We have maintained the tradition of a cocktail hour for many years, say about the past twenty years.  Things do change though.  For one thing, I no longer have a cocktail poised to my right, just a plastic bottle of Perrier “carbonated natural spring water”.  My hors d’oeuvres are perhaps a bit more cumbersome than I would have preferred years ago when reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (poor dear drowned herself in 1941 at the age of 59, bipolar disorder apparently).  Rather than snapping up crackers and smoked oysters or cheese from the mahogany side table, I have instead an ample bowl of pickled herring in sour cream under which are hidden halves of cherry tomatoes and pieces of fresh red radish all topped with Tabasco sauce.  A small spoon is of course required and the entire affair is conveniently suspended upon the oak dining room table where I sit in front of my MacBook Pro computer.  Gone is the blazing hearth.  But in view of my industry the accommodations are quite appropriate.  I have swapped the CD player for a Bose SoundLink mini speaker to which I now pipe downloaded music wirelessly from my iPhone.  The dominion I have over my immediate environment is quite magnificent!

Although I seldom tire of writing in favour of other more improving artistic endeavours, I regularly oblige myself to read important authors, writers who because of their antiquity are beyond the grasp of copyright and whose works are therefore available without cost from the internet (even though I can’t imagine why they are there in the first place without the prospect of compensation for somebody).  Nonetheless this unexplained privilege affords me access to some of the most celebrated writers of all time including for example Plato 347 BC and Aristotle 322 BC and as well as those modern upstarts Edward Gibbon 1794, John Keats 1821, Anthony Trollope 1882 and Mark Twain 1910.  Of course the device which I use to read these downloaded electronic books is either an iPad or Amazon Kindle.  Hard covered books – once my exclusive literary vehicle – now fill the ignored shelves of the old oak bookcase which I expropriated from my former law office.  My how the cocktail hour has changed!

My model for the cocktail hour derives from Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC. Louis had the cocktail hour down to a fine art as was especially evident in the summer when he switched from his winter highball of whiskey and soda to the more glamorous Tom Collins prepared in an adjoining room at a small table on which was displayed a silver platter outfitted with sugar in a silver bowl with a silver spoon, a small crystal pitcher of lemon juice and of course gin and carbonated water.  Louis never asked or permitted his steward Jeffrey to mix the drinks; and when entertaining others, Louis only mixed the first drink for you (thereafter you were on your own and at complete liberty to pour away to your heart’s content).  When alone at his home, Louis could be guaranteed to be found at precisely six o’clock every evening in his withdrawing room seated in a comfortable armchair below a Henri Masson painting, side table to his right (on which was perched a drink and usually salty peanuts adorned with green olives) and a stack of books piled in a column on the floor.  At one time Louis had a Steinway piano but apparently he abandoned it when his elderly widowed mother died and Louis gave up their Sandy Hill residence (formerly the Bishop’s Palace) for relatively smaller digs on Besserer Street.  When not editing law journals his past-time was booze and books.  I once discovered in a cluttered corner of the drawing room a relic sound system but its obvious incongruity with the Victorian furnishings spelled its demise.

There is little that irritates more than being told what to do.  This is especially so if you are on the receiving end of a pointed directive from someone you imagine has no entitlement to throw the javelin in the first place.  While frank reply about what you intend to do in any event is both reasonable and proper, be warned that anything else by way of rejoinder is doomed. In an atmosphere of bubbling emotions, this is particularly so if your purpose is to denounce the affront based on anything approaching mere logic.  More likely than not your comeback will be lost on the proponent. Spelling out the reasons for your objection is destined to defeat and is therefore best avoided as it will only compound the dilemma.

Though guided by a sense of entitlement people plainly take their liberties when instructing others how to conduct their lives.  It is first of all the height of presumption.  Equally importantly it is a device which overlooks the capacity of others to fulfill their own ambitions.  As well-deserved as it may be to punish the unwanted intruder, any rebuttal probably succeeds only to wither the already soured relationship.  Assuming that the offender is by virtue of his or her disrespectful latitude lacking in the appreciation of refined social behaviour (and I’ll wager it is not difficult to accumulate other examples of the offence), any pretence to correct the folly is redundant. What is more certainly at risk is wounding one’s own psyche.  In these uniquely binary compositions there is inevitably one party who, for lack of a better word, is more mature than the other.  Maturity embraces such seemingly tedious qualities as patience and understanding, virtues which I suspect are valued by most people at least theoretically but which are regrettably not shared by all.

The division between proper and improper conduct is frequently heightened by surrounding grating circumstances, events which upon subsequent, cooler reflection usually disclose something approaching an excuse for the initial discreditable conduct.  It is but one more reminder that people remarkably have some understandable motive for their otherwise annoying behaviour. Getting to this point of comprehension is of course not effortless and normally requires an inordinate dose of intellectualism aided by supporting factual material, all of which requires more of those precious commodities, time and patience.

In the result the prudent course of conduct is to attempt to appreciate the position of the other person.  If this, because of one’s general humanity and attendant weakness, is not possible then at least try to avoid cementing the difficulty by piling words of admonishment or derision upon the other.  This will only increase the load on the other end when it comes time to try to unravel the disappointment and hostility.

Even if one is reluctant to engage is so-called namby-pamby discussion of improper conduct, it is wise to keep in mind that in the scheme of things it is highly unlikely that anything you say will matter.  Look at it this way, when did the opinions of others ever make any particular difference to you?  So why would you assume yours matter to them?  Forget it!  Just put it aside and move along!

Being adjudged by one’s appearance is nothing new. Nor is it something which most people would hasten to contradict, as shallow and distasteful as the observation may initially appear. Mark Twain supportively opined: “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” Nevertheless there is a fervent element of the social order which prefers the dictum, “You cannot judge a person solely by his appearance” (the male attribute is no accident by the way though I haven’t a clue why, perhaps because men need more help than women). Likely the adage is a play upon the equally well known phrase, “You cannot judge a book by its cover”. Consider however your own reaction upon seeing your physician clad in a white coat. Or not. Any difference? I’m guessing there is. And not only in your eyes but likely in the eyes of the physician too. As such the “book” analogy, in spite of its scholarly intimation, borders on being trite.

It is common knowledge that apparel portrays an image – anything from rigorous conservatism to outlandish fashion. Whatever the choice, the projected doppelgänger can send a number of messages – some implying reliability, others individuality, others positive wackiness. Although it may be thought to be somewhere in the middle, a uniform can be as unique as either end of the clothes rack though the general consensus is that uniforms portray control. Uniforms might also convey status or at the very least distinguish one from others.

Quite aside from appearances, there is scientific evidence that we think not only with our brains but also with our physical experiences, including it seems the clothes we wear. That is why, for example, the doctors wearing white coats performed to higher standards than others who did not. The same study found that in order for clothes to influence our psyche we must “experience” our clothes. I imagine the difference would be a mere dress-up occasion like Hallowe’en. Debate about the effect of clothing lingers upon the issue of constancy; namely, do the cognitive influences eventually wear off? My guess is that even if we habituate, the effect will last.

Clothes are a trademark of status, position and occupation. We have come to expect that certain people will only appear particular clothing – airline pilots for example, judges, nurses, firemen and police officers, to name but a few. On the other end of the scale are those who snap their fingers at sartorial apprehension – the retired and the elderly, for example – people who cultivate a wardrobe of track pants and fleeces, inexpensive, comfortable and easily laundered. My personal source of amusement is the cowboy look, a label first brought home to me by J. R. Ewing of Dallas fame. I will never recover from the knowledge that businessmen actually wear ten-gallon hats to work – with a suit! It is a preposterous image which is only made remotely plausible by the accompanying sound of a Texas accent.

In truth there are plenty of outrageous outfits in one’s own back yard; viz., young men who wear exceedingly low-rise pants which drag upon the ground and which purposefully expose the flamboyant colours of their smalls. Again my fashion sensibilities are challenged to understand the value or attraction of having to walk as though transporting school books in the rear of one’s pants. Even if there were something toxic about the revealing couture, any advantage quickly disappears with the sight of the model having perpetually to haul up his trousers to avoid stumbling upon his own clothes.

On the subject of young people, the “hoodie” is iconic as popularized by the blockbuster Rocky film. While I suspect many youth sport the fashion especially for its element of instant anonymity and mystery, it may also appeal to others with criminal intent and for that reason alone many find it off-putting. Still others seemingly employ the hooded sweatshirt like a cowl attached to a monk’s robe though the religious connotation seldom has any legitimacy. The hoodie has even been likened to a Ku Klux Klan outfit (“not an appropriate article of clothing”). We can nonetheless be thankful for its utilitarianism. It is our own Canadian models in Saskatchewan who so often wear a hoodie under a coat or jacket to provide an extra layer of clothing in the winter. There, hoodies are often referred to as “Bunny-hugs”.

Androgynous fashion is not common, the distinction between feminine (expressive) and masculine (instrumental) traits. If it happens at all, it is mostly women wearing pant suits which are considered an imitation of men’s standard business attire, catering to the forum which demands action and assertiveness. Some research indicates that women so attired have a better chance of getting a job in traditional male occupations. Just as a reminder that fashion repeats, the pant suit was introduced in the 1920s even though it wasn’t until much later that it became acceptable business wear for women, culminating in the Hilary Clinton look when she became a U.S. Senator. Women who have out-of-doors jobs frequently wear the same traditional clothing as men – flannel shirts, jeans and work boots – but this is considered more practical than anything else, unless of course it figures as part of a nightclub scene.

A strict definition of fashion might not normally include jewelry but the custom has lately taken on such dimension that its ignorance is impossible. Many of the successful rappers equate large, ostentatious jewelry with automobiles of like standards. Given that fashion has now come to include broadly not only clothing and footwear but also makeup and body piercings, it is small wonder that accessories have a role to play. The role is far beyond the usual concept of fashion accessory such as hats and handbags (what formerly included hand fans, parasols and umbrellas, canes and ceremonial swords) and now includes hair sticks, barrettes, headbands, cufflinks, tie tacks, even sunglasses, smartphones and earplugs (a realm only exceeded by the Scottish sporran and sgian-dubh). Jewelry is a classic beacon of status frequently heralded by its trade name (Cartier, Bulgari, Tiffany, Rolex, etc.) although size and glitter (“bling-bling”) trumps all in the end.

If one hasn’t the energy or enthusiasm to afford endless attention to fashion it’s nice to know that the little black dress (for women) and jeans and a T-shirt (for men) still work.

Although the garment can be traced back to the monks who wore a robe with an attached cowl, it is Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Balboa in the boxing saga films who popularized the hooded sweatshirt (or “hoodie”) with the large pocket or muff sewn in the front.  The first hoodie I bought is one which I still have (I’m wearing it now), a heavy bright orange production of cotton and polyester commissioned by Roots Canada and made in China.  I have worn it so often and it has been washed so many times that the sleeve cuffs have developed holes. It is perpetually shrinking (or perhaps I am continuously enlarging) and is destined for the recycle bin very soon. Earlier this Spring I discovered Roots Canada made lightweight models of the same apparel (marketed as “Authentic Sporting Goods – Quality & Integrity” though this time with a higher polyester content) and I bought three of different colours, soft hues reminiscent of my leisure days on Cape Cod.  These hoodies alternate as my clothes of choice, not just for bicycling (which I could happily do for an hour every day for the rest of my life) but generally for lounging.  I’d wear the hoodie all the time if I could get away with it, and I pretty much do now that I am no longer working for a living and contemporaneously avoiding social functions like the installation ceremony for a Federal Court Judge to which we were invited in Toronto. When I was studying Philosophy as an undergraduate at Glendon Hall there was a peculiar Professor there who even on warm September days wore about three layers of clothes, a shirt, tweed vest and tweed sport coat.  The speculation was that he sought to insulate himself from the world.  There may have been some truth to that. Although I only employ the hood feature when I am taking a nap on the couch (to shelter my eyes from the streaming afternoon sunlight), I otherwise appreciate having the material about my neck (I oddly feel less vulnerable as I have always imagined women must feel in low-cut dresses).  I buy the largest size to avoid constraint.  “Built for comfort not speed”, I defensively quip, the unparalleled comedian that I am.  Even when I was thin I preferred baggy clothes.  Tight anything bothers the hell out of me.

Onto another subject. Music decidedly has its place.  I’ve been known to make my share of it when I played the piano, venting my pent-up anxieties or dragging out some doleful piece sometimes bringing myself to tears just crying for no reason in particular moved by the pathos of life whatever that is.  It’s impossible for me to feel sad about life.  I’ve hardly suffered!  Tears don’t mean I am sad.  I can for example be hopelessly hung over and hear Luciano Pavarotti sing Nessun Dorma from Pucini’s opera Turandot and begin to wail uncontrollably.  I recall when I bought my first stereo system one hundred years ago I persisted in playing it loudly to display its capacity but more to drown myself in the strength of the music.  In my drinking days I would resort to the “American Songbook” to annoint the cocktail hour though I preferred classical music when it came to consummating my ceremony of martinis and Jane Austen.  I reckoned she merited something more elegant than popular music.  My aging mother reminds me constantly that she wants Ave Maria played at her funeral.  She has long ago abandoned her ritual Catholic habits but like most Catholics she clings to the end to the religious connotations even in instances where atheism or neglect might be closer to the current creed.  I recollect an elderly friend who never went to Church during the entire twenty-five years I knew him but he nonetheless orchestrated a traditional religious ceremony for his funeral.  The priest was so obviously miffed by the last minute affront that he refused to attend the burial ceremony at the grave site though he had glad-handed the congregation and supervised the circulation of the collection plate at the church.  At least the priest didn’t have the impudence to show up at the deceased’s private dining club for the celebratory luncheon afterwards. The rest of us while sipping our midday bracers openly marvelled at his indignity.

Let’s take a gander at the more temporal subject of automobiles which are a North American ideology of sorts. While I might convincingly argue that Lincolns (my conveyance of choice) are extremely comfortable for the drive to Hilton Head Island I admit that automobiles are a pretence, a fictitious bubble of imaginary immunity. I am not proud of the confession but neither am I about to relinquish the absorption. It frightens me to think I might otherwise be mediocre and uninteresting.  Small wonder I dote upon the object. The only way to rationalize having an expensive automobile would be if it were for speed or performance.  My cars are about neither; they are metaphors for social superiority and isolation.  They are specious islands of distinction like the former coach-and-four with its blazing brass, gilded ornaments and haughty occupants, the historical targets of popular disdain.  My late teetotal father explained his addiction to “fine automobiles” by saying he decided early in life that he couldn’t afford drink and costly cars. Somehow his predilection was therefore excusable and never smacked of arrogance.  His father used to drive seven-passenger Packards with sixteen cylinders and a chandelier in the back.  Likely automobiles are a manifestation of my personal insecurity but I am too old to rebel or reform. Besides I’ve already given up Rolex watches and sterling silver flatware.

Reasoning and thought while not painful for me are nonetheless work.  For most of my life I sought to ride upon my education and what I managed to harvest from the shared intelligence of others.  I’ve now hit that wall which reminds me that the universe is ultimately personal. I’m sailing in my own little skiff upon the vast open waters of life. In what time remains I intend to be part of history howsoever insignificantly.  All that I have recorded is in digital form only suspended in cybernetics.  One has to wonder how boundless that domain is, will it ever run out of space, will everything get erased either by necessity or by accident?  I’ve long ago given up printing anything I record.  I  trashed forty years of handwritten and typed diaries when we downsized.

The paintings of Katherine McNenly have recently come to my attention. Although I won’t pretend for a moment to be an authority on the subject of art, based upon frequent visits over the past forty years to the National Gallery I instantly recognized in her work what I perceived to be the influence of the Dutch Masters. Of equal importance to me is the recognition that the universe continues to produce artists of such refined talent.  There is naturally no logical reason to assume that there shouldn’t be emerging talent but it nonetheless perks me up to rediscover the platitude.

Perhaps as an accident of old age I am increasingly aware of the strength of creative forces in my life.  Until lately I hadn’t the time to indulge in the pleasure of creativity.  I was too busy creating.  By which I mean I was too occupied managing my own business affairs (as creatively as possible in my own small way) that I hadn’t the luxury to savour the potency and robustness of the creativity which was always swirling about me.  When talent is compartmentalized (such as it is of necessity in galleries) we tend to overlook the constant stream of creativity.  And when one’s life is dedicated to the accomplishment of specific goals, targets and agenda, it is seemingly pointless to look at things merely for what they are rather than what they can achieve.

Within the myriad of ways in which talent manifests itself it is useful to confine one’s focus to those elements which are of especial interest.  My personal interests are architecture, visual arts (paintings, sculpture and photography) and industrial design, the latter being particularly consuming as it melds with my insatiable appetite for ever-evolving technology.  I have pointedly excluded from this list two other formidable art forms; namely, writing and music.  This is odd for me because I would customarily observe about myself that writing and music are essential to my well-being.  For example I have been writing almost daily since the age of thirteen years; and until very recently I played the piano every day since the same age.  Now my preference is to read what others have written and to listen to the music which others have composed and performed.  This may appear to be a small divergence from my earlier literary and musical inclinations but for me the posture is both evolutionary and revolutionary.  In my mind it speaks to my maturity (perhaps in the sense of an agèd cheese) that I am now more interested in harvesting the products of civilization rather than preposterously trying to contribute to them.  I no longer harbour the shame of defeat upon this issue; and in my more charitable moments I even consider that whatever I have accomplished in life to this point is worthy of some note at least in the broadest comparative terms.

It is common knowledge that the appreciation of the arts is considered by many as a mark of social status.  I confess that my delectation is far more visceral.  Indeed I do not hesitate to go so far as to say that my artistic appetites are as elemental and overwhelming as any other human appetite. And happily my artistic appetite, unlike at least one primordial desire, has increased with age. I will grant that creativity feeds the mind and enhances one’s spirits by contributing to a sense of intrigue and inspiration.  But in the same breath I am anxious to reaffirm the tactile delight (even if at times only metaphorical) I derive from industrial design for example.  Just looking at the iPhone 6 or the Bose SoundLink Bluetooth mini speaker cheers me.

In times of seemingly endless political upheaval and universal wars and hardship it is heartening to reflect upon the continuing accomplishments of humanity.  In this respect alone perpetual emerging talent is elevating.  When it is so easy to dampen the enthusiasm for life it is uplifting to observe the budding of new energy and expression.  In the case of industrial design it is the use of both applied art and applied science to improve the aesthetics, design, ergonomics, functionality, and/or usability of a product, and it may also be used to improve the product’s marketability and even production.

When I awoke this limpid Sunday morning the only thing we had planned was a late afternoon movie at the cult Bytowne Cinema, formerly called the Nelson Theatre because it is located near the intersection of Rideau and Nelson Streets.  Nelson Street has long since been blocked at Besserer Street. There is now conveniently at this deadend roundabout a little-known parking lot upon which we stumbled  and where we ended parking for the movie.  But I am getting ahead of myself.  Before we got to the theatre there were other things happening.

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I am sitting here, stone cold sober, feeling quite smug, perched at my writing desk (well actually the dining room table where I now maintain my laptop computer), listening to Domenico Scarlatti’s Keyboard Sonata in G. What makes this experience so uniquely stimulating is that the music is broadcasted wirelessly from my iPhone 6 to my Bose mini-speaker.  The quality of sound is quite unbelievable (at least for my drawing room purposes) not to mention the state of the art facility of transmitting the music and controlling the volume.  The device is compact and can easily be moved about.  It most certainly fulfills my objective to do exactly what I am doing now when we travel to South Carolina for the winter.  We have there arranged a three-bedroom house and I expect to establish an office for myself in one of those rooms where I shall keep my new Bose mini-speaker to comfort and strengthen me during my pensive writing moments.

Apart from computers (I bought my first computer a full twenty-seven years ago in February, 1987) I was never much drawn to high-tech devices.  I managed for example to avoid the “smart phone” for a long while after it hit the market, dismissing it as a toy.  Once I made the jump however I was smitten (as I was by computers generally).  I have since made an almost annual gradation to the latest model of the iPhone and it never fails to impress.

Looking back upon the insinuation of technology into my life, I confess to having been influenced by one of my friends in particular. He always had the latest gadgets (technological “accessories” as I believe they are more properly called – things like tiny contraptions for storing millions of photos).  These trinkets did not however capture my attention for the very simple reason that I fathomed no purpose for them other than amusement.  To this day I have yet to play a “game” on a computer.  The device must fulfill a purpose other than its own employment; it has to get me from here to there; I must sense that I have accomplished something productive by using it.

Lately I have been struggling with music.  My native relationship with music is through the piano.  I made the decision about five years ago to sell my Steinway.  Frankly I have never regretted the decision. My piano playing had stagnated and was no longer inspiring.  The result nonetheless was that I felt cut off from a mode of expression which I had enjoyed all my life.  While ruminating upon my loss and casting about my thoughts to try electronic keyboards I attempted to supplant my piano playing with writing and reading.  When neither of these undertakings succeeded to placate my desire I returned with a close friend to the local keyboard merchant ostensibly to show her what these keyboards could do.  My friend was  moved by the sound of the keyboards.  What she didn’t know is that I had unwittingly turned myself off the (portable) electronic keyboards when I discovered that they lacked the weight and stability of a regular piano.  I was literally rocking the instrument as I played it for her!  This entirely ruined the exploit for me.  While I may some day acquire a more solid electronic keyboard I continue to sense that these instruments will never have the physical presence of a Steinway.  As a result the ambition is defeated.

With the removal of this aspiration from my sights it was naturally easier for me to satisfy myself with the pleasures of reading and writing (though there was yet some missing element to my creative urge).  Things began to change when I returned to the Apple store in a local mall to conduct some follow-up enquiries after my recent purchase of a new iPhone 6.  While awaiting the arrival of the “Genius” – I hate that presumptuous label! – I spotted the Bose mini-speaker (“SoundLink Mini”).  In fact I didn’t really know what it was but I knew at least that I liked the look of it and I guessed it was a speaker.  The artistry of modern design is not lost on me.  I discovered I also liked its weight.  I gingerly picked it up and set it down on its charging cradle.  I moved along the display table and found myself comparing the Bose to other similar devices. I really hadn’t a clue about how the speaker worked but I imagined it was a wireless Bluetooth connection and I had had some exposure to that technology through the synching of my iPhone with my car computer (but it still baffled me more than I would now care to admit).

I abandoned the idea of purchasing the device because I hadn’t yet formulated any specific purpose for it.  As luck would have it, at a meeting of the Board of Directors of the local power corporation this week we were treated to a video put together by our President and General Manager.  The General Manager used a Bose mini-speaker during his presentation.  Of course I subsequently made enquiries about the device and was assured that it was of the highest quality and a breeze to use. When I returned to the apartment I made reference to the device and we tossed the idea back and forth though without any commitment whatsoever.  Meanwhile I did some on-line research and further massaged my inclination.

This afternoon we dipped into Best Buy store #975 in Kanata and, after some delay in getting service, were led to the shelf where the mini-speaker was stocked. A young, overweight fellow with clear eyes and rosy cheeks told me everything I needed to know about the device.  He patiently led me through the connection process between my iPhone and the mini-speaker.  I was sold! Now having set up the device I have found a way to keep in touch with music without having to produce it myself.  It may appear to be a short-sell but it accomplishes what I needed, it rounds out the jagged corners of change.  I was so reluctant to attempt to turn back the pages, to attempt to recover the thrill I once felt for piano playing.  Having this highly technical device which produces such an elegant sound is just what I was looking for!  In its most reduced terms, I can now indulge myself effortlessly in the best of music (a far cry from what I was doing when playing the piano). There is the added benefit that there are so many “apps” which provide music for free, a feature which nicely coincides with my current disposition to reverse years of profligacy.

This device joins the ranks of our latest devices which most recently include a wireless scanner, again something which is geared to useful production.  The marketing hype surrounding the latest high-tech watches has as yet escaped my attention.  The same applies to Google Glass which I find particularly preposterous (much the same way as I view those telephones which people stick in their ear).

Today went swimmingly! It was the confluence of a succession of tiny streams of beneficence upon which we were borne away unheeded.  It was providence exemplified!  The sun shone brilliantly, there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, we expiated our guilt this morning by taking a healthful bike ride, this afternoon we dipped into the Art Bank of Canada and cheerfully cultivated ourselves, a chance and happy recognizance was effected by family members without design or obligation and we have now retired to our restful digs to delight in the setting sun and the privilege of a slowly unfolding Saturday evening soothed by hors d’oeuvres, cocktails and the prospect of a satisfying home-cooked meal.

Good fortune is more than a fluke.  Recall the etymology of “serendipity”:

ORIGIN 1754: coined by Horace Walpole, suggested by The Three Princes of Serendip, the title of a fairy tale in which the heroes “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.”

There are so many elements which combine to effect the perfect day that it is difficult to imagine that it is not entirely an accident.  It would however destroy the magic of the sensation to deliberate at length upon the evolution of the result. It is sufficient to observe that like so many other events in life, the conclusion is a diversification of earlier adaptations.  Call it happenstance if you will though I contend it is more than mere coincidence (a subject promoted by another well-known author, Thomas Hardy, and I believe best reserved as a literary device).  It is no doubt part of the wonder of a brilliant day that we haven’t to connive or assemble anything to achieve its uninhibited manifestation.

The line between luck and brilliant discovery is never less clear than in the systematic study of the physical world:

The notion of serendipity is a common occurrence throughout the history of scientific innovation such as Alexander Fleming’s accidental discovery of penicillin in 1928 and the invention of the microwave oven by Percy Spencer in 1945.

Various thinkers discuss the role that luck can play in science. One aspect of Walpole’s original definition of serendipity, often missed in modern discussions of the word, is the need for an individual to be “sagacious” enough to link together apparently innocuous facts in order to come to a valuable conclusion. Indeed, the scientific method, and the scientists themselves, can be prepared in many other ways to harness luck and make discoveries.

By whatever process it arises, the mirth of a pleasant surprise is nonetheless gratifying. What elevates me is the rapture of the experience and perhaps my tainted maturity that the days shall come when “thou hast no pleasure in them”.  For now it is the paradox of an unexpectedly agreeable day that promotes it so favourably.  I feel a duty to luxuriate in the strength of the moment.  I confess it is my failing to wonder almost aloud when it will all end, how long it can go on before some other less appreciated event transpires to readjust the picture.  It speaks to the needless preoccupations from which we suffer to proclaim our ecstasy upon the sudden and unanticipated release from a nagging annoyance (usually some meticulous and essentially trivial detail which hardly merits anything but intellectual obsession). Yet be that as it may, we instantly discover ourselves uplifted by the formerly inconsequential blessings of nature.  All is well once again in the universe! The very planets have aligned as they should and there is seemingly nothing that can surpass the present state of improvement!

I certainly won’t be the first to whine about confrontation with blood relations. The frequency and strength of family squabbles are widespread.  I was forcefully reminded yesterday that when it comes to getting under one’s skin, there are few who have the exacerbating skill of one’s relatives. It matters not what the contest is about. The kerfuffle can for example arise from an innocuous comment jokingly directed to an aging sister to the effect that she is “over the hill”. Such an inert tease!  Yet when friction arises between relatives, whether the result of a mere scrape or a smarting cut, things deteriorate with uncommon swiftness.

Assuming the parties end by flying apart from one another (accompanied normally by huffs and puffs, maybe even some tears, occasionally door slamming and easily some rich language) what invariably ensues in private is a combination of oaths about what we  intend never to do again and general misery and misgiving prompted by the unhappy event. As angry as we may be, we haven’t the privilege to abandon or ignore those to whom we are related.

This lugubrious after-the-fact reflection must of course bring with it a comparison of the family brawl to a dispute with a non-related person. And while it may oddly be easier and more convenient to condemn with unfettered reservation the conduct of the family member, the argument is doomed to splutter as we reconstruct the drama. Because we are so close to one another we are unwittingly armed with far more intelligence about what it is that drives another member of our clan to react so unfavourably, a fact which effectively acts as a buffer. For example we are subconsciously alerted to the background dilemmas in the upbringing of the other’s children; or the on-going battle between the relative and his or her spouse; or office stress or moving accommodations.  The mitigating context is as thick as the sarcasm we’re anxious to pile upon their heads; and the one cancels the other.  In the end we’re left with nothing but piteous remorse and our minds are redirected to an inauspicious scheme to extricate ourselves from the mess.  Suddenly all the blame and condemnation is without fire-power.  One can only hope that in the heat of the initial argument social propriety was maintained and that we haven’t conveyed sentiments which are irrevocable.

There is a lot of talk these days about anger management.  When I considered applying that terminology to myself in the context of a family disagreement I found the description off-putting.  I was appalled to think that what I considered to be legitimate objections were lumped into the undistinguished category of irritation.  Upon further examination I realized that the business of anger management is directed to the manner of dealing with objection not the quality of the objection.   This makes the undertaking more palatable.  I prefer however to counsel forbearance rather than anger management; that is, I think it more desirable to forego the anger in the first place and concentrate on being open to the larger picture of life; viz., that difference of opinion is inevitable.  To dismiss unpleasant observation as anger is a short-sell in my opinion. It suggests an inherent weakness.

This may amount to mere semantics. Whatever the gloss that is put upon family hostility, the result is the same.  It may be better to learn to bite one’s tongue.  Besides in a family there is a hierarchy which has been afforded deference, beginning with the infallibility of parents, followed by the dominance of the first born, descending usually in order of age.  This regime is legitimized even by Biblical references.  To fly in the face of such authority is risky!

A first-class concert by the Ottawa Summer String Ensemble conducted by Mr. Donnie Deacon was held at the Ron Caron Auditorium in the Almonte Old Town Hall, 14 Bridge Street, Almonte on the evening of Saturday, September 20, 2014.  If by chance you were not alerted to the affair through the Millstone News you might consider subscribing to News and Public Notices – Mississippi Mills:

http://www.mississippimills.ca/en/News/search.aspx

As often as it has been said it bears repeating that a visit to the Ron Caron Auditorium is an event of its own.  The moment you commence the ascent of the outside stairs of the Old Town Hall you are touched by the adventure.  The flurry of notices posted at the first landing speaks to the passion of the community for the venue and is a subtle welcome to what is clearly a bustling place.  One’s further absorption into the building immediately radiates charm, beginning with the old-world ticket window.  In addition to the ticket volunteer there are others positioned at the vestibule to direct traffic.  The massive wooden hand rail on the broad staircase which leads to the upper chamber firmly establishes the tone of tradition.

At the top of the stairs one begins the social experience of the auditorium.  Yet another volunteer is there to take your ticket.  It is likely you know the person and engage in a momentary chinwag; and a quick scan into the auditorium reveals others with whom you are already anxious to confabulate.  As you insinuate yourself into the crowd and locate your preferred seating, the texture of the auditorium impresses itself upon you – the wooden floors, the commanding stage, the heavy wine-coloured curtains, the sculpted wooden ceiling, the high windows, the ornate stage pillars and wall treatments, the old-fashioned lighting fixtures and the at times whimsical paint colours.  It is impossible not to be impressed and to feel in your heart that we are blessed in this Town to have such a delightful resource quite apart from the outstanding professional talent of the artists who grace us with their presentations.

It isn’t long before an animated conversation ensues with other patrons. The topics embrace current or upcoming political events, recent travels, stories of family and friends and just general gossip.  Even if you are unable to connect with everyone whom you recognize you nonetheless satisfy your enthusiasm for camaraderie by observing who is in attendance.  You may be prompted to render a nod of acknowledgement to someone in the distance or flip a casual wave of the hand or cast a beaming smile in their direction.  Not to diminish the genuineness of the undertaking, a night at the concert is still a society outing and therefore festooned with the usual harmless innuendo.  And I don’t hesitate to immerse myself in the smugness of it all especially at the expense of my urban compatriots.  The distinction of country mouse and city mouse is never more apparent to me than upon such an occasion.