Retail
By L. G. William Chapman
When I arrived in Almonte in 1976 as a young lawyer, my office was on the second floor of 74 Mill Street, formerly occupied by Raymond A. Jamieson, QC. His longtime legal assistant, Mrs. Evelyn Barker, graciously stayed on to assist in the transition. Mr. Jamieson had just retired after an extraordinary 54-year career, having been called to the bar at Osgoode Hall in 1921.
When I arrived in Almonte in 1976 as a young lawyer, my office was on the second floor at 74 Mill Street, formerly occupied by Raymond A. Jamieson, QC. His longtime legal assistant, Mrs. Evelyn Barker, remained during the transition, a steady presence. Mr. Jamieson had just retired after an impressive 54-year career, having been called to the bar at Osgoode Hall in 1921.
When I arrived in Almonte in 1976 as a young lawyer my office was in the former law office of Raymond A. Jamieson QC at 74 Mill Street on the 2nd floor. Mrs. Evelyn Barker, the former Legal Assistant, still hung on to assist in completion of the transition. Mr. Jamieson had retired after 54 years of practice, having been called to the bar at Osgoode Hall in 1921.
It won’t, I am sure, surprise you to hear me say that it’s the little things that count. Yet as unremarkable as it may be, the assertion is nonetheless rich with import especially for me upon our recent return home. In short, while I knew in my heart that I was anxious to return home from the United States of America, I hadn’t until today been able to identify the particular reason for that overwhelming wish. But early this morning following receipt of an email from a chap who proposed a get-together in the next little while, it occurred to me to call Chef at the golf club to enquire about the estimated date of the course opening. She speculated April 21st subject to the endorsement of the Pro. This vitality is but an introduction to the list of persuasions of home. Just awakening to another day here is bliss.
It’s early spring. I’m sitting on the deck in the late afternoon sunshine, wallowing in the luxury of indolence, unanimity and solar warmth. The steady honking of the geese and the faraway blur of traffic are tarnished by a shallow hum competing with the sparkle of tiny birds and a fresh wind racing atop the burgeoning bounds of the river. In the field is the collapsing ruin of a cattle shed now almost buried to its top in similarly neglected shoreline reeds. The brown choppy cultivated soil practically stirs with emotion and objective, a psychedelic shimmer.
We’ve been back in Canada from the United States for four days. Apart from the declining stock market, the sense of harmony is incalculable. The relief is not merely being home. Our minor occupations throughout our short return have included cutting ties with the United States. For the present we have no ambition or plans to return. Today we closed our Sunpass account (Florida’s Turnpike electronic toll collection). We also wrote to our US bank account manager to transfer funds back to our Canadian bank.
Getting things ready for future growth involves preliminary groundwork. Reliably matters have already hardened with the expiation of time and the descent to habit. For some reason there is a perceived state of happiness when things are undisturbed. Nonetheless it is a competing character of human nature to adopt differences. These in turn precipitate messing with the surface, planting new seeds, tilling the soil, arranging for the prospect of change. It is an expedition requiring effort. It keeps the blood moving and sometimes tingles the surface.
Some things don’t require much choice. The passenger automobile for example. In spite of the variety of motor vehicles on the market, I have long ago narrowed the options to domestic vehicles (because historically those dealerships are the only ones in the rural area where I live). Accessibility is the key. The collateral benefit is that frequently the country people are easier to get to know, often living in the same small town or very nearby. Convenience though is the paramount selling feature (especially if one is working for a living or raising a family and having limited spare time); though even for us old unemployed vagrants the facility to get to and from a dealership for repairs or routine maintenance is nothing to pooh-pooh. Besides we haven’t all the luxury or inclination to deal at arm’s length with the Rolls Royce dealership in Montréal!
It would be inconceivable to have predicted this ideal day, our return home to Canada from the United States of America after a two-month absence, to life in the rural town of Mississippi Mills along the river, on a cool but clear and spectacularly sunny day, on the 1st day of April, 2025. Overnight – recalling anxiously the consternation I had encountered last year when leaving Binghamton – I had stewed beneath my duvet covers about exiting the roundabout. Like all midnight dreams and recurring thoughts, it amounted to nothing specific other than worry and upset. This morning at 5:40 am when I awoke from the ferment, the turbulence lingered. But when, after a restorative breakfast of hot porridge and a sliced firm banana, and when we finally approached the roundabout heading to Canada, I listened tentatively to the GPS instructions and, contrary to our objective, headed south on Interstate 81 as directed, only to be subsequently notified to take an entirely unexpected turn onto a seemingly unrelated route which in turn led promptly to Interstate 81 north.
The next leg of the journey through Syracuse was of similar historical bother and concern. The route there was again undergoing tremendous reconstruction and related twists and indirect passages. But we survived without obstruction. Within what seemed little time we were out of the threat of complications; the road opened wide, relatively untraveled. leading directly northward. It was then too that the windy, foggy atmosphere of tiny ice particles began to clear. I muttered to myself as we drove that the little Cadillac was performing to scratch. It bothers me to know I shall soon be abandoning this superlative machine for an all-electric model. But hanging onto the past is never the best solution. It is frankly my experience that we are better to embrace change and advance as is normally the most advantageous.
But even before we arrived home and got a look at the new electrical installation to accommodate a 240v outlet for charging the EV, we proposed to stop in Bells Corners for Vietnamese soup from Mr. Pho. There was nobody else in the place when we arrived. Mr. Pho happily recognized us and rightly enquired whether we had been away. We told him we had just crossed the border an hour ago. Upon asking about his nephew (who once worked in the restaurant as a server), Mr. Pho informed us the nephew has lately married a girl from Vietnam. The nephew now works in the high tech arena in California. This animated discussion led to an historical account by Mr. Pho about Vietnam, formerly divided into three parts, North, South and Middle. Mr. Pho, who is from the Middle zone, now aligns with the South because the communists have overtaken the North. The reduced divisions are now only north and south; and, not unlike contrary political squabbles elsewhere, families are regularly divided between north and south alliances. The ambling conversation crystallized upon the arrival of further patrons. When our aromatic tea, shrimp salad rolls and hot-and-sour soup arrived we were in heaven.
From there we drove next door to Petro-Canada, initiating our Canadian credit card once again and applying Petro-Points for the purchase of windshield wiper fluid. Then of course the statutory car wash.
Back in Almonte, we drove to the local postal outlet to collect mail which had been too large to insert into our mail box. Once back in the apartment we discovered a huge collection of weekly publications from Country Life in England. But before addressing the uncollected mail we sat at table, each with a fresh mug of coffee, and a box of donuts we had just collected from Tim Horton’s.
What followed was a strategic review of all outstanding tax documents from Canada Revenue Agency and our financial advisor. Once we downloaded these tax forms to our computers we then uploaded them to our accountant.
Throughout these important matters we connected with local friends, promising to contact them for coffee and a chat as soon as possible. We of course managed to unpack our suitcases, restore things to drawers, replug computing devices, set aside clothes for laundry and open the blinds throughout the apartment. Though we arrived home at a relatively early hour (2:00 pm), it is now approaching midnight. The weather tomorrow threatens to be cloudy and possibly snowing. However the forecast is for springtime weather in the near future. We’re tickled to be back home, organized in our digs, having nothing but the pleasing society of friends to contemplate.
Since checking out of the hotel this morning shortly before sunrise, our 5-hour journey from West Virginia to our destination in Binghamton, New York (interrupted by a nutritious breakfast on the way) has been up one hill and down another. Binghamton lies on the Allegheny Plateau hence its hilly terrain.
This particular tiny journey, like so many ventures of daily life, though seemingly mundane at first blush, was coloured by extraordinary features. As we drove through this hilly atmosphere, ears regularly popping, we exchanged those modest reflections peculiar to such as we who have been together approaching three decades, who have in all likelihood spoken the same or similar words one thousand times before. And yet this prolonged communion was punctuated today with what we each perceived to be heartfelt observations concerning the fitful and eventful evolution of the relationship and the personal advantages of us both.
Evolution is perhaps an odd word to describe the growth of any partnership but I feel it captures what are the native economies and elements of the parties involved. Time and age add to the fraternity and affection the distillation of the fundamental characteristics of those involved. Not all of it is, as one might imagine, the purity of the threads which insinuate the whole. Rather part of the equation is merely the acuity to address the very decomposition of the whole. Life, while not always an uphill battle, is nonetheless at times a downhill slide. The scrupulousness of the transition is its adaptation, conjoining what one hopes to achieve. It is the quiet mulling of these details – often a repeated effort – which can finally succeed to expand the conversant possibilities.
Unwittingly today we reached that zenith of ambition which often obscures itself in the clouds. Granted much of the development is the product of the related clarity of our daily enterprises. Based upon our incremental aging as well as the recognizable modification of the United States of America (where we have wintered on average for 6 months each year for the past decade), we’ve been obliged to inquire into the amendment of our lifestyle. And today we found and determined the avenues upon which we might usefully trespass. Certainly hope is a critical ingredient of these fantastic ideals. But it satisfies that adage about getting down a river; viz., knowing either where or where not to go.