In a world wrought with grievance and setback it hardly seems proper that one should become so buoyant as I now am.  Certainly I have my concerns, my paltry issues, my own complaints about what appears to be a decided evolution.  But uplifted by our early morning constitutional in the clear, frosty air and afterwards breakfast of MaraNatha organic crunchy peanut butter and St. Matthew Passion by Johann Sebastian Bach, I am indisputably aflutter! And silly me, I carelessly overlooked the Canada Grade A maple syrup! The Sacrament of Heaven!

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Living in a small town in rural Ontario it is easy to overlook the talent. The relevance is often closer than you’d imagine.  Granted we of Ramsay Township and Almonte are familiar with our celebrated heroes James Naismith (inventor of basketball), R. Tait McKenzie (sculptor) and James Mackintosh Bell (famed geologist).

James Abbott Mackintosh Bell was born at St Andrews, Quebec, Canada, on 23 September 1877, the son of Andrew Bell, a civil engineer and architect, and his wife, Marianne Rosamond. The family moved to Almonte, Ontario, when James was a child, and he received his early education there. He studied at Queen’s College, Kingston, graduating MA in 1899, then went to Harvard University in 1903 to study for his PhD, which he received in 1904. His field work included pioneer exploration in Arctic Canada for the Geological Survey of Canada with his uncle, Robert Bell. He also worked for several companies as a mining expert.

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A cowboy singer who I believe is no longer whinnying among us – perhaps its was John Denver – wrote a song called “Rocky Mountain High”.

And the Colorado rocky mountain high
I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky mountain high

The ’70s song was briefly controversial for promoting drug abuse. It never affected me that way.  I fully accept the intended meaning of high one gets upon seeing the Rockies and from the concurrent atmospheric pressure on those superb days of clear blue sky and thin dry air.

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Sometimes things just click!  Maybe it’s no more than the fruit of a sound sleep. Or the triumph of figuring how to make your iPhone work properly. Maybe being able to transfer the organic peanut butter out of the jar onto the baguette bagel without making a mess. Or changing the bed and starting the laundry. The overnight skiff of snow having evaporated from the roadway, beaconing a refreshing bicycle ride in the strapping northerly wind. The unparalleled appeasement of a complete evacuation! Whatever it is, it’s the same world but with a new look, a state of the art feeling, a sudden proximity of views and insights. The sedentary glow of long ago memories in Montréal Est.

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I have difficulty naming a favourite place.  While I know the choice doesn’t depend upon having seen the entire world, I am nonetheless aware of having confined my voyages to North America and Europe (and a bit of what is in between, including the Caribbean, the Gulf of Mexico and two voyages by sea across the Atlantic Ocean). I say this not with remorse but rather as acknowledgement of the divine views which I have no doubt are otherwise attainable. We have friends living in New Zealand who have invited us to visit. There is little in my mind more exotic than the South Pacific. But it is not likely to happen.  Of greater likelihood – and of equal attraction – is a return jaunt to Sardegna where I have already frequented the north and south parts of the island. It has for me the allure of being remote (or perhaps I should say infrequent). There is as well – at least on the south coast – a Bohemian character which I like. Plus there is something staid about lingering in the airport in Rome just long enough to leave!

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The casualty of clean living is an early awakening. We saw the sunrise today at 6:20 am.  Following a violent wind last evening we were rewarded this morning with clear skies; and the temperature pointed to a high of 7°C. The air was dry. Though I am recovering from the disturbance of two flat tyres in as many days we mounted our bicycles and filtered onto our regular pathway.The early morning travellers included a parked rumbling truck, a dedicated young female jogger, an F-150 Ford truck and a gentleman walking his French bulldog Zoey. Portions of the road were finely glazed with ice but predominantly the pavement was dry.

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It is prescriptive that things will change. For some the transition is regrettable, essentially one from good to bad. There are naturally special circumstances surrounding such misfortune; and often others presume to tell you how to improve your life or even worse, how to return to the way things were. Rewinding the clock is one thing; going backwards in time is another. The only thing phelgmatic is the step ahead. In some respects every one of us has had to endure complication and crisis, things beyond mere ineluctability like old age.  Life is never a breeze. Hearkening back to what was and comparing it to what now is can be staggering – on either count, up or down. How did we get from there to here? What enchanting process is it by which we threaded the detail of the past to get to the woven fabric that is the present?

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Today marks the fulfillment of an agenda of objectives, three things I’ve had on my mind for the past many weeks. They are in truth things, no more than that, not ideas or plans or meetings, just things, things no more dignified than any others. Forgive me for appearing to be coy about what in particular the things are. The thesis and consequence that arises from the attainment of the objectives is the lesson, not the objectives (or things) themselves.  What after all does it matter in any event what the things are?  If I were to say one thing or another, the credibility is likely no different; and the magnetism of one thing or another is highly unlikely at least universally.  In any event, as I say, what matters is the outcrop of the so-called seeds that were planted. Clearly the episode has affected me both intellectually and emotionally. As someone who considers it is the little things that so often matter, I am provoked to analyze this tertiary dénouement.

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I am reminded today of the huge importance of certain relationships in my lifetime.  While I am tempted in a moment of gushing enthusiasm to embrace everyone with whom I’ve participated on any level (on the theory that it’s all good), my corresponding level of gin is thankfully not as high and I shall therefore sidestep the “I love you, Man!” proclamation for the entire universe for the time being. Instead I am presently mindful of those singular and refined associations which continue to percolate in my memory notwithstanding sometimes long periods of absence and silence.

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Yesterday morning when bicycling I became aware of what sounded like a flat back tyre. By the time I was returning home on Country Street it was more than a merely “noticeable” impediment.  Accordingly I stopped at the first corner and got off the bike to examine it closely.  It was indeed going flat but there was yet some air in it. I remounted the bike and attempted to cycle a further distance.  It was no use ignoring the dilemma any longer.  I walked the rest of the way home, clinging to the handlebars as I did so, thankful at least that I had the bike to hang onto.  Walking I knew was not my favourite exercise. This however was not the end of my punishment.

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