Whenever I am obliged to think about something I get uncomfortable. It is virtually assured that I am in an enforced state of suspended activity. Thinking is sadly not my default maneuver. Instead I fashion myself a man of action. If I am unable to fix a dilemma without abeyance it is sign I am out of control. Resigning myself to contemplation of the matter is little more than an ill-diguised attempt at productivity, an act designed to create commotion and delay the sting that is patience.  Ultimately however I awaken to the advantage of analysis and it usually reinforces the strength of my original perplexity; namely, there are reasons I am stymied. Continue reading →

Even if one fervently reckons each day of life a manifest privilege, there is no denying that some days are less action-packed than others.  Nonetheless it is equally patent that the trifling details of life are what constitute the loam of our existence. An account of those spiceless components, and sifting for the gems of life among its humble fodder, is I have discovered not without its modest gratification. As an illustration allow me if you will to relate the featureless events of today. Continue reading →

To some people it might seem alarming that I get fired up about taking my octogenarian mother for an afternoon stroll in her wheelchair but that is precisely what we did today.  And we enjoyed it! Permit me to set the scene by enlightening you that my mother now resides in a retirement residence on Colonel By Drive in Ottawa South.  The building she inhabits is effectively adjacent the famed Rideau Canal along which pedestrians walk, bicyclists cycle and on which boaters paddle or motor and – during the winter – people skate. It is an idyllic neighbourhood of older homes in a cherished location.

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sartorial (adj.)
“pertaining to a tailor,” 1807, from Modern Latin sartorius, from Late Latin sartor “tailor” (source also of French sartre “tailor”), literally “patcher, mender,” from Latin sart-, past participle stem of sarcire “to patch, mend,” from PIE root *serk- “to make whole.” Earlier in English in same sense was Related: sartorian (1660s). Sartorius as the name of the long leg muscle is because it is used in crossing the legs to bring them into the position needed to sit like a tailor. Continue reading →

This afternoon we fulfilled our daily ritual of visiting my mother at her retirement residence on The Driveway in Ottawa. When we arrived she and her dining partner were seated outside on the veranda presumably idly watching people coming and going.  We had brought along 4-dozen freshly baked donuts in as many small white cartons.  My mother had some trouble understanding why we had done so though she and her friend were each quick to put in a claim for one of the donuts.  As we ventured into the residence for the purpose of depositing the donuts with the staff for later distribution to the residents we encountered a forum of the residents sitting in the extensive lobby in the mottled afternoon sunshine listening to Lauren Hall singing to them.  We left the donuts at the front desk and sat down with the others to enjoy the performance.  My mother and her friend joined the congregation not long afterwards. Continue reading →

A number of years ago on a visit to New York City we spent an autumn weekend at the stodgy Carlyle Hotel at 35 East 76th Street.

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The stock enquiry, “What did you do today?” is I have decided elliptical for “What did you do today to bring you one step closer to your goal?”  Not “for your country” or “to save the world“.  And I suspect there is inherent a nasty corollary, “If you do tomorrow what you did today, you will get tomorrow what you got today.”  Not exactly sure what that means though my sense is that we’d better get cracking! Continue reading →

I awoke this morning with an unmistakeable sense of regret. The nostalgic and all too recognizable consciousness was uncomfortably similar to the instant remorse I used to feel upon reviving from a late night of heavy drinking. So much for leaving it all in the past! Those indelible demons will no doubt linger for years to come!

The despondency was however quickly expunged when I weighed myself on our mockingly named “Thinner®” digital bathroom scale and discovered that last evening’s sumptuously rich meal with Monsieur le docteur in the Village of Ashton had apparently added a negligible one-half pound to the diminution we have so far accomplished on our newly subscribed (mainly) vegetarian diet. What relief!  Advancement in these dietary matters is too hard-won to be dismissive of even a temporary fall-back or forgivable capitulation. Yet the happy avoidance of anything but a slight stigma has exponentially heightened the pleasure of the lavish feast. We were initially knocked aback by a velvety caviar mousse-like cream smeared copiously on crusty French bread. For hors d’oeuvres we were further distracted by slices of a variety of hot, barbecued sausage, freshly cooked beets with goat’s milk cheese, a rich British Columbia brie, extraordinary feta cheese and a fine South Africa olive oil for dipping. When we repaired to the dining room table our plat principal was a delicate pasta dish infused with homemade pesto, garden garlic scapes and tiny Danish shrimp. After all this provender we nonetheless acceded to a mixed berry pie from a local farmer’s market.  Meanwhile outside the stone house the wind rose and fell across the meadow ushering in dry, cooler air. Findlay, the black labrador pup, didn’t stir under the table.

Our rambling conversation throughout the evening was diffuse and far-ranging. There were just the three of us, a communication to which I have become accustomed when our host’s partner is absent for one reason or another. When he initially called to arrange the convention, he heralded it as a “Boys’ Night”. We embraced the singularity of the venture by touching upon sensitive topics which do not normally qualify for admission at larger social gatherings, things like how to raise children, the mystical – and sometimes fictional – sense of belonging to a community, the possibility of divergence in a relationship, the hopes for the future and the precariousness of it all. Our relationship spans at least thirty years and we have known our host’s children since birth.  We too have shared the account of their progress and the metaphysical distraction of the younger generation.

Intermittent gatherings such as this are now infrequent. Our circle of friends has narrowed considerably, an amortization fuelled by retirement and the cultivation of curmudgeonly habits and highly personalized preoccupations. As a result I am temporarily broadsided by such hedonism and it requires absorption to regain my balance in what has increasingly become an uncomplicated and admittedly predictable sphere. Small wonder that an outing such as this is so enticing and that we embrace it with earnest abandon!

The Shouldice Hospital I have decided is a mean and nasty institution! Today I received an email from their Reviewing Doctor in response to my application for admission to repair a right inguinal hernia.  Here is the gist of what they had to say:

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At last! Rain! We’re relieved of our regular duty to go for a bike ride!  The rain welcomes a restful Saturday morning, lingering over coffee, breakfast, the computer.  And listening to a CBC classical music webcast. If the sun were shining I would have felt compelled to be out-of-doors, exercising.  Not that bicycling is something I dislike doing, not at all.  But when I have the opportunity – or should I say, the excuse – not to do so, I embrace it.  The rain  subdues me.