It positively astounds me how entrenched I become in solving a problem about which I could care less!  It’s a classic case of stewing about an answer without knowing the question, or at least without having first canvassed the relevance of the question before diving into the murky depths to look for a solution. Small wonder I end up going in circles!  Don’t say dog chasing its own tail to me!  It is an utterly pointless exercise to attempt to resolve something that doesn’t matter.

Put that way, it no doubt seems unlikely that anyone would obsess about something that doesn’t matter. But we do it all the time.  If for example we are disturbed by the nature of our relationship with another, we frequently dwell at length upon an examination of the cause of the disturbance, the possibility that the root of the problem is either oneself or the other person, the gymnastics of handling future associations with that person and so on.  All so much pious claptrap!  We have to back up and ask ourselves, “Will it change my life?”  If the answer is “No!” then forget it! Otherwise – to continue the metaphor – the tail wags the dog, a secondary part controls the whole. Certainly it is inevitable that change of circumstances will precipitate divergences; disagreements between people will always arise.  By failing to ask ourselves the relative importance of such change or altercation we risk pursuing a lost cause.

If part of the fallout from an uncomfortable situation is that the parties lean away from one another, sometimes it is best just to let things fall where they may.  It is characteristic of the insoluble problem that people are often driven more by control than goodwill, a bad recipe for any undertaking and certainly one that disguises the objective.  Sadly at times the objective isn’t patching things up, but rather blame.  This too begs the question, “Why bother?”  When it comes to human relationships there are no end of reasons to blame others. In the end it is better to go your own way than to persist in what will inevitably fail.

It is nonetheless not a simple matter to let go. Habit alone is a palpable counterweight to renegade behaviour.  And there can easily be fear of loss, anxiety about looming loneliness, quite aside from the pragmatic considerations of family, friends, security, etc.  Yet equally it is shallow to pretend to rise above an unbearable or unforgivable annoyance for so-called ulterior motives.  Few of us can sustain such strategic behaviour for long or without damaging compromise. If you can’t find a reason to stay then think of a reason to leave.  If the horizon is brighter it is at least worth a try to head in the other direction.  This doesn’t mean burning bridges or inflicting irreparable vitiation, just ignoring the situation. Who knows, maybe the dilemma will resolve itself even if our meddling hasn’t.  Meanwhile, get on with doing what makes you happy and forget the rest!  That way you’ll likely do the least harm until you can recall why you care.

At times I have what seems a flash of insight, a sudden recognition that life is an unbelievable ride and I want to hang on forever.  I don’t chastise myself for not perpetually maintaining this wide-eyed view, it would be too preoccupying if nothing else. When the awakening does occur however it is a welcome unguent.  The gritty alternative is hardly to be desired.

The events of the day began somewhat earlier than usual.  We were on our bikes not much after 9:00 a.m.  The air was warm, summer-like, and after cycling for several kilometres I began thinking about removing my light pullover. We had nothing particular on our minds, just relishing the exercise and being out-of-doors.  We lengthened our customary route slightly by detouring to Water Street along the River to inspect a property we’d recently talked about.  This in turn led us to the Riverwalk, adjacent the roaring springtime water of the Upper Falls. From there we cut down Brae Street, across Farm Street, up the steep hill to Gemmill Park behind the arena then along Bridge Street to our apartment.

My routine attendance upon my elderly mother included a small bit of business, some discussion of household and domestic matters and finally arranging a weekend social engagement for Mother’s Day. This filial duty is becoming more and more like a daily checklist.  At times I wonder who is the primary beneficiary of it.  Certainly it expiates my disquietude about mother’s circumstances, living alone in a large house.  One learns to ignore factual discrepancies, to abide constant repetition, to abandon clinical health matters.  In the end it is a capitulation to the least of the evils of getting old, an accommodation of short-comings and inadequacies.

Going to the grocery store is becoming something in the nature of an outing for me.  At times I think the staff must think I live there.  I diversified my adventure today by visiting the local health food store to collect four bags of Abbott Crunchy Granola.  I made a point of telling the clerk (who I suspect is one of the two female owners of the store) that the Abbott granola makes all the other stuff taste like sawdust.  I am annoyed that the product hasn’t been selling better since I know first-hand that it is superior to any of the others.  It was a distinct deprivation not to have had it when we were in South Carolina last winter.  I can’t imagine why anyone who buys granola would hesitate to go for the best when the difference in price might be a mere three dollars at the most.  The petty compromises that some people feel compelled to make!

We’ve entered what feels like a tranquil period, even tranquillized.  With so many recent matters on our agenda now settled we’re at loose ends.  We’ve decided to spend the summer here, foregoing the initial plans to go to St. Andrew’s-by-the-Sea in New Brunswick.  Besides there is so much right here at our doorstep that I find it difficult to convince myself of the necessity to travel.

After this year’s punishing winter everybody is anxious for the arrival of the warmer months. This weekend – which I shall conveniently call May 1st Weekend – delivered the befitting panacea.  Not only were we blessed with wall-to-wall sunshine and blue skies; temperatures were also unusually high, approaching 24ºC.  We needn’t suffer the further indignity of waiting until Victoria Day Weekend to celebrate.  It appears we have finally exhausted the chilly winter winds; and the 14-day forecast is equally favourable.

Victoria Day in 2015
In 2015 the Victoria Day holiday is on Monday, May 18.

Victoria Day is a Canadian statutory holiday celebrated on the Monday preceding May 25 in every province and territory. It honours Queen Victoria’s birthday. In Quebec this holiday is called “National Patriotes Day” (Journée nationale des patriotes).

Victoria Day is also commonly referred to as the “May two-four weekend” or the “May long weekend” and it marks the unofficial start of the cottage season where cases of beer are consumed by hard working Canadians. Or maybe it’s called May two-four because May 24, 1819 is Queen Victoria’s birthday.

Prince Edward (1767–1820) after whom Prince Edward Island was named was Queen Victoria’s father.

I am taking my liberties describing this weekend as the May 1st Weekend, first because May 1st was on Friday; second because May Day is the usual label for this particular celebration.

Traditional May Day origins and celebrations
The earliest May Day celebrations appeared in pre-Christian times, with the Floralia, festival of Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers, held April 27 during the Roman Republic era, and with the Walpurgis Night celebrations of the Germanic countries. It is also associated with the Gaelic Beltane, most commonly held on April 30. The day was a traditional summer holiday in many pre-Christian European pagan cultures. While February 1 was the first day of Spring, May 1 was the first day of summer; hence, the summer solstice on June 25 (now June 21) was Midsummer.

Aside from the traditional fertility theme of May 1st promoted in particular by the agrarian British, it has symbolized different motifs:

May Day on May 1 is an ancient Northern Hemisphere spring festival and usually a public holiday; it is also a traditional spring holiday in many cultures. Dances, singing, and cake are usually part of the celebrations that the day includes.

In the late 19th century, May Day was chosen as the date for International Workers’ Day by the Socialists and Communists of the Second International to commemorate the Haymarket affair in Chicago.

As the turn-around is so discernible it seems appropriate to memorialize this splendid weekend whatever it may be called. It isn’t however simply the weather that motivates me. I am on the threshold of discovery, a personal awakening of sorts. I feel peculiar at my age rejoicing in something as trendy as a higher dimension of consciousness.  But this isn’t a self-realization ceremony.  It’s just an altered state without the additives.  Essentially I’m having a bloody good time for no particular reason!  Tuning into the inconsequential features of life with gusto is not entirely remarkable but it seldom qualifies for lengthy narrative. Yet it is precisely this element which defines the singularity of the experience.  I would for example be hard pressed to point to any event for which the weekend was notable but I can easily say that all of it has been pleasant.  There were sporadic occasions which tripped me up; but I was able to digest the gristle.  Certainly some resolve was necessary but the hiccups are nothing more than a reminder that life has its bumps however charming the road.

I apologize for the appearance of gloating but this May 1st Weekend signals for me more than an improving climate or the advent of a Season.  It cues what I like to call a “fresh step” (a term I inherited from my former commercial vernacular and which served me well as a milestone and for profit taking).  I am applying similar actions to my introversion (though it coincidentally reflects the external agenda peculiar to this time of year). Inward contemplation is not traditionally what attracts me, but I have discovered that diverting my attention from outer things has afforded me unusual solace. I won’t pretend that this monastic bearing will continue for any length of time; however for the time being it is rewarding and uncommonly pacifying.

This evening at the cocktail hour on the heels of what can only be described as a thoroughly pleasant Saturday we raised our glasses to one another and chimed “Happy Days!”

There are several stock ways to describe the Happy Days of one’s life: the halcyon days, the salad days, the heyday, the days of wine and roses.  The expressions are variously interpreted:

Generally a period of happiness and prosperity;

“Heyday” the time when someone or something is most successful, popular, etc.; archaic: used to express elation or wonder;

“Halcyon” from Latin Alcyone, daughter of Aeolus and wife of Ceyx. When her husband died in a shipwreck, Alcyone threw herself into the sea whereupon the gods transformed them both into halcyon birds (kingfishers). When Alcyone made her nest on the beach, waves threatened to destroy it. Aeolus restrained his winds and kept them calm during seven days in each year, so she could lay her eggs. These became known as the “halcyon days,” when storms do not occur;

“Salad days” is a Shakespearean idiomatic expression to refer to a youthful time, accompanied by the inexperience, enthusiasm, idealism, innocence, or indiscretion that one associates with a young person. The phrase was coined in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra in 1606. In the speech at the end of Act One in which Cleopatra is regretting her youthful dalliances with Julius Caesar she says: “My salad days, / When I was green in judgment, cold in blood”. Queen Elizabeth II during her Silver Jubilee Loyal Address, referring to her vow to God and her people when she made her 21st birthday broadcast: “Although that vow was made in my salad days, when I was green in judgement, I do not regret nor retract one word of it.” In Modest Mouse’s song “Guilty Cocker Spaniels”, Isaac Brock sings this: “Salad days add up to daily shit”.

The Happy Days are not limited to youth and inexperience. Indeed there is a convincing case to be made in favour of age and experience. I won’t suggest that one trumps the other.  The Happy Days are a product of many influences, not the least of which is peace of mind. Certainly the material pleasures of life are not to be diminished but I maintain that without inner satisfaction the external indicia will be forever lacking.  Harnessing that desirable resource has been a subject of endless enquiry; and while what I am about to relate may border on my own prescription for “inner peace” my objective is narrative only. The truth is that I haven’t a clue about the path to inner peace; what I do know however is when I have arrived there.  This is really no less simple and awesome than a sunny day under a blue sky.  Who can pretend to explain its classic splendour?  Yet we know when we are moved by it.

Take today for example. I began the day (coincidentally a beautiful sunny day under a blue sky) shrouded by disquiet. I was battling two opposing forces; viz., perfection and imperfection. This I know is a broad stroke of what might appear perhaps a bit hysterical. Be that as it may, I don’t think it matters. What causes discord in each of us is always unique and none of it necessarily affects others as it affects oneself. What does matter about the malaise is releasing oneself from it.  As axiomatic as that may sound it nonetheless underscores the significance of having the goal to be happy.  It is a given that all of us have problems.  What however is not so clear is whether all of us would like to solve those problems or are we rather content to “enjoy poor health”, to relish our misery?  I say this because the unvarnished truth is that there are some problems that cannot be overcome.  As a result it is only one’s attitude to the problem that counts for anything or that has any hope of approaching something in the nature of a resolution of the problem. If on the other hand one feels strapped to the railway track in the face of the oncoming train then one may as well give up hope now. The answer is not heroics; it may for example involve the portrait of the barreling train (which is after all a serious component of the metaphorical problem).  It is quite possible that that train (as menacing as it may appear) is not as powerful and threatening as it is made out to be.  Many of us fail to seek the most preliminary information about our dilemma – not what is the answer but what is the question?  How we formulate the problem we seek to resolve has much to do with the nature and strength of the problem itself.  And very often upon examination the question is needlessly absurd and therefore negligible.

Leaving aside for the moment that haunting conundrum, permit me to share with you the subsequent events of the day by way of introduction to the ultimate unwinding.  We had resolved several days ago to attend the Golf Club this morning for breakfast.  It was of course one of the first days that the Club was in full swing.  We were not in the least disappointed with our reiteration of this weekend pilgrimage. Granted the best sauce for any meal is an appetite, and in this instance there was enough of that preprandial spirit to spare. It no doubt also helped that we hadn’t had for some time a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage and eggs. Sufficient it is to observe that we spoke but little following the arrival of our plates of food.  Already the view of the sun and sky over the first tee was beginning to imbue a hitherto unappreciated toxic effect. And my previously tainted thoughts, though they persisted, were correspondingly tempered. Once a thought has got hold like a mussel upon a sea wall there is little that can dislodge it.  Nothing short of prying oneself free of it works. This however required more time.

Compounding my discord today was a further concern which involved of all things a meeting with a friend to look at my bicycle.  It would be embarrassing to reveal the root of this dissonance as it was so perfectly trivial!  But its weight added to the burden already being shouldered and peevishly magnified its influence. This particular matter dissipated upon its fulfillment, a case of fear out-performing the cause.  Nonetheless its relieving effect was instantaneous.

What then followed was a strengthening and invigorating bicycle ride down Country Street, along Rae Road, onto the Eighth Concession and back home, in all about ten kilometres.  My enthusiasm was fuelled by the delight of a newly installed gear cluster which not only removed the issue that previously existed but also improved the capacity of the bike.  We flew alongside the bucolic fields into the warm Springtime breeze of the early afternoon.  And we chatted cryptically as we rode, exchanging summary blurts about inner contemplations and opinions charged with dense import in a manner which only old friends can share so candidly. The extent of my contaminating inner turmoil rolled back incrementally.

Our final sortie of the day was the exercise of filial duty.  The get-together was uncharacteristically free of strife. As we drove home together from the City we rejoiced in our fortune.  It was somewhere along that ribbon of road as we headed westward into the sun that my silly preoccupations dissolved. I abandoned the aspiration for perfection and chose instead to accommodate my once niggling imperfection. To do otherwise was as preposterous as ignoring the blissful sunshine and the blue sky! Happy Days!

Whenever I visited the late Raymond A. Jamieson, QC the first thing he’d ask is, “What’s the news?” Initially I fashioned the enquiry purely rhetorical.  I have come to think otherwise.  I now find myself asking the same thing of whomever I encounter in casual conversation.  The query is perfectly genuine and not a formality.  I have discovered that the seemingly inconsequential probe is code for deeper exploration.  While its superficial meaning is bland enough to be passed off as mere gossip, if the person to whom it is directed is at all inclined to foster healthful dialogue (or even malicious slurs for that matter) then the door is wide open.  Pretty much anything passes as news.  I do however think that the underlying import of the term is more substantive than a chronicle of one’s recent agenda. To the sensitive listener the inherent point of the investigation is something with a bit of meat on it.

What, you might well ask, is the attraction of news?  It is in my opinion an elemental feature of the condition humaine by which I mean not a reference to André Malraux but rather to the general state of human relations.  When once we have exhausted the irrelevant dribble of materialism, spiritualism and philosophy as a whole, we’re left with the austere yearning to know how our companions have spent their time.  All else by way of dialogue is susceptible to disguise and jargon.  Small wonder the news is so often a reiteration of the facts. Indeed a clever account of the news will provide only the facts and leave the interpretation to others.  That is the delight of the analysis.  The object isn’t simply knowledge but resolving doubt and solving a problem.  We learn from the experience of others and therein lies the substance of the question.  Its open-ended simplicity corresponds to the basic nature of human relationships. It represents a chance to synthesize in an instant the sum of one’s latest endeavours.

Admittedly the person who sets the ball rolling by asking “What’s the news?” has an advantage. This effectively transfers the burden of meaningful communication to one’s respondent.  Whether the ball is picked up and carried determines the outcome of this social sport. To the unlearned and unintelligent, the question may be lost though hopefully one is rewarded with digestible fodder. Certainly the willingness to cooperate in this venture is the secret to unlocking its resource.  Though reciprocity is de rigueur it is far more than a prescription of fashion or etiquette. It is the very foundation of our social compact; viz., sharing.  If people fail to rise to the occasion the moment slips away unnoticed.  Too often we are willing to embrace the uninspired in place of the extraordinary. Like passing ships the convention may be unremarkable.

If on the other hand one is rewarded with the communication of the news there is no telling to what elevation the conversation may rise. Each particle of news builds on the other and ultimately one can be assured of a construct worth sharing.  News can be both refreshing and enlivening; topical and dramatic; informative and expanding; awakening and stirring.  Its obvious connection to the actors being described nourishes both intrigue and pleasure.  Unlike commercial transactions there is never anything tangible exchanged.  Yet how thoroughly enraptured we become to know “What’s the news?“

While it certainly isn’t the first time I realized how far removed I have been for most of my life from the grittiness of family affairs and relations, I was reminded of it in buckets again today.  The aging of my parents has embroiled me in elemental family matters to a degree I have never before experienced. My primary mission today was no more complicated than to take mother to the Life Lab for some blood work recently requisitioned by her physician.  The experience was nonetheless ornamented with tribal colour and texture.

The exploit began at six o’clock this morning.  Last night I had instructed Siri on my iPhone to awaken me at 6:00 a.m. this morning which “he” dutifully attempted before advising me that my iPhone was in “airplane mode”.  Once I resolved that hidden issue, the instruction was reiterated and duly scheduled. And sure enough at 6:00 a.m. this morning the iPhone began its annoying buzz to awaken me from what was then a deep slumber.

Although our appointment at the Lab wasn’t until 10:40 a.m. my mother had asked that I telephone her to ensure that she was out of bed in time to prepare for the expedition.  After having made myself a coffee and prepared a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana I reckoned it was appropriate to call her.  When mother answered the telephone she sounded groggy.  She insisted she was awake though she acknowledged she was still in bed, and no, she didn’t need me to call later to make sure she hadn’t fallen back to sleep.

After browsing my computer and munching my breakfast I realized it was time to prepare myself for the drive to collect mother.  The subsequent moments passed rather more quickly than I had anticipated and as a result I was in a bit of a rush to get out of the apartment and onto the road.  I needn’t have fretted as the traffic was by that time relatively thin and I ended arriving at my mother’s house earlier than planned.  We nonetheless left for our destination though we decided to stop at the local branch of the Royal Bank of Canada to get some cash. After some debate about whether to withdraw the cash from her chequing or savings account we settled upon the chequing account and I assisted her at the ATM.  Once mother had withdrawn the cash she pretended to count it (but acceded to me doing so on her behalf) and then proceeded to push a chunk of it in my direction.  I resisted the offer and told her it was no trouble for me to assist her in these matters.  As she pocketed the money again she insisted on paying for our lunch later, an offer I accepted.

I then proceeded to the Life Lab and dropped mother at the front door.  As usual she asked whether I wanted her “disabled” blue card which she had formerly used when driving.  She persists in keeping the plastic card in her purse even though she no longer drives.  She never seems to understand my reluctance to use it when I am not in fact disabled.  In any event we overcame that obstacle  and I told her to wait on the nearby bench until I parked the car and returned. Of course the parking lot was almost full and I had to park in the most remote space.

We met at the front and proceeded inside.  Although I had ensured that mother had her health card I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to extract the physician’s requisition from the glove compartment of the car.  So back I went to the furthest corner of the parking lot to collect it, muttering obscenities along the way.  Once I rejoined the small group waiting for service in the Lab it was but a short delay before mother was called.  Her mission complete, she soon reappeared in the waiting area and we discussed our luncheon plans.  The plans included collecting my other half to join us, which we did and headed back to the City to a Chinese restaurant en route.

Once seated in the restaurant my mother took an instant dislike to our tattooed server who she decided had a bad cough and shouldn’t be serving food.  This intelligence, while mildly disturbing, wouldn’t have been particularly out of place were it not for the fact that mother insisted on pronouncing her objection in a fairly audible manner within hearing distance of the server. As the server (whose English was admittedly strained and who might therefore be presumed not to have understood what my mother had said) did not appear to react, we let it slide.  However, when my mother subsequently commented – again in less than sotto voce – that the server should quit arguing with the cook and get on with what he was employed to do – my immediate reaction was to jab her with my right elbow and insist she put a lid on it!  She looked at me with considerable astonishment as though she failed to understand my precipitous concern.  But thankfully she sensed the strength of my rebuff sufficiently to clam up.

As always in these recent embarrassments everyone recovered remarkably quickly as though nothing at all had transpired.  We were by then drinking our soup and eating our respective meals.  Mother had ordered less than we and she claimed to have had enough.  When however I shared with her morsels off my own plate she made short order of them. At the end of the meal we had only to endure the customary kerfuffle surrounding payment of the meal. Mother grabbed the bill with the dexterity of a hawk but became entangled in a private conundrum about whether to pay cash or use her bank card.  There ensued further review of the matter in some detail, weighing the pros and cons of cash, the triggering of the need to return to the bank for more cash as a result and the trap of not having the exact change.  Not to mention the wrangle about the amount of the tip. We resolved this extraordinary inconvenience by determining that we would pay for lunch with our credit card and mother could repay us in cash.  We assured her that the amount of cash proffered by her was sufficient to exhaust the liability.

As we made our way to mother’s home she confessed she was drained by the events of the day and that she looked forward to having an afternoon nap.  I appeased her characterization of frustration with having to do these things by recasting the proceedings as a mixture of dutiful work, leisurely drive in the country on a lovely day and a relaxing lunch.  I am not convinced that my spin on it was entirely palatable.  It is conceivable that at 89 years of age everything is annoying.

At approximately 2:30 a.m. this morning I breathed a palpable sigh of relief as I stared at my iPhone in the darkness and saw two emails from the Accountant. One email concerned my mother and my late father’s estate; the other was for us.  The 2014 income tax returns were at last finalized and ready to be signed!  The emissions were posted shortly after midnight.  Under the circumstances, with mere hours remaining before the April 30th filing deadline, my sympathies for the laborious Accountant were decidedly lacking. We were now able to move forward after having been stalled for months waiting for T5s and T3s to arrive.  In addition recently my mother had been asking me again and again when we could expect to hear from the Accountant and how much the tax liability was estimated to be.  On several occasions I had attempted to contact the Accountant for an update but always without success, each time being given what was effectively a brush-off.  My level of anxiety and frustration had risen incrementally.  But upon seeing the Accountant’s name on each of the emails so early this morning everything turned a corner and my perturbation dissolved.

I struggled for a moment to read the content of the emails and the attachments but quickly abandoned the effort and returned to bed albeit with a lighter step.  But my head was swimming with detail and resolution.  After tossing about in bed I knew I might as well get up and study the material and do what had to be done.

My initial project was to set up an early morning appointment with the Accountant to review and sign the documents.  I fired off an email to the Accountant accordingly.  Then I realized the suggestion of the Accountant to have me sign on behalf of myself and my mother (and subsequently to get my mother to sign as Executor for my late father) was the best solution so I sent an amending email to the Accountant.  Meanwhile it dawned on me that I could arrange to pay the tax liabilities on-line, including the recently past due and upcoming imminent instalments.  This consumed considerable time as I was aware that at this early stage of the morning great caution was required to ensure I had all the details correct – amounts, social insurance numbers and dates.  As each payment was made I forwarded a copy to the Accountant for her records as well.

Oddly as much as I was relieved by this turn of events I was filled with a sense of blame that I had somehow precipitated what the Accountant characterized in her email as a “significant tax obligation” for my mother and my late father. There was some foundation for this sensitivity as I had orchestrated the unusual capital gains tax liability arising from the disposition of an out-of-province real estate holding and some long-held stocks.  While I knew that these dispositions (which my mother more than once had  openly desired and which our financial advisor had recommended) were in the best interests of my family, and of course the tax liability was in any event merely deferred not eliminated, I nonetheless felt uncomfortably responsible for triggering the liability.  What however assuaged my worry was that I had fortunately planned months in advance to have funds readily available to satisfy the obligation. It began with the reinvestment upon maturity of a fixed account in a cashable short-term certificate. Most recently I instructed the financial advisor to liquidate an estimated amount (which turned out to be almost exactly correct) and transfer it to a chequing account from which this morning I paid the respective amounts owing by my parents.  When I subsequently met with my mother to review the tax matters generally, I satisfied myself to give her the approximation of the real estate tax liability which had historically been her primary concern.  As for the tax arising from the disposition of stocks, I was content to saddle that upon the financial advisor who urged us to do it to diversify the portfolio when it was transferred to his management following my father’s death. It also directs away from me the personal responsibility for being the messenger of bad news in spite of being made to feel accountable.

As for our personal tax returns, there were really no surprises though everyone had as usual underestimated the reportable income (which quite honestly was higher than anyone could have speculated last year). Accordingly, while the liability was greater, so too were the gains.  This illustrates that tax liability is inevitably inarguable even though strangely offensive. 

During the course of the day the weight of these matters lifted from my shoulders.  Tax liability, like pain, loses its strength as its proximity diminishes, whether mollified by time or attrition.  As I became more and more removed from the consternation surrounding these matters I realized we closed the door on a number of family and personal matters which allowed us to proceed with duties performed.  We had for example wrapped up my late father’s estate; my mother’s affairs were now entirely her own.  For our part, my law practice was now fully accounted; and we could move forward knowing better what resources we had in retirement.  And none too soon for any of it!

When I turned fifty years old I quit smoking tobacco.  We were on a charter flight from somewhere in the Caribbean and I found I was having trouble getting my breath.  I blamed the problem partly on the dry, thin air peculiar to airline travel but mostly on my egregious cigarette smoking.  I resolved to quit right then and there and I have never smoked another cigarette to this day.

Prior to my 65th birthday I decided it was an occasion to quit drinking alcohol, which I did.  Once again I haven’t had a drop since then to this day. Admittedly I had lately had some sage advice from a Dutch Uncle but clearly I was already poised to make the change. Considering I am only now approaching my 67th birthday, that is not a terribly long time to have maintained sobriety but I have no interest in spoiling the record.  Nor, more importantly, do I have any further appetite for the stuff.  I am too well aware of the cost of drinking as far as it affects my already limited intellectual capacity ever to want to renew the indulgence.

Frankly I’ve never considered my sobriety an accomplishment; if anything, it was nothing more than the evaporation of an appetite. This qualifies as a small compliment at best.  Nonetheless most of my friends appear to marvel at the tact as though it were some kind of feat even though I am quick to urge upon them that I can easily bear the deprivation.  No doubt part of my so-called success in this endeavour arises (as usual) from the serendipitous events of my life at the time.  I had sold my office building, I had negotiated a prospective sale of my law practice and my retirement was within sight. I am also quite certain that my advancement to official old age had something to do with it, rather removing the customary buoyancy from erstwhile youthful frivolity and marking what should normally be a time of serious philosophy in life. Given these ample and relieving conditions it is no wonder I was prepared to launch into a new style of living, specifically one which didn’t include the anaesthetizing effect of the preprandial cocktail.

I won’t of course be so churlish as to assert that the historic pleasure of the frozen martini was completely lost on me.  Every so often – more so months ago than now – I found myself salivating at the thought of an evening martini with an improving book in front of a blazing fireplace.  The image of that happy intemperance had considerable foundation in fact.  When for example I still had my little French bulldog Monroe, we two had an early evening routine which revolved around that very ceremony. In spite of its compelling features I retained enough level-headedness to acknowledge that the ritual, like so many other things in my past, was but a happy memory and that attempting to relive it was destined to fail one way or the other. Thankfully these instances of mesmerizing recollection percolated but infrequently.  Now they are entirely a thing of the past with no more appeal than any other milestone in my life. I have instead opted for a new posture which pleases me very much. Certainly I still get angry enough at the world at times to wish I could quickly and briefly eliminate the anxiety but I have learned there are other preferable alternatives to address an annoyance.

It no doubt helped to sustain my sobriety that we also sold our house and moved into a new apartment, one which pleases us very much.  I can’t think that there was much else we could have done to leave our old habits and customs in the past.  My retirement was also considerably accelerated so once again my former life-style changed radically.  I mention these facts primarily because I have never been known to be one who is particularly efficient when maintaining a course of action which seemingly lacks immediate rewards and gratification.  By contrast I am normally one who is quick to embrace anything which rationalizes all that is epitomized by the Carpe Diem adage.  There lingered however that refrain I had adopted on my 65th birthday; namely, “You only turn sixty-five once!”  Why that date was so significant I cannot honestly say but it rang true to me for whatever reason and I have never been seriously tempted to defeat its rarity.

It would amount to boredom to relate how I now view the world differently. The change has naturally been incremental and therefore almost unnoticeable.  But there has indeed been a change.  For one thing, I never begin the day muttering an expletive, something which once was characteristic.  My personal talents, whatever they may be and however developed or not they are, no longer suffer self-imposed diminution.  In general terms I am now prepared to accept the limits of my compass and rejoice in what I have sans alcohol.  Being a person of a binary nature that I am, I hasten to add that booze was something I “enjoyed” to excess; accordingly my prescription (if indeed this is one) doesn’t apply to many people.

He held it up to the light, squinting and turning it slowly to study its detail, being very careful not to let it drop.  A superb piece, he thought.

The socks fit well. Knee-high, not ankle length as he had supposed when he bought them.  How can you possibly try socks before you buy them? It’s a crap shoot.  But they work!  When anything works, it’s good, doesn’t matter what.  He couldn’t stand things that didn’t work. Clocks, socks, whatever.

After only two mandarin oranges for breakfast there was an uncharacteristic sense of nimbleness.  The pants fit better around the waist. Pecan pie is off the list! And Nutella! Sugar, sugar, sugar…How long will this conviction last? Even the fatty oil of real peanut butter was turning out to be bad news. But the Abbott granola was still on the list, a rational accommodation.

The car was ready, clean enough from yesterday’s ritual wash. The mats were clean too.  One day soon he’d bring a wet rag from the apartment to wipe the scuff marks left by the rear-seat passengers. But for the time being it was fine.

The apartment was up to scratch, too.  Only the best things, stuff that for the most part is easy to maintain, no polishing.  The Persian rugs and the oil paintings and the mahogany and dark green leather furnishings sustained the place. And the copper lamps with their black shades, bits of bronze, crystal and ceramic sculpture.  Booze, good booze, was stored on the library shelves and in the wine cabinet, jewel-coloured treasures.

Sunday brunch at the edge of the River by the sprawling lawn. Cozy old red brick farmhouse reminiscent of a scene from The Two Fat Ladies.  The latest news of children and grandchild; travels; and health (always including arthritis). Had no one eaten before arriving?  The plates were emptied in a flash!  Yes, bicycling earlier in the morning, that explains the appetite.

A late afternoon visit with mother.  Inadvertently sharing a story which required some explanation. “I didn’t know you had those troubles”, she said.  “There’s lots you don’t know” was the reply.  A nasty bit of intelligence for an old woman.  “There are many things people don’t know about one another”, added by way of palliative.

The evening meal with a hint of rosemary on the potatoes.  Transported to the mountain top in Sardinia, early morning collection from the hedge outside the kitchen door of fragrant rosemary shards to sprinkle on the thick white bread fried in pungent olive oil.

We were a remarkably compatible lot at lunch today, the four of us.  There was that fluidity and transparency common to family gatherings in general, the singular lack of social gloss upon what is the overriding feature of togetherness peculiar to the communion of relatives. The congregation would not have been interpreted otherwise even from an abstract view of the components, two elderly men and two young women. There was clearly nothing nefarious about our convention.  Instead the profound elements of sharing and personal interest were likely apparent.  Everyone’s body language said as much, the reclining postures, the unfolded arms, the eruptions of laughter.  The purpose of eating and drinking underscored the birthday agenda. The tête-à-tête was fraught with unmistakeable import and introversion.

Our imaginations flew across the Atlantic Ocean to England where the two girls plan to travel a year hence. The chance to live while they’re young! The vast universe of callow discovery! In preparation for the voyage we bandied doors to close before opening others. And paused to reflect, to wonder, to consider. Where will we all be a year from now?

The repast yawned drowsily into coffee and desert and suddenly it was time to go.  Go to SuzyQ Doughnuts next door to face another temptation.