I won’t say it is exclusively a hazard of aging, certainly not; but for those of us over the age of sixty, it is not unheard of to be rudely jolted by the sight of oneself. “How”, we ask ourselves, “did it come to this?” And I don’t mean simply physical appearance though that alone can be less than cheering. What I’m here talking about is discovering we are at the end of the road so to speak. With few exceptions, by the sixth decade most of us have about reached the pinnacle of our maturity. Even though thanks to modern medicine and organic foods we can objectively count on several more years of active living, chances are we won’t be improving upon the picture significantly.

As a youth there was a certain freedom in knowing one could irreverently follow one’s nose in most matters without fear of losing the trail to those higher destinations we greedily anticipated in the unfolding of our career. Oddly however, by indiscernible displacement of time and space, we migrated from the bloom of youth to the sere and yellow leaf of old age. This is perhaps a bit severe but I employ the device of exaggeration to illustrate the point.

What intrigues me in this process is what, if anything, have we lost along the way; and is it in a nutshell too late to do anything about it? In a nutshell, yes. All the concoction in the world isn’t going to polish the tarnished shell of our existence. And what’s gone is more than the mere bloom; it’s the lack of energy. If one combines this withering vigour with the commensurate decline in expenditure of any other resource, you have the makings of a mess.

This is all a reminder to relish the day as it is. Recently I heard of a trick to keep us smiling. The woman said that when she was thirty, she looked back fondly on the days of her twenties; and when she was fifty, she looked back fondly on the days of her forties; and when – well, you get the picture. The point is that what we are today will hopefully be seen in retrospect as pretty good, so why not enjoy it when it’s here?

Often we stew about life and its problems. Some of us – myself included I regret to add – are perpetual worriers. Given a free rein and even a modest impetus most of us can gallop fairly liberally in the direction of disconsolateness. But these blue devils need to be checked. Otherwise we do nothing but add to the heap of misery under the weight of which we shall eventually collapse.

As in the resolution of most matters, the dissection of its constituent elements is the first step in handling the situation. It isn’t for example sufficient merely to observe “I’m upset!”. Rather one must analyze the cause of the depression, for there is little point in searching for the answer before one knows the question. As simple as that prescription may sound it is nonetheless fraught with pitfalls on the way to understanding. One must for example avoid the inaccuracy of attributing the problem to the symptom. In its broadest terms the symptom is always disfavour, being out of sorts or in the dog house, but that could encompass everything from a headache to a broken heart. One must resist the temptation to vapourize upon the symptom and attempt instead to locate the cause. Neither is this an idle undertaking. By allowing ourselves to become distracted by the symptom we risk heading down a dead-end trail because in effect the symptom is the same as the problem so it does nothing to advance our cause by calling the same thing a different name. Instead we need to unravel the layers which envelope the problem. While I am of course tempted to portray my own technique for doing so, the fact is that each of us must cultivate his or her own method of scrutiny.

What is universal about the process is that it leads to resolution. One person whom I know characterized the discovery as “the truth”, adding that she despises any camouflage of the truth even where it may be designed to cushion to blow of it. The other thing to keep in mind is that just as we do in so many other ways, we frequently compound our problems by persevering in the inertia of one course of action. It is human nature to repeat, and our minds are no different from our bodies in that respect; we continue to feed ourselves the same fodder day after day.

It is equally imperative to be perfectly candid with oneself. If you are searching for a solution it only clouds the procedure to avoid the petrified certainties, the scummy details of the matter. The acknowledgement of this sometimes disagreeable minutiae has the effect of enhancing the ennui in the sense that it enables you to see it in a larger scope rather than imagining that it is but a bland blight. By virtue of enhancing the detail of the problem it has the added advantage of slowing the momentum of one’s sour determination. Too often there is a tendency to lubricate the already slippery road down by failing to discover the many twists and turns which have evolved over time. Adding a few more bumps in the road to perdition will at least slow things down somewhat.

Most of us will admit that things are seldom as bad as they seem. Something as simple as not having a good night’s sleep can add immeasurably to an already bleak condition. The point here is that breaking the stride of disappointment can assist in getting back to good health.

Whether it is the Canadian vernacular or merely the absence of intelligence, casual conversation among locals is generally considered to be sorrowfully insipid. At the root of it may be nothing more than a lack of genuine concern for the well-being of others, though I am inclined to doubt the proposition since the indisputable feature of the masses is an appetite for gossip, the introduction to which must always be made to appear disinterested.

It has been said of polite conversation that it should be confined to a discussion of one’s health and the weather. Both curiosities regrettably invite little more than glib answers, none of which enlarge particularly meaningfully upon the subject at hand; viz., “Fine!” or “Yeah, hot as Hell!” The further difficulty with such dead-end precursors is that they seldom lead to the development of more expansive thinking or discussion. I mean, unless you’ve recently undergone surgery or you’re a farmer, the matters of health and weather are fairly finite. As a result the introductory comments inevitably bring the encounter to a screeching and uncomfortable end; that is, unless you are learned in the art of trite conversation.

To label such conversation as “trite” is of course an enormous disservice to what is actually an art form of the most sophisticated genre. The gathering of intelligence through this seemingly bland device is akin to refined hunting methodologies. The first tactic, for example, is the distraction of the prey. It is in this respect that featureless opening enquiries (so often mistakenly construed as the indicia of lack of capacity) are de rigueur. For some, wishy-washy explorations of global weather patterns are more than off-putting; but be aware of the treacherous and clever employment of such characterless initiatives. The hardened gossip or socialite will know how to capitalize upon what is perceived as the innocuous apparatus of the dilettante. Just as you are about to quit this retreat of friendship and brotherly love, out of nowhere follows a pointed request for information. Having been disarmed already by the unexciting preliminaries, you are perfectly incapable of avoiding the stunning velocity of the deeper investigation. What ensues is likely to be a candid revelation by you, totally unexpected and unanticipated. This engagement naturally heightens the level of discourse. Almost at once the trivialities of common language are displaced by the pressing elements of immediate social concern. The conversation is catapulted from colourless chitchat to incisive biography, frequently animated and flavoured by the most delicate observations. So much for the weather!

To sustain the momentum of casual conversation one must be certain to balance the need to know with the appearance of light-heartedness. One is after all not at the board table. It is at this juncture that the elevation of communication transpires; and it is here frankly that one must indeed display one’s colours. No longer is it acceptable to dwell in the murky depths of hackneyed dialogue. It is, however, quite tolerable to deliver a quip borrowed from a mentor or a celebrated author, in either case as a means of establishing a literary threshold, itself a gateway to more dynamic parlance. Whatever the technique, the key is to transform idle remarks into forceful scrutiny. The idiom of colloquial speech commands succinctness if for no other reason than that the circumstances do not usually admit to wandering subjunctive phraseology. You are after all likely standing on the street, perhaps even in the rain. But like ships passing in the night, the thrust of the encounter is no less significant and the brevity of it should not in the least diminish its noteworthiness. As such it is imperative to impart as deftly as possible at least a tit-bit of intelligence which may perhaps be currently beyond the domain of your auditor, for it is the novelty of information which more than anything strikes the chord of success. All the while one must preserve the exterior of breeziness, for it wouldn’t do at all to obstruct the inertia of productivity with overwhelming news. These exchanges are meant to be untailored and ephemeral, imparting little more than the hint of the perfume that is one’s spirit.

Everyone has heard of the long wait-time for certain medical procedures. Likewise we’ve also heard of “private” clinics available on demand to perform many of the same services for a price. My latest encounter with the current “provincial” medical system has highlighted the differences though oddly not related to cost or wait-time. There appears to be a widening rift between the “provincial” medical professionals and the “public” they work for, even bordering on disdain by the physicians for the public.  Loud and clear I have discovered that doctors are rapidly joining the ranks of those who are acutely aware of their prescribed duties and entitlements, primary facts which – for some at least – regularly trump pride in the work they perform. Certain physicians have – no doubt unwittingly – boxed themselves into the same corner one might find a wary and angry dog. Continue reading →

Lately con artists have woefully figured rather vividly in the morning news, stories about real estate developers who swindle one group of people to pay off another, something along the lines of a pyramid scheme. There are always two perceptible features to these inventions: one, there is inevitably a loser (the sine qua non for the success of all the other players); and two, it is a non-sustainable business model that promises participants money for enrolling others into the scheme without supplying any real product or service. These stratagems have at least the curious (though perhaps demonic) attraction of being elaborate and systematic plans of action even though fraught with artifice and ruse. They make for some delicious reading as well. No doubt you are familiar with the plots and deception which formed the foundation of the novel “The Way We Live Now” by Sir Anthony Trollope published in London in 1875. The proposal to construct a railway from Salt Lake City to Veracruz turns out to be nothing more than a front to ramp up the share price without paying any money into the scheme itself. The novel was inspired by the financial scandals of the early 1870s and was a rebuke to the greed and dishonesty which infested that era.

One does not however imagine that in the less public theater of one’s intimate personal relationships the same connivance can either exist or thrive. It is after all so much more convenient and less disruptive to presume to limit such activity to either Victorian novels, antiquity or at the very least the common forum of the masses. In fact it appears that the very intimacy of our personal relationships – whether amicable, familial or romantic – spawns and nurtures the same corruption even if less notorious. Its discovery is frequently shocking because it involves the unfolding of out-and-out dedication to culpability which is a trance quite foreign to most of us.

It may help to absorb what I am saying if one knocks the matter down a notch. Rather than aggrandize the theft as a scheme, label it merely as being taken advantage of. It is no doubt part of the success of these underhanded plans that they are seemingly buoyed by more favourable and distracting attributes. Under the guise of friendship, affection, family connection or any other less than exploitative attraction, the truly manipulative nature of the con is sufficiently veiled from detection until it is too late. Normally in these closely-knit fabrications, the victim of the scam is a willing (and admittedly at times a vain) participant without any view whatsoever to gain other than the normal rewards of human satisfaction which flow from charity and generosity.

Upon the revelation of the deception, strict behaviour is mandatory, by which I mean an immediate severance of the involvement. To confound the obfuscation further by attempting to qualify the disarray with buffers of alleged misunderstanding, misconstrued needs or anything else to dilute the mendacity of the proponent is a waste of time. At moments like this one must call upon the adages of axiomatic living which bring us out of the clouds and plants us firmly upon the ground, among them, “trust your instincts”.

The most recognizable intimate cons are the gold-diggers, the penny pinchers (who profess to excuse their niggardliness by claiming pride in having “deep pockets”), the social climbers, the political aspirants and generally anyone else who seeks to improve their lot at the expense of others. Historically, such losers inevitably fail; indeed their loathsome behaviour is customarily a signal of their current or impending ruin. Frequently the upsetting element of the con is not so much the value for which one is taken, but more for the publicity of having been taken at all.

When I casually mentioned to an elderly relative of mine that we were going to a wedding, he curiously asked, “Is it a church wedding?”. Uninitiated as I am to the mysteries of matrimony in general, I wasn’t entirely sure what the significance of a church wedding was in particular except to divine the obvious that it captured the more conventional aspect of the affair. In any event, I was able to report that indeed it was to be a church wedding, and in most respects traditional as far as I knew. Because the wedding was to take place was in the hinterland of the Township of Lanark Highlands we had previously toured the site to ensure we found our way there on time on the appointed day.

The church is located in the hamlet of Playfairville and is called the Zion Methodist Church originally constructed in 1860. Recently it was completely renovated though preserving the historic structure in tact in every possible way. It is a charming and unimposing white clapboard building set upon a high point of land close to Fallbrook Road. There is a flight of stairs leading to the wooden double front doors. Inside one adjusts quickly to the fact that the church is exceedingly small and that the structure, unlike most churches, is apparently wider than it is long which creates an elliptical impression. On each side there are rows of pews for two people; in the middle there are longer rows for about ten or possibly more people. There are about five rows in all three sections. The front of the church is a raised platform on the left of which is an old pump organ with an ancient oval mirror mounted on its cabinet to allow the organist to see what is going on at the back of the church. In the middle of the platform is the lectern, and on the right are three more pews presumably for a choir. There is a railing which separates the platform from the congregation. At the back of the church is a narrow steep wooden staircase leading to a snug balcony, where there are two sections of three further rows of pews. This is where we eventually sat since the ground level pews were already congested. From the high vantage of the balcony we were conveniently able to see all.

Upon our arrival at the church we parked on the gravel shoulder alongside the road in front of the church. Our eyes were immediately drawn to what was clearly an intentional work of art – an extremely muddy truck (which turned out to be the groom’s Ford F150) on the back panel of which was thumbed in the dried muck “Just Marry’ed”. We then caught sight of the groom and several of his male wedding party all clad in black suits complemented by long white silk ties, lending an air of mafioso to their appearance. They stood about the entrance to the church, smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another and the arriving guests. Quiet words of congratulations were extended to the beaming groom as people shook his large hand. The groom reported that his Best Man was further down the road where he could be seen having a drink from a store of spirits at the back of his own truck. One of the wedding party was a nephew of the bride, about fourteen years of age. He looked about as comfortable in his formal attire as did the other gentlemen who the bride had previously told me were all construction workers. Complementing the pastoral landscape was a small herd of light brown cattle in an adjacent field of undulating grasses. It was a sunny day, not too warm, with a pleasing mixture of fluffy white clouds in the otherwise blue sky.

The guests were people of mixed ages though predominantly young. The bride was only 24 years of age, and the groom was 25. When others (all young couples) joined us in the balcony before the commencement of the ceremony, we caught whiff of liquor as they ascended the narrow staircase. Some of the young girls were sporting rather provocative fashions, though their sylphlike figures certainly warranted them doing so without scruple.

The ceremony began to take shape as the male wedding party assembled at the front of the church on the right side of the platform. There they were joined by the Minister who I only heard referred to as “Sam”. The Minister was appropriately clad in a nondescript suit. He had a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes, alabaster skin, rosy cheeks and a quick smile. I thought he resembled Billy Graham, the well-known Evangelist. When he later spoke to the assembled throng his accent was thick enough to cut with a knife, distinctly Lanark County, that unique blend of Irish and Scottish brogue.

Then arrived the bride’s maids, one by one, each stopping to allow herself to be photographed, then taking their respective places on the left of the platform.

Finally, the bride wearing a traditional white gown, train and head dress was escorted by her father to the centre of the platform where the groom dutifully awaited her. The Minister began his address with a little joke about a young school girl who had kissed a little boy, the romantic feat having been accomplished with the assistance of two other little girls who caught the boy and held him down. The punch line, however, was when the Minister turned to the bride and said, “Good catch!”. What followed that uplifting introduction was a ceremony greatly disinfected of any religiosity and more embellished with fundamental truths about sharing and caring, forgiveness and love. The bride and the groom exchanged the customary vows, which, upon the invitation of the Minister, they sealed with a kiss to the delight of the wedding guests who applauded as a sign of approbation.

A moment more was spent by the bride and the groom signing the register, also on the platform, and the Minister then officially pronounced the happy couple man and wife.

Outside, following the exit of the wedding party and closest relatives into the summer afternoon, people met and greeted one another. True to form, the bride, though composed as the occasion might require, never lost her common touch, making all her guests feel welcome and important.

We have a tendency when reading about those who came before us, especially if long ago, to regard them as a bit odd if nonetheless quaint. By comparison our equal inclination is to reckon ourselves rather well-adjusted and modern. The bias is supported by propositions such as:

“Knowledge compounds. The experiences that we have in life, in business and in society, should drive us to learn and to improve. That is, if we want to get better. Knowledge is wealth and grows when learning is applied and compounded.”

It is ambitious to rebut such a promulgation when contemplating, for example, the advances which have been made since the introduction of the internet to popular society (e-commerce, mobile communications, data centres). Yet, apart from technology, medicine, science, engineering, alternative energy production and the like – all adjuncts to ourselves – I question how far we’ve really come in the improvement of human relationships. As antique as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson may be, essentially they behaved towards one another pretty much the same way we do. What use Holmes would have made of the internet to solve his conundrums is quite another question, but I don’t see a remarkable difference between us and them based upon an examination only of human qualities.

Even if one seeks to magnify the essential differences between us and our predecessors by juxtaposing us to the vastly historic individuals such as the Romans, I am not yet convinced that our human temperaments have advanced in step with our technological accessories. Clearly science and medicine are supportive of our existence (our organism), but they remain subordinate to our being. Tackling the inner complexities (and often the maladies) of human interaction is frankly a task which oddly has been all but ignored in comparison to the pursuit of the external developments of life.

I suppose there are those who would argue that religion fills the void of which I speak. This in my opinion is a less than satisfactory retort, not merely for the reason that religion is so often the excuse for horrible acts of violence and social injustice, but more specifically because the focus of religion is frequently upon the life hereafter (and in the meantime religion does what it can to absolve us of our perpetual sins, not exactly a prescription for social harmony). More often than not religious differences keep people apart rather than bring them together.

It is generally accepted that the evolution of any species is something accomplished if at all over a very, very long time, and certainly far less quickly than our industrial, manufacturing and technological advancements have been made. I have no idea how long ago it was that the cave man was dragging his tree stump and knuckles along the ground, but within the last 2000 years from what I can tell, the nature of mankind hasn’t evolved by spectacular leaps. Of course we must rely upon recorded history as the basis of any comparison. Anything I’ve read leads me to believe that the nature of modern men and women is about the same as our ancestors. Even when reading the philosopher Aristotle, in spite of his antiquity, I nonetheless come away with a sense that he and we are not that much different. The prevailing hallmarks of humanity (prejudice, superstition, class distinctions and the like) continue to abound over the centuries.

If I am failing to make my objection clear, it is this: in light of all the endowments and resources we supposedly have at our disposal, we should have progressed more remarkably as co-operative and caring individuals than we appear to have done. It is one thing to extol the virtues of the internet by saying that, using it, one can retrieve almost limitless knowledge; it is however quite another to observe that we still lack the tools to manage personal disagreements, to control our anger, to rationalize different points of view, to accept and understand the effects of failure, to eliminate prejudice based upon sex or colour, to appreciate the mechanics of manners to override instinctive harm to others. If indeed “Knowledge is wealth and grows when learning is applied and compounded”, then I question whether, in the context of human relations, we have any such knowledge; or whether, if we do, it has been applied and compounded. Sadly I believe the unpleasant truth is that matters such as the improvement of human relations take a back seat to many other avenues of learning and enquiry. I don’t for example recall ever having taken a course in public school, high school, university or graduate school which came anywhere near an examination of the improvement of human relations. Why this is so I shall never understand. It seems to me to be a skill fundamental to our needs.

I quite expect that my rambling will be passed off as yet another heady but naive declaration for “world peace”. Perhaps what is closer to the truth is that our visceral instincts will forever trump our cerebral instincts. As a result the evolution of the species is mired in the fabric of nature which as we know requires millions of years to change.

Any scholarly study which addresses the meaning of human happiness includes without exception a reference to “the person within”, that enigmatic collection of strengths, frailties, aspirations, anxieties, accomplishments and failures which supposedly make us who we are and without the full cognition of which we can apparently never be content. Often the pursuit of the person within is represented to contradict the world without, rather like pitting the finite against the infinite (with the laurels normally going to the infinite as the only real source of happiness). This contradiction of the temporal world clearly works especially well for those who are in a perpetual state of want though the elevation of one’s mind to the spiritual ether is not lost on those who have abused their material advantage and who as a result seek delivery from it.

Inward analysis is portrayed as a panacea. To listen to some people complain, you would think they had done nothing their entire life but live to fulfill the expectations of others rather than listening to the intoxicating notions of their inner self. I am not convinced however that those private whimseys are altogether trustworthy and may indeed be more capricious than judicious. Nonetheless there prevails the widespread view that the unconscious holds the key, suggesting even that to find one’s inner voice is to find one’s inner counsellor.

The experience of knowing the person within is likened at times to listening to one’s instincts or the pursuit of self-awareness. The activity of seeking happiness – from whatever source – requires both purpose and discipline. If for example it is true that for years we have pandered to the wishes and views of others at the expense of our own inclinations, it requires strong commitment and repeated practice to thwart the abuse. It takes courage to be who you really are.

Discovering one’s personal identity is slippery business. One’s “self” (even acknowledging its inescapable connection with our biological individuality) is less a thing, more a process. Happily the project of self-discovery produces the advantage of freshly minted perspectives, unique to ourselves. We needn’t suffer the indignity of being a rubber-stamped copy of someone else’s making.

As a social phenomenon the search for the person within has gathered speed in the past several decades. Consider for example how prevalent were the mores to conform in the 1950s – 1960s. Indeed the achievement of commonality was highly desirable. The standard persuasion of the post-war middle class housewife, husband and child was epitomized in such now laughable television series as “Father Knows Best”, “Leave It To Beaver” and “The Brady Bunch”. While there will of course continue to be people who see these “innocent times” as having some continued worth for their preservation of traditional values, the more popular trend since the 1970s is toward greater individuality and growth of one’s personal qualities and ideals though frequently unsupported by the majority.

It is arguable that we are the last to know ourselves. While we may fashion in our own minds that our behaviour or thoughts are projected in one manner or another, likely it is closer to the truth that the irrefutable substance of our being is apparent in any event, with or without our massaging influence.

It is well-timed that I should be putting together this particular piece about “the cocktail hour” on July 4th, a notoriously social day in the United States (for whose people I have prodigious affection). I admire their entrepreneurial spirit, their resourcefulness, their hedonism and – more to the point – their inclination for material incentive.

The cocktail hour is after all a reward, a prize for having survived the day and maybe even for having accomplished something worth noting. After one has endured the boot-strap detail of one’s personal drudge, the thought of settling into a cushy green leather chair with an improving book, a salty snack and a restorative drink is seductive. The resulting respite and discharge from having realized the duties of one’s private avocation merit recompense.

I confess I am somewhat myopic in this regard in that I sense a positive necessity to wring all I can out of life while the opportunity presents itself. Others may feel the need or propriety to defer their celebration of life for another day or otherwise bank the entitlement, but I am unwilling to take the chance of missing out.

Recently, in a moment of self-purification and in an attempt to circumscribe our epicurean predilections, we have bandied about the idea of delimiting the cocktail hour to the cocktail ”half-hour”. This we have discovered is an abuse destined to failure, not to mention that it gainsays a valued tradition which has been years in the making. Whether one is diverting oneself with the local news, surfing the internet or reading a respectable novel, the process of decompression requires at least an hour for its fruitful achievement.

My preferred companion to the evening cocktail is a lively narrative by one of Britain`s dazzling writers, say Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen. In this age of e-books I have agreeably discovered that I can download endless numbers of my favourite volumes without expense as most of what I fancy is beyond the bounds of copyright. For example, all eight hundred pages of Edward Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire! A masterpiece for less than a song!

Pardon me, although I am already well into the subject, I must qualify my trifling opinions by acknowledging that, when employing the expression “the cocktail hour”, I am loosely including more than what are strictly speaking cocktails, unless you own that a vodka or gin martini (my personal poison) merits the distinction. Historically I have thought of cocktails as involving at least three singular and marked ingredients, with the glass itself frequently dressed up with perhaps a small paper umbrella. Think, for example, of the traditional Side Car or Old Fashioned. The definition admits however to greater particularity:

The first documented definition of the word “cocktail” was in response to a reader’s letter asking to define the word in the May 6, 1806, issue of The Balance and Columbia Repository in Hudson, New York. In the May 13, 1806, issue, the paper’s editor wrote that it was a potent concoction of spirits, bitters, water, and sugar; it was also referred to at the time as a bittered sling. J. E. Alexander describes the cocktail similarly in 1833, as he encountered it in New York City, as being rum, gin, or brandy, significant water, bitters, and sugar, though he includes a nutmeg garnish as well.

By the 1860s, it was common enough for orange curaçao, absinthe and other liqueurs to be added that, as first mentioned in The Chicago Daily Tribune on July 25, 1880, the original concoction, albeit in different proportions, as being called “old-fashioned”[ and came back into vogue itself]. The most popular of the in-vogue “old-fashioned” cocktails were made with whiskey, according to a Chicago barman, quoted in The Chicago Daily Tribune in 1882, with rye being more popular than Bourbon. The recipe he describes is a similar combination of spirits, bitters, water and sugar of seventy-six years earlier.

Traditionally, the first use of the name “Old Fashioned” for a Bourbon whiskey cocktail was said to have been, anachronistically, at the Pendennis Club, a gentlemen’s club founded in 1881 in Louisville, Kentucky. The recipe was said to have been invented by a bartender at that club in honor of Colonel James E. Pepper, a prominent bourbon distiller, who brought it to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel bar in New York City.

The cocktail hour has lately been the subject of much attention on Broadway where the culture of preprandial indulgence has surfaced as the object of analysis in a modern play, one by the way which has not been altogether well received because, in times of economic distress for many Americans, it chronicles the dizzy indulgences of upper class Americans who use the hour as a forum for nothing more than complaint and controversy.

Certainly the performance and habit of the cocktail hour is not the norm for most families, especially those graced with children (who inevitably sterilize any modicum of evasion of the realities of life). The cocktail hour is thus the reserve of those of “advanced age” (or perhaps the very rich, if those types continue to exist). It is, whatever one might say, a vernacular reserved for them who at least have the privilege of looking upon their back yard without having to worry about putting the lights out!

Timing, as in everything, is also relevant to the cocktail hour. As fond as I am of a mid-day mart to jolt a luncheon of sea bass or scallops with a simple salad, the intemperance unhappily robs the evening cocktail of its punch. The cocktail hour is in my opinion strictly bound to six o’clock and not a minute afterwards! The respect of the limits of the cocktail hour should also be observed especially when one is out of one’s own house. If the invitation to a cocktail hour specifies 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. one should never linger longer. A loitering cocktail guest, just like a late dinner guest, is as much an insult to the host and an outrage to the chef.