Many people who live in Almonte – and who have done so for some considerable time – don’t know we have an island in the centre of town. It’s called Coleman’s Island and is surrounded on every side by a tributary of the Mississippi River.  What even fewer know about is the esplanade on Coleman’s Island.

An esplanade or promenade is a long, open, level area, usually next to a river or large body of water, where people may walk. The historical definition of esplanade was a large, open, level area outside fortress or city walls to provide clear fields of fire for the fortress’s guns. In modern usage, the space allows the area to be paved as a pedestrian walk; esplanades are often on sea fronts and allow walking whatever the state of the tide, without having to walk on the beach.

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Ask anyone who has sought to get on the right side of the public cash box and you’ll no doubt stumble upon an enthralling tale. The slander (because that’s what it’s always about) captures far more than the putative excesses of personal greed and selfish ambition. It will go far beyond any base insight into the less than judicial interpretations of legislation. It will reveal in the end the answer to the very question which ought to have been addressed at the outset; namely, the price to be paid? For some the matter is of no consequence particularly as most of what evolves from historic analysis is buried between the covers of a tome by a gentrified writer who as often as not retired to his country seat with his book and his bottle. But for the man who has to endure the consequence, the rebuttal is clear and compelling.

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We needn’t expect that every day – or any day for that matter – should be quintessential; that things will go precisely as we imagine they should; that the timing at the traffic lights will correspond to our particular urgency; that the shelves of the grocery store will have all we require in abundance; that people’s manners will be preserved throughout trifling commotion.  Today was in part one of those “off” days, an occasion when the mechanics of the clock don’t exactly correspond to the movement of the hands on the face. Yet as moderately irregular as the day has been in certain respects, in others (such as the weather and the serendipity of a kindly email and telephone call late this afternoon) it has been splendid. The unanticipated outcome of the provocation was a reminder how magnificent it is to have “nothing to do, nowhere to go”, that incalculable profit of retirement.

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“The Roman phrase for expressing that a man had died, viz., “Abiit ad plures” (He has gone over to the majority,) my brother explained to us; and we easily comprehended that any one generation of the living human race, even if combined, and acting in concert, must be in a frightful minority, by comparison with all the incalculable generations that had trot this earth before us. The Parliament of living men, Lords and Commons united, what a miserable array against the Upper and Lower House composing the Parliament of ghosts!”

Excerpt From: Thomas De Quincey. “Autobiographical Sketches”

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There is not, I don’t imagine, a more succinct and penetrating idiom for food than “bread and cheese”. With perhaps, according to some, the addition of wine. Maybe Champagne. But aside from the stimulants we employ at and about table, even the supplement of as basic an ingredient as meat to the jargon might be conceived a superfluity though there are admittedly compelling distortions such as grilled cheese sandwiches with bacon! But that is more a culinary infatuation than a metaphorical adaptation. In any event it came as a surprise to discover that the classic rendition of the concoction – bread and cheese – is the fabric of a long-standing Native/Canadian/British tradition. It is refreshing to awaken palatable features of our past which connect to national heredity.

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The heat today was a furnace. We languished for lunch at the golf club in the shade on the fieldstone patio overlooking the first tee.  We were spared a measure of the sultriness by a gentle breeze. The weather in spite of its ineluctable sway did not diminish the gusto of the familial congregation; specifically the youth of 18, 19 and 20 years of age. An encounter of this scope is for a septuagenarian such as I an infrequent affair. I view this historic brush as an invitation for discovery and expansion – oddly reminiscent of a mythical query I heard years ago:

Q: You are crossing a field and encounter a hedgerow which extends high above you and as far to the left and right as you can see.  You must get through it to the other side.  How do you proceed?

A. Go either left or right in the hopes of going around the obstruction; or,
B. Plough directly through.

Q: When you get through the hedgerow, what is on the other side?

A. Nothing; or,
B. A farm house.

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When my father was approaching 92 years of age and still living with my mother in their own home – on the heels of a lifetime of diplomatic excesses such as first class tours on transatlantic ocean liners, private planes, private clubs, cooks and chauffeurs – it was not uncommon to hear him say, “All I want is peace and quiet“.  Not an appetite which at the moment resounds especially well for me. Nor I suspect would my late mother have had much truck with it.  Indeed her routine remark upon returning from a diplomatic tour was, “Instant poverty!” She rather disliked the Cinderella theme of a night at the palace.

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As the cable news networks and Donald J. Trump continue onward together in their daily broadcasts for popular attention (and whatever corporate or political gain they hope to embrace), the issue remains, Why do they believe “The Big Lie”? The ammunition is directed at the Republicans for the most part and certainly at the mysterious pool of Trump supporters which allegedly prevails (though growingly with less and less authenticity). The reputed Trump insurrectionists are steadily cast as a blow-up rental version of Confederate militarists and white supremacists. The other reprise on the networks is the disgraceful conduct of Republican Congressmen and Senators who have with ignominy contradicted the truth for personal gain.  The unfortunate Marjorie Taylor-Greene has in the process acquired the familiarity of Alfred E. Newman. I put her survival in the same arena.

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The phrase derives from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount: “You are the salt of the earth.” (Matthew 5:13) Jesus meant that the common people he was addressing – fishermen, shepherds, laborers – were worthy and virtuous. … Back then salt was highly prized as a preservative of food – so precious that it was used as money. Roman soldiers were sometimes paid in salt, giving us the word “salary,” derived from the Latin word for salt – “sal.”

Anyone who has tasted Maldon sea salt flakes knows the value and reward of salt; and, hence its treasured metaphoric use.  Oddly the historic narrative of salt – unlike its now popular usage – is a resource deriving from not added to the mix. Indeed it was that peculiarity – a bastardization such as, “It’s what you get out of life not what you put into it that counts” – which prompted me to appraise what exactly I had been given by similar percolation from the ground upon which I have walked throughout my lifetime.

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The problem I find knowing people who contribute to society is that they are as a result partially impenetrable.  I mean to say, getting together with a chap and his wife who have so clearly devoted a good deal of time, capital and energy to improvement all ’round, it soon becomes apparent that progress marches on and that nothing happens by accident.  I can only speculate that they must have consumed countless hours in the creation, institution and management of their latest projects (both commercial and domestic). This at least was the overall sensation which insinuated our Sunday afternoon foregathering on their exquisite deck overlooking the tranquil, meandering Rideau River and the distant traces of historic architecture across the water in the Village of Merrickville.

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