Apart from the what are now considered normal pandemic restrictions and social distancing, it isn’t often I feel confined.  But confined I am today.  There was a threat last evening and earlier this morning of freezing rain. The incommodious prospect is to me anathema; it strikes at the heart of my metaphorical materialism – vehicular transport. Fortunately the forecast has since altered to rainy conditions at above-zero temperatures for the next twenty-four hours so it looks as though the wave of ice crystals has been avoided. It has yet succeeded to dampen my cathartic bicycling spirit. It is nonetheless a fortuity. I have a legitimate interruption to my harnessing Protestant Work Ethic. Today is clay in my hands, an open and unlimited satisfaction. To celebrate I have made a triple-strength espresso; I’ve had a late morning brunch sans bread (some of that lingering delinquency); I’ve secured about my aching knees the Mueller Advanced Patella Strap; and, I’ve settled upon the stuff I’m putting into the car for our upcoming hibernation.

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Notwithstanding the Republican trumpeting of a mythical threat to Christmas, I frankly think there is no immediate concern. Once again this year to my utter surprise the so-called holiday spirit is alive with its infectious allure. On the public screen certainly the priority is boldly commercial; and then descending to every sub-category thereof starting with food then booze, apparel, accessories, even automobiles or perhaps a space mission for the well-to-do. And Christmas music affords endless tranquillity and remorse. Recall for a moment the doleful lyrics of “I’ll be home for Christmas!” The more festive chant is in the sharing of Christmas cards predominantly now by email and often through the agency of Jacqui Lawson who has succeeded to ornament “Christmas/Winter” with an entirely new level of banality.

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When I awoke this morning and curiously peered through the bedroom draperies onto the world beyond, my initial reaction upon seeing the light snowfall was to rejoice that I had an excuse to stay in bed. I burrowed once again beneath the duvet. But my indolence was short lived. Plagued by inescapable imperatives, I acknowledged the purgative value of a bicycle ride to complete my upcoming day. Regular exercise is necessary; but there is nothing other than bicycling that suits me. The thought of confining myself to an indoor gymnasium is totally unappealing.  And I cannot walk any distance.

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Listening this afternoon to Tchaikovsky’s Orchestral Suite No. 3 I was reminded of its publication as recently as 1885. The majestic images of the The Year 1812 Solemn Overture, Op. 49 were brought to mind as well.  Subsequently I listened to Shostakovich’s sometimes ominous but always hopeful compositions which pointedly arose from his birth around 1905 coinciding with the first Russian Revolution. Between those two composers and between those two dates was a history of courtiers and revolutionaries. Things changed rapidly within a relatively short period of time.

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verb (with object)
announce or publish (something) in an official gazette
we will need to gazette the bill if a decision cannot be reached imminently;
a gazetted holiday;
publish the appointment of (someone) to a military or other official post
he was gazetted the Somerset Light Infantry

ORIGIN
early 17th century via French from Italian
gazzetta originally Venetian gazeta de la novità
“a halfpennyworth of news”
because the news-sheet sold for a gazeta a Venetian coin of small value

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Amidst expressions of incredulity the American media is discharging its ritual execration of the retail advertising habit of transitioning immediately from Hallowe’en to Christmas. I have always wondered why the Americans seemingly skip over and disregard the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday in November. This is particularly so because I have been led to believe that in America Thanksgiving is more popular than Christmas – except perhaps among certain Republicans who as routinely skew the social nicety of not assuming everyone is either Christian or cares.

This year, Thanksgiving will fall on Nov. 25, which is the fourth Thursday of the month. This has been the way that the date for the holiday has been determined since 1941. Before this, the holiday was traditionally held on the last Thursday of November.

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We’ve lately been treated to exceptionally pleasant weather. It distinguishes itself by being uncommonly welcoming for November which I traditionally associate with grey and chill in keeping with the image of Armistice Day ceremonies. Today by comparison was the warmest it has been. The yellow sunshine poured forth from the blazing orb in the lower sky! Truly it is difficult to exaggerate the splendour of the day! Earlier this morning after our unimpressive 6km bicycle ride about the neighbourhood I threw myself into a rigid chair on the patio in the back garden and stared into the blaze. For the next forty minutes I stared into the blinding rays of sunlight. I dreamt. It was completely soporific.

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It wasn’t before I attended law school at 21 years of age in 1970 that I had to learn to cook. Until then I had survived on Welsh rarebit in boarding school at St. Andrew’s College and cafeteria food while in undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall. My digs at Dalhousie Law School consisted of a shared room not far from the school. It was on the top floor of an ancient white clapboard house (since demolished) on Seymour Street called “Domus Legis“. On the main floor from the front entrance was a spacious room with a fireplace surrounded by high windows. The space was left open to accommodate social gatherings of the students and law professors who all rubbed shoulders as liberally as the beer flowed.  Downstairs in the characteristically stone-walled basement was a dart board.  The top floor was reserved for the residency of four law students, one of whom was a second or third year law student who may have had some involvement with the management or oversight of the property.  The other single room was occupied by John “Jock” McLeish who is now a highly successful practitioner in Toronto. My roommate from Newfoundland was George Horan with whom by entire coincidence I recently reacquainted myself at an art show in Almonte; he was one of the contributing artists.

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shire | ˈʃʌɪə | noun1 British a county, especially in England. • (the Shires) used in reference to parts of England regarded as strongholds of traditional rural culture, especially the rural Midlands.

Though I haven’t a clear idea what constitutes “traditional rural culture”, after having lived here in Almonte since 1976 (45 years ago) I fully suspect that I am a part of the fabric whatever it is; and, similarly that my parts whatever they are have insinuated the whole. Indisputably my entire practice of law (with the exception of articling and my first year with a distinguished Ottawa law firm from 1973 to 1975 upon my Call to the Bar at Osgoode Hall) was fully entwined with local rural tradition, from being an indisputable outsider, the lowest employee in the firm to the traditional though commonplace rural distinction of a sole practitioner.

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Apparently even Currier and Ives knew better than to mention Christmas in the same breath as winter. Yet there is no doubt the consuming public recognized the spirited flavour of the company’s lithographs. To this day popular commercial outlets like Sirius XM have a channel devoted solely to the “Holiday Season“. Not unexpectedly it is replete with historic and so-called “classic” Christmas music surrounding the Christian feast. The insinuation is however far less abrasive than might have once been sustained when people actually harboured mystical additives. Now the spiritual lyrics are viewed as apocryphal or suggestive only, perhaps pagan at their roots, but by many certainly not revitalized by any degree of legitimacy or authenticity.

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