Although a “Severe Thunderstorm Watch” now prevails at the end of the day, the weather this morning and earlier this afternoon was the ideal mid-summer heat with soft, balmy gusts and brilliantly sunny skies. The temperature rose to a commanding 35°C. By chance my lovely niece Julia and her husband Matt were visiting from California (on the heel of comedic performances in Montréal). They and my sister Linda and her husband Edward are staying at a cottage near the Village of Combermere along the Madawaska River. It is part of the Township of Madawaska Valley. It is named after Sir Stapleton Cotton, Viscount Combermere (1773–1865) though for the immediate reasons why I regret to be unable to discern. He has a vivid biography.

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My dear Reader, for those of you who know me – perhaps more keenly than I care to confess – I have long suffered to endure a fascination with the North American passenger automobile. Though I am inclined to blame my father and his father (because each was throughout his life devoted to the same retail amusement) I recall being distracted as though instinctively by such conveyances from a very early age – say at least 9 or 10 when I recollect driving my father’s Oldsmobile sedan much the same way a young boy might play upon his father’s country tractor. At the time we lived in a remote rural area where the opportunity to do so presented itself. I should add in my defence that I knew from a young age that my father had previously owned a Studebaker sedan with power seats and windows; and that my grandfather’s 7-passenger Packard limousine was complete with a chandelier in the back. Indeed I later discovered that the vehicular trend insinuated the entire Chapman family and beyond. My cousin Richard Kitchen’s father (Uncle Herb) was a shameless champion of the Oldsmobile 98 (which was then an impressive display of sheet metal).

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Driving into the city on a weekday after 7 o’clock in the morning is generally manageable. Typically – that is, for old folks – I have a medical appointment of sorts this afternoon. Specifically  the meeting is with that very esoteric breed of professionals called ophthalmologists.  About a week ago I received an unexpected email from their office – Focus Eye Centre, 1105 Carling Avenue – inviting me to participate in a post-operative review of my current state of vision. I had had cataract surgery from them several years ago.  Predominantly my vision has since been Okay though I have on numerous – but not persistent – occasions found my sight to be obstructed by fleeting clouds. As a result – and maintaining as I do that technology is always improving at a rapid rate – I happily agreed to undertake the examination.  After the office had called and booked the appointment they subsequently asked me to bring my Health Card and a list of medications – plus they interjected that the meeting could last up to 2 hours.

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Once again today, dear Reader, I was reminded of the ineffable natural beauty of Lanark County (our local seat) and nearby Renfrew County (the erstwhile lumber towns which many years go indirectly afforded Almonte the facility of the national railway connection for its own thriving woollen industry).  On my way out of Almonte today to Arnprior I passed along a roadway which easily competes with my beloved Appleton Side Road about which I have so often expatiated.

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Unless you’re one of those fellows with an inexhaustible – and frankly acidulous – resource of gusto, one of those chaps who heroically prefers to start his day with pushups and a cold shower, I have found by contrast that starting a day is never easy. Often it is not only difficult to know when exactly to begin but also how to begin.  For example, does one preserve the Stoic profile and get up at seven o’clock? Or adopt instead the vulgar urban model and linger beneath the duvet until at least eight o’clock?  Or (as Samuel Beckett might ask) does it really matter when one gets out of bed on a rainy day?  And then there’s the matter of what one should do?  Or what must one do?  Is there an appointment to keep?  Or a place to go?  Or something important to be done? And in the full scheme of things, what is the point of it all in any event?

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The lush green cornstalks dart motionlessly into the air, resembling now the empyrean architectural projections of Dubai, an expansive formation of uniformity on a murky Sunday morning across the rolling fields. Another week has concluded and another week begins. Does it mark a lifetime or an eternity? Or was it only a day? The unmoving river perfectly reflects the undulating shoreline trees. The world is on pause. A wondrous insect moves unsusupiciously along the drawing room window. A Netherlands choir Vox Luminis mournfully sings on CBC Sunday morning radio.

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For most of us change is moderately disturbing. We often like things the way they are. But when we feel differently about the way things are, change is not unwelcome. Yesterday – while reading an article sent to me by Prof. Daniel A. Laprès from Paris, France – I noted in particular the following blunt observation:

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Social standing has the least significance or attraction at the beginning or at the end of life. When one is young there are simply too many competing alternatives; and when one is old nothing matters except what already exists. Accordingly social standing is a mid-life crisis.  I say crisis – not because social standing is for everyone a crisis – but because for those for whom it is a concern it can definitely become a project of enormous devotion, complication, legal consequence and financial determination.

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Would that I had something of moment to report, dear Reader. But I do not.  Mine has been a catalogue of tedium today. In fact my entire week has been a record of mundane and clinical devotion – passport renewal, teeth cleaning, prescription modification, root canal inquiry and an oil change for my car. While I mustn’t complain about having to fulfill these passing necessities of life, nonetheless I am provoked that as a result I haven’t anything of distinction to relate. The most intriguing events today were a haircut and a brief review of the latest on-line boating course (the conclusion of which by the way is that I am never going to own a boat). Aside from this latter convincing resolution – arising from the disclosure of the rude fundamentals of boating ownership – I find myself staring at the wavering cornstalks, marvelling at the speedily changing atmosphere, while curiously reeling from the sensation of having being poked by dishwasher and refrigerator mechanical faults (further matters now under investigation and discussion).

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The nautical theme has been part of my life since having attended Dalhousie Law School in 1970 in Halifax, Nova Scotia along the North Atlantic Ocean.  My memories there are marked by images of Saturday mornings walking on Point Pleasant Park, clam digging in Peggy’s Cove, social outings to Hubbards and Chester, and spectacular ocean vistas from Lawrencetown outside Halifax and Melmerby Beach in Pictou County.  The one opportunity I had to board a sailing ship for a late summer venture at sea was regrettably conflicted with and bypassed in preference for a week-long wedding convention which nonetheless invoked certain of the traditional sailors’ indulgences.

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