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!

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?