The provenance and heritage of the Buttonwood Bay interloper is not long materializing with or without the most casual address or confab. Even without such iconic nouns of address as Phiddy (to whom I was yesterday happily introduced at the center pool) sojourners here are by my reckless suspicion and calculation more predominantly associated with the Anglo Saxons and Italians than with the those whom might for example instead promote my personal favourites Franny and Zooey of JD Salinger’s memorable Glass family from the Upper East Side in New York City.

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“Moi, je suis le centre du monde!”

Before gas powered air conditioning, before the artful contrivance of the amber wooden deck, before the skilful modelling of the garden by the craftsmen since dispersed as far abroad as the eastern shore of Nova Scotia, before the polished emerald ivy vines had mounted the corrugated red brick walls and twirled the corners of the house undercutting the drawing room windows and front door mat, long before the thought of disposition instead of acquisition, an unpretentious and nondescript tradesman offered to “slurry coat” the concrete foundation of the house.

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For most of us living in the Western hemisphere, European superiority has long been touted, first by the Greeks and Romans then by the Vikings and Saxons (latterly the Germans) and finally by the Scots, the Irish and the British Empire. China is presently on the edge of asserting its modern global dominance.

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Nothing like a Bach keyboard allegro (Concerto in D Minor) to get the morning off to a jumping start!  Plus workmen hammering on the roof immediately above one’s head while yet reposed upon the feather down pillows. Then of course the parade of routine morning ablutions (including the clarification of one’s spectacles and muting the faint perspiration within the shank of the 18K gold ring), pulling on a clean linen shirt, followed by an invigorating sliced green Granny apple! Awakening from last night’s preponderantly disturbed sleep was relief of its own, unfastening oneself at last from the greenish grey turmoil of cyclical thought, pondering unimaginable and out of mind detail, sorting through yesterday’s now distant affairs and those fleeting utterances which are spawned like mercury in the stream of reverie.

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While the holiday may originally have been intended to celebrate singular presidents of American history (namely, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln) and commensurately to educate the nescient public, I fear the purpose and focus of the occasion has long since degraded to that of a mere holiday and commercial enterprise. In fairness for those who reside in the northern limits of the United States of America toward the Canadian border at the 49th parallel, the holiday is no doubt a welcome respite from the cold and snow which by contrast in Key Largo for example is entirely wanting to an Olympic degree.

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The proposition, “Will you be my Valentine?” inspires memories of anonymous school aged missives sent from secret admirers to those secretly admired. It was a an acceptable occasion to express burgeoning youthful passions many of which were destined to be unrequited. Nonetheless the moment conveniently fulfilled and exhausted the erstwhile yearning.

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By the most undeniably and deliciously serendipitous encounter late this afternoon while wheeling my tricycle to the upper end of Buttonwood Bay I met Dan the Man and his wife Vicki Porter.  Dan told me he formerly performed with Tommy Hunter OC, a Canadian country singer legend popularly known as “Canada’s Country Gentleman”. Not long after our confab when back home I was scanning the internet, then listening to “Pt 109” by Dan Furmanik from the compilation “Titanic: Epic Songs of the Sea”, an interruption from my scheduled interlude of Bailèro by Victoria de los Ángeles, Orchestre des concerts Lamoureus & Jean-Pierre Jacquillat.

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It was always impossible for me to overlook the imperative of accuracy and assiduity in the practice of law.  It made for an acutely refined focus for fifty years of my life.  It is naturally axiomatic that one should practice law with precision. Foremost is the necessity to guide one’s client through the shallows without untoward event or exposure. This however was only the backdrop to my personal and existential obsession with particularity.

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There are some amusing derivations of words and expressions.

Consider for example the expression “the dog days of summer”.

The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer. They were historically the period following the heliacal rising of the star system Sirius (known colloquially as the “Dog Star”), which Hellenistic astrology connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.

The English name is a calque of the Latin dies caniculares (lit. “the puppy days”), itself a calque of the ancient Greek κυνάδες ἡμέραι kynádes hēmérai. The Greeks knew the star α Canis Majoris by several names, including Sirius “Scorcher” (Σείριος, Seírios), Sothis (Σῶθις, Sôthis, a transcription of Egyptian Spdt), and the Dog Star (Κῠ́ων, Kúōn).

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Yesterday Ed Mooney (or “Cigar Guy” as I affectionately call him) from Oak Island (Long Island), New York called to invite me to attend a dinner party devoted to the celebration of today’s Super Bowl. Apart from the coincidence that “Moon” (as he is popularly known to his friends) currently resides on the “island” of Buttonwood Bay Club, his very thoughtful invitation reminded me of the further serendipitous acquaintance I have with the American sport world.

Allow me to explain. This requires more than a bit of elaboration so please forgive the taxing details.

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