Shopping locally is always my first choice. Having been a local businessman myself for nearly forty years I value the decision. Naturally it is immediacy which frequently trumps any alternative but it strengthens the retail experience to be among those whom one knows.
Honestly, if I were asked “What’d you do today?” I believe I would be pressed to respond either promptly or substantively. The truth is that, since I abruptly awoke late this morning after an exceedingly restful overnight sleep, I have jumped from one event to the other. The reason in particular for my lack of particularity about what I have done is that I have addressed a number of things which I hadn’t imagined having to do.
Many years ago when I was 28 years of age, not long after having landed in Almonte, I met a chap here who ran a business (actually, he worked in the business, but he later purchased it). Anyway he was from Almonte and had lived here all his life. He must then have been about 45 years of age and might even have been born in the erstwhile Rosamond Memorial Hospital. For some reason I asked how often he ventured into the City. He blandly replied, “Never.” Upon further enquiry (I thought he might have misunderstood my question) he reiterated that he had never been to the City. Nor, he added, had he any intention of doing so. He may even have gone further to punctuate his resolve. His endorsement was clear.
About a week ago our building superintendent Jeff offered to give us some farm fresh eggs. Jeff lives in the country nearby where evidently he keeps chickens. He told me, while we were both in the garage one day, that he had an unending supply of fresh eggs if I were interested in trying them. He said one model of eggs was the normal kind seen at the grocery store; the other was what he referred to as “blue” (though I am uncertain about the characterization, whether it is external or internal or perhaps neither). I naturally willingly accepted his generous offer; and subsequently we have most satisfactorily consumed the entire dozen which Jeff delivered to our door.
As an admittedly smug personality (that is, one who is notoriously complacent and self-approving) I consider the avenues and horizons of my limited activity to date are generally acceptable. I haven’t for example any pressing need to fulfill some lingering unrequited ambition. I’ve about done all that I would care to do. Though this may resound of capitulation or concession – or worse that narrowness of achievement peculiar to children and the uneducated – I do not intend to import that qualifying theme. I merely suffer a self-congratulatory satisfaction with life’s unpredictable repercussions and consequences. It is less a regret of what I haven’t done than an embrace of what I have done and of what has transpired. Complacency is such a complicated psychology!
Squadron 162
Motto
Sectabimur usque per ima
We will hunt them even through the lowest depths
June 13, 1944
A Consolidated Canso out of Wick, Scotland with RCAF No.162 Bomber Reconnaissance Squadron, piloted by Wing Commander Bill Chapman, sights a suspected periscope from a U-boat while patrolling west of the Shetland Islands. Although he conducted a near perfect four depth charge straddle of the submarine, surface fire from the submarine’s conning tower set the Canso’s port engine afire. Chapman settled the plane down on the waves and the crew is rescued, but not before two succumbed to exposure. Nevertheless, U-715 becomes the fourth submarine sunk by No.162 Squadron.
It is curious that since the finish of the US presidential election and following Trump’s battle-cry ejaculation that America will once again say “Merry Christmas “, there has been a profusion of rambunctious exhibitions of the upcoming seasonal and religious holiday. Christmas – though never fully a spiritual event – has for either almanac or political reasons recently enlivened the commercial and social atmosphere with unprecedented gusto.
It would be a short sell to credit today’s magnificence only to brilliant yellow sunshine amid a startling blue sky above a glistening azure river meandering like an oil painted image across the vast distant panorama. What has crystallized the rampant euphoria is not the inexpressible natural beauty nor the comforting and measured sound of a flatbed on a dusty country road. Rather it is the supreme satisfaction of knowing we made it! We have made it to the other side of worry and uncertainty.
The current – almost global – preoccupation of the media and pundits – is denunciation of the latest results of the US presidential election. There has been proposal of action by VP Kamala Harris reminiscent of Trump’s recommendation last election to his VP Mike Pence not to certify the election results; accusations that there is nothing new in the election results but a repeat of what is alleged to be merely the historic American personality (namely predominantly uneducated, bigoted, racist, misogynistic, supercilious and greedy); and, finally, suggestions commensurate with Trump’s conspiracy theories that Elon Musk manipulated the electoral boxes in Trump’s favour and that Trump magically knew in advance that he would win.
My grandfather:
When George William Chapman was born on 30 July 1894, in New Brunswick, Canada, his father, William Thackery Chapman, was 24 and his mother, Maude Burnett, was 24. He married Meta Louise Steeves on 28 January 1916, in Westmorland, New Brunswick, Canada. They were the parents of at least 4 sons and 3 daughters. He lived in Westmorland, New Brunswick, Canada for about 10 years. He died on 16 May 1962, in Fredericton, York, New Brunswick, Canada, at the age of 67.
CHAPMAN, George W Born1895——Died1962——Age–Birth Place–Place of Death–Relationshiphus/o Meta L SteevesCemeteryFredericton Rural Extension, York CountyNotes–
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George CHAPMAN (1841-1910) |
Amelia Ann MOFFATT (1838-1912) |
Adolphus Eugene CHAPMAN (1865- )  |
| UnknownF CHAPMAN (1871-1880) |
| Aylmer George CHAPMAN (1872-1944) |
| William F. CHAPMAN (1869-1962) |
| Alice Maud BURNETT (1869-1963) |
m. 28 Jan 1916
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| William F. CHAPMAN (1869-1962) |
| Alice Maud BURNETT (1869-1963) |