The real danger of an inductive leap is not that there might in fact be a black swan; rather the danger is that we imagine things that don’t exist.  It is one thing to hope for the best; it is quite another to imagine only the worst.  How we get to the unfortunate second alternative (imaging only the worst) is both understandable and excusable.  Essentially we prefer to rely upon a quick assessment of a situation rather than a detailed analysis of it, a posture which is arguably natural and healthy. There is after all considerable support for the “fight or flight” theory. Besides, thinking is hard; instinctive reaction is by comparison conveniently easier. But just as a dog can mistakenly flee from the pop of a balloon, so too can we become needlessly alarmed by an inconsequential disturbance in our life.  Just because our instinct causes us apprehension doesn’t mean we’re right to be worried.

Thanks to the discovery in 1697 by the Dutch explorer Willem de Vlamingh of black swans in Australia, we’ve learned to mistrust extrapolation from generalizations. That is, we’ve learned to be cautious about extending the application of a conclusion (especially one based on statistics) to an unknown situation by assuming that existing trends will continue.  Nonetheless we succumb to the influence of buzz words or other indicia of panic to which we are accustomed by previous experience. It is hard to find fault with this reaction because it has all the force of background and practical knowledge.  It would be equally unfair to suggest we only expect disappointment in life. Being trepidatious is not the same as being pessimistic; caution should not be confused with despair.  There is however a lesson to be learned; and that is that idle speculation can be misleading.  If we’re going to draw hard conclusions we need hard facts.  Too often we sacrifice one for the other – we throw aside the evidence in preference for a quick and dirty verdict.

If one proposes to be a rational being it requires training of the mind.  Given the standard of universal education it would be absurd to suggest that any particular class of person is less suited than another to clear thinking.  What is however clear is that most of us are by nature disinclined to analytic thinking. It is a rigorous undertaking, one which forces us to contemplate alternatives (a prospect which frequently takes the wind out of the sails of a thesis).  At the very least logical thought requires dissection of a problem.  Breaking up a problem into its constituent elements not only facilitates handling of it, it further obliges the analysis of those elements.  If nothing else this retards the process of examination and inhibits hurried conclusions.  There persists the possibility of misunderstanding and misinterpretation which of course contaminates even the most prudent scrutiny.  Oddly it is the hint of doubt (instinct) which may in such instances trigger the need for professional advice which will hopefully advance the correct evaluation.

Even if one feels that the critical analysis of a particular set of facts is beyond one’s capacity, there is a fall-back situation which may be as relieving.  It requires a more global assessment of one’s situation.  One might for example take the high-level view that there is nothing one can do to alter either the past or the future, that one can only live in the present.  Assuming that is so, the quality of a particular problem can only be usefully managed by confronting it.  To impart unrestricted speculation to the problem does nothing to advance its resolution.  It is frequently attractive to indulge oneself in endless obfuscation but this only builds on the shaky foundation of the initial reaction.  If unsure it is better to resist supposition.  While this may seem to be a fainthearted approach it nonetheless dilutes wild surmise. Oh, and if all that seems far too demanding, remember to add another of those illusive human virtues – patience!

Deductive Reasoning:
General to Specific

In deductive reasoning, if something is true of a class of things in general, it is also true for all members of that class. For example, “All men are mortal. Harold is a man. Therefore, Harold is mortal.” For deductive reasoning to be sound, the hypothesis must be correct. It is assumed that the premises, “All men are mortal” and “Harold is a man” are true. Therefore, the conclusion is logical and true.

Inductive Reasoning:
Specific to General

Inductive reasoning is the opposite of deductive reasoning. Inductive reasoning makes broad generalizations from specific observations. “In inductive inference, we go from the specific to the general. We make many observations, discern a pattern, make a generalization, and infer an explanation or a theory. Even if all of the premises are true in a statement, inductive reasoning allows for the conclusion to be false. Here’s an example: Harold is a grandfather. Harold is bald. Therefore, all grandfathers are bald. The conclusion does not follow logically from the statements.”

An inductive argument is an argument that is intended by the arguer merely to establish or increase the probability of its conclusion. In an inductive argument, the premises are intended only to be so strong that, if they were true, then it would be unlikely that the conclusion is false. There is no standard term for a successful inductive argument. But its success or strength is a matter of degree, unlike with deductive arguments. A deductive argument is valid or else invalid.

The phrase “black swan” derives from a Latin expression; its oldest known occurrence is the poet Juvenal’s characterization of something being “rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno” (“a rare bird in the lands and very much like a black swan”; 6.165). When the phrase was coined, the black swan was presumed not to exist. The importance of the metaphor lies in its analogy to the fragility of any system of thought. A set of conclusions is potentially undone once any of its fundamental postulates is disproved. In this case, the observation of a single black swan would be the undoing of the logic of any system of thought, as well as any reasoning that followed from that underlying logic. The black swan theory or theory of black swan events is a metaphor that describes an event that comes as a surprise, has a major effect, and is often inappropriately rationalized after the fact with the benefit of hindsight.

While most people are happy with thinking about what they do know, Taleb takes great pains throughout The Black Swan to try and focus his readers on what we don’t know — which is far more relevant to the black swan problem. Unpredictable events by their very nature are things that lie outside our common experience and happen precisely because of this. Therefore a good appreciation of our own ignorance and a full rationalization of where our knowledge ends is essential in dealing with (although not necessarily avoiding) black swan events.

During the night I was haunted by disturbing thoughts, the carry-over from the half-baked struggles and uprisings of the previous day.  Though it is quite preposterous of me to imagine that every concern I may have, whether big or small, will be resolved immediately, that is precisely what I do. My impatience instantly translates any delay into anxiety. Even for example if I write an email to someone from whom I haven’t requested a response, I expect one. At least an acknowledgement.  These tangled engagements beg rebuttal, they should not be ignored.

Lately there have been a number of discomfiting introspections which have percolated. When one must rely upon conjecture and surmise to decipher another’s behaviour the mind becomes a seedbed for distortion.  This is especially so when the signals being sent are tenuous and without any particular relevance at the time (though upon reflection the foundation for the foray is always evident).  One settles the contentious matter either by acceptance or dismissal; seldom does reasoned analysis highlight anything more than annoyance.  Until however one reaches that critical tipping point, the problem is literally in the balance, teetering indecision which is all the more frustrating.

There were other less psychiatric dilemmas to deal with as well, strictly matters of business though in that vernacular awareness and strategy are equally important.  Here however fact counts more than sentiment.  Once again my impatience causes disruption.  It is quite unbelievable how my active imagination enflames bizarre complications.  My petulant researches at last produced results. In these technical matters it’s a binary world, all or nothing.

And, yes, there were even more tiny aggravations, alas the repeated product of irritability.  I seemingly have no capacity to allow the world to unfold on its own steam, I must be perpetually pushing it along.  But I am attempting to modify this pattern.  It is however an admission that there are factors other than one’s own input which govern the evolution of the universe.  Such insight!  It requires incredible restraint upon myself to do this.  I mistakenly harbour the view that it is my alloy which stiffens the resolve. But I am learning to accept that the transition from discord to concord is more natural and untangled with my personal elements.  In the result it is but the unglamorous business of putting temporary distance between the fractious parts, a diplomatic theory which barely merits the distinction of politic.

I haven’t moved out of the apartment all day.  Though I had a sneezing bout I don’t think I am ill but everything else about the day reminds what a child would do when staying home from school to recuperate from a cold. Why I should recall that metaphor is beyond me!  The last time I might possibly have done that was when I was five years old living in Nova Scotia. It seems extraordinary that my memory should serve me so well though I can clearly recall being with my younger sister in our small upstairs bedroom at the front of the house in our pyjamas learning to knit thick emerald green wool with knitting needles the size of tiny baseball bats.  In the forty years of my professional practice I never once took a sick day and barely missed a morning of employment when I had my first hernia operation.  The open-heart surgery and three-month sabbatical doesn’t count.

Today I languorously ate my breakfast in my bedclothes, drinking coffee, spearing orange wedges and banana slices with a small fork, followed by bran cereal and milk. Later in the morning, after having toiled at my computer to delete year-old redundant emails and folders, and after having answered another unexpected email from a passing acquaintance with the same measured diligence that an ambassador might rebuff an objectionable foreign mission, I prepared a small bowl of granola and Almond Breeze and concluded with spoonfuls of 100% all natural peanut butter straight from the plastic jar.

I awoke no later than 7:10 a.m. this morning so the hours ticked by quite noticeably.  I recall glancing at the clock around 8:00 a.m., then again at 9:30 a.m.  Mid-Morning there were noises in the hallway, drilling and banging, construction work of some kind.  I subsequently discovered when I went for the mail that the workmen had cut a hole into part of the ceiling and wall, presumably in preparation for some electrical installation (perhaps an illuminated EXIT sign).  Suddenly it was noon (which is when I had my second round of cereal).  I read some F. Scott Fitzgerald and fell asleep for a moment in my cushy green leather chair.

Throughout the day I have contemplated taking my automobile for a spin but it required more energy and preparation than I was prepared to commit. Maybe I am sick. Besides the bottoms of my sweat pants are too long and must be rolled up, giving the appearance of complete disregard, not something I’m anxious to retail publicly.  I can’t bring myself to pay a seamstress to tailor the bottoms. I resolved the matter by reasoning that it is good for me to remain inert for a change, to quell my usual instinct to be moving constantly.  I telephoned my mother and subdued the usual commotion of her aging mind. She’s always going on about getting her papers and clothes and things in the garage settled even though we have removed almost all of it already.  At least today she didn’t fret about the fuel tank being empty.

Even though it is singularly cold outside today (another reason to remain indoors) the afternoon sunlight has been pouring into the apartment and elevating the interior heat above the manual thermostat setting.  This little apartment is bathed in light on a sunny day like this!  We get it from the southwestern exposure (along the living room, den and bedroom) and also from the northeastern side of the building (the second bedroom window).  I sat in an armchair and stared at the wall paintings, the crystal decanters of sherry and scotch, admiring the brilliant colours displayed to advantage by the sheered sunlight.

While I am afraid to jinx the process, I also telephoned my jeweller to enquire about the design progress of a new piece I am having made.  He hardly needs any encouragement.  He shared with me when we first met to discuss the project that he is the type who likes to get onto it right away.  I believe him. Within a week I had some compelling CAD mock-ups of the ring, “preliminary renderings for general design and scale only” as he put it.

Having agreed generally upon the look of the piece we then concentrated upon the choice of synthetic stone finally settling upon the latest model which exhibits considerable hardness and impermeability. It makes sense to avoid the need to replace a chipped or discoloured stone. I finally asked him the vulgar details of estimated cost and he said he would email something to me.

Apart from wallowing in the lethargy of the day the mere fact that I can do it astounds me.  Only if I were able to measure the remaining hours of my existence would the torpidity make any difference at all!  Nothing depends upon my activity.  This is an adventure of its own.

When I casually shared with others that I had lately composed an article about the “Ladies of Lanark County” the immediate response was that I should do the same concerning the “Gentlemen of Lanark County“.  And I suppose I should. Not just because it’s even-handed but because the project admits to the possibility of some mirth.  Really, when I reflect upon the subject even for a moment I instantly recall all sorts of rare birds whom I’ve known over the years; and I am bound to own that casting a sardonic eye upon that historical landscape might indeed prove diverting.

 Men with Nicknames

Any discussion of men in the same breath as women is bound to include comparison.  An obvious dissimilarity is the quaint tendency of men to have nicknames.  I can’t think of an instance in which women suffer the same susceptibility.  Men however appear to invite the cultivation.  The monikers, while certainly not always contemptuous, are not necessarily terms of endearment, affection or familiarity.  Very often the nickname captures some physical characteristic of the gentleman, whether his own appearance or some prominent feature associated with him.  There are of course occasional instances of nicknames which are mere abbreviations but the frequency of good-natured ridicule is not to be discounted.  No doubt some men view the hypocorism as equivalent to a stage name and therefore desirable, symbolizing a form of acceptance.

 The Entrepreneur

Over the years we’ve had our fair share of grand business developers, some of whom are mockingly called “typhoons” owing to their blustery showmanship but strategic lack of substance. If you’re up against one of these seasoned professionals you are wise to afford yourself ample time for “sober second thought”.  The persuasion of these gentlemen is seemingly irresistible even though there are seldom any facts upon which to base the conjecture.  If by chance you allow yourself to become entwined with this culprit, you can be assured that the result will be unfavourable even if you’re lucky enough to disengage.

 The Politician

As popular as it is to razz politicians (a hobby I regret to say is often also directed at lawyers) my personal experience is nonetheless quite different.  I am proud to say that of the many gentlemen whom I have known in local politics all without exception have been honourable, trustworthy and diligent.  The veteran politician is particularly laudable as he clearly takes his responsibilities seriously and submits to both the real and perceived needs of the electorate in an effort to placate their expectations.  I harbour the traditional view that politicians can be presumed to aim for high standards and invariably our representatives do not disappoint.  As someone who has but dipped his toe in the treacherous waters of public office I can safely say that our local members are much to be admired for their performance.

The Clerks, Labourers and Service Providers

The front-line workers of our community are of course widely varied in age, appearance and personality but oddly on balance they all prove to be universally helpful, outgoing and dedicated.  Whether it is an attribute of country living or something in the water, I find it remarkable that in our community the tenure of these gentlemen is often very long.  Once you have acquainted yourself with the people in a particular department or store or institution, you are virtually assured that they will be there to assist in the future. This segment of our community also lends itself especially to its characters, gentlemen who by their singular nature have become readily identified as distinctive and even symbolic.  One would be remiss to overlook the important element of volunteer which so often characterizes these gentlemen. Whether they are first responders or club members of charitable organizations they all share the attributes of selflessness and unfailing commitment.

The Old Fogeys

As I am myself now dangerously close to being herded into the fold of old-fashioned conservatives, I feel I am entitled to weigh in upon this particular category with impunity. We all know these gentlemen, usually “elderly”, typically retired for goodness knows how long, oddly bouncy for their age and who never recoil from the opportunity for a chin wag.  To add to their further embarrassment of others, the Old Fogeys are active in endless social gatherings and even undertakings which pass as athletic.  They have long ago abandoned the necessity of a tie but it is well-known that many of them were once leaders in government or held high office though they would never do or say anything so vulgar as to betray their pedigree.  A mere scratch of their veneer is guaranteed to provide some very entertaining history.

The Lads

This is a division of gentlemen which I suspect is distinctly peculiar to Lanark County and anything else resembling rural Ireland, Scotland or England.  It is a subset which transcends class, age and occupation and might conveniently be considered the lawful equivalent of the Italian Mafioso as it reeks of membership even if not nefarious.  There is no mistaking “one of the lads”. He exudes self-confidence and very often carries with him some characteristic local identification, whether in his appearance or by dint of his language or accent.  He is the embodiment of maleness and is not uncommonly considered either good looking or attractive.  The senior constituents of this branch are not infrequently successful by any standard and they are afforded every latitude to the demonstration of it.  Merit and entitlement go hand-in-hand for these gentlemen and the prudent observer will be alert to their capacity whether alone or in concert.

John Carson (“Jack”) Smithson, deceased March 17, 2015 

Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen!

My name is Bill Chapman.  I am a long-time friend of JC Smithson going back about 40 years.  During that time I have had the privilege to know Jack’s family and to be made to feel part of it.  I was also Jack’s lawyer.

You have no doubt heard the adage, “There is an exception to every rule.” Jack Smithson was that man. Indeed he was an exceptional man. Everything about him was of the highest standards, a paradigm to others, a model of leadership and decorum.  He was invariably well turned out, an example of proper deportment and bearing; he was polite without being sterile; humorous without being vulgar; kind without being unctuous; wise without being precipitous; welcoming without being overwhelming; familial without being exclusive; and patient without being ponderous. Jack was quietly motivated by his private commitment to the service of others, an unbending objective to do what was right and to assist himself and others to get there with a minimum of flurry. And speaking of rules and exceptions he had that gratifying insight and ability to rise above static procedure to accomplish what was equitable not clinical while at the same time preserving a respect for elevating ritual, hard won morality and dignified human conduct.

Jack is blessed to have lived a long and productive life of 95 years.  He was an unqualified citizen of his nation in general and a valued contributor to his community in particular. Perhaps his greatest legacy is that he gave us all lessons to emulate.  He was a living case in point. I venture to say without contradiction that there is no one who knew Jack Smithson who is not the better for it. His was a liberating friendship, an uplifting affection and a broadening camaraderie.

It has been said, “If you want a big funeral, die young!”  Even in death Jack Smithson is the exception – having already been ceremoniously remembered last evening by both the Royal Canadian Legion and the Masonic Lodge, and today we celebrate his life with his extended family and his many colleagues, associates and friends in his place of worship in keeping with the strengthening traditions of the Anglican Church.

We can all be proud to have known a man such as JC Smithson who exemplified the bounty of human worthiness. He was truly a blessing to his family, a credit to his friends and an ornament to our community. His happy memory will live long in our hearts and minds!

Last evening I was thrown into the mix of about one hundred people at a retirement party.  Apart from reflecting that these celebrations afford the same opportunity for catching up as do funerals and weddings, I was in particular moved by having reconnected with an elderly woman whom I have known for almost forty years.  Her kind and gentle personality remains unchanged, a welcome harbour in the stress of daily life.  The venture made me think about other memorable women I have known in Lanark County over the years.

Peter Morris 1841-1918 and Agnes Bradford 1842-1906, buried in Greenwood Cemetery, near Middleville, Ontario.

When writing about women in the context of a romance there is no evident need to do any research as the text for the story-line naturally springs from within.  Certainly the private reaction any one of us has to the women in our life is personal and emanates from within but this hardly makes every experience a romance even though it speaks to the singularity of the sentiment. Thus when the subject of enquiry is women in general, it lends itself to a degree of analysis. The exploration further admits to some categorization as those relationships while varied nonetheless convey certain broad-stroke similarities.  At the risk of offending someone’s sister, mother or grandmother, herewith is a caricature of the ladies of Lanark County whom I have known.  Each of the synopses which follows is based upon women whom I have known and whom naturally I would not be so egregious as to mention by name.  Given the oversimplification of these lampoon versions I trust I shall be forgiven for what is assured to be at times unfair distortion.

The Farmer’s Wife

The farmer’s wife reflects the very best of of our heritage, classic rural British stock, the sensible shoes, the no-nonesense garb, practical hairdo, rugged features and quite possibly a stern countenance.  In matters of business there is an evident equality of influence from both husband and wife; the title of matriarch is not lost upon this woman.  It would be an adventurous person indeed who presumed to contradict the farmer’s wife. She has learned her lessons with no small effort and will not willingly reverse the synthesis of those trials.  When seeking the opinion of the farmer’s wife, you can generally count upon a polite reservation of opinion until all the facts and considerations have been tabled; but then will follow unwavering direction. The elemental features of land and family figure prominently in the ethos of the farmer’s wife; both are protected and advanced with equal vigour.

The Church Lady

The church lady is in many respects similar to the farmer’s wife, adopting a decided preference for respectability and restraint, often reflected in exceedingly tight hairdos. Most conversations begin with pursed lips so there is no misleading anticipation of either liberality or frivolity.  A lapse into the vernacular would be unthinkable!  A firm commitment to manners in general and propriety in particular is inescapable.  It is reasonable to assume that the church lady has a better comprehension than you do of matters affecting not only your mutual worship but also of the affairs touching the community at large including a surprising depth of historical knowledge perhaps fostered by a long-time association with the Women’s Institute.  Though they would likely not leap to confess it, the church lady privately favours the titular position of men but this acquiescence seldom dilutes the unadorned functionality of the woman’s role in the family and its society.

The Professional Lady

The influence of women in business is becoming commonplace. They nonetheless preserve an adherence to enviable standards so there is no mistaking their capability and power.  This is reflected in first-rate qualification, appearance and deportment.  Seldom will one witness the degeneration of a professional woman into anything approaching the sometimes vulgar antics of their male business counterparts.  The professional woman jealously guards her strategic position and the barrier – if indeed it is one – is frequently invioable by others.  The professional woman is in many instances a worthy adversary and one to be viewed with express calculation and cagey wariness.  By the same token, if given a wide berth and deserved respect, the professional lady can be an enviable ally.

The Funny Lady

The funny lady comes in as many shapes and sizes as imaginable.  Seldom are there any characteristic physical features and when the funny lady is seen from a distance the only identifying feature beneath the veneer is an unmistakeable twinkle in her eye.  It normally requires little introduction to acquaint oneself with the comedic talent of the funny lady as her dedication to frivolity and humour overrides almost everything about her.  A mere casual aside will illicit an instant laughable twist upon even the most serene circumstantes.  Once engaged the funny lady is like any other entertainer and can be counted upon for a steady stream of sarcastic vitriol or other adaptation of humour to lighten the conversation.  Seemingly paradoxically the funny lady does however have her serious side and anyone who pretends to get close to the funny lady must be prepared to separate the histrionics from the resolute.  At times even her laugh is serious.

The Classy Lady

We have a lot of classy ladies in Town!  Invariably they are remarkable for their fine apparel and sophisticated behaviour yet they have maintained that cultured refinement of the common touch.  Such disarming urbanity! You can count on the classy lady to breathe charm and elevation into any encounter, a reminder that the delicacy of human nature yet abounds in a world of competing crassness.  It would be naive to ignore that many of the classy ladies are united with equally agreeable gentlemen.  The sophisticated couple is one of those anomalies of nature which thrives upon mutuality and distinguishes itself by its interdependence.

The Activist Lady

We owe much to the activist women of Lanark County. Of the many notable organizations which are driven by publicly spirited fervour, most are promoted by women. The activist lady tends to be educated and independent. Often their husbands are either off the map or in the background. The activist lady is unabashed (even brazen) and usually easily recognized (and heard) in a crowd. Her determination makes lesser people quiver and there is no room for prevarication when addressing a social problem. The activist lady is by nature down-to-earth and normally little persuaded by social fictions.

Remarkably I persist in the ambition for smooth sailing.  I foolishly imagine that once I have wrestled the current dilemma to the ground there will be no others.  Can there be anything more preposterous!  This outrageous frame of mind can only be excused as a tolerable default, a starting point, the least offensive of the alternatives.  Nonetheless it abounds in marred logic and failed intellectualism, having the dubious merit of wishful thinking and Disneyland generally.

Whether however I would counsel others to contaminate their optimism by the perpetual spectre of impending doom is questionable.  Therein lies the rub – hope for the best but expect the worst!  Not exactly uplifting!

In any event the unvarnished truth is that no matter how well things are going or for how long, eventually the tide will turn.  More likely than not the euphoria of any one moment or day will be short-lived and it is reasonable to expect at least a hiccup along the way.  Which brings me to the point of my current contemplation; namely, I haven’t any dispute with the irregularity of life’s fortunes and indeed I clearly embrace its mercurial change.  Rather my focus is the adaptation to those anomalies.  It is oddly confounding that no one would argue against the unpredictability of life or the variation of its fortunes, but we are all strangely annoyed by its inconsistencies. This may be viewed as digestible but  it isn’t forward-thinking.

While I won’t suggest I have yet attained the elevated state of being able blithely to dismiss the infringement of life’s conundrums, I have at least developed the tact to market my distress as surmountable.  Ideally I aim to avoid being accusatory as that does nothing more than entrench people in an already corrupted situation.  The goal is to resolve the problem without entangling people’s sensitivities, either one’s own or others’.  I have no doubt that there personnel managers who would consider this stratagem as feeble and guileless.   I on the other hand prefer to think that modification by example will in the end have the same improving effect as “taking responsibility for one’s actions”.  Besides too often the bump in the road is not the fault of anyone in particular so the pursuit of blame is misplaced to overcome the difficulty.

The acid test of cleverness in these matters is whether one adopts at the outset of a downturn the commitment to resolve it.  This may sound trite but a moment’s reflection will disclose that frequently the knee-jerk reaction is to reject the intrusion and to cast blame which only succeed to obstruct the resolution.  What is required instead is to pause to consider not so much what has happened as what one would have preferred to have happened.  This immediately redirects the mind from a pointless adherence to the problem to a valuable contemplation of the answer.  The corollary of such distraction is the removal of the parties from the fray so to speak to a forum of faultless negotiation and strategy.

If all this sounds hopelessly strategic and diplomatic, it is!  Nonetheless it has the advantage of elevating one’s mind from the morass of far lesser preoccupations.  In that respect it is certainly a policy of deception.  It has been said that one only needs manners when the going gets tough and here the principle is the same.  Paradoxically the driving force when down in the dumps is the appearance of rising above it.  Human nature at times requires the bolster of heightened conduct.

After awakening from hibernation in South Carolina, after regaining our beloved northern dwelling, after grappling with the annual blizzard of income tax papers and sending them to the accountant, after a close friend’s grand birthday celebration, and after reinstating the mundane routine of familial duties (particularly for my elderly mother), I am at last at loose ends and beginning to settle down.

Interspersed with these broadly described reunions were a haircut, routine automobile maintenance, dental and medical appointments and the expected rallies with friends, not to mention the unanticipated event of a funeral for a highly respected member of our community and the blind-side news of impending death of a relative.  Small wonder the waters are whirling about our feet as they recede from their former turbulence. The pressing details of the past week have at last subsided but the current pacific state was hard-won. Several mornings for example I was awake and at my desk no later than 3:00 a.m. attending to some irksome detail.

The condensed flurry of activity is consistent with the way I have always operated.  Never have I approached modification or transition with anything other than irrepressible fervour.  I admit to the thrill of it!  I regale in the accomplishment of what needs to be done! It nonetheless astounds me to come out of a twirl still dizzy from the traffic.  The revival of innumerable habits  quells the readjustment.  It matters to have your own bed and your own things, to park in your own space, to know your neighbours, to have the familiarity of shops and streets, to recognize the radio personalities, to read the local newspapers – in a word, to be at home and to settle down.

It further buoys me in this reclining state that I have commenced a project of acquisition which has been poisoning my conscience for months. The prospect of such material reward keeps me going, like it or not!  Though this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve said, “This is it!  No more!  Enough after this one last piece!”  Oh well…it’s likely just more of that Pavlovian conditioning from my early school days.  Or maybe it’s my obsessive personality at work.  Who knows!  Who cares!

This morning I noticed from a casual review of historical records on the Millstone News that last year I advertised the closing of my law office effective April 30, 2014.  Unquestionably the commotion in my life for the past year has kept me unbalanced or at least hopping.  I have yet to throw away the relics of my professional past which have been stuffed into closet corners and desk drawers. From time to time I find myself reopening my  office computer for information. Occasionally I get a call from a former Client. But it is safe to observe that the general populace has accommodated my retirement and has borne the deprivation of my counsel.  My absorption into oblivion has been seamless.

Now with the office gone, the house sold, my late father’s estate settled and the first year of wintering south behind us, I begin the comparatively less adventurous business of settling down.  I suppose one never attains a perfect pitch of frequency but we’re damn close to it. In my mind I have cut myself off from all that has passed.  Everything is new, at least my approach to it.  My finger nails and toe nails have been trimmed. I have a new haircut. I have buffed my silver jewellery. I’ll get my teeth cleaned.  The car is washed and polished. The cleaning lady has come and gone and will come again.  I haven’t any clothes that don’t fit (not because I’ve lost weight but because I’ve thrown out the other stuff). To my knowledge I have no outstanding personal disagreements. I am reconciled to perpetual sobriety (not least for the reason that my ancestors reportedly embraced the condition). While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I couldn’t give a damn what others think, conformity is certainly not a knee-jerk reaction (this isn’t so much a matter of intellectual liberation as the product of removal from the commercial stream). In short I am settling down.  Everything on the horizon excites me, just doing whatever we do!  I want to read and write, go for Vietnamese lunches, sip coffee and opine on subjects of personal and national interest. I relish the thought of spending time with family and friends, strengthening bonds and perhaps severing others. The spectre of inadequacy, insecurity and incompetence no longer threatens me even if still lingering.  The ramification of personal shortcomings is now without its consequence.  As with any commitment to settling down there are choices to be made, paths to follow, exclusions that will inevitably result.  It is logically part of the process to abandon some things while embracing others, all part of settling down.

About four years ago in an effort to reverse a lifetime of profligacy I met by appointment with an estate auctioneer on a dark and rainy weekday evening in the late Fall at the Château Laurier Hotel and consigned to him for sale all my expensive jewellery (much of which had been custom made) – gold and platinum rings, bracelets, necklaces, cufflinks and mechanical analog watches. Contrary to what one might imagine the undertaking wasn’t unpleasant.  It was refreshing because it not only provided the benefit of anticipatory capital but also signalled a fresh start.

Having made that catastrophic manoeuvre I wasn’t about to enter upon an immediate reinvention of the trinket experience.  My pleasure in jewellery was for the time being modestly confined to a gold signet ring, a pair of antique gold cufflinks (which were virtually worthless as an estate piece) and a gold pocket watch, chain and bejewelled fob inherited from my paternal grandfather. Eventually however the deprivation was too much to bear and I began to slip back into the ornamental market but only hesitatingly and with much restraint.  It started cautiously with the purchase of a Bulova sport watch (stainless steel) with a black rubber bracelet, a trendy purchase I philosophically excused as mandatory when riding my bicycle for example. This extraordinarily large and heavy watch ignited my unquenchable appetite for more. I subsequently purchased two similar Bulova watches, one quite plain with an azure face, the other more complicated like the first but with a steel bracelet.

I had hoped to restrict my sybaritism to watches, fashioning in my mind that it was a cultivated gentlemanly thing to do and therefore an acceptable dalliance. But incrementally I found myself trolling the internet for heavy bracelets and necklaces, this time however in sterling silver not gold.  For purposes of this account it matters not what I succeeded in acquiring over the next year or so; suffice it to say the inventory swelled.  The Balinese craftsmen know the silver trade and my acquaintance with their work was more than adequately rewarded.

What however persisted to hum in the background was the recollection of the exposure I had had as a child at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, BC to the sight of gentlemen sporting a “pinky” diamond ring.  At the time I imagined that diamond rings were the exclusive territory of women but I nonetheless grasped that the gentleman’s diamond ring was not without its propriety and import.  I decided I must have one.

Like so many fanciful desires it would be years before the realization of it. The embers were meanwhile brightened at undergraduate University when I observed a crony wearing what he described as a “Tiffany” six-claw setting for his brilliant cut diamond.

Apparently the price he had paid for this unusual extravagance was the untimely death of his alcoholic parents in a fire in their extensive Northern Ontario summer home where they tragically fell asleep in bed while smoking cigarettes.

The closest I first came to getting a similar ring was upon my graduation from law school.  My parents bought me a diamond ring; however the setting was sadly not what I had harboured in my mind. Sentimentality prevailed for the longest time before my adhesion to the ring let go and I began what was to become a pattern of swapping jewellery. Once again the intervening details do not bear repetition.  Of particular interest only is my encounter in Provincetown, Cape Cod with an antique jeweller who had a piece very close to what I had always fathomed.  As is most often the case the setting took the back seat to the diamond itself which was a “mine cut” diamond, a distinction I understood to be indicative of a less modern method of shaping the stone. In the end it was the failure of the setting to capture my imagination that led me to unload it as I had done with so many other pieces before.  Instead I commissioned a jeweller to make a setting in the manner I recalled from my prior experiences.  By this time I recognized that it was all about the metal so the direction of the exploit was clearly the setting and its substantive fabrication and appearance.  Significantly that piece too was ultimately relegated to the slag heap for auction; it had failed to attain the apogee of perfection I envisaged notwithstanding its unmistakable merit.

The work of a Master Jeweller is like that of any other creative artist. Specifically it is not merely size that matters (though I am quick to add it is very important); the elements of colour, texture, polish, contrast and detail must combine to make a truly compelling piece. Men’s jewellery is traditionally lacking in imagination and certainly there is a case to be made for simplicity just as there is the advantage of a dark blue suit. If however the piece is to excite the mind and be more than purely functional it must demonstrate a heightened level of artistry.

At my now advanced age I haven’t time for prolonged dithering when it comes to the fulfillment of a lifetime ambition.  Only yesterday as a result of my conversations with my mother about her own diamonds I set my mind to closing the circle on this lingering matter which has so haunted me for decades. As a necessary refinement to the process I reaffirmed in my mind that the setting was paramount, not the stone. I concluded that for practical reasons alone I had no especial determination to acquire a diamond by inheritance or otherwise and that I was perfectly satisfied with a simulated diamond. Today I rallied at length with a reputable jeweller on Sparks Street in Ottawa to commence the creation of what I fully expect to be a first-rate piece of jewellery. I have the advantage of having worked with his father years ago on another piece which was a complete success notable for its buttery texture and significant weight. Pointedly during our discussion we literally tossed about a three-carat cubic Zirconia as evidence of the marginal importance of the stone.  We have since settled upon a Moissanite man-made stone known for its hardness. I confess that while I may yet be disappointed there are occasions in life where the singular achievement of a scheme is undeniable.  We’re reaching for that lofty objective.

First Rendering by Dixon Design Studio

First Day of Spring, March 20, 2015

To be precise the hotel of which I speak is properly called Fairmont Château Laurier Hotel, a label I am more accustomed to incorporate when referring to its Executive Fairmont Gold floor (the so-called “hotel within a hotel”).  The change of ownership of this hotel from Canadian Pacific Hotels appears not to have hurt the hotel in the transition – no doubt for the added reason that, “In 1999, it was renamed the Fairmont Château Laurier after Canadian Pacific Hotels bought the American Fairmont hotel chain and changed its name to Fairmont Hotels and Resorts.”  Essentially a distinction without a difference though I object to the marketing of the grandeur of the hotel as the product of the Fairmont cunning at the expense of the former railway owners of the hotel including Grand Trunk Railway (1909 – 1923), Canadian National Railway (1923 – 1988) and lastly Canadian Pacific Hotels (1988 – 1999), proprietors which for me have always hearkened back to the spirited days of Canada’s formation.

Yesterday I was reminded why I adore this hotel.  We checked into the Fairmont Gold floor shortly after noon then proceeded immediately to Wilfrid’s dining room for lunch.  Everything about that experience epitomizes the hotel.  Certainly the hotel succeeds in its mission of “turning moments into memories” for its guests.  Specifically it is the unrivalled elegance of the hotel and insinuating sense of permanence and sophistication which perpetually move me.  Granted it may be an atmosphere more appealing to the older generation but that for me is perfectly serendipitous. I have always marvelled at the service, whether it is a scotch on the rocks, a martini or tea. The calibre of food at Wilfrid’s is undeniably high and never disappoints.  I might add that I can say the same for Epic Restaurant at the Royal York Hotel, another link in the chain which we patronize as regularly.

The breakfast on the Gold floor is unique, silver service and white linen.  The small, cozy lounge is ideally suited to a pleasant and incremental awakening. We have also taken advantage of the lounge at the end of the day by returning with our dinner guests for pousse-café.  To its everlasting credit the bar is on the honours system, a decided refinement we most lately encountered in Montepulciano, Tuscany at the family owned Villa Poggiano.

As we checked out of our room this morning after breakfast in the lounge I remarked how far even the finest American hotels would have to go to exceed the lavishness of the Château Laurier Hotel, referring at that moment in particular to the elevators with their solid brass doors and mahogany panelling.

My introduction to the Château Laurier Hotel was exactly forty years ago, March, 1975 when I began working for the law firm Macdonald, Affleck at 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa.  The convenience of the hotel and its reputed attraction to local parliamentarians and senators recommended the hotel to me more especially as it housed a magnificent indoor swimming pool, steam bath and sauna.  I was a member of the Château Laurier Health Club for the next 35 years (sadly until Canadian Pacific Hotels merged with Fairmont Hotels and Resorts and pointedly closed the steam bath and sauna – which they have promised ever since to renovate and reopen).  Forty years ago the Health Club was managed very efficiently and professionally by Madam Juneau, assisted by Madam Chartrand.  They manned the now extinct long wooden counter around which guests were required to pass for admission to the Club.  For each guest Madam Juneau or Madam Chartrand would provide two towels and a locker key.

My personal memories over the years at the hotel include a congregation of the local Ottawa Bar in a suite with former Prime Minister John Diefenbaker; the annual Canada Permanent Saturday luncheon for the local Ottawa Bar (a tradition which not surprisingly ended when the Bar became too large to stuff into one of the ballrooms); birthday party gatherings too numerous to mention; wedding celebrations; brunches and dinners at Wilfrid’s and afternoon teas at Zoe’s; private jewellery exhibitions; estate auctioneer meetings; retails services; dining and dancing at the Canadian Room (now gone); profound cocktail rendezvous at the Cross Keys lounge; summer al fresco drinks on the terrace overlooking the Canal Locks; surreptitious viewing of the July 1st fireworks on Parliament Hill from the secret turrets of the Hotel; and innumerable points of convenience for meeting family and friends when heading elsewhere in downtown Ottawa or the By Ward Market.  Lately the Hotel has afforded a pied à terre for us country folk when visiting the Capital for dinner.

Oddly I have never felt compelled to photograph the Château Laurier Hotel. As much as I am attracted to architecture generally (for example I spent hours sketching the lines of the National Arts Centre following its construction), my absorption of the Château Laurier Hotel is confined to its staid atmosphere and provision of upscale visceral delights.

The Château Laurier Hotel is like a grand old lady, deserving of the utmost respect.  I always make a point of entering or leaving the Hotel by the front door, not its side entrance on Mackenzie Avenue.