Though I haven’t any plausible entitlement, I nonetheless cherish myself with a speciously well-deserved indolence this Friday afternoon because from precisely 9:30 am this morning until now we’ve been about the neighbourhood and back and forth from the City doing things. Important things. The composition of the overall enterprise is of course irrelevant; all that matters is that it bespoke more expedition than lying in bed or having a morning coffee in one’s nightgown.
What follows is an entertaining account on a sunny day in Almonte from a gentleman who divides his time between his primary residence, his summer resort and here. Our correspondence derives from an unanticipated email union over a year ago; essentially we shared a similar interest in a topic about which I had written and which the gentleman had inadvertently discovered on the internet.
Though I cannot now recollect the precise topic of interest I believe I am safe in saying it was something to do with local history. The email below captures matters of further mutual interest and friendly expansion. I am reluctant to ignore the opportunity to collect local folklore which I find evolves in a discrete and diaphanous manner.
Bill
Good morning and it’s a beautiful day in Almonte; crisp, clear with lights reflected on our Mississippi as I walked up to Tim Hortons at 6 am to share “Fridays at Tim’s “ with my son-in-law and granddaughter. I had a donut with sprinkles and was reminded of the many meetings at work when someone would bring donuts and I had to remind myself that it is the thought that counts.
These days when travelling to and from Almonte from our Sault home we stop at Tim’s to use their facilities then return to the car and unstop the thermos and enjoy our premium Americano brewed at home. The donut with sprinkles was meant to humour my four year old granddaughter.
Jannick, my wife of some 40 years, is an excellent baker. At one time we built a bread oven at our lakeside property using a design from a book “The Bread Ovens of Quebec” which I was delighted to find at The Museum of Civilization and Man. We dug clay from a riverside and molded it to fit a form woven of alder branches and fired the clay oven much as one would fire a clay pot. The bread oven functioned as a great heat sink with fires built inside and once a temperature of 600°F or so was reached the coals were raked out and trays of buns and loaves were placed on the hearth. This oven produced the best bread. Sadly the structure eventually failed perhaps succumbing to the elements.
Somewhere I have a photo taken by my grandfather of a bread oven in eastern Quebec, perhaps the Gaspe, during the 1940s. My grandfather was quite an accomplished photographer. I do enjoy pastries and several years ago Jannick and I “discovered” a cafe in the Bonsecours Market in old Montreal which we claim makes the very best chocolate croissants. On our return from New York a month ago we overnighted in Montreal and before catching the train back to Ottawa we walked in the early morning to that cafe, Le Cave a Manger, and each indulged in a chocolate croissant and Americano.
And the thought of photographs leads to your question of royalties. I think if you are in agreement that perhaps we could share equally the royalties accruing from my 77 Little Bridge Street picture and perhaps should meet from time-to-time to split the proceeds.
Coincidentally I met Stephen Braithwaite a week or so ago and was intrigued with his accomplishments and contributions to Almonte and beyond.
I grew up in the small city of Woodstock 140 kms west of Toronto. Its claim to fame was an early recognition as the Dairy Capital of Canada complete with a statue of a Holstein cow and a city hall of the same design as one in Woodstock England. A lesser Thames River flows through Woodstock Ontario. One of the early industrialists was Vern King an engineer and he established several companies one of which was King Seagrave which made fire trucks; chances are Almonte had a fire truck from that company. As he grew older he decided to follow in the footsteps of Kingsmere. Vern King collected stone pillars from a one or more banks which were being demolished at an alarming rate in the 1960s and had them erected on a hillside of his country estate outside of Woodstock. I don’t know if he held seances amongst the ruins.
Best wishes on this wonderful winter’s day.
I remain
Stephen – forgotten and then remembered as such.
Stephen E. C. Brathwaite, artist, entrepreneur and developer. Not a bad list of accomplishments just off the top of my head. And, yes, I fully expect and acknowledge that there are a number of other relevant commendations like whiz kid, mover and shaker, go-getter and hustler. I won’t therefore trouble to insert a URL or any number of them to capture the flavour of this remarkable man who so modestly and quietly has contributed to the well-being and vitalization of the Town of Almonte in particular and to numerous other municipalities. I am particularly attuned to his real estate advances and their professional and exacting quality.
Oddly seeing it in print yesterday “a Variety of Opinions” (it was an unwittingly comic but tragically misinterpreted English translation of an exotic culinary creation, seriously) instantly gripped me. It is such a disturbingly provocative though utterly ambiguous introduction. As a result of its overwhelming (but otherwise brainless) persuasion this gnomic utterance therefore forms the basis of my monologue today. And I may as well confess at the outset that it is my new found avowal of bloodyminedness. Hence no apology. If you wish to see me crawl, today is not the moment! You’ll have to book a return engagement for the concession of that particular indignity (though I suspect I shall not have to keep you waiting).
The oddest thing I have discovered in old age (and before you guffaw I admit in advance I am slow to learn) is that, in spite of the mist that so often surrounds life, it is but a diaphanous impediment to comprehension. Granted perception requires a modest degree of aptitude but nothing hysterically bright to highlight the discrete features upon life’s canvas. It boils down to little more than believing what one sees. And, yes, I know of course that that is an old and now tiresome adage but nonetheless it constitutes the only words I have to capture the so-called discovery of mine.
This morning I awoke to an uncommon greeting. A welcome one to boot! It was an email sent to me at 7:05 AM from a gentleman about whom I could recall nothing whatsoever, embarrassingly not the least of which was his outward form (quite apart from anything related to his ancestry or current celebrity). I did however recall the familiarity of his name and that our first meeting (which had been ages ago) was nutritious, even flattering because he had then reported having discovered on the internet something I had written which piqued his attention. My narcissism is boundless! Otherwise the man was a mystery (though this is not a fatal compliment because I have difficulty remembering what I did 30 seconds ago).
The first rule of compounding: never interrupt it unnecessarily.”
― Charlie Munger
As part of his philosophy Munger lived in the same relatively modest California home for 70 years. When asked about living in more luxurious homes, Munger was quoted as stating: “in practically every case, they make the person less happy, not happier.” Munger appreciated the utility of a “basic house” with few advantages over living in an ostentatious home. Munger appreciated modesty stating, “don’t have a lot of envy” and “don’t overspend your income”. In Munger’s last 2023 interview with CNBC he credited his success and longevity to a long-held sense of caution and ability “to avoid all standard ways of failing”.
In 1973 after graduating from Dalhousie law school (and before commencing Articles in September with Messrs. Macdonald, Affleck Barrs. &c), I had a summer job with the Judge Advocate General (Brigadier-General James M. Simpson, CD QC) who was an acquaintance of my father (Group Captain C. G. William Chapman DSO). I mention the paternal connection because it was transparent that of the five summer students in the office each of us was related to or acquainted with someone there. It was, now that I reflect upon it, the same manner of nepotism by which I secured Articles. On that occasion it was my mother who knew someone (a lady friend of one of the firm’s lawyers). Contacts, as offensive as they may at times appear, are except in rare instances the manner in which a great number of jobs are secured. It was also the manner in which I ended practicing law in Almonte (through Senator George J. McIlraith PC QC who, in addition to having been Counsel to Messrs, Macdonald, Affleck Barrs. &c was father-in-law of Michael J. Galligan QC of Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barrs. &c by whom I was first employed). That latter introduction not unnaturally led to my acquaintance with Raymond A. Jamieson QC whose office I ultimately replaced with my own.
The world abroad has the aspect of abandonment, hibernation and dormancy. Whatever once lived there has either left or lies asleep in an alternate state beneath the ground. All but clumps of earth and spiky vegetation have been muffled by snow. The deciduous trees are denuded and rise from their roots like mournful patterned fans. Flakes of snow continually and gently flutter from the grey frosted sky to the smooth white earth. The cultivated fields illustrate an incomparably precise line of narrows in the ground, wending up and down to the distant horizon. Above is a dome of placid uniformity with only the muted glare of the sun occasionally perceived.
The next three days are forecast to be snowy. To dub the winter weather a storm is overzealous; but because this is a weekend preceding Christmas it is reasonably predicted there will be uncommon activity stirring about the community. It is too to be expected that tempers will rise, people will be in a rush, the aisles of the grocery stores and the fuel stations will be pressing. The weather (even if hospitable) will involve winter grime underfoot; and, it will be all one can do to escape the kerfuffle and to get back home and sit by the fire.