I knew when I awoke from my groggy sleep at 6:00 am this morning that I would linger in bed at most for another hour. My Protestant ethic had percolated and overtaken. Clocks to be wound; habits to be performed; cleansing and purification to attend. In fact it was pushing 7:30 am when I drew back the drapes and announced my ascent. We prepared ourselves for bicycling and were soon on the road. An early Sunday morning. Hot and humid already! Glorious summer weather!
Today is June 5th, what feels to be the true start of summer balminess! It is the first time I’ve worn only a golf shirt (without a sweater) when bicycling. The humidity is palpable; and the expected high is 28°C. The Farmer’s Market was happening today – a Saturday morning ritual in the summer. People were not out in droves on the Ottawa Valley pathway but we passed two or three gaggles of walkers (some with dogs) and we were overtaken by at least four solo cyclists and one swarm of what looked to be amateur racing enthusiasts all wearing exotically coloured synthetics, clustered tightly together like gnats seemingly unaware of anyone else.
This morning – a Friday – we set off rather earlier than usual and somewhat aggressively upon the completion of a routine shopping agenda. It was strictly a so-called “grocery shopping” which means the necessities not a search for new retail acquisitions such as the latest iPhone, Apple Watch, MacBook Pro or iPad. We clearly had it in our heads that getting to the grocery store (Guido Patrice’s Your Independent Grocer) early in the morning meant beating the rush whatever and whenever that might be. To our credit we did however first insist upon going for our constitutional 5 km bicycle ride about the neighbourhood before succumbing to the grocery cart. There were already a number of dog walkers and other cyclists upon the periphery.
I travel the Appleton Side Road regularly, almost once a day, unfailingly. It is my preferred road in and out of Almonte when I exercise my car-washing ceremony in Stittsville. It occurred to me upon leaving Almonte today that I have a number of recollections arising from places along the Appleton Side Road between Almonte and the Village of Appleton where I have many times turned off the Appleton Side Road into the Village towards the Mississippi Golf Club. It is no coincidence that it was in the summer of 1976 that I met with Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers &c. at the golf club over dinner to initiate my employment with them in Almonte.
Mayor Christa Lowry
Phone (613) 256-2064
Deputy Mayor Rickey Minnille
Phone (613) 889-4479
Councillor Jan Maydan
Councillor Almonte Ward
Councillor John Dalgity
Councillor Almonte Ward
When Americans have occasion to examine themselves with any retrospective clarity, Donald J. Trump’s embarrassing four years as Resident Clown in the White House will go down as the “Big Lie”. From the moment of his first appearance on the stage of Republican presidential nominees, his roller-coaster performance has been an unparalleled deceit. And why should it not? Trump was on stage as an 2-bit entertainer from beginning to end. The only thing he truly adores about the presidency is the entitlement to public attention. It need not even be adulation. And it certainly wasn’t for the “power”.
I cannot now recall the last time I gripped my fingers to the edge of a bridge and cautiously peered over the railing to survey the roaring water below. It is an arresting exercise as I am sure you know. One can so easily loose oneself in the turbulence. Yet if it were not for the gushing current I suspect one’s interest in what is going on below would be more romantic than inspiring. The gurgle of a shallow stream might instead blend with the chirping of the birds. The adage about “water under the bridge” refers to events in the past that should not be worrisome because they happened a long time ago and cannot now be changed. This doesn’t however alter the intrigue concerning what did in fact occur in the past, happily or not. And just what if anything should linger as a concern or otherwise.
The fortuity of life is mercurial; but when it’s on the upswing it’s marvellous! And what could make today’s serendipity more beneficial than a balmy summer morn under a cloudless azure sky. It was in the grip of this unexpected Nirvana that I took off mid-afternoon with the windows down and the landau roof open along the ribbon of highway towards Renfrew County through the verdant fields.
I am part of the venerated Anglican communion of the Church of England. I presume so at least because – though I am no longer a contributing member – to my knowledge I’ve never been formally banished from it. Nor have I have received a rejection letter in the mail or an email regarding embarrassing proceedings to be undertaken against me. In 1963 at fourteen years of age I was formally branded one of the fold while attending public school at St. Andrew’s College where we literally went to chapel “every day of the week and twice on Sundays”. As a consequence Sunday has always been a marked day of the week for me. Even the advent of retail shopping on Sunday never succeeded fully to withdraw me from the solemn wash upon the seventh day of the week. No doubt in later years my devotion during the rest of the week to the profane (and may I add parenthetically, rather demanding) practice of law and the vulgar enterprise of making money contributed to the welcome sustenance of the dignified nature of Sunday. It is a predominant feature which to this day I have yet to undo from my otherwise knotted being.
Acquaintances of ours lately disappeared off the local map to far away Newfoundland where they’re on the North Atlantic Ocean across the Labrador Sea from Greenland and Iceland on the same latitude as England 52.3555° N, 1.1743° W. I cannot help but be taken by the nautical theme and the mettlesome spirit of the move. Both lifelong ambitions of mine!