While I have regularly remarked upon the peculiar customs and habits of people who lived before me, I never considered my own conventions particularly unusual.  This of course is an absurdity promoted by the arrogant conviction that I am both modern and enlightened.  We mock our ancestors for burning poor souls as witches but we seldom imagine our current philosophies to be so utterly distorted and cruel.

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When I look at a calendar showing an entire year at a glance I am reminded of two things: 1) how succinct our time is; and, 2) how condensed are the days, weeks and months. One would have to be especially creative to infuse even a year with anything resembling expanse. The moment one restates the minutes of the days in packages of weeks or months it becomes an Alice in Wonderland world of bizarre diminishing sizes.

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Whenever things go wrong in my inconsiderable universe at the hands of others I remind myself that my trifling misadventures are hardly devastating. However neither this nor the admission that “We all make mistakes” is sufficient to dissolve what are otherwise unforgivable miscalculations.  Allow me to illustrate.

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I quite surprised myself this morning. I vented about five decades of aggregate seething frustration. This unusually prolonged bottleneck of dissatisfaction was quirky for another reason – it was directed at my mother. This may at least explain my prior disinclination.  There are after all not many who take particular delight in what is normally considered egregious conduct toward one’s mother (and I imagine less so when she is too old and frail to make it really count).  I can however tell you that for me the deferred experience was nonetheless relieving and inspirational.

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The major of my undergraduate liberal arts degree was philosophy, the study of convictions and ideology but perhaps more importantly the study of thought and reasoning.  These latter two key elements have their historical origin:

The liberal arts (Latin: artes liberales) are those subjects or skills that in classical antiquity were considered essential for a free person (Latin: liberal, “worthy of a free person”) to know in order to take an active part in civic life, something that (for Ancient Greece) included participating in public debate, defending oneself in court, serving on juries. Grammar, logic, and rhetoric were the core liberal arts.

While it is easy to see the connection between rhetoric and language (particularly in the context of debate and public speaking) one mustn’t neglect the importance of logic.  This principle became especially apparent when I subsequently studied law; a mere entertaining presentation was doomed without the substance of argument and rationality.

What frequently detaches the mind from the desirable and sometimes clinical persuasion of a logical argument is emotion.  There are few concepts which are so characteristically opposed as instinct and rationality.  And heightening the difference is that both are important and often of equal significance.  The trick therefore is to bridge the gap with a combination of each.

Emotion being a visceral (and often sentimental) response is fraught with features which frequently defy logic and therefore are only open to attack upon an emotional scale, which in many instances means replacing one passion for another. Certain appetites are well known to trump others.  For example, the appetite for material possessions can normally be outranked by the instinctive yearning for family; health usually outdistances wealth; prestige and position frequently defeat mere convenience.  As a result the persuasive argument is by design targeted at the basic (and sometimes baser) fixations of humanity.  The going can however become thick when expenditure of money (even if for utterly pragmatic purposes) and austerity collide.  Here it is necessary to call upon the so-called “higher” appeal of entitlement as a rationalization, admittedly sometimes a cheap shot or dirty pool, appealing as it does to one’s vanity and sense of privilege.

Characterizing an argument as a battle between gut and brain does not of course tell the whole story.  A further sticky element in any persuasive argument is nothing more glamorous than inertia.  The tendency to remain unchanged is in turn strengthened by fear, a close relative of transformation. Even when the most cogent theses are advanced, couched in entirely palatable terms, the success of the persuasion is ultimately at the whim of the intellect that absorbs it.  Remember, there are two classes of people who won’t try new food: children and the uneducated. The struggle can quickly become the equivalent of blasting rock to make any headway with about as much expectation of mere fragments.  In the result the intransigence of some people’s minds can only be overcome by side-stepping the issue entirely and deliberately moving forward in spite of the resounding opposition.  The negotiation then reduces to a power struggle which, if the logic is not mere rhetoric, is not a bad thing.

I like to think that the success of even a well-reasoned power struggle will ultimately appeal to the most inflexible mind. This speaks to the predictable plausibility of good sense.  In the meantime however it may be necessary to dance around the idea being advanced, to cajole, to implore and perhaps even push a little.  And maybe like most things it will only be persistence that in the end wins the day.  So much for the power of persuasion!

Once the countdown has begun there is little that arrests the initial purpose. We have lift-off! Even more important however than the initiation of the proceeding is its irrevocable trajectory.  It is further not only the constancy of the path which is introduced but the very destination of the track.  In short the path is set in motion and the consequence is predictable.

There is something strangely alarming about setting the wheels in motion; one is never fully prepared for the change that ensues, the inertia of change no doubt. The resulting modification should however never come as a surprise because it is the sum of many coordinated factors. The sequel to the trigger is a solution and often a very pleasant ride.

Like the plunge of a roller coaster ride, there is no turning back when beyond the crest.  It is equally scientific that the rapid change will eventually flatten and come to rest though where one lands is exponentially related to the effort that went into getting there.  The thrust of those efforts is the combination of a great deal of planning, thought, cooperation and a degree of luck as always.  The speed at which events unfold after lift-off is quite incredible.  Hang onto your hat!  The thrill of the momentum contributes to the delight.  As fond as we are of the status quo we nonetheless derive exhilaration from seeing our future unfold.  We launch into a new world and awaken to exciting prospects we hadn’t predicted.

Leaving the familiar behind may be daunting yet we mustn’t diminish our appetite for novelty. The capacity we have for accommodation is virtually boundless.  Precedent to such ingenuity is the application of reasoning to what are inevitably the changing circumstances of life.  The allure of the past becomes as a sinking ship from which we must separate to survive.  But oh the indescribable enchantment of once distant horizons!

Today was Victoria Day, a distinctly Canadian observance going back to 1845 long before Confederation. It is now celebrated on the Monday prior to May 25th the “official” day of birth of Queen Victoria (1819-1901).  Queen Victoria’s actual day of birth was April 21st.

Following the death of Queen Victoria in 1901, May 24 was made by law to be known as Victoria Day, a date to remember the late queen, who was deemed the “Mother of Confederation”, and, in 1904, the same date was by imperial decree made Empire Day throughout the British Empire. Over the ensuing decades, the official date in Canada of the reigning sovereign’s birthday changed through various royal proclamations until the haphazard format was abandoned in 1952. That year, both Empire Day and Victoria Day were, by order-in-council and statutory amendment, respectively, moved to the Monday before May 25 and the monarch’s official birthday in Canada was by regular viceregal proclamations made to fall on this same date every year between 1953 and January 31, 1957, when the link was made permanent by royal proclamation. The following year, Empire Day was renamed Commonwealth Day and in 1977 it was moved to the second Monday in March, leaving the Monday before May 25 only as both Victoria Day and the Queen’s Birthday.

As with any federal statutory holiday, Victoria Day marks a day of greatly reduced commercial activity.  The grocery stores and liquor stores are closed (I have this on the authority of a friend in Vancouver to whom I spoke mid-afternoon – he was “fresh out” as he put it). I was however able to secure for my mother her favourite “mocha frappuccino”® and an iced espresso coffee for me from Starbucks.  This small gratification constituted the footing of our private celebration of Her Majesty’s memory.

We capitalized upon the festive air of the long weekend by going to the Golf Club for breakfast this morning.  As always we were not disappointed by the caterer’s succulent and generous serving of eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, toast and home fries. The only blight upon the outing was a gratuitous comment in the parking lot by a golfer who spiritedly said it was the first time she had seen me at the Club, a comment to which I retorted that it was indeed odd as I have been attending the Club for about the past forty years!  I didn’t add that it was only in recent years that I have noticed her appearance there. The gulf between the entitled golfers and the long-time social members such as myself has sadly ever existed!  My very existence in this region began at the Golf Club because it was over dinner in the original clubhouse (since destroyed by fire) that I was hired by the law firm partners.  In subsequent visits to the Club I entertained the late-night drinkers by tinkling the ivories of the old upright piano (now also gone) next to the fieldstone fireplace in the common room.  It was further my privilege to have acted as Counsel for the Club when the second nine-holes were purchased from the Lowry family.

Upon our return from the Golf Club in the eternally quaint Village of Appleton we hopped onto our bicycles and directed ourselves to our alternate route along Concession 11A, the long dead end country road from the roundabout at the Town’s entrance.  While I eventually made it there, “we” did not because my companion’s bicycle tires had deflated.  We attempted to fill the tires with air at a local gas station but the mechanism of the pump wasn’t working properly.  Our second try at a nearby station proved equally fruitless as there was a $1 charge and neither of us had any change.  I later thought I should have had the gumption to ask the attendant for a $1 loan but by that time the opportunity was lost as the entire project had been abandoned.  It turns out for other reasons not to have been without serendipity but I shall not go into further details.  I shall merely say that satisfaction ensued in spite of the initial disruption.

The flow of traffic into the City early afternoon was lighter than I had anticipated. If anything there was a proliferation of old fogeys on the road, people who were driving considerably below the speed limit and who were clearly in no hurry to get anywhere. One old doll was obviously lost in thought as she sat stranded at a green light for some fifteen seconds before whizzing off at an incredible rate to camouflage her idleness.  It was just one of those dreamy summer-like days, mounting warm winds and temperatures, which lent itself to absentmindedness and lack of premeditation.

If I were to give an accounting of what I have lately done for my 89 year old mother it would most certainly include having taken her for a Sunday drive today.  We both remarked as we sipped our respective iced drinks at Neat Café in Burnstown (Renfrew County) that there wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue sky! The temperature hovered around 25ºC and we therefore sat under a large umbrella on the deck overlooking the first sprouts of the English garden.

Our shiftless gaze wandered to a cursory study of the gaggle of cyclists at a nearby table, wondering to ourselves what they did for a living and where they came from. They were an undistinguished group of men and women, middle-aged, clad in the extraordinarily busy synthetics peculiar to racing cyclists and not especially attractive as one might expect of athletes so far removed from an urban centre. They were however all incontrovertibly thin.

After draining our cups (which were really pickle jars – the latest absurdity of these trendy places) and patting our lips dry my mother and I contrived to depart.  Our return route took us along back roads which would normally be unfamiliar to persons not from the area as am I (a forty-year veteran).  My mother tritely observed that people living in cities forget there is so much open space. We traveled quietly, effectively insulated from road noise, listening to classical piano music which complemented the scenic greenery of the fields and trees. From Burnstown on the Madawaska River to White Lake; then onto Pakenham, Blakeney (formerly called Rosebank, a particular favourite of mine), Almonte (once appropriately named Shipman Mills), Carleton Place (originally named Morphy’s Falls) and home to my mother’s place.

On a less social level my contribution to my mother’s well-being has been the institution of what had become for me in the latter years of my law practice stock estate and succession planning.

The introduction to these esoteric legal manoeuvres began in 2008.  While the contortions were never fully assimilated by my late father, he nonetheless yielded (no doubt as a measure of respect for my professional acumen) and my mother followed suit.  She has since lost any recollection of the niceties of the family trust but that is of no consequence as there is no change of beneficial ownership (a detail whose significance is now utterly meaningless to her).  I nonetheless congratulate myself for having done what I did, including the referral of her money management to a professional fee-based financial advisor.  As I am wont to tell both my mother and my sister, “You don’t need me!  The mechanics of management are now in place whatever may happen to any one of us!”  The thrust of this proclamation is that the ultimate goal of each of our personal successions will be realized come Hell or high water. Admittedly not all of the devices are self-serving; there has been in part a capitulation to the perpetual existence of a corporate trustee but the uncertainty of the future is thereby removed.

Naturally these private reflections of mine percolated unknown to my dear mother.  Our project was ostensibly none other than a Sunday drive.

In what is turning out to be another instance of self-imposed governance we have decided to limit our sphere of travel this summer to our environs. This latest asceticism is primarily an austerity measure though pointedly neither of us is despondent about circumscribing our plans.  In fact after spending a comparatively indulgent winter on Hilton Head Island we are quite prepared to restrain ourselves and to wile away the Dog Days (diēs caniculārēs) of summer in our own back yard.  We cannot unabashedly urge upon ourselves an oceanic visit when we have had the privilege to relish spectacular maritime views for four months in the past year.

We also wish to implement our own protestation; namely, that when landing somewhere one mustn’t straightaway abandon it under the guise of adventure.  Aside from neglecting what is under one’s nose, there is the more grievous hazard of having lots going on and nothing happening.  Besides one has to wonder what there is to run from? Speaking of which I have lately been tormented by recurring apprehension about certain of my relationships. Whether I am imaging it or not I cannot be certain, but to my thinking the ties I have to some people are dissolving. I am encouraged in this conjecture by remarks from one close to me that there is indeed foundation for the sentiment; and further the assurance that the loss is one I am able to bear without deprivation.  Admittedly I am frequently the last person to see the proverbial writing on the wall.  My instinctive first reaction – apart from resiling from the offending situation – is to lay blame at my own door for what has seemingly transpired.  With fermentation and the benefit of fresh air on an afternoon cycle, I am willing to concede that a.) What’s the big deal?; and, b.) Since when am I expected to behave according to an unwritten and unspoken code purportedly set by others?  Certainly there are boundaries upon acceptable human conduct but whatever I may have done or failed to do it hardly qualifies as a transgression of minimum standards.  More likely than not, the friction (if any) is the result of something grating the Party of the Second Part and I am for some reason caught in the middle. As I say there is the very real possibility that I am manufacturing differences between us which do not exist. Either way temperance is in order.  One can’t be forever in party mode.  What however lingers is the question why I should be doubting the relationships in the first place?  It is not as though the dilemma is an isolated instance; rather it is almost pervasive.  Surely I can’t be the only soldier in step while all the others are not?

Having said that, the fact remains that all relationships are at times tenuous. The disintegration of bonds is seldom precipitous. Normally distance between people develops incrementally until at last the thread is broken or at least stretched so infinitely as to disappear.  There is the further possibility that given the opportunity every particle of one’s being eventually comes under scrutiny and a host of quandaries may arise from the intense examination. The hours can be long when not occupied upon the business of other people’s affairs. Perhaps the introversion is producing unmerited results.  If nothing else it is worthwhile to remove oneself from the fracas and to avoid unnecessary demarcation which may later prove regrettable.  The many adages concerning the value of friends and friendship spring to mind in this regard and to rebut them wholesale may be irresponsible and ultimately regrettable.

Meanwhile the focus mustn’t continue to be upon such dreary matters. Suffering as I do from an uncommon appetite for approbation it requires some effort for me to disengage without the prospect of its reward.  It quite astounds me how driven I have been historically to please others, whether by casual behaviour, formal acquaintance or professional service.  As I reflect upon the logic of human interaction my absorption in the pleasure and endorsement of others is correspondingly diminished.  It is therefore only natural that the quality of relationships is thus altered.  No longer do the same things matter; and a fortiori new things now matter.  It is emancipating to liberate oneself from habitual conditioning to give way to novel and sometimes unanticipated allures.  I’m not talking about anything kinky, just different, usually less contrived and more naturally connected, springing from genuine motivations, heartfelt as it were.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve discovered that my uninhibited personality involves me in discoveries which far surpass the scope of measured and strictly pragmatic behaviour (a conclusion which may be strikingly obvious but nonetheless illuminating).  It speaks to my recent taciturn bearing that I have been consumed by the resolution of this latest mishmash of apprehensions.  There have been some understandable contributors to this state of affairs, minor things relating to what are no more than everyday troubles, but the overriding angst relates to human relationships which as usual are seldom resolved by little more than the effluxion of time.  Apart from that, it is mere guesswork, yet another reason to stand fast upon one’s own sentiments.