Today – on the eve of a potentially catastrophic or uplifting runoff vote for the Senate control – and for the first time since I was drawn to relentless interest in American politics in 2016 following the astonishing election of comic television entertainer Donald J. Trump as president of the United States of America I heard the voice of leadership. I refer to today’s late afternoon address of Gabriel Sterling on national radio. It was an uncharacteristically candid report delivered with the axiomatic estrangement of a medical physician. I’m still rejoicing! At last someone has shown what it is to have intelligence and capacity. And a moral backbone truly reflective of the atmospheric dedication of a public servant.

“Many conservative House Republicans defended President Donald Trump in the aftermath of his phone call demanding Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger “find” the votes needed for him to win the elections in his state — as Democrats began drafting a resolution seeking to censure Trump over the matter.“

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Lock it up, put it in a box
Seal it away in Fort Knox
The year that was is dead and gone
The world is ready to face a new dawn

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There are as I am certain you know discoverable secrets for handling a problem.  My problem is winter. It is a decidedly pervasive influence at this time of year in Canada and one that requires exacting manoeuvres complicated by the COVID pandemic.  Until now we’ve dodged the overwhelming effect of winter but I have at last avowed the ineluctable reality. The passage from summer and autumn to winter has been an extra special test because – in terms that are understandable – I have had to compose an entirely new wardrobe and so far without success. The least compelling modification has been to reacquaint myself with the art of layering; learning to avoid wearing too much or too little depending on the temperature and snow condition. The most demanding alteration has been the switch from short pants to long pants.  This is not something I prefer to do because for the past six years I have literally worn nothing but short pants throughout the entire year! Short pants are for me the acme of comfort; and I have a considerable collection as testament to the persuasion. When buying them I have only to get the correct waist size; no need to fuss with the alteration of length. It is the fortune of the current circumstances that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go.  Accordingly I wear only sweat pants, an unflattering compromise preferred by old fogeys generally.  And for good reason!

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Unless you were in the movies it’s pretty much assured that no one remembers you and that nobody cares. Even the essence of rock stars and concert pianists diffuses with lightning speed. This is particularly guaranteed if your genes are such that you’ve begun to outlive your friends and acquaintances; or that you have the unconscious distinction to enjoy better health than they. It is the tyranny of truth that – apart perhaps from one’s grandchildren  –  time will soon erode anything but anecdotal memories of even the once famous or accomplished. Certainly for the majority of us the eclipse is rapid. It’s initially a depressing realization that one can’t recollect any more than the broadest details of one’s own life; and you awaken to the acceptance of mounting insignificance and irrelevance. It’s a decline hardly touched by the putative brilliance – like the last flicker of a candle –  of writing one’s obituary. You won’t be around to savour it; and for those who are it will form but a brief interruption of the day.

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The arrival of January 1st, 2021 affords us each the chance to straighten the curves, to flatten the bumps and to set the course ahead. It is a remarkably inspiring opening and one which notwithstanding its traditional drama and poetry – including perhaps the remorseful recovery from an aching head or upset stomach arising from last night’s reverie and intended consolation – is still worth the while even if incalculable. What better prescription than a new drug to start the new year! It is as much a product of hope as incentive.

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Last night I had a most perplexing dream.  It was intriguing because of its uncommon verisimilitude. Indeed so entrancing was the sensation that I was grateful upon realizing its dream state and slowly recovering from the experience.  As with so many of these hallucinations I can recall only sketchy detail.  The tale is notable for its colour; namely, dark green, shadows. There were cobblestone walkways and narrow alleys.  And drizzling rain. The  object of the fantasy has naturally either evaporated into the night or was never a recognizable feature. The dream was governed more by foreboding than calculated purpose. What lingered was the indisputable contest with people whom I seemed to know. There were strong reactions on both sides; and when the argument was over, others joined me in recounting the contest and uniting in agreement. It did however leave a sense of division and isolation, partly welcome by the default of having removed oneself from perpetual angst; partly worrisome by the paradoxical punishment of withdrawal.

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“But then, even in the most insignificant details of our daily life, none of us can be said to constitute a material whole, which is identical for everyone, and need only be turned up like a page in an account-book or the record of a will; our social personality is created by the thoughts of other people. Even the simple act which we describe as “seeing some one we know” is, to some extent, an intellectual process. We pack the physical outline of the creature we see with all the ideas we have already formed about him, and in the complete picture of him which we compose in our minds those ideas have certainly the principal place. In the end they come to fill out so completely the curve of his cheeks, to follow so exactly the line of his nose, they blend so harmoniously in the sound of his voice that these seem to be no more than a transparent envelope, so that each time we see the face or hear the voice it is our own ideas of him which we recognise and to which we listen. ”

Excerpt From: Marcel Proust. “Swann’s Way.”

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With the precipitous advance of winter and the consequent evaporation of our cycling outings we’ve chosen to go for short walks. It is by any standard a moderate exercise but nonetheless a refreshing one particularly on a day such as today; viz., pellucid sky and indescribably fresh air. After but a moments inhalation of the frosty atmosphere and the rejuvenating extension of my limbs and crippled ribs the erstwhile dormancy fizzled. Today’s adventure took us closer to home than the last one on the Ottawa River near Crystal Bay.  Instead we conveniently visited another bay this time the one in Metcalfe GeoHeritage Park at the bottom of Bay Hill where stands the Brian J. Gallagher Generating Station on the Mississippi River here in town.

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You know, for instance, how tiresome Robert is about his food. Well, last night the mutton, I am bound to say, was a little underdone, and Robert was beginning to throw it about his plate in the way he has. Well, my Guru got up and just said, ‘Show me the way to kitchen’—he leaves out little words sometimes, because they don’t matter—and I took him down, and he said ‘Peace!’ He told me to leave him there, and in ten minutes he was up again with a little plate of curry and rice and what had been underdone mutton, and you never ate anything so good. Robert had most of it and I had the rest, and my Guru was so pleased at seeing Robert pleased. He said Robert had a pure white soul, just like you, only I wasn’t to tell him, because for him the Way ordained that he must find it out for himself. And today before lunch again, the Guru went down in the kitchen, and my cook told me he only took a pinch of pepper and a tomato and a little bit of mutton fat and a sardine and a bit of cheese, and he brought up a dish that you never saw equalled. Delicious! I shouldn’t a bit wonder if Robert began breathing-exercises soon. There is one that makes you lean and young and exercises the liver.”

Queen Lucia, E. F. Benson

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The term “cucking-stool” is older, with written records dating back to the 13th and 14th centuries. Written records for the name “ducking stool” appear from 1597, and a statement in 1769 relates that “ducking-stool” is a corruption of the term “cucking-stool”. Whereas a cucking-stool could be and was used for humiliation with or without ducking the person in water, the name “ducking-stool” came to be used more specifically for those cucking-stools on an oscillating plank which were used to duck the person into water.

The term cucking-stool is known to have been in use from about 1215. It means literally “defecation chair”, as its name is derived from the old verb cukken and has not quite been rid of in many parts of the English speaking world as “to cack” (defecate) (akin to Dutch kakken and Latin cacāre [same meaning]; cf. Greek κακός/κακή [“bad/evil, vile, ugly, worthless”]), rather than, as popularly believed, from the word cuckold.

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