I have always considered it odd that I relate so unreservedly and eagerly to what I conjure up to be my native roots.  This is admittedly a popular adornment these days – what with all the media attention to historical connections of Europeans with Africans and First Nations. It is naturally unimaginable what may be the precise – if indeed any – insinuation of the “blithe Spirit” or whatever it is that so magically produces an alignment with the fleshy enlargement of the past. But I am nonetheless convinced of the connection. For one thing, my skin tans remarkably well in the sun. For another, my ancestry in Canada goes back to about 1798 or thereabouts, a fact which in my opinion renders it highly probable that somewhere along the line there was communication by the interlopers with the residents. I cannot help being influenced by my unadulterated affection for silk and the notable suggestion that the native Indians acknowledged both heterosexual, homosexual and “Two Spirit” denominations.

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Over forty-four years ago in June of 1976 I arrived in Almonte with my purebred Yellow Labrador puppy appropriately christened by me at the kennel as Lanark Drummond Beckwith of Rosedale (a reference to three of the townships in the county).  Mr. Justice Alan D. Sheffield (one of the principles of Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers &c. by whom I was hired as a junior) arranged for me to rent a house belonging to Rev. and Mrs. Geo. Bickley on Martin St S not far from the current lookout by the Mississippi River at the end of St. Paul Street.  Rev. Bickley was then the presiding minister at St. Paul’s Anglican Church on Clyde Street near the Land Registry Office. My move into the house was a bit frosty thanks to the stiff objection Mrs. Bickley registered to my request to store some of my belongings in the garage before the former tenant had fully moved out.

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There are moments when suddenly and stunningly it feels impossible to move. It is an unconventional sensation because the governing knot is at once both indescribable and unseen. Without the evidence or explanation of an obstructing rail (or a psychotic gloss) there persists near paralysis. Seemingly there are seasons of emotions. And just as the frozen weather can provoke a stark reality so too can an unexpected coolness of instinct. Both are natural; both are normal.

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The day is distinguishable for several reasons.  One, today it’s snowing in the genre of a palpable storm, the first of the season. Two, yesterday I finally had the MRI I’ve been awaiting for over two years. Three, tomorrow is the last day before my birthday. In the result I am feeling energized. These three almost unnoticeable events have succeeded to relieve me of an equal number of preoccupations. As odd as it may seem the uncharacteristic transition to Canada for the winter is now complete. The elastic has been broken. No longer is it necessary or desirable or possible to cling to the past. A quick examination of our agenda for the next several months discloses nothing but repetitive performances of strictly functional purpose.

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As convenient as it is to mock the keenness which surrounds Christmas, there is no denying the gusto that precedes the day.  Something there is that ignites sentimentality and often unparalleled generosity. That the eagerness begins to soar in early December is perfectly tolerable because once Christmas Day arrives, it’s a speedy downhill ride! Though I dislike those hard-bitten observations that the kick of Christmas is its wishful hopefulness, the child-like conjectures and dreamy visions of a tinselled tree and roaring fireplace, it is precisely those intangibles that enflame the event.

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When one’s life is foretold by medical appointments, visits from the housekeeper, birthdays, income tax instalments and dividend payments, there isn’t much of consequence to report when being casually asked, “What’s the news?”  Quite simply there isn’t any news. Though I’ve always acknowledged my repetitious lifestyle (frankly a feature I consider relieving by virtue of its simplicity and legitimacy) it doesn’t market well as either topical or intriguing. Yet from this inconsequence I derive subtle – dare I say, smug – pleasure. Indeed it is an irrelevance upon which I actively thrive. For the other reality of my being is the inherent affection for dichotomy, what I characterize as the binary nature of things. The division of the world into two parts is a global separation of what at first appears to be competing ideas though in fact they are likely no more than two arguments – or what may more delicately be described in the computer vernacular as “two possible values for each pixel“.

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Often at the start of our constitutional bicycle outings – such as we took this wintry morning in early December – we jokingly announce the intended direction of our ride by trumpeting, “La route précise!” It’s our vernacular for whatever passage we normally take when bicycling – something we’ve traditionally done throughout the year. Habit has succeeded to insinuate everything we do. This year however has afforded two exceptions to that once favourable rule. First because we’re in Canada this winter, it is reasonably assured that we may be unable to bicycle throughout the season.  So far we’ve escaped the intolerance of snow – having only to endure the decidedly fresh air – but I suspect that today’s novelty will soon subside. Second the so-called “route précise” faces a further complication because our path is the Ottawa Valley Trail upon the erstwhile railway right-of-way. Because the trail is intended to accommodate snowmobilers in the winter – and because few in their right mind would prefer to walk or cycle upon heavy snow – we rightfully expect to be unable to pursue that path for much longer. So much for la route précise!

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It’s Saturday morning.  Outside it’s not especially cheery.  The sky is dull and grey, crystals of snow softly falling under a still dome upon the stubble in the  brown fields beyond. There is just enough sunlight to luminate the overwhelming grey to a dull yellow tint. Thanks to Apple Music© I am listening to Fauré’s Requiem, Charles Dutoit conducting l’Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal. It is part of what Apple labels my “Station“, an algorithm of my favourite composers from the library. Yet another example of the sorcery of technology!

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Until I have had my morning shower, brushed my hair and applied the requisite skin cream, I live in fear of what lies before me. So accustomed am I to duty and obligation – contaminated as it is by the Protestant Work Ethic – that until I set myself in gear for the perfunctory performances of the day there lingers a distant remorse. The ruefulness is however speedily ditched upon fulfilling the native obligations of breakfast and coffee. Cleanliness and food are the minimalistic ingredients of accomplishment.

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Perhaps I am still tottering from yesterday’s unanticipated – though hugely uplifting – brush with coincidence. After struggling for the past week or maybe the last ten days to accommodate within myself the misfortune of an icy communication with another resident, we appear to have fully recovered.  It was more an act of strong-will and mutual ignorance which preserved us both from a wasteful re-enactment of the event. Instead we have continued our restful paddle down life’s winding river, suffering as we must by nature the consequence at once as demanding and as glorious as passage to the City of Prague along Bedrich Smetana’s Má Vlast: Vltava “Die Moldau“.

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