I perceived early in my career as a lawyer that court room appearances were not my preference.  As an articled clerk I had attended the Small Claims Court and the somewhat less inferior Ontario Court (General Division) regarding debt collection and Landlord/Tenant matters respectively. I learned some bold lessons in those courts.  The Small Claims Court experience taught me that it is wide of the mark to assume your Client is telling the truth.  When for example I asked my Client in the witness box a pivotal question pertaining to his claim against the Defendant, he surprisingly gave an answer which utterly contradicted what he had told me at my office.  He buckled in the heat of the moment.  The Judge raised an eyebrow and summarily dismissed the claim.

The Ontario Court (General Division) introduced me to the riffraff of society. The delinquent tenants were the object of my Client’s suit.  The case I thought began badly for me when the Judge commented upon the pleasing floral design of the tie of one of the scruffy bearded tenants.  The Judge overcame his preoccupation sufficiently to grant me an order for eviction.  Weeks afterwards when I was in a local pub which catered to people such as poorly paid articled law students I saw the former tenants there.  Realizing I couldn’t avoid them I decided to confront them.  I expressed my hope that they were not angry with my Landlord Client.  They assured me they were not, adding that they were angry with me!  This intelligence did little to improve the rest of the evening though I escaped without damage.

After being called to the Bar at Osgoode Hall I catapulted to the Federal Court and Supreme Court of Canada (Appeal Division) in a high profile oil and gas case, a distinction I garnered only because we acted as Agents for a British Columbia law firm and nobody else in my firm could fit into their gown or felt it worth their while to attend (especially I am sure when they could pay me so little and charge so much).  My attendance in this instance was decorative only.  I and the other twenty-four lawyers in the court room bowed to the ermine-clad Justices and agreed with the submissions of our learnèd friend Mr. Hyman Soloway who was leading the charge.

A year later I plummeted once again to the Small Claims Court to complete one of those “dog” files begun years earlier by one of my Principals.  The Defendant was trying to avoid paying a $600 debt.  Thus far he had been successful.  When however I instituted a “Show Cause” proceeding (pursuant to which the Defendant was summoned to appear before the Judge to explain his continued dereliction), the Defendant chose not to appear and the Judge therefore issued a Bench Warrant.  This meant the police were armed with authority to incarcerate the Defendant for Contempt of Court.  As the police were hauling the Defendant off to gaol he called me to ask me to call off the dogs which I told him I couldn’t do because the violation was not that he hadn’t paid my Client’s debt rather that he had not obeyed the Judge’s Order and accordingly I had no authority.  I thought this would have been sufficient to exact payment of the debt, but no.  My subsequent action was to garnish the wages of the Defendant.  To my utter surprise the Garnishee employer (Canadian Pacific Railway) never responded to the Garnishment Notice.  So I ended by getting an Order of the Court to force CPR to pay the debt (which they did). When this Order was mailed to the Head Office of CPR it unfolded that the reason CPR had not responded to the Garnishment Notice was that the Baliff had served it upon the CPR Manager who was the very Defendant I had been suing.  The Garnishment Notice went into the trash upon its receipt.  CPR of course became apprised of these details and subsequently fired the Defendant. By the time the $600 debt had been satisfied the additional court costs put the total in excess of $3,500.

What I thought was to be my swan song was a reappearance in Small Claims Court in my second year of practice to defend a Client charged with theft.  He switched the price tags on a token item in a department store.  The difference in price was about three dollars.  The Client attempted to assert the error of the in-store detective but armed with my previous lesson about the credibility of one’s own client I succeeded in reducing him to tears in my office and advised him to plead guilty which he did.  I had the satisfaction of persuading the Judge to grant my Client an absolute discharge (which meant no criminal record for my Client).  It was I thought a good note on which to end my career as litigation Counsel.

My retirement from the courts however suffered a further delay during my first year of practice on my own.  I inherited a filing cabinet of unpaid bills from a local merchant.  The one thing I recall having heard from the late Hyman Soloway was, “Sue first, talk later”.  That is precisely what I did.  My action brought immediate response from the numerous Defendants who in every case assured me I needn’t have acted without consultation (notwithstanding that each of them had failed to respond for years to previous letters pleading for payment).

Subsequently I advised Clients that I no longer accepted retainers for contentious matters.  This effectively excluded not only collection matters but also the equally common matrimonial matters.  I thought I had closed the door on court room appearances.

I was wrong.  Late one year just before closing for the Christmas holidays the looming figure of a well-known Ottawa Baliff appeared at my office door.  Recognizing him I quipped, “Who are we suing today?” to which he replied, “You!” This bad beginning to my Christmas holiday lasted ten years. Immediately upon receipt of the Statement of Claim I naturally notified my professional indemnity insurers who subsequently engaged their own Counsel on my behalf.  Over the next ten years the Plaintiff went through three lawyers, none of whom he paid and one of whom sued his former client and precipitated the sale of the Plaintiff’s assets to satisfy the unpaid legal fees. I went through endless Examinations for Discovery and rehashed the facts much to the repeated disappointment of succeeding Counsel for the Plaintiff. It became obvious that the Plaintiff was motivated by a hatred for a background participant in the saga and was seeking to compensate any financial loss suffered at the hand of that peson by collecting from my insurance.  In the end the Plaintiff was completely unsuccessful.  His claim was dismissed without a penny paid on my behalf and my escalated insurance premiums during the preceding ten years were reduced and repaid to me.

It is often observed by the Law Society and practitioners that it is impossible to escape a liability claim in one’s career.  Having proved the accuracy of that statistic and my commonality with the herd I would have been satisfied not to disturb the actuarial numbers.  There was however another realm of litigation which lawyers regularly undergo and that is a dispute regarding professional fees.

In no less than three instances a claim had been advanced against me for repayment of professional fees.  In each case the claim was only for repayment of money not for professional negligence. What however was singular about these claims is that notwithstanding that the Plaintiff in each was different (as of course one would expect) the Solicitor for the Plaintiff was the same.  After the second claim was instituted (the first simply evaporated after much back and forth communication) I thought perhaps it was merely a coincidence that it was being handled by the same lawyer (on the theory that there were not many litigation lawyers in the immediate area).  The second claim dragged on endlessly.  For one reason or another the Plaintiff was never able to make it to court on the date scheduled for appearance.  I finally became so fed up with needless court appearances and adjournments that I agreed to pay money to the Plaintiff just to get rid of her as it was costing me money and valuable time in any event.  When the third claim was instituted by the same lawyer I decided enough was enough.  Negotiations and settlement discussions were off the table.  We ended by going to court and the Judge decided not only that I was entitled to the full payment of my account but also damages in an amount which came perilously close to exceeding the disputed amount claimed by the Plaintiff.  I was so angry with the other lawyer and his client that upon issuing the Order from the court I immediately served it upon the other lawyer and advised that if it were not paid within ten days I would instruct the Sheriff to seize the Plaintiff’s house and sell it to satisfy the debt and costs.  Satisfaction ensued.  The other lawyer never bothered me again nor was I ever caught up in a similar dispute.

My elder niece is turning thirty in a couple of weeks.  I am also her godfather. By virtue of either distinction I feel the necessity to convey more than birthday wishes to her on the day. As a token acknowledgement of the significance of the occasion we have resolved to meet for lunch at a vegetarian restaurant (her preference).  There will just be four of us so the opportunity lends itself to earnest dialogue.  Naturally I don’t want to spoil the day by being tedious but neither do I want to avoid the chance to share what information I have that may assist her in life. Notice I call it “information” not “wisdom”.  I won’t be presumptuous.  It has been my experience that sharing the facts of one’s life can afford lessons.  After all apprenticeship at any level is nothing more than that sans the platitudinous innuendo. And if my aspiration in this contrivance is trumped by the weather, the food or any other topic of idle table conversation, I thought I might usefully record what I was doing at 30 years of age.

I was born in 1948.  So I was 30 years old in 1978.  An especially important date for me in that year is March 1, 1978.  It was the day I opened my own law practice.  While I am naturally tempted to ramble on about the exigencies of running one’s own business that is beside the point for purposes of this chronicle.  What is more relevant is what preceded my decision to open my own office.  The subsequent traffic up the narrow staircase to Mr. Jamieson’s antique office put me in good stead.

Until I graduated from law school in 1973 my progress in life was nothing more distinguished than that of most students.  Upon graduation I secured an articling job at Macdonald, Affleck at 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa. My recollection is that my mother knew a woman who had a connection to someone in the firm.  I honestly cannot recall being interviewed though obviously I got the job.  Apart from having an articling job (which I understand by current standards is no longer a given for many of the law school graduates throughout the Province of Ontario) the achievement was otherwise a small compliment.  We were paid about $4,000 per year (which even then meant that eating at Harvey’s was considered “dining out”) and for the most part we were delivery boys, running between the office and court houses and the Land Registry Office.  Even the conveyancer had a superior status to law clerks, and the legal secretaries unquestionably ranked higher. But it was a prerequisite to completing the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall in Toronto.

The next bit of luck arose when I applied to my undergraduate university (Glendon Hall, Toronto) for the position of a Don of the men’s residence so that I didn’t have to pay rent while attending Osgoode Hall.  During the interview the Dean mentioned that the previous applicant (David, also a law student and who has since been elevated to the bench) casually commented to the Dean that I had certain “tendencies” which he considered might make me unfit for the position of a Don in a men’s residence.  I won’t bore my reader with the reactionary fallout of that intelligence other than to observe that, upon hearing it, I stood up and informed the Dean I had a luncheon engagement in the Professors’ Lounge with the Head of the English Department and withdrew.  Subsequently I made application to the Dean of Devonshire House, University of Toronto and was enlisted as a Don.  By the way, the Dean at Glendon Hall also offered me a Donship but I turned it down.

Upon my return to Macdonald, Affleck after completing the Bar Admission Course, I worked for one year.  My tenure there came to an abrupt halt when I discovered that a new articling student had been hired at the same salary I was getting as a first-year lawyer.  When I broached the subject with the Managing Partner he was clearly unaware of the situation though it emphasized to me that my presence and comparative status were either unimportant or undistinguished.  Feeling slighted I began immediate plans to leave not only the firm but also Ottawa (in those days the Ottawa Bar was much smaller than it is now).  Because our firm had recently consumed McIlraith, McIlraith and McGregor and because Sen. Geo. McIlraith was the father-in-law of Michael J. Galligan, QC and because Galligan & Sheffield, Almonte had recently bought the practice of retiring Raymond A. Jamieson, QC, I applied to fill the hole left by Raymond.  I got the job one splendid summer evening at the Mississippi Golf Club, Appleton.

It appears that my sense of self-importance and purpose continued as strong as ever. Within two years, after having made what I thought were frequent overtures to Galligan and Sheffield about acquiring partnership status and having been consistently ignored (as I thought in my youthful impatience) I began what were effectively surreptitious proceedings to set up my own law office.  The exploit was hastened upon learning of the intention of my employers to close Mr. Jamieson’s former law office out of which I had been operating and relocate me in their main office up the street. Quite by coincidence within weeks of my targeted mission (March 1, 1978) Mike Galligan invited me to lunch and announced that he would like to discuss partnership with me.  To this I replied, “I’m leaving on March 1st” to which he replied “You’re miles ahead of us” to which I replied “I’m just trying to catch up!” I subsequently negotiated with Galligan & Sheffield to pay them what they had paid Mr. Jamieson for his practice. Pointedly they retained ownership of his files, I bought only the old hardware (furnishings, copier and books).  Of course I had also negotiated a new lease with the Landlord (the price jumped from the laughable $25 per month that Mr. Jamieson had paid to $100 per month) so importantly by staying there I had the appearance of retaining Mr. Jamieson’s practice even without the technical legal gloss.

I won’t attempt to extrapolate any generic truths from the above narrative other than to say that my personal feeling is that a combination of gusto and luck prevailed. I suppose an admission of bloodymindedness wouldn’t be without foundation as well.  But at 30 years of age, what do you expect?

Benjamin Franklin reportedly said, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”  Yesterday I swallowed the remedial pill and I confess I’m feeling the better for having done so!

No doubt as a whitewash of an inescapable weakness of mine I have rationalized this latest sally into the ornamental world as a palliative of sorts. It is after all a malady to which I long ago succumbed and from which I never truly imagined to be free in spite of the distance I lately put between it and myself.  In any event the circle has been closed, the damage (such as it is) has been done and my inherent predilections are for the moment anaesthetized if not in fact cured.

I amuse myself to contrive serendipitous events which admittedly are the modern equivalent of historical astrological “signs”, those specious dynamics of ancient soothsayers.  For example, and by way of introduction only, the Master Jeweller was the affable Matthew Dixon.  On the same day that I collected the piece from him, I first met with the equally congenial Dawn Dixon, a lawyer in Smiths Falls.  Small coincidence, agreed, but nonetheless there it is.  Subsequently my dear confidante JCH pointed out that we had introduced the afternoon rendez-vous with the jeweller by momentarily arresting our expedition for a cocktail at Zoe’s in the Château Laurier Hotel, a sister of the Empress Hotel in Victoria, BC where I first glimpsed a ring which was to become the template for the one I commissioned.  Another perhaps less tenuous intersection is that Matthew Dixon is the son of Ralph L. Dixon, the jeweller who founded the company and who over a decade ago had manufactured a winsome bloodstone ring for me through Birks, an agency relationship which was disclosed only after my persuasive insistence.  It was that initial bond which locked my sights upon Dixon Design Studio.

One might reasonably ask, “What exactly is the cure that is prevented?”  And it is this:  My well-known hankering for tinsel is, unless quelled, relentless. Until the disease is administered to, I continue to harbour all the symptoms of fever and distress, not to the degree of incapacity certainly, but nevertheless discernibly.  The infirmity has for example already manifested itself in half-hearted attempts to deaden the yearning, but like anything less than committed and unequivocal effort it failed.  In this as in all matters of plaintive need there is a threshold beyond which one must reach before triumph ensues.  I am now satisfied that I have attained that lofty goal.

One may be inclined to sneer mockingly at my all-too familiar ejaculations, as though this latest victory is but a hiccup along a tiresome and well-worn path. Readily do I concede the possibility.  Yet I have lately contemplated at some considerable length the prevention of this condition. I have concluded – albeit with squeamishness – that it is in this mission that it is resolved.  The blunt truth is that with age the doors of both need and opportunity begin to close. Yet the coincidence is not without its benefits. Once directly addressed the appetite is surprisingly diminished.  This was my ounce of prevention!

As much as I appreciate having known some of the great people of our community, when those individuals die I nonetheless regret not having known them better.  I feel that in recounting what little I know of those people I am omitting a great deal of important and useful information about them. The hiatus is the result of only having known those individuals in the latter years of their life.  An example of what I mean is Edward Harrington Winslow-Spragge who I heard through the local grapevine died today.

My happy acquaintance with Ed began shortly after I arrived in Almonte in June of 1976.  As I have since recounted to his daughter, Joanne, I actually came to know of Ed through Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC who was Ed’s Commander in the Navy and who from time to time had dined with Ed and his wife, Isobelle, in Almonte.  Louis always spoke of Ed with exceeding warmth and generosity, not something Louis was inclined to do with just anyone.  While I have some difficulty recalling my first introduction to Ed I believe it was when he and Isobelle operated the Crest Studio (an art gallery and framing studio) on Mill Street, Almonte.  Their business was run out of the former Royal Bank of Canada building which continued to that day (and indeed to this day) to house a huge walk-in safe.  Their shop was located almost adjacent to my law office at 74 Mill Street, the former office of the late Raymond Algernon Jamieson, QC whom Ed and Isobelle knew well of course. Indeed it was probably through discussions with Raymond that I first learned that the Winslow-Spragges formerly operated a fuel delivery company in Town. My failing memory suggests to me that the name of the company was Winslow Fuels but this is not reliable more so as the business had changed hands by the time I first met Ed.

My lingering and overriding recollection of Ed was that he was an incredibly kind man even to the point of being ingenuous.  Whenever I did business with Ed to have something or other framed, it was invariably an uplifting experience.  The business at hand (though executed to exacting professional standards) was always second to the element of human interaction. Competing with Ed’s personal generosity was his modesty. Subsequently I discovered that he was an accomplished musician (though only after I had embarrassed myself by having played the piano for him). While it may sound vulgar to remark upon it, it was common knowledge that Ed came from distinguished Canadian stock (including the famous Molson family of Montreal whence he originally hailed) and that he was considered a man of means.  Neither of these attributes was however ever advanced by him or his family, the tell-tale test of their truth.

My recollection is that Ed may have been active in local politics in the Town of Almonte.  I have subsequently discovered by trolling the internet that he was on the board of the Upper Canada College Foundation which leads me to believe he was an Old Boy of that school (as was his erstwhile neighbour at “Burnside” on the former Hamilton Street, now Strathburn Street, John MacIntosh Bell).

Now that Netflix (the on-line on-demand movie network) is here and large-screen televisions are ubiquitous, the need to “go to the movies” in the traditional sense is greatly diminished.  Indeed even the desire to do so is pretty much quelled.  Yet when the occasion arises to attend a movie at the Old Town Hall in support of a local charity, the opportunity is both an adventure and a worthy outing.  As it turned out the planning couldn’t have been better as today was a brilliantly sunny, warm day, really the first we’ve had so far this Spring.  We seized the chance to walk from our apartment to the Old Town Hall, a modest stretch of about one mile along Bridge Street.

When we first organized the affair we collaborated with our dear friend JCH who dutifully met us as arranged in front of the Old Town Hall.  She had arrived earlier and was sitting on the large millstone bench overlooking the burgeoning waters of the Mississippi River as it rushed to the upper falls. Together we strode up the broad entrance steps into the building, then climbed the historic creaking stairs with the massive timber handrails to the upper chamber where the concerts, political meetings and movies are held. The venue is known for its acoustics and the woodwork alone is a marvel to behold.

The movie – “Pride” (about gay and lesbian support for striking mine workers in England in the 1980s under Margaret Thatcher’s government) – was a BBC production which combined intrigue, comedy, catharsis and sentimentality and thus contributed to a thoroughly pleasant experience.  The smallish audience respectfully clapped at the ending before dissipating into the late afternoon sunshine and warmth.

We too decided to extend the delight of our cinematic excursion by strolling along the Riverwalk beside the roaring water falls to the riparian deck of the Barley Mow Restaurant.  There, after a brief wait and chat with a prospective Almonte newcomer and her son and his little dog, we eventually landed a comfortable corner table. While our refreshment was nothing more glamorous than some beer and Perrier, the pleasure of being out-of-doors on this magnificent day was unparalleled.  Our companion succeeded as always to keep the conversation swift and enlivened, punctuated as always by uproariously funny sketches of past experiences.

As the Americans approach the upcoming 2016 Presidential Election they begin their next round of intense self-examination.  Political conversation is never far below the surface of any American and the occasion to inspire it is usually a welcome indulgence. While the remarkable rift between the left and the right (Democrat and Republican) is impossible to ignore, most Canadians I suspect would fail to identify with such cataclysmic disparity.  Only in America is the scene so obviously black and white.  It perhaps speaks to our Canadian sense of accommodation that we have at least a third political party (New Democrats) to balance the gap which might otherwise exist between the traditional front leaders (Liberals and Conservatives).  In the American context the difference between the two Parties borders on dogmatic and is trumpeted to go to the very heart of the American psyche.

At least Canadians avoid the appearance of an entirely binary world, contributing to the most extreme characterizations. More to the point Canadians do not generally see our “homeland” as the next landing ground of foreign invaders.  Granted the threat of such activity is not completely lacking in Canada but it hasn’t yet translated into overwhelming and numbing fear. Americans admittedly have the basis for such worry and it would be both arrogant and impertinent of us Canadians in the shadow of their protection to deny that entitlement and legitimacy.  What disturbs me nonetheless is that galloping fear has the effect of drawing into its wake anxieties which are unrelated and phantasmagoric.  It is human nature to recoil completely from a perceived threat but where the intellectual equivalent is to insulate oneself from any difference howsoever inoffensive the process can become unnecessarily delimiting.

The recent cry of the Republicans is to “Take back America!” as though the Democrats have contaminated the true values of America or diluted its fundamental precepts. Considering the well advertised inability of Congress to enact legislation without the Republican controlled Senate approval I fail to see how the reigning Democrats can be blamed for the putrefaction of the American ideology.  Rather the dispute reduces to nothing more than a rhetorical argument between competing sides.

Nonetheless the fact remains that many Americans harbour the undeniable belief that their “way of life” is under threat.  And I suppose it is. Whether however this is a bad thing or not is the matter for consideration.  In my own lifetime I can recall a time when Spanish was not a language of choice on an airport notice board; when climate change was not an issue; when gay marriage would never have been an option; when a black man or a woman as president of the United States of America was inconceivable; when minimum wage was not part of a political platform.  These evolutions of thought are in my opinion not a step backwards; indeed they rather improve my view of American society.

We Canadians are instinctively less astonished by these developments and in fact more often than not we are amazed at the resistance which they have encountered in American society.  Why this is so I am not certain.  I won’t for a minute pretend that we are more enlightened that our American neighbours (I also recall when the Rideau Club was closed to women and Jews). My barometer of human propriety continues to be one based upon want and danger and I can therefore only assume that Canadians are not currently threatened by similar proceedings.  There might however be a case made against the American presumption which was epitomized for so many years in its “melting pot” mentality. This effectively watered down all differences in favour of the standard of American conduct at the risk of “not fitting in”. Even though all humans – whether American or Canadian – suffer from the fear of things new and different, we all mostly acknowledge that we have more in common than otherwise; and that the most modest acquaintance will reveal our underlying similarities.  And I don’t think most of us see others as terrorists or radicals.

Meanwhile there are people who have a great deal riding on power and often that goal trumps the niceties and superficial compromises of human relations. There are people whose entire lives are committed to putting a favourable spin on something for their own purposes, not the greater achievement of society.  There are likewise people who because of evident differences feel vulnerable to their roots.  The protective spirit of anyone is not to be diminished in either its purpose or its intensity; but it means that surmounting those often instinctive reactions requires incredible sophistication.

Today – a Saturday – was a miscellany of events, a jumble of unfolding episodes.  When we awoke this morning to cool, dull skies we hadn’t an agenda planned and would likely have been just as happy to have remained so.  This was not however to be.  In typical fashion, the incremental progress of time wasn’t long in dislodging our lassitude and replacing it with something approaching vigour, at least the proverbial necessity which characteristically prompts invention.  Specifically we were in need of some household provisions.  Our innate sense of responsibility moved us to contemplate action.

I had in the meantime emailed an acquaintance and invited her to share a coffee and a natter later in the afternoon so the two tentative plans potentially collided unless we got ourselves into gear before too long.  This added incentive provoked moderate urgency to the morning duties and by 10:00 o’clock we were fed and cleansed and on the road to the City.  Along the way we complicated our erstwhile unobstructed day by determining to lunch at one of our favourite Vietnamese restaurants.  I suddenly had a yearning for steamed mussels in a spicy currie sauce and a spring roll.  This transition would naturally follow the completion of our provisional task and a subsequent visit with my elderly mother.

These seeming inconsequential obligations nonetheless exact time.  Naturally we punctuated the tour with a diversion to the local car wash, a chore which attracted more significance as the clouds began to break and the sun appeared amongst them against a background of blue.  While at my mother’s place, and before we stopped for lunch, it occurred to me that we might usefully collect my sister and her husband who were due to land at the airport around 3:30 p.m.  This of course obliged me to verify whether my acquaintance intended to accept my invitation for afternoon coffee.  A quick telephone call to her confirmed not so we hardened our airport plans accordingly.

Happily for all concerned the airport reunion went off without a hitch and we were on our way home by 4:30 p.m.  The remainder of the day has whizzed by with the usual Saturday evening exigencies, appetizers, drinks and dinner. The faint strains of jazz music is all that remains.  We’ll now do our best to catch a few moments of a film on Netflix, but then it’s to bed!  The day will soon close.

A lifetime of conditioning has left me with a lingering affection for Friday. Even though there are now regularly times when I am not certain what day of the week it is, I seem always to know when it’s Friday.  Friday still marks the end of the week for me. I am accustomed to noting that regular business traffic thins out by midday on Friday and there is always an air of agreeable anticipation about Friday. People frequently seem preoccupied with matters other than those of commerce on Friday as though they’re privately orchestrating plans for personal hedonism which obviously trumps the profit incentive. I similarly persist in making social arrangements for the weekend even when commitment during the week is otherwise more convenient.  This in turn fuels further excitement about Friday, the beginning of a holiday of sorts, a departure from the norm and an occasion for modest celebration. This afternoon for example we capitalized upon the tradition by persuading ourselves to buy a box of homemade donuts.  After all, it’s the weekend!

Though Saturday is clearly the weekend, nonetheless Friday has always epitomized the pinnacle of release from the chains of duty, the opportunity to put down the trowel and indulge oneself in the pleasures for which we’ve purportedly worked so hard. Friday of course has the further advantage of being on the cusp of the weekend celebration, uncontaminated by the prospect of a sober, religious Sunday which inevitably heralds the return to vassalage and the corresponding diminution of verve.

So revered is it that I would normally not contemplate arranging a business appointment on a Friday except if preceded by apology for its necessity. It’s a cherished custom, Friday! Instinctively I defer to Friday as a time of probable abandonment of the throttle by the working stiffs of whatever elevation within the corporate structure. One would not for example be alarmed to learn that a proprietor was absent on a Friday. By the same token Friday is a good time to address matters which are not of a pressing business nature, perhaps a friendly natter, an afternoon drive in the country for a cup of coffee or some silly shopping with a crony at one of the discount stores. If one proposes to play hooky from work, Friday is as good a day as any to do it so the opportunity for confabulation abounds!  Indeed it might be considered egregiously indiscreet to have made a business appointment on a Friday as it is universally certain to collide with a happier later arrangement frequently stimulated by eager and hitherto unforeseen spontaneity.  Friday invites a degree of frivolity!

Whatever one’s current situation the bald truth is that most of the world is in a state of temporary dormancy by late Friday afternoon.  Small wonder Friday succeeds to overwhelm society as a whole.  It is but an additional reminder that the bulk of the masses haven’t the privilege of ambiguity when it comes to Friday.  The adherence to this hallowed custom is a cultural observance not merely a condescension.

While it was fashion and its evident quality that prompted me to buy the hat, I especially like that “Canada” is written all over the product.  We Canadians haven’t often that kind of renown to proclaim.  Being a Canadian company does not of course guarantee that the product is in fact made in Canada, but in the case of the Raffia 11 hat which I purchased today it was apparently manufactured by an experienced and respected 3rd-generation hatter “right here in Canada”.

This medium brim fedora has a lower crown profile, and is trimmed with a brown leather hatband. Made from our Madagascar raffia, this hat has been ‘tea-stained’ to a rich tone that highlights the texture of the raffia.

I have owned about three hats in my entire life.  Two of them were for Fall or Winter wear.  The third was a baseball hat which I bought more for the colour (canary yellow) and hardly ever sport. My Tilley hat is for summer wear; and considering the current rage to avoid direct sunlight, combined with the fact that we hope to winter on Hilton Head Island for the remainder of our days, I expect to get some use of it.

Hats, perhaps more than any other article of apparel, are decidedly geared to a particular age group and often a particular niche within that group.  The fedora is a traditional look best suited for the “mature” gentleman.  The fedora, successor to the similar-looking “homburg” style, was for example associated with gangsters in the Prohibition but it fell out of favour due to a shift towards more informal clothing styles. It was however later popularized by Harrison Ford as the film character Indiana Jones in the Steven Spielberg thrillers.  My personal association with the straw hat is that of someone like the French impressionist painter Claude Monet:

It would normally be too grand to wear a hat like that of Monet but the straw or raffia (a long-leaf plant from Madagascar) lends itself to more modest employment and almost certainly its utilitarian feature will trump any social context. It is undeniable that as I age  and ferment the attraction of once quaint accessories is on the rise. If nothing else, protuberant bellies and sagging muscles require accommodation if one’s appearance is to survive the transition of time.  I am determined to do what I can under the circumstances and not to be defeated in that goal!  Barring exercise and plastic surgery, sartorial dalliance seems the least disturbing of the alternatives.  It may have promoted my interest in this particular hat that we lunched at Gad’s Hill Pub in the Village of Merrickville today.  We enjoyed a very satisfactory lunch of tea, soup and sandwich. These small details matter!