More as an accreditation of the universal limits of modernity, an indifferent blotting up of the history of the locale surrounding the nation’s capital (including our beloved Town of Almonte) discloses a number of pungent similarities, among them waterways, railways, grist mills and woollen mills. That – and the fur trade – constitute the underlying commercial development of our country so far as I can recall. It illustrates too that the identity of the United Empire Loyalists was a chart not entirely determined by the unsettling events of 1764 in the United States of America. Indeed, one occasionally stumbles upon archival fragments whose very language discloses the breadth of the British imperial world: “Sundry Negroes on Nichola Town Estate late the property of George [?] Esq. now belonging to Charles Spooner Esquire … Port of Grenville in Grenada.”

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Following breakfast earlier this morning and afterwards our constitutional exercise in the small downstairs gymnasium we began an uncertain pathway for a drive into neighbouring Renfrew County and round about.  The routine motive of a car wash was superlative in the Scotch mist. Equally evident was the traffic.  For a Sunday morning in particular, the number of cars (in both directions) was noticeable if not downright unusual. Where was everyone going? We speculated that it was the weather. The dank drizzle had apparently dampened the springtime partiality and instead inspired people to go shopping – or to do whatever else indoors – to avoid the wet and chill outside. Malls are ornamental parklands. Though earlier upon leaving town we saw more than one person dutifully and somewhat ruefully walking their dog in the rain. Barring that vested imperative, it is recognizably a choice day to escape the weather or to admire it from one’s drawing room desk.

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Today I revisited “L’Étranger” by Albert Camus.

Considered a classic of 20th-century literature, The Stranger has received critical acclaim for Camus’ philosophical outlook, absurdism, syntactic structure, and existentialism (despite Camus’s rejection of the label), particularly within its final chapter. Le Monde ranked The Stranger as number one on its 100 Books of the 20th Century. In Le Temps it was voted the third best book written in French in the 20th and 21st century by a jury of 50 literary connoisseurs.

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Years ago I recall having been introduced to the communal benefit of a well written obituary. What follows is an example:

Meed was born in New York, New York, in 1944 to Alan “Tamey” Wetterau and (Ethel) Cary Moncure.   At age 5 they moved to upstate New York, where life centered on the vibrant artists’ community of 1950s Woodstock. There, Meed was surrounded by teachers and mentors of all kinds, so that although “home life” was a moving target, Meed became an accomplished painter and sculptor and a NY Board of Regents Scholar by the age of 18.

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Suddenly things have changed. For the better. The sunny morning – though surprisingly fresh – began unequivocally. Upon awakening I simply answered duty. Mainly, I had an early morning appointment with a dermatologist, the doctor who – upon referral to him by my GP months ago – identified a malignant tumour associated with skin cancer. He commented today while peering through his fancy dermatoscope that we fortunately caught it early enough to ensure it hadn’t spread rampantly through the lymph nodes. I’m booked to see him again in six months. If – as I predictably quipped – I make it that far. He ignored the humour. He bluntly speculated the subsequent return will be a year afterwards. Clearly though he’s unconvinced the initial problem has vanished. The succinct dialogue was not unlike an encounter with a funeral director, polite but uncompromising.

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Many times I have driven by a motorist stranded alongside the highway.  Sometimes the driver is wandering curiously around the vehicle as though searching for an overt obstruction; other times, he is lying beneath the vehicle apparently intent upon remedying a flat tire or a mechanical defect.  Whatever the eventuality (and aside from the predominantly forlorn nature of the sight, it is often impossible at high speed to discern the precise dilemma), I have always whistled mournfully upon seeing someone in despair. Never however have I authentically imagined that my turn is next.

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Early this morning I was reading an English translation of the Essays of Montaigne published in 1877. The author Michel de Montaigne was born February 28, 1533. Not surprisingly many of his allusions were fundamental reflections upon then current social principles. Among those elemental references was one to the familial obligation for the preservation of humanity. In its broader perspective, the duty is for propagation of the species (reproduction by natural processes from the parent stock).

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It has been a dreamy summery day today, balmy breeze with temperatures bordering on hot, endless sunshine under a powdery azure dome. An ideal day for the national holiday “Victoria Day”.

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Once we seven were comfortably seated at table this morning in the clubhouse, we reckoned upon brief recall that it has been six years since we last foregathered at Temple’s Sugar Bush on Ferguson Falls Road, Lanark. It was the identical crew then as today with the exception of the absence of Jennifer’s colleague who was otherwise engaged and the addition of Denis Secundus who has only lately meshed with the Town of Mississippi Mills. For young Wyatt (whose 12th birthday approaches on June 6th next) the abbreviation of time was nonetheless demonstrable (though I believe it is fair to account that I too surprised myself to have altered significantly within the short time period).

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Getting a haircut, though a moderate inconvenience, nonetheless ultimately ranks as a welcome interruption. It is undeniable that cleaning up the shaggy dog is an improvement.

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