As unlikely as it may sound I now become anxious whenever I am due for a haircut.  Last autumn I got it into my head that I would adopt a new style. Over the winter my attendances upon the stylist in South Carolina were characterized by ups and downs.  Essentially mid-way in the growth process the stylist forgot what I was attempting to do so we had to begin anew almost from scratch.  Ever since I have been wary of trusting stylists to draw conclusions on their own; and as a result I prep myself before each visit for what I anticipate to be a showdown of sorts as I tediously prepare to explain again what I hope to accomplish.  This would all be too preposterous for words if I hadn’t derived such a charge out of the exploit in spite of its setbacks.  The bottom line is that I’m having fun with hair something which normally has not been even a remote indulgence.  I recall once at law school (over forty years ago) I tried to instruct the stylist to create a certain look for me.  It was nothing short of a disaster and until lately I had never again attempted anything like it.  This latest effort however has met with some degree of approbation from both myself and a few others (those who have the cheek to comment upon one’s appearance).  Let me put it this way, I can now understand what Samson was all about!  Other than that mop at law school I can’t recall ever having had a head of hair of any length.  Now frankly I amuse myself to be aware of it at the oddest times, in bed, in a wind and sometimes when just passing my hand through my hair.  Considering the months of fuss which have surrounded this act of pure selfishness it pleases me greatly that I am able, as I did today, to surface from the washing bowl and salon chair with a satisfactory cut.  While the air outside this morning was dry and cool with a discernible ray of sunshine making its way through the clouds, it wouldn’t have mattered if it were drizzling and blowing (which in fact it did later in the day).  My hair has become an extension of the weather whatever it may be and I am rejoicing in this trite correspondence!

As our cleaning lady was scheduled to make her regular visit to the apartment today we instinctively vacated the place and planned to be out of the mix for the greater part of the day. We quickly determined to lunch at our favourite haunt, the Socialist Pig in Gananoque. Our ambitions were not disappointed. We had what was unquestionably one of the better lunches we’ve ever had, a superb homemade tomato soup and tasty whole grain rolls, a grilled brisket and cheese sandwich accompanied by a small leafy salad with a very desirable vinaigrette, all washed down by hot green tea.  As appetizing as the lemon squares looked we had little trouble avoiding the temptation for fear of spoiling the most satisfactory effect of the soup and sandwich.

The unspoken background to this delightful day was the beautiful Eastern Ontario landscape, the ancient Town Hall of Gananoque (directly across the street from the restaurant) and the pleasure of driving our fine automobile (which for the most part sustained its shininess after the routine morning lather). Sheepishly I confess to the secret gratification of my new bit of bijouterie as well. The tactile thrill of it is unsurpassed, the density of the metal and the smoothness of its edges.  It is after all a work of art whose merits are not lost on me!  Surprisingly I am equally eager about fine plastic which I know may sound an oxymoron but in the hands of the Italians a pair of spectacles can be a cogent object.  Add to this a highly refined pair of lenses and the depth of enchantment is all the greater.

Wallowing in these instinctive diversions causes me a degree of public shame. But privately I concede that one hasn’t always the privilege of doing so.  More often than not we sad humans are overwhelmed by the cerebral and psychiatric  strains of life, the intellectualism of it all.  Occasionally it is a relief to capitulate to purely visceral pleasure.

I can’t ever remember having waited until almost April 30th to file my income tax return.  This year’s different.  Not just for me but for everyone in my immediate sphere.  I have been using the same firm of accountants for almost forty years so I can’t pretend to lose confidence in them.  Granted we’ve had delay because the T3 slips didn’t arrive until after April 1st.  But everything else was in the hands of the accountant long before that date.  Seemingly they don’t move until it’s all on the table.

Anyway as usual it’s probably just me needlessly fretting about things.  It doesn’t help that others have been pestering me about the same time-line. Add to that the delinquency of the accountant in returning my plaintive phone calls.  And there are several unusual issues this year involving capital gains tax liability so even making a guess at what is owed is impossible.  And the atypical estate considerations for my late father.  More obsession, I know, I know!  However we really have no more than six business days before it should all be finalized, and I have just confirmed with the financial advisor that no less than three business days are required to route funds from the investments to the chequing account.  That doesn’t include the time required to process a payment to Canada Revenue Agency.

Apart from that annoyance all is well.  My sister and I agreed this morning that the retirement home (Colonel By) on Aylmer Avenue in Ottawa would be a good fit for my mother if and when the time comes for her to move out of her house.  That’s half the battle, just knowing where she might go.  We like the neighbourhood of course because it’s within several blocks of my sister’s residence.

We’ve been doing a bit of a dance between banking partners in the past several weeks.  One more round to go in June, then we’ll nestle in for another year until the next maturity date.  Much of our financial planning turns on the report from the accountant about our collective current tax liability. This is another reason I’ve been anxious lately.  I tried to make that clear to my accountant but apparently it fell upon deaf ears.  At least we have the comfort of knowing that April 30th is the final date for settlement of these “taxing” issues.

Meanwhile all else is unfolding as it should.  My latest venture into the world of bijouterie is sitting well with me, very well if the truth be known.  Adjusting to a new piece is surprisingly easy when the design and fit are perfect, not always an easy achievement.  This production echoes the very satisfactory recollection I have of the first work I purchased from the same company years ago.  Considering the few matters of importance I have on my plate these days, it represents significant progress to have this particular lark behind me. The weather has surprisingly remained cool even to this date and now we’re being deluged with rain.  Nonetheless we’ve maintained our cycling routine fairly well until just recently.

Since our return from Hilton Head Island we’ve communicated with or met with all our closest friends.  The importance of close friendships frequently surfaces in our casual conversations.  Like most people our close connections are narrowing all the time especially perhaps on the heels of my retirement. In the past six weeks I have tried various adventures into the public orbit in an attempt to “keep involved” but public meetings, like fairs, are proving generally to be for the disadvantaged.  In spite of the appearance of accomplishment little gets done during these congregations which are more appropriately described as shoulder-rubbing for bafflegab and gobbledygook. We thus maintain that our private perambulations and sorties are sufficient diversion as insular as that must sound.

Except for open-heart surgery eight years ago, and except for arthroscopic knee surgery about fifteen years ago (oh, and two umbilical hernia operations and a silly event at Emergency one evening to cut two rings off my enflamed fingers following indigestion of a pan of bacon fat when I was on the otherwise very successful Atkins Diet), I’ve had little to do with doctors and hospitals throughout my entire life. At this juncture my duties focus upon shepherding my elderly mother to her physician for increasingly regular visits.

Today’s outing was prompted by mother’s concern last week that she had a lump in her abdomen. Accordingly the appointment was made and my mother duly alerted. We thought we’d profit by the occasion to enlist the doctor’s review of everything imaginable which may affect my mother.

No less than two days before the appointment mother began to resile from the arrangement.  She denied the necessity of the scheduled visit (though I reminded her that it was she who had requested it).  As is now so often the case my mother’s stock denial was easily assailed and the meeting took place as arranged.  And as I had anticipated the visit precipitated the request by the doctor for further tests, namely an X-ray, blood work and naturally a return visit in about six weeks.  Making those plans was thankfully not terribly difficult though two of them were made at different offices and the third (with the help of another party) was made on-line over the internet.

Precedent to her meeting with the physician I took my mother to the local branch of the Royal Bank of Canada.  When we got there my mother advised that she didn’t need to do anything at the bank notwithstanding that she had previously told me she needed to go to the bank (which normally she does for purposes of withdrawing a small amount of cash and to have her savings account passbook updated).  Argument in this instance served no purpose whatever so we simply moved on.

From the Royal Bank parking lot we therefore proceeded to the nearby Equator coffee shop where my mother had a mocha coffee and I had a small espresso.  She also ate half a large cinnamon roll, the remaining half of which she wrapped in her paper serviette and stuffed into her purse.

During our travels today two events transpired which speak to the current state of affairs.  First, my mother informed me that her credit card had expired and that a replacement had not been mailed to her by the bank.  When I examined her card I pointed out that the expiry date was over a month hence, the absorption of which took my mother about a minute.  Second, upon returning home she said the key to the house was not working. I observed that she appeared to be turning the key in the wrong direction.  I opened the door for her without difficulty.

Considerable controversy arose when, as requested by my mother’s physician, I removed the unused blister packs of medicine which are delivered weekly by the pharmacy.  Mother insisted that a.) she was taking her pills (which clearly she wasn’t); and b.) she needed to retain them in any event (which was preposterous considering the scheduled future deliveries).  No amount of logic on my part was sufficient to convince her otherwise and she soon lapsed into what has become her common refrain that a.) she is tired of people interfering in her affairs; and b.) things are going to change.

Most people wouldn’t consider life to be a job.  Perhaps we should.  After all many of us derive from work both tangible and intangible benefits.  To imagine that life will provide the same returns without effort is as unrealistic as to suggest we survive on air.  It requires but a cursory comparison of life and work to recognize the similarities: routine “get up and at it”, frequent drudge, occasional high points, general identity and personal satisfaction, need for application and thought, corporate responsibility, etc.

Too often people expect something from life without having to work at it as though its production were inherently magical.  This is both illogical and sadly shallow.  The good news however is that one needn’t work too hard. Nonetheless the imposition on life of even the veneer of work is both its salvation and its undoing. As patently compelling as it is to promote prosecution and intelligence in the way one lives, it requires little persuasion to opt instead for a laissez-faire strategy.  Taradiddle abounds when it comes to avoiding work.

What, you might ask, is the “work” that one must do to live?  The starting point has to be that, as with compensable employment, life will provide bounty commensurate with what one does.  The corollary is that if you don’t work at it, you’ll be out of a job, which in this context means you’re living a hollow life.  Unfortunately for some, when it comes to living there is no Employment Insurance; you either have a job or you don’t.  As with any job, some people will reap greater rewards than others.  There is seldom any accommodation for disability or incapacity; it’s generally the same playing field for all and one must learn to negotiate the rough and tumble without indulgence in self-pity.  If one allows one’s so-called pre-existing condition to trump everything else, the plight is doomed.  Indeed it is axiomatic that where there is no will there is no way.

However as I say one needn’t work too hard.  Like it or not, not all of us is aligned with performance. Rather the intent is to adopt an intellectual approach to living so that we are not merely fish in the sea being swept about by the changing tides and currents.  As comfortable as abandonment may sound the truth is that we derive our sense of meaning from active participation and contribution.  Seeing life as a job, a tit for tat, rather than a chance lottery will ensure we maintain a governance of our well-being, a hand on the tiller.  Far better to direct our course than to feel buffeted by the same winds whence we had frivolously hoped to discover the dew of pearls.  Even the most modest commitment to the improvement of life is better than none at all.  As the circumstances of life change through age or fortune, the need to adjust and temper may also occur. This mustn’t however diminish the requirement to work at it.  The smallest progress will ultimately advance the goal.

The object of course is to live a rewarding life, recognition of one’s services, efforts, or achievements. Especially as one gets older, the need to be valued is heightened though no one should expect it for nothing.  You have to work at it.  It’s a job!

I perceived early in my career as a lawyer that court room appearances were not my preference.  As an articled clerk I had attended the Small Claims Court and the somewhat less inferior Ontario Court (General Division) regarding debt collection and Landlord/Tenant matters respectively. I learned some bold lessons in those courts.  The Small Claims Court experience taught me that it is wide of the mark to assume your Client is telling the truth.  When for example I asked my Client in the witness box a pivotal question pertaining to his claim against the Defendant, he surprisingly gave an answer which utterly contradicted what he had told me at my office.  He buckled in the heat of the moment.  The Judge raised an eyebrow and summarily dismissed the claim.

The Ontario Court (General Division) introduced me to the riffraff of society. The delinquent tenants were the object of my Client’s suit.  The case I thought began badly for me when the Judge commented upon the pleasing floral design of the tie of one of the scruffy bearded tenants.  The Judge overcame his preoccupation sufficiently to grant me an order for eviction.  Weeks afterwards when I was in a local pub which catered to people such as poorly paid articled law students I saw the former tenants there.  Realizing I couldn’t avoid them I decided to confront them.  I expressed my hope that they were not angry with my Landlord Client.  They assured me they were not, adding that they were angry with me!  This intelligence did little to improve the rest of the evening though I escaped without damage.

After being called to the Bar at Osgoode Hall I catapulted to the Federal Court and Supreme Court of Canada (Appeal Division) in a high profile oil and gas case, a distinction I garnered only because we acted as Agents for a British Columbia law firm and nobody else in my firm could fit into their gown or felt it worth their while to attend (especially I am sure when they could pay me so little and charge so much).  My attendance in this instance was decorative only.  I and the other twenty-four lawyers in the court room bowed to the ermine-clad Justices and agreed with the submissions of our learnèd friend Mr. Hyman Soloway who was leading the charge.

A year later I plummeted once again to the Small Claims Court to complete one of those “dog” files begun years earlier by one of my Principals.  The Defendant was trying to avoid paying a $600 debt.  Thus far he had been successful.  When however I instituted a “Show Cause” proceeding (pursuant to which the Defendant was summoned to appear before the Judge to explain his continued dereliction), the Defendant chose not to appear and the Judge therefore issued a Bench Warrant.  This meant the police were armed with authority to incarcerate the Defendant for Contempt of Court.  As the police were hauling the Defendant off to gaol he called me to ask me to call off the dogs which I told him I couldn’t do because the violation was not that he hadn’t paid my Client’s debt rather that he had not obeyed the Judge’s Order and accordingly I had no authority.  I thought this would have been sufficient to exact payment of the debt, but no.  My subsequent action was to garnish the wages of the Defendant.  To my utter surprise the Garnishee employer (Canadian Pacific Railway) never responded to the Garnishment Notice.  So I ended by getting an Order of the Court to force CPR to pay the debt (which they did). When this Order was mailed to the Head Office of CPR it unfolded that the reason CPR had not responded to the Garnishment Notice was that the Baliff had served it upon the CPR Manager who was the very Defendant I had been suing.  The Garnishment Notice went into the trash upon its receipt.  CPR of course became apprised of these details and subsequently fired the Defendant. By the time the $600 debt had been satisfied the additional court costs put the total in excess of $3,500.

What I thought was to be my swan song was a reappearance in Small Claims Court in my second year of practice to defend a Client charged with theft.  He switched the price tags on a token item in a department store.  The difference in price was about three dollars.  The Client attempted to assert the error of the in-store detective but armed with my previous lesson about the credibility of one’s own client I succeeded in reducing him to tears in my office and advised him to plead guilty which he did.  I had the satisfaction of persuading the Judge to grant my Client an absolute discharge (which meant no criminal record for my Client).  It was I thought a good note on which to end my career as litigation Counsel.

My retirement from the courts however suffered a further delay during my first year of practice on my own.  I inherited a filing cabinet of unpaid bills from a local merchant.  The one thing I recall having heard from the late Hyman Soloway was, “Sue first, talk later”.  That is precisely what I did.  My action brought immediate response from the numerous Defendants who in every case assured me I needn’t have acted without consultation (notwithstanding that each of them had failed to respond for years to previous letters pleading for payment).

Subsequently I advised Clients that I no longer accepted retainers for contentious matters.  This effectively excluded not only collection matters but also the equally common matrimonial matters.  I thought I had closed the door on court room appearances.

I was wrong.  Late one year just before closing for the Christmas holidays the looming figure of a well-known Ottawa Baliff appeared at my office door.  Recognizing him I quipped, “Who are we suing today?” to which he replied, “You!” This bad beginning to my Christmas holiday lasted ten years. Immediately upon receipt of the Statement of Claim I naturally notified my professional indemnity insurers who subsequently engaged their own Counsel on my behalf.  Over the next ten years the Plaintiff went through three lawyers, none of whom he paid and one of whom sued his former client and precipitated the sale of the Plaintiff’s assets to satisfy the unpaid legal fees. I went through endless Examinations for Discovery and rehashed the facts much to the repeated disappointment of succeeding Counsel for the Plaintiff. It became obvious that the Plaintiff was motivated by a hatred for a background participant in the saga and was seeking to compensate any financial loss suffered at the hand of that peson by collecting from my insurance.  In the end the Plaintiff was completely unsuccessful.  His claim was dismissed without a penny paid on my behalf and my escalated insurance premiums during the preceding ten years were reduced and repaid to me.

It is often observed by the Law Society and practitioners that it is impossible to escape a liability claim in one’s career.  Having proved the accuracy of that statistic and my commonality with the herd I would have been satisfied not to disturb the actuarial numbers.  There was however another realm of litigation which lawyers regularly undergo and that is a dispute regarding professional fees.

In no less than three instances a claim had been advanced against me for repayment of professional fees.  In each case the claim was only for repayment of money not for professional negligence. What however was singular about these claims is that notwithstanding that the Plaintiff in each was different (as of course one would expect) the Solicitor for the Plaintiff was the same.  After the second claim was instituted (the first simply evaporated after much back and forth communication) I thought perhaps it was merely a coincidence that it was being handled by the same lawyer (on the theory that there were not many litigation lawyers in the immediate area).  The second claim dragged on endlessly.  For one reason or another the Plaintiff was never able to make it to court on the date scheduled for appearance.  I finally became so fed up with needless court appearances and adjournments that I agreed to pay money to the Plaintiff just to get rid of her as it was costing me money and valuable time in any event.  When the third claim was instituted by the same lawyer I decided enough was enough.  Negotiations and settlement discussions were off the table.  We ended by going to court and the Judge decided not only that I was entitled to the full payment of my account but also damages in an amount which came perilously close to exceeding the disputed amount claimed by the Plaintiff.  I was so angry with the other lawyer and his client that upon issuing the Order from the court I immediately served it upon the other lawyer and advised that if it were not paid within ten days I would instruct the Sheriff to seize the Plaintiff’s house and sell it to satisfy the debt and costs.  Satisfaction ensued.  The other lawyer never bothered me again nor was I ever caught up in a similar dispute.

My elder niece is turning thirty in a couple of weeks.  I am also her godfather. By virtue of either distinction I feel the necessity to convey more than birthday wishes to her on the day. As a token acknowledgement of the significance of the occasion we have resolved to meet for lunch at a vegetarian restaurant (her preference).  There will just be four of us so the opportunity lends itself to earnest dialogue.  Naturally I don’t want to spoil the day by being tedious but neither do I want to avoid the chance to share what information I have that may assist her in life. Notice I call it “information” not “wisdom”.  I won’t be presumptuous.  It has been my experience that sharing the facts of one’s life can afford lessons.  After all apprenticeship at any level is nothing more than that sans the platitudinous innuendo. And if my aspiration in this contrivance is trumped by the weather, the food or any other topic of idle table conversation, I thought I might usefully record what I was doing at 30 years of age.

I was born in 1948.  So I was 30 years old in 1978.  An especially important date for me in that year is March 1, 1978.  It was the day I opened my own law practice.  While I am naturally tempted to ramble on about the exigencies of running one’s own business that is beside the point for purposes of this chronicle.  What is more relevant is what preceded my decision to open my own office.  The subsequent traffic up the narrow staircase to Mr. Jamieson’s antique office put me in good stead.

Until I graduated from law school in 1973 my progress in life was nothing more distinguished than that of most students.  Upon graduation I secured an articling job at Macdonald, Affleck at 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa. My recollection is that my mother knew a woman who had a connection to someone in the firm.  I honestly cannot recall being interviewed though obviously I got the job.  Apart from having an articling job (which I understand by current standards is no longer a given for many of the law school graduates throughout the Province of Ontario) the achievement was otherwise a small compliment.  We were paid about $4,000 per year (which even then meant that eating at Harvey’s was considered “dining out”) and for the most part we were delivery boys, running between the office and court houses and the Land Registry Office.  Even the conveyancer had a superior status to law clerks, and the legal secretaries unquestionably ranked higher. But it was a prerequisite to completing the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall in Toronto.

The next bit of luck arose when I applied to my undergraduate university (Glendon Hall, Toronto) for the position of a Don of the men’s residence so that I didn’t have to pay rent while attending Osgoode Hall.  During the interview the Dean mentioned that the previous applicant (David, also a law student and who has since been elevated to the bench) casually commented to the Dean that I had certain “tendencies” which he considered might make me unfit for the position of a Don in a men’s residence.  I won’t bore my reader with the reactionary fallout of that intelligence other than to observe that, upon hearing it, I stood up and informed the Dean I had a luncheon engagement in the Professors’ Lounge with the Head of the English Department and withdrew.  Subsequently I made application to the Dean of Devonshire House, University of Toronto and was enlisted as a Don.  By the way, the Dean at Glendon Hall also offered me a Donship but I turned it down.

Upon my return to Macdonald, Affleck after completing the Bar Admission Course, I worked for one year.  My tenure there came to an abrupt halt when I discovered that a new articling student had been hired at the same salary I was getting as a first-year lawyer.  When I broached the subject with the Managing Partner he was clearly unaware of the situation though it emphasized to me that my presence and comparative status were either unimportant or undistinguished.  Feeling slighted I began immediate plans to leave not only the firm but also Ottawa (in those days the Ottawa Bar was much smaller than it is now).  Because our firm had recently consumed McIlraith, McIlraith and McGregor and because Sen. Geo. McIlraith was the father-in-law of Michael J. Galligan, QC and because Galligan & Sheffield, Almonte had recently bought the practice of retiring Raymond A. Jamieson, QC, I applied to fill the hole left by Raymond.  I got the job one splendid summer evening at the Mississippi Golf Club, Appleton.

It appears that my sense of self-importance and purpose continued as strong as ever. Within two years, after having made what I thought were frequent overtures to Galligan and Sheffield about acquiring partnership status and having been consistently ignored (as I thought in my youthful impatience) I began what were effectively surreptitious proceedings to set up my own law office.  The exploit was hastened upon learning of the intention of my employers to close Mr. Jamieson’s former law office out of which I had been operating and relocate me in their main office up the street. Quite by coincidence within weeks of my targeted mission (March 1, 1978) Mike Galligan invited me to lunch and announced that he would like to discuss partnership with me.  To this I replied, “I’m leaving on March 1st” to which he replied “You’re miles ahead of us” to which I replied “I’m just trying to catch up!” I subsequently negotiated with Galligan & Sheffield to pay them what they had paid Mr. Jamieson for his practice. Pointedly they retained ownership of his files, I bought only the old hardware (furnishings, copier and books).  Of course I had also negotiated a new lease with the Landlord (the price jumped from the laughable $25 per month that Mr. Jamieson had paid to $100 per month) so importantly by staying there I had the appearance of retaining Mr. Jamieson’s practice even without the technical legal gloss.

I won’t attempt to extrapolate any generic truths from the above narrative other than to say that my personal feeling is that a combination of gusto and luck prevailed. I suppose an admission of bloodymindedness wouldn’t be without foundation as well.  But at 30 years of age, what do you expect?

Benjamin Franklin reportedly said, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”  Yesterday I swallowed the remedial pill and I confess I’m feeling the better for having done so!

No doubt as a whitewash of an inescapable weakness of mine I have rationalized this latest sally into the ornamental world as a palliative of sorts. It is after all a malady to which I long ago succumbed and from which I never truly imagined to be free in spite of the distance I lately put between it and myself.  In any event the circle has been closed, the damage (such as it is) has been done and my inherent predilections are for the moment anaesthetized if not in fact cured.

I amuse myself to contrive serendipitous events which admittedly are the modern equivalent of historical astrological “signs”, those specious dynamics of ancient soothsayers.  For example, and by way of introduction only, the Master Jeweller was the affable Matthew Dixon.  On the same day that I collected the piece from him, I first met with the equally congenial Dawn Dixon, a lawyer in Smiths Falls.  Small coincidence, agreed, but nonetheless there it is.  Subsequently my dear confidante JCH pointed out that we had introduced the afternoon rendez-vous with the jeweller by momentarily arresting our expedition for a cocktail at Zoe’s in the Château Laurier Hotel, a sister of the Empress Hotel in Victoria, BC where I first glimpsed a ring which was to become the template for the one I commissioned.  Another perhaps less tenuous intersection is that Matthew Dixon is the son of Ralph L. Dixon, the jeweller who founded the company and who over a decade ago had manufactured a winsome bloodstone ring for me through Birks, an agency relationship which was disclosed only after my persuasive insistence.  It was that initial bond which locked my sights upon Dixon Design Studio.

One might reasonably ask, “What exactly is the cure that is prevented?”  And it is this:  My well-known hankering for tinsel is, unless quelled, relentless. Until the disease is administered to, I continue to harbour all the symptoms of fever and distress, not to the degree of incapacity certainly, but nevertheless discernibly.  The infirmity has for example already manifested itself in half-hearted attempts to deaden the yearning, but like anything less than committed and unequivocal effort it failed.  In this as in all matters of plaintive need there is a threshold beyond which one must reach before triumph ensues.  I am now satisfied that I have attained that lofty goal.

One may be inclined to sneer mockingly at my all-too familiar ejaculations, as though this latest victory is but a hiccup along a tiresome and well-worn path. Readily do I concede the possibility.  Yet I have lately contemplated at some considerable length the prevention of this condition. I have concluded – albeit with squeamishness – that it is in this mission that it is resolved.  The blunt truth is that with age the doors of both need and opportunity begin to close. Yet the coincidence is not without its benefits. Once directly addressed the appetite is surprisingly diminished.  This was my ounce of prevention!

As much as I appreciate having known some of the great people of our community, when those individuals die I nonetheless regret not having known them better.  I feel that in recounting what little I know of those people I am omitting a great deal of important and useful information about them. The hiatus is the result of only having known those individuals in the latter years of their life.  An example of what I mean is Edward Harrington Winslow-Spragge who I heard through the local grapevine died today.

My happy acquaintance with Ed began shortly after I arrived in Almonte in June of 1976.  As I have since recounted to his daughter, Joanne, I actually came to know of Ed through Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC who was Ed’s Commander in the Navy and who from time to time had dined with Ed and his wife, Isobelle, in Almonte.  Louis always spoke of Ed with exceeding warmth and generosity, not something Louis was inclined to do with just anyone.  While I have some difficulty recalling my first introduction to Ed I believe it was when he and Isobelle operated the Crest Studio (an art gallery and framing studio) on Mill Street, Almonte.  Their business was run out of the former Royal Bank of Canada building which continued to that day (and indeed to this day) to house a huge walk-in safe.  Their shop was located almost adjacent to my law office at 74 Mill Street, the former office of the late Raymond Algernon Jamieson, QC whom Ed and Isobelle knew well of course. Indeed it was probably through discussions with Raymond that I first learned that the Winslow-Spragges formerly operated a fuel delivery company in Town. My failing memory suggests to me that the name of the company was Winslow Fuels but this is not reliable more so as the business had changed hands by the time I first met Ed.

My lingering and overriding recollection of Ed was that he was an incredibly kind man even to the point of being ingenuous.  Whenever I did business with Ed to have something or other framed, it was invariably an uplifting experience.  The business at hand (though executed to exacting professional standards) was always second to the element of human interaction. Competing with Ed’s personal generosity was his modesty. Subsequently I discovered that he was an accomplished musician (though only after I had embarrassed myself by having played the piano for him). While it may sound vulgar to remark upon it, it was common knowledge that Ed came from distinguished Canadian stock (including the famous Molson family of Montreal whence he originally hailed) and that he was considered a man of means.  Neither of these attributes was however ever advanced by him or his family, the tell-tale test of their truth.

My recollection is that Ed may have been active in local politics in the Town of Almonte.  I have subsequently discovered by trolling the internet that he was on the board of the Upper Canada College Foundation which leads me to believe he was an Old Boy of that school (as was his erstwhile neighbour at “Burnside” on the former Hamilton Street, now Strathburn Street, John MacIntosh Bell).

Now that Netflix (the on-line on-demand movie network) is here and large-screen televisions are ubiquitous, the need to “go to the movies” in the traditional sense is greatly diminished.  Indeed even the desire to do so is pretty much quelled.  Yet when the occasion arises to attend a movie at the Old Town Hall in support of a local charity, the opportunity is both an adventure and a worthy outing.  As it turned out the planning couldn’t have been better as today was a brilliantly sunny, warm day, really the first we’ve had so far this Spring.  We seized the chance to walk from our apartment to the Old Town Hall, a modest stretch of about one mile along Bridge Street.

When we first organized the affair we collaborated with our dear friend JCH who dutifully met us as arranged in front of the Old Town Hall.  She had arrived earlier and was sitting on the large millstone bench overlooking the burgeoning waters of the Mississippi River as it rushed to the upper falls. Together we strode up the broad entrance steps into the building, then climbed the historic creaking stairs with the massive timber handrails to the upper chamber where the concerts, political meetings and movies are held. The venue is known for its acoustics and the woodwork alone is a marvel to behold.

The movie – “Pride” (about gay and lesbian support for striking mine workers in England in the 1980s under Margaret Thatcher’s government) – was a BBC production which combined intrigue, comedy, catharsis and sentimentality and thus contributed to a thoroughly pleasant experience.  The smallish audience respectfully clapped at the ending before dissipating into the late afternoon sunshine and warmth.

We too decided to extend the delight of our cinematic excursion by strolling along the Riverwalk beside the roaring water falls to the riparian deck of the Barley Mow Restaurant.  There, after a brief wait and chat with a prospective Almonte newcomer and her son and his little dog, we eventually landed a comfortable corner table. While our refreshment was nothing more glamorous than some beer and Perrier, the pleasure of being out-of-doors on this magnificent day was unparalleled.  Our companion succeeded as always to keep the conversation swift and enlivened, punctuated as always by uproariously funny sketches of past experiences.