“…a narcissistic, ignorant convicted felon whose rambling speeches and incessant lies make you think he’s slipping into dementia. Backed by his craven administration and assorted billionaires, his regressive policies and actions have reduced the country’s standing on the global stage from shining beacon to an absurdist version of a tinpot dictatorship, albeit a nuclear-armed one.”
David Suzuki
There a tangible evidence of smoke in the atmosphere as the residue of extraordinary forest fires continues to spread across the province. Initially I had mistaken the grey smear for a mist – but it turns out to be more of a smog. Some say they can detect the smell of wood burning.
Nevertheless our casual entertainment yesterday was fired as we whimsically orchestrated a late afternoon jaunt to the golf club where we – and our grandnephew – lingered on the flagstone patio overlooking the fairway for a modest but fulfillng meal. And when we had finished our relaxing nosh and an after-dinner elongation while watching the geese and their goslings by the river, we further amused ourselves by driving to Scoops in the Village of Pakenham where we treated ourselves to ice cream sundaes.
One wonders whether philosophy or religion any longer form a part of Western society. Reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius has failed to engender anything approaching either complete interest or enthusiastic embrace. Modern gossip is that religion of any description is doubtful even though admittedly stimulating for some (often a mixture of wishful thinking and coffee hour). Stoicism and epicureanism compete for convenient interpretations of “Don’t worry, be happy”. And finally logic is the blunt instrument by which the means and the end are respectively sanctified.
The St. Lawrence Seaway is part of that notable border separating Canada and USA.
The seaway opened in 1959 and cost C$470 million, $336.2 million of which was paid by the Canadian government. Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada and President Eisenhower formally opened the seaway on June 26, 1959 with a short cruise aboard the royal yacht HMY Britannia after addressing crowds in Saint-Lambert, Quebec.
The international division has in the past normally been acquainted with our journey to or from the USA. Most recently it signalled our return to Canada in early April from Hilton Head Island, SC. Today the passage along the Ivy Lea Parkway parallel the River marked a brief outing associated with our investigation of Recess Café in Portland, Ontario along Hwy#15 beyond Smiths Falls. We didn’t stop at the Café today but we intend to return. It has already formed part of our catalogue of immediate excursions, those that we save for lovely summer days or similarly propitious moments.
From the hinterland of Lanark County we first entered Gananoque, then blended onto the Ivy Lea Parkway. Everything we saw was impressive. As you might expect there have been many changes over the years. Strangely the latest riparian residential development in Gananoque was reminiscent of British seaside resorts, tall, lots of whitewash and engineered for maximum views of the water. Meanwhile the building of grand “cottage” or summer homes along the Seaway is distinguished by Torontonian opulence and excess as the resourceful urban capital makes its way incrementally eastward.
My day was happily punctuated by my erstwhile physician who FaceTimed me late afternoon. As fond as I am of speaking and sparring with him, today’s conversation was highlighted by his account of a calamity he had experienced with a new automobile, a misfortune similar to the one I was forced to endure earlier today. Allow me the privilege to conceal the details of these misadventures in the interest of preserving focus upon the most salient point of the coincidence; namely, that misery loves company. Admittedly any disruption of my vehicle is for me catastrophic; but equally persuasive is the knowledge that my pain is not entirely unfamiliar or uncommon. It is a strange way to overcome a sting but the medicine works! I shall hereafter rise above what many would discern as a paltry complaint.
The remainder of the day was marked by a superb evening meal prepared by my marvellous partner and chef; and, listening to Beegie Adair at the keyboard – always a soothing way to recap the ventures of the day!
Whatever I am, it is either flesh, life, or reason. Set aside your books and focus on your ruling part, reason. Don’t let it become a slave to desires and impulses. Don’t resent the present or fear the future.
Excerpt From
Aurelius, Marcus. “Meditations: Modern English Edition”
There are a lot of prescriptions for the way to live. As varied – sometimes as preposterous – as they are, be assured there are those philosophic persuasions which have a compelling influence upon certain of us. Indeed one may be surprised to discover the magnitude of instruction which one unwittingly follows or to which one unknowingly subscribes. Idealism for living is frequently of such prolonged cultural influence that it is handed from one generation to another as though it were DNA.
Deoxyribonucleic acid (abbreviated DNA) is the molecule that carries genetic information for the development and functioning of an organism.
Of course the greater reality – without delving too deeply into the philosophic debate surrounding tablula rasa or religion – is that most of us ultimately depend on something other than outside influence or strictly native intuition to guide or direct our behaviour. We are products not only of ancestry or other unspecific moulds but also of our own private experience in its multitude of unpredictable emanations.
Tabula rasa (Latin for “blank slate”) is the idea of individuals being born empty of any built-in mental content, so that all knowledge comes from later perceptions or sensory experiences. Proponents typically form the extreme “nurture” side of the nature versus nurture debate, arguing that humans are born without any “natural” psychological traits and that all aspects of one’s personality, social and emotional behaviour, knowledge, or sapience are later imprinted by one’s environment onto the mind as one would onto a wax tablet. This idea is the central view posited in the theory of knowledge known as empiricism. Empiricists disagree with the doctrines of innatism or rationalism, which hold that the mind is born already in possession of specific knowledge or rational capacity.
On a balmy summer day such as today, I confess the influence of stoicism or epicureanism was not paramount; instead, it was the distinguishable advent of summer that followed what had been a peculiarly cool and often windy springtime. In celebration I sported a white linen shirt and white cotton shorts. Nonetheless I succumbed today to accommodation. Maybe that was the element of reason of which Marcus Aurelius spoke so convincingly 2000 years ago.
I first encountered obstruction to my ideal summer adventure when proposing to purchase a hearing aid with the assistance of Pam, my Hearing Instrument Specialist. Pam has been in the business a long time. She knew for example that the last time I had purchased a hearing device was 6 years ago. I arrived at our scheduled appointment this morning with the preconceived notion that I would buy one hearing aid (for my right ear, the weaker) and that it would be the latest model which is designed to fit into the outer ear passage rather than one which fits around the top of the ear. I was wrong on both counts.
Pam confirmed I now required an aid for both ears and that the models which fit into the ear structure – apart from proving unpopular with clients who initially had sought to use them for the same reason as I – more immediately require battery replacement every week (the batteries are not rechargeable). And the longevity of the compressed units are compromised for other reasons I cannot now recall, perhaps something to do with warranty or perpetual repair.
So there you have it – the first defeat I suffered on this balmy summer day. But reason prevailed! First, I trust my professional advisor. She is manifestly competent and has no reason to contradict me other than for my benefit – a fact which I sheepishly remarked she had proven historically and which you’ll forgive me, dear Reader, for not elucidating at this time in the interest of sparsity and ignominy.
Undisturbed by the opening line of action upon this balmy summer day, I pressed onward. In fairness to the objective regard of this entire narrative, I admit that what followed was – not unlike so many adventures in life – capitalized by unanticipated fortuity. Two things: one, I breezed through an unscheduled haircut; and, two, I hadn’t to suffer that now pervasive indignity to void my bladder every 20 minutes. Granted I have for the moment abandoned that once contemporaneously soothing and uplifting indulgence (and unconscionable diuretic) called the triple espresso – or what has lately transformed to the quadruple espresso because the single they make is already a double (I am not to be outdone by Starbucks with its Caffé Americano, Latte and Double Latte).
Accordingly I persisted in my now gratifying and character building endeavours by going to the car wash. There however I met with difficulty. The car wash was closed for repair. Instead therefore I opted to travel more deeply into the city to another Petro-Canada gas station which I formerly habituated. This was a success! In fact because of the apparently extensive renovation at the other site, this one will likely become the new location for the daily revitalization of my motor vehicle. I assuaged the difficulty by relishing the venture along largely unfamiliar territory upon my return home. Smooth driving is to me an incomparable undertaking. As I streamed home along the open roads, bypassing the bountiful open fields, I marvelled at the precision, sound and feel of the little 4-cylinder engine (which is surprisingly capable of enthusiasm). Indeed I exhausted the inconvenience of a workday lineup on the highway by whizzing past at an uncommonly rapid speed (which of course I reduced to the specified limit once on the Appleton Side Road).
To top it all off, today we at last received the refund of our overpayment on our US credit card. You would think for a credit card company – like a bank – sending money to a client would be a simple matter of depositing it on-line. This however is not the case. Not only had we to contact the credit card company on more than one occasion, we also had to endure their own tardiness (and lack of technology) and concurrent postal strike in Canada as they arranged to send us a cheque in US$ which naturally we must present in person at our bank for deposit. The so-called modern technology for deposit through one’s iPhone is not possible to a US account in Canada. Nor could we figure a way to convert the cheque to Canadian dollars then deposit to one of our Canadian accounts. And we didn’t bother to speculate whether we could deposit it to our US$ account in Sarasota, FLA then transfer that money to our US account in Canada. Instead we’ll go to our local bank tomorrow.
For what seems the first time in weeks – or even months since our return to Canada at the beginning of April – I awoke this morning with nothing to distract me but the sunshine and the chirping of the birds. My only duty was to lower the blind over the patio door to shield the brightness from the morning sun as I sat at my desk looking at the spiralling greenery in the nearby farmer’s field. While I am surrounded by the turmoil of people coming and going – readjusting to their new digs as they sell and buy or renegotiate lease arrangements – I have the indescribable comfort of nowhere to go, nothing to do.
Everything is changing. A dip into the bowels of the city today – to the fashionable Westboro district – triggered varied and wondrous thoughts about infrastructure, train rails and seemingly endless building and modification, all of which heightened the burgeoning urban landscape.
And then we saw from the large sitting room window of Bunny’s new apartment the spectacle of the Parliament buildings in the distance; and the Ottawa River trailing in the northern perspective as it has done for centuries. From one of the bedroom windows on the other side of the apartment I caught sight of a swank and very urban restaurant where I had dined as a younger man, in a different time of life and friends and professional pursuit. And I hurriedly recollected Widdicombs antiques nearby.
For over thirty years Michael Spooner owned Widdicombs of Westboro providing Ottawa with the finest antique and 20th century furniture and accessories.The store was closed in December 2008
Today Widdicomb’s tradition of offering quality items continues through Michael Spooner and Son Auctioneers, which began in 1979, shortly after Widdicomb’s opening. The auction business was the natural result of Widdicombs clients looking for an easy and efficient way to sell their own furniture, art, silver and other fine household chattels.
When our hostess pulled me back from this spectacle to the present we exchanged critical views upon the proper place to assemble art on the walls – in the sitting room, in the bedrooms, the kitchen and the hallways. It was an excitement! Some we settled upon a conspicuous place; others collected in a group; two or three with special places of mutuality and conglomeration.
The energy of novelty and newfound dreams was apparent throughout our visit.
Reflecting howsoever casually upon the broad topic of the animal kingdom – and recalling Darwin’s theory of “survival of the fittest” – it is difficult not to accept the fundamental proposition that there is a hierarchy of control and evolution, one universally affecting as well the realm of insects, fish and vegetation. It is Nature’s way to rid itself of pusillanimity and distortion. Even within species we have come to accept the utility of the “fight to the death” for community leadership. Is this visceral dialogue the answer to progress? Is it the unifying manner to defeat the complications of life? Is it the necessary alignment to sustainability? Is there really a King of the Jungle? A Lord of the Rings? A Tarzan in our midst? Or have we succumbed instead to a Heart of Darkness? A Lord of the Flies? The Handmaid’s Tale?
It’s 7:20 am, Friday, May 30th. We’re sitting alone in the shadowy grey waiting room of the Cardiac Device Clinic of the Heart Institute in Ottawa. The fluorescent ceiling lamps are turned off. Apart from an occasional employee entering the Clinic with their neck key, the place is barren and desolate. My annual appointment today to have my pacemaker checked is not scheduled until 8:40 am. We chose to arrive early because parking is notoriously difficult – especially on this occasion because the space where we have traditionally parked is undergoing extensive renovation. Patients have been warned to take precautions. I felt it was wiser to waste time sitting as we are – that is, here in advance with a nearby parking spot safely secured – than having to compete with regular weekday traffic and to struggle to find parking. We have also formalized our pre-registration and check-in details.
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Although I practiced law in the area of estate administration (the perpetuation of wealth from one generation to another), I am no longer competent to give legal advice because I am retired and do not pay Errors & Omissions Insurance to the Law Society of Upper Canada (as it was formerly known).
Created by an act of the Legislative Assembly in 1797, the Law Society of Ontario regulates Ontario’s lawyers and paralegals in the public interest by ensuring that the people of Ontario are served by lawyers and paralegals who meet high standards of learning, competence and professional conduct.
The Law Society of Ontario is governed by a board of directors, who are known as benchers. This board includes lawyers, paralegals and lay persons (non-lawyers and non-paralegals).