“Across the harbor, a small sailing skiff, becalmed near some reeds, caught the breeze again.” (Horace Freeland Judson).

I’ve hit a trough, the low point of the wave we’ve been riding.  Activity has slowed almost to a halt as we inch our way to the consummation of our plans. I have been so utterly distracted by  months of diligence that I am as a result almost at a loss what to do.  And yesterday things topped out with the bestowal of a rather significant gratuity.  It has left my head spinning with nowhere to go to exhaust the hoopla.  In a word I am becalmed.

I am of necessity reluctantly submitting to the momentary tranquillity.  I have set aside the exhilaration of routine daily battle.  Instead of pondering my next move I content myself to ruminate upon the past and the future. Nonetheless I crawl.

Other than bustle there are so few standards by which I meaningfully measure myself.  I have already insinuated various forms of gratification and reward in all that I do so the removal of the cause tends to diminish the value and importance of the recognition, rather like having food without the appetite. I am however determined to draw what strength I can from the experience of being at a standstill.  Perhaps I shall torque its gravity by pretending that nothing is more stimulating than doing nothing.  Idleness has historically such a bad name though embracing it at this advanced stage of life is less unappealing.  Even if one were not to inflate it with philosophical content, there is something approaching luxury just to watch the world go by.

I have lately done things which were strongly motivated.  At times I may have acted precipitously (though in my heart of hearts I know there were no other choices).  While the rapture may have cooled the hardened truth remains.  I am prepared to keep going in the direction I originally headed.  I seriously doubt that I shall reconsider.  Meanwhile I am putting more and more distance between myself and my past.  I am certainly not running from my past, trying to obliterate it; I am merely closing the door on going back to it, just moving on.  This present contemplative mood at least affords the opportunity to assess that decision.  There’s nothing wrong about pausing to look back momentarily.

In the end it is always easier to live with one’s preferences no matter how much they may apparently fly in the face of rationality.  Instinct is not for the faint of heart.

Today was not what I’d call a resounding success though I’m mindful that one mustn’t for even the most plausible reason dismiss a moment of life. The unglamorous agenda today was to have a replacement part installed on my vehicle.  That didn’t happen.  Even after having called the dealership about the part yesterday and having been told it had arrived; and after having appeared at the dealership as requested at precisely eight o’clock this morning; and after having taken the President’s vehicle while mine was in hawk, I received a telephone call mid-morning from the service department that they had ordered the wrong part.  They offered to pilfer a similar part from one of their used vehicles but I confirmed I preferred to await the arrival of the new part from the United States and re-attend next week to have it installed.  Not exactly a roaring start to the day.  Nonetheless it was a pleasant summer day and we mischievously determined to punctuate the delinquency of the dealership by bringing them five dozen fresh donuts from Healthy Food Technologies in Almonte.  Our Trojan Horse didn’t have quite the bang I had hoped but then again we didn’t stick around to witness all the repercussions.

Our next stop was the ritual visit with mother.  She was in a foul mood from the outset.  It is useless to attempt to ascribe any particular reason to her state of mind.  All that is apparent is that increasingly she is negative and paranoid, no doubt a reflection of her deteriorating mental state generally.  We left her in the wake of a minor storm. Our escape was however incomplete as later in the afternoon she telephoned me to reignite another useless controversy, this time some rubbish about a garage sale that she imagined my sister anticipated to dispose of my mother’s surplus belongings.  It is impossible to finesse these assaults as rationality is totally lost upon her.  She simply glues herself to an idea (invariably a preposterous notion) and refuses to retract for any reason.

We decided to profit by the breeziness of the summer afternoon by traveling to Cedar Cove for a bite to eat.  We sat outside on the deck overlooking White Lake.

The size of our hors d’oeuvres was substantial and we succeeded to exhaust our appetite without anything further.  I had my usual PEI mussels in a chili/lime cream sauce with buttered toast points.  The mussels were plump, the sauce exquisite and the bread superlative!  We lolled home on the scenic back roads, idly chatting about the day’s fortunes and misfortunes.  We reiterated as always our accomplishments over the past four months and touched cheerfully upon our upcoming hibernation plans.

Who could possibly have 361 friends!  What the!  Oh, I get it, it’s not friends, it’s “friends”.  As if!  Well I’m sorry, but I’ve had it with “friends” on Facebook. I have two friends in real life.  And they just happen to be the same two friends on Facebook.  They’re the people who care to ask me about my health and the weather, the sort of modest enquiry I regularly make of them as well. It doesn’t seem to matter that they live on the other side of the world in the South Pacific.  We still talk, Skype, FaceTime and email.

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I awoke at 4:35 a.m. this morning.  My revival was a capitulation to the previous hour’s restlessness. I had set the alarm on my iPhone for 5:00 a.m. but as usual I anticipated the event. The plan was to be at the car dealership by 7:15 a.m.  Just routine maintenance and a gander at a loose plate cover where the seat controls are located.  I hadn’t my usual enthusiasm for the undertaking because it’s likely to be the last time I’ll be fretting about this particular car.  We’ve ordered another which, according to the salesman, will be manufactured in the week of August 3rd and delivered in the first week of September.

Even though we’ve ordered a new car I still feel obliged to fulfill the routine maintenance of the current vehicle, including the repair of the loose seat plate cover. Only recently I paid to have a tiny scrape on the driver’s side mirror repainted.  The cost was insignificant (even including the rental vehicle) and the satisfaction great though the effort it required was quite out of line with the scuff mark itself.  Nonetheless…if it can be corrected, why not?  Perhaps there is also a measure of suspicion at play, that the new deal isn’t done until it’s done; and until then it makes sense to do what the situation demands rather than falling into the trap of predicting the future and risking disappointment.  Anyway it’s a kind gesture for the people who are taking the car as a trade.

It has been days since I felt relaxed.  I haven’t slept well during the interval. Once I got myself showered this morning and put on fresh clothes I felt better. I’ve nothing to complain of other than my customary anxiety about getting everything done now.  I’m grateful that mother’s house sold quickly. Nonetheless it has been a long haul over the past four months.  My mother’s mental decline is incremental and daily observable.  Lately her perturbations are characterized in particular by paranoia.  Her uneasiness is of course completely unfounded and trivial but it makes for extremely difficult and fractious communication.  Because she oddly maintains a degree of credibility in whatever she says it is even more difficult to refute her assertions without becoming argumentative.  I feel the matter will only be at last resolved when she descends into nonsense entirely.  Until then it’s an annoying battle of wits.

Recent diversions have included considerable attention to the evolving and material world about me.  The breaking up of my mother’s house enflamed the household passions of both my sister and me and to a lesser degree my niece. We all “inherited” certain valuable possessions, things which come with not only their material import but also their psychological significance, reminding me for example as my father was accustomed to say, “Things don’t disappear, they just change hands”.  Privately I have undertaken some tangible emendation as well, the anticipation of which lightens my spirit.  What a horror it would be to be deprived of any one of the five senses!  Even as I stare at the dining room wall before me, I delight in the configuration of the eight wall paintings clustered there.  My, how I’ve dedicated myself to the frippery of my burrow!

Although I have settled into my first year of retirement to the extent that I no longer view the condition with a start, I have preserved the rudimentary strain of exhilaration.  It has nonetheless taken time to relinquish the utility I once enjoyed as an advisor though occasionally someone calls upon me for direction and I lend a qualified hand.  There has unquestionably been a corresponding diminution of the strength of several former associations but the greatest challenge is my own acceptance of my ability to bear the deprivation.  The effort entails a re-examination of the meaning and importance of friendship and social relations in general.  I can’t say that I or anyone else I know has proven exceptional in this arena.  It is if nothing else a reminder that one shouldn’t put too much stock in any alliance other than for its present value.

As the settlement of my mother’s affairs nears completion and the days of summer deplete with sustained almost jarring regularity I focus more and more upon our upcoming hibernation which now includes an examination of next year’s proposed venue on Tybee Island, Georgia.  When we get there to take a look we may be in for a revelation (either good or bad).  We might for example discover that the place is too small to endure for five months; on the other hand its seclusion and obscurity may have enormous appeal. Whatever happens it is thrilling for us to undertake this modest adventure.

“I shall soon enter into the period which, as the most agreeable of my long life, was selected by the judgment and experience of the sage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the eloquent historian of nature, who fixes our moral happiness to the mature season in which our passions are supposed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune established on a solid basis (see Buffon). In private conversation, that great and amiable man added the weight of his own experience; and this autumnal felicity might be exemplified in the lives of Voltaire, Hume, and many other men of letters. I am far more inclined to embrace than to dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose any premature decay of the mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe that two causes, the abbreviation of time, and the failure of hope, will always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life.”

Excerpt From: Edward Gibbon. “Memoirs of My Life and Writings.”

In what we can all hope to be the fulfillment of life’s intended cycle, it is an odd turn of nature that the child becomes the parent and the parent becomes the child.  Quite unexpectedly I have learned that this eventuality is no mere aphorism, rather a blunt truism to which one must actively adhere. The discovery is perhaps for me the more surprising because I have never before had the occasion to be a parent; and I cannot resist thinking that the opportunity is akin to the experience of anyone who becomes a father or mother late in life, often more by accident than design. Yet because of the very natural unfolding of the experience I find that, in spite of my prior lack of education in the matter, being a parent to my own mother for example is nonetheless a perfectly fluid transition though admittedly the initial recognition of the condition was mildly startling.

A further element of suspense in the evolution of this paradoxical relationship was that until recently I hardly knew my mother on any level much less that arising in the context of reversed roles of parent and child.  At the age of thirteen years I had removed myself to a boarding school in Aurora, Ontario and my parents lived four thousand miles away in Stockholm, Sweden.  Even after my parents returned to Ottawa, Canada I was continuing my estrangement by living in Toronto, Ontario for undergraduate studies and afterwards in Halifax, Nova Scotia for law school.  I have never returned home and my later associations with my parents were strictly social and frequently as contrived, distant and stilted.

Awakening to the care of my parents initially involved nothing more special than advising them to take the same estate planning precautions which I would have encouraged my legal clients to do, routine matters such as Wills and Powers of Attorney and the more esoteric precaution of a Family Trust.  It wasn’t however until after the death of my father (who continued almost until his death to be cared for by my mother) that my participation in the care of my mother accelerated. An examination of my father’s financial affairs during the administration of his estate disclosed certain inadequacies which, while having been excused by my mother as “what your father wanted”, were not otherwise tenable. Modification of these arrangements was my introduction to the inertia which so characterized everything I later attempted to do for my mother.  Her stock response to almost any suggestion – whether it be an investment decision or something as trivial as replacing a damaged lamp shade – was to put it off until some later date, whether after an upcoming holiday or some other arbitrary event.  The pragmatism of the plan mattered not, her entire goal appeared to maintain the status quo undisturbed.

Given my mother’s appearance of deliberation and conviction, it required months of repeated similar intersections before I realized that her mind in these matters was not governed by logic, purpose or rationality but merely by intransigence.  I have subsequently come to understand that her inability to embrace change of any degree is a reflection of the inordinate struggle which she must undergo to comprehend it. This of course made my resolution to lead by example and instruction – as one must do with a child – considerably more palatable for me and I no longer felt the pang of regret which at first attended my frustration and misgiving upon seemingly foisting my recommendations upon my mother.

The fruitful outcome of these frequently highly strained encounters between me and my mother was twofold:  first, I at last took the uninhibited liberty of telling her exactly what I thought of her (a behaviour on my part which was most certainly not a model of decorum); and, second, I unwittingly acquired an insight into her personality which I can tell you was a far stretch from the paradigm of motherhood which I had mistakenly ascribed to her previously. In the result, the two of us got to know one another through the sometimes painful exercise of raw sentiment unadulterated by camouflage of any description.  In the early stages of our acquaintance there was considerable anxiety mingled with our congresses; and it was not unusual for me to find myself muttering to myself as I sped away from her house in my car. Eventually however the acrimony dissipated as I acknowledged the cause and saw the need to act as guardian.

There are several models of a small vacation community which have had their appeal to me.  I reckon it is no accident that I prefer the bijou-size stopping places, just as my landing in Almonte forty years ago was not without both its internal and external influences and confluences. My introduction to the miniature getaway vernacular was the Town of Provincetown in Barnstable County on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.  I first visited the Town about 1978 on Labour Day Weekend, an event which became a subsequent annual trek. Like many of these peculiar resorts, Provincetown was at the remote end of the Cape but it thereby succeeded to embrace the unique natural geographic features of the area, notably its towering sand dunes and completely unspoiled and uninhabited beaches.  Its history harkened back to the early Portuguese fishermen who populated the Town when whaling was popular. It was a mark of my absorption into this tiny community that I had the privilege to walk upon the floor boards of King Hiram’s Masonic Lodge which was chartered December 12, 1795 by Paul Revere who was then the Grand Master from Boston.

In the winter months I discovered that the natural southern extension of Provincetown was Key West, Florida. It was not uncommon to encounter people in Key West in February who had worked in or visited Provincetown in the previous summer months. Once again Key West was a remote location being the southernmost point of the United States of America.  Getting there represented a small challenge if one didn’t care to take the time to motor for four hours across the very extensive bridge connection with the mainland. Flying there from Miami was assured to be a step back in time reminiscent of what I call Air Casablanca. The Key West airport, like the Provincetown airport, was tiny  and one simply stepped off the plane into the terminal. Both venues were ornamented by the writings and anecdotes of Tennessee Williams in particular his “Letters to Donald Windham (1940 – 1965)“.  Earnest Hemingway played out his extraordinary private life in Key West as well.  Even the early beginnings of Pan American Airlines has a notoriety for having used homing pigeons to fly from Key West to Miami with SOS reports of current weather conditions. The Key West site of the Pan American Airlines office once housed a restaurant called Pigeon House.

My imagination about maritime resorts was for years epitomized by my hopeful dream to have what I endearingly called a “salt box” on a rocky precipice overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Nova Scotia.  I suspect this fabrication was the product of two recollections; namely, the small and strictly utilitarian structures which passed as cottages on the outskirts of Provincetown and the regular visits I had made on Saturday mornings to the sparsely populated Village of Lawrencetown outside Halifax, Nova Scotia while attending Dalhousie Law School.

Charles Lawrence c. 1753

While I have only recently abandoned the prospect of having a pied-à-terre on the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, I continued for the longest time to fuel the goal when watching Two Fat Ladies (Clarissa Dickson Wright and Jennifer Paterson) running about the charming fishing villages of England on a Triumph Thunderbird and coincidentally preparing delightfully rich meals for the local people whom they visited.  The coastal villages of the United Kingdom are of course famous and many of them, aside from being quaint, are exceedingly posh.

This infatuation was magnified by E. F. Benson in his Mapp and Lucia series of novels featuring humorous incidents in the lives of (mainly) upper-middle-class British people in the 1920s and 1930s, vying for social prestige and one-upmanship in an atmosphere of extreme cultural snobbery. Several of the novels are set in the small seaside town of Tilling, closely based on Rye, East Sussex, where Benson lived for a number of years and (like Lucia) served as mayor.

My wishful thinking has now acquired a decidedly more substantive (though nonetheless perpetually whimsical) characteristic. Over five years ago during a casual luncheon engagement in Chelsea, Québec with family friends, we heard of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.  Every year since then we have visited the Island and have now adopted it as our winter residence from November to April.

Even the Islanders acknowledge that they are beyond the regular channels of communication and for years it was uncontested for example that wireless service and mail delivery was frequently sporadic. Our hibernation on Hilton Head Island is normally quiet and unhurried.  The tourists don’t begin to arrive until mid-March at the earliest and it is nothing for us to travel on our bicycles on the beach for miles and see no one.

Although I am by nature a confessed bore who is hopelessly committed to routine, with some gentle persuasion, the novelty of a new destination is not entirely abhorrent. Our current leaning is towards Tybee Island, Georgia.

Situated a mere 18 miles from Savannah, Georgia, Tybee Island can also be seen from Sea Pines, Hilton Head Island.  Tybee Island is another of the barrier islands on the Atlantic Ocean.

In the late 19th century, at the height of the Industrial Revolution, residents in large, polluted cities frequently sought out remote beaches for summertime getaways. Clear, saltwater breezes were believed to be remedies for various ailments, including asthma and certain allergies. Steamships began carrying patients and tourists to Tybee Island just after the Civil War. In 1887, the Central of Georgia Railway completed a line to Tybee Island, opening the island to a wave of summer tourists. The railroad built the Tybrisa Pavilion in 1891, and by the end of the decade, several hundred summer cottages dotted the island.

We are currently in the throes of communications with estate agents on Tybee Island with a view to the 2016 -17 season.  Considering the Island is only about 3.2 square miles in total (an insignificant portion of which is under water), we acknowledge that wintering in this resort (which has a permanent population of less than 3,000) is guaranteed to provide every imaginable element of retreat one might desire. Our dedication is to cycling (which is apparently a common pastime on the Island) and the views of the Ocean and the beach (which is extolled in all that we have read).  Naturally we are hunting down a place which is immediately adjacent the Ocean where I, for example, intend to indulge myself in the pleasures of my writing, photography and piano (I will bring my electronic keyboard).  We expect there will be ample opportunity to practice the culinary arts (lots of seafood), bathe in the sunshine and doze whenever we care to.  Our decision to downsize from this upcoming year’s 5-bedroom house on Hilton Head Island is a deliberate move calculated to lend a degree of reasonableness to our adventure.  It also signifies a philosophic departure from the unquestionable Republican flavour of Hilton Head Island to the more rustic and Bohemian character of Tybee Island.

“When I contemplate the common lot of mortality, I must acknowledge that I have drawn a high prize in the lottery of life.”

Excerpt From: Edward Gibbon. “Memoirs of My Life and Writings.” iBooks. https://itun.es/ca/Ed77D.l

After precisely four months’ unwavering attention to my elderly mother’s affairs we are beginning to wind things up.

This morning was the penultimate act of resolution of mother’s transition from her house to a retirement apartment, a detail which was fortunately completed in her absence. Shortly after 7:00 a.m. today we met the second-hand collectible dealer at mother’s residence and oversaw the removal of her remnant personal possessions, things she didn’t need or have space for, or things neither I nor my sister cared to have.  Granted most of the stuff wouldn’t have passed for anything more distinguished than junk but nonetheless its accumulation practically filled the two-car garage which is thankfully now empty.  In fact the entire house is now a shell except for the few chattels such as appliances which are included in the sale.  I made a point of leaving a hand-towel and a box of Kleenex in each of the three bathrooms, a modest extravagance admittedly.  Now we wait until August 27th next to close the sale transaction and that should nicely put the lid on things before the snow flies, a concern which my mother expressed more than once.  I was careful to ensure my sister understood that the apparent immediacy of my mother’s relocation (which was clearly careered by me) was prompted not by my desire to avoid contaminating my conscience while we wintered in South Carolina but rather by our mother’s increasingly precipitous decline and her inevitable need for professional supervision and care.  That goal has been achieved; and from what we can gather, successfully and without unsatisfactory fallout.  I am breathing a great deal more easily knowing that my mother has now what is effectively perpetual care without having to rely upon either the goodness, conscience or bona fides of family.

Initially there was no particular rush to accomplish what we’ve done.  But when in early April I discovered that the retirement residence of choice (Colonel By Retirement Living) had a suitable apartment available for a three-month reservation, matters accelerated noticeably.  Previously I had been under the impression that there was a waiting list of between 6 months and one year and even then one was not assured of getting an apartment of choice.  My head aches when I recall the spirited conversations I had with my mother to cajole her into “trying” the apartment in the first place, not to mention the battles that later ensued when we tried to rid her house of fifty years of junk – and I mean junk, nothing sentimental and no family heirlooms, believe me!

The retirement residence, like my mother’s fee-based financial advisor, is unquestionably a luxury.  Fortunately in both instances my mother has the undisputed privilege of being able to afford it.  While I have obviously some level of business skill in the management of mother’s financial affairs, I feel more confident and more diligent in having entrusted the management to a professional advisor, something which also fulfills the object of caution when administering assets in which others (such as testamentary beneficiaries) have an inchoate and anticipatory right.  It is small consolation in the event of a subsequent catastrophic loss that it arose unintentionally.

What has flowed from these numerous undertakings, aside from the satisfaction of knowing the task is done, is a degree of exhaustion.  It has been a very long time indeed that I have tackled so many issues with which I previously had little or no acquaintance.  I would now feel quite confident writing a short essay about everything you need to know about getting mother into a retirement home and arranging to empty her old place and decorate the new one.  My list of contacts has swelled accordingly during this process, people like drapers, electricians, handymen, packers, movers, junk dealers, realtors, clock maker, house cleaner, rug cleaners and hairdressers.  The steep incline of this learning curve has pretty much drained me!  Now that things are finally being wound up I find it requires no provocation at all for me to succumb to utter lethargy.  It is almost a medical condition, not mere indolence.

I often reflect in amazement at what might have transpired if I were not retired and if I were unable to address these erstwhile concerns.  It’s almost as though I were parachuted into the calamity and, having dealt with the crisis, am now on the edge of withdrawing to resume other avocations.  It is of course a blessing now to have nothing other to do than focus upon the very desirable personal schemes which we have on the go.  Although we fortuitously canceled our scheduled summer vacation to the east coast, we have nonetheless embraced certain other conspiracies which continue to absorb our attention and which have yet to unfold. The considerable diversion of my mother’s affairs has whetted my appetite for attention to our personal matters.  There are however just enough on-going obligations for my mother to occupy me further.  For the most part I have regained my domain but the dust hasn’t yet entirely settled.  But we’re getting there!

My introduction to a village green was in 1967 on the Village Green of Rockcliffe Park where I met Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson and party hopeful John Turner. That experience as you might imagine was rather formal and hardly inspired me other than in its limited political purpose. When however in later life I was introduced to E. F. Benson and his colourful Tiling residents Lucia, Mapp and Georgie, the meaning of the Village Green acquired heightened variation. Among other things it was the venue of the annual Tableaux and pivotal social congregations.

I have long considered the Almonte Old Town Hall our Village Green.

A village green is a common open area within a village or other settlement. Traditionally, a village green was often common grassland at the centre of an agricultural or other rural settlement, and was used for grazing. Some also have a pond, often originally for watering stock such as cattle.

The village green also provided, and may still provide, an open-air meeting place for the local people, which may be used for public celebrations such as May Day festivities.

The term village green evokes a grassy rural environment. However the term is used more broadly to encompass woodland, moorland, sports grounds, and even—in part—buildings and roads. The green may also be positioned away from the centre of the village, especially if the village has moved, or been absorbed into a larger settlement.

Apart from the general use of the term, Village Green has a specific legal meaning in England and Wales, and also includes the less common term Town Greens. Town and village greens were defined in the Commons Registration Act 1965, as amended by the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000, as land:

which has been allotted by or under any Act for the exercise or recreation of the inhabitants of any locality or on which the inhabitants of any locality have a customary right to indulge in lawful sports and pastimes or if it is land on which for not fewer than twenty years a significant number of the inhabitants of any locality, or of any neighbourhood within a locality, have indulged in lawful sports and pastimes as of right.

Some greens that used to be a common or otherwise at the centre of a village have been swallowed up by a city growing around them. Sometimes they become a city park or a square, and manage to maintain a sense of place. London has several of these: Newington Green, originally a Dissenting village, is one good example, with its church anchoring its north end.

There are two places in the United States called Village Green: Village Green-Green Ridge, Pennsylvania, and Village Green, New York. Some New England towns, along with some areas settled by New Englanders such as the townships in the Connecticut Western Reserve, refer to their town square as a village green. The only village green in the United States still used for agriculture lies in Lebanon, Connecticut. This green is also one of the largest in the nation.

A core element of our Old Town Hall is the Ron Caron Auditorium renowned for its beauty and acoustics.

This is the Town’s premiere performance facility and is the perfect space for your next event or function.

The auditorium is used for theatre, musical performances, weddings, conferences, art shows, arts and craft shows, community dinners, feature films, professional music recording. The auditorium is the home of dance groups featuring, live music, swing dance (big band) and contra dancing (Celtic band), the Valley Players Theatre Group, Almonte in Concert Music Series, Folkus Music Series, Art in the Attic, and the “Be Your Best” acting classes.

The second floor multi-purpose room is an excellent space for small receptions, meetings, classes, small lectures, art displays, dance classes and yoga.

The spark for this admittedly long-winded introduction is a return visit on September 12th by the Summer Strings Orchestra with conductor Donnie Deacon. It is a cherished and unalterable truth that there is little more ennobling than an improving night of classical music. This concert promises such an occasion.

THE SUMMER STRINGS ORCHESTRA

The 25 member Ottawa Summer Strings Orchestra will present a concert at the Old Town Hall in Almonte on Sept. 12th at 7:30 p.m. Flute soloist Aura Giles will perform CPE Bach’s “Concerto for Flute in D minor” and Harpist Kristina Slodki will join the orchestra in a performance of Elgar’s “Sopiri”.

This is the second season for this burgeoning group of excellent musicians conducted by Donnie Deacon from the NAC Orchestra. The group’s inaugural season included an enjoyable and well received concert at the Town Hall last September.
Also on the program will be Mendelssohn’s String Symphony #10, Handel’s Concerto Grosso in Bb Major, Op.6 #7, Badinerie by J.S. Bach and a new piece titled Summer Songs by Randy Demmon.

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About the conductor:

Donnie Deacon’s immense talent as a violinist was recognized when he was just a boy. He entered the Royal Scottish Academy of Music at the age of 10, studied at the Yehudi Menuhin School in London under the tutelage of Natasha Boyarskaya and Lord Menuhin, himself, and finished his training at the prestigious Curtis Institue in Philedelphia. Donnie joined the NAC Orchestra in 2001 as principal second violin at the age of 22 and has remained active as a soloist with several well known orchestras, both in Canada and abroad including a world premiere performance of Gary Kalushka’s 2nd violin concerto.

In recent years Deacon has turned his attention to conducting. He is currently the music director of the Ottawa Chamber Orchestra. Under his direction OCO has become one of the finest community based groups in the region. He has the ability to share his prodigious music talents and experience in a manner that inspires others to raise their musical goals and standards.

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Members of the orchestra.
Donnie Deacon – conductor
Concertmaster – Carolyn Ho

First violin: Carolyn Ho*, Lisa Taras, Daniela Turcanu, Josée Leblanc, Julia Sandquist, Carolyn Sumner, Hartmut Krugmann

Second Violin: Colin McFarland*, Sonia Dimitrov, Katherine Keppel-Jones, Kris Wilson, Genevieve Gasser, Sylvia Middlebro

Viola: Lisa Moody*, Linda Mathies, Karen Finstad, Samantha Chambers

Cello: Rick Tersteeg*, Catherine Campbell, Louise Smith, David Van Dyne, Thomas Minde

Double Bass: Randy Demmon*, Gergely Horvath

Keyboard: Nick Rodgerson, Flute: Aura Giles, Harp: Kristina Slodki

See you at the Village Green!

Tickets are on sale starting Monday, August 24th, 2015 at Almonte Old Town Hall and Mill Street Books. $25 each.

Mill Street Books, Almonte, Ontario K0A 1A0

For further details:

Tiffany MacLaren
Community Economic & Cultural Coordinator
tmaclaren@mississippimills.ca

Town of Mississippi Mills
14 Bridge Street, P.O. Box 400, Almonte, ON K0A 1A0
Tel: 613.256.1077 ext. 22
Cel: 613.223.3810