For as long as I can remember Sunday morning has been a time of imperative relaxation decorated with everything that contrives towards elongation and reflection. It is naturally for me (as a relic of the Christian vernacular) a day of rest, permitting an absorption in my bliss. In accession to the day’s religious overtone I regularly play music by the likes of Thomas Tallis:
Though the advantage of small-town living is not an uncommon refrain, Almonte enjoys more than the traditional affection of its inhabitants. In the past I have encountered people from other rural towns who spoke glowingly of their community but Almonte exceeds the approbation of even the most popular places.
Repetition, summarizing, making an inventory, recapitulating, freezing the moment, itemizing the plans, re-living the accomplishments, going over and over the same things again and again, that’s the business of obsession. It requires little brainpower to acknowledge that the experience does nothing to alter the facts, neither the past nor the future. It is a hopeless attempt to arrest the present. And yet I persist. I liken it to a dampening of my ritual haste, a government of my unstoppable prosecution of things, a tempering of the flurry of living. While it may afford a temporary hiatus it isn’t long before I regain my traction in the circular behaviour. Certainly some contemplation is never out of place, a purposeful assessment of what has been done and what is to be done. But in the end it is an exercise fraught with the peril of trying to stop the world from spinning to get off the whirling ride.
The lyrics of “Some Other Time” have beguiled me for years. The melody is mesmerizing. Whenever I hear it, it instantly puts me in a state of reflective reverie and melancholy. I first listened to the song on a CD called “A Jazz Romance: A Night in With Verve” released January 1, 1998, Universal Studios Canada Ltd. The piece is beautifully performed by Diana Krall (vocal) and Mark Whitfield (guitar). To jazz enthusiasts these artists represent the top of their class. I have since discovered that the CD is a “must have” for the jazz aficionado.
Part of what I love about being retired and living in Lanark County is the tradition we’ve instigated of motoring about the immediate area. It is of necessity primarily a rural absorption, long quiet roads in the country, waterways, trees, fields and Arcadian scenes generally. Our destination is seldom one of an urban character, rather quaint and secluded places frequently featuring a diverting geographic aspect peculiar to the Canadian Shield and Great Lakes Basin. The landscape is invariably reminiscent of the County’s Scottish namesake with regular outcroppings of granite, marble and limestone plains moderately disguised by a variety of tills, sands and clays left from the melting of the glaciers in the last ice age. If there is any commercial instinct involved in our meanderings it tends to a more specialized nature like galleries or locally produced products (everything from apple cider to coffee to leather goods). The furthest west we go is Kingston; our southern limit is bounded by Gananoque on the St. Lawrence River; to the east by Dunrobin; and north by what normally was not beyond White Lake. Yesterday we extended our northern frontier by venturing to Cobden. There we checked out the Whitewater Brewing Company, a place recommended by our hygienist Katrina at Dr. Naji Louis’ dental office.
I would prefer to be more interesting than I am. I imagine what it would be to have within one’s grasp the knowledge of thrilling things or places or to have done something extraordinary. As it is I have little to share but what constitutes an unvarying experience. Quite apart from the adage about writing about what one knows and sticking to the subjects with which one is acquainted, I frankly haven’t any choice but to do so. Anything else would amount to chicanery which I suspect I am not clever enough to advance with a scintilla of amusement or credibility in any event. So you will pardon me if I keep this simple.
Monday, April 10th
Today marked our departure from Hilton Head Island for the winter. And perhaps forever. As much as we thrilled to the resort – and I shall never forget my awakening elation upon landing on the Island seven years ago – we’ll not likely return. Age and circumstances mitigate against a repeat. We’ve decided with what remains of our time on this earth we want to do something different. So after a restless night we got under way at five o’clock this morning, completing the packing, loading the car then dropping the apartment keys at the estate agent’s office.
In the seven years we have been wintering on Hilton Head Island I have never once swum in the Ocean. It hurts me to say so but it was always too cold. The Atlantic – at least north of the Georgia/Florida state line – can be a formidable body of water, make no mistake. Once I recall having stuck a sandalled foot into the brine just to say I did it. Yet even when the ambient temperatures rose to the high 70s and zealous swimmers and surfers were gambolling in the water I hadn’t dared to take a chance. Perhaps my memories of swimming in the Atlantic in Nova Scotia in late summer had conditioned me to resile from the project. But today that changed. Today I went for a swim in the Atlantic Ocean on Hilton Head Island! And the water was fine, just fine.
For the past several days I have been reading Stephen King’s book “On writing: a memoir of the craft“. It was like reading a eulogy – his eulogy – or at the very least his c.v. (a disturbing insight into the hollow vanity that seemingly plagues every writer). It was anything but an instruction manual as I had expected it to be. I admit that the first part of the book – his autobiography – was entertaining (though frankly in a bar room drunk-talk sort of way).
This afternoon an eager young girl in a dripping wet bathing suit danced excitedly about the edge of the pool clamouring to her confederates in the pool below, “This is going to be the story about the pool!” No matter that it is a child’s instinct to create a narrative about life’s unfolding pedestrian dramas, the occasion prompted me as well to share the imperative. I too felt the need to dilate upon this singular experience. Water animates me. Little competes with a dip in salt water especially. It is a catharsis!