Listening to the soundtrack of the motion picture Out of Africa has inspired several seemingly unrelated thoughts. Not the least of those thoughts are naturally those surrounding John Barry’s music. Like most composers (or for that matter, artists of whatever description) Barry’s vast work is nonetheless recognizable for its distinctive similarities. Though many of his compositions involve a British theme there is as well an inescapable American hallmark. I recall having seen the first James Bond movie in Toronto in 1963 when I was fourteen years old while in Fourth Form at St. Andrew’s College.  My roommate Keith Forsythe and I visited his parents for Thanksgiving and took the opportunity to attend a movie theatre in a local mall. Seeing Dr. No was at the time the height of novelty. Several years later in Paris, France on the Champs Élysées with another of my boarding school colleagues Ricardo Schmeichler, he and I attended the opening of Born Free for which Barry also wrote the headline music. And who can forget Goldfinger!

Out of Africa is a 1985 American epic romantic drama film directed and produced by Sydney Pollack, and starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. The film is based loosely on the 1937 autobiographical book Out of Africa written by Isak Dinesen (the pseudonym of Danish author Karen Blixen), with additional material from Dinesen’s 1960 book Shadows on the Grass and other sources.

John Barry Prendergast OBE (North Yorkshire, England) composed the scores for eleven of the James Bond films between 1963 and 1987, as well as arranging and performing the “James Bond Theme” for the first film in the series, 1962’s Dr. No. He wrote the Grammy- and Academy Award-winning scores to the films Dances with Wolves (1990) and Out of Africa (1985), as well as the scores of The Scarlet Letter (1995), Chaplin (1992), The Cotton Club (1984), Game of Death (1972), The Tamarind Seed (1974), Mary, Queen of Scots (1971) and the theme for the television series The Persuaders!, in a career spanning over 50 years. In 1999, he was appointed with an OBE for services to music. Barry was married four times and had four children. He moved to the United States in 1975 and lived there until his death in 2011.

Coincidentally last evening I had occasion to chat at some length with Fiona St. Clair whom I have known since about 1968. Yesterday was her birthday. As you might imagine, we delved into a long history of events covering the past 56 years and the people whom we have known. For whatever reason (perhaps because of some idle recollection of Fiona’s past in Africa) she shared with me her hopes of taking her grandchildren on safari in Africa. Fiona is a professional travel agent so I have no doubt that the adventure would be of the first order.  The only limitation is age.  Fiona wants the children to be old enough to recall the enterprise (an imperative likely prompted by our own recognition of its importance in our old age). Indeed I recall having said to Fiona that lately I have been preoccupied with the text of my memories, not for the purpose of trying to relive the past rather merely to elucidate the adventures (perhaps as a means of expressing hitherto unexpressed gratitude for what parents and others enabled or provided).

From this lofty height of reminiscence – the James Bond châlet atop a mountain in the Swiss Alps and the glamour of being conducted to a movie opening on the Champs Élysées by a prostitute (another story for another day) – I have by contrast also embraced this afternoon the indisputable delight of commonality and domesticity. The Midnight Cowboy theme was somehow apt. My indescribable partner Denis today organized a so-called simple luncheon.  Normally we eat only breakfast and dinner. But today we had to interrupt our routine by estranging ourselves from the apartment to avoid getting in the way of our housekeeper.

Our purposeless evacuation this morning began with an amble into the Renfrew County hinterland where we chanced to travel along a road neither of us had ever seen before. Out of Waba we extended directly along Kippen Road to Deerfield Drive (NO EXIT) which skirts a tributary from Calabogie Lake to the Stewartville Generating Station in McNab/Braeside “marking its 75^th anniversary of producing clean power on the Madawaska River”.

Upon rejoining our opening tracks (and of course getting the car washed), Denis collected fodder at the Almonte Butcher for what was an unanticipated but thoroughly pleasant mid-afternoon luncheon. I chose the occasion to regain my affection for caffeine.  And Barry’s music. And reminiscences of the past.

It is guaranteed that no matter the outcome, life will go on.  It will not be the end of the world or the start of a new one, whatever happens. Things will settle down and continue much as they have always done before. Nonetheless the prediction of the result of the upcoming US presidential election is something which grips the minds of many.  It is undoubtedly partly a roulette game, a spin of the wheel, awaiting the ball to come to rest.  Certainly it is a matter of political interest, certainly one of enormous international intrigue as well, not to mention the mere optics for America generally. Predominantly though for those of us not immediately involved it is a question of prediction. The augury is the thing.

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When I moved to Almonte in June of 1976 at the behest of Senator George J. McIlraith PC QC, Paul D. Scott was 1½ years old. When I bought a house at 4 Laura Crescent next door to the Scott family in about 1980 Paul and his little brother Steve were my neighbours.  It wasn’t long before Dave and Barb (Paul’s parents) and I were rejoicing in the latest educational success of Paul upon his admission to the renowned Bishop’s University in Québec.

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Jay and Alana have become our Christopher Columbus; and we are their crew.  In keeping with that metaphorical link the expedition which they have undertaken (with us in tow) is enormous by any standard.  For starters, they are Northern Ontario people who have picked up and moved to the South Shore of Nova Scotia. Just to be clear, to drive non-stop from Kenora, Ontario to Lunnenburg, Nova Scotia via Trans-Canada Highway E would take about 35 hours over about 3,500 Kms.  It is roughly the same distance from Ottawa, Ontario to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina there and back again!

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Early this morning I received a telephone call from the Renfrew hospital canceling my scheduled cancer surgery because the anaesthetist was concerned that I have a pacemaker and there was no cardiac facility available in the event of emergency.  The suggestion arose that I may have to relocate to the Ottawa hospital unless they can find another anaesthetist in Renfrew who is willing to undertake the task. This is not the first time my pacemaker has caused concern, most recently related to Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Meanwhile my related nuclear medicine at the Pembroke hospital was also canceled as well as the Carebridge driver to and from the Renfrew hospital.

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Reposing on the balcony today, my eyes closed, the sunbeams pouring upon  me, I heard the caw of a crow in the distance.  Whether because I wasn’t wearing my hearing aid or because the crow was indeed far away, its caw (which normally I wouldn’t distinguish as especially pleasing) in this instance sounded pleasant and fulfilling, perhaps to a degree soothing. It cawed again several times; and each time the sound though direct was nonetheless soft and calming. It complimented the lustre of the image in my mind’s eye. There was nothing to disrupt the reassuring sense of the day. And as though serendipitously to capture the unmistakeable reality of placidity, Marilyn from British Columbia (nestled on the periphery of the Canadian and American border in an ineffable inlet or bay of the North Pacific Ocean nearby Victoria and Seattle) broadcast an email to her untold recipients to announce a contrary (and provocative) medium of observation:

Enjoy your lovely weather while we get drenched in an atmospheric river. I’m glad that I voted in advance on Wed.

Amber & I are snug in a warm house and don’t have to go out. I told her that we should think of all the cats who don’t have warm homes to curl up in.

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It remains uncertain whence derives my contempt for religion. Of late its pinnacle is The Age of Reason, a theological work by Thomas Paine (published 1794–1807).

It was a best-seller in the United States, where it caused a deistic revival. British audiences, fearing increased political radicalism as a result of the French Revolution, received it with more hostility. The Age of Reason presents common deistic arguments; for example, it highlights what Paine saw as corruption of the Christian Church and criticizes its efforts to acquire political power. Paine advocates reason in the place of revelation, leading him to reject miracles and to view the Bible as an ordinary piece of literature, rather than a divinely-inspired text. In The Age of Reason, he promotes natural religion and argues for the existence of a creator god.

Most of Paine’s arguments had long been available to the educated elite but by presenting them in an engaging and irreverent style, he made deism appealing and accessible to the masses. Originally distributed as unbound pamphlets, the book was also cheap, putting it within the reach of a large number of buyers. Fearing the spread of what it viewed as potentially-revolutionary ideas, the British government prosecuted printers and booksellers who tried to publish and distribute it. Nevertheless, Paine’s work inspired and guided many free thinkers.

My scorn hasn’t always been so clinical. Nor have I by any measure been always profanus (the term profane originates from classical Latin profanus, literally “before (outside) the temple”, “pro” being outside and “fanum” being temple or sanctuary). Indeed in what no doubt appears to be at best a paradox (or at most a bigotry) I have long cooperated in the machinations of popular religion. In my defence however the schemes and stratagems were not without a degree of intentional witticism such as when I asked our new rector at St. Paul’s Anglican Church (of which I was then a Warden) what time his first show began on Sunday morning. Though my wit was not fully embraced it was nonetheless strengthened the following Sunday morning when I heard the minister from the pulpit curiously lapse into an altered rendition of the English language replete with metaphors and wishful assertions betraying a biblical composition of yore.

Recently I’ve been reading Thomas Babington Macaulay’s 5-volume tome about the history of England. Though Macaulay was careful to disguise his overt distrust of the church (he was after all intent upon creating an historical myth), it doesn’t require extraordinary perspicuity to decipher his meaning or allegiance. Besides his overriding conclusion is the supremacy of the monarchy and the Church of England as social institutions quite apart from any political, legal or religious toxicity.

While that demulcent innuendo is no longer entirely persuasive, I continue to subscribe to the magnificence of liturgical music including in particular that of Thomas Tallis, George Frideric Handel and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, all of which I find succeeds as sufficiently or more so than ritual to accomplish the benefit of religion overall (and all without construction of a foundation).

It was known that he (King William) was so profane as to sneer at a practice which had been sanctioned by high ecclesiastical authority, the practice of touching for the scrofula.

Scrofula is a swelling of the lymph nodes in your neck caused by a bacterial infection. It can cause a large, matted mass on your neck from several lymph nodes fusing together. It’s usually painless or only slightly tender. It can be discolored, purplish or the same color as your skin.

This ceremony had come down almost unaltered from the darkest of the dark ages to the time of Newton and Locke. The Stuarts frequently dispensed the healing influences in the Banqueting House. The days on which this miracle was to be wrought were fixed at sittings of the Privy Council, and were solemnly notified by the clergy in all the parish churches of the realm. When the appointed time came, several divines in full canonicals stood round the canopy of state. The surgeon of the royal household introduced the sick. A passage from the sixteenth chapter of the Gospel of Saint Mark was read. When the words, “They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover,” had been pronounced, there was a pause, and one of the sick was brought up to the King. His Majesty stroked the ulcers and swellings, and hung round the patient’s neck a white riband to which was fastened a gold coin.

The other sufferers were then led up in succession; and, as each was touched, the chaplain repeated the incantation, “they shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” Then came the epistle, prayers, antiphonies and a benediction. The service may still be found in the prayer books of the reign of Anne. Indeed it was not till some time after the accession of George the First that the University of Oxford ceased to reprint the Office of Healing together with the Liturgy. Theologians of eminent learning, ability, and virtue gave the sanction of their authority to this mummery; and, what is stranger still, medical men of high note believed, or affected to believe, in the balsamic virtues of the royal hand.

We must suppose that every surgeon who attended Charles the Second was a man of high repute for skill; and more than one of the surgeons who attended Charles the Second has left us a solemn profession of faith in the King’s miraculous power. One of them is not ashamed to tell us that the gift was communicated by the unction administered at the coronation; that the cures were so numerous and sometimes so rapid that they could not be attributed to any natural cause; that the failures were to be ascribed to want of faith on the part of the patients; that Charles once handled a scrofulous Quaker and made him a healthy man and a sound Churchman in a moment; that, if those who had been healed lost or sold the piece of gold which had been hung round their necks, the ulcers broke forth again, and could be removed only by a second touch and a second talisman.

We cannot wonder that, when men of science gravely repeated such nonsense, the vulgar should believe it. Still less can we wonder that wretches tortured by a disease over which natural remedies had no power should eagerly drink in tales of preternatural cures: for nothing is so credulous as misery.

The crowds which repaired to the palace on the days of healing were immense. Charles the Second, in the course of his reign, touched near a hundred thousand persons. The number seems to have increased or diminished as the king’s popularity rose or fell. During that Tory reaction which followed the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament, the press to get near him was terrific. In 1682, he performed the rite eight thousand five hundred times. In 1684, the throng was such that six or seven of the sick were trampled to death. James, in one of his progresses, touched eight hundred persons in the choir of the Cathedral of Chester. The expense of the ceremony was little less than ten thousand pounds a year, and would have been much greater but for the vigilance of the royal surgeons, whose business it was to examine the applicants, and to distinguish those who came for the cure from those who came for the gold.

William had too much sense to be duped, and too much honesty to bear a part in what he knew to be an imposture. “It is a silly superstition,” he exclaimed, when he heard that, at the close of Lent, his palace was besieged by a crowd of the sick: “Give the poor creatures some money, and send them away.” On one single occasion he was importuned into laying his hand on a patient. “God give you better health,” he said, “and more sense.” The parents of scrofulous children cried out against his cruelty: bigots lifted up their hands and eyes in horror at his impiety: Jacobites sarcastically praised him for not presuming to arrogate to himself a power which belonged only to legitimate sovereigns; and even some Whigs thought that he acted unwisely in treating with such marked contempt a superstition which had a strong hold on the vulgar mind: but William was not to be moved, and was accordingly set down by many High Churchmen as either an infidel or a puritan.

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

King William and Queen Mary

Today was for us the last day of the season at the golf club. And what a magnificent day it has been!  The ideal autumn day in the country, brilliant sunshine, mounting warm temperatures and glimmering blue sky! We’re not golfers (indeed I’ve never been inclined or tempted to try the highland sport except a few times many years ago when the Chiarelli family opened the Cedar Hill Golf Course in Ottawa West). But here in the Village of Appleton at the ancient Mississippi Golf Club along its namesake meandering river I’ve regularly enjoyed going up to and getting into the trough since my introduction to the original club house in June of 1976 when occasionally after dinner (no doubt stimulated by a whiskey and soda) I played the erstwhile upright grand piano. Since then the Mississippi Golf Club has been the apodictic venue of choice for professional, social and family gatherings in addition to regular casual outings to celebrate the weather or inadvertence generally. We’ve entertained guests here from Toronto and Ottawa, travel agents and immigration specialists; lawyers, judges, artists and commoners; it has been a place to conduct friendly business associations; and countless family birthdays and other anniversaries.

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When suddenly there is good news, when in an instant the erstwhile anxiety which complicated one’s thoughts and contaminated one’s outlook evaporates, when in a flash the view of the world changes from obscure to certain, that’s how things work. Oh, yes, there are of course other troubles to distress, other worries to deter, to discolour the Rembrandt image of the shoreline trees reflected in the placid river mirror. There are always worries to prevent one from languidly listening to the squawking geese in the harvested field below the Hunter’s Moon. There will forever be provocations. That too is how things work. But the palliative interruption is welcome. It is relief from the burden of life’s unremitting and irritating trials. Like a detour down a quiet country road.

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.As for recreational travel, the Maritime provinces (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island) generally shut down by the end of October. Hotels and restaurants close. Years ago I visited Prince Edward Island about this time of year just before the shutdown and pointedly upon the cancellation of a scheduled law school class reunion which I can only presume was muted for collective lack of interest – but it didn’t persuade me otherwise because I was caught by the prospect of salt sea air. I recall in particular (aside from the omnipresent Anne of Green Gables theme) having driven for miles along the endless oceanfront roads with no traffic at all. For those of us who prefer remoteness and quietude it is idyllic. Grand ocean resorts were mysteriously hollow and seemingly deserted. The long, long white sandy beaches stretched undisturbed and unoccupied.  Dining rooms were vacant.

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