Last night for the second in a row we wearied ourselves until late in the evening hoping for an immediate determination of Joe Biden’s presidential bid. Again this morning as soon as I arose I pored over my iPhone in search of news from CNN, BBC, FOX NEWS, MSNBC and CBC. As might be expected there was nothing of material consequence anywhere to be found. Instead the networks have lapsed into the identical tarsome refrain as apparently has the rest of the world. The trenchant test of this otherwise paralytic state however is that my routine today unraveled pretty much as it always does – breakfast, cycling and a road drive. But when I launched myself onto the ribbon of highway which chronicles my circular route to Renfrew County and back, there was a decided wintry backdrop to the expansive barren fields.

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The US presidential election is not ending like a Christmas story! Nor by any measure is it ending as I would have hoped. From the moment I went to bed last night – after seeing the looming signs of a dog fight – I have been filled with despondency. My anxiety was instantly fuelled again this morning when I discovered the fearsome trend of the ballots. Never have I felt so thoroughly estranged from our American neighbours. The reputed inadequacies of Bell Canada (and every other telecommunications company for that matter) come nowhere near approaching the misfires and blunders of the citizens of the United States of America. My erstwhile alliance with and romance for USA is being incrementally battened down and deserted. Clearly neither I nor anyone else is capable of reading the democratic purpose, ambition or self-image of about half of American citizens.

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Can’t recall ever having been so thrilled about an election day as we – and (I’m guessing) the rest of the civilized world – were from the moment of awakening this morning. It is no accident the popular television channels are carrying films like “Air Force One” and “Dr. Strangelove” which highlight the possible horrible repercussions of a poor choice of leaders.

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It is not entirely unwittingly that I confess a decided partiality to the Town of Almonte. May I first say that my failure to have identified my beloved home as what is now part of the Town of Mississippi Mills is not meant to diminish the other members, namely the former Townships of Ramsay and Pakenham. The predominance of my bias has arisen over the past forty-four years as a resident whose social and professional activities were largely confined to the boundaries of the Town of Almonte. Beyond those limits I have been privileged (thanks to the suggestion many years ago of my law school crony James Allen MacEachern) to have read, re-read and relished each time E. F. Benson’s creations Mapp and Lucia.

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A vestige of snow encrusted the ground this morning. It was just enough to delay our constitutional bicycle ride, our expiation of all that has plagued us from our past, the white flakes crystallizing the future. The cold wind rattled the few remaining leaves on the already naked boughs of the solitary frigid trees.

What have I to contemplate while waiting for the past to go?

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Time is running out
The candidates fight, it’s still a bout
Battleground states, the keys to victory
But many polls are contradictory

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There is some traction to be gained from pure optimism, that inescapable encouragement from others – or maybe the instinctive project of oneself – to see the best side of things, to look at life as a challenge to be overcome, to arise above the nagging refrains which pull us down. Yet while these psychological and philosophic communications or intuitions may represent a worthy ambition, the result is more predictable and digestible (as it was today) when the bicycle ride was divine, the blueberry scone was utter perfection, the coffee was chilled, black and strong, the sky was blue, the air was dry and cold and generally speaking I was in a seemingly inexhaustible bumps-a-daisy mood!

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By coincidence I am listening to Ludovico Einaudi’s “Petricor” from his “Elements” album. I say it is fortuitous because its very pensive nature coincides delightfully with our afternoon drive into the country today. We once again abandoned our digs upon the scheduled visit of our housekeeper whom we’re quite certain can bear the deprivation of our presence while she attends to things. Normally we would have had some debate about where to go, in what direction to head and what to do. But COVID-19 has pretty much diluted that. And because the weather was inclement the landscape was universally grey and uninviting.

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Of all the emotions and settled thoughts which have convinced me inalterably  – or at the very least persuaded me beyond hesitation – two set themselves apart. One, is the recognition that razor clams in brine are not for everyone. Two, is the recognition that certain people are crazy. These are naturally purely metaphorical. The first for example captures the peculiarly individual – and innately powerful – characteristic of each of us. The second – though admittedly not as patent – is a universal trait which springs from a lapse which any one of us might suffer. Consider those instances when sudden paranoia or frightful impalpability arise.

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From the outset I confess I am among others who – although oft times more vocally than I – have generously acknowledged Donald J. Trump’s foray into politics. It usually goes something like this, “Well, you gotta give him credit!” When listening this morning to a FOX NEWS recording of Trump’s latest rally two things were patent: one, his rhetoric always entails a trashy-mouthed tale of discredit about somebody; and, two, he says nothing substantive – or if it seems that he does, it is usually false.

“Trumpery” first appeared in English in the mid-15th century with the meanings “deceit or fraud” (a sense that is now obsolete) and “worthless nonsense.” Less than 100 years later, it was being applied to material objects of little or no value.

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