Whenever I visited the late Raymond A. Jamieson, QC the first thing he’d ask is, “What’s the news?” Initially I fashioned the enquiry purely rhetorical.  I have come to think otherwise.  I now find myself asking the same thing of whomever I encounter in casual conversation.  The query is perfectly genuine and not a formality.  I have discovered that the seemingly inconsequential probe is code for deeper exploration.  While its superficial meaning is bland enough to be passed off as mere gossip, if the person to whom it is directed is at all inclined to foster healthful dialogue (or even malicious slurs for that matter) then the door is wide open.  Pretty much anything passes as news.  I do however think that the underlying import of the term is more substantive than a chronicle of one’s recent agenda. To the sensitive listener the inherent point of the investigation is something with a bit of meat on it.

What, you might well ask, is the attraction of news?  It is in my opinion an elemental feature of the condition humaine by which I mean not a reference to André Malraux but rather to the general state of human relations.  When once we have exhausted the irrelevant dribble of materialism, spiritualism and philosophy as a whole, we’re left with the austere yearning to know how our companions have spent their time.  All else by way of dialogue is susceptible to disguise and jargon.  Small wonder the news is so often a reiteration of the facts. Indeed a clever account of the news will provide only the facts and leave the interpretation to others.  That is the delight of the analysis.  The object isn’t simply knowledge but resolving doubt and solving a problem.  We learn from the experience of others and therein lies the substance of the question.  Its open-ended simplicity corresponds to the basic nature of human relationships. It represents a chance to synthesize in an instant the sum of one’s latest endeavours.

Admittedly the person who sets the ball rolling by asking “What’s the news?” has an advantage. This effectively transfers the burden of meaningful communication to one’s respondent.  Whether the ball is picked up and carried determines the outcome of this social sport. To the unlearned and unintelligent, the question may be lost though hopefully one is rewarded with digestible fodder. Certainly the willingness to cooperate in this venture is the secret to unlocking its resource.  Though reciprocity is de rigueur it is far more than a prescription of fashion or etiquette. It is the very foundation of our social compact; viz., sharing.  If people fail to rise to the occasion the moment slips away unnoticed.  Too often we are willing to embrace the uninspired in place of the extraordinary. Like passing ships the convention may be unremarkable.

If on the other hand one is rewarded with the communication of the news there is no telling to what elevation the conversation may rise. Each particle of news builds on the other and ultimately one can be assured of a construct worth sharing.  News can be both refreshing and enlivening; topical and dramatic; informative and expanding; awakening and stirring.  Its obvious connection to the actors being described nourishes both intrigue and pleasure.  Unlike commercial transactions there is never anything tangible exchanged.  Yet how thoroughly enraptured we become to know “What’s the news?“

While it certainly isn’t the first time I realized how far removed I have been for most of my life from the grittiness of family affairs and relations, I was reminded of it in buckets again today.  The aging of my parents has embroiled me in elemental family matters to a degree I have never before experienced. My primary mission today was no more complicated than to take mother to the Life Lab for some blood work recently requisitioned by her physician.  The experience was nonetheless ornamented with tribal colour and texture.

The exploit began at six o’clock this morning.  Last night I had instructed Siri on my iPhone to awaken me at 6:00 a.m. this morning which “he” dutifully attempted before advising me that my iPhone was in “airplane mode”.  Once I resolved that hidden issue, the instruction was reiterated and duly scheduled. And sure enough at 6:00 a.m. this morning the iPhone began its annoying buzz to awaken me from what was then a deep slumber.

Although our appointment at the Lab wasn’t until 10:40 a.m. my mother had asked that I telephone her to ensure that she was out of bed in time to prepare for the expedition.  After having made myself a coffee and prepared a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana I reckoned it was appropriate to call her.  When mother answered the telephone she sounded groggy.  She insisted she was awake though she acknowledged she was still in bed, and no, she didn’t need me to call later to make sure she hadn’t fallen back to sleep.

After browsing my computer and munching my breakfast I realized it was time to prepare myself for the drive to collect mother.  The subsequent moments passed rather more quickly than I had anticipated and as a result I was in a bit of a rush to get out of the apartment and onto the road.  I needn’t have fretted as the traffic was by that time relatively thin and I ended arriving at my mother’s house earlier than planned.  We nonetheless left for our destination though we decided to stop at the local branch of the Royal Bank of Canada to get some cash. After some debate about whether to withdraw the cash from her chequing or savings account we settled upon the chequing account and I assisted her at the ATM.  Once mother had withdrawn the cash she pretended to count it (but acceded to me doing so on her behalf) and then proceeded to push a chunk of it in my direction.  I resisted the offer and told her it was no trouble for me to assist her in these matters.  As she pocketed the money again she insisted on paying for our lunch later, an offer I accepted.

I then proceeded to the Life Lab and dropped mother at the front door.  As usual she asked whether I wanted her “disabled” blue card which she had formerly used when driving.  She persists in keeping the plastic card in her purse even though she no longer drives.  She never seems to understand my reluctance to use it when I am not in fact disabled.  In any event we overcame that obstacle  and I told her to wait on the nearby bench until I parked the car and returned. Of course the parking lot was almost full and I had to park in the most remote space.

We met at the front and proceeded inside.  Although I had ensured that mother had her health card I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to extract the physician’s requisition from the glove compartment of the car.  So back I went to the furthest corner of the parking lot to collect it, muttering obscenities along the way.  Once I rejoined the small group waiting for service in the Lab it was but a short delay before mother was called.  Her mission complete, she soon reappeared in the waiting area and we discussed our luncheon plans.  The plans included collecting my other half to join us, which we did and headed back to the City to a Chinese restaurant en route.

Once seated in the restaurant my mother took an instant dislike to our tattooed server who she decided had a bad cough and shouldn’t be serving food.  This intelligence, while mildly disturbing, wouldn’t have been particularly out of place were it not for the fact that mother insisted on pronouncing her objection in a fairly audible manner within hearing distance of the server. As the server (whose English was admittedly strained and who might therefore be presumed not to have understood what my mother had said) did not appear to react, we let it slide.  However, when my mother subsequently commented – again in less than sotto voce – that the server should quit arguing with the cook and get on with what he was employed to do – my immediate reaction was to jab her with my right elbow and insist she put a lid on it!  She looked at me with considerable astonishment as though she failed to understand my precipitous concern.  But thankfully she sensed the strength of my rebuff sufficiently to clam up.

As always in these recent embarrassments everyone recovered remarkably quickly as though nothing at all had transpired.  We were by then drinking our soup and eating our respective meals.  Mother had ordered less than we and she claimed to have had enough.  When however I shared with her morsels off my own plate she made short order of them. At the end of the meal we had only to endure the customary kerfuffle surrounding payment of the meal. Mother grabbed the bill with the dexterity of a hawk but became entangled in a private conundrum about whether to pay cash or use her bank card.  There ensued further review of the matter in some detail, weighing the pros and cons of cash, the triggering of the need to return to the bank for more cash as a result and the trap of not having the exact change.  Not to mention the wrangle about the amount of the tip. We resolved this extraordinary inconvenience by determining that we would pay for lunch with our credit card and mother could repay us in cash.  We assured her that the amount of cash proffered by her was sufficient to exhaust the liability.

As we made our way to mother’s home she confessed she was drained by the events of the day and that she looked forward to having an afternoon nap.  I appeased her characterization of frustration with having to do these things by recasting the proceedings as a mixture of dutiful work, leisurely drive in the country on a lovely day and a relaxing lunch.  I am not convinced that my spin on it was entirely palatable.  It is conceivable that at 89 years of age everything is annoying.

At approximately 2:30 a.m. this morning I breathed a palpable sigh of relief as I stared at my iPhone in the darkness and saw two emails from the Accountant. One email concerned my mother and my late father’s estate; the other was for us.  The 2014 income tax returns were at last finalized and ready to be signed!  The emissions were posted shortly after midnight.  Under the circumstances, with mere hours remaining before the April 30th filing deadline, my sympathies for the laborious Accountant were decidedly lacking. We were now able to move forward after having been stalled for months waiting for T5s and T3s to arrive.  In addition recently my mother had been asking me again and again when we could expect to hear from the Accountant and how much the tax liability was estimated to be.  On several occasions I had attempted to contact the Accountant for an update but always without success, each time being given what was effectively a brush-off.  My level of anxiety and frustration had risen incrementally.  But upon seeing the Accountant’s name on each of the emails so early this morning everything turned a corner and my perturbation dissolved.

I struggled for a moment to read the content of the emails and the attachments but quickly abandoned the effort and returned to bed albeit with a lighter step.  But my head was swimming with detail and resolution.  After tossing about in bed I knew I might as well get up and study the material and do what had to be done.

My initial project was to set up an early morning appointment with the Accountant to review and sign the documents.  I fired off an email to the Accountant accordingly.  Then I realized the suggestion of the Accountant to have me sign on behalf of myself and my mother (and subsequently to get my mother to sign as Executor for my late father) was the best solution so I sent an amending email to the Accountant.  Meanwhile it dawned on me that I could arrange to pay the tax liabilities on-line, including the recently past due and upcoming imminent instalments.  This consumed considerable time as I was aware that at this early stage of the morning great caution was required to ensure I had all the details correct – amounts, social insurance numbers and dates.  As each payment was made I forwarded a copy to the Accountant for her records as well.

Oddly as much as I was relieved by this turn of events I was filled with a sense of blame that I had somehow precipitated what the Accountant characterized in her email as a “significant tax obligation” for my mother and my late father. There was some foundation for this sensitivity as I had orchestrated the unusual capital gains tax liability arising from the disposition of an out-of-province real estate holding and some long-held stocks.  While I knew that these dispositions (which my mother more than once had  openly desired and which our financial advisor had recommended) were in the best interests of my family, and of course the tax liability was in any event merely deferred not eliminated, I nonetheless felt uncomfortably responsible for triggering the liability.  What however assuaged my worry was that I had fortunately planned months in advance to have funds readily available to satisfy the obligation. It began with the reinvestment upon maturity of a fixed account in a cashable short-term certificate. Most recently I instructed the financial advisor to liquidate an estimated amount (which turned out to be almost exactly correct) and transfer it to a chequing account from which this morning I paid the respective amounts owing by my parents.  When I subsequently met with my mother to review the tax matters generally, I satisfied myself to give her the approximation of the real estate tax liability which had historically been her primary concern.  As for the tax arising from the disposition of stocks, I was content to saddle that upon the financial advisor who urged us to do it to diversify the portfolio when it was transferred to his management following my father’s death. It also directs away from me the personal responsibility for being the messenger of bad news in spite of being made to feel accountable.

As for our personal tax returns, there were really no surprises though everyone had as usual underestimated the reportable income (which quite honestly was higher than anyone could have speculated last year). Accordingly, while the liability was greater, so too were the gains.  This illustrates that tax liability is inevitably inarguable even though strangely offensive. 

During the course of the day the weight of these matters lifted from my shoulders.  Tax liability, like pain, loses its strength as its proximity diminishes, whether mollified by time or attrition.  As I became more and more removed from the consternation surrounding these matters I realized we closed the door on a number of family and personal matters which allowed us to proceed with duties performed.  We had for example wrapped up my late father’s estate; my mother’s affairs were now entirely her own.  For our part, my law practice was now fully accounted; and we could move forward knowing better what resources we had in retirement.  And none too soon for any of it!

When I turned fifty years old I quit smoking tobacco.  We were on a charter flight from somewhere in the Caribbean and I found I was having trouble getting my breath.  I blamed the problem partly on the dry, thin air peculiar to airline travel but mostly on my egregious cigarette smoking.  I resolved to quit right then and there and I have never smoked another cigarette to this day.

Prior to my 65th birthday I decided it was an occasion to quit drinking alcohol, which I did.  Once again I haven’t had a drop since then to this day. Admittedly I had lately had some sage advice from a Dutch Uncle but clearly I was already poised to make the change. Considering I am only now approaching my 67th birthday, that is not a terribly long time to have maintained sobriety but I have no interest in spoiling the record.  Nor, more importantly, do I have any further appetite for the stuff.  I am too well aware of the cost of drinking as far as it affects my already limited intellectual capacity ever to want to renew the indulgence.

Frankly I’ve never considered my sobriety an accomplishment; if anything, it was nothing more than the evaporation of an appetite. This qualifies as a small compliment at best.  Nonetheless most of my friends appear to marvel at the tact as though it were some kind of feat even though I am quick to urge upon them that I can easily bear the deprivation.  No doubt part of my so-called success in this endeavour arises (as usual) from the serendipitous events of my life at the time.  I had sold my office building, I had negotiated a prospective sale of my law practice and my retirement was within sight. I am also quite certain that my advancement to official old age had something to do with it, rather removing the customary buoyancy from erstwhile youthful frivolity and marking what should normally be a time of serious philosophy in life. Given these ample and relieving conditions it is no wonder I was prepared to launch into a new style of living, specifically one which didn’t include the anaesthetizing effect of the preprandial cocktail.

I won’t of course be so churlish as to assert that the historic pleasure of the frozen martini was completely lost on me.  Every so often – more so months ago than now – I found myself salivating at the thought of an evening martini with an improving book in front of a blazing fireplace.  The image of that happy intemperance had considerable foundation in fact.  When for example I still had my little French bulldog Monroe, we two had an early evening routine which revolved around that very ceremony. In spite of its compelling features I retained enough level-headedness to acknowledge that the ritual, like so many other things in my past, was but a happy memory and that attempting to relive it was destined to fail one way or the other. Thankfully these instances of mesmerizing recollection percolated but infrequently.  Now they are entirely a thing of the past with no more appeal than any other milestone in my life. I have instead opted for a new posture which pleases me very much. Certainly I still get angry enough at the world at times to wish I could quickly and briefly eliminate the anxiety but I have learned there are other preferable alternatives to address an annoyance.

It no doubt helped to sustain my sobriety that we also sold our house and moved into a new apartment, one which pleases us very much.  I can’t think that there was much else we could have done to leave our old habits and customs in the past.  My retirement was also considerably accelerated so once again my former life-style changed radically.  I mention these facts primarily because I have never been known to be one who is particularly efficient when maintaining a course of action which seemingly lacks immediate rewards and gratification.  By contrast I am normally one who is quick to embrace anything which rationalizes all that is epitomized by the Carpe Diem adage.  There lingered however that refrain I had adopted on my 65th birthday; namely, “You only turn sixty-five once!”  Why that date was so significant I cannot honestly say but it rang true to me for whatever reason and I have never been seriously tempted to defeat its rarity.

It would amount to boredom to relate how I now view the world differently. The change has naturally been incremental and therefore almost unnoticeable.  But there has indeed been a change.  For one thing, I never begin the day muttering an expletive, something which once was characteristic.  My personal talents, whatever they may be and however developed or not they are, no longer suffer self-imposed diminution.  In general terms I am now prepared to accept the limits of my compass and rejoice in what I have sans alcohol.  Being a person of a binary nature that I am, I hasten to add that booze was something I “enjoyed” to excess; accordingly my prescription (if indeed this is one) doesn’t apply to many people.

He held it up to the light, squinting and turning it slowly to study its detail, being very careful not to let it drop.  A superb piece, he thought.

The socks fit well. Knee-high, not ankle length as he had supposed when he bought them.  How can you possibly try socks before you buy them? It’s a crap shoot.  But they work!  When anything works, it’s good, doesn’t matter what.  He couldn’t stand things that didn’t work. Clocks, socks, whatever.

After only two mandarin oranges for breakfast there was an uncharacteristic sense of nimbleness.  The pants fit better around the waist. Pecan pie is off the list! And Nutella! Sugar, sugar, sugar…How long will this conviction last? Even the fatty oil of real peanut butter was turning out to be bad news. But the Abbott granola was still on the list, a rational accommodation.

The car was ready, clean enough from yesterday’s ritual wash. The mats were clean too.  One day soon he’d bring a wet rag from the apartment to wipe the scuff marks left by the rear-seat passengers. But for the time being it was fine.

The apartment was up to scratch, too.  Only the best things, stuff that for the most part is easy to maintain, no polishing.  The Persian rugs and the oil paintings and the mahogany and dark green leather furnishings sustained the place. And the copper lamps with their black shades, bits of bronze, crystal and ceramic sculpture.  Booze, good booze, was stored on the library shelves and in the wine cabinet, jewel-coloured treasures.

Sunday brunch at the edge of the River by the sprawling lawn. Cozy old red brick farmhouse reminiscent of a scene from The Two Fat Ladies.  The latest news of children and grandchild; travels; and health (always including arthritis). Had no one eaten before arriving?  The plates were emptied in a flash!  Yes, bicycling earlier in the morning, that explains the appetite.

A late afternoon visit with mother.  Inadvertently sharing a story which required some explanation. “I didn’t know you had those troubles”, she said.  “There’s lots you don’t know” was the reply.  A nasty bit of intelligence for an old woman.  “There are many things people don’t know about one another”, added by way of palliative.

The evening meal with a hint of rosemary on the potatoes.  Transported to the mountain top in Sardinia, early morning collection from the hedge outside the kitchen door of fragrant rosemary shards to sprinkle on the thick white bread fried in pungent olive oil.

We were a remarkably compatible lot at lunch today, the four of us.  There was that fluidity and transparency common to family gatherings in general, the singular lack of social gloss upon what is the overriding feature of togetherness peculiar to the communion of relatives. The congregation would not have been interpreted otherwise even from an abstract view of the components, two elderly men and two young women. There was clearly nothing nefarious about our convention.  Instead the profound elements of sharing and personal interest were likely apparent.  Everyone’s body language said as much, the reclining postures, the unfolded arms, the eruptions of laughter.  The purpose of eating and drinking underscored the birthday agenda. The tête-à-tête was fraught with unmistakeable import and introversion.

Our imaginations flew across the Atlantic Ocean to England where the two girls plan to travel a year hence. The chance to live while they’re young! The vast universe of callow discovery! In preparation for the voyage we bandied doors to close before opening others. And paused to reflect, to wonder, to consider. Where will we all be a year from now?

The repast yawned drowsily into coffee and desert and suddenly it was time to go.  Go to SuzyQ Doughnuts next door to face another temptation.

As unlikely as it may sound I now become anxious whenever I am due for a haircut.  Last autumn I got it into my head that I would adopt a new style. Over the winter my attendances upon the stylist in South Carolina were characterized by ups and downs.  Essentially mid-way in the growth process the stylist forgot what I was attempting to do so we had to begin anew almost from scratch.  Ever since I have been wary of trusting stylists to draw conclusions on their own; and as a result I prep myself before each visit for what I anticipate to be a showdown of sorts as I tediously prepare to explain again what I hope to accomplish.  This would all be too preposterous for words if I hadn’t derived such a charge out of the exploit in spite of its setbacks.  The bottom line is that I’m having fun with hair something which normally has not been even a remote indulgence.  I recall once at law school (over forty years ago) I tried to instruct the stylist to create a certain look for me.  It was nothing short of a disaster and until lately I had never again attempted anything like it.  This latest effort however has met with some degree of approbation from both myself and a few others (those who have the cheek to comment upon one’s appearance).  Let me put it this way, I can now understand what Samson was all about!  Other than that mop at law school I can’t recall ever having had a head of hair of any length.  Now frankly I amuse myself to be aware of it at the oddest times, in bed, in a wind and sometimes when just passing my hand through my hair.  Considering the months of fuss which have surrounded this act of pure selfishness it pleases me greatly that I am able, as I did today, to surface from the washing bowl and salon chair with a satisfactory cut.  While the air outside this morning was dry and cool with a discernible ray of sunshine making its way through the clouds, it wouldn’t have mattered if it were drizzling and blowing (which in fact it did later in the day).  My hair has become an extension of the weather whatever it may be and I am rejoicing in this trite correspondence!

As our cleaning lady was scheduled to make her regular visit to the apartment today we instinctively vacated the place and planned to be out of the mix for the greater part of the day. We quickly determined to lunch at our favourite haunt, the Socialist Pig in Gananoque. Our ambitions were not disappointed. We had what was unquestionably one of the better lunches we’ve ever had, a superb homemade tomato soup and tasty whole grain rolls, a grilled brisket and cheese sandwich accompanied by a small leafy salad with a very desirable vinaigrette, all washed down by hot green tea.  As appetizing as the lemon squares looked we had little trouble avoiding the temptation for fear of spoiling the most satisfactory effect of the soup and sandwich.

The unspoken background to this delightful day was the beautiful Eastern Ontario landscape, the ancient Town Hall of Gananoque (directly across the street from the restaurant) and the pleasure of driving our fine automobile (which for the most part sustained its shininess after the routine morning lather). Sheepishly I confess to the secret gratification of my new bit of bijouterie as well. The tactile thrill of it is unsurpassed, the density of the metal and the smoothness of its edges.  It is after all a work of art whose merits are not lost on me!  Surprisingly I am equally eager about fine plastic which I know may sound an oxymoron but in the hands of the Italians a pair of spectacles can be a cogent object.  Add to this a highly refined pair of lenses and the depth of enchantment is all the greater.

Wallowing in these instinctive diversions causes me a degree of public shame. But privately I concede that one hasn’t always the privilege of doing so.  More often than not we sad humans are overwhelmed by the cerebral and psychiatric  strains of life, the intellectualism of it all.  Occasionally it is a relief to capitulate to purely visceral pleasure.

I can’t ever remember having waited until almost April 30th to file my income tax return.  This year’s different.  Not just for me but for everyone in my immediate sphere.  I have been using the same firm of accountants for almost forty years so I can’t pretend to lose confidence in them.  Granted we’ve had delay because the T3 slips didn’t arrive until after April 1st.  But everything else was in the hands of the accountant long before that date.  Seemingly they don’t move until it’s all on the table.

Anyway as usual it’s probably just me needlessly fretting about things.  It doesn’t help that others have been pestering me about the same time-line. Add to that the delinquency of the accountant in returning my plaintive phone calls.  And there are several unusual issues this year involving capital gains tax liability so even making a guess at what is owed is impossible.  And the atypical estate considerations for my late father.  More obsession, I know, I know!  However we really have no more than six business days before it should all be finalized, and I have just confirmed with the financial advisor that no less than three business days are required to route funds from the investments to the chequing account.  That doesn’t include the time required to process a payment to Canada Revenue Agency.

Apart from that annoyance all is well.  My sister and I agreed this morning that the retirement home (Colonel By) on Aylmer Avenue in Ottawa would be a good fit for my mother if and when the time comes for her to move out of her house.  That’s half the battle, just knowing where she might go.  We like the neighbourhood of course because it’s within several blocks of my sister’s residence.

We’ve been doing a bit of a dance between banking partners in the past several weeks.  One more round to go in June, then we’ll nestle in for another year until the next maturity date.  Much of our financial planning turns on the report from the accountant about our collective current tax liability. This is another reason I’ve been anxious lately.  I tried to make that clear to my accountant but apparently it fell upon deaf ears.  At least we have the comfort of knowing that April 30th is the final date for settlement of these “taxing” issues.

Meanwhile all else is unfolding as it should.  My latest venture into the world of bijouterie is sitting well with me, very well if the truth be known.  Adjusting to a new piece is surprisingly easy when the design and fit are perfect, not always an easy achievement.  This production echoes the very satisfactory recollection I have of the first work I purchased from the same company years ago.  Considering the few matters of importance I have on my plate these days, it represents significant progress to have this particular lark behind me. The weather has surprisingly remained cool even to this date and now we’re being deluged with rain.  Nonetheless we’ve maintained our cycling routine fairly well until just recently.

Since our return from Hilton Head Island we’ve communicated with or met with all our closest friends.  The importance of close friendships frequently surfaces in our casual conversations.  Like most people our close connections are narrowing all the time especially perhaps on the heels of my retirement. In the past six weeks I have tried various adventures into the public orbit in an attempt to “keep involved” but public meetings, like fairs, are proving generally to be for the disadvantaged.  In spite of the appearance of accomplishment little gets done during these congregations which are more appropriately described as shoulder-rubbing for bafflegab and gobbledygook. We thus maintain that our private perambulations and sorties are sufficient diversion as insular as that must sound.

Except for open-heart surgery eight years ago, and except for arthroscopic knee surgery about fifteen years ago (oh, and two umbilical hernia operations and a silly event at Emergency one evening to cut two rings off my enflamed fingers following indigestion of a pan of bacon fat when I was on the otherwise very successful Atkins Diet), I’ve had little to do with doctors and hospitals throughout my entire life. At this juncture my duties focus upon shepherding my elderly mother to her physician for increasingly regular visits.

Today’s outing was prompted by mother’s concern last week that she had a lump in her abdomen. Accordingly the appointment was made and my mother duly alerted. We thought we’d profit by the occasion to enlist the doctor’s review of everything imaginable which may affect my mother.

No less than two days before the appointment mother began to resile from the arrangement.  She denied the necessity of the scheduled visit (though I reminded her that it was she who had requested it).  As is now so often the case my mother’s stock denial was easily assailed and the meeting took place as arranged.  And as I had anticipated the visit precipitated the request by the doctor for further tests, namely an X-ray, blood work and naturally a return visit in about six weeks.  Making those plans was thankfully not terribly difficult though two of them were made at different offices and the third (with the help of another party) was made on-line over the internet.

Precedent to her meeting with the physician I took my mother to the local branch of the Royal Bank of Canada.  When we got there my mother advised that she didn’t need to do anything at the bank notwithstanding that she had previously told me she needed to go to the bank (which normally she does for purposes of withdrawing a small amount of cash and to have her savings account passbook updated).  Argument in this instance served no purpose whatever so we simply moved on.

From the Royal Bank parking lot we therefore proceeded to the nearby Equator coffee shop where my mother had a mocha coffee and I had a small espresso.  She also ate half a large cinnamon roll, the remaining half of which she wrapped in her paper serviette and stuffed into her purse.

During our travels today two events transpired which speak to the current state of affairs.  First, my mother informed me that her credit card had expired and that a replacement had not been mailed to her by the bank.  When I examined her card I pointed out that the expiry date was over a month hence, the absorption of which took my mother about a minute.  Second, upon returning home she said the key to the house was not working. I observed that she appeared to be turning the key in the wrong direction.  I opened the door for her without difficulty.

Considerable controversy arose when, as requested by my mother’s physician, I removed the unused blister packs of medicine which are delivered weekly by the pharmacy.  Mother insisted that a.) she was taking her pills (which clearly she wasn’t); and b.) she needed to retain them in any event (which was preposterous considering the scheduled future deliveries).  No amount of logic on my part was sufficient to convince her otherwise and she soon lapsed into what has become her common refrain that a.) she is tired of people interfering in her affairs; and b.) things are going to change.

Most people wouldn’t consider life to be a job.  Perhaps we should.  After all many of us derive from work both tangible and intangible benefits.  To imagine that life will provide the same returns without effort is as unrealistic as to suggest we survive on air.  It requires but a cursory comparison of life and work to recognize the similarities: routine “get up and at it”, frequent drudge, occasional high points, general identity and personal satisfaction, need for application and thought, corporate responsibility, etc.

Too often people expect something from life without having to work at it as though its production were inherently magical.  This is both illogical and sadly shallow.  The good news however is that one needn’t work too hard. Nonetheless the imposition on life of even the veneer of work is both its salvation and its undoing. As patently compelling as it is to promote prosecution and intelligence in the way one lives, it requires little persuasion to opt instead for a laissez-faire strategy.  Taradiddle abounds when it comes to avoiding work.

What, you might ask, is the “work” that one must do to live?  The starting point has to be that, as with compensable employment, life will provide bounty commensurate with what one does.  The corollary is that if you don’t work at it, you’ll be out of a job, which in this context means you’re living a hollow life.  Unfortunately for some, when it comes to living there is no Employment Insurance; you either have a job or you don’t.  As with any job, some people will reap greater rewards than others.  There is seldom any accommodation for disability or incapacity; it’s generally the same playing field for all and one must learn to negotiate the rough and tumble without indulgence in self-pity.  If one allows one’s so-called pre-existing condition to trump everything else, the plight is doomed.  Indeed it is axiomatic that where there is no will there is no way.

However as I say one needn’t work too hard.  Like it or not, not all of us is aligned with performance. Rather the intent is to adopt an intellectual approach to living so that we are not merely fish in the sea being swept about by the changing tides and currents.  As comfortable as abandonment may sound the truth is that we derive our sense of meaning from active participation and contribution.  Seeing life as a job, a tit for tat, rather than a chance lottery will ensure we maintain a governance of our well-being, a hand on the tiller.  Far better to direct our course than to feel buffeted by the same winds whence we had frivolously hoped to discover the dew of pearls.  Even the most modest commitment to the improvement of life is better than none at all.  As the circumstances of life change through age or fortune, the need to adjust and temper may also occur. This mustn’t however diminish the requirement to work at it.  The smallest progress will ultimately advance the goal.

The object of course is to live a rewarding life, recognition of one’s services, efforts, or achievements. Especially as one gets older, the need to be valued is heightened though no one should expect it for nothing.  You have to work at it.  It’s a job!