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.

Chance encounter

I got up late today. I’ve accepted that prolonged sleep is incontrovertible evidence of my impending dissolution and ultimate evaporation. Or, as my late father so amorphously characterized it, “Going into space!” It was noon before I was spooning my ineffable steel cut oats and nibbling on superb pieces of extra thick bacon. But astonishingly time was no impediment. The sun was shining brightly; the air was dry and clear. An ideal day for a drive to nowhere and back.  So after I brushed my teeth, then crawled on my stick to the basement garage, I was soon motoring into the clear wintry sky along the Appleton Side Road.

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Wrap it up!

At 8:20 am this morning – on the first workday of the New Year 2025 – and while still dreaming in bed I suddenly threw back the duvet and sat upright. There was a noise. It was a noise I am unaccustomed to hear so early in the day. I soon realized the disturtance emitted from my iPhone resting on the charger beside the bed. I answered.

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Wintry storm on New Year’s Day (2024)

Sitting, staring at the wintry storm, I wonder where and when
The gift of life first fell like snow and flattened and what then?
I wonder how and where the sky at first began to call?
Was the grey above and white below a token or a treasure of it all?

The New Year’s Day is calm and staid, its unadventurous tick overt
There’s nothing more compelling than my thoughts to keep alert.
Instead the shadowy sky and emerald freezing water of the river flow
Upon the horizon and upriver to Appleton as they did so long ago.

Do we dare to take a chance, to start anew and freshen all we were?
Does time remain to rewrite the image upon the ground that’s left to spare?
Or will we like it dampen and dissolve then evaporate and disappear?
I sit and watch, and nod asleep, regarding the view from here.

New Year’s Eve (2024)

Granted, nothing’s perfect.  But Almonte is damn close to being so! While contemplating the upcoming new year and the reminiscences provoked by such idle occupation, it occurred to me that Almonte is one of the best things to have happened to me in my lifetime. And it happened almost 50 years ago.  So I’ve had the liberty to evaluate the matter in some detail. I won’t say that Almonte is the best thing to have happened to me in my lifetime. That distinction is the indubitable preserve of my partner without whom I am lost. And that alliance happened almost 30 years ago. But if one were to choose a matter of broad significance and of general application, Almonte would be right up there with whatever else constitutes one of the best things to have happened to me in my lifetime. Almonte far surpasses memorability or merit as a mere place of residence and employment and retirement.  It has signalled so much more than that.

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The Puritans

The morning of Christmas day was fixed for the commencement of these outrages (in Scotland). For nothing disgusted the rigid Covenanter more than the reverence paid by the prelatist to the ancient holidays of the Church.

On Christmas day, therefore, the Covenanters held armed musters by concert in many parts of the western shires. Each band marched to the nearest manse, and sacked the cellar and larder of the minister, which at that season were probably better stocked than usual. The priest of Baal was reviled and insulted, sometimes beaten, sometimes ducked. His furniture was thrown out of the windows; his wife and children turned out of doors in the snow. He was then carried to the market place, and exposed during some time as a malefactor. His gown was torn to shreds over his head: if he had a prayer book in his pocket it was burned; and he was dismissed with a charge, never, as he valued his life, to officiate in the parish again. The work of reformation having been thus completed, the reformers locked up the church and departed with the keys.

The Puritan, who was, in general, but too ready to follow precedents and analogies drawn from the history and jurisprudence of the Jews, might have found in the Old Testament quite as clear warrant for keeping festivals in honour of great events as for assassinating bishops and refusing quarter to captives.

He certainly did not learn from his master, Calvin, to hold such festivals in abhorrence; for it was in consequence of the strenuous exertions of Calvin that Christmas was, after an interval of some years, again observed by the citizens of Geneva. But there had arisen in Scotland Calvinists who were to Calvin what Calvin was to Laud. To these austere fanatics a holiday was an object of positive disgust and hatred. They long continued in their solemn manifestoes to reckon it among the sins which would one day bring down some fearful judgment on the land that the Court of Session took a vacation in the last week of December,

Over 2500 years ago the cult worship of Baal had infected Israel and become the dominant belief system and worship practice amongst the people God called His own. In order to combat this distorted belief system God raised up the prophet Elijah to confront the false system of worship.

Despite Elijah’s singular victory over Baal at Mt. Carmel, Baal worship persisted through history as various cultures adopted Baal, changing his name to suit their time and place in history. Baal became Zeus to the Greeks, Jupiter to the Romans and Thor to the Germanic and Norse peoples, and with the conversion of Constantine Baal insidiously infected Christianity. God, through the prophet Malachi, foretold that before Christ returns the people of God would again, like Israel 3500 years ago, need the prophet Elijah to call them back to the worship of the true God.

“The Hebrew noun ba‘al means ‘master’, ‘possessor’ or ‘husband’. Used with suffixes, e.g. Baal-peor or Baal-berith, the word may have retained something of its original sense; but in general Baal is a proper name in the OT, and refers to a specific deity, Hadad, the W Semitic storm-god, the most important deity in the Canaanite pantheon.

Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay
“The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 3.”

I am forever reminded of the violence which derives from fiction, works of the imagination, fabrication. Whether it were children’s fables, traditional legends, historic myths or horror films, fiction is a double edged sword, the one side the assertive, the other side the objectionable. The two sides of contrary disposition play opposite one another, sometimes cruelly, far surpassing the wholly intellectual standards of debate. What however makes the debates more reprehensible is that the Motion before the House is akin to, “BE IT RESOLVED THAT Little Red Riding Hood is a sexual myth”. There is no more answer to such preposterous Motion than there is to the proper manner to eat a boiled egg as satirized in Gulliver’s Travels (1726) by Jonathan Swift (1667 – 1745).

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Birth, Living, Dying and Death

I feel certain the medical community would support me in the uneducated opinion that dying is as much a process as living, though obviously the motives are reversed.  Living is awakening to possibilities; dying is succumbing to limitations. Both are perfectly, infinitely and incomparably real. There is no doubt whatsoever about their separate manifestations particularly when it comes to dying which hasn’t normally the attraction of living.  Nonetheless we’ll all admit that mortification (by any composition whether discomposure or subjugation) is indisputable and universal. Or, more poetically from Masonic ritual (as I am frequently wont to observe), “Nature teaches us how to die.”

Well, the idea of death in religions and spiritual traditions is founded on their dogmas; hence all dogma, by presenting its idea about death as an unquestionable truth, leads to obscurantism and ignorance about an inevitable process and natural as death is.

Reason by observing nature teaches us that the universal order – hitherto known – is cyclical; everything in life is cyclical from birth to death.

Things and phenomena have always existed and only the way of looking at them, interpreting and understanding them is changing, according to the endless succession of the evolution of human thought.

The human being biologically destroys himself when he dies and his death is part of an evolutionary cycle, of multiple and varied vital transformations, with loss of form and transformation of energy.

From what I have randomly read it is not uncommon for those of us approaching death (whether merely because we are elderly or because we feel less enthusiastic) to weigh in upon the subject with evident curiosity or intrigue. It is at least moderately excusable as a burgeoning preoccupation because it affords a degree of understanding (even mollification) of the impending decomposition. There are admittedly those of identical milestones who violently persist to ignore limitation of any description and continue metaphorically careering their hot air balloon over the vast countryside, seemingly unperturbed by the inevitability of whatever. While I haven’t the buoyancy to sustain such a posture, I nonetheless admire those who do.

Biologically however I am uncertain whether such metaphoric gusto will succeed or not to alter life’s odd pathway. I find it peculiar that we convince ourselves we have greater dominion over death than we have over life. For what it is worth, the two in my opinion are axiomatic; that is, unquestionable.  Yet mankind is forever disposed to clarify the subsequent as being an improvement of the precedent. The only foreseeable improvement is to quell the vitality of death, to remove its critical nature and replace it with unimportance.

I have no truck with birth, living or dying because they are all stations in the equation I have endured (and by design I employed that tone of survival because neither was experienced without challenges). As for the peerless nature of death, I can only speculate. I am not about to engage in useless arrangements of thought surrounding the meaning of death; that is, apart from asserting in the strongest of terms that any of the popular models of religion on the subject are rubbish. I would find it to be far more complimentary to adopt a proclamation of ignorance upon the subject than otherwise. We encourage our children to be unafraid of the dark, not to imagine ghosts in the darkened hallways, to overcome the false obstructions of ignorance and idle speculation. By contrast I haven’t a clue where certain people obtain their capital for the creation of imaginary circumstances either a thousand years before or into the unfathomable ether of the universe. This is merely replacing one ignorance with another while continuing to sidestep the more favourable acknowledgment of incomprehensibility. Why one should be embarrassed to confess subordination to what is impossible to understand I shall never know.

In fact I would think it more effusive and palatable to confront the imperceptible with the humiliation it deserves (not the preposterous trappings we have manufactured to satisfy the currency of appetites of one particular nomadic tribe or another).  Really!  Who were these fiction writers!  By what account or authority did they presume to alter my vision of the inconceivable! Nor, by the way, have I any intention of tolerating these convenient rearrangements of truth.  They amount to little more than a day at the circus; that is, a singular, intentional representation for purpose of entertainment only.  And, just in the event that you are so inclined, be careful not to contradict what I have said by importing deductive distortions.  To be specific, the contamination of the core does not of necessity contaminate the outlying spheres. It remains equally reliable that there are communal advantages to be acquired within the context of these otherwise questionable terms. Mine is not a dispute of social networks; rather, my objection is to the formalized clarity of what is an impenetrable proposition.

Afternoon sleigh ride

On a snowy, bitterly cold Saturday morning mid-winter 1977, I drove into the city from Almonte to go for a skate on the frozen Rideau Canal. I parked my automobile south of the National Arts Centre and north of Patterson Creek along Queen Elizabeth Drive stationed safely within the quiet residential neighbourhood not far from the Canal. Removing my backpack with my ice skates inside and opening the car door to allow Lanny my Yellow Labrador to jump into the snow, we trudged to the wooden change hut erected on sleds at the edge of the Canal. With an effort which today would exhaust me to perform, I doffed my winter boots then put on and laced up my hockey skates.  Lanny waited patiently by the heater.

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Approaching the edge

December 27th – a Friday – and a warmer day to boot is oddly serene given the manic nature of the past several days surrounding the traditional Christmas holiday. There is missing an element of both need and urgency.  The tranquillity lends an air of abandonment and secretive absent preparation. It is maybe best described as a lull before the recurring storm on New Year’s Eve. I hear in the distance a child’s voice proclaiming some pursuit or entitlement on this bright chilly day nearing the end of 2024. Perhaps the youngster is yet enthused by a gift from Santa Claus, the annual exuberance and product of months of hope and fear.

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Now where were we…

Having had earlier today the undeniable reward of an improving article from the London Times (grâce à my erstwhile physician) and thereafter along the wintry roadway a surpassing podcast on the BBC (thanks to Car Play), and not inconsequentially as a prelude thereto a wholesome luncheon (prepared by my inexpressible partner) of homemade tourtière and relish with boiled small potatoes, I now gloatingly reposition myself at my heavy mahogany desk with its inlaid brass handles reminiscent of matters nautical, listening on my Bose® headphones to my own very gratifying collection of “favourites” (now numbering 125 songs 8 hours 40 minutes). I have succeeded to transcend the strictly Christmas theme and to replace it instead – no doubt in preparation for the New Year – with the buoyancy of classic cocktail lounge singers, schmaltz American broadway productions and British mood music.  Bing Crosby has been set aside for another year, replaced by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Frank Chacksfield and His Orchestra.

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Christmas Day (2024)

As planned (subject naturally to inclement weather conditions which thankfully did not materialize) we shot ourselves from the lair and the apartment in good order approaching ten o’clock this morning en route to Sea King Seafood Restaurant on Merivale Road in Nepean for dim sum. We figured by getting there early enough we’d have the benefit of the handicap parking spot immediately at the front of the restaurant. It was a leisurely and predominantly private drive along the sometimes squishy (but mostly clean) roadways now fully restored from yesterday’s wintry storm. The snow on the fields was recent enough to maintain that veneer of perfection so suitable for the conjoint imaginations surrounding Christmas morning (especially of the young children whom the young parents no doubt equally delight to see transfixed by anticipation and gleeful want). Optimism is a vicarious pleasure!

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