The social obligations may have cleared with the passage of Christmas but the atmosphere this morning upon awakening was less transparent. A waft of warm air has melted much of the light snow and once again exposed the tufts of grass and field of wild plants below a fog.
“His palace (King Charles the Second) had seldom presented a gayer or a more scandalous appearance than on the evening of Sunday the first of February 1685.”
“One Roman Catholic, whose skill was then widely renowned, Doctor Thomas Short, was in attendance.”
“William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, an honest and pious, though narrowminded, man, used great freedom. “It is time,” he said, “to speak out; for, Sir, you are about to appear before a Judge who is no respecter of persons.” The King answered not a word.”
Among the many other noticeable features today on Christmas Day was that which was welcome and noticeable for its absence; namely, traffic and retail occupation. The city lights were dimmed on all accounts. Yet precipitously the happy season of private familial absorption and revelry is over in an instant. The lingering Christmas decorations already appear superfluous, inconsequential, even garish. No more is there a burgeoning ambition to prepare for anything other than the New Year which (except for those who cherish a party or yearn for formalized drunkenness) is almost beyond redundancy.
Quand je m’éveillai, et j’eus assez dormi,
Ouvris les yeux, vis un arbre fleuri,
Dont il sortait un bouton vermeillet.
Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici.
When I woke up, and had slept enough,
I opened my eyes and saw a tree in flower
From which there emerged a little red bud.
Noël, etc.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year! A softened calm has settled upon the frozen snowy river and the whispy silent meadow. The roof of the tiny dillapidated barn, with its eerie windows and entrances open and unsealed, is neatly enveloped in clean white snow. Ribbons of white in successive parallel lines like endless drawings along the open tarnished fields distinguish the rolling hills in the distance, going on and on to eternity. The dark trees stand tall and bare, their spindly scraggly branches shaded with snow. There is no sign of movement anywhere. It is Christmas Eve, the night before Christmas.
It was with no trifling measure of enthusiasm and application that I extricated myself from the car wash in the City today, December 23rd (a Saturday) mere hours antecedent Christmas Eve (a Sunday) which I have no doubt will remain an equally animated wellspring of retail commercial activity until the 12th hour, and headed as directly as possible out of the mix into the country. Though I had unwittingly taken the precaution to run into the City to perform my daily arrogation of arithmetic purity and decontamination over the noon hour (when you would be justified to presume the working classes might have paused for luncheon and thus removed themselves from the popular service venues), I had obviously miscalculated the reformed nature of the Scrooges who predominant the modern business envelope. Seemingly everyone had already abandoned their seat and desk to conduct the more domestic issues surrounding the gladdening Christmas season.
Fortunately for us erstwhile Snowbirds our transition from summer and autumn to winter has not been precipitous. We’ve had some time and occasional moments to adjust. Or, as I will recount, to get ready. Agreeably over the past month the weather has fluctuated from passably cool to cold then back again. Equally pleasant and tolerable is the forecast for the upcoming week including a high of 7°C on Wednesday with rain; and for several days afterwards remaining above or just around 0°C.
It is likely settled admission that in the pursuit of one’s open identity (that is, one’s career or other publicized endeavour) most of us will never achieve anything more than what is objectively classified as mediocrity. The signature may be softened by calling it ordinariness or being commonplace. Though in some instances the inescapable stratification is inferiority. The least abrasive view of mediocrity is that it is adequate. It’s a label we attribute not only to people (perhaps even to oneself) but also to any of the other popular human undertakings or creations, whether gastronomy, the fine arts, professional sport, literature, engineering, architecture, furnishings, apparel fashion, jewellery, broadcasting or technological devices. It is not unusual to tranquillize the distinction by differentiating between high-end and low-end; namely, mediocre.
Alex, the Service Advisor at the car dealership in Arnprior, told me last week when we made the appointment to be there promptly at 8:00 am today (or possibly a minute or so later but nothing more) because the chap whom they commission to correct these mysterious electronic problems can arrive anywhere between eight o’clock in the morning and four-thirty in the afternoon; and, if my car is not there directly upon his arrival the tech guru will simply move on to the next dealership in the area where he conducts similar services. The dealership itself has been unable on three previous occasions to correct (or, more exactly, to sustain the correction of) the tiny but annoying defect (absent sound system for the turn signals). Initially it was a defect which affected the radio sound as well so I am uncertain how broadly the problem may pervade the vehicle. The continued recurrence of the absent signal sounds has been central to my disturbance; the sina qua non so to speak.
Lawyers, let’s face it, are plagiarists. Apart from such inventive intellects as Lord Thompson Denning, Master of the Rolls who for example advanced the novel thesis that “a bastard is a child” most lawyers prefer to derive credibility from more traditionally accepted propositions such as “you cannot give what you do not have” which naturally sounds even more persuasive in Latin as Nemo dat quod non habet. And while even the most trite averment is subject to interpretation, I am today (December 20, 2023) comforted to know two indisputable facts; namely, 1) it is Camille’s 24th birthday; and, 2) the following recipe (or what I mischievously call a “compôte” although it isn’t cooked) is nonpareil.