The days for wearing short pants are numbered.  I felt the first cool breath of autumn this morning.  We threw open the windows of the apartment and turned off the air conditioner which had been humming ceaselessly for weeks. The real air in the apartment smelled good, the floors were naturally cool. The sky was no longer sultry.  I caught a glance of the red Hudson’s Bay blanket on the top shelf of the closet as I removed a fleece to wear.

Capitalizing upon the morning sunshine we went to the Golf Club for breakfast. There is a rush of the patrons to golf as much as possible. The catering staff is already planning its seasonal demise, the frost of change upon their minds.  The cook wonders whether she can do this another year, work seven days a week to choreograph luncheons and dinners; the servers need a job for the winter (but will ensure their reapplication is on record just in case, hopefully it won’t be needed but the cooks knows the strategy so she’s in limbo). There’s always change.

We passively chew upon our breakfast, glancing at the burgeoning River after yesterday’s downpour, contemplating only whether to bring the emergency radio to South Carolina when we leave in November.  We’ll bring the shorts. We know winter’s coming but we don’t care at least not for the usual reasons but we keep it to ourselves.  Younger people have important things on their mind and they don’t include old people with no hair or grey hair and protuberant bellies going south for three months.

This afternoon on my routine and lonely bike ride along the rural fields I hear the cicadas buzzing furiously in the late summer heat.  Do they mate at this time of year? The sun isn’t so high anymore at this hour of the day. The children are back to school.  The roads are quiet.  The open deck at Cedar Cove would have been pleasant today and likely not crowded.  We will have time yet to relish it, the changing leaves on the other side of White Lake, maybe even a fire in the dining room.

O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise.
(Hamlet, 3.2)

Lately I spoke on the street with someone who had recently retired. She told me that as a consequence of her retirement – or at least in step with it – she had developed an interest in politics, something she said was for her a new endeavour. I concluded that the leisure of retirement had afforded her the privilege of dwelling upon what for my entire life has been the inescapable though frequently negligible babbling of political pundits who chatter with about as much interest as the drone of a television advertisement. It may however be that the cultivation of a curiosity in politics is less the product of indolence and more the result of refined absorption, the sort of vaporization which one expects might only come with age and maturity. Even if I am wrong in attributing any sophistication to the dalliance, it would appear that politics is at the very least mildly more entertaining than staring at wallpaper. My companion in fact led me to believe that there was some intellectual value in the undertaking.

Whether the political arena is federal, provincial or municipal (a succession which is normally trotted out in order of diminishing interest and credibility) it is inevitable that the events precipitated by the respective actors are destined to provide considerable fodder for something approaching a stage production. Indeed in many instances the drama incorporates traditional theatrical themes of influence, greed, bias, comedic relief and, on a good day, maybe even scandal. In spite of their commercial attraction, it is undeniable that those same politicians are regularly held up to ridicule by the very observers who fuel their notoriety (and who are even likely to have voted for them in the first place). It would be a truly vain candidate for public office who imagined that he or she should not at some time or another suffer vilification. Alas this is part and parcel of the gory detail of show business.

It is too platitudinous to acknowledge the well-deserved pleasure of the populace in the diminishment of those who hold themselves out as potential leaders. The abuse is almost a rite of passage and anyone who pretends to have what it takes to act on the political stage must be prepared for the repercussions of any recruit before an audience.

I understand that in the good old days the enactment of a Shakespearean play was characterized by far more than today’s standard of polite involvement of the audience. Apparently the spectators of yore consisted of classes which on the one hand echoed the wealth of its patrons but on the other were metaphorical for the closeness of the observers and the pretenders. The “groundlings” (as those closest to the stage were called) were boisterous, loud and hot-tempered. Those who were removed by complacency from the fray of this association were nonetheless equally delighted by the activity when viewed from afar. If nothing else politics has such a wide and indiscriminate appeal and is so completely ambivalent that it enables almost anyone of whatever qualification to weigh in upon its merits. Politics is at once harmless and venomous but always gripping as any good show must be.

It will come as no surprise for me to relate that some of the happiest times I remember were spent with friends at the trough, putting on the nosebag so to speak.  A case in point is my friendship with John “F”.  John is a well-read man with a Master’s Degree in Education and a native intellect. He has that ease of expression and analysis which only comes from inherent ability and a good measure of worldliness. In addition John favours the good life and the two of us dedicated a considerable amount of our spare time to devising ways of pursuing that very goal but thankfully always bestowing upon our evil enterprises the mantle of intellectual propriety. So for example in 1999 we roosted in a large suite at the former Four Season’s Hotel (now part of the Omni Hotels & Resorts) on Sherbrooke Street, Montreal not far from the Musée des Beaux-Arts. From that well appointed springboard in addition to a tour of the local art galleries we visited “The Neuvième” restaurant at Eaton’s which, as the name implies, was located on the ninth floor of the old department store on St. Catharine’s Street.  The restaurant, for those not familiar with it, was an historical venue and the subject of an in-depth journalistic review for television. It was created very much along the lines of a stately dining hall on the Titanic, being long and relatively narrow, very high ceiling, and decorated with deco wall sconces of the era. There was an elevated area at the far end of the dining hall on which was located a grand piano. On the Saturday we lunched there a very accomplished musician, whom we later met and who informed us he was a music student at McGill University, was performing the finest of classical pieces amidst the clatter of silverware and chatter of the diners. In keeping with what was an obvious custom of the regular patrons we enjoyed martinis before tucking into the regular fare of chicken pot pie, salmon in a cream sauce and the like. The linen service, the  attentive staff and the exuberance of the scene made for a thoroughly memorable luncheon.

I cannot however say that all dining engagements were so successful. Years ago when I attended Glendon Hall, and even before when I had been at St. Andrew’s College, I had on several occasions dined at what was then one of Toronto’s better known private dinner clubs, “Carmen’s” on Alexandra Street off Yonge near Carleton. Though I had heard that the Club was no longer private, when John and I made arrangements to visit Toronto for an exhibition of the Barnes collection of impressionist paintings at the Ontario Gallery of Art I not unnaturally suggested we go to Carmen’s. I had after all celebrated my 21st birthday there when I was 18 and  had nothing but the fondest memories of the place, the thick smell of garlic bread literally dripping with butter, the mouthwatering steaks and delectable lobsters displayed in mahogany cabinets behind leaded windows, the quaint fireplaces all housed in a grand old Toronto home, copper pots shining from the ceilings of the sumptuous rooms. Accordingly I called ahead from Almonte, made the reservation by telephone and confirmed it in writing.  John and I stayed at the Royal York Hotel.  In keeping with a tradition which John had established on previous outings we enjoyed what he called “dressing drinks” of whiskey and soda then headed off to Carmen’s, appetites whetted, full of anticipation. From the very moment we arrived at the restaurant, things got off to a bad start. When we materialized in the front hallway there was no one there. When finally the hostess appeared her unforgettable opening words were, “The name?”. This uncaring and unprofessional introduction practically put me through the roof but rather than make a scene we advised her of the reservation name, after which, without so much as an invitation to follow her, she headed off in what we surmised was a direction we were to follow, which we did with stifled complaint. There then ensued an unduly long time before we were even asked about a cocktail, and during which, being thus undistracted, I was able to observe to my horror that we were surrounded by people who were clearly not dressed for dinner as I remembered it at Carmen’s, but more for a bus tour. Even this, however, I was able to submerge, more, I am sure, because I did not want to draw John’s attention to it though I would have been a fool to think he hadn’t noticed. Nonetheless, the evening proceeded. The next many minutes were painfully elongated by continuing slow service. When at last we got through our hors d’oeuvres and the main course of filet mignon arrived, we thought we might be in for some smooth sailing.  Alas such was not to be the case. When the waiter brought our bottle of wine he dropped it onto the candlestick in the middle of the table. There was no great mess other than the smashing of the glass candlestick but it was disruptive. Then when I looked over John’s shoulder I noticed two fully clothed firemen standing behind him. At first I thought the firemen had come as a result of our incident with the candlestick but then I saw to my complete astonishment that they were pitching a stretcher which they managed to expand in the limited space between our table and the one behind. They began loading the lifeless body of an elderly woman onto it. She must have suffered a heart attack. It was all too much! The whole evening had acquired a none too pleasant dream-like quality nursed along as it was by the numerous drinks John and I had consumed in the pregnant pauses between courses. So you can imagine when it was all over and Carmen himself drew up a chair at our table to ask “How was dinner?” I was more than prepared to tell him. Actually I think he had asked John first and John rather politely side-stepped the issue. I however let him know that I was only too willing to complete the survey. When I began with the problem with the hostess, Carmen interrupted me to ask if I would care to tell her to her face. John, I could see from the corner of my eye, knew this was not a good idea but I plowed forward. Well, to make a long story short, the evening ended by Carmen and the girl bolting abruptly from the table amid cries that he had one of the best restaurants in Toronto and invitations that we needn’t pay for our dinner, which, to John’s horror, I rebutted as an unnecessary charity. We stormed out of the dining room, halted long enough in the corridor to slap a wad of money into the hands of the waiter and found ourselves once again on the wet autumn streets of Toronto wondering what that had been all about!

Recently a girl-friend of mine let it slip that she had started smoking cigarettes, an odd occupation I thought, first because she never smoked before, and second because we live in an era when as everybody knows it is more fashionable to quit smoking than to take it up. While I initially excused the lapse as the product of her sister’s recent medical concerns, it turns out that my friend began smoking over five weeks ago, long before her sister had developed any problems. Clearly the impulse was not motivated by sympathetic response. My friend has promised to explain to me what precipitated this unusual conduct, and I own that I anxiously await to know the cause. For the time being, however, what is patently clear is that my friend (let’s call her Jane for ease of reference) is enormously enjoying this singularly untrendy and – for the most part – unpopular habit. Indeed it took no provocation at all to excite her to an extremely animated state when describing the venture which is for her nothing short of uplifting. Listening to her, I oddly found myself vicariously and similarly titillated. There immediately sprang up within me the recollection of years of pleasure which I too had once derived from the evil tobacco and its many accoutrements. Jokingly I suggested to Jane that I would now know what to get her for Christmas – not a carton of cigarettes (as she posited), rather a cigarette holder (Jane tends to the flamboyant under most circumstances). Affectation is of course not an inconsiderable part of the attraction of smoking. Given the history of media advertisements for the product, it is beyond dispute that the swank people of this world have indulged themselves in a similar pass-time, as jaundiced as one may be inclined to be about the posture.

Naturally my apparent condonation of the undertaking is to be met with the violent reality of the science and “numbers” which have evolved over the years to squelch anything but an academic or nostalgic interest in the subject, which currently has about as much attraction for most people as the spittoon. Nonetheless the allure of the wickedness and its attendant thrill are there. Perhaps comforted by the knowledge that it takes as much as forty years to succumb to the effects of smoking, Jane insulates herself from the consequences of her actions by reasoning that she is now approaching fifty and plans to be dead by ninety. In the meantime, its all about being naughty. Who knows how long the exhilaration will persist! At a certain point in life, after each of us has endured our own share of disappointments and catastrophes, the proscription of delinquent conduct may require more substance than merely being bad for one’s health. There comes a time when one feels like snapping one’s fingers at dilemma! Even without such obtuse behaviour, simply relinquishing oneself to the flippancy of social abandon has its own shallow and, in this case, private rewards.

It has been so long since I have been in an enclosed space where someone has been smoking that I cannot imagine how it would be accomplished. Quite apart from the persistence to self-destruct, the governor of our primal deportment is still the over-riding sense of social responsibility which has been cultivated over the past quarter-century. Even within the territorial confines of one’s own house, I imagine the inclination for all but the most egregious is to respect the now constitutional right of others to breath clean air. Take it outside onto the porch! And yet, in spite of the relegation, the knowledge that one has adopted something akin to being a gypsy assuages the otherwise revolting endeavour. Admittedly there is also the element of pathos.

If one doesn’t allow oneself to become too entirely macabre about the subject (as I suspect is the position taken by those young enough to ignore anything adult), there can certainly be a modicum of fun in the proceedings. It is after all a fairly inexpensive (though not completely innocent) indulgence. It affords sufficiently large berth for a show of extravagance, the nonchalant tossing of the head while exhaling, the prayerful positioning of hands to shelter a match from the wind, the carefree flicking of an ash into a crystal tray. Sometimes we’re far too serious about life. Goodness knows we have enough readily at hand to bring us down if need be. Until then, Que Sera, Sera!

I have always held it to be an unalterable truth that every home should have both books and a piano. Admittedly the dictum is somewhat an affectation as it is more a drawing room quip than a fact. Besides while I have always maintained a small library of books, I privately remind myself that there are so many of note that I haven’t read that it seems almost artificial to press the point.  The piano on the other hand is a more sustainable pretension for, although I cannot claim to be a highly accomplished player, yet I am hopelessly dedicated to the piano as an instrument of personal expression. I began playing the piano at the age of ten years.  It is regrettable that my acceleration was such that I abandoned formal study of the piano when I succeeded to Grade VIII Toronto Conservatory at the age of fourteen years. The combination of my ear for the piano and my native adaptation to the instrument afforded me the mistaken privilege of letting go the lessons.  Nonetheless for the next 50 years I continued to divert myself on the piano though unquestionably with diminishing returns. As my circumstances allowed I graduated from a Mason & Risch upright piano (our family piano appropriated by me when I got my first home in Almonte) to a seventy year old Heintzman (bought by me from the estate of the late Mrs. Annie Johnson widow of Dr. Johnson in Carleton Place) and finally to a new Steinway L-Grand.

The Steinway was a bit of a deceit because the quality of my playing hardly merited its unsurpassed performance. But on a cloudy day with which to match my sometimes gloomy sympathies and given enough caffeine to stimulate my dexterity with the arpeggios I could rattle off some tolerably inoffensive pieces.  When however we recently underwent the cataclysmic reduction of our four-bedroom two-storey house to a small apartment the Steinway – or any piano for that matter – was off the order table.

No longer having a piano I occasionally satisfied myself to play the pianos of my friends or of my sister (who had since regained the family Mason & Risch now hopelessly neglected and out of tune).  The orphaned experience harkened back to my days as a student when I was accustomed to discover the whereabouts of the University grand pianos.  The point is this:  I never allowed myself to go long before uncovering a piano.  In my days as an articled law clerk on Sparks Street for example I would insinuate myself into the ballroom at the Château Laurier Hotel for like purpose (once unwittingly performing for the wife of renowned photographer Yousuf Karsh who then lived in the Hotel).

I omitted to mention that the project of downsizing to an apartment was contemporaneous with my retirement from the practice of law.  As such the undertaking was more than a mere relocation; it was a paramount readjustment.  Everything about the move was calculated to step away from the past and begin anew.  And I have to say that the effort was not unrewarded.  Indeed as I have since discovered the undertaking has been accomplished to such perfection as to prohibit any accommodation of the past.  In addition to abandoning whatever doesn’t go in the dishwasher we have let go of anything for which there is no foreseeable promise (a surgical choice which at times demanded some frank admission).  Among the discarded elements of my life was my erstwhile affection for the piano, a hobby which unquestionably had declined to a distinctly forgettable level or at the very least was highly repetitive.  Knowing this I sought to replace the creative feature of the hobby by strengthening my only other hobby of writing (though that too came under some close and critical observation).

As the commotion of the move began to subside I found myself imperceptibly revisiting the subject of the piano though this time with a variation.  Instead of contemplating a pianoforte I canvassed information about electronic keyboards.  What little I knew of the subject did not recommend it to me. Only a year ago I had stumbled upon an electronic keyboard while visiting people in Montepulciano (the lady of the household was bent upon learning to play the piano).  As usual I engineered my way into playing it though frankly without great satisfaction.  The device was no match for a percussive piano.  In spite of this unmoving experience I persisted in my researches by trolling the internet for further information.  By coincidence I unearthed a local emporium which stocked the latest models of the contraptions.

I shall not try my dear reader’s patience by becoming the equivalent of a travel writer for the music industry. Suffice it to say that after an examination of a number of these instruments I came away more than a little impressed.  As in all matters of commerce there is a direct correlation between price and quality.  So often people who are “thinking” about a piano (usually for their children) make the error of starting with an affordable model which of course flies in the face of the entire point of a piano; namely, the sound quality.  The same applies to the electronic keyboards; some are little more than gimmicky toys; others are marvels of technology.  My interest in the device was pointedly heightened by the knowledge that I could connect to it using a headset (a feature I considered a positive advantage in an apartment).  In addition the keyboard was transportable (it came with a collapsible table and bench and a traveling case).

You would think that would be the end of the matter; that is, that all considered, the electronic keyboard was a good and viable choice.  But not so fast!  As reluctant as I am to say so, the overriding question was where to put it?  As I mentioned earlier the transition from the house to the apartment was accomplished with enormous refinement.  In summary the furnishings we had retained were so judiciously chosen and placed that there was positively no room for anything else.  A random paper clip would have been conspicuous!  It naturally offended my finer sensibilities that the elevated subject of artistry (a notion I now liberally attributed to my fading piano talent) should be subjected to the indecorous competition of household furnishings.  Yet even a casual glance about the apartment reinforced my undiluted pleasure in the place before having considered the encroachment of an electronic keyboard (which hardly qualified as mahogany cabinetry).  If this were the sole source of contention the debate may have resolved itself without prolonged argument. Something might have been pushed aside to billet the device.  However a further and as yet unresolved point was more prickly.  The issue remained whether the time had passed to contemplate even playing the piano, electronic or otherwise.

One often hears of those who, upon retirement, placate their burgeoning sense of worthlessness by taking up some fairly weighty matter, things like getting a college degree or learning to paint or flying a plane. Cajoled by the supreme reasonableness of the electronic keyboard I had reasoned that I would at last revisit the subject of learning to read music, an industry I had succeeded in convincing myself I could assert even in the middle of the night with the aid of my headphones (which the merchant charitably advised he would “throw in” with the deal).  Yet as innocent as the ambition was, there lingered a possibility that it was all misguided.  One has to confront some hard facts in these matters.  Perhaps it was time to retire with my book and my bottle instead.

There are some for whom life is a predictable trajectory, who are propelled by deep-seated family coercions for example, who effectively haven’t anything to say about the direction they’re headed or what they’ll end up doing.  The prescription is often the product of sustained social pressure such as aligning with the tradition of a particular profession like medicine or law; or in some cases it is an accommodation of the person’s overwhelming shortcomings to ensure he has something to do for the rest of his life such as being a stock broker in a closely held corporation.  In rare instances it is the ambition of an entire clan to produce a leader or statesman sometimes of a particular ethnicity or religion.  For a man to remove himself from such high-minded destiny is seldom an easy undertaking and is frequently wrought with tragedy. To maintain the course is at times equally foreboding.  On occasion its inevitability requires almost sacrificial submission.

For the rest of us life tends more to the unforeseeable (and one would therefore hope as a consequence that the perception is less about an irrevocable fate). Certainly there are some who by contrast to those with a predestined future are eternally confined by less complimentary circumstances within an orbit without chance of breaking free. But the partnership of even limited ingenuity and enthusiasm generally ensures a less predictable and possibly more dynamic course.  For those who have a measure of intelligence and moderate financial means the possibilities are at least technically wide ranging.  But even in such a spirited environment there are inevitably significant turning points, occasions upon which the decision to go left or right is seminal.

Choice, as emancipating as it is, is nonetheless daunting as it commands enquiring assiduity failing which the ramifications can be unintended and are in any event by definition limiting.  Naturally none of us is especially well equipped to handle such elemental purpose when the provocation arises.  More often than not we respond intuitively which, while having the creditable flavour of instinct, is a response which may nonetheless be tainted by less than desirable visceral features to the discredit of rational considerations. How to contrive the resolve, whether as rational or irrational, whether short-sighted or long-term, whether cautious or adventurous, is impossible and depends upon innumerable prejudices, combinations and variations.  What however is certain is that tangible results will flow from whatever selection is made, results which will normally be markedly different depending upon the path selected.  Whether by design or default we are charting our future in more than just sand.

One is tempted to trivialize the broad strokes of life on the theory that they are but a springboard for the inherent talents of a person, a medium through which the latent strengths of that person will ultimately shine no matter what the manner of expression.  True to an extent but what is equally true is that opportunity does not appear at every intersection.  What counts is not only the quality of expression but the expression itself.  It is therefore undeniable that how one elects to travel in life is strategic to the outcome and to the assessment of personal fulfillment.  Que sera, sera! 

It is oddly less certain whether we’re able to change the course of events when things do not go well. Some commitments are  sticky.  Some are purportedly for life “until death do us part”.  Others are simply inconveniently prolonged or cumbersome, perhaps involving inordinate devotion of time or capital. Extracting one’s self from complicated affairs can be terribly wearing.  Some obligations are ruinous and may leave a man nothing but a shell of his former self.  The desire to achieve a turning point in life may nonetheless persist. Getting there is another story.  How often do we witness a fellow human being caught in a perpetual struggle in spite of his obvious desire for change?  The objective of change is however not unlike any other crossroad in that the choice of one entails the relinquishment of another; and many are not prepared to suffer the consequences.  How inconceivable it is to endure the public demonstration of our prior imprudence!

In the end the outcome for any of us is virtually set in stone, whether by surrounding circumstances or our own ostensible choice.  There is a point beyond which the trajectory, orbit or ambition is unalterable.  There is nothing to be achieved by remorse if indeed one senses any regret.  It may help philosophically to elevate one’s station in life to something approaching predetermination though it amounts to nothing more than absolution of free will.  Who on the other hand is capable of defining the mysterious means by which we have become what we are?  Do we indeed astound ourselves  as we stand staring into the future at the crossroads of  our life?

The first martini I had in my life was in the sagging old Hôtel du Castor on Sussex Drive, Ottawa.  “Le Castor” or “Beaver House” was a legendary stopping place of the river giant Joseph Montferrand (known as “Joe Mufferaw” in Ottawa Valley folklore) and reputedly one of many drinking places frequented by Sir John A. MacDonald.  The hotel is now part of the “Mile of History” in Ottawa.  The interior has been modernized and its exterior restored to its original by the National Capital Commission.  The atmosphere in the bar was green – dark green leather chairs, pale green walls and something resembling green granite for the small square table tops.  Likely the carpet was greenish as well.  It is also possible that I am completely wrong about all of that though that is my honest recollection.

I can however say without prevarication that my first martini was a gin martini.  Although I then knew virtually nothing about martinis I did at least know that the concoction is commonly made with gin and dry Vermouth.  I never would have imagined the possibility of a vodka martini.  Nor would I have thought to have had the martini other than straight up in the traditional martini glass which is the manner in which we were both served our martinis on that important day in the late autumn of 1975.

I recollect the sensation of drinking gasoline as I took the first sip of my martini.  Little did I know that martinis translate jet fuel into rocket fuel.  After our second martini we had clearly settled in for the afternoon which was fortunately a Saturday afternoon and therefore uncluttered by pressing obligation.  My final and lasting impression of l’Hôtel du Castor was the declining sunlight on the brick cobblestones of the court yard behind the Hôtel.

That auspicious beginning for my martini career was explosive but not incendiary (at least not in the long run).  In fact the experience hardly stirred my imagination for years afterwards.  I must have considered the event unique and educational but nothing in the nature of addictive.  Instead my subsequent years of imbibing were dedicated to blended whiskey and Porto.

In 1996 I began chumming with a friend who regularly drank martinis.  Even then I  wasn’t convinced to follow suit.  Several years later however – again on a sunny Saturday afternoon – I was introduced to the pleasures of a martini complemented by a luncheon of Sea Bass and sliced Beefsteak tomatoes.  This particular hedonism also transpired in the autumn since I recollect we sat before a blazing fireplace in a very comfortable apartment in the By Ward Market (pointedly not far from Sussex Drive).

Sometime after the turn of the century I began stocking vodka in the freezer. My mother had told me years earlier that the secret to a good martini was to pour off a cap of gin from the bottle, refill it with Vermouth, then store the bottle in the freezer.  For some reason I switched to vodka rather than gin when making my martinis although I made a point of stocking both in the freezer.  I discovered that when I entertained my friends, martinis were very popular.  In fact my guests would subsequently ask for them specifically. I can’t imagine that there was anything especially clever about the way I made the martinis other than that I served them in extraordinarily large glasses (what I derisively called “bathtubs on sticks”).  Indeed I became so wary of the effects which flowed from my martinis that I learned to limit my friends who were driving to no more than one (and even then they frequently reported the next day to having slept surprisingly well that night).

My favourite indulgence in a martini was at the end of the day in front of a blazing fireplace with a novel by a renowned British author like Jane Austen or Virginia Woolf.  When my little French bulldog Monroe was still whinnying among us he would join me in the drawing room, prone on the leather couch nicely elevated from the draughts of the hardwood floors.  I did of course ensure that his every need was satisfied before I permitted myself the supreme relaxation of my ritual evening martini.

Lately my fondest memories of martinis revolve around two exceptional restaurant dinners in Toronto, one with my nieces at the Royal York Hotel (Epic), the other with close friends at La Société on Bloor Street.  In both instances the martinis were complemented by oysters on the half shell which I suppose is never a bad way to begin any meal but made all the more irresistible by the addition of the clear liquor.  As usual the martinis guaranteed an unsurpassed coziness at table.

Subsequently our journeys to South Carolina have been punctuated by thoroughly delightful martinis prepared by American bartenders who are well known for getting down to business.  Until recently it was frequently a disappointment to return to Canada to discover the restraint practiced by local bartenders.  In any event the modification is now lost upon me as I have nothing but fond memories of the martini to amuse me.  As you might have gathered I have little to say by way of disparagement about the martini even though I made an abrupt right turn upon my sixty-fifth birthday.  As the saying goes, “They are so history!”  Yet for me they are a reminder of the vigour of my youth.  I know it would be as preposterous to sustain the habit as it is to imagine I shall be forever young.  So I quit while I’m ahead.  But oh my they were good!

Until my recent retirement I never enjoyed an afternoon nap unless it were the less glamorous recomposition following a particularly draining evening. The afternoon nap wasn’t part of my vernacular as much as I secretly thought of it as a supreme satisfaction.  I may have fashioned it an encroachment upon commerce or at the very least an unmerited indulgence.  During my working career the little time I had to myself was on the weekends. I traditionally had so much packed into those 48 hours that having a nap was tantamount to frittering away one’s capital.  So I distanced myself from the slackening and buoyed myself with coffee, pills, booze and more coffee.

I have since quit the booze.  My love affair with the vodka martini waned when I realized I was reliving the same movie every night and my relationship with Jane Austen was going nowhere. Luckily for me I suppose the profit margin on the expenditure was dwindling. Nonetheless the lack of this particular recreation did not diminish my consumption of coffee which I began drinking in boosted quantities by regularly making my own coffee with triple amounts of instant coffee (a sure-fire stimulant I had discovered in my undergraduate days).

The jitters caused by excessive caffeine were not lost on me.  After a certain level of caffeinated manipulation it is a case of diminishing returns and perhaps even an upset stomach.  So that project of self-stimulation exhausted itself as well.  That left pills.  My awakening to the general condition of my anatomy led me to believe that even pain killers (or arthritis pills in particular) weren’t entirely reliable to deaden one’s natural reflexes.

As a result I began confronting my instinctive responses to the day.  Unmistakably an emerging response was that I was tired, worn out to be more precise. Nothing was impeding the repeated and overwhelming wave of fatigue.  To my surprise I began to succumb to the urge to lie down.  I sought to lessen the lanquid purpose by resorting to my green leather couch as though it were somehow only a temporary repose and nothing serious.  As if that mattered! Nonetheless I avoided the bed itself, a destination I otherwise considered overwhelming evidence of malaise.

To my surprise my afternoon naps on the couch were not only longer than I could have imagined (regularly stretching into two hours) but more gratifying than my nocturnal slumber.  When I awoke I was undeniably refreshed.  Everything felt better including my joints.  My mental attitude was positive and engaged.  For some reason the afternoon nap revitalized me and I hadn’t been plagued as I was so often at night by contemplation of what else I should be doing.

At first I thought these restorative naps were occasional and random only, nothing approaching a habit.  But regularly I was overtaken by a feeling of being wasted, a feeling I understood intuitively to come from years of having ignored the needs of my worn out body.  I understood I could no longer pretend I didn’t need to sleep.  I accepted that I had a lot of catching up to do.  And I hesitatingly relinquished my obsession to produce to permit me the indulgence of rejuvenation through sleep.  One might think that such daytime healing would inhibit the natural disposition to sleep at night.  In fact by relieving my body of its perpetual burden I also relieved my mind of its angst and was no longer predisposed to retard the routine bedtime until I virtually collapsed from exhaustion, a synthetic soporific which of course only caused problems the next day.

Releasing my grip on mandatory occupation is a challenge. It is not routine to disengage.  It isn’t easy to acknowledge that it can wait.  But creeping into the cracks of the veneer is the need to sleep, to recover from years of constant worry about endless affairs.

During the past year or so I have sought to arrest my smouldering inclination to accumulate things and to replace the wolfish habit with something approaching material pragmatism (or what anyone else might derisively call common sense). I can’t take any personal credit for the modification. Likely it’s just an accident of aging. Even the most rapacious eventually tire of collecting stuff. The transition from profligacy to austerity was accomplished by incremental diminution characterized at first by moderation and then a gradual fading out. It may have helped to have awoken to the jarring reality that I was living proof that you can’t have money and things. Whatever the cause I was a reformed materialist. Or so I thought.

Materialism like any other addictive appetite is one which is never entirely extinguished. And as with all other addictions it doesn’t help to deal only with the symptom rather than the cause. I had successfully dealt with the symptom. The surplusage of objects in my life had been critically and fatally attacked. If it didn’t go in the dishwasher, it was out! If it needed to be polished, it was rejected! If it constituted a rider on the household insurance policy, it was gone! Anything which required annual or more frequent maintenance was history! In short I was determined to live with what I needed and what was self-sustaining. Sounds frightfully modern, won’t you agree? Yet I still hadn’t cured the cause of the inherent defect. My revelation was as short-lived as any other conversion. And by conversion I mean more than spiritual renewal. I mean that the conversion of my stuff to cash didn’t even help. I remained in the grip of philosophical monism which holds that matter is the fundamental substance in nature.

Grant me if you will a degree of determination. Certainly now and again I had relaxed my clenched fist about my pocketbook sufficiently to indulge in a small treat but nothing significant. I was still on the right course. I had skilfully resisted the temptation of art and baubles. I had convinced myself of the futility and guaranteed degeneration of the material world. Nothing was about to deter me. That is until my resoluteness collided with the novelty of the pre-arranged funeral. Suddenly I had attained the intersection of money and things, expenditure and common sense, Yin and Yang by any standard! I was on the very threshold of discovery and enlightenment. How else does one describe the consummate utility of addressing the ultimate? This was the cat’s pyjamas!

It is a little known fact that there is at law no property in a corpse. In practical terms this means that the disposition of one’s mortal remains is solely within the dominion of one’s executor (who at the least has a qualified property interest in trust for burial). Denying the commercial character of “property” in a corpse is easily understood by considering whether it were legal for a creditor to arrest a corpse (such as was done to the poet Dryden). Even if one were to divide the nature of property between a right of possession and the thing itself, it still doesn’t overcome what is considered revolting to the courts. As palatable as this conclusion may be it nonetheless remains that the disposition of a corpse is the absolute or qualified right of the executor not the deceased. This means that taken to its extreme the executor may snap his fingers at the terms of a funeral prearranged by the deceased. The fact that the executor has rights over a body for burial necessarily leads to the conclusion that the executor has the exclusive right to determine the manner of burial.

In spite of this admittedly esoteric knowledge the general consensus is that the “family” (being the next-of-kin or lawful beneficiaries) will customarily honour the wishes of the deceased. It is for this reason that years ago, upon the untimely death of a dear friend, I determined to prearrange my own funeral to avoid the hiatus which my friend had unwittingly imposed on his family. Among the arrangements I made was the purchase of a plot in a local cemetery, the cost of which was appropriately divided between the 40 square foot real estate and perpetual care. This morning I visited the plot which I purchased decades ago.  Although there are a number of plots which have tombstones that are more anticipatory than historical (the date of death has yet to be added) my particular plot is nothing more than an unadorned grassy area.  It pleases me however that two of my neighbours are deceased former clients of mine.  I also discovered that my plot has road access as my plot immediately adjoins one of the pathways of the cemetery. As a  former real estate lawyer I can but admire the serendipity.  Road access was an issue which traditionally disrupted the conveyance of cottage lots in particular but also certain residential lots upon the advent of universal zoning by-laws.  It’s nice to know this question will not be a muddling topic for debate.   Plus I have what amounts to a corner lot which as anyone knows traditionally commands a special value. And it is on high land so there is no fear of being washed away.

What however is missing is a tombstone. While all this was fresh upon my mind I determined to call a local monument company to enquire about having a tombstone erected upon my plot. A visit to the cemetery will readily disclose that I am not the first to fathom this indulgence. I won’t say it is popular nor even common. But I will say it addresses a multitude of cravings which are even more deeply ingrained than furnishings or objets d’art. It is obvious too that a tombstone is one’s final testament. Certainly there are those who would prefer something grand and imposing. I am even reminded of the comedy associated with the inscriptions on tombstones I’ve seen in Key West, Florida (“I told you I was sick”, “Now she’ll know where I am at night”, “He loved bacon” and so on). Whatever the decision, it is at least probable that the family will respect the choice of tombstone. And commissioning the tombstone is the most fun I’ve had shopping in years!