Butter doesn’t keep

Somethings just don’t last. This morning we responded to the summertime call to the golf club for breakfast on the patio overlooking the first green. In the narrow sphere of our being the golf club has become over the years a cherished haunt for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It never fails as a successful calling card for visitors to Lanark County. Nor do I forget that it was in the original club house (prior to the reconstruction of a new one following a mid-winter fire) that Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers &c. hired me in 1976 thereby initiating my law practice here.

We were cheered to confirm that Chef Wendy MacDonald continues to manage the club house kitchen with her accustomed reliability.  She today afforded a novel Mediterranean Benedict in addition to the standard – but always indescribably satisfying – bacon, sausage, tomato and cheese slices. In deference to the pandemic we seated ourselves out-of-doors at one of the lounge tables judiciously set apart from the others. The warm sunshine beat upon us.  We sheltered in the northeast corner from the wind.

Though I won’t pretend that it succeeded to expiate the guilt of this morning’s nosebag, I afterwards partially exhausted the contamination of our indulgence by cycling along the old railway line. The air was bright but cool. There were fewer people than routinely foregather along the path on the weekend. Noticeably absent were the off-road all-terrain vehicles, the noise and pollution of which I willingly bear the deprivation.

The seasons repeat themselves. But not every treasure lingers. Today is the birthday of my late mother who died on October 28, 2018 at age 92 years.

Marring the recollection of the past is the recent loss of Max the beloved French bulldog of our friends Jay and Alana.