Awakening on Hilton Head Island is not unlike any other day.  There are duties (real or imagined) to fulfill; there are projects (warranted or fanciful) to perform; there are penetrating routines to filter into the day; there is hope for a stream of profit and advantage. Certainly the prospect of favourable weather, a clear blue sky, tolerable temperatures and an appetite have something to do with it as well. But in general getting out of bed, withdrawing from the cocoon of the lair, is an assignment which confronts and enforces the identical and inescapable features of one’s mind no matter where you may be.

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Not everyone wishes to rule the roost. There are those who, given the appropriate duty and compensation, are content to do the bidding of others. To them it is no discredit by any account; and certainly not to any theoretical psychological need for management or superiority. But for those who wish to have it their own way the prescription is inescapable at any price. For those latter sorts, the issue has nothing whatever to do with dominion. It is the performance which demands meticulous attention and execution.  This is not to suggest others haven’t a pursuit of excellence; rather, it describes the disposition of those who require that what is being done meets their personal standards without compromise for the mere sake of accommodation or any other irrelevant requisite. It is not that one is the boss of what is being done; it is that what is being done is the boss. And how that is done is “my way”.

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As I surmised after having called yesterday afternoon on a Sunday, I received a telephone message from Victoria early this Monday morning confirming a haircut appointment for me at 9:30 am. In further anticipation of this eventuality I ensured to have been out of bed, showered and dressed by nine o’clock.

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For ones such as we (that is, old fogeys) the main ingredients of Hilton Head Island are: the Sea Pines plantation, cycling and the North Atlantic Ocean.  From these elemental features follows and flows everything else, including as we reconfirmed early this morning before tending to grocery shopping at Publix the delectable glazed doughnuts from Lowcountry Produce Market & Café in The Shops at Sea Pines Center. There we were greeted by the same server whom we had met last year; and, as I wandered about the store looking at the artwork on display I encountered and gabbed with the proprietor’s sister whom we had met more than 10 years ago.

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Going back to old haunts is never a guaranteed adventure. Things change. People get old; novelty wears thin; some stop drinking; romance and amorous conjunctions alter or become less enthralling. Nonetheless we hadn’t anticipated what unfolded today upon our return to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina where we first visited over 1½ decades ago and have returned almost every year thereafter.  Nothing horrid.  But most certainly it was different from what we had expected to encounter based upon the past.  I speak here of that most curious feature on Hilton Head Island; namely, snow! So remarkable was the discovery that it surpassed what only days before we had encountered to a noticeably lesser degree further northward in North Carolina, Virginia and Pennsylvania on our journey down from Canada. Reportedly – that is, from what we overheard on the local news channels and what the local residents touted in casual conversation – it was a hugely unpredicted event by all conventional standards. It especially disturbed me, however, not so much because of its uniqueness (a skiff of snow means little more than indifference to a Canadian) but because the colour of the geography was so especially inert and simplified compared to what I am accustomed to see in the introductory marshlands and and on the treelined avenues. The avid car lovers on the Island haven’t any truck with salt spray and slush from the roadways.

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Penetrating the Confederate South evokes a refinement of thought. Immediately upon trespassing into North Carolina the rarefaction of alternatives is instantaneously accelerated.

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There are numerous ways to calibrate what is happening throughout Western society. For starter the measurement depends upon he who measures. The latest universal summary I overheard was reactionary. To assist the digestion of that vastly complex word, its antonym is progressive.  From there the comparative description descends to variants of right and left, conservative and liberal, conventional and radical. You get the idea. Some people are traditional (or set in their ways); while others are reforming (or avant-garde).  The trouble often is that the majority prefers not to be disturbed; or, to put it another way, they’re diehard or intransigent.  And notably they do not like being pushed in another direction.

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How often are you told, “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” Today was truly one of those days. As foretold everything turned out to be just fine! But I can tell you not long after our outset this morning there was room for concern.

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Having watched the initiation of Donald J. Trump it was difficult not to have perceived the distinctly theatrical nature of the enterprise. With its ornaments of sound, architecture and fame, the proceedings were – that is, until the singing of America the Beautiful – perfectly executed and imaginable. The malfunctioning of the recording to back Underwood’s singing instantly deflated the ceremony and poignantly reversed the grand theatrical pomp to the common allure of a child school production. It was a reminder of inescapable reality even at the behest of what Trump called the best country in the world (an assertion as implausible as its World Series baseball).

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Never before have I felt as uncomfortable as I do now about the difference between being American or Canadian.  This is not to suggest there are not differences. Those differences are historically both expected and tolerated, as well they should be in different countries. But a peculiar shard of indifference has come between us, an unforeseen detachment. When I was a child living in Washington DC my family enjoyed an enviable experience there. When I was 14 years old at boarding school I recall boys being summoned by the Headmaster to assemble in chapel to mourn news of the assassination of JFK.  When I began practicing law and learned the horror of the collapse of the World Trade Centre, I was speechless with remorse.  When I retired and for the next decade spent 6 months each year in the United States of America I cherished those experiences and the people there whom I met and befriended. Throughout that time, covering a breadth of 70 years, I have always felt that the United States of America and Canada were collaborative neighbours much the way members of a family unite even in moments of disagreement.

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