There are doubtless many parents who exhaust their creativity at this time of year deciding what they’ll get their children for Christmas presents. Not being an authority on children I haven’t any recommendations though I know enough not to suggest dollar bills in an envelope. The eagerness of seeing a gift under the tree and unwrapping it on Christmas morning is integral to the escapade.
March 9, 2018 (date of original publication)
The Millstone News
by L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.
Photo (Featured Image)
‘‘Boston, Ma., 1980,’’ from the series ‘‘Americans Seen.’’
Credit…
Photograph by Sage Sohier, via Joseph Bellows Gallery
There are many things in life which confound me. Being caught off balance should not however be the springboard from which to leap to improper conclusions. Following is an account of what I consider a more solid basis for making important decisions. Foremost – as my succinct introduction implies – one should not feel the necessity to decide something when discomposed. It is imperative in such circumstances to remove oneself from the fray of the moment to deliberate more keenly upon the subject at hand. What follows are the specific standards by which I believe one should assess a matter.
October 5, 2012 (date of initial publication)
The Millstone News
by L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.
The effect of the passage of time upon others is obvious. Upon ourselves, however, the diminution is less noticeable. Living with ourselves as we must immerses us in perpetual modification and decrement which occurs almost imperceptibly. It is rather like trying to stay focused upon the face of a clock long enough to see time change – inevitably we lose interest and submit to distraction. Oddly the inability to see change in ourselves applies likewise to the inability to see (or at least appreciate) the changes which have taken place around us. There are of course constant alterations to our surrounding environment, living spaces and entire communities, yet the result is more often than not scarcely reckoned. This made me reflect upon what changes have taken place in Almonte over the past thirty-six years since I first came here in June of 1976. Some things, I might add, haven’t changed at all, and that can be a good thing: things like the Curling Club, the North Lanark Agricultural Society, the Almonte Fair, the Highland Games and the Royal Canadian Legion, all long-standing and purposeful elements of our local society.
Though my humdrum daily customs are the norm, things began more diversely this morning. Perhaps it was alterness to the approaching Winter Solstice or the advent of Christmas (a festivity I routinely indulge from November 25th so that I may partake a full month of seasonal choral music by Handel or schmaltz by Mantovani and Bing Crosby before confessing mutual exhaustion). Or it may have been the squaring of an early morning cycle about the neighbourhood when the air was chilly and clear. Exercise even of this modest portion (6.26 Km) is distinctly part of my every day ceremony. Inexplicably today I had strength to venture to higher ground than usual.
While my prevailing personal sensations are closer to decomposition than evaporation, the latter is more descriptive of the surrounding than the inner peril. The noticeable penalty is therefore minimally less acute though similarly imposing. At least I haven’t yet vanished from sight in spite of my deterioration. Nonetheless every day I am reminded of the progressive declension in all that I now do or may otherwise wish to do. I am plagued by recollection of the existential dilemma: because we are free, we are also inherently responsible. It’s the proverbial “you are what you do” theory of things. I find it helpful in these existential constructs to recall that, as eagerly as one may pine for the animation of the past, a subdued present is upon analysis sufficient. Clearly the collateral of decay is the removal of oneself from involvement; or, as comically observed in a cartoon in Country Life magazine, removal from the necessity to put on a brassiere.
Whoever passes in Germany from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant principality, in Switzerland from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant canton, in Ireland from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant county, finds that he has passed from a lower to a higher grade of civilisation. On the other side of the Atlantic the same law prevails. The Protestants of the United States have left far behind them the Roman Catholics of Mexico, Peru, and Brazil. The Roman Catholics of Lower Canada remain inert, while the whole continent round them is in a ferment with Protestant activity and enterprise.
The sixteenth century was comparatively a time of light. Yet even in the sixteenth century a considerable number of those who quitted the old religion followed the first confident and plausible guide who offered himself, and were soon led into errors far more serious than those which they had renounced. Thus Matthias and Kniperdoling, apostles of lust, robbery, and murder, were able for a time to rule great cities. In a darker age such false prophets might have founded empires; and Christianity might have been distorted into a cruel and licentious superstition, more noxious, not only than Popery, but even than Islamism.
Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay
1st Baron (1800–59), English historian, essayist, and philanthropist. Notable works: The Lays of Ancient Rome (1842) and History of England (1849–61).
“The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 1”
Boundaries are both barriers and frontiers. Even the singularly minded geese poised in flocks upon the icy surface of the river have respectfully maintained a distance between themselves. The anticipatory flight southward naturally preserves their coopertive ambition but always with a delicate barrier between them. There is little of the most compelling unanimity which defeats inveterate division.
Early this morning upon awakening and before my constitutional ablutions and gruel I casually intimated I would not be tricycling today. The carefree announcement was recognition of what I understood to be a popular scheme for balanced exercise; that is, one day on, one day off. The off-hand dispatch had for the moment anyway the sustainable allure of moderation. I should have known it was an unworkable alliance. This not only because I traditionally haven’t any truck with avoidance of excess (a well-documented limitation, I regret to say). Rather in my defence the ineffable blue sky and clear dry air trumped my plan. I am easily persuaded by fine weather! This however was before I had opened the garage door and relocated outside. It was a brisk day! I should have known to expect the uncommonly cold air after having previously seen ice patches on the balcony. But the clarity of the sky distracted me from the indiscernible temperature of minus 9° Centigrade or 16° Fahrenheit. Afterwards when I hadn’t been pedalling on my tricycle mere moments (though admittedly riding directly into the wind along the river) I regretted not having worn my beaver fur hat instead of a modest tartan cap.
The weather though tolerable today was nonetheless evocative of coming wintry conditions. Primarily for the exercise – but also as an undaunted way to distance myself from defeat at the hands of looming disruption – I tricycled 6.89 Km about the neighbourhood. The roads were clear except for remnants of snow plowed onto the side adjacent the sidewalk. As I passed along the river I easily saw to the other side. The obstructions of summer and autumn have vanished. A not unpleasant starkness has overtaken the landscape. It is a verancular to which I must readjust. Though as I am wont to advance whenever asked, I am not in the least dispairing about the predictions. It has inspired collateral moments of reflection regarding the extent and necessity of isolation from one’s Northern sphere.
Yesterday a large flock of Canada geese piloted their way onto the Mississippi River. What made their congregation noticeable was the icy surface of the river upon which they landed. While I cannot say for certain that the river – or part of it – was indeed covered by ice it came across from my withdrawing room window to be the case. I kept searching to see whether the geese were skating. Today as I look upon the river it is buried in a soft grey fog. How soon the clarity of yesterday dissolves into a mist.