As inclined as any self-respecting chronicler is to report on matters consequential, I have always felt it is entertaining (if not in fact ultimately educational or at the very least strictly historical) to record the trifling background details of daily living.  This is especially so when we reside – as in my opinion we are privileged to do – au bord de l’Océan.  Being within hearing of the squawking seagulls, the scent of the salt sea air and the limitless view of blue water is for me an unsurpassable opportunity! The most uncomplicated and pedestrian fabric of life here is a marvel. Even as I write I am staring at a herd of tiny Hilton Head White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus hiltonensis) foraging in the shrubbery on the crest of the dunes a mere 50 yards away.

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For other Sins they feel Remorse sometimes,
But sure no Poet e’re had Qualms for Rhimes;
Alas! no wholesom Counsel can be us’d
By a poor harden’d Wretch, when once Bemus’d:
Then don’t inhumanly your Pains mis-spend
On Reprobates, that you can never mend.
—Fr. Knapp, The Annual Miscellany, 1694

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While for some the posture may be rank with discourtesy, dealing with subalterns elicits for me a conditioned negative response; namely, “Principals only!” Years as a seasoned legal practitioner have alerted me to the potential pitfalls of agency relations, the most common abuse of which is the purported extension of authority to, or appropriation of it by, underlings. Aside from the offence of violating the principle of law that “delegatus non potest delegare” – he who is delegated may not delegate further – the practical concern is that sub-agents are unreliable both in point of law and as a general commercial proscription.

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Given the pitch of international political gossip lately – surrounding all things Trump – it’s small wonder that everything else pales by comparison. A fortiori anything I do in a day is assured to be virtually irrelevant and hardly worth mentioning. Yet only this afternoon as I vacantly reflected on these and other matters I marvelled at the outcome of my career which – though just short of an old man in a rocking chair staring at a meadow – has at least the gratification of unrepentant indolence.  Nor does this diminish the attraction of my personal vista. It is an ever-changing plate of blue and green sea water, a white sandy beach tinged by a purple hue and an almost indiscernible shadowy line of barrier islands below a misty horizon. Above it large birds – likely the graceful but preposterous pelicans – wing across the sky. The sunsets are marvellous.

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My descent into curmudgeonly conduct has accelerated at an Olympic rate. On the one hand I feel obliged to apologize for the burgeoning acerbity. On the other hand I relish the vitriol with the evangelical enthusiasm of a recent convert. In any event at my age I am too old to submit to vapid Pollyanna mannerisms. If I am to be bad-tempered so be it. I have at least the advantage of saying what I really mean to say.

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So many people have said it before, the secret to success is to get out of bed in the morning. Add to that incontrovertible prescription the equally common recommendation that one should continue to work as long as possible and you have the makings of full-blown Protestantism. Nothing so penetratingly dissuades lethargy.  From the moment I awaken I am stricken with existential terror. Instantly I begin contemplating the Work Ethic.

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Though there are innumerable examples, one of the most memorable maxims of Freemasonry in my opinion is “Nature teaches us how to die”. Until that dreadful day, I am in the meantime discovering endless preambles to the final curtain, events and thoughts leading up to the  moments in league with one’s dénouement.  Among them is the adage – especially popular among old fogeys – that everything repeats itself (or words to that effect) meant to imply that there’s essentially nothing new in the world, that it has all been seen before.

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After having met certain dogs and people it is instinctive to wash one’s hands. No doubt everyone and everything in life leaves its own film, contamination or imprint upon us. By contrast there are those who impart a lingering glow quite removed for example from the vulgarity of a sweat. I trust I may be forgiven this crude comparison but my late father educated me that sometimes the best way to illustrate a point is by a gross example.

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Lately the Town of Mississippi Mills has been beleaguered by comparatively high-stake controversies involving a modified hydro plant, the imposition of a heritage control by-law and the closing of a dedicated parkland. Tempers have at times soared. Even from my vantage in South Carolina I can feel the heat! Common to each of these disagreements is a reference to City Slickers, a doubtful distinction I have discovered is exceeded only by being a lawyer (or perhaps more egregiously, a drunken one).

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It sounds odd to say so – because we’ve got another month here before we go – but we’re already glued to the idea of leaving. I suspect we’re just being impatient.  Nonetheless our minds are set. I even measure out the toothpaste on my brush to coincide with our departure. Everything is viewed with an eye to amortization – oil, vinegar, salt, spices and bathroom supplies.  There is no intention to buy anything which could possibly outlast our stay. We’re ready to go.

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