The height of news today is that our friends Jay and Alana are moving to Nova Scotia. This heartfelt headline is the casual – and entirely unpredicted – release arising from my otherwise unaccountable notion to connect with them following their recent sojourn on the east coast. It isn’t often that one encounters those such as they who have proven themselves so exotically and delightfully mobile!
It’s all connected. The plummeting real estate prices, the rising interest rates and now the upward-spiralling cost of vacation rentals. While sitting in the car at the grocery store earlier today I recevied an unexpected telephone call from our estate agent on Key Largo, Florida. The place we’ve contracted to rent this coming season is going to be listed for sale by the owner; and as a result our impending dalliance there is exposed to rebuttal. We risk being thrown onto a sandy beach and left to our own devices, an extremely unsolicitous alternative.
On a summer evening in mid-June 1976 (when I was 28 years old, fresh out of law school and the Bar Admission course at Osgoode Hall, relatively thin and clad in a bespoke dark blue woollen suit (made by Palette Taylor on Sparks Street) with a gold watch and chain (formerly belonging to my paternal grandfather) hanging from my waistcoat, I ventured into the then unknown and starkly unfamiliar County of Lanark. I had initiated my temporary dislocation from downtown Ottawa (where I resided in the Mayfair Apartments on Metcalfe Street under the auspices of the infamous Mrs. Edith Cotterill) to the county seat at the behest and recommendation of Senator George McIlraith who was then Counsel to the law firm where I articled on Sparks Street. I had arranged to meet my future employers Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barrs. &c. at the golf club for dinner.
About 44 years ago (1980), not long after being called to the Bar at Osgoode Hall in Toronto in 1975, I remember thinking how devious it was of bankers to lubricate the sale of money by doubling the capital value of a house then cutting the current lending rate by 50%. You will for example note that from the banker’s perspective the calculation of interest (Principal x Rate x Time) is the same whether the principal (loan) were $100,000 and the rate 10% per annum or whether the principal (loan) were $200,000 and the rate were 5% per annum; namely, $10,000 in either case. The unquestionable difference however is the reflex attitude that getting something for less makes the product more worthy.
If you squint your eyes while looking into the distance, you’ll notice a small dilapidated wooden shelter in the field adjoining the river next to the burgeoning corn stalks. The weathered tiny barn has almost retreated beneath the mounting vegetation. The emerald coloured corn stalks are now high enough in the sky to tempt one to smell the delicious yellow brew of their cobs. Today (aside from the repeated tornado warnings “for this mobile coverage area” from Environment Canada) is Thursday, July 13th, soon enough in the season to begin to dream about the perfect outdoor summer luncheon. Coincidentally yesterday while pedaling my tricycle along Spring Street I noticed a picnic table in the riverfront park nearby our residence. This proximity presents an ideal location for one of those prophesized sausage-in-a-bun from the Almonte Butcher where every Saturday (weather permitting) they barbecue al fresco.
The dry, numb pain in my lower extremities is draining. It is a dull repetition, an interminable obstruction, insignificant on the whole but perpetual. It is too soon to take another round of analgesics following my 4:00 am contribution to the cause. I have nonetheless thankfully succeeded to remove myself from the lair and to complete my morning ablutions, the sanctity of my routine. Meanwhile the full round sounds of a bass violin churns behind the staccato unison of a piano and a violin (Maran Mozetich: Joy and Sorrow). I blankly stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows upon the lush meadow approaching the flat, unperturbed blue water of the Mississippi River as it wends its way peacefully downriver from the Village of Appleton toward Scotch Corners and McCullough’s Landing on the basin of Mississippi Lake below.
Mid-morning today as part of our routine purgation we initiated the galvanizing flavour of motion and travel by conducting a regimental 4 Km cycling drill along Spring Street and back adjacent the Mississippi River. This athletic endeavour hastened the fulfillment of my recurrent afternoon vehicular outing. This time however I determined to extend the jaunt beyond the extremity of the car wash in Stittsville. I directed the snout of the trusty Aviator northward along Hazeldean Road onto HWY#417 parallel the Ottawa River towards Arnprior to the hinterland of Braeside/McNab Township. It was an ideal day for a country drive on a sweltering summer afternoon in July with the temperature peaking at 32°C. Nonetheless I drove with the windows open. I wanted to feel the soothing air!
As we begin our burnout stage of re-entry into the atmosphere following the heady explorations and novelties of youth, love and profligacy it soon becomes apparent that the number of our professsional advisors outweighs that of our friends and acquaintances. The overwhelming statistic of human relationships has descended from the mere buoyancy of commonalty to the executive relevancy of accountancy, financial advice, legal status, medical and dental burgeoning necessities perhaps on occasion to encompass a travel agency or car dealership. The professionals are the third parties to whom we entrust the management of life’s recast critical ingredients.
It is one of the more popular credits of dwelling as we do on a meadow by a river that on occasion (most commonly early in the morning) one hears the distinctive call of a loon, reminiscent of what in childhood we mistakenly thought to be the howl of a coyote. But the mournful cry has become the irrepressible identifier of the loon.
With the advancement of my chronology (I am now a mere puff away from ¾ of a century) and with commensurately increasing physical immobility (I never did appreciate walking), it is perhaps alarming that movement and motion should become more and more an assimilation of mine. I speak here in particular of the art of cycling (which in my case has been amended to include the now more topical craft of tricycling). Indeed I regard the venture now as a prerogative to the fruitful enjoyment of the day. It may seem curious that the most resplendent of my private amusements is one of the most palpably robust (though I hasten to tranquillize the effort by a confession of simple application without especial object, favour or statistical reward).