As stock as it is to observe that if it weren’t for funerals and weddings, family and friends might never get together, the ceremonies are nonetheless invariably penetrating and frequently uplifting even in the face of adversity. Not insignificantly both events customarily involve such unvarying routine and regular procedure that the experience is akin to any other event which superimposes regimentation and thereby temporarily suspends the yearning to be productive. For at least an hour or two one is strictly an observer, assured of a welcome and uninterrupted opportunity to reflect idly upon the many meritorious thoughts which are prompted by the heady subjects of death and marriage, beginnings and ends, and the myriad of sentiments which naturally flow from and are accessory to such considerations. There is an intoxicating factor to the heightened emotions and sentiments provoked by funerals and weddings.

One element which is common (though undergoing change) in both funerals and weddings is the religious feature. In many instances I sense that the ecclesiastical backdrop is akin to wallpaper or a television ad and with about as much general appeal (though admittedly for the immediate parties this element is often imperative). I have heard it said of young people in particular that they have considerable difficulty accepting the religious spin on death.

Regrettably in that respect much of what issues from the pulpit is little more than an exhortation to feed or clothe oneself with divine provision without offering the means of doing so, amounting to a potentially empty and somewhat off-putting promise to intellectually thirsty people.

In the context of weddings, much of the standard biblical themes are now overwhelmingly anachronistic and as a result repugnant. In the final analysis, the uncomfortable truth is that if it weren’t for weddings and funerals, most people would not be in a church at all and it appears that an hour’s sojourn is not about to succeed in conversion or temporary persuasion. In some cases the attempt to obtain submission to the clerical process is met with indignant reaction, itself only suppressed by the superior desire to keep one’s own peace.

Clearly the focus of the particular event, whether a funeral or a wedding, assists in distracting us from our habitual preoccupations, which in some instances involve disagreements and hostilities with certain of those in attendance. Funerals and weddings are after all family affairs. Even given the surfeit of dissolving sadness and joy which accompanies these occasions, I am not however so gullible to assume that adverse parties will ultimately be moved to reconciliation. Nonetheless, the opportunity is there to reconsider the merits of long-standing disputes, and it may be that miserly improvement is the eventual product.

During both funerals and weddings, there is much said about the parties at the heart of the proceedings. Regularly the comments about the deceased or the newly weds are highly revealing. It is perhaps unfortunate that a summary review of one’s life is confined to such poignant moments but I suppose that is one of the traits which contributes to the depth of the affair. This reminds me of the adage that everyone worth his mettle should have his obituary written. Such a direction hardly applies to wedded parties, but it is a useful reminder to us all that one’s actions are in the final analysis recorded.

Social congregation following the pivotal service is of course usual. Barring the supremely unique case of total strangers who make a point of attending funerals for the benefit of the luncheon, the repast (whether a tea or a sit-down meal) affords the opportunity for the spectators in attendance to give voice to their prior ruminations. This custom is accompanied by much hand-shaking, embracing and kissing. Once again the opportunity for such conviviality and human contact is infrequent except at funerals and weddings, and increasingly the show of mutual affection is becoming more evident sometimes destabilizing standard myths of macho behaviour.

I suspect that on the whole, apart from the central parties concerned, the experience of a funeral or a wedding is but an ephemeral hiccup in the broader scope of one’s life. Jolted though we may be for the moment, it isn’t long before we set adrift the mesmerizing soliloquies and right ourselves on our determined course. As compelling as any funeral or wedding may be, the universe is ultimately personal and we are bound to travel the suburbs of our own mind. Nonetheless, funerals and weddings foster some of the finer human characteristics and recall at least momentarily some of the expressions which we may one day wish to have bestowed upon us in our own particular hour of sorrow or joy.

My overt affection for Americans – specifically, the citizens of the United States of America just to be clear – is in one sense understandable, in another paradoxical. It is understandable in that many of my ascendants on both sides of my family are from the United States of America; it is paradoxical in that a good chunk of my ancestors were United Empire Loyalists which hardly speaks well of the early relationship between my clan and those to the south. It would of course be absurd to attach anything but historical significance to that quondam feud. Besides I wager that even though we Canadians have managed to keep up appearances as far as being British goes, the Americans frequently betray more than a passing (though admittedly disguised) admiration for the Crown. If this doesn’t effectively obviate past differences, I submit that the preponderance of current diplomacy speaks to a solid link between all three countries, Canada, Britain and the United States.

Anyway, I’m getting far afield of my original thesis; namely, the unending delight I derive from my American cousins. Let me first disclose that I enjoy bashing the Americans as much as anyone, but in a good way. It requires very little provocation for me to ridicule CNN, Fox News or Bloomberg radio, who doesn’t! And yet I listen to them on the satellite air waves constantly! The bravado, near shouting and entirely insular focus of the announcers and their programming are yet to be admired. Granted the insights are frequently little more than elevated navel gazing, but one has to respect them for their conviction! NPR does at least travel significantly beyond the customary boundaries of mainstream American radio, though in spite of the intellectualism the thread of intense nationality is impossible to ignore. The image of the “ugly American” (something which was especially popular in Europe several decades ago before the Germans usurped the bookplate) is something which has never entirely disappeared though I challenge anyone on a global expedition not to welcome an encounter with an American.

Speaking of travel, a good deal of my vacation time has been spent in the United States of America largely for the reason that the warmer temperatures are a considerable attraction during our frigid winter months and the preferred destinations involve few if any stop-overs. This however is not the entire story. Even in the summer months I have frequently wandered into the United States including Florida in July and August (something by the way which I consider the best kept secret).

Granted the more frequent summer adventures have been to Cape Cod and the Maine coast. When one compares these sorties to those which compete equally well in Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island in terms of beaches, one has to ask what tips the balance. The answer is not simply population, but it is undeniable that the large markets have afforded those with resources the stage upon which to offer up a generous board. Even then, however, the result is not complete without giving credit where credit is due, and by that I mean to the Americans themselves.

It is at this juncture that I become a bit schmaltzy. The fact of the matter is that I find Americans overwhelmingly entertaining (in spite of their often narrow and rock-ribbed views). If one avoids the polemics surrounding an intense discussion of religion, liberty and general constitutional rights, I think you’ll find as I do that Americans are exceptionally well adapted socially. I am further inclined to think that it is only upon delving behind the curtain of propriety that one is privy to the intimate workings of the American mind, but this should be no surprise to anyone for we all harbour those distinguishing features of “family” upon scrutiny. It is only that the Americans are so regularly subjected to that scrutiny that the obvious becomes apparent. One must guard against becoming too uppity when it comes to overall purity.

The true test of friendship is the reciprocal admiration of one for another without strings attached. I won’t go so far as to suggest that either one or the other of the components is “better” nor even that one or the other qualifies for superiority on the strength of any feature or age of development. I prefer to think of our relationship as “mutual” which I’m sure you’ll agree nicely avoids the trap of commitment. In any event my fondness for Americans is neither comparative nor derivative. It’s a stand-alone thing, like a work of art.

It is an inescapable observation that Americans cultivate generosity. I include in this compliment their preference for large portions in everything from food to automobiles. It is for example quite the challenge upon returning home from the United States to adjust to the smaller portions in one’s evening cocktail. The metaphorical thirst of Americans for all that life has to offer is pandemic and reminds one that the Wild West spirit isn’t far below the surface.

As anyone knows who has ventured to New York City, Americans, apart from the tourists, enjoy an enviable sophistication including, if you will, afternoon tea and of course opera, art galleries and architecture. There is of course a tradition of pushing the vulgar side of Americans, but I find that to be largely anecdotal. It is no accident that in its place of origin even the “Occupy Wall Street” movement has been polite.

Compared to many of the world’s more ancient societies, America is still virtually a teenager, indeed often an irascible and upstart youth. It is nothing to hear the so-called “average” American claim lineage to one of the founding Pilgrim Fathers. While it is not uncommon to hear that the “American Dream” is fast fading, that condemnation doesn’t fit well with what many others continue to believe. If anything, the recent pressures on the American economy have illustrated to me that Americans are pulling together to preserve what they have always valued. There is a certain child-like ingenuousness about the American psyche which appeals to me. As rebellious as some Americans can become, in the end I find they are disposed to listen to reason and common sense. The Americans have a certain civility which I think will put them in good stead in the long run.

What I ask could be more frightening than the transparency of the adage that you are what you think! Undisguised revelation! When I first heard the quip (admittedly not my own concoction) I was initially unimpressed, at least until my seer added “…especially as you leave the room”. The immediacy of that supplement tended to vitalize the aphorism. It also heightened the disconnect which frequently exists between our private contemplations and our outward expression. There is apparently nowhere to hide!

Even on occasions when there is a correspondence of mental and verbal, I believe that on the balance the intimacy of our thoughts mitigates against such uniformity. If for example we were enabled to take a look at a comparative graph of our thoughts and words throughout the day I surmise we’d be more than a bit ashamed of ourselves, maybe even startled or dismayed, to discover that what we say and what we think frequently do not jive. So often we fill the crucible of our lives (not to mention the canyon of our mouths) with a good deal of pollution and clutter. More cause to panic, however, is the identification of what it is we really do think. You will I am sure concede that it is not uncommon for each of us from time to time to say one thing yet think another. Ultimately however the dye which colours our emotions is that which is aligned with our thoughts as much as we may feign the contrary. Small wonder we frequently struggle within ourselves, having to decode what we contemporaneously say and think. And equally unsurprising – though initially astonishing – amidst such kerfuffle is that others claim to read us like a book! Attempting to disguise one’s thoughts is the amateur equivalent of trying to be a good liar, normally an unsuccessful feat!

Of course what one thinks is not necessarily malicious or contriving, nor indeed embarrassing for whatever reason. One may for example be motivated by affection and attraction to contort one’s admissions, though probably with about as much success as trying to disguise a deep-rooted aversion. Either way though the fact remains that we are what we think.
Where this proverb assumes really sizable proportions is when it is applied not to what we think of others but to what we think of ourselves. As relevant to others, there is after all always room for reconsideration; but as operated upon ourselves, the inclination is far more inert. If we’re inclined to aggrandize or demonize ourselves, we frequently only poison the process further by attempting to act inconsistently. Once again, however, our thoughts will out and no amount of buffoonery or linguistic gymnastics will succeed to camouflage what’s really going on. The compression of inspiration and voice, like so many fundamentals of nature, is in the end not only the most productive but also the least unmerciful. How often has it been exclaimed, “I can’t go on pretending anymore!” Pointedly the biggest fool in that scenario is oneself. Yet it is the portrayed opaqueness of thought which stirs us to imagine that our behaviour is by comparison transparent. Such paradox!

Assuming for the moment that one prefers not to live a lie, narrowing the gap between what one thinks and what one says is the challenge. First one must acknowledge that the force of what one thinks is not only palpable but also inescapable. Except as a nicety, there is no need to enquire into the decorousness or noteworthiness of one’s thoughts; all that matters is that they are your thoughts and that you are one and the same. It likely astonishes many of us to learn that other people actually prefer to know what we are thinking. It is not only the candidness which lubricates communication; more importantly it is the removal of the dead-heads and other casualties of misguided adventure. How we love to fritter away the little time that we have with idle fuss! It is far more improving – not to say expeditious – for oneself and others to dwell upon what one thinks rather than upon manufactured guff and pretense. Second one must believe in the value of one’s thoughts. I’m willing to bet that if you were to advance that admonition to anyone else you would have no hesitation approving its merit; but convincing oneself to accept it is quite another thing. Bludgeoned as we are by masses of external stimuli and models of conduct, generosity towards oneself is often wanting, a disposition made all the more awkward by that innate shyness which most of us secretly harbour about ourselves. Familiarity with our own carcass tends to diminish our charity; and yet it is those very same seemingly unglamourous thoughts which do everything to characterize our individuality. Besides, it is so much easier to sleep at night!

Discovering meaning and purpose in life has ever been dispiriting and never been effortless. Try getting out of bed in the morning, especially Monday morning. Or even better, a rainy Monday morning! Now there’s a task! If you wish to accomplish the project with anything approaching alacrity, you’re going to need more than a little strength. And here I’m referring not only to physical strength but also to moral strength, that unseen stuff of which real men and women are made! If you’re akin to most of the herd, your expectations are high-principled, something which regrettably only makes the job more difficult – that business about reaching for the stars at a time when you can barely extend your weary legs to the hardwood!

Yet I’ll safely wager that if you were affirmatively to welcome the prospect of what awaited you on the other side of the bedroom door, your motivation would be considerably more aroused. The burden of living is not so much what has come before (if it were otherwise, hang-overs would be a tolerable penalty), but rather what is about to follow. In point of fact, it is far more likely that one will be disabled by the prospect of the future than by the percept of the past. The failures, embarrassments, inadequacies and short-comings which may distinguish our erstwhile personal history will, like so much dust beneath our feet, be washed clean with the benefit of time (not to mention the unfailing predisposition of our reliable friends and colleagues to empathize, something I’m certain you’ll agree we can take to the bank). But left alone to contemplate the distant morrow, watch out!

There is an understandable inertia to lying about one’s bedchamber. The metaphor of the covers is not without foundation. But even prolonged dalliance in the supine will ultimately loose its appeal, replacing complacency with little more than uncomfortable back pain. To horse, I say! To horse!

Here it is that one encounters those nasty bits of philosophy or, what is more probable in the bleary state of early morning awakening, those fears of the cold world that awaits beyond the warmth of the downy feathers. There is nothing comforting about having to face the world (barring of course the purely physical necessity of having to void one’s bladder). Whatever one may have successfully parried throughout the long night, whatever terrifying nightmares one may have forgotten upon the rude start of the day, there will however remain the inescapable confrontation with the proverbial “Why?”, or at the very least the less impressive “Now what?” I’ve heard it said that a similar plaintive ecphonesis (“What is the point!”) by some renowned French existentialist playwright was met with a concise retort from his cleaning maid, “To pay the rent!”, a crushing defeat for the absurdists to say the least. While having to pay the rent doesn’t exactly qualify as inspiring, it does at least have the value of being tangible. The last thing one needs before one’s morning coffee is a lot of nonsense about disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless and absurd world. One may as well check into the nearest clinic for schizophrenia!

No, no the deeper question is “Wherein lies the rub?”, or in plain terms, “What’s the catch?” If one is about to commit to a long-term relationship with life, one is entitled to know what likely disappointment waits in the wings. Granted it is a pity to have to re-enact this particular drama morning after morning, but like so many things in life, courage, courage! One cannot for example expect that such superlative awakenings can instantly unfold and disgorge their pearl as though on demand. It’s a matter of putting the right spin on things, showing off the subject to advantage, putting it all in the proper light so to speak. But as I say this takes time and considerable endurance. And small wonder! When you think about it, what I’m really asking is this: “What is the secret to life?”, not exactly a trivial question you’ll concede.

As you may have gathered from something I fleetingly mentioned earlier during the exposition of this thesis, the entire conundrum is made so much less trying if we have an appetite for what follows. Being properly inclined is what I mean to say, ebullience in a word. Now, there is no sense whatever in clinging to all those defeatist reasons you no doubt have stored in your handbag of grief and disillusionment; better simply to eject the collection and bounce into the next frame of existence. I mean, what have you got to lose? One hardly needs to be convinced of the inutility of it all, that’s a given. So one may as well put together a new knapsack of goodies (however optimistic) at the end of one’s walking stick and head off into the sunrise to greet the day! And if that doesn’t work, then get up to pay the rent!

It is easy to imagine that equable, balmy weather is a blessing. And yet (and I say this with overwhelming ruefulness) it is a subterfuge, calculated to unhinge us. Given a stretch of so-called “pleasant” weather, I guarantee one’s affairs become entirely discombobulated! The reason? None other than deception! The shrouding of our external lives with blue sky and a southerly zephyr is nothing short of deceit! Since when is life a bowl of cherries, I ask you? Mere rhetoric and free wheeling idiom!

Life is hard, let’s face it. It is even well documented that if you were to win the lottery today it is only a matter of time before you either lose it all or become disenchanted with your lot. Soon you shall rebound to your former state of discontent. For this reason alone, cloudy weather, drizzle, and storms are generally to be preferred; viz. , we can get back to the reality that is stagnation. That blip of our lives called youth is but a frantic effort to avoid confronting the ultimate truth: that in spite of it all we are destined to disappointment. How specious is the canopy of blue! How feint the summer breeze! One may as well tease a child with a distracting and senseless toy.

As a mature adult, however, one admits the facts. It behooves us as levelheaded beings to stand fast before cataclysm. No doubt you’re familiar with that pious ejaculation of remorse, “Vanity! All is vanity! ” The metaphor as you may already know has very little to do with narcissism. “Vanus” is Latin for “empty”. Understood in this sense, vanity is all about futility. Not surprisingly the symbols of vanity include jewels, gold coins, a purse and even death itself. These are reminders not merely of the ephemeral nature of youthful beauty, but also of the fleeting joy of life, its brevity and the inevitability of death. The upshot is that, try as we might, in the end life is devoid of content.

There are some who, confessing these inescapable (and may I say terribly well-reasoned) conclusions, seek to surmount the peril of such philosophy by strength of their own maneuvers. They witlessly adopt tactics such as alcohol or nefarious combustibles for example. Senseless! Perfectly dithering, not to mention a complete waste of funds. In spite of the broadside it appears to deliver to the enemy it is nonetheless right up there with the wild blue yonder, merely a diversion. Similarly conspiring to confound oneself further by bemused spiritual and mental distortions is equally doomed; no amount of goody-two-shoes philosophy will save the day! Mere recreation! Life communicates the language of condemnation and sentence; or (if one prefers the religious vernacular) it is ordained, our fate, our destiny.

If one is to accomplish anything in this life, one must discard the superfluities of our nature, cull from the essence of our being that which is mere fluff, both the dross and the dregs. Those worthless parts of our terrestrial experience are best avoided. We must get down to the hard work of being miserable. This is not a task for the faint of heart. No, no, this is serious business reserved for none but committed and clear-thinking individuals. Being wretched is not to invite pity; to do otherwise is synonymous with abject cowardice. Indeed if one is to avoid the woeful and deplorable contempt of a comfortable life, the adoption of a morose and humorless aspect is a duty not to be delayed.

More pressing is defining the very pith of life; namely, that life is nothing but a perpetual uphill battle with the only assurance being that of dashing hopes. It defies logic that anyone would actively dedicate themselves to bubbly living, a course of action which is destined to be a shipwreck. Hedge the regressive activity of dalliance and gird oneself for the trial that is living. Life is not a spare-time activity. Nor do the customary asides succeed to mollify the sting that awaits us. Embrace despondency and abandon yourself to loss of hope and courage! Only then will you be able to greet the morn – sunny or not – with anything approaching verisimilitude!

If that fails, have a cigarette!

One doesn’t have to look very far to encounter people whose fortunes in life are far less favourable than one’s own. Looking out over these sometimes distressing fates it is difficult to allow oneself to become anxious about one’s own lesser hardships. Nonetheless the universe is ultimately personal and our private reality defines our destiny whatever it may be. The thread which is common to the challenging experiences of both ourselves and others is the manner in which we address them.

The initial consequence of misfortune is customarily disappointment. This sentiment is at times aggravated by a general sense of bad luck as though the Fates have conspired to admonish us, sometimes as punishment (nemesis) for our great pride (hubris). Whatever the ramifications of such fortuity, it amounts to nothing more than an immediate search for the cause of the adversity. It is amusing how at moments like these we can become thoroughly philosophical, cultivating metaphors about crossed stars and elements of Greek and Roman mythology which make it inevitable that something unpleasant will happen. Characteristically the preoccupation is with the development of events outside a person’s control, sometimes regarded as predetermined, as though the course of one’s life is inevitable.

Eventually, however, these ideological sentiments give way to a random view of life’s allotment. It is then that the work of coping begins even though it is may be an up-hill battle to distance oneself from and abandon a fixation with the calamity. Putting the event behind oneself is as much a part of relieving the disaster as anything else. Allowing the cause of one’s personal misfortune to slip free enables one to proceed unencumbered, removing the risk of being further hindered and weighed down by it. While this may sound all too easily said, one need only consider the alternative, namely, what advantage is there in clinging to that which is past? In terms of pure reason, it makes no sense whatever to relive the moment of dashing hopes. Nor is there any legitimate possibility of reversing that which has happened as often as one might revisit the defining moment of disaster.

Life hastens along, bringing us with it no matter how reluctant or unconvinced. We regard our past like children looking out the back window of a speeding automobile at the receding landscape. It quickly becomes apparent that one must turn one’s direction to the future if one is to remain alive. This may sound to be an overstatement, but allowing oneself to remain entrenched in the past is little short of death, or at the very least disability.

A clinical estimation of one’s life is not an easy matter. Emotions tend to overwhelm our detached and objective view of the world. Nevertheless, it bears repeating that life is as neutral and yet as compelling as mathematics. Dealing with the numbers we have been dealt is what it is all about quite aside from the romanticism of a deity spinning the thread of our life or our notion of being seized by our fate. Even if it were so, we are bound to tackle what we have been handed. It is the removal of ourselves from the subjective arena that empowers us to proceed. Reduced to its elemental features, life is frequently not as difficult as it may otherwise appear. The binary system of mathematics comes to mind, similar to on and off, the yin and the yang, each representing mutually exclusive states or polarities. In short, you’re either in or out.

Assuming that one opts for being “in”, it behooves us to address our particular dilemma head-on. Given the complexity of the problems which some people face this is not always a colourless undertaking. However, one mustn’t under any circumstances be defeated by the principle that “You Can’t Get There from Here”. Until the thread of our life is cut, we owe it to ourselves to carry on. For every hill we climb there is the prospect of sliding down the other side. Today’s adversities can become tomorrow’s victories. The skill is learning to rise above it all, accepting a view of the world that is both detached and willing, not personal and recalcitrant. We are merely the drawing board upon which is written one of life’s stories. Granted, getting on the other side of a demanding situation is seldom fun. It exacts some fairly critical mental processes in the face of strong instinctive feelings. The reward is not merely slaying the dragon but nurturing our own finer qualities.

I think most of us have a sense of propriety when it comes to dealing with the ups and downs of life, as reluctant as we may be to do so. The bottom line is that we really haven’t any choice in the matter, which I suppose is the blunt foundation of fate and the portion of life we’ve been given.

I am beginning to think my office is a museum. After thirty-five years in practice in Almonte, and having assumed the practice and professional effects of Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson, QC who in 1976 retired at the age of 82 after 56 years of practice in Almonte and who was himself the successor to the practices of Percy A. Greig (1903-1962), Harold Jamieson (1892-1916), Alfred M. Greig (1873-1913) and Joseph Jamieson (1869-1893), there are ancient artifacts and collections of one thing or another here.

Among the paraphernalia is a large book containing drawings (on linen) of the “Water Works, Fire Protection” and houses and buildings in Almonte, colour-coded to illustrate whether they’re made of brick, stone or wood. The book, which is dated January 1950 at a time when the population of Almonte was stated to be 2,628, is described as an “Insurance Plan” being the property of the Underwriters’ Survey Bureau Limited, lent to Mr. Percy A. Greig on the following conditions: “That the plan is to be kept in good order, that it is to be used only in connection with business of Companies, Members of the Canadian Fire Underwriters’ Association, and to be returned on request”. I believe the book was used by Mr. Jamieson when he acted for the General Fire Insurance Company of Paris, for which body corporate I also have an antique glass paperweight.

Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson (the “A” was for Algernon by the way) wore quite a few hats during his lengthy career in Almonte. Foremost was his profession as a lawyer. When handling a real estate transaction, in addition to doing the conveyancing, he was well connected to people such as the late Dr. Johnson of Carleton Place who had seemingly endless piles of money to lend on the security of a first mortgage. I recall having seen advertisements posted by Mr. Jamieson in the Almonte Gazette proclaiming the availability of funds. And, as noted, Mr. Jamieson could also arrange your household fire insurance. He further acted as Clerk of the Town of Almonte which I fully suspect explains how he was able to secure the large 1893 Town of Almonte parchment map – one of two only, the other being in the Land Registry Office. The map now hangs in my inner office.Mr. Jamieson also acted as solicitor for the Town of Almonte. Note, for example, that in 1953 Mr. Jamieson was witness at the execution of an Agreement between the Corporation of the Town of Almonte and the Board of Park Management whereby “the trusts and special purposes mentioned in the grant of certain lands to the said corporation by the executors and trustees of the last will and testament of Winnifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill are hereby annulled”
This Agreement was part of The Town of Almonte Act, 1953 Statutes of Ontario, Chap. 110, a private member’s bill in the Ontario Legislature to set aside the terms of the last Will & Testament of Winnifred Gemmill to enable “Gemmill Park” to be used in part for residential housing. Gemmill was one of the rich British people who operated a woollen mill in town. The persons behind the private member’s bill included George M. Dunfield (Mayor) and Robert J. France (Clerk). The Chairman of The Board of Park Management was Geo. L. Comba and the Secretary pro tem was A. Levitan. It was a condition of this assault upon the will that The Board of Park Management “shall erect and at all times maintain upon the park property a suitable Memorial Tablet reading: Gemmill Park, donated by Winnifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill of the Town of Almonte, formerly the property of James Dunlop Gemmill of Almonte, deceased”.

Hanging on a wall of the office is a Crown Patent which distinguishes itself not so much by its date (July 3, 1828) but by the excellent condition of the large beeswax seal appended to the Patent by a faded ribbon. On the seal is clearly visible the word “Imperial” over the icon of an ornate anchor.

On another wall there hangs a picture of the graduating class of 1921 at Osgoode Hall which is singular in that it positions the 9 graduating ladies in a cluster, not alphabetically as with the gentlemen. I also display a photograph of J. C. Smithson on the day of his retirement as Land Registrar of Lanark No. 26,before amalgamation with the Perth office, Lanark No. 27. Coincidentally the photo captures Jack registering his last document which happened to be one of mine, a Deed (though whose I cannot discern from the photograph).

The office furniture, much of which I inherited from Mr. Jamieson’s office, includes a sturdy but uncomfortable bench in the waiting room. I’ve added a royal blue velvet covered cushion made by Mrs. Cynthia Guerard of My Upholstery to improve its comfort, though the back is still uncommonly rigourous. The bench came from Bank of Montreal across the street, and was, I am informed, where people sat patiently awaiting an audience with the manager. When the bank decided many years ago to convert its appearance to modernity, Mr. Jamieson enquired of the manager whether he could purchase the oak bench. The manager said he couldn’t put a price on it, or he wasn’t able to sell it, so he gave it to Mr. Jamieson for one dollar.

Mr. Jamieson also acquired a large safe in an odd way. The safe was being sold at a Sheriff’s Execution auction to satisfy a debtor’s creditors. I recall Mr. Jamieson having told me that the sale took place in Carp or possibly in some rural venue in the former Township of West Carleton. Anyway, when Mr. Jamieson expressed an interest in the safe and enquired as to its price, the Sheriff asked, “Are you going to move it?”, to which Jamieson said “Yes”, and the Sheriff immediately replied, “One dollar!”.

I now have three safes in my office, the smallest having been originally employed in the offices of the late Albert T. Gale who founded Gale Real Estate Company. The middle size safe – the most elegant – was one which Mr. Jamieson must have bought for himself. I learned more about that particular safe when a refined lady client was sitting in my office preparing to sign some documents. She turned her head to examine the safe, whereupon she exclaimed, “I didn’t know we made those!”. I asked who “we” was, and she explained, “I’m a McCulloch; that was my grandfather”. The florid writing on the safe was “The Goldie & McCulloch Co., Limited of Galt”. When I asked what “we” did make, she looked coldly at me and said, “Boilers!”.

In addition to having the Revised Statutes of Ontario going back to a two-volume collection of 1897, which I suspect was the first to be produced, I also have the Upper Canada Queen’s Bench Reports from 1845. Those case reports eventually morphed into what is today called the Ontario Reports. Just as the modern case law has much to do with the automobile, the ancient texts had much to do with horses. In addition I have an entire collection from the 1930’s of Halsbury’s Laws of England, which is to this day a reliable and incisive collection of the British Common Law. In many instances the footnotes are longer than the main text. I have a collection of numerous corporate seals, among them, The Rosebank Cheese and Butter Co-Operative Limited (Rosebank was the lovely former name of the nearby Village of Blakeney), Royal Scarlet Chapter L.O.L. No. 482, Stella, Ontario, Albert Gale (Ottawa) Ltd., G. H. Hill Motors Limited (one of the best know General Motors dealerships in Almonte for many years) and Mississippi Curling Rink.

Once you are bitten by the technology bug there are seemingly endless possibilities to feed the disease which is the fruit of the sting. The only governor of the ensuing wild gyrations is the knowledge that, apart from the capital cost of the product, there are always associated “connection” costs which, while seldom overwhelming, are nonetheless one more in the rising pile of automatic deductions from one’s long-suffering bank account. It makes you stop to think, “Do I really need this?”

Competing with the economics of the indulgence is the innate sense of competition which so many of the A-type personalities who are attracted to these devices secretly or unwittingly harbour. After all its gratification is more than just having a “cool” product. If we are to believe the media hype and even intelligent marketing of specialist magazine and newspaper reviews, these devices help us to work better and smarter, words which are a drug to the aggressive entrepreneur. Combine this conviction to modernity with the paranoia of being left behind, and you have all the ingredients required for a Saturday morning rush to the nearest Apple store to gratify the urge!

Have you been to an Apple store lately? It’s like visiting a lunar living room. Sparseness, plastic and chrome just about sum it up. There is absolutely nothing superfluous to the dedicated purpose of computers and gadgets. You do not risk losing the least bit of attention to the subject. There is nothing else to preoccupy you. Compare it to giving a dog a dish of food in an empty room. What’s not to like! The only reluctance I have about the place is that it is so decidedly adolescent that I almost feel as though I were a trespasser, or even worse, a criminal in a forbidden world of white-washed youth, although I accept that it is one of the failings of the baby-boomers that we are unwilling to relinquish our hold on the formative years.

Inevitably, however, the debate comes back to the fundamental question of whether I need to cart yet another piece of luggage about my person, as fashionable as it may make one feel to have a lap-top or other device slung over one’s shoulder (assuming of course that your knees haven’t become too weak to carry the added weight). Pointed deliberations about the essential need of these devices are like cold water on the heated acts of a frantic stock broker. The task, however, is not an easy one, given that it is so effortless to rationalize the expenditure of another $700 these days, a small price to preserve one’s place in the perpetual line-up to technology heaven. The devices further represent the puerile attraction we’re all so reluctant to admit, and to abandon involving the toy element.

Most of us have by now exhausted our original fascination with automobiles, ski-doo’s, sea-doo’s, ATVs and lawn tractors. Computer toys have the advantage of being not only highly personal (we don’t have to share them with the kids) but also highly portable (we can take them like a Teddy bear wherever we go). Yet one still must ask, “Do I really need this?” The question is almost indelicate, like asking Elizabeth Taylor whether she really needs another ring. Rubbish! It’s not about need at all! And who at our age needs to be told what to do!

So much of growing older is about defining one’s limits, not necessarily in a restrictive way, but in the manner of characterization. How do we see ourselves? And how do we want others to see us? Computers and gadgets help us define ourselves by enabling us to jump with both feet into the world of technology, easily bandying about the words PDF and USB as though they were second nature to us; or, we can recoil from the consumer gluttony sponsored by the latest commercial fiends, trading under the names of Microsoft, Apple, Rogers and Telus. We are able to get a grip on what really matters and snap our fingers at this popular madness.

And yet I’d really like an iPad.

We all know those rose-cheeked folk whom one suspects as having been born with a riding crop in hand and who profess to have no regrets. They invariably adopt a firmness of purpose and are prepared to re-enact every particular of their ineffable lives. I’m sorry, but my inclination is rather to let well enough alone. What’s done is done! Indeed even a bit of camouflaging dust thrown upon the tracks of the past is not in my opinion either unmerited or undesirable. Frankly there are things I never want to do again. Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t to my knowledge any unpardonable offence to hide. There are simply certain dramas the repetition of which I can cheerfully bear the deprivation.

Take, for example, school. With respect to our devoted educators, as buoyant as one might become upon the subject in retrospect, I ask you, who in their right mind can honestly say that they liked school! I mean, what’s there to like about having to remain mum and glued to a singularly uncomfortable bit of pine plank for prolonged periods with nothing more refreshing on the horizon than knowing that later you’ll have to spend hours memorizing the principles which have just been paraded before you. It’s a sentence, not a learning experience! For all the enthralling things which have been uttered in song and poetry about reading, writing and arithmetic, I have to say that the experience is more a fantasy supported by voodoo folklore and failing memory than anything else. Back then, school was for most of us nothing short of a hardship to be endured. So humdrum was the undertaking (though I thankfully survived it and thus escaped a condemnation which would likely have been worse by comparison) that I would, for example, never consider going back to school for any amount of structured learning.
There are nonetheless certain individuals who spoil the averages by positively pining for higher learning – consider the chap who after a career as a bureaucrat decided to study theology. But those hyperboles are diverting more for their infrequency than otherwise. Perhaps in one’s latter years, the classroom holds other attraction, but to my thinking the trade-off is disproportionally against the likelihood of advantage. In any event the whole point of getting older is to cultivate the nuances of one’s private philosophy, something which requires the absence of interference except from the learned minds of the past specifically by way of leisurely examination of the ancient texts in the comfort of one’s drawing room. There comes a time to hang up the runners and ruminate upon yesteryear.

While getting a job is right up there with acquiring an education, the process is distinctly not something I wish to repeat either. My particular aversion to the enterprise is compounded by my inherent lack of political will, by which I mean I am more individualistic than corporate. I am not prepared to sacrifice my principles by acting in the interests of status within an organization. My object in life has always been to be independent and self-reliant even to the point of compromising, if necessary, creature comforts in order to preserve dominion over the conduct of my personal affairs. This is a luxury which most can ill afford in the budding stages of one’s career, and thus one is obliged to submit to the hiring mechanism to secure a foothold in the world of commerce. I am amused to hear of people who, after decades of having done one thing or another, choose to set themselves adrift in the hopes of finding a new and often unrelated business or calling. While I admire the enthusiasm, if the task involves applying for employment, I’ll give it a miss, thank-you!

Church is another hot topic in this context. Based upon what I’ve heard recently, the numbers of the congregation are dwindling steadily and maybe even exponentially. This naturally recalls that there was at one time a healthy congregation, something which is no mean observation considering the number and variety of local places of worship. Many of the older members of the community such as myself were raised in the bosom of the church. In fact as a youngster I literally attended church every day and twice on Sundays. For good or for worse, that pattern has lately been disrupted. Rather than fuel the fires of polemic, I prefer to rest my current preference upon a combination of factors which, temporarily at least, have caused me to distance myself from this particular form of association. I acknowledge that the choice is not dissimilar to throwing the baby out with the bath water, and yet the preponderance of evidence worldwide is in my opinion unfavourable. I am quick to add that my decision does not embrace anything larger than organized religion, that is, the controversy does not include the more far-reaching contemplation of the Almighty. As the world becomes smaller and smaller it is inevitable that we should bump up against the need for some comparative thinking and for the time being that has succeeded in immobilizing me in this particular sphere.

On a less heady subject, I am bound to include in my inventory of preferred abstinence no less than alcohol, dreadful subject that it is! I am the first to admit that a frozen martini was traditionally a glory not lost upon me. Now however I relegate the pleasure to youth and others more capable of withstanding the assault. Increasingly I find the visceral delectations of life are being overtaken by the cerebral, dare I say the spiritual. No doubt this development is no anomaly, but rather a mere by-product of aging generally and likely a small compliment as a consequence. Given the competing demands upon one’s strength, it is perhaps easier to face the music of another day without the contamination of the juniper berry (though admittedly its reputed remedy for rheumatism and arthritis makes the case less compelling). Nonetheless on the balance I am now prepared to look wistfully upon my hardier days of delight and cheerfully supplant them with Nature’s less provocative rewards of mind and soul.

I’m guessing that everyone knows the 1937 show tune from the Rogers and Hart musical Babes in Arms entitled “The Lady is a Tramp”, the one about the gal who “doesn’t bother with people she hates”. I don’t know about you, but I’m there! Having to put up with people whom I know will be nothing but trouble is that last thing I’m about to repeat. As unforgiving and shallow-minded as this may sound to those who cultivate a wider view of life’s oyster, I am steadfast in my opinion that there is far more to be garnered from active avoidance of controversy than the competing imperative for unrestrained inclusiveness. Granted this supreme satisfaction is not universally available, especially where one’s friction arises in the context of family. In such circumstances the best one can hope for is the foresight to rise above the perceived injury and maybe even politely excuse oneself from the arena before the fracas ensues.

I’ve heard it said that there are only four topics of conversation: sex, gossip, bodily functions and shopping. Based upon what has preceded, it appears that I have completely failed to target even one of the expressions of social exchange. I apologize for this conspicuous bankruptcy. Likewise I can see that my retraction from continued learning, alternative employment, social convention, the pleasures of the table and strict etiquette can easily be construed as little more than the slithering retirement of a curmudgeon. I prefer to speak of my withdrawal as one of rising tranquillity, not diminishing hibernation. The object is not to become either reclusive or surly, rather to afford myself the prescription for conduct that ultimately pleases. If the agenda induces me to side-step the venturesome patterns of my erstwhile youth, then so be it.