The first martini I had in my life was in the sagging old Hôtel du Castor on Sussex Drive, Ottawa.  “Le Castor” or “Beaver House” was a legendary stopping place of the river giant Joseph Montferrand (known as “Joe Mufferaw” in Ottawa Valley folklore) and reputedly one of many drinking places frequented by Sir John A. MacDonald.  The hotel is now part of the “Mile of History” in Ottawa.  The interior has been modernized and its exterior restored to its original by the National Capital Commission.  The atmosphere in the bar was green – dark green leather chairs, pale green walls and something resembling green granite for the small square table tops.  Likely the carpet was greenish as well.  It is also possible that I am completely wrong about all of that though that is my honest recollection.

I can however say without prevarication that my first martini was a gin martini.  Although I then knew virtually nothing about martinis I did at least know that the concoction is commonly made with gin and dry Vermouth.  I never would have imagined the possibility of a vodka martini.  Nor would I have thought to have had the martini other than straight up in the traditional martini glass which is the manner in which we were both served our martinis on that important day in the late autumn of 1975.

I recollect the sensation of drinking gasoline as I took the first sip of my martini.  Little did I know that martinis translate jet fuel into rocket fuel.  After our second martini we had clearly settled in for the afternoon which was fortunately a Saturday afternoon and therefore uncluttered by pressing obligation.  My final and lasting impression of l’Hôtel du Castor was the declining sunlight on the brick cobblestones of the court yard behind the Hôtel.

That auspicious beginning for my martini career was explosive but not incendiary (at least not in the long run).  In fact the experience hardly stirred my imagination for years afterwards.  I must have considered the event unique and educational but nothing in the nature of addictive.  Instead my subsequent years of imbibing were dedicated to blended whiskey and Porto.

In 1996 I began chumming with a friend who regularly drank martinis.  Even then I  wasn’t convinced to follow suit.  Several years later however – again on a sunny Saturday afternoon – I was introduced to the pleasures of a martini complemented by a luncheon of Sea Bass and sliced Beefsteak tomatoes.  This particular hedonism also transpired in the autumn since I recollect we sat before a blazing fireplace in a very comfortable apartment in the By Ward Market (pointedly not far from Sussex Drive).

Sometime after the turn of the century I began stocking vodka in the freezer. My mother had told me years earlier that the secret to a good martini was to pour off a cap of gin from the bottle, refill it with Vermouth, then store the bottle in the freezer.  For some reason I switched to vodka rather than gin when making my martinis although I made a point of stocking both in the freezer.  I discovered that when I entertained my friends, martinis were very popular.  In fact my guests would subsequently ask for them specifically. I can’t imagine that there was anything especially clever about the way I made the martinis other than that I served them in extraordinarily large glasses (what I derisively called “bathtubs on sticks”).  Indeed I became so wary of the effects which flowed from my martinis that I learned to limit my friends who were driving to no more than one (and even then they frequently reported the next day to having slept surprisingly well that night).

My favourite indulgence in a martini was at the end of the day in front of a blazing fireplace with a novel by a renowned British author like Jane Austen or Virginia Woolf.  When my little French bulldog Monroe was still whinnying among us he would join me in the drawing room, prone on the leather couch nicely elevated from the draughts of the hardwood floors.  I did of course ensure that his every need was satisfied before I permitted myself the supreme relaxation of my ritual evening martini.

Lately my fondest memories of martinis revolve around two exceptional restaurant dinners in Toronto, one with my nieces at the Royal York Hotel (Epic), the other with close friends at La Société on Bloor Street.  In both instances the martinis were complemented by oysters on the half shell which I suppose is never a bad way to begin any meal but made all the more irresistible by the addition of the clear liquor.  As usual the martinis guaranteed an unsurpassed coziness at table.

Subsequently our journeys to South Carolina have been punctuated by thoroughly delightful martinis prepared by American bartenders who are well known for getting down to business.  Until recently it was frequently a disappointment to return to Canada to discover the restraint practiced by local bartenders.  In any event the modification is now lost upon me as I have nothing but fond memories of the martini to amuse me.  As you might have gathered I have little to say by way of disparagement about the martini even though I made an abrupt right turn upon my sixty-fifth birthday.  As the saying goes, “They are so history!”  Yet for me they are a reminder of the vigour of my youth.  I know it would be as preposterous to sustain the habit as it is to imagine I shall be forever young.  So I quit while I’m ahead.  But oh my they were good!

Until my recent retirement I never enjoyed an afternoon nap unless it were the less glamorous recomposition following a particularly draining evening. The afternoon nap wasn’t part of my vernacular as much as I secretly thought of it as a supreme satisfaction.  I may have fashioned it an encroachment upon commerce or at the very least an unmerited indulgence.  During my working career the little time I had to myself was on the weekends. I traditionally had so much packed into those 48 hours that having a nap was tantamount to frittering away one’s capital.  So I distanced myself from the slackening and buoyed myself with coffee, pills, booze and more coffee.

I have since quit the booze.  My love affair with the vodka martini waned when I realized I was reliving the same movie every night and my relationship with Jane Austen was going nowhere. Luckily for me I suppose the profit margin on the expenditure was dwindling. Nonetheless the lack of this particular recreation did not diminish my consumption of coffee which I began drinking in boosted quantities by regularly making my own coffee with triple amounts of instant coffee (a sure-fire stimulant I had discovered in my undergraduate days).

The jitters caused by excessive caffeine were not lost on me.  After a certain level of caffeinated manipulation it is a case of diminishing returns and perhaps even an upset stomach.  So that project of self-stimulation exhausted itself as well.  That left pills.  My awakening to the general condition of my anatomy led me to believe that even pain killers (or arthritis pills in particular) weren’t entirely reliable to deaden one’s natural reflexes.

As a result I began confronting my instinctive responses to the day.  Unmistakably an emerging response was that I was tired, worn out to be more precise. Nothing was impeding the repeated and overwhelming wave of fatigue.  To my surprise I began to succumb to the urge to lie down.  I sought to lessen the lanquid purpose by resorting to my green leather couch as though it were somehow only a temporary repose and nothing serious.  As if that mattered! Nonetheless I avoided the bed itself, a destination I otherwise considered overwhelming evidence of malaise.

To my surprise my afternoon naps on the couch were not only longer than I could have imagined (regularly stretching into two hours) but more gratifying than my nocturnal slumber.  When I awoke I was undeniably refreshed.  Everything felt better including my joints.  My mental attitude was positive and engaged.  For some reason the afternoon nap revitalized me and I hadn’t been plagued as I was so often at night by contemplation of what else I should be doing.

At first I thought these restorative naps were occasional and random only, nothing approaching a habit.  But regularly I was overtaken by a feeling of being wasted, a feeling I understood intuitively to come from years of having ignored the needs of my worn out body.  I understood I could no longer pretend I didn’t need to sleep.  I accepted that I had a lot of catching up to do.  And I hesitatingly relinquished my obsession to produce to permit me the indulgence of rejuvenation through sleep.  One might think that such daytime healing would inhibit the natural disposition to sleep at night.  In fact by relieving my body of its perpetual burden I also relieved my mind of its angst and was no longer predisposed to retard the routine bedtime until I virtually collapsed from exhaustion, a synthetic soporific which of course only caused problems the next day.

Releasing my grip on mandatory occupation is a challenge. It is not routine to disengage.  It isn’t easy to acknowledge that it can wait.  But creeping into the cracks of the veneer is the need to sleep, to recover from years of constant worry about endless affairs.

During the past year or so I have sought to arrest my smouldering inclination to accumulate things and to replace the wolfish habit with something approaching material pragmatism (or what anyone else might derisively call common sense). I can’t take any personal credit for the modification. Likely it’s just an accident of aging. Even the most rapacious eventually tire of collecting stuff. The transition from profligacy to austerity was accomplished by incremental diminution characterized at first by moderation and then a gradual fading out. It may have helped to have awoken to the jarring reality that I was living proof that you can’t have money and things. Whatever the cause I was a reformed materialist. Or so I thought.

Materialism like any other addictive appetite is one which is never entirely extinguished. And as with all other addictions it doesn’t help to deal only with the symptom rather than the cause. I had successfully dealt with the symptom. The surplusage of objects in my life had been critically and fatally attacked. If it didn’t go in the dishwasher, it was out! If it needed to be polished, it was rejected! If it constituted a rider on the household insurance policy, it was gone! Anything which required annual or more frequent maintenance was history! In short I was determined to live with what I needed and what was self-sustaining. Sounds frightfully modern, won’t you agree? Yet I still hadn’t cured the cause of the inherent defect. My revelation was as short-lived as any other conversion. And by conversion I mean more than spiritual renewal. I mean that the conversion of my stuff to cash didn’t even help. I remained in the grip of philosophical monism which holds that matter is the fundamental substance in nature.

Grant me if you will a degree of determination. Certainly now and again I had relaxed my clenched fist about my pocketbook sufficiently to indulge in a small treat but nothing significant. I was still on the right course. I had skilfully resisted the temptation of art and baubles. I had convinced myself of the futility and guaranteed degeneration of the material world. Nothing was about to deter me. That is until my resoluteness collided with the novelty of the pre-arranged funeral. Suddenly I had attained the intersection of money and things, expenditure and common sense, Yin and Yang by any standard! I was on the very threshold of discovery and enlightenment. How else does one describe the consummate utility of addressing the ultimate? This was the cat’s pyjamas!

It is a little known fact that there is at law no property in a corpse. In practical terms this means that the disposition of one’s mortal remains is solely within the dominion of one’s executor (who at the least has a qualified property interest in trust for burial). Denying the commercial character of “property” in a corpse is easily understood by considering whether it were legal for a creditor to arrest a corpse (such as was done to the poet Dryden). Even if one were to divide the nature of property between a right of possession and the thing itself, it still doesn’t overcome what is considered revolting to the courts. As palatable as this conclusion may be it nonetheless remains that the disposition of a corpse is the absolute or qualified right of the executor not the deceased. This means that taken to its extreme the executor may snap his fingers at the terms of a funeral prearranged by the deceased. The fact that the executor has rights over a body for burial necessarily leads to the conclusion that the executor has the exclusive right to determine the manner of burial.

In spite of this admittedly esoteric knowledge the general consensus is that the “family” (being the next-of-kin or lawful beneficiaries) will customarily honour the wishes of the deceased. It is for this reason that years ago, upon the untimely death of a dear friend, I determined to prearrange my own funeral to avoid the hiatus which my friend had unwittingly imposed on his family. Among the arrangements I made was the purchase of a plot in a local cemetery, the cost of which was appropriately divided between the 40 square foot real estate and perpetual care. This morning I visited the plot which I purchased decades ago.  Although there are a number of plots which have tombstones that are more anticipatory than historical (the date of death has yet to be added) my particular plot is nothing more than an unadorned grassy area.  It pleases me however that two of my neighbours are deceased former clients of mine.  I also discovered that my plot has road access as my plot immediately adjoins one of the pathways of the cemetery. As a  former real estate lawyer I can but admire the serendipity.  Road access was an issue which traditionally disrupted the conveyance of cottage lots in particular but also certain residential lots upon the advent of universal zoning by-laws.  It’s nice to know this question will not be a muddling topic for debate.   Plus I have what amounts to a corner lot which as anyone knows traditionally commands a special value. And it is on high land so there is no fear of being washed away.

What however is missing is a tombstone. While all this was fresh upon my mind I determined to call a local monument company to enquire about having a tombstone erected upon my plot. A visit to the cemetery will readily disclose that I am not the first to fathom this indulgence. I won’t say it is popular nor even common. But I will say it addresses a multitude of cravings which are even more deeply ingrained than furnishings or objets d’art. It is obvious too that a tombstone is one’s final testament. Certainly there are those who would prefer something grand and imposing. I am even reminded of the comedy associated with the inscriptions on tombstones I’ve seen in Key West, Florida (“I told you I was sick”, “Now she’ll know where I am at night”, “He loved bacon” and so on). Whatever the decision, it is at least probable that the family will respect the choice of tombstone. And commissioning the tombstone is the most fun I’ve had shopping in years!

It might to the uninitiated be an impertinence to pronounce our Almonte apartment one resembling a Manhattan apartment. Yet for me the ambitious notion persists. Indeed it is part of the attraction of the place that it instills the comparison.  Perhaps what prompted the association in the first place was the staid colour of the paint on the walls – a slightly burnt yellow, not a common colour but one which blends remarkably well with the darker hardwood floors.  Perhaps it is its size which by New York standards is a very respectable 1,046 square feet.  Perhaps it is the exuberance of the Persian rugs, the leather chairs, the mahogany furniture, the brass lamps, the crystal decanters and the paintings (about 42 in all).  The place is passably elegant. There are in addition two full bathrooms, an unexpected luxury.  One mustn’t overlook the secluded nature of the apartment either. We’re a top floor corner apartment with an uninhibited view of the nearby pastures in Ramsay Township (granted not too like the Manhattan skyline but nonetheless similarly peerless – imagine if you will a view upon Central Park towards the Upper East Side).  Lastly the supreme distinguishing feature of the place is that in keeping with New York culture it is an apartment, not a house.  It conveniently lends itself to immediate and trouble-free vacancy. This cosmopolitan element blends nicely with our hibernation strategy.

Adjustment to the size of the apartment has resulted in the imposition of another Manhattan attribute; namely, a studied economy of space.  We haven’t for example any spare room for redundant things.  There is no possibility of storing anything “just in case” it might be needed one day. Duplication is likewise out of the question; only one set of cutlery, dishes, placemats, etc.  This all contributes to modern expediency.  Surplusage is incongruous and utterly impractical.  We have kept only our treasured possessions.

The building itself reveals a number of features which distinguish the place. While it hasn’t the constitutional template of the New York cooperative it has instead the novelty of a “life lease” which in many ways affords the same supercilious restrictions so common to the cooperative, prohibiting for example ownership or occupancy by anyone under the age of 45 years.  The sweeping circular drive at the front entrance is overhung by a large portico which vaguely resembles a trendy residential hotel. The lobby is calculated to inspire propriety, colours of silver and matching elegant furnishings. There is a specially outfitted common room and a small gymnasium complete with powder room.  At the back of the building is a very well appointed and landscaped area which over the years will assuredly qualify as a giardino segreto.

Finally there are the personalities of the inhabitants.  Without question the blood lines have the appearance of cultivation.  Social graces are not lost on the burghers of this particular enclave.  There is just the right amount of corporate guardedness to preserve a shadow of urban anonymity.

A sodden grey Sunday is matchless for a roast beef dinner.  I recall a visit with my undergraduate friend Fred Jones (that was his real name) to his parents’ place for Sunday dinner.  It was a blustery autumn day near the beginning of term when the trees were at perpetual risk of losing their leaves.  Fred’s parents lived in an old part of Toronto in a three-storey red brick townhouse covered with ivy.  As my friend and I ascended the stone steps and passed through the front oaken door the wafts of appetizing aromas from the kitchen welcomed us into the muffled drawing room.  There the master and mistress of the household were at their ritual stations in preparation for what was unquestionably the practiced ceremony of Sunday dinner.

Mrs. Jones, sporting a decorative frilly white apron, flitted between the kitchen and the drawing room to check the meal preparation and to attend to the hors d’oeuvres and drinks.  We boys were permitted a beer or sherry.  Mr. Jones wore a nondescript suit and stood bolt upright next to the black grand piano where he had positioned his martini. As he stood, he smoked, holding his cigarette from the bottom with the first two fingers and thumb of his right hand, drawing on the cigarette, inhaling deeply, removing the cigarette as though it were a small torpedo by rotating his arm slightly downward then puffing the evidence of his  industry into the air before him where he briefly marvelled at it. Only then did he figure to address us boys to enquire after our health and the weather.

Our lubricated conversation delighted Fred’s parents as we recounted the details of university, at least as much as we thought prudent to share with them.  I played the piano, a Bourrée by Bach.  The wind outside blew against the Georgian-style leaded windows. The fireplace sparked and blazed its burning logs.  The firelight shimmered in the room and a coziness descended upon us.  We sank more deeply into the cushioned arm chairs.

Mrs. Jones, having dipped into the kitchen one last time, reappeared and called us – now almost lethargic – to table in the dining room.  The dark oak table was laid with silverware, white linen napkins and cut crystal wine glasses.  Mr. Jones assumed the head of the table, Mrs. Jones the other.  Fred and I completed the sides.  We were asked to give the blessing which was rendered in Latin in keeping with our schoolboy tradition (“Pro hic et omnibus tuis beneficios …“).  Dinner consisted of a standing rib  roast (which Mr. Jones stood to carve), horseradish, mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussel sprouts and Yorkshire pudding. There were of course “seconds”.  When asking his wife if she cared for more, Mr. Jones politely enquired, “Have you had enough, darling?” to which she placidly replied, “Yes thank-you, dear!”  Fred and I were less reluctant but we nonetheless maintained more than a passing interest in the English trifle that followed.

Back to the drawing room after dinner.  The fireplace had subsided to a mere glow.  It was by now dark outside and we could no longer see beyond the windows which reflected the drawing room lights.  The conversation touched upon recent political matters, music and the highlights of previous travels. The evening was becoming somnolent.  Fred and I were anxious to return to residence to congregate with our cronies.  We may even have had some studies to complete before the beginning of the week.  Our Sunday interlude was concluded.  Fred and I regained the cool evening air to return to the university campus leaving behind the warmth of family and home.

Have you ever said something unpleasant and afterwards regretted it? Did you kick yourself because you knew you shouldn’t have said it in the first place? That’s a double whammy, being slapped in the face twice with the same wet fish. How slow we are to learn. Either we’re so convinced of our propriety or we handle the anxiety of the moment so poorly, we go charging in with guns blazing and raze the place. As satisfying as it may be to dumbfound the opposition (and never mind any psychological entitlement to do so) don’t be fooled; being nasty is a losing cause. Among other fallout the very person you maligned may end being one of your dearest friends. The twists and turns of society!

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Living in a small community is being part of a family. As in a family the different members of a community are bound by common threads.

For Sarason, psychological sense of community is “the perception of similarity to others, an acknowledged interdependence with others, a willingness to maintain this interdependence by giving to or doing for others what one expects from them, and the feeling that one is part of a larger dependable and stable structure” (1974, p. 157).

McMillan & Chavis (1986) define sense of community as “a feeling that members have of belonging, a feeling that members matter to one another and to the group, and a shared faith that members’ needs will be met through their commitment to be together.”

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Glancing back on a lifetime of educational studies and the practice of law I thought some reminiscence about work habits might prove mildly diverting. Unquestionably my work habits were more plodding than ideal, not exactly the work of a Whizz Kid.  To qualify as ideal the scheme would had to have been both efficient and productive.  While I can claim some modicum of success with productivity I am less convinced that I was efficient.  Anyway what matters here and now is only a chronicle of how I worked.  I am not marketing my habits as a reliable instrument of erudition.

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Say what you will, I am convinced the recent disruption of my life was linked to the full moon. In this instance it was called the “Super Moon” or if you prefer the astronomical term, a perigee-syzygy moon which signifies the moon’s closest approach to earth on its elliptic orbit. The supermoon phenomenon has been associated with increased risk of events such as earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.  Its troubling influence upon my universe was similarly apparent yesterday.

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Considering its weightiness, the end of the world commands remarkably feeble engagement.  At least in the short run.  By which I mean few of us brood over the hot topic before its vitality is exhausted.  If given attention at all I wager that it achieves preeminence only when death is at our door and by then it is likely too late to be creative about getting there.  Granted there are those who for religious reasons contemplate the advantage of life after death but that is not the same as buckling down to the cerebration of what we’ll do until then. It may offend our democratic sensitivities to think we’re somehow manipulated in what we do, that we haven’t exactly got our hand on the tiller throughout most of our lives.  But that is pretty much the case.  While it is pushing it to say we’re all sheep, there is nonetheless merit in diminution of our lives as predictable in more ways than we’re prepared to acknowledge. Adequate reflection upon the subject is therefore timely and perhaps even urgent.

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