodation is bearable especially in these low level sartorial matters (the price of the shirt was all of $21.99).

This vapid little anecdote – highlighting as it does the features of superstition and reward – is on analysis nonetheless illustrative of some deep-seated psychology.  As convinced as I am of the strength of rationality (a disposition upon which I pride myself as an old lawyer) I oddly submit from time to time to what can only be described as unjustified belief in the supernatural. Granted the intuition to believe this or that is probably founded in some logical extension but it seems to elevate the conduct to attribute sorcery to it. I do however acknowledge that the folklore about not wanting to “jinx” a matter has some primeval sway.  Who for example hasn’t once said, “Knock on wood!”  It is but a small hop to embrace the more profound myths which humanity regularly harbours about the universe once you have taken that first step into the abyss.  Any attempt to distance one legend from another may in the end be a distinction without a difference. Anyway you look at it, faith is all about apprehension.  For that reason alone the shirt complete with tags stayed tucked away in my closet awaiting the advent of this day.

The second pivotal element of this yarn is the feature of compensation, the entitled expropriation of which has never been beneath my dignity.  I have not however been one to reap my advantage until it is earned. On balance I much prefer to suffer deprivation rather than reclamation.  Once again the drama is little more than toying with superficial sentiments – I mean, really, how important can a bit of textile be! Yet such is the subtlety of advanced age and a mellow mind that even inconsequential frivolity is absorbing.  I please myself to imagine – perhaps madly – that the measured parsing of life’s rewards will both heighten and lengthen the experience.

The final feature of this account is – as with the postponement of anything – the realization of it.  No matter what idle fancy, diligent planning or exhilarating anticipation has gone into the exploit, the ultimate proof of the pudding is in the eating. The lesson here is that things seldom turn out the way we had expected, which doesn’t necessarily mean bad things happen but rather that the trajectory of one’s ambitions may become quickly altered or detoured.  The superstition and reward which initially motivated the conduct are in a flash dissipated.  They like any other sensation have their fabric in the living not the expectation.