In what we can all hope to be the fulfillment of life’s intended cycle, it is an odd turn of nature that the child becomes the parent and the parent becomes the child.  Quite unexpectedly I have learned that this eventuality is no mere aphorism, rather a blunt truism to which one must actively adhere. The discovery is perhaps for me the more surprising because I have never before had the occasion to be a parent; and I cannot resist thinking that the opportunity is akin to the experience of anyone who becomes a father or mother late in life, often more by accident than design. Yet because of the very natural unfolding of the experience I find that, in spite of my prior lack of education in the matter, being a parent to my own mother for example is nonetheless a perfectly fluid transition though admittedly the initial recognition of the condition was mildly startling.

A further element of suspense in the evolution of this paradoxical relationship was that until recently I hardly knew my mother on any level much less that arising in the context of reversed roles of parent and child.  At the age of thirteen years I had removed myself to a boarding school in Aurora, Ontario and my parents lived four thousand miles away in Stockholm, Sweden.  Even after my parents returned to Ottawa, Canada I was continuing my estrangement by living in Toronto, Ontario for undergraduate studies and afterwards in Halifax, Nova Scotia for law school.  I have never returned home and my later associations with my parents were strictly social and frequently as contrived, distant and stilted.

Awakening to the care of my parents initially involved nothing more special than advising them to take the same estate planning precautions which I would have encouraged my legal clients to do, routine matters such as Wills and Powers of Attorney and the more esoteric precaution of a Family Trust.  It wasn’t however until after the death of my father (who continued almost until his death to be cared for by my mother) that my participation in the care of my mother accelerated. An examination of my father’s financial affairs during the administration of his estate disclosed certain inadequacies which, while having been excused by my mother as “what your father wanted”, were not otherwise tenable. Modification of these arrangements was my introduction to the inertia which so characterized everything I later attempted to do for my mother.  Her stock response to almost any suggestion – whether it be an investment decision or something as trivial as replacing a damaged lamp shade – was to put it off until some later date, whether after an upcoming holiday or some other arbitrary event.  The pragmatism of the plan mattered not, her entire goal appeared to maintain the status quo undisturbed.

Given my mother’s appearance of deliberation and conviction, it required months of repeated similar intersections before I realized that her mind in these matters was not governed by logic, purpose or rationality but merely by intransigence.  I have subsequently come to understand that her inability to embrace change of any degree is a reflection of the inordinate struggle which she must undergo to comprehend it. This of course made my resolution to lead by example and instruction – as one must do with a child – considerably more palatable for me and I no longer felt the pang of regret which at first attended my frustration and misgiving upon seemingly foisting my recommendations upon my mother.

The fruitful outcome of these frequently highly strained encounters between me and my mother was twofold:  first, I at last took the uninhibited liberty of telling her exactly what I thought of her (a behaviour on my part which was most certainly not a model of decorum); and, second, I unwittingly acquired an insight into her personality which I can tell you was a far stretch from the paradigm of motherhood which I had mistakenly ascribed to her previously. In the result, the two of us got to know one another through the sometimes painful exercise of raw sentiment unadulterated by camouflage of any description.  In the early stages of our acquaintance there was considerable anxiety mingled with our congresses; and it was not unusual for me to find myself muttering to myself as I sped away from her house in my car. Eventually however the acrimony dissipated as I acknowledged the cause and saw the need to act as guardian.

There are several models of a small vacation community which have had their appeal to me.  I reckon it is no accident that I prefer the bijou-size stopping places, just as my landing in Almonte forty years ago was not without both its internal and external influences and confluences. My introduction to the miniature getaway vernacular was the Town of Provincetown in Barnstable County on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.  I first visited the Town about 1978 on Labour Day Weekend, an event which became a subsequent annual trek. Like many of these peculiar resorts, Provincetown was at the remote end of the Cape but it thereby succeeded to embrace the unique natural geographic features of the area, notably its towering sand dunes and completely unspoiled and uninhabited beaches.  Its history harkened back to the early Portuguese fishermen who populated the Town when whaling was popular. It was a mark of my absorption into this tiny community that I had the privilege to walk upon the floor boards of King Hiram’s Masonic Lodge which was chartered December 12, 1795 by Paul Revere who was then the Grand Master from Boston.

In the winter months I discovered that the natural southern extension of Provincetown was Key West, Florida. It was not uncommon to encounter people in Key West in February who had worked in or visited Provincetown in the previous summer months. Once again Key West was a remote location being the southernmost point of the United States of America.  Getting there represented a small challenge if one didn’t care to take the time to motor for four hours across the very extensive bridge connection with the mainland. Flying there from Miami was assured to be a step back in time reminiscent of what I call Air Casablanca. The Key West airport, like the Provincetown airport, was tiny  and one simply stepped off the plane into the terminal. Both venues were ornamented by the writings and anecdotes of Tennessee Williams in particular his “Letters to Donald Windham (1940 – 1965)“.  Earnest Hemingway played out his extraordinary private life in Key West as well.  Even the early beginnings of Pan American Airlines has a notoriety for having used homing pigeons to fly from Key West to Miami with SOS reports of current weather conditions. The Key West site of the Pan American Airlines office once housed a restaurant called Pigeon House.

My imagination about maritime resorts was for years epitomized by my hopeful dream to have what I endearingly called a “salt box” on a rocky precipice overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Nova Scotia.  I suspect this fabrication was the product of two recollections; namely, the small and strictly utilitarian structures which passed as cottages on the outskirts of Provincetown and the regular visits I had made on Saturday mornings to the sparsely populated Village of Lawrencetown outside Halifax, Nova Scotia while attending Dalhousie Law School.

Charles Lawrence c. 1753

While I have only recently abandoned the prospect of having a pied-à-terre on the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, I continued for the longest time to fuel the goal when watching Two Fat Ladies (Clarissa Dickson Wright and Jennifer Paterson) running about the charming fishing villages of England on a Triumph Thunderbird and coincidentally preparing delightfully rich meals for the local people whom they visited.  The coastal villages of the United Kingdom are of course famous and many of them, aside from being quaint, are exceedingly posh.

This infatuation was magnified by E. F. Benson in his Mapp and Lucia series of novels featuring humorous incidents in the lives of (mainly) upper-middle-class British people in the 1920s and 1930s, vying for social prestige and one-upmanship in an atmosphere of extreme cultural snobbery. Several of the novels are set in the small seaside town of Tilling, closely based on Rye, East Sussex, where Benson lived for a number of years and (like Lucia) served as mayor.

My wishful thinking has now acquired a decidedly more substantive (though nonetheless perpetually whimsical) characteristic. Over five years ago during a casual luncheon engagement in Chelsea, Québec with family friends, we heard of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  Every year since then we have visited the Island and have now adopted it as our winter residence from November to April.

Even the Islanders acknowledge that they are beyond the regular channels of communication and for years it was uncontested for example that wireless service and mail delivery was frequently sporadic. Our hibernation on Hilton Head Island is normally quiet and unhurried.  The tourists don’t begin to arrive until mid-March at the earliest and it is nothing for us to travel on our bicycles on the beach for miles and see no one.

Although I am by nature a confessed bore who is hopelessly committed to routine, with some gentle persuasion, the novelty of a new destination is not entirely abhorrent. Our current leaning is towards Tybee Island, Georgia.

Situated a mere 18 miles from Savannah, Georgia, Tybee Island can also be seen from Sea Pines, Hilton Head Island.  Tybee Island is another of the barrier islands on the Atlantic Ocean.

In the late 19th century, at the height of the Industrial Revolution, residents in large, polluted cities frequently sought out remote beaches for summertime getaways. Clear, saltwater breezes were believed to be remedies for various ailments, including asthma and certain allergies. Steamships began carrying patients and tourists to Tybee Island just after the Civil War. In 1887, the Central of Georgia Railway completed a line to Tybee Island, opening the island to a wave of summer tourists. The railroad built the Tybrisa Pavilion in 1891, and by the end of the decade, several hundred summer cottages dotted the island.

We are currently in the throes of communications with estate agents on Tybee Island with a view to the 2016 -17 season.  Considering the Island is only about 3.2 square miles in total (an insignificant portion of which is under water), we acknowledge that wintering in this resort (which has a permanent population of less than 3,000) is guaranteed to provide every imaginable element of retreat one might desire. Our dedication is to cycling (which is apparently a common pastime on the Island) and the views of the Ocean and the beach (which is extolled in all that we have read).  Naturally we are hunting down a place which is immediately adjacent the Ocean where I, for example, intend to indulge myself in the pleasures of my writing, photography and piano (I will bring my electronic keyboard).  We expect there will be ample opportunity to practice the culinary arts (lots of seafood), bathe in the sunshine and doze whenever we care to.  Our decision to downsize from this upcoming year’s 5-bedroom house on Hilton Head Island is a deliberate move calculated to lend a degree of reasonableness to our adventure.  It also signifies a philosophic departure from the unquestionable Republican flavour of Hilton Head Island to the more rustic and Bohemian character of Tybee Island.

“When I contemplate the common lot of mortality, I must acknowledge that I have drawn a high prize in the lottery of life.”

Excerpt From: Edward Gibbon. “Memoirs of My Life and Writings.” iBooks. https://itun.es/ca/Ed77D.l

After precisely four months’ unwavering attention to my elderly mother’s affairs we are beginning to wind things up.

This morning was the penultimate act of resolution of mother’s transition from her house to a retirement apartment, a detail which was fortunately completed in her absence. Shortly after 7:00 a.m. today we met the second-hand collectible dealer at mother’s residence and oversaw the removal of her remnant personal possessions, things she didn’t need or have space for, or things neither I nor my sister cared to have.  Granted most of the stuff wouldn’t have passed for anything more distinguished than junk but nonetheless its accumulation practically filled the two-car garage which is thankfully now empty.  In fact the entire house is now a shell except for the few chattels such as appliances which are included in the sale.  I made a point of leaving a hand-towel and a box of Kleenex in each of the three bathrooms, a modest extravagance admittedly.  Now we wait until August 27th next to close the sale transaction and that should nicely put the lid on things before the snow flies, a concern which my mother expressed more than once.  I was careful to ensure my sister understood that the apparent immediacy of my mother’s relocation (which was clearly careered by me) was prompted not by my desire to avoid contaminating my conscience while we wintered in South Carolina but rather by our mother’s increasingly precipitous decline and her inevitable need for professional supervision and care.  That goal has been achieved; and from what we can gather, successfully and without unsatisfactory fallout.  I am breathing a great deal more easily knowing that my mother has now what is effectively perpetual care without having to rely upon either the goodness, conscience or bona fides of family.

Initially there was no particular rush to accomplish what we’ve done.  But when in early April I discovered that the retirement residence of choice (Colonel By Retirement Living) had a suitable apartment available for a three-month reservation, matters accelerated noticeably.  Previously I had been under the impression that there was a waiting list of between 6 months and one year and even then one was not assured of getting an apartment of choice.  My head aches when I recall the spirited conversations I had with my mother to cajole her into “trying” the apartment in the first place, not to mention the battles that later ensued when we tried to rid her house of fifty years of junk – and I mean junk, nothing sentimental and no family heirlooms, believe me!

The retirement residence, like my mother’s fee-based financial advisor, is unquestionably a luxury.  Fortunately in both instances my mother has the undisputed privilege of being able to afford it.  While I have obviously some level of business skill in the management of mother’s financial affairs, I feel more confident and more diligent in having entrusted the management to a professional advisor, something which also fulfills the object of caution when administering assets in which others (such as testamentary beneficiaries) have an inchoate and anticipatory right.  It is small consolation in the event of a subsequent catastrophic loss that it arose unintentionally.

What has flowed from these numerous undertakings, aside from the satisfaction of knowing the task is done, is a degree of exhaustion.  It has been a very long time indeed that I have tackled so many issues with which I previously had little or no acquaintance.  I would now feel quite confident writing a short essay about everything you need to know about getting mother into a retirement home and arranging to empty her old place and decorate the new one.  My list of contacts has swelled accordingly during this process, people like drapers, electricians, handymen, packers, movers, junk dealers, realtors, clock maker, house cleaner, rug cleaners and hairdressers.  The steep incline of this learning curve has pretty much drained me!  Now that things are finally being wound up I find it requires no provocation at all for me to succumb to utter lethargy.  It is almost a medical condition, not mere indolence.

I often reflect in amazement at what might have transpired if I were not retired and if I were unable to address these erstwhile concerns.  It’s almost as though I were parachuted into the calamity and, having dealt with the crisis, am now on the edge of withdrawing to resume other avocations.  It is of course a blessing now to have nothing other to do than focus upon the very desirable personal schemes which we have on the go.  Although we fortuitously canceled our scheduled summer vacation to the east coast, we have nonetheless embraced certain other conspiracies which continue to absorb our attention and which have yet to unfold. The considerable diversion of my mother’s affairs has whetted my appetite for attention to our personal matters.  There are however just enough on-going obligations for my mother to occupy me further.  For the most part I have regained my domain but the dust hasn’t yet entirely settled.  But we’re getting there!

My introduction to a village green was in 1967 on the Village Green of Rockcliffe Park where I met Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson and party hopeful John Turner. That experience as you might imagine was rather formal and hardly inspired me other than in its limited political purpose. When however in later life I was introduced to E. F. Benson and his colourful Tiling residents Lucia, Mapp and Georgie, the meaning of the Village Green acquired heightened variation. Among other things it was the venue of the annual Tableaux and pivotal social congregations.

I have long considered the Almonte Old Town Hall our Village Green.

A village green is a common open area within a village or other settlement. Traditionally, a village green was often common grassland at the centre of an agricultural or other rural settlement, and was used for grazing. Some also have a pond, often originally for watering stock such as cattle.

The village green also provided, and may still provide, an open-air meeting place for the local people, which may be used for public celebrations such as May Day festivities.

The term village green evokes a grassy rural environment. However the term is used more broadly to encompass woodland, moorland, sports grounds, and even—in part—buildings and roads. The green may also be positioned away from the centre of the village, especially if the village has moved, or been absorbed into a larger settlement.

Apart from the general use of the term, Village Green has a specific legal meaning in England and Wales, and also includes the less common term Town Greens. Town and village greens were defined in the Commons Registration Act 1965, as amended by the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000, as land:

which has been allotted by or under any Act for the exercise or recreation of the inhabitants of any locality or on which the inhabitants of any locality have a customary right to indulge in lawful sports and pastimes or if it is land on which for not fewer than twenty years a significant number of the inhabitants of any locality, or of any neighbourhood within a locality, have indulged in lawful sports and pastimes as of right.

Some greens that used to be a common or otherwise at the centre of a village have been swallowed up by a city growing around them. Sometimes they become a city park or a square, and manage to maintain a sense of place. London has several of these: Newington Green, originally a Dissenting village, is one good example, with its church anchoring its north end.

There are two places in the United States called Village Green: Village Green-Green Ridge, Pennsylvania, and Village Green, New York. Some New England towns, along with some areas settled by New Englanders such as the townships in the Connecticut Western Reserve, refer to their town square as a village green. The only village green in the United States still used for agriculture lies in Lebanon, Connecticut. This green is also one of the largest in the nation.

A core element of our Old Town Hall is the Ron Caron Auditorium renowned for its beauty and acoustics.

This is the Town’s premiere performance facility and is the perfect space for your next event or function.

The auditorium is used for theatre, musical performances, weddings, conferences, art shows, arts and craft shows, community dinners, feature films, professional music recording. The auditorium is the home of dance groups featuring, live music, swing dance (big band) and contra dancing (Celtic band), the Valley Players Theatre Group, Almonte in Concert Music Series, Folkus Music Series, Art in the Attic, and the “Be Your Best” acting classes.

The second floor multi-purpose room is an excellent space for small receptions, meetings, classes, small lectures, art displays, dance classes and yoga.

The spark for this admittedly long-winded introduction is a return visit on September 12th by the Summer Strings Orchestra with conductor Donnie Deacon. It is a cherished and unalterable truth that there is little more ennobling than an improving night of classical music. This concert promises such an occasion.

THE SUMMER STRINGS ORCHESTRA

The 25 member Ottawa Summer Strings Orchestra will present a concert at the Old Town Hall in Almonte on Sept. 12th at 7:30 p.m. Flute soloist Aura Giles will perform CPE Bach’s “Concerto for Flute in D minor” and Harpist Kristina Slodki will join the orchestra in a performance of Elgar’s “Sopiri”.

This is the second season for this burgeoning group of excellent musicians conducted by Donnie Deacon from the NAC Orchestra. The group’s inaugural season included an enjoyable and well received concert at the Town Hall last September.
Also on the program will be Mendelssohn’s String Symphony #10, Handel’s Concerto Grosso in Bb Major, Op.6 #7, Badinerie by J.S. Bach and a new piece titled Summer Songs by Randy Demmon.

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About the conductor:

Donnie Deacon’s immense talent as a violinist was recognized when he was just a boy. He entered the Royal Scottish Academy of Music at the age of 10, studied at the Yehudi Menuhin School in London under the tutelage of Natasha Boyarskaya and Lord Menuhin, himself, and finished his training at the prestigious Curtis Institue in Philedelphia. Donnie joined the NAC Orchestra in 2001 as principal second violin at the age of 22 and has remained active as a soloist with several well known orchestras, both in Canada and abroad including a world premiere performance of Gary Kalushka’s 2nd violin concerto.

In recent years Deacon has turned his attention to conducting. He is currently the music director of the Ottawa Chamber Orchestra. Under his direction OCO has become one of the finest community based groups in the region. He has the ability to share his prodigious music talents and experience in a manner that inspires others to raise their musical goals and standards.

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Members of the orchestra.
Donnie Deacon – conductor
Concertmaster – Carolyn Ho

First violin: Carolyn Ho*, Lisa Taras, Daniela Turcanu, Josée Leblanc, Julia Sandquist, Carolyn Sumner, Hartmut Krugmann

Second Violin: Colin McFarland*, Sonia Dimitrov, Katherine Keppel-Jones, Kris Wilson, Genevieve Gasser, Sylvia Middlebro

Viola: Lisa Moody*, Linda Mathies, Karen Finstad, Samantha Chambers

Cello: Rick Tersteeg*, Catherine Campbell, Louise Smith, David Van Dyne, Thomas Minde

Double Bass: Randy Demmon*, Gergely Horvath

Keyboard: Nick Rodgerson, Flute: Aura Giles, Harp: Kristina Slodki

See you at the Village Green!

Tickets are on sale starting Monday, August 24th, 2015 at Almonte Old Town Hall and Mill Street Books. $25 each.

Mill Street Books, Almonte, Ontario K0A 1A0

For further details:

Tiffany MacLaren
Community Economic & Cultural Coordinator
tmaclaren@mississippimills.ca

Town of Mississippi Mills
14 Bridge Street, P.O. Box 400, Almonte, ON K0A 1A0
Tel: 613.256.1077 ext. 22
Cel: 613.223.3810

Living as we do in this comparatively small apartment – small, that is, compared to a four-bedroom house – would for most people be considered either a step down or an inconvenient accommodation.  Whether because I grew up in the beehive of a boarding school or whether I am so constituted that I prefer manageable spaces (possibly an extension of my supreme desire to control my environment) I cannot say; but of this I am certain, these digs are possibly the most agreeable I have  inhabited.  If I reflect upon the tiny burrows where I’ve hung my hat in the past – for example the cubicle in the men’s residence at Glendon Hall, Toronto where I studied Philosophy; the room with the slanted ceilings on the third floor of Domus Legis on Seymour Street in Halifax when I attended law school; the apartment we had in the By Ward Market with a working fireplace; and my marginally larger first house on St. George Street in Almonte – while they each had their peculiar charm, none of them competed with the brightness of our apartment.  Because we occupy a corner unit on the top floor of the building facing southwest, and because there are windows on two sides of the apartment, we have the singular advantage of daylight from multiple sides of the building. This contributes astonishingly to the vibrancy of the setting and further captures varying breezes which dreamily billow the sheers.

From the moment we settled here I have been unreservedly content. The wide doors and airy, sunny atmosphere immediately grew on me. The unqualified utility of everything appeases my sense of rationality. Although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, my level of satisfaction has recently been bumped up more than a notch or two.  On the heels of my mother’s move from her two-storey house to a retirement residence, my sister and I have absorbed many of mother’s surplus possessions, objects which for one reason or another are not suitable for her compact apartment.  As you might expect we have preserved only the pick of the lot and abandoned the rest for sale to a second-hand dealer in Smiths Falls.  The selection of the finest items is consistent with what motivated us upon our own downsizing expedition.  The very desirable result is that we have maintained a collection of only our favourite and most valuable possessions. While my sister was able to incorporate many of mother’s furnishings (having discarded her own by choice), we were largely restricted to decorative items as we had already purged our furniture and were not inclined to go any further.  We have added to our inventory a number of artifacts which include a tiny antique (1890) silver figurine, several original oil paintings, a 100-year old Persian rug, a crystal decanter, a Sligh grandfather clock, a wooden encased wall-mounted barometer and – our one concession to furniture – a miniature mahogany set of drawers.  The addition of these articles to our already congested dwelling precipitated certain requisite relocations and we were even obliged to unload one of our Oriental rugs (which we bequeathed to my sister).  As for our belongings, they have the air of being bountiful (though I am certain there are those who would label our humble rooms full to bursting or perhaps something less incriminating like profuse).  For my part, I am reminded of the reclusive den of the Count of Monte Cristo.

It is not insignificant that I attach extraordinary meaning to this resort called home. Its utter lavishness and convenience (including in particular my uninhibited access to a computer to compose my daily ramblings) afford me what I consider the height of luxury; and equally weighty is that, having retired from the practice of law, I now have the privilege to relish our pied-à-terre throughout the day. This seemingly small compliment is a considerable improvement of the mere glance to which I was formerly accustomed.  This prerogative symbolizes my withdrawal from the less engaging (though more demanding) duties of my professional avocation (including the human relationships that went with it).  Certainly my former occupation was rewarding but nothing surpasses the unalloyed freedom of retirement!

As I strengthen my immoderation in the hedonism of my cherished things and habits and allow myself the leisurely dalliance of aimless literary composition, an odd development has transpired. There has been a commensurate depletion of my former social congresses.  While I have somewhat painfully come to recognize that the attrition of those associations is entirely natural and to be expected, I confess that my initial reaction was one of deprivation and even a remorseful feeling of having been the object of deceit. It is so terribly easy to confuse the visceral vacillations of society with reasoned choice and deliberation.  Who among us can resist the gravity of social status and superior connections?  Who wouldn’t at least consider nurturing an alliance with one’s business associates?  Yet similarly who can argue against the absence of such vigour when the cause of it has evaporated? All this is to say that lately I have had sufficient foundation to rethink the merit of certain erstwhile confederacies.  As with any alliance, once the appetite for it is diminished the thrust is exhausted.  My changing needs have redirected my mind.

I am at last free to devote my intellectual capacity to an analysis of what is dearest to me, the unrestricted and frequently vapid ideas that daily percolate, the possessions in which I have invested so much time, interest and money, and the simple pleasures of reading improving literature and listening to clever music.  Setting myself adrift has meant the breaking of some ties but I am convinced that the time of life demands it.  Quite simply put, I am one happy cave dweller!

A more splendid summer day than this would be unimagineable! We rejoiced in our beloved Almonte, under the vault of blue, first cycling along the verdant country roads then later motoring into Rosebank through the cavern of trees on the narrow Village road down to the water falls at the head of which in the shallows of the River some bathers were serenely wading. The dry heat – which reached a very palpable 32°C – was nonetheless comfortable thanks to a moderate breeze which twisted the leaves on their stems and lent a soporific whisper to the songs of the birds and the buzzes of the insects. The sky was clear except for the unmistakeable mist from the gathering humidity.

The ascending corn stalks reached up to the sky and we greedily pondered the prospect in August of fresh corn on the cob lathered in butter and salt.  Earlier in the day we had stopped at a local fruit and vegetable stand and collected yellow beans, strawberries and raspberries which we subsequently consumed for our summer lunch.  And by late afternoon after our coffee and languorous chat with acquaintances at the coffee house in the declining hours of the day, the sunlight shone softly through the amassing haze and illuminated the apartment wall paintings and mahogany with a profound brilliance.

Next week promises more of the same, sunshine and hot temperatures.  The freezing cold of winter is but a distant memory in this sublime world.

Judging by my calendar you wouldn’t think I had much to do today.  But the calendar is misleading. We have been wrapped up in unforeseen circumstances all day. Largely the buzz has centred around the negotiation of the sale of my mother’s house.  We have been in constant communication with our Realtor.  A small wrinkle – a peccadillo really – arose which thankfully we were able to subdue with minimal vexation. It was one of those emotionally charged items which, if the Parties were to have become entrenched, would have threatened to contaminate the entire transaction.  We were to our mutual credit able to rise above it.  Apart from waiting for the consequent procedural matters to unfold we seem headed in the right direction.

The second jolt in my day was a saccharin message from friend with whom I have what is proving to be a strained relationship.  Without making the mistake of engaging in caustic remarks, it is sadly a feature of many of my so-called friendships that they are turning sour.  It is quite possibly the result of my own recent changes that the disintegration has transpired but it still leaves me cold.  I am increasingly disinclined to favour humanity as a whole.  I find I am freely critical of others whenever the slightest provocation moves me.  Without the commercial motive, my manners are far less guarded.

The final surprise was a revolt by my mother.  When we informed her that her prized crystal chandeliers had been dismantled and delivered to my sister’s house for safe-keeping, mother got it into her head that the act represented a unilateral interference by us without her prior consent (notwithstanding that she had previously made it abundantly clear that the fixtures were excluded from the house sale).  This exceedingly annoying insurgency prompted me to delineate in no uncertain terms the many reasons for the qualification of the list price of the house.  A shouting match ensued between us along with some very hot words on my part especially.  Years of my having submitted to my mother’s ridiculous protestations brought the house down around her today.  I no longer have either the patience or the inclination to suffer her doltishness.  She continued nonetheless to display and magnify her presumption of superiority and deference, both of which I challenged with equal vigour.  More than ever I am convinced that she is lapsing into the piteous state of dementia and her opinion on anything is to be neither trusted nor acted upon.

Even though these confrontations leave their scars and wear me down, I am nonetheless determined to put them aside.  By casting aside the human race as a whole I am much less restrained in embracing my own company and interests.  There is so much about my private affairs that enthrals me that I am not prepared to compromise for the sake of etiquette.  I have adopted a diminished view of the necessity to keep what should be discarded.  Perhaps my historical sense of allegiance was a mere deceit.  Now I could care less about its characterization.  Time is running out and I haven’t the desire to burn it up wastefully.  The frozen truth is that I have never been happier (and that includes the strength of character to leave the rubbish in my wake).  The two of us have yet much to accomplish and we are quite content to dedicate ourselves to that task.  As for the rest, Spare me!

It is a small compliment to the legal profession that its practitioners are learned in the art of taradiddle, the underhanded capacity to twist words to achieve a desired result.  Certainly the ability is honoured by those who are the subject of litigious proceedings but otherwise seldom does the transgression acquire the flavour of skill over cunning.  Nonetheless the technique (or, if you must, the duplicity) is a useful artifice when dealing with those who mistakenly insist upon their own propriety in the face of contrary rationality. I am thinking of my recent dealings with my elderly mother whose grasp of things is daily declining but who nevertheless persists in imagining that she alone holds the reins of control over her affairs and destiny.

In an attempt to deal tactfully with what amounts to contradiction of my mother, I excuse the so-called “little white lies” on the theory that while they disguise the facts they importantly blunt their thrust.   Like it or not the frozen truth is not something everyone prefers to know. Where some window dressing adequately lends the appearance of pleasantness to rebuttal I hardly think it an offence to dilute the candour accordingly.

A common example of my deceit is that associated with the cost of services. For someone like my mother who is almost a century old the current cost of everything is under constant attack.  If she were to know the precise amount spent for her care, nourishment and residency she would be in a state of utter disbelief. The glaring exception to this broad observation is the amount she eagerly expends on Sisley make-up from Holt Renfrew but that largesse she dismisses as an imperative.

Another occasion which commands less than condemning truth is that associated with the state of my mother’s house which is for sale now that she has (against her relentless objections) moved to a retirement residence.  The house has an unmistakeable odour of tobacco, the unwanted product of my mother having smoked cigarettes inside the house.  The stench permeates the remaining household fabrics (curtains, sheers) and even the interior wooden features of the structure.  It was so bad that the plastic bags mother kept in her kitchen closet smelled of smoke.  Whenever we visited my mother we routinely washed our clothes afterwards to rid ourselves of the lingering infection. The realtor has frequently commented upon the contamination as a detriment to the market value of the place.  Another drawback is the age of the house. While the systems and out-fittings of the house are generally workable and liveable, after fifty years some updating is in order. Again my mother is in denial on that point and she resists any attempt to suppress the appeal and price of the house on that basis.  It is for this reason among others that I seemingly collaborate with mother whenever she rants about “not selling unless I get my price”.  I manage to appear cooperative on the point without sanctioning the assertion.  I am supported in my obfuscation by the fact that “my price” is in fact over the list price and even beyond the spread suggested by two independent appraisals.  I reckon that if she can be so obviously carefree with her details I am entitled to a degree of indiscretion as well.

Normally the subterfuge which I practice on my mother is harmless and without any substantive repercussion.  However in the past twenty-four hours I came close to being caught off-base and risked being exposed.  Without having given adequate consideration to my mother’s most recent request for attendance at her bank to view the contents of her safe deposit box, I unwittingly agreed to take her there this morning. I forgot that mother invariably wanders to the teller’s wicket to update her savings account passbook.  And I speculated that she would at the same time make enquiry about the balance of her chequing account.  Lately I have misled my mother about the balance of her accounts because of the many expenses she has incurred to effect the move to the retirement residence and to pay her initial residency fees.  I had anticipated that the dwindling bank balances would be adequately replenished by the amount of the mandatory annual RRIF withdrawal which I had orchestrated with her financial advisor.  I overlooked that the deposit was scheduled to be made on the very morning of our visit to the bank.  As of last evening, when the pressing nature of the matter dawned upon me, there was no evidence in her RRIF account that anything had been withdrawn nor in her bank account that anything had been deposited.  I went into a moderate state of panic reminiscent of what a child experiences when discovered in corpus delicti.

Overnight I began contriving plans to cover my tracks.  I had to date accommodated my devious secrecy about my mother’s affairs by acquiescing to her blatant distortion of the numbers relating to her moving and residency costs.  But I could see it would be a challenge to explain an account of $9,000 which she had estimated between $900 – 950.

In keeping with the proven philosophy that a blizzard of information can succeed to baffle almost anyone, I determined to provide my mother with precisely what she wanted but in far greater detail than she might have anticipated receiving.  Technically I would be coming clean but my hope was that the barrage of information would cloud the absorption of it. Thus I proceeded to print the last thirty days’ transactions for her chequing account, savings account, RRIF accounts and investment account.  In the end the collection amounted to reams of paper.

I would have been less than hopeful that the tactic would work had I not discovered mere moments before my departure that the large deposit from the RRIF account had successfully made its way into my mother’s chequing account.  Now I was armed not only with quantity of paper but also the charm of numbers to decorate the presentation!  And when as anticipated my mother questioned the balance of her accounts, I produced a succession of papers which heralded the significant balances and effectively minimized the importance of the numerous debits to the accounts.  Some selective distraction proved useful to divert attention from in-depth enquiry upon any particular entry.

It is imperative to keep in mind when digesting these nefarious particulars that there is nothing inherently wrong with the truth of any of the facts other than that my mother imagines the truth to be otherwise.  It is only my effort to shelter her from the abrasion of the truth that prevents me from wanting to share it with her.  For example, her residency fees are far greater than she imagines but it is an expense which she can comfortably sustain and it is not an expense to which she is not entitled.  So while I came dangerously close to having to shake her to the foundation with the disturbing reality of her circumstances, I was happily spared the confrontation and no one is worse for it.  Besides no matter how annoyingly candid one might be, nothing will change.  Far better to turn a blind eye and indulge in a bit of taradiddle.  Phew!  That was close!

All day I have peculiarly been reminded of places and things which, after four decades in Almonte, reflect where I started.  It’s as though I have ended up where I began.

This is an oddity which is the subject of many artistic expressions though my focus is less upon discovery than upon the serendipitous circle of life’s experiences.

“You shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our journeying
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
~ Eliot, T. S. in ‘Little Gidding V’, from ‘Four Quartets’ 1942

My first awakening to the fortuity materialized as we set off on our bicycles for an early summer morning ride.  When we turned off King Street onto Argyle Street I was within 100 yards of my first little house on St. George Street.  I have seldom ventured along St. George Street since I left it in 1984 to move to the other side of Town where I bought my second house in Almonte and where I lived comfortably until just last year (March, 2014).  This detail prompted the further observation that I am now living on Jamieson Street not only close to my first house but also back on the same side of Town where I began.  It is also remarkable that my current street address is named after R. A. Jamieson, QC whose office I filled when I initially began practicing law in Almonte. Additional exploration into the alcoves of my past reminded me that the first house I rented on Martin Street North (owned by Rev. Geo. Bickley of St. Paul’s Anglican Church where I first attended worship service) was on the other side of Town so I have effectively bounced from one side of the Town to the other over the past forty years.  And once again I am renting a property instead of owning it, culminating as I commenced.  Pointedly the property we now rent is owned by John and Donna Kerry;  John was my most influential first Client and an unflagging supporter throughout my entire practice.  To compound the swirl of events, John Kerry reported to me years ago that it was R. A. Jamieson, QC who materially helped John when he first arrived in Almonte to launch his own career.

I cannot ignore a further coincidence which harkens back to the springtime of my life in Almonte.  That is the profound relationship I had with the late J. C. Smithson who not only supported my application to the local Masonic Lodge but was also the Registrar of Deeds with whom I spent so many hours throughout my law practice.  Lately I had the honour to speak on behalf of Jack’s family at his funeral at St. Paul’s Anglican Church.  Jack and his family lived on St. George Street when I met them.

Following our bike ride we went to Mississippi Golf Club for breakfast.  It was there in June of 1976 on a spectacular summer evening that I first met and dined with Messrs. Michael J. Galligan, QC and Alan D. Sheffield (now of the Superior Court of Justice) who hired me to join them in the practice of law in Almonte.  The echo of that happy day has often rung in my mind.  As fate would have it this morning we were introduced to the House Director of the Club who, when he asked whether we were enjoying our meal, I rejoined that I was in fact savouring the experience much as I had done for the past forty years.

Afterwards we directed ourselves to Ottawa where we first checked the now vacant house of my elderly mother who has recently moved to a retirement residence in Ottawa South off The Driveway.  While most of my mother’s surplus possessions have been absorbed by my sister, pointedly I have obtained many of the very things which I gave my parents over the past many years.  This pleases me because the things I bought them as gifts were items I personally admired. I have for example two paintings (one of Toronto Cabbagetown and another of a rural scene), along with a tiny silver ornament of a sparsely clad nymph carrying a faggot of sticks and a Henry Birks & Sons carriage clock. Frequently my mother has commented that she wanted me to have those things “when I am gone”.  As we march ever forward to the inevitable end of life these once remote considerations are now at hand. Again the events and the gifts have come full circle.

The other and perhaps most significant revolution that occurs to me is the constancy of my sense of happiness.  It seems that wherever I am in life I am convinced that it is the happiest time of all.  This is no histrionic account but rather a sober and determined view that life could be no better.  A mere glance at my current circumstances discloses what for me is inarguably the height of munificence.  As I am wont to say, life owes me nothing.  While tragically there are some who feel they have been robbed of fortune, that fateful day has yet come for me.  If and when it does I hope that I shall have the good character to recall my present sense of gratitude.

Although I am fascinated occasionally to read stark criticism of revered principles and institutions (for example Thomas Paine’s refutation of organized religion in The Age of Reason or Edward Gibbon’s attack upon Oxford University in Memoirs of my Life and Writings) generally speaking I am most at ease in low light surrounded by mahogany.  I conjecture that my magnetism to muted illumination and imperishable hardwood speak to my preference for restraint and the enduring elements of life though I confess my ostensible bias may be a calculated deception.  Long ago I learned what it is to paint a picture, to reflect the shine of what appears to work for others, even something as seemingly inconsequential as creating an ambiance.  There is security in ornamentation.

The risk of course is that one begins to believe the impression one seeks to project.  This is unfortunate not primarily because it is rooted in image more than substance but rather because it tends to distance oneself from a dynamic notion of one’s inner self and the external world.  We are after all what we think. Besides it is such a pity to choose impenetrable hardness over vulnerability if the price to be paid is perpetual limitation. Those who abhor disinfecting sunshine and who are entrenched in tradition foster an undeniable petrification of the mind.

Quite apart from how we fashion the comfort level of our existence I am discovering incrementally that the real thinkers in life – the discoverers, the inventors – are not necessarily geniuses but rather people who are open to a new way of doing business or who imagine what is nothing more glamorous than performing a task more easily. Relinquishing one’s customary moorings and setting oneself adrift is an adventure destined to evolve unpredictably but there is at least the possibility of spirited enterprise. Tapping into that underground vein and its precious product can be as simple as believing what one sees in both oneself and others.  As transparent as the method may sound it is nonetheless a daunting undertaking as there is inevitably the chance of surprise on all sides.  It also requires work.  The staid comfort of the drawing room is not especially conducive to resourcefulness and daring.

As a student of law I was trained to seek and rely upon authority. This may have the appearance of cultivating an unimaginative interpretation of human affairs but in the hands of a competent and persuasive individual even edicts written in stone admit to mutability. Recent pronouncements of the Supreme Court of the United States of America upon such topics as one man-one vote,  pregnancy discrimination, gay marriage, the Confederate flag and free speech, religious accommodation to wear a hijab and religious freedom in prison are examples of zestfulness and positive attitude.  While it is arguable that left-leaning liberalism is the product of empowerment I prefer to see the division of the legislature and the judiciary as the very model of governance.

The buoyancy of purely academic reasoning is however under constant threat by the turbulence and violence of the vast sea upon which it bobs.  How much more alluring it is to seek the sheltered cove far from the disturbances and ferocity of nature.  Straight lines and few accessories afford such ample constancy. The retreat of one’s mind is often more comfortable in low light and mahogany.