I have never been mentored but I have certainly been influenced.  And I’m not talking about the starry-eyed craziness prompted by movie stars or popular musicians.  There have been people whom I have met or known who have shaped my behaviour.  All of these people have been men.  With the making of “The Iron Lady” (modelled on Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister of Great Britain) the possibility of precedent being set by a woman became a reality equally compelling for both men and women.  My formation however predates such modern legends as Margaret Thatcher and Hilary Rodham Clinton, former US Secretary of State.  My malleable years had long ago passed by and in those days I was subject to the example of men only.

My earliest recollection of a singular influence by another is a Grade VIII school teacher named Hal Lebrecht.  That was so long ago I am surprised I remember his name.  What is even more astonishing is that I can only recall his appearance and his mannerisms, not anything he said or did in particular.  He was what I imagine would have passed for a pleasant looking chap, tall, sylph-like and well dressed.  I remember in particular that he sported French cuffs and cuff links.  I never saw him dressed other than in a suit or sport jacket and tie.  His business-like appearance was matched by his demeanour which was always polite, never wry, and he had a sparkle in his eye which betrayed a perpetual sense of humour.  How these attributes affected me is impossible to say.  I can only assume that having been alive to those traits (in a favourable way) instilled in me the desire to be somewhat the same.

Several years later when I was attending a debating competition at Trinity College School (“TCS”) in Port Hope, Ontario I was (sort of) introduced to Mr. Dalton Kingsley Camp, PC, OC then President of the Progressive Conservative Party of Canada. Mr. Camp was an adjudicator of our debates; his son David attended TCS at the time and also faced off against our school (St. Andrew’s College) during the debates.  When Mr. Camp delivered his views on the respective debaters I was overwhelmingly impressed by him (even though he found against our team). I remember to this day that he wore a dark blue pin-striped suit, a blue and white striped shirt with white cuffs and white collar.  He cut a dashing figure.  He added to sartorial delight an obvious command of the English language, a talent he skilfully projected by standing tall and erect with his hands by his sides.  Mr. Camp’s sway upon me is more recognizable.  For years I harboured the view that Mr. Camp was a lawyer, but apparently not so:

“Camp soon enrolled in undergraduate studies at Acadia University; however, his time there was interrupted by enlistment in the Canadian Army during the Second World War. Following the war, Camp finished his undergraduate studies in the liberal arts at the University of New Brunswick, followed by graduate studies in journalism at Columbia University and political science at the London School of Economics.“

About the same time (1964) I had the pleasure of getting to know Mr. James Carmen Mainprize.  Mr. Mainprize came closer to being a tutor than any of the other personages because he was in fact one of my high school  instructors (History) and he had a pivotal role in the school’s theatrical society of which I was also a part.  Nonetheless it was Mr. Mainprize’s very unique bearing and indisputable presence not his teaching skills which provided the signification. Once again it was the manner in which he distinguished his appearance that spoke volumes to me.  It was the fodder of idle student chatter that Mr. Mainprize came from a well-to-do family and that all his clothes were tailor-made (which I have no doubt they were).  He also aligned himself very properly with the exact usage of language, always characterized by the epitome of precision and elevation, never mundane or coarse.  He was polite to a fault. Mr. Mainprize spoke sophistication and shamefully out-distanced his colleagues.  Even his gait was Aristocratic and he gave himself naturally to a red-faced blush when anyone encroached too greedily his sphere of influence.

During my undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall I fell victim to the persuasion of Mr. Michael Gregory who was our renowned English literature professor.  Mr. Gregory’s impact on me was decidedly in the nature of the Bohemian.  He was lanky, carefree, known to drink alcohol liberally and he smoked cigarettes like a fiend.  He was also a “Lady’s Man” who in spite of not being at all athletic gave even the younger men on campus a run for their money when competing for the attention of the more attractive female students.  Mr. Gregory frequently joined the students at parties where he demonstrated the most utterly preposterous manner of dancing I have ever seen!  It was as though he were a puppet and his stringy legs jerked about aimlessly below him, sometimes mocking the strutting of a large bird.  Oddly this did nothing but contribute to his novelty and the patent weakness further endeared him to us all.  If there is anyone in whose footsteps I have least followed it is Michael Gregory though certainly not from dislike, just incompatibility.  I would welcome a luncheon with him (as indeed I did on one poignant occasion) but otherwise our company was disparate.

At law school there were unquestionably many, many characters.  Some of them were friends, others professors, yet others mere acquaintances from other disciplines and unconnected orbits.  Their idiosyncrasies did not however make them  any kind of role model.  Perhaps by the time I reached law school the cement of my personality was beginning to set.  The suspicion would however have been premature.

During my articles and first year of law practice, through a series of comic events too tedious to repeat, I was introduced to Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC.  His credentials bear repeating:

“Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, OC (April 7, 1907 – April 2, 1995) was a Canadian lawyer, soldier, and civil servant.

Born in Ottawa, Ontario, the son of Louis-Arthur Audette and Mary-Grace Stuart, the tenth child of Andrew Stuart, he was educated as a lawyer and practiced in Montreal during the 1930s. During World War II, he served with the Royal Canadian Navy and commanded several ships (HMCS Pictou, Amherst, Coaticook, and St. Catharines) in the North Atlantic and Mediterranean. He was mentioned in dispatches and left the Navy with the rank of Lieutenant commander. As a reserve officer, he was later promoted to commander.

After the war, from 1947 to 1959, he a member of the Canadian Maritime Commission. He was also chairman from 1954 to 1959. from 1959 to 1972, he was Chairman of the Tariff Board of Canada.

In 1974, he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.“

Like the other men who influenced me, Louis Audette (who is the only one I called a friend – we socialized regularly at his home, my home and his club on nights when his steward Jeffrey was “off”) painted a very colourful picture in matters both sartorial and linguistic.  He sported bow ties (the real ones, not the clip-ons) and was extremely well-read, both voracious and wide-ranging.  Additionally he was perfectly bilingual in French and English.  His command of both languages would easily have qualified as esoteric.  He not only spoke beautifully; he was a ready etymologist (no doubt the product of his classic Greek and Latin studies). His knowledge of social propriety and etiquette was extremely entertaining, such customs as passing the Porto to the left  (never allowing the decanter to touch the mahogany whilst doing so), knowing full well that the guest who is late for dinner is an insult to his host and an outrage to the chef, explaining that tying a bow tie is merely like tying a shoe lace and so on.  When I told him I was writing my autobiography he said, “I’ll believe it when you’ve written the last word!”  He was not a man with whom to trifle and his commentary on others was not for the pusillanimous.  Louis drank more than he ate though he professed that he enjoyed drinking but not being drunk. His small portions of whiskey and soda on ice were renowned so much so that the after-dinner long drinks were called “Audettes”.  He was the only person I have ever known who, when we were discussing fast cars one evening and asked him if he knew what a Corvette was, said, “Yes, I had one but it sank!”  Louis did not tolerate fools.  He never said anything approaching criticism to their face but it was undeniable whom he disliked.

I don’t know about you, but from time to time I run into a snag. Generally snags are of two orders:  those involving things and those involving people. The objective snags are those such as car problems, computer glitches, internet failure, even a bicycle flat or a broken knob on a chest of drawers. Those problems are annoying and inconvenient but, unless you have to deal with a national internet provider, it is usually possible to make arrangements to get them fixed without huge difficulty.  Granted it may require more than one attendance (a disturbing reminder that most people never check the quality of their work).

As for the “people” problems, that’s a different story!  I get so frustrated trying to understand other people when predicaments arise.  Even if I really do comprehend them it is almost as annoying as not being able to fathom them. Either way, the apparent cause of the friction is galling. This however is where the real genius is required.  Whether one does or doesn’t understand the other person it is important rather to recognize that it doesn’t matter. Whatever the cause that motivates the other person, understanding it will seldom make any difference other than to excuse it, frequently a small compliment.  This will however do absolutely nothing to mitigate the aggravation.

To cut to the quick, the way to resolve people problems is by not trying to resolve them.  Better to rise above it and forget about it.  Any time spent trying to rationalize a course of action to deal with the problem is wasted. Initially it hurts to roll over.  There is such a natural inclination to rebut the offensive behaviour and maybe even to avenge it.  But the effort is doomed. More painful is the likelihood that any vengeful conduct will only backfire. And then you have to feel bad about what you did!  A double whammy!

Of course this brilliant insight only comes to those who have already stepped into the pitfalls and made all the blunders.  This isn’t like reading Confucius in your comfortable leather armchair.  It’s a nasty business and you have to get down and dirty before cleaning yourself up and making yourself presentable.  Hopefully the act of redemption will be a private matter and not one that entails crawling.  This all depends upon how careful you were to restrain yourself.  Confining oneself to a wrestling match within one’s own mind is by far the preferred course of conduct.  Resist the temptation to illustrate one’s thoughts.  The reason is simple:  you cannot win at proving others wrong.  They will always have a retort and the best you can hope for is a crying match.

Distance helps.  Often distance is the very thing required even though neither party to the argument would ever say as much.  Distance can of course mean time.  Whether the measure is spatial or temporal, the objective for the time being is to put as much of it as possible between one another.  This will at least vacate the immediate arena which is  contaminated.

I regularly reflect languidly upon things, a pastime which some ungenerously tag as navel gazing. It is however a philosophic occupation I am powerless to subdue. Today I couldn’t help but think how pleased I am with what I am seeing.  This simplistic and seemingly self-congratulatory remark begs the question about the depth and breadth of the observation. It nonetheless satisfies me. It’s an achievement not always assured in spite of its appearance of brazen confidence. There are so many exacting perspectives when considering the question, “Do you like what you see?”  Some are superficial or materialistic, some practical, others psychological and entirely spiritual and introverted.  Whatever the standard  it should be enough if on the balance the answer is “Yes!”  The answer could I suppose be provocative even if “No!” especially if the enquiry promotes analysis and stimulates improvement. But I view that alternative more as a booby prize.  If one were pressed to canvass all the possibilities there may be cases where one likes what one sees, but shouldn’t; and similarly cases where one doesn’t like what one sees, but should.  In the result it theoretically doesn’t matter how one answers the question.  Yet I still prefer to say I like what I see. And frankly I do!

As a measure of its value I am aware that this current state of bliss is not necessarily one which will last forever. The limitation does however more to polish the situation than diminish its intensity.  Driven as I am naturally to confess this supreme satisfaction I cannot escape the further expansion that it represents the culmination of a lifetime prosecution. Like most people I have always wanted the result but I couldn’t have planned it better. In fact I cannot take credit for planning it at all!  This is part of what stimulates my delight; it is so purely fortuitous.  To be specific, until five years ago I hadn’t heard of Hilton Head Island.  My introduction to it was quite by accident through my sister-in-law while lunching at Les Fougères in Chelsea, PQ.  At that time our vacation resorts normally included only Florida and places more southerly.  It would never have occurred to us to have considered Hilton Head Island had it not been so heartily recommended to us.

Once here we fell in love with the place.  I recall my first elated impression upon driving onto the Cross Island Parkway! It instantly captured everything I have always held in high regard, all the things for which Hilton Head Island is famous and which have formed the template for the development of other communities.  Specifically I marvel at traveling though caverns of large live oak trees draped in hanging moss, the avenues bounded by palm trees; cycling on the beach for fifteen miles or upon endless miles of paths throughout the Island; avoiding snow and crowds while enjoying off-season rates; experiencing great restaurants and a superior service industry in everything from agencies to mechanics to dentists.  In short it is a thoroughly beautiful and comfortable place to be.

There are of course moments when my rambling thoughts are less than euphoric, when I question my superficiality and reflect upon the dreadful and inescapable realities of life here and beyond.  One would have to be extremely narrow minded to avoid such perilous diversions from time to time.  We shall never be completely insulated from the unfortunate horrors of the world.  But this is only one more reason to confess that I like what I see!

When JFD and I visited his mother and her then current (third) husband in Naples, FLA many years ago, besides having been impressed by the magnificent Gulf-side condominium they had rented (from the Vice-President of Mobile Oil who intended to retire there the following year), I recall being struck in particular by their advice that they had made arrangements to rent the property the year before prior to their departure from Florida.  Of course it makes perfect sense that they had done so but at the time it was my introduction to cultivated snowbird policy and it left a lasting impression upon me.  Perhaps even then (during the height of my professional obligations) I envisaged the day when I might do the same.

This afternoon we attended upon our estate agent to sign the property rental contract for five months next year.  On its face the conclusion of this arrangement is not particularly noteworthy.  That overview would however short change the procedure.  It does for example gloss over the considerable time spent initially investigating not only the various property choices, but also the alternate venues (Hilton Head Island, Jekyll Island and Amelia Island) and other local property managers.  Each variable required examination and contemplation.  We made arrangements to inspect seven properties, four in detail, three others we dismissed only from a curb view.  Subsequently we met with the estate agent to review our findings and to obtain preliminary financial details.  Privately we had considered at length the value of dealing with our current estate agent rather than other corporations some of which were international and not locally owned and operated.  At last we met again with our estate agent to put to her our list of choices and applicable priorities.  She then enlisted the consideration of the corporate owner and finally an offer was put to us.  We accepted without further negotiation, being satisfied that our agent had done what she could in our favour.  Today we put it all in writing and ponied up the deposit.

That wasn’t the only bit of business on the table today.  I had back and forth emails with my sister concerning my elderly mother and her geriatric consultation. Thankfully the consultation went well and my sister is similarly relieved, which in turn takes a weight off me as I am displaced at a distance. Some private banking matters were also settled including arrangements with our financial advisor.  That alone would have been enough but I also received a communication from my lawyer and that matter too has been addressed.

On a less commercial level we undertook some unusual shopping today with equally sterling results.  We bought a set of martini glasses to complement the evening ritual; and a set of upscale head phones which it turns out greatly improve the quality of sound from my new electronic keyboard.  The latter achievement is positive fortune because I had been blaming the keyboard device for the poor quality sound when it seems the cause was the other inexpensive headphones (now relegated to daily computer usage).

Finally some non-glamorous but utilitarian business – arranging a cleaning with a hygienist at a local dentist’s office.  This is one more element of gradual immersion into local life.  We already established contact with a mechanic and a hair stylist.  I have yet to discover where the post office is located but our agent has so far spared us that enquiry.

Without meaning to contaminate the successes of the day I have to say I derive the same familiar sense of fulfillment in the accomplishment of these chores that I formerly got from my law practice. As much as I appreciate a sunny day at the beach I have to say that it gives me great satisfaction to set a goal and to reach it.  That’s business!

The end of the year naturally promotes reflection and recapitulation. It is an embedded custom in our society.  Likely it stems from that arbitrary commercial undertaking – the “Annual Report” – designed to assess the general strength of an enterprise over what is considered a reasonable period of time to allow for mercurial dips and spikes. The practice has since been extended from the mundane business vernacular to popular media to include an examination of the personal lives of famous people. Even if the close-up is diluted by a reference to a difficult childhood or an occasional failure, the celebrity under the microscope generally comes up looking pretty good.  On the contrary I suspect most of us would agree that turning the spotlight on one’s self or one’s friends or relatives is assured to be far less glamorous whatever the circumstances.  Or is it?

Even though I obviously speak for myself, I wager that all of us haven’t far to look to discover some pretty amazing people within our immediate orbit. Those people are not likely billionaires, movie stars or media gurus.  But their achievements are frequently no less worthy of attention and praise. In some instances the accomplishment is getting through some terribly serious surgery, whether a brain tumour, kidney transplant or cancer. For the person who faces the dreadful subject of death and who suffers these incredible trials it is unfortunately often the result of the surgery (not the perseverance of it) which dominates the assessment of the task.  I say it is unfortunate because it is unmistakeable that some surgery (if indeed not most) entails repercussions which include physical and economic loss.  For example, child bearing may no longer be an option; there may be disfigurement; employment or livelihood may be diminished or lost.  To appraise the success of the misadventure on that basis does not however capture the overwhelming triumph of the person to have endured the horrid experience.

Other equally worthy feats include the survival of a marriage dissolution, the loss of a spouse or child, the loss of employment or the loss of one’s life savings.  In each instance the loss is catastrophic.  For those of us who haven’t had to meet such acute deprivation it is virtually impossible to appreciate the extent of the damage inflicted but it requires very little consideration of the event to be touched by its magnitude.

Too often the assessment of success is directly related to how much money someone makes. This is hardly flattering when you recall that the manufacturers of Kleenex and Ketchup do very well in that department.  Surely a person’s success must depend on more than its financial quotient.

Quite apart from medical challenges which are for the most part entirely random, I have great sympathy for people who have encountered potential ruin and defeat at their own hands.  There are some observers who would be less generous with so-called culprits where the cause of the loss is technically one’s own fault.  But I still view this situation as fateful.  It is in my opinion a grievous presumption to imagine that any one of us is spared such destiny merely because of our innate perfection.  It is impossible to fathom what drives a man to risk his good name for shallow causes.  If the fellow can somehow rise above the paralyzing dismay of it all, then I say he is to be commended.  If nothing else we haven’t the right to make ourselves taller by standing on others whatever the reason.

All this is to say that sometimes just living is enough of an achievement and any New Year’s obsession with improving ourselves may be quite unnecessary. This isn’t of course to suggest that we haven’t room for change.  But I think if we spent more time thinking about what we have accomplished than where we have failed we might find we’re a great deal closer to perfection than we thought. Happy New Year!

Last evening during the ribaldry of Christmas Day dinner conversation with our hosts we volunteered to look after their French bulldog Max during their proposed outing to Savannah today with their house guests.  You might be inclined to imagine there was a vinous influence at work but there was not. Our purely motivated uptake was instantaneous upon hearing of their intention to sequester Max at home for the day while they galavanted about the countryside.  It was not going to happen!

When we had our own French bulldog Munroe we were grateful for the privilege of being able to leave him with either my parents or my sister for varying periods of time, normally only several hours, sometimes during vacations for as much as a week or two.  Because I took Munro to the office with me every day it was indeed seldom that I was either obliged to or desirous of putting him in the care of another. In fact I was so obsessed with the minutiae of his guardianship that I preferred not to capitulate to anyone else. I was an exceedingly fastidious parent. But if temporary care were required it is well known that the supreme happiness of the French bulldog is the company of humans. Once for example I made the mistake of entrusting him to a kennel.  Apparently he cried the entire time.  And remarkably when the Frenchies cry, they sound disturbingly like a baby!  That was a mistake we never repeated.

So arrangements were concluded last evening to have Max delivered to our charge this morning around ten o’clock.  Overnight I prepared myself for the adventure by acknowledging the upcoming restraint upon my erstwhile freedom, addressing the responsibilities to be assumed and revisiting the customs of protectorship. Any hesitation or second thoughts I may have had evaporated in an instant  upon Max’ arrival. The escapade was underway! Introductions were superfluous. He wasted no time casing the joint. To my surprise he quickly found his way up the hardwood stairs to the second floor from the balcony of which he gloated for a moment upon the group of us staring below before he descended to scope the remainder of the place with equal gusto. Granted as our friends commenced their departure for their day trip Max’ initial response was to go with them, but he understood the pointed finger of his master and dutifully remained inside the threshold of the door as it closed upon his pug nose.

I won’t pretend that we adjusted instantly to the renewed duties of a parent. It had been at least ten years since we had last accommodated a four-legged friend. Not surprisingly we at first attempted to reinstitute the habits which we had formerly cultivated with our own Frenchie, introducing him to the softer and cosier pieces of furniture, gently massaging his legs, going with him as he investigated the further recesses of the house, and naturally speaking baby-talk all the while.  Eventually however we succumbed to the routine pedestrian duties of dog handling and went for a walk.

Our journey was of course halted almost immediately as Max inspected every inch of the property along which we proposed to meander.  Max I discovered is more singularly minded than Monroe and it took some cajoling to get him to adopt a less inquisitive demeanour as we rounded the lagoon.  Like any grandparents looking after “the little one” we naturally stopped to take photos to share with the parents later, a duty I wasted no time fulfilling upon our return.  We repeated this outing routine twice throughout the day.  As instructed by Max’ daddy we filled Max’ water dish only sparingly.  He did, as we were informed we would do, drink whatever was put before him.

Having long ago resigned ourselves to abandon our daily ritual of a bicycle ride we nonetheless submitted in part to our own personal agenda midday.  At least I did.  I went to a local beanery to purchase a take-out burgers and white bean and kale soup. When we subsequently consumed our large meaty burgers at the kitchen table I remarked upon Max’ distinctive breeding that he had no expectation of sharing human food.  Max’ dinner would have to await the return of his master.

The customary soporific effect of the lunch inspired me to put Max on the bed with me as I dozed.  My right leg rested against his body and kept us both warm as he lay prone and slumbered as well.  I am advised that the two of us snored!

It wasn’t long after reviving ourselves from the afternoon nap that I received an email from Max’ master that the wayfarers were making their way back. Naturally I had the sense to share the news with Max to whom I showed the email on my iPhone.  I am quite certain he read it and understood the import because he then stood watch by the front door.  I later reasoned that it was likely my mention of the names of Max’ owners which alerted him to their impending arrival.  How else could he have realistically known?

Oddly when the doorbell rang to announce the return of Max’ owners, Max was decidedly aloof. At that point he was on the large couch in front of the television and it was some minutes before he even deigned to raise his head to investigate the cause of the commotion.  We suspect he was rewarding his previous abandon in kind though he finally relinquished any hard feelings and beat a cheery path to the front door to greet his mommy and daddy.  The wayward party was evidently anxious to regain their home territory as well and they all departed without delay.  Our surrogate duties were thus concluded.  All in all a thoroughly pleasant day with Max!

We disturbed our blissful somnolence around 7:30 a.m. this morning.  I accompanied my morning ablutions with classic Christmas music streamed from the Songza on-line library.  The uplifting sense of Christmas morning persists!

For as long as I can remember a hearty breakfast on Christmas morning has been the order of the day and today was no exception.  Le Maître de Cuisine prepared a downright tasteful plate of eggs, bacon, potatoes and Gorgonzola cheese, followed by wedges of Mandarin oranges, all washed down with strong, black coffee.

Although the skies didn’t clear until later in the day, we nonetheless ventured forth on our bikes to take our customary constitutional.  It was apparent from a quick scan of the beach at Beach Club Resort that the high tide had consumed too much of the beach to permit regular cycling traffic so we contented ourselves instead with the winding bike paths.  There were I noticed on the beach an uncommonly large number of pedestrians purifying themselves from past indulgences or readying themselves for those to come. The wayfarers no doubt valued the sight and sound of the pounding surf on Christmas Day and the bracing morning air.

At Coligny Park we connected briefly by FaceTime with family, an adventure more symbolic than substantive as we were clearly interrupting the matutinal proceedings.  That duty accomplished we headed along William Hilton Parkway to Palmetto Bay Dunes whence we retraced our route and ended back home after about a two-hour stint.  By then the skies were perfectly clear. We now prepare ourselves to rally with a young couple from home who have kindly invited us to dine with them this evening.  And their lovely French bulldog Max!

**********

It would be a shame not to memorialize the superb Christmas Day dinner we have just savoured with our friends (who I fully expect will one day buy a place here).  We were in fact seven for dinner, a congregation of family and friends.  The entire evening was perfectly fluid; conversation streamed effortlessly and bountifully.  The homemade meal was nonpareil, a Borscht soup, salad with vinaigrette simple, moist turkey, rice and vegetables followed by a heavenly Buche de Noël (Yule Log).  And did I mention Max?