Light – as we all know – is critical to seeing things.  What however we don’t often euologize (or at least, champion) is the the singular and beautiful alteration of light through the effect of clouds or the humidity of the atmosphere. The quality of the light evident today for example seemed to reflect the time of year and the nature of the season, including the mounting ambient soft temperatures. As we motored down Hwy#416 from Ottawa to Prescott then subsequently along the St. Lawrence River, we repeatedly eyed vistas of riverscape, homes and properties which previously had not manifested themselves with such vitality and enthusiasm. It may have been the unmistakable awakening of green in the fields and upon the leaves of the trees; or the glistening maritime allure of the yachts moored in their coves; or the streaking azure skies among the billowing white clouds with their tincture of grey. The world had exploded with colour!

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After a lifetime of relentless accretion, getting rid of stuff is a challenge. It is commonly an abrupt reversal of tack, the downhome stretch on the port side. I say downhome because no longer is the objective the limitless open sea. Time to reef the sheets. Very often the perturbation is called downsizing; and, considering the square footage of the modern apartment, the accommodation is less than florid and far from figurative.

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Apart from geography and its potent enterprising images, the cruise industry is foremost abuzz with the pledge of unparalleled luxury. Nor is the epicurean extravagance just for romantic old fogeys. They encourage singles too. And the introductory video shows a suite with a Steinway & Sons grand piano (which once on board I have every intention of seeking out). I have no doubt too that the stimulation of the gastric and neurological sensibilities forms a vital part of this overall picture.

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Not everything at this time of year is about the blitheness of springtime. Though by contrast to that withering overture, I had an effervescent moment this afternoon at Walmart. I cleaned out their entire stock of synthetic long-stem roses both red and white. They’re for my precious Lalique vase. While waiting at the checkout counter I privately mused whether this bit of retail might qualify as springtime gardening. To be frank the quip is less than poetic.  I don’t recall ever having done anything approaching productivity in a garden. Unless perhaps when I planted those real red roses which the sun promptly detroyed because I foolishly put them against an unobstructed southwesterly wall. And I as perishingly overlooked the business of watering.

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It is unquestionably a small compliment that an old fogey such as I suddenly feels as though he were picking up speed.  Frankly since retirement precisely a decade ago, the majority of my time has been devoted to lethargy not vigor.  And by design. To my mind it constitutes the ultimate flattery (and muted satisfaction) to have nothing to do, nowhere to go. But guilt has overtaken me. The perception of time running out is equally incremental to the prepossessing hurry to run before I get there! To me that sounds like dividing a distance in half perpetually as though it were a logical formula to compete with finality. Which of course it is not.  Hence I settle for the camouflage of excitement. A convenient deceit.

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Thankfully in my current state of catholic indolence, even a dismal day is now too relevant and important to bypass. Relevant because I have nothing other I would prefer to do than ponder and write about the subject (call it a hobby). And important because I know that time is running out and that there will be nothing other than these trifling ruminations to enlarge my library of accomplishment upon my death.

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Being in the sphere of old age means removal from another world. Increasingly I am haunted by the impression that what I see from my ancient perspective is likely quite different from what young people are looking at notwithstanding the philosophic import of universality.

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Jim Hugessen died on April 21st, 2024. He was 90 years old. Aside from having had a distinguished career as a Federal Court Judge he was a great guy. Neither my partner nor I can precisely recall when we first met Jim. At the time he was living in the grand stone home along the Mississippi River adjacent the Maclan Bridge that goes through the middle of town. The home (purchased by Rob Prior and refashioned as the “Almonte RIverside Inn”) is immediately adjacent St. Paul’s Anglican Church whence derives considerable history bearing upon Jim’s erstwhile spousal connection to the Rosamonds, the wool gatherers of eminent distinction in town.

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Before AI was part of the daily chatter there were algorithms. What little I have detected about algorithms is that they’re a collection of one’s own thoughts or preferences; that is, the prescription is both predictable and familiar.  Put another way, you get out of it what you put into it. Not entirely an unimaginable leap from the typewriter or gramophone.

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Indeed, Dionysodorus agrees that “there is no such thing as false opinion … there is no such thing as ignorance”, and demands of Socrates to “Refute me.” Socrates responds “But how can I refute you, if, as you say, to tell a falsehood is impossible?”

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