Fences have forever intrigued me, whether poetically (“Good fences make good neighbours“) or artistically as beautiful rustic or architectural images. Symbolically fences have lately acquired a distinct and often distasteful political tone connected with border walls to keep immigrants and refugees out of the United States of America. The construction of that wall has similarly garnered further toxic political attention following presidential aspirant Trump’s promise to have it built then paid for by Mexico (both of which intentions have evaporated and never been fulfilled).

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There are people who, for whatever reason peculiar to each of them, wish to leave an impression. Very often the inclination is peculiar to the artist, who, by nature of his or her work, promotes an exhibition of his or her definition of something whether it were a view, a person or an idea. Mixed among this vast arena of possible impressions (which might reasonably include actors, comedians, singers and entire orchestras) is the writer who, depending upon the precise scope of the undertaking, may exemplify either information, narrative or detail or a broader dynamic of philosophy or fiction for example. What however is common to each of these enterprises is the determination to make an impression.

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Things started with an energetic beginning this morning.  It was another discernibly brilliant day. I had heard the seven o’clock chime but decided to remain in bed until precisely eight o’clock.  When the clock chimed again, I knew it was time to inflate the day.  I felt it was about to be an uncommon day. We had been invited to dine with my erstwhile physician at his country seat in the Village of Ashton.  When we had last spoken about the proposal several days ago during a previous visit, he had informed us who the invitees were to be and that the meal would significantly constitute an end of season foregathering.  My partner had already noted the profusion of small tomatoes in the vines circulating the deck overlooking the meadow. Our host also confirmed the meal was to be the traditional vegetarian pasta which we had so often savoured together in the past. We knew too that our friend’s gastronomic talent was not to be diminished.  We looked forward to the repast with evident gusto.

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George Hickes, Dean of Worcester:
“…for he was of no gentle or forgiving temper, and could retain during many years a bitter remembrance of small injuries ”

“He became indeed a more loving subject than ever from the time when his brother was hanged and his brother’s benefactress beheaded. ”

Editorial Note:
“To do Hickes justice, his whole conduct after the Revolution proved that his servility had sprung neither from fear nor from cupidity, but from mere bigotry. ”

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

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The following is taken from Matt O’Brien (comedian); viz., featured image and text.  I was captured by this because it records the gusto of a young man for travel. Matt is married to my niece, the daughter of my sister and her husband.  The account constitutes my vicarious enjoyment of the trip!

Matt O’Brien

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Rosh Hashanah marks the beginning of the civil year, according to the teachings of Judaism, and is the traditional anniversary of the creation of Adam and Eve, the first man and woman according to the Hebrew Bible, as well as the initiation of humanity’s role in God’s world.

Rosh Hashanah customs include sounding the shofar (a hollowed-out ram’s horn), as prescribed in the Torah, following the prescription of the Hebrew Bible to “raise a noise” on Yom Teruah. Its rabbinical customs include attending synagogue services and reciting special liturgy about teshuva, as well as enjoying festive meals. Eating symbolic foods, such as apples dipped in honey, hoping to evoke a sweet new year, is an ancient tradition recorded in the Talmud.

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A symbol of dedication, focus, and productivity, bees are called “busy” for a reason! Bees also symbolize wealth, good-luck, prosperity, abundance and success in life. Wearing bee jewelry, dreaming of bees, or seeing bees in nature, are all signs of good fortune.

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The weather today is uncommonly dreary.  We mustn’t complain though.  It has thus far been an endlessly sunny autumn, reminiscent of blissful fall days spent years ago at the start of university or vacationing on Cape Cod. Today however we have a mist.  And a dome of grey billowing clouds. The mellowness of the daylight accentuates the richness of the field crops and contrasts the trees that are beginning to change.

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Getting to and rounding a corner is seemingly the universal objective of living.  That at least is my perspective. There are no doubt those who consider life is unremarkably drifting along a stream, going to and ending wherever the current happens to flow or eddy. Indeed that particular view has some transcendental cogency; for as much as we prefer to fashion our behaviour as determinative it may by contrast be nothing more than intuitive (whatever enlarged or exoteric meaning that may have) though perhaps at times as plainly illustrative (and equally stunning) as a squirrel preparing a nest. Life can by some account be summarized as little other than reaction to events or fulfillment of native appetites howsoever grand or intellectual they are touted or perceived to be.

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Forty-eight years ago I drove from the Mayfair apartment building where I was then living on the corner of Metcalfe Street and MacLaren Street in downtown Ottawa to the Mississippi Golf Club in the Village of Appleton where I dined with Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barrs. &c. With what I imagine to have been the sanction of Senator George McIraith QC, Counsel, Macdonald, Affleck, Barrs. &c. at 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa where I had completed my Articles after graduating from Osgoode Hall in Toronto, I was hired by Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield in nearby Almonte to fill the gap left upon the retirement of Raymond A. Jamieson QC. The club house (both ancient and restored) of the golf club has forever since been part of my life.  Though I probably entered the golf club for the first time from Wilson Street off Hwy#29 (through Carleton Place) my preferred route of access to the club from Almonte where I have lived since that day has always been along the bucolic Appleton Side Road.

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