Although President Donald Trump’s use of cryptic language is normally understood by even the lowest common denominator, certain words suffer misconstruction due to auditory distortion. Take his use of “bigly” for example.  Apparently what he’s actually saying is “big league “. In either case the assumption is that he’s using the word or phrase as an adverb, something to modify a verb, as in “We won bigly” or  “I intend to do something bigly”. If what he is really saying is “big league ” it still amounts to doing something on a grand scale and therefore the sense or meaning in either case is relatively clear even if both renditions are paradoxically more poetic than prosaic.

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Today is Mother’s Day.  By all accounts our family enjoyed a topping celebration of the day with my mother at her retirement residence (or what she fancifully calls the “Nut House”).  I had originally proposed to bring Chinese take-out food for lunch but my sister suggested instead that we rally mid-afternoon in the upstairs lounge of the retirement residence for cheese, crackers and wine.  Our contribution switched to crudités. It all worked out perfectly. The lounge, complete with a fireplace, is welcoming and intimate, lovely views through numerous tall windows, suitable lounge chairs, even a wet bar.

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My professional career – which is to say the bulk of the last forty years of my life – revolved around banks, lawyers, real estate agents and insurance agents. Some might suggest it was an unfortunate conglomerate. Though it is popular to sing the adage, “The only thing worse than a lawyer at a party is two of them!”, from my point of view the hands-down winner is banks.

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Years ago when I was practicing law – and regularly drinking scotch whiskey in the evenings before dinner – it was not uncommon for me to have a lengthy telephone conversation with a friend in Ottawa who did the same thing.  Things have changed since those days.  My friend has moved thousands of miles away and I quit drinking entirely.  He did not.  This evening I talked to him again (around the cocktail hour, his time – about three hours behind here) and he as usual was drinking.

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My paternal grandfather was hooked on watches. He had something like forty of them when he died. I inherited several – an 18K gold Pochelon Frères, Genève dress pocket, another very large coin silver railway pocket and a Benrus wrist watch.

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Though as a rule the underlying cause amounts to nothing of consequence, I readily proclaim my eruptions of delight with just about anything I have or do. It is not mere complaisance. Mine is a grateful disposition. Some might assert that given my modest achievements and acquisitions I am too easily pleased. To them I say, Pshaw! I prefer to style my agreeableness as an insight not a misapprehension. While I won’t deny there is in this mad world rampant distress, my experience is not of that unfortunate character and I see no reason to disguise it or to pretend otherwise. As much as I’d prefer to improve the circumstances of those who suffer, I am equally disposed to relish my own comparatively jocund predicament.

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As popular as it is to record the welcome and accepted advantages of a Friday afternoon and an upcoming weekend, it is equally frequent to remark upon the blight that is Monday morning. Today was no exception to that routine nutrition.

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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:

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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.

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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.

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