I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

William Shakespeare, Macbeath, Act 5, Scene 3

Now this I have to say is an unorthodox week! And a very heartening one at that! As I scan my MacBook Pro calendar for the upcoming week I see for the first time in a very long while nothing more disquieting than a luncheon date with my beloved sister tomorrow and a visit from our cleaning lady on Thursday.  And that pretty much captures the unhurried routine for the remainder of the summer.

As wont as I am to condemn those who clamour about their ineffable lives, I can’t frankly imagine a more preferable circumstance than this. The utter lack of necessity is an incalculable luxury!  For me it is the stuff of dreams (and certainly an agreeable variation on the former rigid demands of employment). The fairy tale nature of my existence is heightened by the top-storey prospect of our apartment. I am able to glimpse the open fields to the southwest where cattle regularly graze.  Our turret is a utilitarian compound of rooms of which every particle is precious to me.  It is compact and exquisite!

While it might be asserted that I am figuratively confined to the constraints of my own mind (which I admit is a very real possibility) I have the relieving advantage of knowing that travel is on the horizon. This enthralling prospect affords me the pleasure of anticipation and the promise of an enlarging experience.

The gallivant will further entail movement in an automobile which for me is infinitely more appealing than being poured into an aircraft seat (and left to “set”) or even restricted to strolling in circles upon the decks of a ship.  It lubricates the adventure that we should  have a new vehicle in which to do it.

I wonder that I am so pliable.  If I were to compare what we’re doing today with what we had planned to do five months ago there is little resemblance. To our everlasting credit we have suffered no reluctance whatsoever in making the alteration. Our design was not to be inert. I like to think that we have risen to the occasion so to speak, to address what needed to be done. The corollary to having done so is that we haven’t any regret.  In fact the modification is more a reward than an imposition or an abuse, all part of the current state of euphoria.

There are so few times in life when its constancy and elation virtually blare at you. Even if I cannot at the moment predict a discernible hiccup it is nonetheless certifiable that eventually my luck will change and we’ll plummet from the skies to the basement, from the ivory tower to the sere and yellow leaf of old age.

In retrospect it is ticklish to know what exactly triggers an argument between two people who are close to one another.  There is after all so much history between such persons and putting one’s finger on the exact cause can be quite the challenge. Most often disagreements of that oddly amorphous nature are between spouses, lovers, co-habitants or friends, people who by their very nature have woven a relationship of an intricate and complicated web. By contrast conflicts with business associates are generally more easily explained as the difficulty is usually beyond personalities and merely debate over something tangible like money or services, but at least the problem is normally an identifiable source. The more personal conflicts among close relationships are less readily explained and quite often the cause is but the proverbial straw on the back of what has been an endless and cumulative complaint.  Certainly in the wake of the eruption between the parties there are infinite renditions of the cause, largely directed at the other person for some purportedly recognizable reason.  The thrust of that reasoning does however erode quickly when hearing the other side of the story (assuming the flurry of anger settles eventually and there is some attempt at reconciliation). In the end the normal result of the conflict is an admission of misunderstanding and all the heated remonstrances which flowed from that initial error are perfunctorily deflated.  The discovery of what fed the fires in the first place is likely found in an analysis of one’s criticism of the other, not for the reason that those criticisms are valid but rather because criticism is the best autobiography.  It may of course set one aback to turn the knife upon oneself but that is usually exactly what it takes to get the point (pardon the pun).  No matter what the provocation in matters of this level of consternation, the resolution lies in addressing one’s own shortcomings, failing which we merely prolong the anxiety unnecessarily and further sting our own conscience, not to mention going off like a rogue missile without any hope of hitting the target.

As in everything, there is an exception.  Sometimes the conundrum is genuinely founded on more than a misunderstanding.  Sometimes there is in fact a problem. And sometimes the problem is not ours. It frequently occurs that the disagreement is but a symptom of the cause.  We silly humans regularly confound what is otherwise the simplicity of life by muddling our personal problems with the unrelated behaviour of others. This confusion translates into blaming others for our own faults.  While it might be presumed that recognition of fault is both unwelcome and inconvenient, the truth is that the task is not so easily dismissed.  Indeed I have sufficient confidence in the desirability of solving problems to believe that were we to know the question, we would seek the answer.  The problem is we sometimes don’t know the question.

Or what is more likely, we don’t want to talk about the problem.  Problems are a bit like any other character trait; viz., they develop incrementally and often imperceptibly.  Given the closeness of the relationship, the depth of the trouble can sublimate and become unidentifiable in the larger picture.  We simply lose sight of whence it came.  Even if we’re astute enough to spot the obstacle we seldom have the conviction to pronounce upon it (which is a strange dilemma considering how readily we normally lay blame at another’s feet).  Having the courage to address someone else’s real problem is far less enthralling.  Certainly there is some truth to the proposition that each of us must ultimately be the one to direct our own behaviour.  But I believe there is yet room for frankness about the problem if not about the solution. To adopt an entirely laissez-faire approach to human relationships is in my opinion just short of turning a blind eye to others. Plus I honestly feel that it is the duty of those who have acquired some wisdom through time and experience to share it with those who haven’t.  If nothing else it will promote a conversation which at the very least is better than dumb silence.

I’m in the dining area of our “open-concept” (the lyrical term for “small”) apartment intently staring at the oil paintings, sepia photographs and polished wood carving hanging on the wall directly before me. I like what I see. I am primarily absorbed in the juxtaposition of the art works; they’re irregularly mounted with a studied lack of symmetry. The combined effect is soothing. Although we each have a desk, the dining table doubles as a communal platform for our laptop computers. Admittedly it is a minor nuisance (as it was this evening when my physician joined us for dinner) to clear the table for visitors, but otherwise we’ve adjusted conveniently to the required space allocations.

As I say, the assortment of stuff on the wall pleases me greatly. It was however a construct which required time and amendment to develop. Specifically the original collection was sparser than it is now.  When my elderly mother broke up her house we “inherited” several further paintings, two of which I had originally gifted to my parents and one of which is a family heirloom. Unquestionably all the artifacts gratify me. I have in the past frequently spoken of the exceeding pleasure I derived from this little apartment ab initio and there has been no subsequent dilution of that embryonic gusto.

Neither have I ever been tempted to weaken the force of the environment by the calumny of some distorted reasoning (for example that my enthusiasm is merely the product of retirement euphoria).  No, this place easily stands on its own and I shall never get enough of it. In short it’s a collection of my favourite things shown to their greatest advantage by daylight from a southern exposure on two sides.

I will however confess to no small degree of complacency, itself an achievement following months of effort.  This smugness is not merely gloating triumph; rather it is the self-satisfaction of having tackled a worthy task and completed it.  I can’t recall the last time I was able to look myself in the mirror and say that there is nothing further I might have done. I have positively no regrets; and indeed I have considerable pride in where we are today.  Each of us in my family circle, in his or her own particular way, is riveted to the idea of getting things in order – more so my elderly mother of course.  It is a matter of some imperative. There are inevitable transitions to be made at the well-defined “stages” of life and we have all reached the “old age” paradigm.  A signal focus of the model is disengaging and letting go, an endeavour which can become as broad as the imagination permits, not just things, but ideas, beliefs and people even. Initially it was not a project which I cultivated but it has become impossible to ignore its compelling nature.  It is virtually genetic, just as nature teaches each of us how to die.  That is perhaps an inappropriately strong rendition of the theory but it captures the unalterable necessity of the enterprise.  I prefer to view the process not as one of declension but rather of fulfillment.  The singular advantage of old age is that the persuasive element of need is overpowering and inescapable. Whereas youth is easily distracted but nefarious appetites and desires, the elderly have the benefit of resolve and goals.  And let’s face it, we haven’t a lifetime before us, so let’s get on with it!

After two days of unbroken interference by extraneous elements with my daily routine – a length of time which I stigmatize as an unforgivable eternity quite apart from the personal trespass – I have gratefully resumed the privilege of my regular habits, specifically the quondam tradition of a morning bicycle ride.  The ritual jaunt is a mere 11.3 kilometres which takes 45 minutes on average to accomplish.  It is for me as mandatory (and revitalizing) as the morning shower!  Increasingly I am plagued by the aches and pains which attend aging but the bike ride assuages my gnawing disturbances on every level, physical, mental and – perhaps most significantly – spiritual.  There is endless science about the advantage of exercise but I don’t need to be convinced.  I have embraced the theory for years!  While I do not describe myself as athletic, if ever I lost the ability to ride a bicycle it would be a deprivation right up there with losing my driver’s licence (which for me is an equally horrid thought).  Already I am contemplating what tricycle I’ll purchase when my equilibrium starts to go.  There are some racy models on the market and they are becoming increasingly popular with sexagenarians and upwards.

I am still in that moment of life when people ask me how I find retirement. It reminds me of a young mother with a new child whose first two years of life are measured in months as though the unfathomable ecstasy were more elongated.  I have not yet fallen into the tedium of pronouncing that I am now busier than ever! Though I confess the vernacular is another universe (and one I never thought I’d attain any more than I’d go to the moon).  I cherish this new-found latitude and I’m not taking any of it lying down!  Instead I am aggressively employing the juncture to round out years of simmering thoughts. I am severely conscious of the limited time that now remains and have every intention of addressing whatever piques my interest. I do not mean that I have the craving to see the world or fulfill impossible dreams.  It is a less preposterous focus of exploring my own inner existence, venting those percolating notions and determining what is within the scope of my compass.

My diligence in this conviction has been momentarily derailed as I have lately undertaken more pressing filial obligations.  But these selfless duties are now nearing their performance and I can once again assume the indulgent delight of uncoiling my own future.  I am sufficiently provoked to seek to lose weight. I have at last awoken to the medical value of the venture (and I am disgusted to think I might otherwise extend the tape measurer another few inches around my already protuberant middle). It is however a singularly annoying quest, one for which it appears the stock observation is, “It gets more difficult with age!” For example I have not had a drop of alcohol in almost two years; for the past year we have bicycled virtually every day, winter, spring, summer and fall; the standard hors d’oeuvres are crudités (no more salted crackers, cheese and smoked oysters); and desserts (other than fresh fruit) are a rarity.  The only relief I have is the intelligence I gleaned yesterday on BBC that there are two kinds of fat, one (the bad kind) which surrounds the vital internal organs, the other (the not so bad kind) that simply insulates one’s body.  Apparently exercise diminishes the bad kind of fat before its benefits extend to the so-called “exterior” fat.  On that premise I can possibly shelter at least some of my dismay.

When I was studying law at Dalhousie Law School in Halifax, Nova Scotia I cavorted with a charming lady and colleague whose father was a local Judge (and whose own father had been a lawyer in Cape Breton defending rum runners among others).  The Judge told me that, if I wanted to be a good lawyer, I would read nothing but the law.  This prescription was certainly no difficulty when I was studying law as the occupation monopolized my time entirely.  Similarly after I graduated from law school and began Articles, then the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall and within two years launched my own law practice which I maintained for about forty years, I continued to have hardly any time to read anything other than the law.  Now my studied recreation is autobiographies, including those of Sir Alec Guinness, Arthur Rubinstein, Benjamin Franklin, P. T. Barnum, Edward Gibbon and Stephen Fry.

One significant element which has dropped off the map is my piano playing. Admittedly my limited (though mildly entertaining) skill had reached its zenith.  Last year I succumbed to the urge to buy an electronic keyboard. With the benefit of technology (and high quality headphones) I have revived my amusement in making music.  I view this most recent diversion as a concession to a visceral need, nothing more.  Its advanced engineering satisfies my curiosity as well; and its portability coincides nicely with our lifestyle which segregates summer and winter habitations.

I have abandoned any pretence for traditional piano playing and supplanted my creative necessity with a more enthusiastic writing commitment. Although it has been four years since the launch of my partnership with The Millstone News I am yet adjusting to the exigencies of a “public” voice vis-à-vis the “private” medium of a diary which, along with an internet blog, was my customary mode of literary expression since the age of thirteen years. Walking the line between general and specific is not as easy a transition as I had expected.

I continue to be drawn into familial affairs, something which rather amuses me considering how little time until recently I spent with my family for most of my life.  I do not for a minute concede that the alteration is a product of misgiving of any sort; I merely enjoy doing what has to be done.  For that at least I can thank my mother who has become exceedingly demanding and expectant in her old age (she’s now in her ninetieth year). On August 17th for example, the anniversary of my late father’s birth, our immediate family trooped to  Beechwood Cemetery to view his grave and lay two yellow roses on it.  The next day (August 18th) marked the exact two-month milestone of my mother’s move to Colonel By Retirement Residence and we pointedly capitalized upon the day to confer with her financial planner following the sale of her house a week earlier.  Today was a more humdrum undertaking.  We visited my mother at the retirement home to ensure her hair-dressing arrangements are in order and to change the batteries of her new hearing aids. Afterwards we picked up a few household provisions for her. The extent of my involvement with the management of her affairs is decreasing daily.  It was an inspiriting change this afternoon to motor to a small café on Mill Street in the Village of Manotick for the fulfillment of no other agenda than a quiet cup of Cappuccino.  When we later arrived home I was entangled in yet another hour or more of diligence following receipt of several letters from Canada Revenue Agency and Service Canada for my mother.  I suppose they are simply reminders that I shouldn’t imagine myself untethered for a while yet.  There was also that little chat I had with my mother’s lawyer’s office early this morning.

Nonetheless it is emblematic of my awakening freedom that I felt moved today to prepare a gazpacho soup.  I have the list of required ingredients on my iPhone because it is one of only three or four recipes which I regularly prepare (that is if you can call working in the kitchen twice a year “regular”). Anyway…I found my way into the fresh vegetable section of the supermarket and bought what I needed.  My attention was abruptly diverted by arrival in the mail of the Canada Revenue Agency stuff (a knee-jerk reaction I confess to have to that particular type of brown envelope) but after an amazingly delightful meal of filet mignon, pan-fried potatoes (in duck fat), beets and feta cheese prepared by His Lordship, I was sufficiently restored to tackle the culinary task I had set before me.  It speaks to the shallowness of my resolve (though in my opinion without diminishing the healthfulness of the dish) that the various vegetables were not all that finely chopped.  I prefer to think of it as a robust “peasant” dish, deliberately lacking in refinement.  I know there are some (without pointing fingers) who are more than a bit snooty about that element of my food preparation, but by contrast there are others who positively commend me for the active choice of ruggedness.  None of this purée rubbish for me!

While it shouldn’t surprise me that the end of what has been routine for the past five months leaves me suddenly feeling aimless, the frozen truth is that my habits are as Pavlovian as any other creature. We now begin the dénouement following the accomplishment of an agenda which frankly accelerated more quickly than anticipated.  Indeed things progressed so very swiftly that we hadn’t either the time or inclination to ruminate upon what we would do when it was all over.  Nonetheless, here we are, at the end of the road, at least at the end of that one in particular.  It was more of a highway than a bi-way and we now have the privilege to adjust our temperament to a more leisurely stroll without having to plan each day in pressing succession.

A year ago my father died; I retired from the practice of law; I sold my law practice; I administered my father’s estate; I administered the estate of a former client; we sold our house; we moved into an apartment; we met new neighbours; and then we went away for the winter.  Upon our return to Canada in Spring we commenced the immediate settlement of my elderly mother’s outstanding affairs including her removal to a retirement residence, the sale of her house, the disposition of her surplus personal effects and generally tidying up her papers, investments and medical issues (including even the purging of  the contents of her purse). That is a grossly succinct account of what has been an unqualified trial on all sides. Today is perhaps the closest I have been to management of my personal affairs in the past year and a half.  The only vestige of my erstwhile preoccupations with my mother is the upcoming conference with her financial advisor, an appointment which is more in the nature of a performance than a confabulation.  The upshot of what we have done in the past five months is to delegate the management of my mother’s affairs to others in perpetuity, corporations harnessed for their personal and proprietary management skills thereby relieving me and my sister of both the duty and care of doing so.  Naturally my sister and I presently have no intention of abandoning our mother but considering my anticipated five-month hibernation and the personal constraints upon my sister, it makes eminent sense to have arranged uninterrupted care and advice for my mother. We no longer need worry about what mother is eating (if indeed she is eating at all), whether she is taking her medicine, whether she has fallen off a step-ladder or down the basement stairs or whether she is depressed by being alone day after day.  We have also built into the scheme the potential for seamless upgrading to assisted living if mother requires it.

The fallout for me is that I am now effectively out of a job.  Granted I still keep tabs on mother’s day-to-day financial affairs but most of that is preauthorized and therefore a matter of record only. Importantly it is something I can manage either here, there or everywhere thanks to the internet and on-line banking. For my part I am at last enabled to merge my retirement and my personal ambitions.  In the short run at least it is an astonishingly difficult transition.  I am so accustomed to having a hand on the tiller that it feels like abandoning ship not to do so.

While it certainly doesn’t amount to a grievous oversight to have lately neglected the contemplation of my own affairs, I confess I am pleased to reignite the interest in doing so.  Sporadically I have dwelt upon the complexities of my private fortunes and misfortunes, a contemplation which has been a protracted analysis and which like any acceptable liquor has required dark and quiet fermentation.  I haven’t the sense that there are any loose ends and I appreciate the opportunity to savour the results.

About a month ago I bought a golf shirt at Mark’s Workwear in Carleton Place. The venture is of no import apart from the fact that my shopping sprees lately have been confined to groceries and hamburgers. The shirt however pleased me sufficiently that I didn’t want to diminish the initial pleasure of wearing it. As a result I have been postponing the petty exhilaration until completion of the sale of my elderly mother’s house. This arbitrary detention is of course a laughable fabrication, a combination of superstition and reward. The sale project (and the collateral undertaking to remove my agèd mother to a retirement residence) have monopolized my attention and exhausted my patience for the past five months. Yesterday the sale transaction finally closed, signalling the end of the substantive administration of my mother’s domestic affairs and the re-opening of the avenue to my personal province. Today as a solemnization I intend to wear my new shirt.

The 2XL Classic Fit shirt (“a relaxed fit to provide superior comfort“) is further described on the manufacturer’s tag as “oatmeal”, both a lovely word and colour.  I initially trolled the racks for a plain white shirt but none was available. In keeping with my binary nature I feel best suited to either white or black but modest accommodation is bearable especially in these low level sartorial matters (the price of the shirt was all of $21.99).

This vapid little anecdote – highlighting as it does the features of superstition and reward – is on analysis nonetheless illustrative of some deep-seated psychology.  As convinced as I am of the strength of rationality (a disposition upon which I pride myself as an old lawyer) I oddly submit from time to time to what can only be described as unjustified belief in the supernatural. Granted the intuition to believe this or that is probably founded in some logical extension but it seems to elevate the conduct to attribute sorcery to it. I do however acknowledge that the folklore about not wanting to “jinx” a matter has some primeval sway.  Who for example hasn’t once said, “Knock on wood!”  It is but a small hop to embrace the more profound myths which humanity regularly harbours about the universe once you have taken that first step into the abyss.  Any attempt to distance one legend from another may in the end be a distinction without a difference. Anyway you look at it, faith is all about apprehension.  For that reason alone the shirt complete with tags stayed tucked away in my closet awaiting the advent of this day.

The second pivotal element of this yarn is the feature of compensation, the entitled expropriation of which has never been beneath my dignity.  I have not however been one to reap my advantage until it is earned. On balance I much prefer to suffer deprivation rather than reclamation.  Once again the drama is little more than toying with superficial sentiments – I mean, really, how important can a bit of textile be! Yet such is the subtlety of advanced age and a mellow mind that even inconsequential frivolity is absorbing.  I please myself to imagine – perhaps madly – that the measured parsing of life’s rewards will both heighten and lengthen the experience.

The final feature of this account is – as with the postponement of anything – the realization of it.  No matter what idle fancy, diligent planning or exhilarating anticipation has gone into the exploit, the ultimate proof of the pudding is in the eating. The lesson here is that things seldom turn out the way we had expected, which doesn’t necessarily mean bad things happen but rather that the trajectory of one’s ambitions may become quickly altered or detoured.  The superstition and reward which initially motivated the conduct are in a flash dissipated.  They like any other sensation have their fabric in the living not the expectation.

Somewhere – I can’t recall where exactly – I read that the seasoned traveler, if he or she expects to maximize the adventure, must adjust to changing circumstances.  The implication of course is that if one is to get a kick out of discovery one must embrace what comes along – good or bad – and not be defeated by it.  The prescription might well apply to life in general though it is admittedly appropriate to travel in particular as the agenda is so often charted in advance and ripples and delays are especially pronounced or at the very least unwelcome.  The adage about adaptation also heightens the significance of a higher goal than merely fulfilling a travel writer’s scripted performance.  Let’s face it there is nothing more dreary than a travel account that hasn’t any of the annoying fragmentation of real life.  That would be like Cinderella without the wicked sisters.  I’m not saying that we should welcome undesirable events but we should at least cultivate a sanguine attitude to apparent obstruction.

As you might imagine, all this philosophic drivel is but a preamble to our own bit of kerfuffle.  Yesterday while waiting on the dock for the arrival of our tour boat in Ivy Lea Village, His Lordship suddenly sputtered “Oh! Oh!” and I turned my head from absorption of the dazzling sunshine to see him greedily devouring an email on his iPhone.  He informed me that our estate agent on Hilton Head Island had written to advise that construction of a new house had just begun behind the place we had agreed to rent for five months this coming winter. Instantly I telephoned the estate agent to acknowledge receipt of her advice and to confirm our ready willingness to alter our course accordingly.  The facts were clear; the required action was beyond dispute.  It was time to bail!

Since encountering that hurdle we have ruminated at length upon the many alternatives which suddenly materialized.  We did for example consider switching destinations from Hilton Head Island, SC to Tybee Island, GA though our over-arching reluctance was that we had never visited Tybee Island (as we plan to do late this Fall).  As much as parachuting into a place site unseen has its high-spirited element we thought it wiser on the balance to check it out first.  Plus if we cancel our arrangements with the estate agent we suffer the penalty of an administrative fee (not to mention that our estate agent warranted our continued favour for her selfless disclosure). We have therefore resolved to carry on with the same agency but change our accommodations to something less grand.  The estate agent established at the outset that getting a place similar to what we had arranged months ago for the same period and for the same price would be difficult.  In fact she said there is currently only one such property available.  As a result we have down-graded our expectations from a large house to a 2-bedroom condominium apartment.

1849 Beachside Tennis, Hilton Head Island, SC

This is in fact a modification which fits well with us both as we have to admit that having a 5-bedroom house didn’t make a lot of sense.  As it turns out, one of the condominiums which is available for the full five months is in the same building where we parked ourselves quite comfortably last year for two weeks before our house became available.  It is also located in South Beach on Sea Pines Plantation where we regularly bicycled.  The South Beach Marina is located nearby and the area is very quiet (being located just steps from Lands End at the southernmost tip of the Island). It is undeniable that we will save a significant amount of money by making this switch. Lately our enthusiasm for expenditure has inversely dwindled proportionately with the extension of our journeys.  In plain terms the buzz of an escapade becomes less impressive with time; reasonableness ultimately trumps excess.

This particular detour isn’t likely to engender sympathy from anyone.  Nor should it.  For our part we’re quite willing to rise to the occasion.  We are canny enough to acknowledge that, once the initial thrill of a place has passed, it’s back to bicycling and daily routine on a barrier Island on the Atlantic Ocean.  I think we’ll manage to adjust.  But wouldn’t you know…

The time is approaching six o’clock in the evening, the quixotic cocktail hour. We have maintained the preprandial ceremony in spite of a 50% abstinence rate; indeed we nurture it. Invariably we each have a plate of healthful hors d’oeuvres which include crudités, Kalamata olives and liberal slices of Parmigiano-Reggiano (an undeniable favourite of mine and ample compensation for the lack of liquor).

The sky is overcast. It looks like rain.  We have turned off the air conditioner and opened the sliding patio door in the bedroom and the crank-windows on the front and side of the apartment.  I relish the summer air if it isn’t too horribly humid.  When the temperature moderates as it has done today the air conditioner freezes my feet and I am obliged to wear a sweater which always seems bizarre.

The fiction called retirement persists to astonish me. I more than most am entitled to label retirement imaginary since there is little doubt in my mind that I could not have careered it on my own, at least not as well nor as soon. The serendipity is yet another stroke of fortune in my very gratifying life. In the context of our partnership I do of course prefer to think of the blessing as reciprocal though more often than not I imagine the balance is weighted against me.  Never mind.  I have inchoate rights which may yet prove me wrong on that score or at least redeem me.

I began my day much as usual this morning – such sacrifice! – first a strong, black coffee followed by a hearty breakfast of 2 fried eggs, ham slices, baked Naan bread, avocado pear, Havarti cheese and grape tomatoes. I take no credit whatever for this matutinal production, yet another leverage on the scale to my everlasting prejudice.  Admittedly I am hopelessly spoiled and I am only to willing to own it!

Promptly at nine o’clock this morning – maybe I can take some glory for the relentless prosecution – we trekked to the storage locker to withdraw our Electra bicycles for the routine 11.3 kilometre jaunt along Country Street, Rae Road, Concession VIII Ramsay and the Old Perth Road.

Afterwards showers and fresh clothing.  And for me, jewelry.

Almost without thinking we then directed the nose of the Lincoln to my mother’s house which we are obliged to check daily in accordance with the peculiarly stringent terms of the insurance company’s Vacancy Permit.

We have a well established pattern of investigation: open the automatic garage door, in through the kitchen, run the taps in the kitchen and the main-floor powder room, one of us goes into the dreary basement and scopes the barren cement walls and floor, the other up the stairs to the bedrooms and study on the second floor where the toilets in the main bathroom and powder room are ritually flushed.  The panoramic views of the living and dining room entail a gander at the back yard; and then we’re out the front door.  Though we’re never in any particular hurry to accomplish our duties I’d wager we’re in and out within no more than fifteen minutes at the outside, maybe even slightly less depending on whether we stop to void our respective bladders for example.  In the fifty years that my parents owned the house I never lived in it.  The closest I came to doing so was to spend the occasional Christmas holiday there and several weeks one summer only while I attended undergraduate university in Toronto.  Now that the place is completely vacant there is nothing whatever to commend it to me. I don’t say that with any element of regret as I cannot think of any home (other than the apartment in which we now reside) which to be perfectly frank has ever stimulated me to distraction.  Apart from convenience, a home only distinguishes itself for me by the nature of its occupants.  If I am absorbed in the repartee with the people then the bricks and mortar are all but negligible.  Certainly I’ve visited some comfortable homes but if the camaraderie is nonexistent then the utility is otherwise lost on me.  Nonetheless I reiterate that our current rental apartment is for me an exceedingly cheerful environment, “dense” for lack of a better word.

After returning a plastic container to my sister (at whose home we lunched yesterday), we made our way to my mother’s retirement residence.

We discovered mother at lunch with her crony though they were both just finishing.  After my mother’s dining partner left the table, I invited mother to go for a drive which at first she resisted but she subsequently capitulated when I suggested we include some minor shopping for an eyebrow pencil sharpener.

Our aimless drive took us to the Village of Manotick where we stopped on Mill Street at a bakery/café for a Cappuccino.  After draining our coffee cups we ambled across the street to a florist shop which my mother recalls having housed specialty Christmas ornaments.  The clerk assured us the stock would arrive closer to November.

These nondescript outings with my mother perhaps go some way to pacifying her sense of isolation in the retirement residence and my misgiving at having enforced the transition (though we both know it was the proper thing to do).  I was however reminded the next day when I spoke with mother that the depth of her sorrow includes the loss of my father and her escalating fear of mortality which is no doubt punctuated by a general feeling of being tired of living.  As always in these sensitive matters I was only able to observe that nature teaches us how to die, an adage which while blunt is in my opinion nonetheless meaningful and moderately helpful without being trite.  If nothing else the maudlin character of our conversation brought us yet closer to one another and I assured mother that she had done everything possible for my late father in spite of her qualms (she blames herself for having cooperated in my father’s removal to the Perley Hospital for the last four months of his life when he was clearly incapable of taking care of himself).

All told, it was just another day.