The Lord above made liquor for temptation,
To see if man could turn away from sin.
The Lord above made liquor for temptation-but
With a little bit of luck, With a little bit of luck,
When temptation comes you’ll give right in!
With a little bit…with a little bit…
With a little bit of luck you’ll give right in.

My Fair Lady – With A Little Bit O’ Luck | MetroLyrics

It’s Christmas Eve on Hilton Head Island!  Christmas Eve, December 24th! Christmas Eve in South Carolina! And I don’t mind telling you I am pleased, very pleased to be here.  It is a triumph of serendipity! It closes the loop on a lifetime ambition.  Santa Claus could well be forgiven to give our place a miss tonight!

Although we’re currently locked in conflicting fronts of warm and cold air masses which are sweeping the country and causing regular outbursts of rain and occasional deluges (even a possible tornado), we interrupted the holiday lethargy of our fancy free afternoon to go for an hour-long (and fairly dry) bike ride through Sea Pines Plantation. Initially we hadn’t any mission grander than getting some improving exercise. But an assignment percolated into our naughty consciousness. It was after all Christmas Eve! We headed for our preferred package store “Rollers” in Coligny Park at the end of South Forest Beach Drive. In conversation with the Swiss-born hostess of the emporium I was flabbergasted to discover that the store also sells olives, bar ware, cocktail accessories, party supplies and even cigars!  We embellished our elemental shopping list of vodka and Vermouth accordingly.

As we cycled homeward, dogging the intensifying rain drops by tunnelling through the giant sea pines and live oak trees on the twisting bike path, our bicycle baskets duly charged, the tell-tale “clinking of the sandwiches” betrayed our sanctimony.

Once home we delayed addressing the upcoming evening supper just long enough to throw our dampened clothes into the laundry. Though yesterday the thought of a homemade tourtière meat pie had crossed our minds, we abandoned the rustic preference as too ethnic for the American palate and settled instead for the comparatively uninventive though equally traditional menu of shrimp cocktail with spicy cocktail sauce, filet mignon, sautéed mushrooms, asparagus spears and fingerling potatoes – a meal which in retrospect I can relate was superbly contrived!

Meanwhile we divert ourselves by catching bits of specialized cooking shows and repeat Christmas movies on television,  and answering emails from friends afar.  I never fail to relish the mystery of Christmas Eve!  It is a time so thoroughly dedicated to the delight of the present.  Even if one were to contaminate the immediacy of the experience by any pretence of planning, the objective would be limited to mere hours hence, so fleeting is the celebration.

Only recently I have read “The Communist Manifesto” (1848) by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels.  Not to belittle the learned treatise, it has sparked a desire to promulgate my thoughts on what I consider important at Christmas, the eve of which is tomorrow.

A manifesto is a published verbal declaration of the intentions, motives, or views of the issuer, be it an individual, group, political party or government. A manifesto usually accepts a previously published opinion or public consensus and/or promotes a new idea with prescriptive notions for carrying out changes the author believes should be made. It often is political or artistic in nature, but may present an individual’s life stance.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Before attempting a summary of my view of the matter at hand I hasten to add one further literary reference, this time that of Dylan Thomas though not as you might expect “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” but rather “Fern Hill” wherein the author wrote:

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Foremost about Christmas is the element of “good will to men”.  The metaphor of the Christian story is in its fundamental distillation the provision of a gift of good news for all.  Howsoever one views the religious tradition its significance of joy is inescapable and it thus lends itself wholeheartedly to the extension of friendliness.  The expression of this compassion is usefully made through Christmas cards and specially compiled Christmas letters.  As much as the elderly who have not kept up with computer technology may regret the advent of electronic Christmas cards they are nonetheless extremely efficient at achieving their objective and they permit a far more fluid communication than previously existed when regular mail was the only medium.  I do of course recall with warmth the memory of Christmas cards displayed throughout my parents’ home and later in the reception area of my place of business.  The cards even promoted social status if they were received from a Member of Parliament or some other recognizably important person, maybe even the Prime Minister himself.  Nonetheless the modern electronic Christmas cards admit to variations upon “status” if they are obviously the product of some complicated cybernetic construction, many of which are admittedly terribly clever and undeniably whimsical and often artistic.

Naturally the civility of wishing someone a “Merry Christmas” persists in almost every venue of our Western society.  I must say I particularly admire the exercise of the nicety when it manifests itself in a telephone call on Christmas morning between close friends.  Undertaking the duty in this manner nicely distinguishes it from the materialism which so commonly saturates a Christmas morning particularly where children are involved.  It also puts a meaningful distance between one’s friends and token gifts, again emphasizing the paramountcy of neighbourliness.

Society – whether confined to family and friends or whether it includes acquaintances and associates – is yet another distinguishing feature of Christmas.  The utter sadness provoked by the thought of someone being alone at Christmas is evidence enough of the proposition even if thought to be maudlin (though I honestly doubt that it is).  Every effort should be made to commingle with others at Christmas and no excuse however palpable under other circumstances should be tolerated.  For those who live under the cloud of potential loneliness at Christmas there is regrettably opportunity to forgo the pleasure of foregathering which is a tradition almost unique to Christmas. There are always circumstances convenient to thwart the Wassail – the weather, distance, declining energy after the Winter Solstice, abhorrence of frivolities, restrictive diets and alcoholic abstinence.  Granted there may be some merit in the objection but the value of community trumps even the most laudable dissent.

Notwithstanding the moral imperative of Christmas, most of us are admittedly bound by the tide of popular commercialism which has so insinuated the celebration.  Generally speaking I favour the myth of Santa Claus for young people (sugar plum fairies, toy trains, tinsel and sparkling lights).  The indulgence does however wane beyond the teens.  For those who by virtue of their historical kindness or personal efforts are entitled to recognition, Christmas is perhaps the best time of the year for making known one’s feelings.  Likewise people who are intimately involved or between whom strong sentiments otherwise exist, gift giving at Christmas is compatible with the Biblical reference to gold, frankincense  and myrrh.  Where however it fails to be a reiteration of the Christmas theme and merely a game of reciprocity or extravagance, it is utter nonsense and calculated only to diminish the experience, often resulting in preposterous adventures and unwanted outcomes.

Every other expression of Christmas benevolence is merely a variation on the theme of good will, whether kindness, charity or decency.  Underlying the whole is music of which there are so many adaptations peculiar to each individual’s private experience.

People of All Countries, Rejoice!

In spite of the undeniable fortune of wintering in a warmer clime, putting distance between one’s self and one’s domicile creates more than a physical gap.  Notably there is a commensurate and precipitous social chasm.  Being a temporary resident of a new place brings with it all the customary deficiencies, primary among them the lack of family and friends. The sparseness in turn entails an absence of social fabric which is something even the most amateur psychiatrist considers fundamental to human bliss.

Our neighbours, though cheery upon casual encounter, are nonetheless reserved.  It is of course uncertain how long anyone in particular is destined to linger on the Island, a fact which is a natural governor of any collaboration.  Judging from the licence plates of the automobiles parked in the drives, some of the residents are from South Carolina though that doesn’t ensure they – like we – live here any more than temporarily.  I have always harboured the jaundiced view that locals generally abhor tourists and this does nothing to encourage fraternity, a goal which may even be more toilsome where the tourists are from another country as we are.

The most immediate severance of social engagement is felt with one’s family. The distance between family disrupts ritual habits, Sunday luncheons, weekly visits, regular assistance with chores and the like. There is an unwritten cohesiveness to such communions howsoever inconsequential, even if once no more than dismal duties. The advent of FaceTime and other similar video-conferencing does something to placate the breach but it doesn’t replace the close physical contact which characterized the unions.  There is inevitably the fallout of remove, sometimes the fear of inability to pander to familial whimsies or perform erstwhile obligations.  One is metaphorically cast adrift.

There is the compensating opportunity to share society vicariously by hearing of it from people at home. Annual traditions such as Christmas parties, Christmas Eve festivities and Christmas morning gatherings repeat themselves with or without one’s presence.  At times the proliferation of those condensed commitments makes one happy to forgo the pleasure.  It is nonetheless welcome to receive a symbolic invitation and a subsequent account.

The sudden vacuum of family and friends, like any malaise, is however tolerable if its condition is acknowledged.  It is a more disturbing consequence if ignored or misunderstood.  As with any alteration of circumstances adjustment is mandatory and the accommodation of change always affords the chance for pioneering.  Social isolation may be unwelcome but it is a precondition to the complete absorption of the changed environment.  The very removal of the natural bulwarks enables one to take the wider view of what is at hand.  In any event it is a deprivation which has a predictable amortization and what may turn out to be a lost opportunity if not embraced. A bit of ambition is all that is required.

I am not the only person who doesn’t sleep well.  I have friends who tell me as much. It’s an affliction which among my cronies at least is about as common as sore joints.  People regularly take pills for it and it is generally a disorder which goes unmentioned either because it is so prevalent or because its causes are considered too petty.  By the time we’re out of bed and communicating with one another, the topic has lost its pungency.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have had a good sleep in my entire life.  Sometimes I sleep best during an afternoon nap; or in an airport while waiting for a plane; even in the dentist’s chair!  But it certainly isn’t predictable that I’ll sleep well in my bed at night.  If anything, I might sleep well for the first two hours or so after going to bed; after that, it’s all the usual anxieties, dreams, kerfuffle and restlessness.

Some of us insomniacs have had serious medical surgery.  It is my speculation that the assault upon us by the well-intentioned surgeons and loading us up with narcotics left their mark.  After one of those curves we’re hardly the newborn babe free of drama.  There are lots of other worries which linger and which contribute to disturbed sleep patterns.  All very well to say one mustn’t sleep with a pack on one’s back, but sometimes the burdens are incapable of rejection in spite of any amount of irreproachable philosophy.

Recently I watched a program on television about meditation, the conscious attempt to focus on what one is doing and to cease distracting one’s self with all the clutter that normally fills our minds.  This at least has the attraction that it might provide  temporary relief.  There is after all no point in dwelling incessantly upon the bad things that will not disappear overnight.  For those who have relatively little about which to complain, this makes incontrovertible sense.  But even for those who have enormous problems, it is difficult to rationalize perpetual torment.  Getting there is of course another story.

I sometimes think the problem is that I can’t abide doing nothing, that I must always be pursuing some goal or objective, even if it is nothing more than flipping the channels of the television.  Getting to the point of putting things aside for the day is clearly a talent I have yet to learn.  I suspect religion might help in these circumstances.  The idea of being able to capitulate one’s destiny certainly has an appeal.  There’s just that little matter of getting over the hump of faith.  Oh, what a plague it is to think!  Why can we not just believe!

I have tried using blinkers.  When I first discovered them they were only available on trans-Atlantic flights, the frequency of which pretty much guaranteed the amortization of the product.  I was obliged to write to the airline to ask whether I might purchase a pair.  A Vice-President of Air Canada offered to share with me one of the two he had in his possession. They are now for sale in pharmacies.  No question, blocking the ambient light can help. But only for a while.  Then it’s back to the bright lights in one’s mind.  I have yet to try sleeping pills.  I’m afraid to add to my battery of addictions although those who use the pills tell me they’re not a threat.  Alcohol can of course act as a soporific but there’s a price to pay for that one!

If the problem with sleeping is that we’re engaged in unresolved issues, then the answer would seem to be to settle the issue.  That remedy can entail some fairly critical steps, like leaving your partner or quitting your job or confessing to a crime or whatever.  These acts are not without repercussion.  It may be best just to lose sleep over it rather than risk disrupting one’s entire life.

Exercise is regularly touted as a great way to encourage good sleeping habits. I am not convinced.  Recently for example I have been bicycling a minimum of ten miles a day (often as much as 15 – 20 miles) but the insomnia persists. I have resigned myself to the condition of age; namely, that we need less sleep as we grow older.  This is likely true but it doesn’t address the problem with the quality of the sleep.  If I am to guarantee that I will sleep I must keep myself awake until I drop, then it’s more a matter of passing out than sleeping.

Lately I have been reflecting upon my past.  What intrigues me is the intensity which derives from inconsequential events of my life.  It has required patience for these trifling details to percolate.  Last evening as I stumbled upon a rerun of an old movie, I began to assemble a collection of evocative memories which spring from three movies all from the same period in my life.

I first saw the movie production of “My Fair Lady” (Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn and Stanley Holloway) in 1967.  I remember the year because I had just graduated from high school and I was in Paris, France for the summer with a boarding school friend.  Furthermore the woman with whom we saw the film was the mistress of my friend’s uncle with whom we were staying. The sight of this obviously “kept woman” with us in our school blazers and grey flannels raised a few eyebrows I know.  What however I discovered last night when I saw a rerun of the movie on Turner Movie Classics was that the most memorable feature of the movie was not the circumstances in which I saw it but the movie itself.  I can’t recall the name of the mistress or what she looked like (though I recollect she was very kind).  On the other hand I remember almost all the lyrics of the songs in the movie. The movie was obviously such a universal hit that my classmates and I used to perform renditions of the songs.  Seeing the movie again reminded me of the thrust of the songs.  For example, “I’m an Ordinary Man” (which could well have been entitled “I’ll Never Let a Woman in my Life”):

BUT, Let a woman in your life and your serenity is through,
she’ll redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome,
and then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you…

My Fair Lady – I’m An Ordinary Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics

This was punctuated by the equally mocking (though containing more than a dribble of tell-tale truth), “A Hymn to Him”:

Women are irrational, that’s all there is to that!
Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags!
They’re nothing but exasperating, irritating,
vacillating, calculating, agitating,
Maddening and infuriating hags!
[To Pickering]
Pickering, why can’t a woman be more like a man?

Pickering: I beg your pardon?

Henry:
Yes…
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historically fair;
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Why can’t a woman be like that?

My Fair Lady – A Hymn To Him Lyrics | MetroLyrics

All this would have been tolerably amusing except for the last line of the movie when Miss Eliza Doolittle is reconciled to Professor Henry Higgins, and he (slumped in his study chair) calls for his slippers!

Higgins: Eliza? Where the devil are my slippers?

One summary analysis of “My Fair Lady” is this:

A misogynistic and snobbish phonetics professor agrees to a wager that he can take a flower girl and make her presentable in high society.

While that encapsulation is correct it does however gloss over the many other slurs upon women in general.  Couched as they are in glib terms, the insinuations against women may be taken with a laugh but they are certainly at the expense of women.  More significantly the entire movie supports a male dominated culture in which intellectualism is marketed as the exclusive domain of men and one which legitimizes the sneering condescension of men to women whose preoccupations are considered trivial:

Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands…
I’d be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling
than to ever let a woman in my life

My Fair Lady – I’m An Ordinary Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Pointedly it is only his mother who is entitled to talk down to Professor Higgins, certifying him as gay or Italian.

A much different take on this thesis appeared in “The Pink Panther” starring Peter Sellers and David Niven.  Coincidentally this production appeared in 1963, one year before “My Fair Lady”. The music – this time by Henry Mancini – was once again of paramount importance.  The movie was originally intended to focus on David Niven’s role as Sir Charles Litton, the infamous jewel thief nicknamed “the Phantom” and his plan to steal the Pink Panther diamond.  It was however Peter Sellers, the actor portraying Inspector Jacques Clouseau, a buffoon with an incredible knack for survival, who stole the show.  Both leading male actors presented two different views of male suavity.  Both obviously fashioned themselves “a lady’s man” but the laugh this time was certainly at the expense of Inspector Clouseau (who nonetheless ended having the last laugh).

Apart from the theme song, what I recall most vividly about “The Pink Panther” is the settings of the action which included glamorous homes, fashionable ski chalets, chic restaurants and fast cars.  There was something decidedly synthetic and saccharin about the sets, always perfect and untainted by reality. Additionally the sight of men wearing capes for an evening out set a precedent hitherto unknown.  Paradoxically it was Clouseau alone who maintained a foot on the ground.

Another 1964 movie of renown is “Goldfinger” starring Sean Connery as James Bond. Goldfinger was the first Bond blockbuster, with a budget equal to that of the two preceding films combined (“Dr. No” and “From Russia with Love”).  The music once again was one of the most compelling features of the film, spotlighting Shirley Bassey singing the theme song:

The musical tracks, in keeping with the film’s theme of gold and metal, make heavy use of brass, and also metallic chimes. The film’s score is described as “brassy and raunchy” with “a sassy sexiness to it”.

Goldfinger is said to have started the tradition of Bond theme songs being from the pop genre or using popular artists, although this had already been done with Matt Monro singing the title song of From Russia with Love. Shirley Bassey sang the theme song “Goldfinger”, and she would go on to sing the theme songs for two other Bond films, Diamonds are Forever and Moonraker. The song was composed by John Barry, with lyrics by Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse that were described in one contemporary newspaper as “puerile”.

Of the three movies, “My Fair Lady”, “The Pink Panther” and “Goldfinger”, James Bond’s character presented the least consumable picture of virility because his antics were so utterly preposterous.  The music on the other hand transported me. It is even possible that the enigmatic character of the music did more to capture the personality of Gert Fröbe as the title character Auric Goldfinger, certainly not because of his physical appeal but rather for his command of the material world.  All three movies were plainly not grounded in reality.  They each presented a sumptuous and ornate material world.  They depicted a world of high society, mischievous cunning and limitless money.  I don’t for a minute pretend that any one of these movies taught me anything in the nature of a lesson (other perhaps than the literary theme of “My Fair Lady”) and they certainly didn’t provide a standard of male conduct which to emulate.  The music of each was however unforgettable!

Really, I can’t imagine it gets much better than this!  Every morning – out of a lifetime habit – I attempt to fathom some obscurity which is calculated to disrupt my day, but instead I can only contemplate whether I should get out of bed now or wait a moment.    I persist in imagining there is a cloud upon the horizon. My hardened anxiety may have something to do with the days before I jettisoned the bottle of gin once and for all.  These things require adjustment.

Habit can be a good thing, no question.  When however the routine dominates one’s spirit, it may at the very least dampen enthusiasm not to mention wipe aside any particle of creativity, reducing one’s conduct to predictable, unimaginative and tedious response. Admitting ingenuity into life narrows with age. That business about old dogs and new tricks is not without foundation. I must arrest my natural inclination to revert to hackneyed time tables.  The sources of voice are different.

The normal guidelines of behaviour are no longer reliable.  One may as well get on a horse and ride off in all directions.  Submission – traditionally not a recommended posture – is perhaps the most fruitful attitude.  It quells the activity of the mind and invites choice instead of repetition.  Imagine breaking the boundaries of time limits, doing something out of order!  It may be nothing more condescending than to take one’s breakfast mid-morning rather than before nine o’clock.  Oh, the repercussions!  Will I forgo lunch as a result!  And just when you’re speculating upon the permanent alteration of the afternoon agenda, it occurs to you that it doesn’t matter.  It isn’t even a flippant dalliance.  It won’t matter tomorrow either, nor the next day. Why not take a nap while you’re at it!

It is a mistake to think that alternatives are counsel for indolence.  I have sufficient confidence in the inherent yearning of the mind and body to improve itself that I need not concern myself about laziness.  The old paths of productivity lead elsewhere.  The new avenues of discovery mustn’t be shunned.  The maps and the directions have changed.  Part of the uncertainty which attends is that there is no one but yourself to point the way.  It is open water requiring new navigation.

Today was an event for me, an all-day birthday party!  I turned sixty-six. If someone were to ask, I would pooh-pooh the idea of celebrating a birthday. I have always thought that if there is anyone who is entitled to remark upon the day it is one’s mother.  The medical experience staggers the imagination! I do of course rejoice in being alive, but it is hardly an observance confined to one day a year. In terms of calculating the passage of years that too is something never far from regular contemplation.  In the result a birthday party is like anything else that comes along, just enjoy it if at all possible!

The day began with two birthday cards, one “real” (paper) from my sister featuring a farting English bulldog, the other an electronic card which was so silly – also involving a dog, a singing Dachshund – we are still mimicking the lyrics! Oh, and a handmade card to boot.  It was my late father’s perpetual refrain that the handmade cards were always better than anything with a Hallmark emblem on the back.  It was my nieces who particularly endeared themselves to my late father in this department.  I have discovered that the nicety is not lost on me (nor the abrupt reminder that I am becoming more like my father).

We have a fixed breakfast habit which however we determined to forgo this morning.  Instead we drove to a marina near Port Royal at the north end of the Island for breakfast at a secluded joint which is notorious with the locals.  There we had Southern style eggs Benedict, biscuits, sausage patties and mushroom gravy.  Grits on the side!  We sat outside in a sheltered area under those heater devices (which are terribly efficient).  The only other person in the immediate area was a solitary bearded chap of 62 years of age who was there with his dog, a well-constructed mongrel resembling a standard poodle, nicely behaved.  The chap (whose appearance was reminiscent of a sea captain) informed us he had decided to sell his boat, a photo of which he shared on his iPad.  When I took the liberty of asking him why he is selling his boat, he gave some ambivalent answer which I suspect disguised reasons of economy.  He wouldn’t be the first person here whom I have met who confessed to the metaphor of loss upon having to abandon ship.

In the parking lot on our departure a gentleman in the car parked next to us observed that we were another car from Ontario.  He said he was from Kingston, also a boating man I gathered.  We told him we were from Ottawa, actually Almonte which no one has ever heard of.  He retorted that he knew John Jamieson in Almonte, and I rejoined that I had assumed the law practice of Johnny’s late father Raymond A. Jamieson, QC.  The fellow went on the say that he had once worked for First Air (then owned by John Jamieson).  This elicited from me a flood of names of pilots I knew who once worked for First Air, including the very popular Paddy Doyle whom he of course knew.  Then followed the usual badinage about the robust nature of that crowd.

After we returned home we wasted no time preparing ourselves for our ritual bike ride on the beach.  The weather was cool but brilliantly sunny.  We connected with the beach at Beach Club on South Sea Pines Drive as usual. The tide hadn’t receded as much as we would have preferred but it was manageable. The wind was at our back so the progress was thus facilitated.  I stopped a number of times along the way to take photos. I am speedily exhausting my artistic talent in the photographic line.  We halted at Sonesta Beach, Marker 72 briefly and then for a more prolonged relaxation at the breakwater, Marker 97.  From there we regained the William Hilton Parkway where we paused for lunch at a huge organic food store.  By this time we were sensing our mounting fatigue.  It wasn’t until 3:00 p.m. that we regained our residence at Calibogue Club.  Our tour amounted to about twenty miles. I flopped onto a chaise longue by the pool to enjoy the warmth of the setting sun before preparing for the evening’s dinner and theatre.

We put on the nosebag at a Thai restaurant not far from the Arts Centre.  The production was a Broadway style effort called “Singing in the Rain”.  We left at the Intermission.  My legs were killing me from sitting in the same position for so long.  Parties are good, but being home is better.

I maintain it doesn’t matter where on the face of the earth you are, if the sun is shining, nothing could be better.  The opposite by the way is also true. Anyway today was a brilliantly sunny day on the beach!  I am still glowing. During my entire time on the beach I saw only two clouds. I would have continued bicycling late into the afternoon had I not reluctantly succumbed to my weariness. It didn’t help that the sand was unusually wet which makes cycling rather a chore.  Plus there was a persistent headwind which mischievously changed direction even after I did!  Nonetheless the dazzling sunshine would admit no complaint. I rejoiced in the brightness of the day, the glistening Ocean, the glittering surf and the warmth of the sun .

At my age (I turn 66 tomorrow) the exigencies of bicycling are not without remark.  Oddly I detest walking any distance but I am perfectly content to bicycle for a couple or three hours.  Nonetheless it was a catalyst to reach Marker 97 at the north end of the beach earlier this morning to anticipate sprawling upon the white sand dunes near the breakwater to doze in the sunshine. There I would afford myself a respite from the strain upon my cracking knees.  In fact it wasn’t only my knees that were cracking. With some minor rotation of my head, my neck and shoulders sounded like someone stepping on a box of popcorn.

It has been many, many years since I have been to a barber shop. The last time was probably at the Royal York Hotel in Toronto where in addition to hair cutting I believe they provide traditional facial shaving services accompanied by the brush, mug and lather. Barber shops are now largely a thing of the past. Today’s fashion is a hair salon which normally caters to both men and women; and the stylists (no longer called barbers) are both men and women as well. Although it is quite probably statistically unfair to say so, a male stylist has a reputation which is in line with that of a male ballet dancer.  Even if there is evidence that the male stylist is heterosexual, he nonetheless frequently cultivates theatrical qualities of appearance, speech or personality and there is usually nothing fanciful about imagining he may have “tendencies”.

There were two things I knew I would have to arrange when we decided to spend three months on Hilton Head Island.  One was a car dealership; the other was a hair salon.  We took care of the car dealership on our way across the Island on the day we arrived.  As for the hair salon I got a referral from our estate agent.  Subsequently I scoped the location of the salon and peeked in to confirm they did men as well as women and to get a business card.  Days afterwards on a Monday I visited the salon and made an appointment with Emerson, who would not be there until Tuesday.  The receptionist told me he did men and that he was good.

Today I met Emerson.  He sat at the reception desk when I arrived at 2:20 p.m. I asked if he were Emerson, which he confirmed; and I introduced myself as his two-thirty appointment.  Immediately he ushered me to his station and, after a discussion of “what we were doing today” he got down to business.  For some weeks I had been contemplating a new look which was actually one I had imagined years ago but had never been able to pull off with my stylist. Emerson thought the idea was a good one (not that I considered his approbation entirely believable in view of the obvious commercial context).

Emerson, who is 45 years of age, may once have been thin and blonde but he has since gathered some beef and his hairdo echoes what one might expect to see in a subterranean bar.  He is not effeminate though his gentle personality doesn’t instil an aspect approaching that of a labourer.  When I asked him if he were a local or an import he informed me he came from South Carolina (he didn’t say where) but had moved to Hilton Head Island some time ago and loved it.  We concurred that Hilton Head Island was a hard act to follow. He had once lived in Denver, Colorado but had returned to look after his grandmother who has since passed and he added in the same breath that he now lives simply but comfortably.  I may have made an incorrect inference but I doubt it.  Later he told me he has a young nephew of 22 years of age who is living with him “until he gets his feet on the ground”.  I have no doubt the alliance is economically driven.

Emerson is currently doing what he can with the help of his physician to quit smoking, something about a drug.  We agreed smoking is bad, that it costs a lot, that its benefits are predictable, that it is not pretty and it makes you smell bad. I told him I had quit smoking at fifty years of age when I couldn’t breath properly on a flight from the Caribbean. As a corollary to his efforts he added that he quit drinking two years ago.  Upon hearing this we instantly shared some stories about martinis which betrayed our mutual enthusiasm for the stuff.  It didn’t bother me that we had so much in common.  The only thing that mildly perturbed me was that the haircut I wanted (long on the top and short on the sides) oddly resembled Emerson’s haircut.  No wonder he thought there was nothing objectionable about my proposal nor that it was incompatible with someone my age!  After it was all over I made an appointment to re-attend on December 30th.

While it isn’t an ambition I initially contemplated upon landing on Hilton Head Island, it has nonetheless transpired through what I can only guess is the compelling though otherwise uninspired force of nature that we are beginning to blend in with the wallpaper.  Granted Canadians are not complete freaks in comparison to the American denizens, yet tourists of any stripe invariably preserve distinguishing features no matter whence they hail. It appears that after almost a month of living here our native spots are vanishing and we are imperceptibly being absorbed into the local camouflage.

Routine sallies on our bicycles still take us to the beach where locals and tourists alike disseminate; however, the connecting paths to our residence are clearly away from the habitations of temporary visitors as are our luncheon detours to popular though reclusive establishments.  We have insinuated the recesses of Sea Pines Plantation to the extent that the bike paths we use are not those singled out for the public but are those for people familiar with the neighbourhood, skirting some of the inland lagoons and interrupted by exclusively local roadways.  The abrupt breach of continuity of some paths necessitates esoteric knowledge to complete the circuitous and sometimes complex journey.

It is a further mark of our mainstream assimilation that we think nothing of turning up at the local grocers casually dressed on our bicycles to do a bit of shopping.  Our objective is so obviously domestic that there is a complete absence of the trademarks associated with short-term residents. The items on our list are purely complementary rather than in the nature of basics.  There is only so much that will fit in a bicycle basket.

An indisputable sign of indigenous behaviour is that I have made an appointment to have my hair cut. Except during prolonged stays there is no such imperative.  I have even made my appointment specifically with Emerson, not just anybody, additional evidence of popular alliance.  And the referral to the salon came from our estate agent. It doesn’t get more communal than this!

This morning I was overwhelmed by the inherent urge to do laundry, not what you’d call the normal industry of a tourist.  This is such a mundane preoccupation that its domesticity is irrefutable.  There was no contest in this agenda from any diversionary outing, like tennis, boating or fishing.  It was a paramount necessity and it trumped anything in the nature of whimsy.  Yet another sign of acclimatization to everyday living.

When we first moved into this three-bedroom home, we didn’t instantly adjust to the sense of residential living.  We have stayed in residential hotel suites before and were accustomed to sizeable square footage, most of which was generally ignored or considered surplusage. Once however there are the intrusions of putting out the garbage, rearranging furniture, hanging clothes and putting things in drawers, the inescapable sense of belonging prevails and one actually cherishes the space to put everything.  The adjustment in this respect is driven by fact not fiction, always a levelling and humanizing experience.

As a complete affirmation of our commitment to our new residence we have even contemplated a short holiday to Bermuda.  Sounds paradoxical I know, but it is a testament to our entrenchment in the place that we even think about getting away for a break.  Plus ça change!

Finally we are becoming thoroughly comfortable in our new skin.  It requires some intellectual effort to fathom putting down roots rather than seeing one’s self as merely transient.  It is however persuasive that one is not about to leave anytime soon.  The former household habits re-emerge and overtake the flighty nature of being a visitor.   Small compliment I suppose, just blending in with the wallpaper!