We Westerners may have a thing or two to learn from our primordial ancestors. I’m not saying the Egyptians, the Greeks or the earliest natives of Africa have risen above the vulgar allure of capitalism and all that it entails – the likes of garbage, pollution and climate change – but we perhaps owe it to ourselves as a human race to be circumspect of the direction in which we’re so gleefully heading. In doing so we must at a minimum adopt a platform of open-handedness. It continues to be an undercurrent of my catholic thesis that in the end it is cooperation that spells profit and success all ’round.

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I’ve heard it said that the political division among Americans is axiomatic – namely, a predictable corollary to a two-party system. Though the term binary doesn’t capture the imperative of division it nicely explains the constant polarity of politicians. The word axiomatic on the other hand goes beyond self-evident to the point of logically conclusive. As I am sure you know, the common example is 2 + 2 = 4. What however poisons the otherwise indisputable deduction is the contamination of differences of opinion with extreme positions. The Republicans regularly call their Democratic colleagues the “Radical Left“. The Democrats meanwhile routinely insinuate that Republicans are the demons of wealth, white supremacists and mysogynists.

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This misty Sunday morning – threatened as it is by freezing rain – proves to be an ideal stage for languorous expression.  And the romantic sentimentalism of Gustav Mahler. I awoke mid-morning after a prolonged sleep fostered by Melatonin (the naturopathic sedative heralded by the wife of my dentist).  With the aid of Tylenol 650 mg I struggled as a consequence to restore a semblance of manipulation to my recovering and now arthritic broken ribs, deteriorating lower spine and neuropathic limbs and feet. Just saying. Likewise the elements prevailed. Gone for the moment at least is the urgency to cycle to restore one’s psychic balance and physical decorum. The diminished temperatures and already alarmingly low sun on the distant horizon contribute naturally to the clime of wintry isolation. I too intend to sink to provincialism.

What shall we do when the snow flies?

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Not infrequently one sadly reads of criminal activity in small rural towns.  Ours is no exception. Since my arrival here in 1976 with my yellow Labrador puppy I have learned of several instances of the criminal mind at work.  My personal involvement (very early in my career) was the attempted bribery of me by two young tricksters whom I met late one night by chance in a bar “on the other side of the River“; namely, a soda fountain in Hull, Québec. One of them at least came from my home town. Apparently I subsequently made the mistake of inviting them to my home for a drink.  After their visit I was telephoned twice by an unidentified person (whom I knew in an instant was either or both of the youngsters). They demanded $50 or “there would be trouble!”

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By contrast to what I suspect is more standard – especially during this beastly pandemic – my current state of affairs is anything but distressed.  Indeed if I were compelled to render an exact account of my status it is a subject willingly approached and with decided gusto. Such is the tincture of life that its detail is for me almost one of a fairy book mock-up. I suffer a flagrant and barefaced self-satisfaction.

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It quite astounds me to hear on American cable news that journalists are as strung out as I by the bickering politicians who rather than dedicate their ephemeral political lives to the common good prefer instead to the preserve a lifetime career. It creates a motley image of worldwide discontent. Though we inferior nationalists from the outlying city states resent having to cow-tow to the United States of America as the modern-day Roman Empire there is no denying that their ambitions – failed or successful – are perpetually intriguing.  Yet there is likewise no denying the frequency of Americans wishing to emigrate to Canada. We can derive some strength from the hardship endured at Reading Goal by one of our greatest literary minds Oscar Wilde.

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Throughout the past four years of Donald J. Trump’s performance as cartoon-President of the United States of America I regularly expressed the native curiosity to discover what shenanigans Trump had been up to on that particular day. His distortions and absurdities have however since taken a nose-dive following the election of Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. In plain terms Trump is no longer funny or amusing; rather he is singularly puerile and innately threatening to good government. His perversions and psychotic behaviour are manifest. Giving Trump the benefit of the doubt – and to acknowledge his entitlement to dispute the election results – we shall endure a further period of anxiety as he fulfills his investigations and piteous law suits. Meanwhile I am not impressed!

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When I think back upon what I’ve heard and seen of Donald J. Trump  – beginning with his outstandingly distorted comment about his inauguration crowd, his lasciviousness, his psychotic proclamation of genius and wealth, his history of litigation and bankruptcy, his relentless devotion to negativism, his constant denial of fact and perpetuation of lies – there is nothing, absolutely nothing which appeals to me. I say this with great care and purpose. I am mindful of what to me is the peculiar attraction of Trump’s vulgarity to what he himself has insinuated are his incapable or inadequate supporters – what Hilary Clinton astutely observed were the so-called “deplorables“. Though I recognize the historic division between “Country Mouse” and “City Mouse“, the distinctions are normally confined to the members themselves. Heightening the separation of people with comic-like leaders shown holding a flag on a tank leading a charge into war is perhaps entertaining – even stimulating for some – but decidedly childish in the circumstances. Most importantly Trump’s theatrics – while impressive to a circus scout – have done nothing on the legislative scene to improve the lot of his supporters.

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Sporadically throughout the past eight months since our precipitous and unfavourable return from Longboat Key to Canada on March 21st last we’ve canvassed journeying as far east as the Atlantic Ocean in Nova Scotia and as far west as the Pacific Ocean in New Zealand. For the moment – at the very least until our medical insurers agree to cover our aging and pandemic needs – we’re resigned by default to linger here. As romantic or exotic travel may normally be, the current situation makes adventure far less appealing and maybe perilous.

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Someone asked me today, “What kind of lawyer?” to which I replied, “Oh just a country lawyer“. Anyone who knows me recognizes in an instant that there is nothing either humble or dismissive about my response. Typically the inquirer was himself from the city and therefore had little if any acquaintance with or sensitivity to the deliberate disparagement of country people generally. This is especially so for one such as I who, being originally from the metropolis, graduated to the bucolic Town of Almonte over 44 years ago. Soon thereafter I hung out my shingle for the practice of law. I quickly learned from my predecessor Raymond A. Jamieson, QC that the local economy was governed by the “trades” not businessmen. Aligned with this intelligence was the discrete annotation that there was frequently considerable capital involved, a vulgarity which common decency insisted be naturally avoided.

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