Never would I have imagined to be writing about acquaintance or relationship with actors!  But today – as so often transpires – a number of coincidences have collided in true Thomas Hardy script, “capturing the indifferent forces that inflict the ironies of life”. Actors are a select breed of people especially where – as in the case of Justin Hay – he is aligned to the acme of theatre William Shakespeare. Justin is the son of our dear friend Bunny.

Justin Hay is a Toronto-based actor, writer, and director known for his extensive work in theatre, including his solo Shakespeare show My Own Private Shakespeare, and roles in productions like A Christmas Carol, alongside appearances in TV/film like Hallmark’s The Perfect Setting and CBC’s See You Tomorrow, with credits spanning from the Fringe Festival to major theatre companies. He’s an active member of Toronto’s arts scene, often performing and leading workshops in Shakespearean performance.

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It should not be curious that I have throughout my life dedicated much to timepieces and clocks.  When my paternal grandfather died he reportedly had a collection of something approaching 20 timepieces, three of which I inherited. One, that I recall, was a wristwatch made by a company I had never heard before.  Another was a more memorable piece, a large sterling silver pocket watch with a windup key.  I had that watch completely overhauled and cleaned.  But it was too heavy to be of any daily use to me.  I ended selling it to the baker whose shop adjoined my law office at 77 Little Bridge Street. By contrast, the third watch was a Pochélon et frères gold pocket watch with a 9K gold chain to which was attached a Masonic symbol (square and compass).  The significance of 9K gold is that because of its alloy (copper) it is strong and durable; but the downside is that the copper bleeds onto the fabric of one’s clothing – a mutation I discovered when wearing my vanilla coloured waistcoat. I ended giving this piece to my goddaughter because she had a taste for antiquities and – by the time I retired from the practice of law – I had no intention of sporting a waistcoat again. Paradoxically as I write these words I am wearing a Bulova pocket watch and matching chain which I suspect I bought in a moment of remorse while wintering in Florida (where I was least likely to wear it). Fortuitously however wearing cardigan sweaters as I now regularly do in Canada, the pocket watch is a fitting adornment.

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Children are the centre of Christmas. I say this reluctantly as a septuagenarian because to this day I suffer what is the unbecoming nostalgia and tradition of the holiday season. Lately – that is, within the past decade since retirement – I have managed to trim the vulgar scope of Christmas from mid-November to December 25th. Before that Thanksgiving interferes; after that it’s all about the New Year. This year (in our family Christmas card) I mistakenly presumed to welcome the Winter Solstice prior to its precise astronomic alignment with December 21st (though I did mollify the indignity by advancing that the term “advent” derives from the Latin ad– ‘to’ + venire ‘come’ which I felt afforded breadth).  You can tell that in my seventh decade I have trouble limiting the festive impress of the holiday season.  Readily I recall that my sister Linda and I routinely rehearsed our Christmas pageant in July. The animation of the cause is formidable – gemstone colours, blazing desserts, roaring fireplaces, sparkling pinetree and – perhaps the most important – boundless dreams and fantasies.

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Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we’ve no place to go,
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Let It Snow
Lyrics by Sammy Cahn, music by Jule Styne

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We unwittingly impose filters and obstructions upon what might otherwise be cherished views or inheritances. An obvious impediment is the screen surrounding the 9′ panel of window through which I daily regard the grand panorama in my line of sight. Though there are three panels of window along the drawing room wherein I am comfortably seated at my desk, the most convenient glance is through the sole panel which inconveniently is subdued by a screen mesh (it is the only window which opens).

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I cannot recall when we last attended a winter foregathering.  Coffee chats, yes. Art gallery outings, yes.  A drive to the car wash, yes. A luncheon for four. But I have no spontaneous recollection of a winter party. Today however we painted the calendar; rather, we enacted the event which has been on the calendar for several weeks. Thanks to the singular generosity and unparalleled ambition of our immediate neighbour Lynne and her unwitting sidekick Cora – both unabashed country gals who know how to handle a gun – we received an invitation to Cora’s country estate located on the cusp of Ramsay Township and the Village of Pakenham separated by Cedar Hill Side Road which identifies the route to the celebrated properties of maple syrup champion Shirley Deugo (née Fulton) and artist Stephen Braithwaite among other renowned local inhabitants who distinguish the County and beyond.

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The air is filled with tiny particles of snow softly descending, diverging in ambivalent commotion. The wind is a faint aimless gesture. Narrowing my eyes to the misty grey horizon all is muted between the snow covered scars of the harvested cornfields, a blanket of white along the icing winding river. The shoreline trees are a blur. The arms and  channeled seats of the frozen patio chairs on the balcony are covered in a blister of white. December has levelled its implacability,

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An annoying thread connected with a recent tooth extraction has thankfully dissolved and let go.  I felt its prickly plastic sensation during breakfast this morning while eating a slice of peach. I am one step closer to getting the implant – though there may yet be months ahead as the periodontist awaits proof that the post she inserted has grafted to the bone. Even the synthetic must take root. So in the tradition of J. Alfred Prufrock I shall continue to wander between the rooms.

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Often to the point of stinging paradox – and mockingly with an outcome as foreseeable as it is unpredictable – I am reminded of the mercurial nature of living. In spite of our efforts to the contrary, life’s aporia prove impossible to escape. We float from one sphere to another, up and down. We’re like a pinball precipitously and variously descending from top to bottom, bouncing back and forth, at times with, at times without advantage, but always on the move, unshielded from fortune, good or bad. We humans are no different from life’s other creatures. Would that we had the capacity of the tiny squirrel to avoid the vulnerability of fate with apparent equanimity.

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The Pembroke Regional Hospital – which I suspect is one large building or a series of conjoined buildings constructed successively as the need arose – is compartmentalized into access by buildings A, B, C and D. The entrances are all located within sight of one another though obviously different distances from one another and from the parking lot. B and C are central and the most popular. The overall effect is that the entrances to the various departments are approachable and comfortable.  We were received immediately upon arrival today then told to sit in the waiting area until collected. The receptionist was exceedingly buoyant and pleasant to deal with. We hadn’t long to wait. Things were on schedule.

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