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!

No matter that one has quit his law practice for retirement, the scope of the initial retainer may continue to haunt the lawyer for years afterwards.  I know this from personal experience because more than once I have been “consulted” by a former client regarding work I performed many years ago. Fortunately for me the enquiries have to date been restricted to information gathering and general reminiscence as opposed to allegations of professional negligence.   Nonetheless it is common knowledge that no practitioner is above error and the perpetual possibility of discovery is one which lingers long after one has doffed one’s gown.

The Lawyers’ Professional Indemnity Company (which insures all Ontario lawyers for a mandatory minimum amount and also insures many others for “excess” errors and omissions insurance) provides a standard “run-off” amount of coverage for no charge after the lawyer has retired.  It is of course possible to enlarge the coverage amount for a price.  In spite of this safety net no lawyer likes to think that he or she has failed a client.  It is however imperative that the retired lawyer recall that he or she is no longer capable of practicing law (since there is no mandatory minimum insurance other than the run-off insurance which only applies to matters arising after retirement). As such the retired lawyer must be careful not to opine or to have the appearance of opining on a matter of consideration which may have recently arisen.  This is so even were the lawyer particularly anxious to assist the client (or should I say, the former client) in the resolution of their trouble.  The danger is two-fold:  1.) of primary importance, the advice given may be inadequate or incomplete; and, 2.) of secondary importance, the lawyer’s seeming desire to assist the client may be an indirect and even unconscious attempt to deflect liability which might lawfully exist.  While there is certainly shame in having short-changed a client initially, it is an even greater embarrassment and disgrace to thwart what might be the client’s lawful remedies to perfect the abuse.  In plain terms, car accidents are never a picnic but at least there might be insurance and damages which may be collected as compensation.

When it comes to pointing fingers no one can pretend to relish being on the receiving end.  It is clearly uncomfortable for any professional to make an admission of even the chance of error; but the failure to put the interests of the client first does nothing but compound the anxiety.  This is by any standard a tall order and not one to which most would leap.  Nonetheless it is on the balance the lesser of two evils.  Besides one must remind oneself that professionals have errors and omissions insurance for a reason.

As favourably disposed as any well-intentioned lawyer may be to assist his former client, one must further recall that in law there is not a right for every wrong.  It has long ago be established that a claim to be successful must be “actionable”; that is, it must have a foundation in law, generally either case law (precedent) or statutory (legislated law).  This I can assure you is a point upon which insurance defence Counsel are bound to adhere tenaciously notwithstanding any sympathies of their lawyer-client to the contrary. There may be special situations which admit to the implementation of what historically were called the Rules of Equity, namely the general principles of “justice” which are considered to trump even the letter of the law.  This latter vernacular is particularly prevalent in the arena of so-called “natural” law which sustains such principles as freedom of speech, the right to be heard, procedural fairness and so on but it normally constitutes an esoteric thesis upon which most claims are not upheld.

Quite apart from the bona fides of the client’s claim, the duration of the professional retainer is itself subject to some limitation based on the doctrine of laches (delay); namely, the failure to prosecute a claim within a reasonable or stipulated time.  Fortunately for the claimant a body of jurisprudence and case law has grown up surrounding this particular issue and it is generally conceded that the limitation period (whatever it may be) only begins to run from the time the claim was either discovered or discoverable.  This for example affords adequate protection of the title to one’s property if it is not sold for a very long time after it is purchased (and presumably the offending error were not discovered until then).  Where however the error becomes apparent through some other means and nothing is done to prosecute the claim for compensation, the clock may work against the claimant if he dawdles.

For the past year following the sale of our house and my office building I have prided myself upon relief from the exigencies of property management.  That reprieve ended today.  Because of a leaking toilet at my elderly mother’s house, I met with a plumber there to oversee its repair.  I insisted that while the plumber was there he examine the other two bathrooms in the house and any other plumbing features throughout the house, including the kitchen sink and the laundry facilities in the basement.  His examination disclosed that the sinks in all three bathrooms are corroding underneath (pointedly invisible from casual superficial views).  He also discovered that there was a dripping joint in a pipe connecting to the hot water tank and that the cement laundry tub is cracked in several places.

Not only does this catapult my mother into an entirely unanticipated realm, it also forces me back into property management.  The harder sell however is convincing my mother that after fifty years the original fixtures of her then newly constructed house are becoming dilapidated.  If ever there were an example of being overtaken by the imperceptible progression of time, this is it!  Add to that stark recognition the further dimension of fashion – the tourquoise, pink and yellow sinks are now hopelessly dated – and the effort of persuading my mother becomes decidedly uphill. My mother, who is about eight weeks from turning 89 years of age, is adamant that her colour choices made a half-century ago are sustainable.  I have attempted to correct her view by pointing out that a perfect match between the sinks and the other fixtures will be highly unlikely but she rebuffed my initial protestations.

Happily my mother’s opening gambit appears to have altered as she reconsiders the matter on her own time.  She has begun to embrace the logic of not throwing money away on a colour scheme which, as a matter of resale alone, will probably be unattractive.  As a result I have been instructed to redirect the plumber to abandon the search for colour matches for the existing sinks and instead provide samples of replacement sink and toilet fixtures. This will naturally entail consideration of new taps (though we have agreed to abandon the thought of replacing the tubs at this point).  It may be that the replacement of the toilet tanks entails repainting of the anterior walls, but that is a demand which will simply have to be met if and when encountered.

Part of my disenchantment with my mother’s original reticence to consider these changes springs from what I know to be the characteristic intransigence of my parents to champion any need for maintenance at all.  Apart from very limited decorating my parents have never undertaken much in the way of maintenance of their house.  They were people who for most of their lives lived in accommodations provided by Her Majesty.  Even on foreign postings, my father confined his own capital improvements to gardening.  The matters relating to hardware and structures were entirely ignored in anything they have rented or have since owned.  Now however the admission is inescapable and its weight is falling hard upon my mother’s unsuspecting shoulders.  I am certainly doing nothing to cushion the blow as I have always secretly harboured a disdain for my father’s erstwhile “duct tape and binder twine” remedies which he succeeded to force upon my mother through nothing more than bloody mindedness.  I have also had some personal experiences in management of my own former properties which encourage the taking of fresh and significant steps rather than makeshift ones.  I am familiar with the resale process and can safely predict that market preferences do not currently include turquoise sinks and toilets.

Note:  The digestion of this overwhelming amount of information has not been easy for either me or my mother.  After tossing and turning in my sleep I rose from my lair and composed an email to the plumber asking him to outline the matters of pressing need or urgency, advising that I wished to review it in further detail with my mother before encouraging her to take any step in particular.  Notwithstanding that the fixtures were installed when the house was built in 1966 they may still be useable without maintenance or replacement.  In any event the speed at which this has all unfolded is making things uncomfortable so I am seeking ways to slow things down if for no other reason than to permit my mother to absorb it all and make a decisions with which she feels comfortable.  The additional background matter of concern is that we mustn’t avoid doing anything which will contaminate a possible subsequent insurance claim in the event of a loss.