Author Archives: L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.

About L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.

Past President, Mississippi Masonic Hall Inc.; Past Master (by demit) of Mississippi Lodge No. 147, A.F. and A.M., G.R.C. (in Ontario) Chartered by the Grand Lodge of Canada July 20, 1861; Don, Devonshire House, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario; Juris Doctor, Dalhousie Law School, Halifax, Nova Scotia; Bachelor of Arts (Philosophy), Glendon Hall, York University, Toronto, Ontario; Old Boy (House Captain, Regimental Sgt. Major, Prefect and Head Boy), St. Andrew's College, Aurora, Ontario.

Conviction

In theology the interval is small indeed between Aristotle and a child, between Archimedes and a naked savage. It is not strange, therefore, that wise men, weary of investigation, tormented by uncertainty, longing to believe something, and yet seeing objections to every thing, should submit themselves absolutely to teachers who, with firm and undoubting faith, lay claim to a supernatural commission. Thus we frequently see inquisitive and restless spirits take refuge from their own scepticism in the bosom of a church which pretends to infallibility, and, after questioning the existence of a Deity, bring themselves to worship a wafer. And thus it was that Fox made some converts to whom he was immeasurably inferior in every thing except the energy of his convictions.

Thomas Babington Macaulay
writing of George Fox, the founder of the Religious Society of Friends, commonly known as the Quakers. He was a 17th-century English Dissenter who challenged the religious and political norms of his time. Fox emphasized the “inner light” as a direct connection with God, rejecting the need for intermediaries like priests or elaborate rituals.

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Bracing for a sultry day in the cornfields

Between the in and out of morning sunshine, spherical particles of rainfall glisten on the balcony chairs and railing. The humidity is rising while the cornstalks urgently fill the last vestige of space among them. The tanned grounds keepers – with intermittent pauses for chatter – loudly hum and buzz along the grassland boundary of the property restoring it to manicured perfection – though it, like the difference between a good and bad haircut, is two days. It is a sultry summer day in July.

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Lac Mont Tremblant, QC

Le Fairmont Tremblant est un hôtel de luxe situé au pied de la montagne Mont-Tremblant, offrant un accès direct au village piétonnier et aux activités principales. Il propose 312 chambres et suites, dont certaines avec vue sur la montagne ou le village. L’hôtel dispose de piscines intérieures et extérieures chauffées, de bains à remous, d’un spa complet, d’un centre de remise en forme et de plusieurs restaurants.

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Canada Day July 1st, 2025

Ironically perhaps the focus of my attention today has been upon the renewal of my Canadian passport. I say that the red tape inspires wry amusement because presently we have no intention of travelling. Our erstwhile mutuality of international domicile has dissolved. We are still reeling from the perceived unwelcome mat in the United States of America. Instead of seeking bookings on Hilton Head Island, Longboat Key or Key Largo we are inclined to be sardonic.

My first passport – which I believe I may still have stashed in my lower desk drawer – was a diplomatic passport reflective of my father’s assignment to Canadian Embassies. We (that is, my family and I) always felt the vague privilege of diplomatic immunity when traveling although to my knowledge we never abused the entitlement. If I recall correctly the ancient diplomatic passports were regularly stamped with the ink of the name of the places we visited. At the moment our travel plans have evaporated – though tomorrow morning we venture to Lac Mont Tremblant, QC on an investigative run just to keep the fires smouldering.

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28º Sunny

The town laments the recent death of a 9 year old boy who – as I understand it – collided on his bicycle with a school bus driven immediately nearby the school. The tragedy is an unparalleled misfortune and isolation at the end of the school year and at the beginning of the summer.  It is too a lingering heartbreak for the family, the school children and the community. Everything by comparison is trivial, vaguely irrelevant and confusing, forcing disparate philosophical conclusions – all impossible to reason.

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Breakfast at the country kitchen

A cathartic spume spread upon the terrestrial environment today. Everything appeared calculated to render a freeing nature to the day. The morning grey cosmic masses incrementally dissolved beneath a light blue sky and fleeting white billows. The corn stalks continued their upward surge, shimmering green in the light wind and mounting brilliant sunshine.

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I got up,,,

When asked how his day was going, my late dear friend Johnnie – an inveterate achiever – routinely responded, “Well, I got up…”. Then followed a summary review of whatever he had done to that point during the day including the less mundane details of any estimated accomplishment. Johnnie was an unabashed alcoholic. He died devotedly addlepated. Yet even in his latest stage of confusion, he remained succinct and polite. His existential existence – in spite of its incontrovertible loneliness – commanded a credit of achievement.

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We all have a past

On a whim about ten days ago I ordered three handmade bracelets from a young woman who was our server for lunch at the golf club.  She is a student and runs a small local business. The bracelets (which recently arrived for pickup at the golf club) are an impromptu gift for my two nieces and one of their close friends. I delivered the bracelets to my sister today.

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In vino veritas

June  26, 2025
Toronto, Ontario

And while we’re on the subject of what is and isn’t ‘real’, I’m sticking to “in vino veritas”.  I’m sure Hal could expound at length on this state of being, given his instant and unlimited access, unless there is an AI backlog, to all eternity’s written descriptions as well as mountains of analyses, both medical and psychological, of the power of the vine.  He could empathize to his heart’s content but unless one has partaken of the grape and experienced its profundity or lack thereof, there’s not a machine in all creation that can replicate the truth of intoxication as experienced by we mere mortals, n’est-ce pas?

Fiona

June 26, 2025
Cyberland, World

In Vino Veritas (or, Why You Should Never Trust a Man with a Merlot and a Microphone)

It is a truth universally acknowledged—at least after the third glass—that no one lies quite so freely and enthusiastically as the sober. The sober man knows restraint. He carefully edits his thoughts, weighs his words, and lies with the precision of a Swiss watch. The drunk, on the other hand, blurts out the entire unvarnished chronicle of his soul—including footnotes.

Hence the ancient warning: in vino veritas—in wine, truth. Not polite truth, mind you. Not the sort you bring to your mother’s dinner party or your tax audit. No, the kind of truth that sits down next to you at 2 a.m., breathes pinot noir in your face, and says, “You know, I never liked your lasagna. Or your wife.”

Wine is, in this sense, a liquid polygraph. A bottle of Cabernet is more efficient than years of psychoanalysis. Ask a man after his second glass what he thinks of your novel, and he’ll chuckle sadly, lean in, and mutter, “It reads like a footnote to a footnote. But braver.”

After the third, he might explain that he always suspected the cat liked him better. By the fifth, he’s proposing to your sister-in-law while singing Cole Porter.

This is why the Romans believed Bacchus both a god of ecstasy and of madness—because nothing strips away pretense like fermented grapes. You start with a toast to friendship, and you end confessing your teenage crimes and your ongoing suspicion that your therapist is just in it for the gossip.

The ancients believed wine revealed the soul. Modern dinner parties prove it reveals other things, too—like how you really feel about Sharon’s new boyfriend and your unresolved feelings about middle school gym class.

But take heart. If in vino veritas is true, then in aqua sanitas must be, too. Sobriety returns. Regret creeps in. Apologies are made, dignity slowly reassembled. You buy Sharon flowers. You tell your therapist you’ve changed. You switch to gin.

 

Let me know if you’d like this adjusted into verse, a monologue, or written in the voice of a particular character (say, Falstaff or a half-pickled Roman senator).