Have you ever lost track of someone you once liked? And wished you could reconnect? There are certain people whose favourable memory I wistfully recall but whose fate is regrettably unknown to me. One chap – whom I’ll call Rutledge – intrigues me in particular. I’ve even tried to find out from other mutual colleagues what happened to him but no one seems to know.  In fact I may know more about him than others do. The only comment which surfaced during my investigations was a concise but pointed observation by a mutual friend and former colleague at undergraduate university:

“He had all the characteristics of a good-looking loner who played by his own rules. The stuff that young ladies swoon for. I did not know of the connection with Elliott but would have assumed that there was a connection through the private school clique.“

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Seldom is it a challenge to make the case for patience. Patience has an almost heavenly nuance captured in that well-known adage, “Patience is a virtue“. But like other sublime conditions it is not one to which I naturally aspire and it most certainly isn’t one I regularly practice. I can’t say that I have anything against patience – I willingly acknowledge its reasonableness – but it frequently constitutes nothing but an obstruction in my life.  I am constantly being told – or reminding myself – that I haven’t any which of course is ludicrous, I just resent having to exercise the talent except when pushed to do so.

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As shameful as it may resonate I can’t think of much that is irreplaceable. In fact I pride myself on having let go of about 90% of what I spent a lifetime acquiring – and having subsequently swapped it quite happily for something else. Once I resolved to retire I posited it wisest to down-size in a major way. As my late father frequently observed, “You can’t have money and things”. It is possible to assert that what I had was not worth keeping; but even if that were true – which I contend it is not – the remark doesn’t contaminate the thesis that there is always something else to fill the gap. And guess what, I found a substitute.  No trouble.

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When I was studying law at Dalhousie University in Halifax, NS between 1970 – 1973 I attended a lecture about comparative law.

Comparative law is the study of differences and similarities between the law of different countries. More specifically, it involves study of the different legal “systems” (or “families”) in existence in the world, including the common law, the civil law, socialist law, Canon law, Jewish Law, Islamic law, Hindu law, and Chinese law. It includes the description and analysis of foreign legal systems, even where no explicit comparison is undertaken.

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I have never considered myself especially anticipatory. It would for example attach unwarranted credit to my forward-thinking skills to suggest I ever really knew what I would be doing 10 years hence. Likewise it is strictly charitable to suggest I was being cautious. I don’t think I even thought about the future much beyond the end of my nose. I just did what had to be done from day to day and let the rest take care of itself.  This isn’t to say I was completely mindless but rather that I responded to appetites more than apparitions.  Mine was a visceral existence.

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Getting out of bed after nine o’clock in the morning normally appals me. It’s frankly repugnant to my instinctive work ethic cultivated over years of study and employment. But now no longer learning or working I have the privilege to submit to the urge to sleep whenever it strikes. Shamelessly I do so. Restoration is good. Besides it’s not as though I’m going to be late for a meeting!

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It has to be the supreme conciliation of life’s struggle that one finally succumbs to living it as one should, that is in accordance with one’s better judgement. While it sounds to be a small compliment it is in fact a cosmic accomplishment. Until recently I cannot recall a moment when I didn’t feel that my conduct and thoughts were to a degree at least constrained by independent authority. To abandon that imposition requires not only the effluxion of time but also concentration and commitment. Living one’s private vernacular is serious business. Naturally I have always attempted to work my way around the problem but it is only lately that both the means and the end have united to promote personal expression.

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Normally I relish a Saturday because of its historic association with freedom, an escape from mandatory routine.  As regularly it heralds the performance of unusual and highly personal activity, like having breakfast at the golf club or shopping for something special. Even though there is now little difference between Saturday or any other day of the week, the festive nature of day persists and frankly I do what I can to preserve it. It is possible that one is tainted by the buoyancy of others who celebrate the liberty but once a week.

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We arrived on Hilton Head Island, SC on November 5, 2016.  Prior to our arrival we had made enquiries about the effects of Hurricane Matthew which struck in early October, 2016. Our estate agent confirmed that it was safe to come to the Island and that our accommodation was in good order.  While those observations were true, it was apparent upon our arrival that the Island was in the throes of recovery from the storm.  We were informed that a tornado had passed through Sea Pines (which is the area in which we reside) and we later discovered what was evidently the path of destruction wrought by the tornado, a corridor of downed trees. Apart from that however the only evidence of the hurricane was the slash collected at the sides of roads and the on-going procedures to reconstruct the face of the beach in several places.

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Many times over the past several years during our winter sojourn on Hilton Head Island I have marvelled at what I believe to be the incredible fortuity and bounty of the experience. No doubt others feel equally blessed though in different circumstances. I won’t bother with either comparisons or alternatives, that’s just not realistic. Eventually you have to accept where you are or else find yourself in a perpetual state of quandary, turmoil and agitation. I have succumbed to the admission that things don’t get much better than this!  And – just to be clear – I include in that assessment my time in Canada for the rest of the year, specifically Mississippi Mills which is as close to a place called home that this vagabond shall ever know.

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