Though it speaks both to my indolence and my industry, doing anything or doing nothing today was but another uncommon late summer wonder.  The singular predominance in spite of the stoic or sybaritic posture was without doubt the weather. The temperature climbed to 22°C and the sky was clear. The forceful 213° SSW wind (gusts at 49 km/hr) enlivened the balmy air with a velvety caress. It was only late in the afternoon as tomorrow’s cooler autumn air approached that the cloud formations began to overtake the azure dome.

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Things today have gone from good to better to best.  I won’t say I awoke early this morning. Traditionally I do not sleep well, never have.  While I may have slept well as a teenager (though frankly I haven’t any recollection that far back), I do know with clarity that in my early career it was not uncommon for me to stay up late at night flipping through television channels while lying on the floor in my upstairs den, my head on a pillow, with my French bulldog Monroe cuddled in my right arm.  I found that if I stayed awake until 2 o’clock in the morning I had a better chance of falling asleep when I finally blended in with the feather bed under the goose down duvet.

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Being as I am inclined to reckless extravagance and perhaps as a result not having made a financial success of myself in the past ¾ of a century, I am reluctant to touch upon the decorous subject of understanding money.

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A flat tire? Get it fixed. Keep moving. It doesn’t mean you’ll never have another obstacle. Nor does it matter who is at fault. But neither is it a question of predicting the future. It’s about moving to the next cog, applying a bit of the old oil along the way then slowly but determinedly increasing the gear ratio while keeping your eyes on the road.

Though this paradigm may seem elementary it is pragmatic as well. Dealing with matters other than theoretically is a more reliable way to confront life’s modifications. Its certainty is in fact its paramount attraction.

There are nonetheless alternatives to certainty. I won’t say those postulations are entirely a gamble. If you’re the type of person who can survive without an identifiable result; if you can sleep soundly through days of ambiguity or mere possibility; if you haven’t the need of plausibility or borders, then no doubt you can overcome the hindrance of miscalculation or redirection too. Thus to an extent it’s a question of opinion and options. Perhaps simple forbearance.

Although I have advanced the utility of certainty, it may be the preserve of the obsessive mind to monopolize what is in fact only the demonstrable fiction of regulation. Notwithstanding its validity a putative right turn can just as easily and just as theoretically transform to a wrong one. But there is a limit beyond which the prediction of peril is unwarranted and unhelpful. Once again it isn’t about wagers; it’s about being prepared.

Oddly in spite of the incontrovertible wisdom of these words there is a tendency often to endure or succumb to the inconvenience of the alternative; that is, in the face of pitfalls we mistakenly assume our capacity to leap over or bypass the impediment. What it is that restrains us from adaptability is curious. My experience has led me to conclude that it isn’t overt resistance rather uneducated training or stubborn resolve both of which are characteristic anomalies in any context. And be assured that it is a fault common to those whom you might think were spared the indiscriminate conduct. Indelibility by its nature knows no boundaries.

A hurried look at my MacBook Pro calendar discloses a number of events planned within the upcoming ten days: a Pre-op at the Queensway Carleton hospital, Bose® headphones ear cushions from UPS, my brother-in-law’s 70th birthday, month end deposits from pension plans and our financial advisor, a routine visit from our housekeeper, annual ultrasound imaging of my partner, my erstwhile legal assistant’s 40th birthday, a nuclear injection followed by melanoma, wide local excision and sentinel lymph node surgery for me. And finally somewhere in that bewildering mix, the United States of America presidential election.

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October 28th, 2018

2:40AM

An autumn snowfall, the first of the year. We were with you when the breath left your body, holding your hand. I know you knew we were there. The nurse said it wouldn’t happen tonight, but we hoped it would; it was torture to see you in pain. She said sometimes people might hang on, not wanting to leave if they know their loved ones are there. We stroked your hair and let you know it was okay for you to go.  We toasted you and thanked you. We were filled with a sense of privilege and duty to accompany you on your final journey. When your eyes fluttered open and you jolted, we were told you couldn’t see us, but we reassured you anyhow and we noticed your last tears. No one will know what you saw as your lungs slowed; but then we felt your peace. We didn’t let go until we were sure you were really gone. In the hours between the worlds you left this one a red fox appeared at the window, and we knew you were okay

Editor: This affectionate memorial was composed by my niece and goddaughter Jennifer for my late mother Yvonne.

As we crawled amidst the burdensome traffic into the city early afternoon today en route to a family foregathering at the home of my sister and her husband along the Rideau Canal nearby Dow’s Lake, memories bubbled to the surface. My first recollection arose after crossing Pretoria Bridge onto Hawthorne Avenue. It is a now abandoned roadside building which once housed a highly reputed antique sterling silver jewellery and accessories retailer.  The owner was notoriously well-informed (to the point of didactic), thorough and reliable. For his part my partner recognized the grocery store where he formerly shopped when living on nearby Metcalfe Street in Centretown. The immediate object of our journey was the Green Door at 198 Main Street. It is a vegetarian restaurant and bakery.  We had ordered a specialty cake as our contribution to today’s luncheon. Over thirty-five years ago I had been associated with the owner when the store first opened. Though we haven’t been able to return as often as we would have liked, each time we have done so has been an unqualified hit.  Today’s dessert was no exception at table.

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If comfort is happiness and happiness is inexpressible then comfort is inexpressible. Sounds about right to me.  Incontrovertible (though admittedly not hugely informative). But it’s a start. Having absorbed myself assiduously this morning on the balcony ruminating about the logic of life’s elemental premises and conclusions while idly looking upriver at the glistening water and hearing the cacophony of Canada geese assembled overhead in various incalculable patterns, I have derived from this elemental yet elegant logic the straightforward conclusion that comfort is inexpressible. The deduction is immediately reminiscent of the similarly ambivalent talisman, “If she knows why she loves him she doesn’t!” Each inference is the product of a direct and simplified method of reasoning. Yet to say that lovers do not know one another, or that contentment is ineffable, is clearly not without its complications.

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In the movie Gosford Park there is an opening scene which has clung to me. Kristin Scott Thomas as Lady Sylvia McCordle, Sir William’s wife, daughter of the Earl of Carton, an old but impoverished family, rides up in a flourish upon a horse to the front of the country house where a stableman takes the reins to permit Lady Sylvia to approach and welcome the arriving weekend guests. It is the start to an exciting Agatha Christie style dinner party!

Gosford Park is a 2001 satirical black comedy mystery film directed by Robert Altman and written by Julian Fellowes. The film, which is influenced by Jean Renoir’s French classic The Rules of the Game, follows a party of wealthy Britons plus an American producer, and their servants, who gather for a shooting weekend at Gosford Park, an English country house. A murder occurs after a dinner party, and the film goes on to present the subsequent investigation from the servants’ and guests’ perspectives. Gosford Park premiered on 7 November 2001 at the London Film Festival.

The TV series Downton Abbey—written and created by Fellowes—was originally planned as a spin-off of Gosford Park, but instead was developed as a standalone property inspired by the film, and set earlier in the 20th century (from 1912 to the mid-1920s).

This afternoon (after having  positioned myself on the balcony for an hour directly in line with the autumn sunshine) I went for a ride on my horse. There is no question that the metaphor of one’s automobile ride and a horse is not for nothing. With a degree of pressure I can recall from my childhood having ridden bareback upon an 18hands gelding on a ranch in Alberta. Curiously it was bareback riding used to introduce us novices to the subsequent English saddle.  Upon reflection it was all about the use of one’s knees to preserve stability atop the beast.

While I hadn’t the threat or discomfort of riding a horse today, all the other traits of advantage were there. Not unusually I immediately opened the windows and the landau roof.  In anticipation of this manifest breeziness I dress accordingly.  Though I did not wear a jacket, I sported a Patagonia pullover which was sufficiently warm on this first of our cool autumn days.  Once having initiated the jaunt I recalled having a pair of driving gloves stored in my glovebox.  I withdrew them and put them on. The leather is good quality with a noticeable pleasantness.

The sheep that provides the leather grows hair, not wool, hence its name. The fine hair leaves no markings resulting in smooth leather. Favoured for its natural strength and elasticity, hairsheep leather is generally acknowledged as the best leather for gloves. Durable and supple, this is an excellent choice for lasting comfort.

Men's Classic Leather Driving Gloves

Customarily I do not have the radio turned on when driving with the windows open.  However today I could not resist a bit of amplification.  Seemingly yesterday I had already invited Siri to “play me some music”.  The choice alternated between opera and baroque music.  When however I had had enough of Giacomo Puccini and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, I invited Siri to shift to more modern compositions which ended including Pharrell Williams, Eminem, Queen, The Verve and Lana Del Rey.

Giacomo Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria Puccini (22 December 1858 – 29 November 1924) was an Italian composer known primarily for his operas. Regarded as the greatest and most successful proponent of Italian opera after Verdi, he was descended from a long line of composers, stemming from the late-Baroque era. Though his early work was firmly rooted in traditional late-19th-century Romantic Italian opera, he later developed his work in the realistic verismo style, of which he became one of the leading exponents.

Music is unquestionably an ingredient of the successful ride. After filling the gas tank with Ultra 94 and employing the equally successful Petro-Canada App to wash the car, I was off! Because I had the decency this morning to get out of bed before nine o’clock, and having further expiated any lingering guilt by going for a short tricycle ride in the neighbourhood before indulging in the breakfast of steel cut oats and a small slice of carrot cake from Ashton Truck Stop (he added parenthetically), there was enough time remaining in the day to divert along the northern passageways and the Ottawa River to the hinterland of Renfrew County. There in the rugged countryside trucks like stallions are rampant. I have long ago abandoned the amusement of speed or excess; instead now I prefer to grimace at the cowboys as they fulfill their modern gallop.

On the return home I was greeted by further informatin from the Queensway Carleton Hospital where my upcoming surgery is now scheduled. I abated any possible sting of this latest intelligence by drinking a chicken soup sufficient I am certain to appease the magnanimity of Bobbie Gordon who recently wrote me about the remedial broth!

What I have always found agreeable about gold is that it is small, manageable and exquisite. Lately – that is, upon having moved into this small, manageable and exquisite apartment – I have been rethinking all that there is about gold and where to find it and how to extract it.  Extraordinarily I find myself concluding – with the most frugal of affirmative expostulation and persuasiveness – that we are sitting on a gold mine. Before I venture further explanatory detail, allow me first to give a brief but critical background to the exploration.

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