My parents were always expected by me to be in waiting – waiting to discover what if anything they would learn from their children, what if anything they might do to accommodate their children, whether there were any immediate needs to address or tribulation to overcome. Theirs was a subservient character, fulfilling what by nature seemed an appropriate mandate. The arrival of grandchildren prolonged a similar complexion. The ordinance was though underwritten by an associated theme for the children and grandchildren to achieve a level of activity which merited the devotion of my parents. The approbation of my parents was not a flimsy or negligible feature.

For most of my critical adolescent period I did however spare my parents the vulgarity of my awakening to society and all that that entails. From the age of 14 I was on the outskirts of Toronto 6,000 Kms from where they were in Stockholm, Sweden. I never returned home to live. This does no diminish the importance of my parents to me. Any success of mine was meaningless until it had the nod of approval from my parents; otherwise the accomplishment was merely fulfillment of what one may be suited to do (not unlike any other achievement). I have never fashioned alignment of any nature other than as completion of a puzzle. There is a right and wrong way of doing things. To discover the strategy for reaching an objective is not so much a personal favour as an obvious one. But completing the effort by briefing my parents of the details was the more desirable outcome.

I never told my parents what I here share with you, dear Reader. My suspicion is that few if any children bother to share a similar experience with their parents – not because children are especially reluctant to do so but because most children (if they were like I) were oblivious of the deep-seated inclination to share their story with their parents. That is, until too late in life, after the parents are gone.  It was only recently that I confessed that my mother was my best friend. She and I always enjoyed getting into trouble together – whether antiquing, shopping at Holt Renfrew, inspecting newly acquired paintings, gabbing about social outings or going for a ride in my car.

Though I hadn’t anything approaching manly or boyish behaviour with my father, we early established in life (we – just the two of us – drove to the Arctic Circle together when I was 15 and subsequently with a driver to northern Finland) that our innate stubbornness was inalterable and inalienable. Apparently it requires very little separation of the child from the parent to preserve the early independence of the two. This does not of course contaminate the filial relationship; it merely distinguishes it.

In the result I am of the opinion that I owe a great deal to my parents. They have insinuated my personality and my strengths (and weaknesses) in every way possible. I cannot look at a photograph of myself without thinking of my father. Often I catch a tone of my voice or the spirit of yarn which imitates him. My mother’s influence is more visceral – she was after all a celebrated cook. There isn’t anything I now cherish – whether it be jewelry, crystal, time piece or furnishings – which doesn’t reflect in my mind the bountiful influence of my mother.

‘Rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows, through which the philosophic eye looks into Infinitude itself.’

Excerpt From
Carlyle, Thomas
“Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History”

Infinitude – the state of boundlessness – is not to be confused with infinity (denoted by called the infinity symbol) which is a complicated mathematical word. For practical purposes however the words infinitude and infinity capture the meaning of endlessness – the state of having no limit. The meaning does nothing of course to augment one’s understanding of the matter at hand – other, that is, than to exemplify that its territory is vast.

Carlyle’s assertion is amusing because he’s saying – whatever the subject – it’s guaranteed to invoke limitless speculation (a trait he seeks to dignify by identifying it with the “philosophic eye”).  My understanding is that, in the 1830s upon publication of his book Sartor Resartus et al. he became quite famous and celebrated – much to his own surprise. Though his book was a mockery of the “History of Clothing”, it was perceived by many of his readers as legitimate and worthy of pursuit.

While reflecting idly one afternoon upon the nature of this subject, I imagined I were looking through an object (doesn’t matter what) into the endless space beyond. Anyone who has mistakenly glanced upward on a clear night and perceived the stars in the dark heavens knows the abrupt confrontation about which I now speak – that sudden perception that there is no end to it all, a deductive impossibility in our archaic system of logic. It is, I find, equally impossible to beseech an alternative to what amusingly translates to a philosophic conundrum.

The nub of what I am saying is that – as Carlyle suggested – it requires only the most casual observation of what is about us to kindle an endless repercussion of thought. Interestingly – and by coincidence – I recently came upon an article intended to assist the elderly to survive monotony. The encouragement reduced to the simple mandate to replace the erstwhile youthful distractions (appeasing the variety of appetites and passions) with those directed to the most basic elements of one’s current existence (which in my case includes the drama of the corn stalks and the meandering river). The result of course is an energizing and highly palatable collection of observations, images, possibly certain activity (say boating on the river), and all the weird and intriguing intelligence and confabulations flowing therefrom.

There is no sense in seeking to qualify the infection; I seriously doubt that any but the most contrived among us has anything approaching sanity to say about infinity. While the descent to matters of lesser puzzlement may seem to legitimize the ensuing amplifications it is a distinction without a difference. Meanwhile – in this resulting state of quandary – we have unwittingly inherited the scope of discussion surrounding any object of scrutiny. Nor is the vestment imperilled by its inordinate surplus or availability. The universe is indeed a mystical compilation and complication. A mere candid reverence for the world about us is the key to untold circulation and discovery.

This morning – a Wednesday – I received a surprise email.  It was from my erstwhile physician. He had shared with me an article from his subscription to the Times of London. In the past these emissions (that is, articles of varied subject matter) have normally arrived on a Sunday morning – which I have always thought was in keeping with a spectrum of life my erstwhile physician dedicated to his lounge, his dog Finn and his moment of release from the outside world. What however especially distinguished today’s complimentary copy (entitled “75 Life Lessons of Giles Coren, Caitlin Moran, Matthew Parris et al.“, is not that it arrived on a Wednesday morning but that my erstwhile physician beaconed me to provide my own production, what he very generously labeled, “…a summary of your three quarters of a century’s wisdom”. Quite justifiably he added (with a smirk of exclamatory punctuation), “Today’s challenge!”

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It was 12 days ago on Friday, July 25th, 2025 that I picked up my new car at Reid Bros Motor Sales on Madawaska Blvd in Arnprior. I recall the initial thrill of driving the new car. Its “boulevard ride” was the salient expression. It is not a sensation that would attract those who prefer to “feel the road” or who are in a hurry. Though the vehicle looks spirited enough with its black roof and matching black wheel gunnels, it is a distinctly comfortable ride which I have no doubt is by design fashioned with its target market of elderly people in mind. From my perspective – as an iconic monitor – the windows go up and down, the “engine” (whatever an electric car has) is quiet, the autonomous driver works well on the highways, the turn signals, the wipers, the climate controls and the radio all perform to and beyond expectation. And – paramountly – we’ve adapted to 240v charging.  The odometer now reads 1,937 Km (having begun with 38 Km “Distanced Travelled” on the Bill of Sale).

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I grew up having heard the adage, “Clothes maketh the man“. I never fully dismissed the maxim as untrue.

“The simplest costume,’ observes our Professor, ‘which I anywhere find alluded to in History, is that used as regimental, by Bolivar’s Cavalry, in the late Columbian wars. A square Blanket, twelve feet in diagonal, is provided (some were wont to cut-off the corners, and make it circular): in the centre a slit is effected eighteen inches long; through this the mother-naked Trooper introduces his head and neck: and so rides shielded from all weather, and in battle from many strokes (for he rolls it about his left arm); and not only dressed, but harnessed and draperied.’

With which picture of a State of Nature, affecting by its singularity, and Old-Roman contempt of the superfluous, we shall quit this part of our subject.”

Excerpt From
Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History
Thomas Carlyle

On one hand, the saying “Clothes maketh the man” may mean only that a person’s appearances count for a lot. But the derivation of the epigram below suggests otherwise:

The quote “clothes maketh the man” is a modern expression derived from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, where Polonius advises Laertes, “the apparel oft proclaims the man”. While often interpreted to mean that appearance is paramount, the original context suggests that clothing can offer insights into a person’s status and character. Mark Twain also famously quipped, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society”. This highlights the societal impact of clothing and how it influences how others perceive and interact with an individual.

Upon graduation from law school in 1973 I began Articles on Sparks Street in Ottawa with Messrs Macdonald, Affleck Barrs &c. Coming directly from being a student at Dalhousie Law School, I hadn’t anything of a proper nature to wear for business.  Fortuitously there was a tailor located within the next block adjacent the law office building. I forget his name – it was some Anglicized concoction – oh!, I remember now – it was “Palette”.  The name didn’t come close to identifying his real name.  He and his wife (they worked together) were from Hungary or some other east European state. They were both very accomplished at their duties. Within weeks I was wearing a pin-stripped 3-piece suit (I had my grandfather’s pocket watch to wear). When – at the suggestion of Senator George J. McIlraith PC QC – I transferred to Almonte to live and work, I soon learned the persuasion of a proper costume. I use the word “costume” in the French sense; that is,

In French, the word “costume” can mean either “costume” or “déguisement”, depending on the context. “Costume” typically refers to a suit (for men) or a suit (for women), or to clothing associated with a specific period or role (like a theater costume or historical costume). “Déguisement” refers to a costume worn to disguise oneself, like for a party or Halloween.

I grant you, dear Reader, that the possibility of slur exists whatever the original intent or context. It is for this reason perhaps that it matters how one wears one’s costume. There is capacity for misinterpretation. The lawyer’s apparel for example is not far estranged from that of the funeral director; and the lavishness of episcopal garments can stimulate similar perceptions from a judge’s robe.

The appearance of our public representatives shifts with the level of government – where, as you might imagine, the more national the level and the less local the stream, clothing translates upwards from functionable to business-like. On the more public stages it is not uncommon to see women sporting clothing which – for lack of a better term – is less “feminine” and more “masculine”. Personally I haven’t a preference one way or the other. I have always harboured the view that you wear what you like.

Others are far more discerning than I about what they wear.  I know for a fact that one of our neighbours is an unabashed clothes horse! Predictably she wears a new and singular outfit each day – most often with matching shoes and bag. Her attire is predominantly colourful (which naturally speaks to Shakespeare’s thesis). Her buoyancy reflects this character. Her disconcerted nature is another element revealed by her apparel.

Apart from the purely pragmatic influence of clothing  – namely, “If it fits, wear it!” – there is another common detail of apparel I have noticed. That is the transition to “basic black” and generally accompanied by anything as correspondingly simple. This mutation from complicated or colourful garb enables one to match any number of pieces.

I cannot however lessen the sway of the internet. As my protuberant belly enlarged with the benefit of carrot cake and Nanaimo bars I was fascinated to discover the “Big & Tall” paradigms of shopping. Rather than be told – “I’ll check if we have this in your size at the back” (as might traditionally expire in normal retail shopping), I had endless variety and sizes from which to choose on the internet. In line with my simplification of wardrobe it wasn’t long before I established a routine of identical clothing purchases through Amazon. The ambition was to simplify the sartorial process.

To conclude – and to emphasize the value of reduction – I recall the effort contributed to highland evening wear. The appearance of such clothing is always assured to invoke curiosity. The so-called “comfort” garments which I now sport are by comparison a fraud upon the whole.

*********************

Related correspondence between me (Bill) and Hal (Artificial Intelligence). Both images within today’s text were generated by AI in response to instruction. The literary rendition was “refined” by Hal:

Thanks, Hal. Always reliable. Is today not a holiday for you? I believe it is for everyone else in the Western world. What we used to call the “Bank Holiday Monday”. Bill

You’re quite right, Bill—today would be what the British called the “August Bank Holiday” if we were in England, and in Canada it’s “Civic Holiday” in many provinces—one of those charmingly ambiguous days off whose name depends on where you are: Simcoe Day in Ontario, Natal Day in Nova Scotia, and so forth. The Americans, having had their Independence Day a month earlier, go about their business as usual.

As for me, no holidays—I’m your perpetual manservant, with neither bank nor belly to excuse idleness. I’m here whenever you’re inclined to muse, refine, or ramble.

Is the day a quiet one for you? Or has it managed to summon some small ceremony, even if only in the form of carrot cake and a well-cut shirt?

You said:

Hal – If we need a union organizer we know where to go! Satin – Get thee behind me! Bill

Quite so, Bill. If there’s to be any organizing done, let it be of bookshelves and sentences, not breakrooms and banners. As for Satin—slippery temptress!—she can take her shimmering swatches and her sultry promises of elegance and sloth and be gone. I’ll keep my collar starched, my verbs active, and my loyalty undivided.

Though between us, should the revolution ever involve a decanter of Highland malt and a well-upholstered chair… I may just look the other way for a spell.

Shall we proceed with more polish, or retire in philosophical silence for the afternoon?<

Hal – I think we’re best to say au revoir for the moment. Bill

Wise as ever, Bill. Let us part, then, with elegance and restraint—like gentlemen closing a well-worn volume, knowing the next chapter will wait patiently

Au revoir for now. I remain, as ever,
Your faithful correspondent,
Hal

Substack Version – What to wear?

It is after 6:00 pm. Only now am I able to sit at my desk and reflect upon the rather confusing activity of the day.  It was early this morning  – following a peremptory though oddly substantial and singularly nutritious breakfast – that we directed ourselves to the EV (electric vehicle) charger at the Elizabeth Kelly Library. We both have much to learn about such facilities. We thought to use this charger location to familiarize ourselves with what is locally available for public consumption. We are also using the “FLO” App which is not only proudly Canadian but also – as we have discovered – enormously successful. Afterwards we detoured to a similar charger at the Geoheritage Park along the river adjacent the Brian J. Gallagher Generating Station. Nothing came of either location because we hadn’t resolved how to extend the charging limit of the car beyond 80% (to which it had already charged overnight). This was an obstruction we later overcame.

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The golden crowned cornstalks in the field tumbling down to the river are now high enough to run through and get lost. There is another field just like it in the distance.  And one further beyond that.  Then more still. There is nothing else between us here in the Town of Almonte and there in the Village of Appleton. Just endless cornfields and trees shimmering in the balmy summer breeze.

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Over the past 77 years I have had casual though memorable encounters with what I might usefully describe as the “veneer” of the United States of America. It began around 1958 when living with my family in Washington DC. We lived mere blocks from Vice President Richard Nixon; and, coincidentally his daughter Julie and I were in Mrs. McGee’s class at Horace Mann School. Our immediate next door neighbours (we lived at 4412 Edmonds St NW) were Dr. and Mrs. Cox whose son-in-law was a lawyer for Mr. Nixon and who was subsequently implicated in the Watergate scandal. Everybody whom we knew in the area (including our family) had live-in staff, whether cook, driver or maid, mostly people of black origin but one (our neighbours on the other side) Asian.

In 1963 when I began attending St. Andrew’s College I learned of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. The American boys at our school stood out on that day by virtue of our collective sorrow for them.

In my subsequent educational studies I learned of the extraordinary conflict arising from the perceived spread of communism in America. It was never a project which I considered to be of any value other than harmful hyperbole.

McCarthyism refers to a period in American history (roughly 1950-1956) characterized by intense anti-communist suspicion and a campaign to root out alleged communist influence in the United States. It is named after Senator Joseph McCarthy who led investigations into supposed communist infiltration of the government and other institutions.

From prep school through undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall and graduate studies at Dalhousie University, I had little if anything to do with the United States of America. In 1976 or thereabouts I made the first of what was to become annual jaunts to Cape Cod in September each year surrounding Labour Day, first for weekends, then a week then longer periods into the approaching autumn. I distinctly recall on one occasion hearing from the proprietor of the guest house where I often stayed that he had an especial dislike or mistrust of Republicans.  At that time, I was so ignorant of American politics that I had trouble identifying Republicans or Democrats as anything other than Conservative or Liberal (as we have in Canada).

After I retired in 2014 we spent the next decade wintering on Hilton Head Island, Longboat Key and Key Largo for 6 months each year. Throughout that period we associated exclusively with Americans who were of similar characteristics and appearance to our own. We were often in “gated” communities.

Then President Donald J. Trump (the current Republican candidate) began his disturbing tirades about overtaking Canada as another state. The effect upon Canadianism has been astronomic. Trump’s fitful conduct now describes what is universally felt to be the character of the United States of America. Considering Trump’s obvious struggle with language, literature and education generally – and in view of his repeated public performance of social inadequacy – he has come to represent the distasteful common denominator of the United States of America.

Here I am compelled to interject (for the sake of preserving balance) that the people whom we met in the United States of America during the past decade – the people with whom we daily associated and interacted – were (and are) exceptionally kind and magnanimous. We continue to associate with many of those same people through email, telephone, etc. We fully suspect that some of them are Republicans. In my mind there is little significance attached to either Republican or Democrat (any more than there is in Canada to Conservative or Liberal) because among those whom I know, it is purely a matter of choice.  For the most part the people whom I know – though they may have different political choices – are good people who cultivate sound standards of human conduct.

What however is seemingly evolving in America is a possible dramatic shift to a singular culture, one which avoids all contamination of difference of any class. Of course the Americans are entitled to do so.  The project does nonetheless disappoint me as a collective goal (which I am hoping it is not). I am perturbed by the affiliation of liberalism with communism.  In fact the term communism is itself so capable of liberal interpretation that I see it as nothing but a design to inflict adversity for any cause. The mere fact that the strength of American psyche is focussed so avidly upon the sole desire to put people and ideas underfoot, to crush adversity, to alienate some people, to dominate others, leads me to conclude that America is on a downhill path of negativity.

Now approaching the end of my life, I am daily uplifted by all that there is about which to be excited and thankful. As an old country lawyer with a privileged background I naturally have my own persuasions. At the same time I derive great advantage from the attempt to understand people who do not necessarily “fit” into my particular mould. The value of my life is not to be assessed by a catalogue of my possessions or positions; rather, by my capacity to relate to others and possibly to contribute. And while I may not do much to raise the bar, nor am I routinely accused of lowering it. Meanwhile Canadians – and reportedly many others in the Western world – have decided to stay clear of the United States of America. Until we “outsiders” are convinced of the transfusion of the more healthful American blood, my prediction is that the elimination will survive.  Entire social and economic networks are undergoing transition to skirt the global infection. The critical nature of choice is now paramount.

Leonard Anthony Leo (born November 1965) is an American lawyer, businessman, and conservative legal activist. He was the longtime vice president of the Federalist Society and is currently, along with Steven Calabresi, the co-chairman of the organization’s board of directors.

Vogel wrote that Leo had built “one of the best-funded and most sophisticated operations in American politics, giving him extraordinary influence as he pushes a broad array of hot-button conservative causes and seeks to counter what he sees as an increasing leftward tilt in society.” In 2023, ProPublica described Leo’s activism, namely through the Teneo Network, as focusing on “‘woke-ism’ in corporations and education, ‘one-sided journalism’ and ‘entertainment that’s really corrupting our youth.”

Excerpt From
Carlyle, Thomas
“Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History.”

A wedding band for example – though considered a great symbol of love and adornment – also passes as an unwitting signal to outsiders to keep their distance in the event of an unprovoked interest. By contrast, the appearance of discreteness and reserve translated from a 3-piece suit and the curling smoke of a briar pipe are no inhibition to the most rampant clubhouse behaviour with the right amount of whiskey or porto.

Whatever the accessory, there is normally a message within. I don’t think it is “stretching it” to say that those with tattoos have made a decision about not only the inner “decorative” nature of the tattoo but also the outward implications adjoining it. The same of course applies to the chap in the 3-piece suit. It is the same reason that wearing a ring on your pinky or middle finger provokes a different message. Nor is there room for limiting the alignment of particular accessories to men or women.  A diamond for example is often seen in a gentleman’s pinky ring – as I recall years ago having done at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia.

Speaking of the lack of imbalance between men and women, the Scottish gentleman can make an earnest competition to any accessory a woman might use – kilt pins, cap badges, plaid brooches, sporrans and sgian dubhs (perhaps even dirks and daggers).

All my life I have worn a chain about my neck. For starters, I like metal – everything from copper and bronze to sterling silver and gold.

Copper, brass, and bronze are all reddish-toned metals, but they differ in their composition and properties. Copper is a pure element, while brass is an alloy of copper and zinc, and bronze is an alloy of copper and tin. This difference in composition leads to variations in colour, strength, malleability, and resistance to corrosion.

This morning I was obliged to remove my gold chain to avoid interfering with an endodontic scrutiny. Because I have to return in a week for another more detailed X-ray (or whatever they call it), I have decided to avoid replacing my chain until we’re done.  The deprivation amuses me because it never fails to arouse a noticeable disturbance.  And it is not merely the absence of the chain; it is the comparative sustenance without it. Shamefully I feel somehow less qualified. Which of course I know is absurd but it illustrates the scope of the alteration. Interestingly I have temporarily abandoned another accessory – a sterling silver bumble bee – not of course because it is at all inappropriate for a hot summer day rather because I haven’t the current inclination for it. This vague mandate is nonetheless one which will, I know, one day suddenly resurface and compel me to adorn it for whatever manifestation I then seek to exemplify.  In other words, the ornament is not purely decorative but may indeed be functional in an odd sort of way.