In anticipation of the upcoming US presidential election in November, 2020 there are many who purport to envisage Trump’s re-election for a second term following his scrape through the Electoral College in 2016. One such person is Pulitzer Prize-winning author David Cay Johnston:

“Though he is not a criminal like Gotti, Trump’s unsinkable reputation shows he is a Teflon Don for our own era. Deceptions, lies and near-treasonous acts of disloyalty such as saying he trusts Vladimir Putin over American intelligence agencies merely slide off him.“

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Christmas morning with my parents – whether in Canada or abroad – was always a buoyant atmosphere.  My mother, in addition to lavish household decorations, gifts and endless baking, ensured an appropriate punctuation of the moment by first serving Champagne in fresh squeezed orange juice. The breakfast – tender filet mignon, creamy yellow scrambled eggs, croissants with butter and homemade strawberry jam – was so rich and fulfilling that we often interrupted our dining pleasure to re-visit the drawing room beside the Christmas tree to investigate more presents or to read my father’s recently composed and handwritten Yuletide message to the family.

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It is with a qualified sigh that I relate having collected my new car from the dealership service department today. After almost two months of complaining and hounding the dealership principles and Lincoln Motor Company all seems well with the exception of a cosmetic part on order.  The final proof is to test the erstwhile offending exhaust system from a cold start tomorrow morning. It is but hesitatingly that I rub the palms of my hands together in utter glee as after parking the vehicle following a prolonged drive this afternoon there was minor evidence of what seemed to be carbon residue from what was otherwise a solely Adam’s ale condensation. For the moment however I shall content myself with having regained possession of my new toy and so far having tested it with mostly favourable results.

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This pandemic business of quarantining, self-isolation, social distancing, face masks, disposable gloves and closed retail and professional services is wearing upon me! It may appear that in the context of my admittedly repetitive and diluted agenda nothing much has changed. This is incorrect. I miss going to Neat Café for a “normal” coffee experience – that is, other than bending into a keyhole to order and then the acrobatics of exchanging product for payment. The rest room is closed to the public, not exactly an endearing feature for those of us who travel a distance to get there. The outdoor seating arrangements – aside from suffering the whim of the weather – are technically illegal. The prospect of planning a Sunday brunch with friends is completely off the map.

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Amidst the kerfuffle of daily living it is at times difficult to maintain a sense of propriety such as one would imagine attaching to a mildly sophisticated bearing for example. The cultivation of humanity in the human race is no casual endeavour! I do of course imply that the measure of civility is one approaching the cerebral above the visceral motivations. Not that I particularly extoll the virtues of reason beyond instinct. In fact I rather prefer the gut reaction to the strictly reasoned and often prolonged analysis that characterizes much of what I find distasteful. But without dwelling unnecessarily upon that which is ultimately purely diminishing I am reminded of the useful adage to the effect that “Manners are only needed when the going gets tough!”

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It was 7:45 am this morning when at last I succumbed to my indefatigable work ethic (which at this particular juncture amounts to nothing more than indigenous guilt) and tore off the linen sheet and red lightweight woollen blanket. After a stimulating breakfast of chilled black coffee, sliced green apple, a wedge of Brie cheese and precisely five dried prunes, the day began as usual with a purgative bicycle ride along the erstwhile railway right-of-way from the Old Town Hall to Martin St N and back.  While I cycled on the path a medical assistant from the local hospital called to report that my family physician had not informed me of the outcome of my recent blood work and X-ray because “everything was perfect“. This was a hugely curious response to my latest enquiry! Clearly they are unfamiliar with the legal adage that “silence is not acceptance“. Presumably the commercial vernacular is more acute than the medical!

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Horse trading, in its literal sense, refers to the buying and selling of horses, also called “horse dealing.” Due to the difficulties in evaluating the merits of a horse offered for sale, the sale of horses offered great opportunities for dishonesty, leading to use of the term horse trading (or horsetrading) to refer to complex bargaining or other transactions, such as political vote trading. It was expected that horse sellers would capitalize on these opportunities and so those who dealt in horses gained a reputation for underhanded business practices.

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When visiting Eric Balcom many years ago at his residence alongside the Atlantic Ocean he told me a tale about him and his business colleagues who met for lunch at the Lord Nelson Hotel in Halifax, NS.  They were all on the Board of Directors of the same company.  Newly appointed to their membership was a farmer from the nearby countryside. The farmer had never been to the Lord Nelson Hotel. When they sat for lunch Eric sat next to the farmer.  Eric recognized in an instant that the farmer was confused by the items on the menu.  Accordingly Eric suggested this and that based upon his prior experience.  The farmer chose precisely as Eric had recommended. But after lunch the farmer unhesitatingly chose tea rather than coffee.  All the other men at the big round dining table ordered coffee instead of tea.  The young waitress – to whom the businessmen were indistinguishable – correctly reasoned that she would first deliver the tea to the farmer then return with the coffee for the others.

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There are endless quips about getting old. Judging solely by the way I look and feel in the morning as I pry myself from the lair I’m set to illustrate the mocking witticisms.  Naturally everything within me intended for mobility aches. If it doesn’t ache it won’t bend – at least not properly. It has been almost ten weeks since I had a haircut. Thanks to the Oreo cookies and Nanaimo Bars from Baker Bob I’m guessing my “physique” resembles something other than a race horse. What however utterly surprises me – because I can’t in all honesty pretend that incremental decline does – is my shameless and seemingly inexorable dedication to habit. More to the point it is my abhorrence of whatever it is that disturbs the daily enactment of my trifling hobbies. I stand firm upon this assertion. Don’t try confronting me with, “Oh, you love it!” No, I do not! I assure you I am perfectly capable to bear the deprivation of disruption.

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The date is critically close to the first day of June. The exquisitely balmy weather atmospherically heralds approaching summer. The corridor of verdant foliage along the bicycle path adjacent the Mississippi River (and the channel surrounding Coleman’s Island) lent a magical theme to our morning cycle. We dipped off the gravel pathway long enough to travel upon the well-trod track leading through Al Potvin’s and Shirley Deugo’s property. In that process I encountered Billy Sullivan and his 10-year old daughter Ėlise (whose twin brother William I spoke with just days ago in similar circumstances). The children have a new brother who according to his justifiably proud father is full of p&v.

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