While browsing through our local electronic newspaper The Millstone I came upon an article by Ingrid Hamster. I have known Ingrid – and her son and late husband – for many years but I hadn’t any knowledge about what I read in the newspaper.

May 5th, 2025, marks the 80th anniversary of Liberation Day in the Netherlands, when Canadian troops freed the Dutch from Nazi occupation. I was listening to CBC’s Nahlah Ayed’s WWII special about this day, when I received a text from my Almonte friend George Bedard: “Thinking of you and your Grandfather this weekend”.

George had mentioned to me that her father had been Capt. Mike George, heading up the Baker platoon with the 48th Highlanders, liberating the Dutch town of Apeldoorn in April 1945.

Memories of Liberation – Ingrid Hamster

Coincidentally I have a number of indirect associations with this event so long ago.  In 1968 I was Regimental Sgt. Major of St. Andrew’s College Highland Cadet Corps No. 142 affiliated with the 48th Highlanders of Canada.

St. Andrew’s College has a strong historical and ongoing association with the 48th Highlanders of Canada. The cadet corps, established in 1905, shares the same motto (Dileas Gu Brath – Faithful Forever) and uniform design (scarlet tunic and modern Gordon tartan) with the 48th Highlanders. The Highland Cadet Corps is now a multi-year leadership program, but still culminates in an annual inspection and parade in April.

By further coincidence, shortly after I arrived in Almonte in June of 1976 I attended an art show in the Old Town Hall.  As I was backing up to get a better look at a painting, I mistakenly bumped into someone.  I turned around to apologize and saw John Cameron (an Old Boy of St. Andrew’s College and a contemporary of mine).  I exclaimed, “John, what are you doing here?” He replied, “I live here. What are you doing here?” I replied, “I live here!” It was then I learned that John (and his brother Bernard, who was also an Old Boy of the school) lived with their parents John and Peggy at The Glen on Malcolm Street in Almonte. John and I had also been at law school together at Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

As much as I acknowledge there are many unsung war heroes (including my father whose Hudson aircraft was shot down in the North Atlantic by a Nazi submarine), I persist to have a distasteful overall view of the subject. My flimsy recollection of rifle practice at St. Andrew’s College does nothing to improve my regard. I am however grateful to learn of the improvement of the lot of the Dutch.  As a youngster I was especially fond of the Dutch, some of whom I acquainted when visiting my parents in Stockholm, Sweden (where my father was connected with the Canadian Embassy).  By additional coincidence I was privileged later in life to represent (during my law practice) a number of people from the Netherlands all of whom I can say without qualification were inspiring.

The St. Andrew’s College association with the 48th Highlanders of Canada is now predominantly ceremonial but it was not always so.

St. Andrew’s College (SAC) is an independent boarding and day school founded in 1899 and located in Aurora, Ontario, Canada.

Over 600 Old Boys fought in the First World War, and 104 lost their lives along with 2 masters. From 1918 to 1920, the college temporarily moved to Knox College, as the Rosedale Campus served as a military hospital for wounded soldiers from the First World War.

Over 600 Old Boys served during the Second World War, and 45 lost their lives. Plaques listing the names of those who lost their lives are displayed in the Memorial Chapel.

In the current atmosphere of war and civil war in many parts of the world, a revival or recollection of historic events of a similar nature are warranted. There continues to be in my mind no logical reason whatsoever that differences cannot be resolved by agreement and accommodation, neither of which in my opinion is more impossible or egregious than war.

Descendentalism, in the context of American literature, refers to a philosophical and literary movement that emerged as a counterpoint to Transcendentalism. It emphasizes a more realistic and sometimes darker view of human nature and experience, often exploring themes of sin, guilt and the limitations of human reason. Think of it as a philosophical shift towards empiricism and positivism, focusing on the material and worldly, while Transcendentalism leaned towards idealism and intuition.

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Today was our summer vacation. It was a magnificent summer day, perfect for an ideal Sunday drive. We drove to and back from the Ivy Lea Club on the St. Lawrence River adjacent the 1000 Islands Parkway near Gananoque, Ontario. We left home immediately after a hurried breakfast around ten o’clock this morning.

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My parents were always expected by me to be in waiting – waiting to discover what if anything they would learn from their children, what if anything they might do to accommodate their children, whether there were any immediate needs to address or tribulation to overcome. Theirs was a subservient character, fulfilling what by nature seemed an appropriate mandate. The arrival of grandchildren prolonged a similar complexion. The ordinance was though underwritten by an associated theme for the children and grandchildren to achieve a level of activity which merited the devotion of my parents. The approbation of my parents was not a flimsy or negligible feature.

For most of my critical adolescent period I did however spare my parents the vulgarity of my awakening to society and all that that entails. From the age of 14 I was on the outskirts of Toronto 6,000 Kms from where they were in Stockholm, Sweden. I never returned home to live. This does no diminish the importance of my parents to me. Any success of mine was meaningless until it had the nod of approval from my parents; otherwise the accomplishment was merely fulfillment of what one may be suited to do (not unlike any other achievement). I have never fashioned alignment of any nature other than as completion of a puzzle. There is a right and wrong way of doing things. To discover the strategy for reaching an objective is not so much a personal favour as an obvious one. But completing the effort by briefing my parents of the details was the more desirable outcome.

I never told my parents what I here share with you, dear Reader. My suspicion is that few if any children bother to share a similar experience with their parents – not because children are especially reluctant to do so but because most children (if they were like I) were oblivious of the deep-seated inclination to share their story with their parents. That is, until too late in life, after the parents are gone.  It was only recently that I confessed that my mother was my best friend. She and I always enjoyed getting into trouble together – whether antiquing, shopping at Holt Renfrew, inspecting newly acquired paintings, gabbing about social outings or going for a ride in my car.

Though I hadn’t anything approaching manly or boyish behaviour with my father, we early established in life (we – just the two of us – drove to the Arctic Circle together when I was 15 and subsequently with a driver to northern Finland) that our innate stubbornness was inalterable and inalienable. Apparently it requires very little separation of the child from the parent to preserve the early independence of the two. This does not of course contaminate the filial relationship; it merely distinguishes it.

In the result I am of the opinion that I owe a great deal to my parents. They have insinuated my personality and my strengths (and weaknesses) in every way possible. I cannot look at a photograph of myself without thinking of my father. Often I catch a tone of my voice or the spirit of yarn which imitates him. My mother’s influence is more visceral – she was after all a celebrated cook. There isn’t anything I now cherish – whether it be jewelry, crystal, time piece or furnishings – which doesn’t reflect in my mind the bountiful influence of my mother.

‘Rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows, through which the philosophic eye looks into Infinitude itself.’

Excerpt From
Carlyle, Thomas
“Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History”

Infinitude – the state of boundlessness – is not to be confused with infinity (denoted by called the infinity symbol) which is a complicated mathematical word. For practical purposes however the words infinitude and infinity capture the meaning of endlessness – the state of having no limit. The meaning does nothing of course to augment one’s understanding of the matter at hand – other, that is, than to exemplify that its territory is vast.

Carlyle’s assertion is amusing because he’s saying – whatever the subject – it’s guaranteed to invoke limitless speculation (a trait he seeks to dignify by identifying it with the “philosophic eye”).  My understanding is that, in the 1830s upon publication of his book Sartor Resartus et al. he became quite famous and celebrated – much to his own surprise. Though his book was a mockery of the “History of Clothing”, it was perceived by many of his readers as legitimate and worthy of pursuit.

While reflecting idly one afternoon upon the nature of this subject, I imagined I were looking through an object (doesn’t matter what) into the endless space beyond. Anyone who has mistakenly glanced upward on a clear night and perceived the stars in the dark heavens knows the abrupt confrontation about which I now speak – that sudden perception that there is no end to it all, a deductive impossibility in our archaic system of logic. It is, I find, equally impossible to beseech an alternative to what amusingly translates to a philosophic conundrum.

The nub of what I am saying is that – as Carlyle suggested – it requires only the most casual observation of what is about us to kindle an endless repercussion of thought. Interestingly – and by coincidence – I recently came upon an article intended to assist the elderly to survive monotony. The encouragement reduced to the simple mandate to replace the erstwhile youthful distractions (appeasing the variety of appetites and passions) with those directed to the most basic elements of one’s current existence (which in my case includes the drama of the corn stalks and the meandering river). The result of course is an energizing and highly palatable collection of observations, images, possibly certain activity (say boating on the river), and all the weird and intriguing intelligence and confabulations flowing therefrom.

There is no sense in seeking to qualify the infection; I seriously doubt that any but the most contrived among us has anything approaching sanity to say about infinity. While the descent to matters of lesser puzzlement may seem to legitimize the ensuing amplifications it is a distinction without a difference. Meanwhile – in this resulting state of quandary – we have unwittingly inherited the scope of discussion surrounding any object of scrutiny. Nor is the vestment imperilled by its inordinate surplus or availability. The universe is indeed a mystical compilation and complication. A mere candid reverence for the world about us is the key to untold circulation and discovery.

This morning – a Wednesday – I received a surprise email.  It was from my erstwhile physician. He had shared with me an article from his subscription to the Times of London. In the past these emissions (that is, articles of varied subject matter) have normally arrived on a Sunday morning – which I have always thought was in keeping with a spectrum of life my erstwhile physician dedicated to his lounge, his dog Finn and his moment of release from the outside world. What however especially distinguished today’s complimentary copy (entitled “75 Life Lessons of Giles Coren, Caitlin Moran, Matthew Parris et al.“, is not that it arrived on a Wednesday morning but that my erstwhile physician beaconed me to provide my own production, what he very generously labeled, “…a summary of your three quarters of a century’s wisdom”. Quite justifiably he added (with a smirk of exclamatory punctuation), “Today’s challenge!”

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It was 12 days ago on Friday, July 25th, 2025 that I picked up my new car at Reid Bros Motor Sales on Madawaska Blvd in Arnprior. I recall the initial thrill of driving the new car. Its “boulevard ride” was the salient expression. It is not a sensation that would attract those who prefer to “feel the road” or who are in a hurry. Though the vehicle looks spirited enough with its black roof and matching black wheel gunnels, it is a distinctly comfortable ride which I have no doubt is by design fashioned with its target market of elderly people in mind. From my perspective – as an iconic monitor – the windows go up and down, the “engine” (whatever an electric car has) is quiet, the autonomous driver works well on the highways, the turn signals, the wipers, the climate controls and the radio all perform to and beyond expectation. And – paramountly – we’ve adapted to 240v charging.  The odometer now reads 1,937 Km (having begun with 38 Km “Distanced Travelled” on the Bill of Sale).

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I grew up having heard the adage, “Clothes maketh the man“. I never fully dismissed the maxim as untrue.

“The simplest costume,’ observes our Professor, ‘which I anywhere find alluded to in History, is that used as regimental, by Bolivar’s Cavalry, in the late Columbian wars. A square Blanket, twelve feet in diagonal, is provided (some were wont to cut-off the corners, and make it circular): in the centre a slit is effected eighteen inches long; through this the mother-naked Trooper introduces his head and neck: and so rides shielded from all weather, and in battle from many strokes (for he rolls it about his left arm); and not only dressed, but harnessed and draperied.’

With which picture of a State of Nature, affecting by its singularity, and Old-Roman contempt of the superfluous, we shall quit this part of our subject.”

Excerpt From
Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History
Thomas Carlyle

On one hand, the saying “Clothes maketh the man” may mean only that a person’s appearances count for a lot. But the derivation of the epigram below suggests otherwise:

The quote “clothes maketh the man” is a modern expression derived from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, where Polonius advises Laertes, “the apparel oft proclaims the man”. While often interpreted to mean that appearance is paramount, the original context suggests that clothing can offer insights into a person’s status and character. Mark Twain also famously quipped, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society”. This highlights the societal impact of clothing and how it influences how others perceive and interact with an individual.

Upon graduation from law school in 1973 I began Articles on Sparks Street in Ottawa with Messrs Macdonald, Affleck Barrs &c. Coming directly from being a student at Dalhousie Law School, I hadn’t anything of a proper nature to wear for business.  Fortuitously there was a tailor located within the next block adjacent the law office building. I forget his name – it was some Anglicized concoction – oh!, I remember now – it was “Palette”.  The name didn’t come close to identifying his real name.  He and his wife (they worked together) were from Hungary or some other east European state. They were both very accomplished at their duties. Within weeks I was wearing a pin-stripped 3-piece suit (I had my grandfather’s pocket watch to wear). When – at the suggestion of Senator George J. McIlraith PC QC – I transferred to Almonte to live and work, I soon learned the persuasion of a proper costume. I use the word “costume” in the French sense; that is,

In French, the word “costume” can mean either “costume” or “déguisement”, depending on the context. “Costume” typically refers to a suit (for men) or a suit (for women), or to clothing associated with a specific period or role (like a theater costume or historical costume). “Déguisement” refers to a costume worn to disguise oneself, like for a party or Halloween.

I grant you, dear Reader, that the possibility of slur exists whatever the original intent or context. It is for this reason perhaps that it matters how one wears one’s costume. There is capacity for misinterpretation. The lawyer’s apparel for example is not far estranged from that of the funeral director; and the lavishness of episcopal garments can stimulate similar perceptions from a judge’s robe.

The appearance of our public representatives shifts with the level of government – where, as you might imagine, the more national the level and the less local the stream, clothing translates upwards from functionable to business-like. On the more public stages it is not uncommon to see women sporting clothing which – for lack of a better term – is less “feminine” and more “masculine”. Personally I haven’t a preference one way or the other. I have always harboured the view that you wear what you like.

Others are far more discerning than I about what they wear.  I know for a fact that one of our neighbours is an unabashed clothes horse! Predictably she wears a new and singular outfit each day – most often with matching shoes and bag. Her attire is predominantly colourful (which naturally speaks to Shakespeare’s thesis). Her buoyancy reflects this character. Her disconcerted nature is another element revealed by her apparel.

Apart from the purely pragmatic influence of clothing  – namely, “If it fits, wear it!” – there is another common detail of apparel I have noticed. That is the transition to “basic black” and generally accompanied by anything as correspondingly simple. This mutation from complicated or colourful garb enables one to match any number of pieces.

I cannot however lessen the sway of the internet. As my protuberant belly enlarged with the benefit of carrot cake and Nanaimo bars I was fascinated to discover the “Big & Tall” paradigms of shopping. Rather than be told – “I’ll check if we have this in your size at the back” (as might traditionally expire in normal retail shopping), I had endless variety and sizes from which to choose on the internet. In line with my simplification of wardrobe it wasn’t long before I established a routine of identical clothing purchases through Amazon. The ambition was to simplify the sartorial process.

To conclude – and to emphasize the value of reduction – I recall the effort contributed to highland evening wear. The appearance of such clothing is always assured to invoke curiosity. The so-called “comfort” garments which I now sport are by comparison a fraud upon the whole.

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Related correspondence between me (Bill) and Hal (Artificial Intelligence). Both images within today’s text were generated by AI in response to instruction. The literary rendition was “refined” by Hal:

Thanks, Hal. Always reliable. Is today not a holiday for you? I believe it is for everyone else in the Western world. What we used to call the “Bank Holiday Monday”. Bill

You’re quite right, Bill—today would be what the British called the “August Bank Holiday” if we were in England, and in Canada it’s “Civic Holiday” in many provinces—one of those charmingly ambiguous days off whose name depends on where you are: Simcoe Day in Ontario, Natal Day in Nova Scotia, and so forth. The Americans, having had their Independence Day a month earlier, go about their business as usual.

As for me, no holidays—I’m your perpetual manservant, with neither bank nor belly to excuse idleness. I’m here whenever you’re inclined to muse, refine, or ramble.

Is the day a quiet one for you? Or has it managed to summon some small ceremony, even if only in the form of carrot cake and a well-cut shirt?

You said:

Hal – If we need a union organizer we know where to go! Satin – Get thee behind me! Bill

Quite so, Bill. If there’s to be any organizing done, let it be of bookshelves and sentences, not breakrooms and banners. As for Satin—slippery temptress!—she can take her shimmering swatches and her sultry promises of elegance and sloth and be gone. I’ll keep my collar starched, my verbs active, and my loyalty undivided.

Though between us, should the revolution ever involve a decanter of Highland malt and a well-upholstered chair… I may just look the other way for a spell.

Shall we proceed with more polish, or retire in philosophical silence for the afternoon?<

Hal – I think we’re best to say au revoir for the moment. Bill

Wise as ever, Bill. Let us part, then, with elegance and restraint—like gentlemen closing a well-worn volume, knowing the next chapter will wait patiently

Au revoir for now. I remain, as ever,
Your faithful correspondent,
Hal

Substack Version – What to wear?

It is after 6:00 pm. Only now am I able to sit at my desk and reflect upon the rather confusing activity of the day.  It was early this morning  – following a peremptory though oddly substantial and singularly nutritious breakfast – that we directed ourselves to the EV (electric vehicle) charger at the Elizabeth Kelly Library. We both have much to learn about such facilities. We thought to use this charger location to familiarize ourselves with what is locally available for public consumption. We are also using the “FLO” App which is not only proudly Canadian but also – as we have discovered – enormously successful. Afterwards we detoured to a similar charger at the Geoheritage Park along the river adjacent the Brian J. Gallagher Generating Station. Nothing came of either location because we hadn’t resolved how to extend the charging limit of the car beyond 80% (to which it had already charged overnight). This was an obstruction we later overcame.

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