At 72 years of age I feel I’m entitled to extol the athletic accomplishment of a half-hour walk in the park. There must come a time when it’s acceptable – maybe even preferable – to give up the pretence of youth and immortality. Today we punctuated the end of what has been an historic Christmas 2020 with a short but invigorating stroll along the Ottawa River.
Since Christmas Day I suspect millions – both children and adults – have been toying with their new electronic devices. Defining myself as pragmatic is not a mark I would instinctively attribute to my personality. A closer and less airy characterization might be simplistic or blunt or narrow. I mention this because it is easy to become flummoxed by the legion of options on any one of the apparatus. It is as much a part of the set-up process to be guided by the principle I heard enunciated years ago in a comic death scene in an old black-and-white film, “You say to me, darling, What is the answer? and I say to you, What is the question?”
Shamefully this morning at 2:00 am – while listening to an unfamiliar and dynamic rendition of Handel’s Messiah conducted by Barnaby Smith – I twigged I had hitherto overlooked nearby Village of Clayton in my recent reflections upon the secrets and mysteries of Mississippi Mills of which the Village of Clayton is an important historical slice. Oddly enough on this Boxing Day 2020 it was two recent arrivals (who now live in the same building as we) from the Village of Clayton to the Town of Almonte (part of the conglomerate Mississippi Mills which includes broadly speaking the Townships of Ramsay and Pakenham – each about ten square miles – of which we all form a part) who awoke me to the oversight by sending me the link to the exceedingly fine chorus.
“Barnaby Smith is Artistic Director of the internationally renowned vocal ensemble VOCES8, Live From London digital festivals, and the UK and US arms of The VOCES8 Foundation. He is in demand as a conductor, choir trainer, countertenor and arranger. Barnaby completed his studies in Specialist Early Music Performance at the Schola Cantorum Basiliensis where he was a pupil of Andreas Scholl. Barnaby is also an alumnus of the Britten-Pears Young Artists Programme.“
It is a superlative privilege this morning to awaken sans regret, sans hang-over, sans malady, sans disquiet, sans preoccupation. The only consequence of Christmas Eve (apart from having drunk too much coffee too late in the day) is a modest protuberance after last night’s plentiful and very acceptable meal. Already the shiny Christmas cards accumulated upon the mahogany desk have begun to lapse like wilting flowers, their erstwhile nutrition all but drained. Soon we shall tuck away the fluffy Teddybear into a drawer, behind an envelope carton or other more compelling provision no doubt for riotous discovery in June or July next. The evaporation and purge will linger until tomorrow, Boxing Day, while for some inexplicable reason we observe the decency of a funeral cortege.
Forgive me if you will the cultural presumption that Christmas is on your agenda. I am further guessing that those for whom the religious experience of Christmas has all but vanished nonetheless continue to participate in the ritual of Christmas to some extent. The event has so insinuated society that it is no longer a precondition of its celebration to be either Christian or among the faithful. Christmas is for many people now submerged in the larger scheme of the “Season” or a “Winter Festival” and as such is merely a holiday whatever your practice. You can be assured that most of the country is shut down on Christmas morning. You can also count on a pervasive sentiment of good will and merriment frequently punctuated by gifts. What however isn’t quite so standard is what people will be doing on Christmas morning. It is no longer safe to assume that people will be in the family home much less gathered around the decorative tree. There are people who insist upon dismissing Christmas entirely and who make a point of insulating their children from what they consider the overwhelming vulgarity of Christmas. But even they must be doing something on Christmas morning.
Christmas Eve provides a rare chance to indulge oneself. It is assured that retailers will have anxiously abandoned their duties by noon. During this pandemic most people are content to go directly home; travel is unadvised. Whatever preparation is being made for social gathering, it will no doubt be confined to a predominantly narrow scope, perhaps even a welcome one (with the exception of grandparents who quite naturally pine relentlessly for their grandchildren).
The Winter Solstice has afforded not only the welcome prospect of longer days but also today at least spring-like weather, cool and dry and no new snow. On my return this afternoon from my customary flight in the Aviator to Renfrew County (after having dutifully washed the car and bought as requested some goat’s milk cheese at Grace in the Kitchen for this evening’s meal) the slanting sunshine in the azure sky beckoned. It was a suitable – and an athletically useful – opportunity for a walk in the park at the Village of Blakeney.
Shortly after two o’clock this morning I relented to my toxic mental agitation. Grasping my iPhone on the bedside table I silently withdrew to the drawing room, smalls and hoodie in hand, charily closing the bedroom door behind me. The midnight exit thus stealthily accomplished I next dressed myself in the sparse wardrobe, turned on the overhead light at table then commenced the exposition of what had so consumed me for the previous several hours, having monotonously heard the chimes of the Sligh grandfather clock every hour after eleven o’clock.
Four years ago when Donald J. Trump was elected president of the United States of America many people including myself characterized the sanction of a former television personality as merely a reaction to what almost everyone accepts as the often discredited self-interest of politicians. Trump’s questionable talent and notable vulgarity were dismissed as that of a “fresh face” who spoke “normally” and who was by extension dedicated to the will of the people and the satisfaction of their needs. Where the deduction goes awry is its failure to recognize the identical dereliction of which it accuses others; namely, self-interest. The more important concern about reasoned decision-making was at the time irrelevant.
What it is that so inestimably prompts the gusto of the season is not as easily related as it is perceived. I suspect each of us – given the differences surrounding our respective pasts – has a unique story, some no doubt melancholic, others unforgivingly indulgent, some perhaps merely suggestive like the picture of a sleigh ride in powdery snow through a muffled forest. I am confined today by natural overtures. There is a soft snowfall beneath a mournful grey sky. Granted it has succeeded to contaminate my daily habits of cycling and driving but I am prepared to relinquish such repetitive custom for the more ephemeral conversancy. Besides the chilling rawness of the outside enflames the reddish-brown warmth of the interior. As a mark of my conviction – and to capitalize upon the transient thrill of winter – I am sporting my new cravat (though admittedly with less than the noticeable aptness of outwear).