Given the passion people have for distraction, it makes me wonder why we haven’t more to occupy us without all the fuss.  Is it so plainly insufficient to watch the world go by?  Are we such dullards that we haven’t the resource for personal satisfaction?  Can we not at least combine the two undertakings of occupation and observation as was formerly done in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City?  Fashion, intrigue, curiosity and public display all rolled into one!  Granted there are substantial limitations upon that particular option as there are with any other.  A night at the opera or an afternoon at the museum have in spite of their improving qualities a shelf-life.  Eventually divertissement is exhausted and one has to get down to the sustained business of facing life on its own unadulterated terms.  You can’t expect to be endlessly entertained. Besides surely there are limits to the value and necessity of external stimulation.  Is the enjoyment of life otherwise a vacuum?  Are we afraid to confront life without the fluff, the salad without the dressing?

It has long been recognized by even the most blithe intellectual that doing nothing is one of the most difficult things.  This no doubt explains the overwhelming mania for diversion.  I rather doubt that those stricken by idleness take the time to work through the philosophical distress of it. Boredom would be the more likely default and that hardly qualifies as investigative thought.  It’s just that I have  remarked how rewarding it is to take notice of what is staring you in the face, all that free stuff out there just begging to be appreciated, the real country fields not the gallery renditions. Yet learning to enjoy life without the aid of organized outings is an acquired talent, possibly I admit an attraction more for old people than the young. Meanwhile, until that intoxicating debate is resolved, it is considered easier to capitulate and look around for something to do.

A stock response to this unflatteringly conundrum is that one needs a hobby. This amounts to nothing more than tactical recreation.  It is but another hurdle in the sprint towards understanding life (assuming as I do that to understand life is to enjoy it).  If on the other hand you believe that life is so vapid that it requires additives then I am defeated.  There is the alternative propounded by Samuel Beckett and his crowd of absurdists who make a mockery of life as nothing more than waiting for something to happen (with their assurance that nothing will). As I am notoriously impatient I am not about to wait for something to happen.  Nor am I satisfied to dizzy myself with manufactured obligations which artificially consume my life. Unfortunately even in this conviction one is struggling against inertia. We are rather like an old spring which has been wound in one direction for its entire life; to unwind that spring will require sustained modification.  The risk of rebounding to its initial state is considerable.  Yet this highlights the urgency of preparing for the task.  Frequently that means learning to enjoy life as an observer rather than front and centre.  Both qualify as participatory with the obvious shift of the lime light. Admittedly this is not a selling point for those who wholeheartedly embrace the philosophy, “Moi, je suis le centre du monde!“

Bear in mind that whatever the tactic or logic enjoying life is the sole object. Even if everything that is served up isn’t to one’s satisfaction, it is helpful to recall that it may be the last supper.  Holding out for something better is a chance I’m not willing to take.  As such the enjoyment of life becomes not so much a delectation as a disposition; that is, one must be perpetually poised to absorb whatever flavour is imparted.  It oddly reminds me of a particularly licentious friend of mine who counselled making numerous advances on the gamble that one of them would eventually pay off.  Like it or not we’re virtually tossed about upon the tide of fortune.  It is both a fiction and an hypocrisy to imagine otherwise.  What however intrigues me about the process is the ability to reflect upon it as we submerge and surface in the life which flows upon us.

You can bet the Ivy League crowd won’t tolerate more jewellery on a man than a watch and a signet ring.  Men and jewellery are considered incongruous in the more traditional circles. Yet within prescribed limits men’s jewellery portrays powerful status symbols. The signet ring for example with its engraved escutcheon is the upper middle class translation of what was once the reserve of a feudal lord to authenticate legal documents.  The feudal lord being primarily an agrarian had far too robust a character to admit to literacy (an effeminate trait peculiar to the clergy and lawyers).  Even the deportment of the jewellery was significant.  The signet ring was normally worn upon the left pinky on the theory that the right hand was dedicated to the manly business of unencumbered hand shaking.  Pocket watches (often adorned with expensive gold fobs) enjoyed the same blazing pronouncement as the bejewelled sgian-dubh of Scottish Highland dress.

In the minds of some people jewellery on men says as much about them as tattoos which is often a small compliment.  The more vulgar display of large and expensive jewellery is frequently associated with disadvantaged people who have nonetheless acquired the trappings of wealth through suspected nefarious means.  Even if the cost of the items inspires secret admiration, its prominent exhibition is viewed as lower class.  This distortion has undergone main-stream modification at the hands of celebrities who often sport exceedingly large and preposterous watches.

The diamond ring is normally associated with the engagement of women for marriage; however it has come to be an important feature of men’s jewellery symbolizing success and wealth.  In such conventional but hedonistic venues as the Empress Hotel, Victoria it is nothing to see a parade of usually elderly men sporting a diamond pinky ring.  The once refined and utilitarian signet ring has made its mercantile jump to static symbolism.

As office attire has relaxed so too has the jewellery standard for men.  The most common articles of fashion for men are now necklaces and bracelets. When gold was still affordable most jewellery was made of it; however, it is not uncommon to see the same pieces made of silver and even leather or other base metals which are embellished with gaudy stones or synthetic crystals.  Wearing more than one necklace or bracelet at the same time has become both routine and fashionable, a habit cultivated in particular by popular musicians.

For the serious man wrist watches remain the domain of important and exclusive jewellery.  Here a man can indulge in virtually limitless expense while maintaining the deceit of modesty.  Additionally the complicated watches satisfy the aficionado’s appetite for mechanical intrigue not to mention the consumption spin-offs of engraving, automatic watch winders and jewellery boxes.

There is a set of men who get an honest thrill from metallic substances.  For those with trained sensibilities the feel of different metals can be very appealing.  Items made of platinum for example provide the indisputable reward of weight and inherent durability.  The luscious appearance of 24K gold is equally moving.  The buttery feel of .925 silver is likewise appealing. And because jewellery is always an accent, one mustn’t discount the combined effect of the colour of different jewellery against the skin of the wearer. Platinum though generally less sparkly than silver imparts a very rich flavour when worn against the darker skin of a Latino.  The import of a clear diamond against the milky skin of a Protestant octogenarian is an indisputable statement.

While most men’s jewellery is worn about the fingers, neck or wrist there is an evolving realm of jewellery worn about the waist.  The incremental return of clothes resembling the zoot suit has brought with it the featured watch chain dangling from the belt to the knee or below, then back to a side pocket.  Until the complete absorption of that fashion, some men are hanging from a belt loop an expensive and highly artistic key chain manufactured for example by Mont Blanc.

Men’s jewellery formerly associated with evening dress (shirt studs and cuff links) has taken a hit because of the downgrading of formal wear generally.  Meanwhile there is a culture of jewellery for men of every class and station.  Inevitably there are gross distortions of what were once subtle adornments.  Sometimes the evolution is clever such as the large battery-powered watches which synthesize the sweep hand of a manual automatic watch.  It is hard to argue with the ingenuity of such jewellery which has a stand-alone attraction apart from its affordable price.

As with almost everything else the purchase of men’s jewellery has undergone significant change as the result of internet on-line retailing.  The whimsical appeal of jewellery is quickly satisfied with a mere click.  The web-based merchants have tapped into the resources of off-shore manufacturers who drastically lower the price of even once prohibitively expensive items.  Niche marketing to men is common (for example the appeal of skull and bones jewellery for bikers).

Whatever the choice or cost of jewellery the fact remains that men and jewellery are all about appearances.  And I think the imputation of an underlying psychological function is also warranted.  The symbol portrayed by individual choices is as unique as the person who wears the jewellery.

“We never-ever argue, we never calculate
The currency we’ve spent
I love you, you pay my rent”

“Rent” – Pet Shop Boys

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhhRabpOrNA

Within the limitless array of personal relationships there are nonetheless conspicuous patterns. Some of the more provocative are those embracing a seeming disparity between the two persons, everything from a mere inconsistency, imbalance or variance to egregious divergence, dissimilarity and contrast. Take for example the consortium of a retiring intellect with a convivial bombshell, never an impossible union but one which traditionally inspires an uplifting of the brow and less than seemly innuendo about hidden talent. Then there are the differences promoted solely by physical dissimilarities, say along the lines of the English nursery rhyme of Jack Spratt and his morbidly obese wife. Others constitute mere gaps of age. Equally common is the gulf that exists between people of distinct social backgrounds, George Bernard Shaw’s 1912 play Pygmalion being a popular example (involving phonetics Professor Henry Higgins and the bedraggled Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle).

Whatever the contrast between the parties and howsoever wide the apparent chasm between them there is invariably an underlying theme which is more than unconcealed love. I won’t go so far as to suggest the inspiration is calculating but at least pragmatic and symbiotic. As quick as we are to condemn certain cultures for their conventions of arranged marriages, the reality is that many of our own personal alliances are founded on a good deal of planning or “mutuality” typically to the advantage of both. There is however an even larger and more prevalent realm of relationships which, while practical from a working point of view, has nothing whatever to do with vulgar pecuniary matters. Instead the operative word is complementary; namely, combining in such a way as to enhance or emphasize the qualities of each. Inevitably the scheme comprehends not only harmony but also reciprocity. It is also important that the parties are interdependent much to the disappointment of those wound up by the modern rage to remain one’s own island. Certainly there is a selfish element to the arrangement; specifically that people seek others with characteristics that are different from and complement their own. On a higher philosophical level, it is the Yin and Yang concept. The important derivation is this:

“Yin contains the seed of Yang and vice versa. They constantly transform into each other.”

This heady intellectualism however is soon jettisoned when the bond enters the sphere of what is disparagingly called “gold digging”. Then the boxing gloves come off and there usually follows some pretty round conversation. Before being quick to judge I have to ask whether the arrangement was worth the price of admission; and further who it is that is getting the better deal? As popular as it is to observe that whoever marries for money will earn every cent of it, this overlooks the more complicated aspect of the confederacy wrought by the exercise of economic power and the need of the exponent to satisfy the urge.

No matter how one characterizes or explains the foundation of a personal relationship in the end the relationships which persist for longer than a weekend are more likely than not driven by elemental components having the primitive and inescapable force of nature. As with any puzzle the pieces must fit and this can entail some fairly distorted combinations. There is for good or bad room for experimentation. Clearly things do not always work out as one had hoped. As we reassess our own needs the formulation of the perfect partner can assume unusual and unintended results but whatever the repercussion it is assured that the model is complementary. Making music is not about discord but harmony. If a relationship is to be a continuous narrative it must at least be parallel if not perfect. While the need to rationalize the relationship is more apparent when the parties are seemingly incongruous, this does not mean that any relationship is less complex and more easily defined than another. To work, the relationship must be complementary.

Tampering with the evidence is not good strategy.  Facts should be allowed to speak for themselves.  Manipulation by any other name is corruption.

Yet every day we see it, a common example being the tactic of aging people to change the colour of their hair.  While this perfidy may be easily tolerated as a harmless deceit, we are less forgiving of people who have nose jobs, Botox injections or amplifications of body parts.  At a certain juncture the deliberate attempt to alter one’s appearance is considered by many a distortion of the truth.  The stock retort to the accusation is that nature is simply being helped along, that there is no need to suffer the indignity of what is reversible and that besides it’s nobody’s business if someone wants to improve themselves. While the latter objection is at least philosophically compelling and may indeed sustain the entire argument, my interest rather is in the less tautological thesis that nature may be improved.

Certainly both the physical and intellectual qualities of a human being are the better for their exercise and educated development.  Eventually however the condition of a person is fairly unalterable; we can only be a work in progress for so long. Eventually we’re there.  And when we’re there, I suggest it is time accept it.  Granted change is perpetual but after a point the change is incremental only.  Then it is time to get down to the business of being you.

It discombobulates some people to have alternatives.  After all it is often the luckiest who have the privilege of choice and it is that very feature which incapacitates them. This conundrum arises from a misunderstanding of the limits of life.  As broad as it may appear life is nonetheless circumscribed.  In plain terms you can’t do everything; you have to make a choice.

I am a great believer in instinct, the intuitive response to things.  This doesn’t mean that you must reduce the abstract elements of your being to questions of appetite; it means you follow your nose.  Eventually we have saturated our experience sufficiently to know what we prefer and to whom we relate.  What more could one ask for a compatible relationship?  If we convey those preferences to people who care we have the makings of good communication. By the same token there will be cast-offs, people to whom we neither appeal nor relate.  If you’re struggling to be heard in a noisy world, it doesn’t help to raise your voice.  People will listen if they know it’s you.  Your unique timber and take on things is what makes you different and interesting.  If you make an attempt at anything else, who are you kidding!

My political career is over.  I’m a washed-up politician even before I’ve started.  Three months ago I succumbed to the encouragement of valued friends to run for election to municipal council.  That was nice of them to draw my attention to the opportunity but it was precipitous of me to have embraced it.   I had just retired and I suppose I fashioned that I needed something to keep me busy.  Recently however I came to my senses and withdrew my nomination.  The venture seriously conflicted with my initial retirement plans, specifically spending the winter on Hilton Head Island, SC.  And I discovered there were far more council, committee and sub-committee meetings than I had expected.  Through research I discovered the cost of flying back to attend those meetings was prohibitive.

I have of course known politicians throughout my life.  I recall having met Lester  B. Pearson on the Village Green in Rockcliffe Park many years ago when John Turner (whom I also met at the same gathering) was a rising star. As a first-year law student in Ottawa I worked closely with Jeffrey Lyman DeWitt King when he was elected as President of the Liberal Party of Ontario.  More recently two of my cronies  who became federal members of Parliament visited me in Almonte.  Naturally I have known most of the local municipal politicians during the past thirty-nine years.

I always admired politicians for endurance of what I imagined to be a rough road.  For that reason alone I was wary of politics.  Occasionally when I amused myself to contemplate the possibility of public office I hastened to remind myself that one’s life is subject to scrutiny.  I am generally not up to the task of defending my character.  Certainly I knew that everyone else might suffer the same risk but I hadn’t the arrogance to presume I could rise above it.  I was a back-room boy if anything, not a front-line guy.  Nonetheless I eventually hardened myself to that reality.

During my three-month career as a candidate for election I made an effort to acquaint myself with local issues and prominent personalities (people who carried social weight or who governed important organizations in town). Meeting people in my political capacity put a new light on them.  Many of them I  knew personally yet their character changed notably in this new context.  All of them had an agenda (as one might reasonably expect).  Some were far more socialist than I ever imagined.  Some were very clear about their expectations to the point of being uncompromising. It didn’t take me long to recognize that I risked losing my independence.

Luckily for me I didn’t become submerged in the election process.  The election was still a long ways off (October 27, 2014) and coincidentally there had been a provincial election in June so the electorate wasn’t up to much additional canvassing at the time.  Even though I had already arranged to print 2,000 election brochures for myself I discovered two typos and therefore did not distribute them. I planned to have the brochures re-printed but decided out of an abundance of caution to wait until nominations were closed (September 12, 2014) in the event that the current candidates were acclaimed without a contest. Of course I ended dumping the original brochures in the recycle bin.

Although it had no direct bearing on my decision to withdraw my nomination, recent events in Almonte had the appearance of influencing what I did.  A proposed hydro-electric development on the Mississippi River in the heart of Almonte had run into vocal opposition and the local Council was being blamed in large part for it.  While the Mayor (Jack Levi) was the brunt of most of the invective, Council as a whole was taking a palpable hit.  Council was being portrayed as having abandoned the interests of the public in favour of the proponent (Jeff Cavanagh).  All in all it was not a good time to be a Councillor and anything which derogated from the current popular sentiment was seen as political suicide.  I suspect that the scuttlebutt which attends my withdrawal will connect it with this issue though like everything else in politics its significance will hold sway only temporarily before being forgotten entirely.

It is of course the privilege of the masses to mock their betters.  Being on the outside looking in is by far the more comfortable view but I confess I have considerable sympathy for the Councillors.  If the events leading to the approval of any decision were re-enacted it is questionable in my mind whether anything would ever change.  Imperceptibly circumstances alter and each small event triggers its own modification.  I will however be spared the embarrassment of having to rewind or reconsider any political decisions (other than the one to quit).  Certainly I will miss not having the opportunity to include public office in my obituary.

We’d all like to improve.  The general rule that practice makes perfect is counterbalanced by the principle that one should not repeat bad habits.  Mere repetition does not qualify as practice.  I know from my childhood days of piano scales and arpeggios that practice and repetition go hand in hand. Practice must however capture some elemental purpose before its repetition pays dividends.

That elemental purpose is the vein of gold.  There is an inclination that one must dig deep to find it, a belief that the inescapable forces of our nature are somehow hidden.  They are not.  They are obvious.   It only compounds the search for gold to suggest that there is a secret to its discovery, a preposterous thesis because we already know what we are made of.  We sometimes disguise our primary features because we imagine them improved if we do so.

 Capitalizing upon our essence requires more bravery than intelligence; it is a fairly mundane occupation and far more visceral than cerebral.  But because we so often feel the need to decorate the product we dilute its original strength.  We haven’t the courage to speak from the heart as it were.  Tapping into one’s voice is of course the object.  Even if one doesn’t immediately recognize how to get down the river it may help to recall there are two ways of doing so:  either you know where to go or where not to go.

It is human nature to protect ourselves.  This unfortunately sometimes translates into a concealment which like so many other pretences in life succeeds in fooling ourselves and no one else.  Here again a bit of daring is required.  This  doesn’t mean that we must simply be audacious.  It means we have to be bold enough to see that our constitution is made of diverse features and it is their blend which produces the ultimate result.  Alloys are not contaminants.

The search for gold becomes confused if one tries to predict its source before finding it.  The process of self-discovery is one which unfolds naturally and not artificially.  It isn’t a tedious process, just methodical.  Like learning to play the piano.  One cannot jump into a Sonata before learning to read the notes.  The same applies to any talent.

Everyone likes a robust flavour.  Unplugging ourselves goes a long way to enhancing our reception.  Part of the revelation is not only what others see in us but also what we see in others.  Admission of inherent prejudices and preferences isn’t failure, it’s natural.  And besides, it’s you!  We all know when someone is speaking out of the side of their mouth; it does nothing to advance the truth of the matter.

I have a vague memory of having been served an egg-in-the-hole when I was very young.  It was not a meal I repeated often if at all.  However my interest in the subject was particularly excited later in life after I saw the movie “Moonstruck” with Cher and Nicolas Cage.  It was Olympia Dukakis (who portrayed the crusty Italian mother in the film) who was preparing an egg-in-the-hole in a now famous breakfast scene.  There was something compelling about watching a classy Italian woman casually preparing a solitary and unique breakfast for herself while engaging her daughter in an important conversation.  She may have added red peppers out of a jar to the meal.

For most of my life I taken my breakfast out of the house.  When I was at boarding school we naturally went to the Great Hall every morning.  During my working career I religiously attended the Superior Restaurant every morning exactly at 8:30 a.m. There I sat (until I had my open-heart surgery) for thirty-two years in the same booth in the same place usually with same five other guys and I always had the identical breakfast (two fried eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast and peanut butter).  So you can see that egg-in-the-hole was neither topical nor especially popular.

Last year we visited Sardinia where we nestled in a villa atop a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean.  Because we were so remote (at least beyond easy walking distance from any café) we cultivated the habit of making our own breakfast.  Very early in our stay I discovered that I could fry large slices of Italian bread with local olive oil, sea salt and butter in pan with an egg in a hole of the bread slice. Immediately outside the door of the kitchen was a Rosemary bush from which I plucked shards of the fragrant herb and liberally sprinkled them over the olive oil soaked fried bread.  Perfection!  The cool morning air which wafted over the stone kitchen floor heightened the early morning smells and magically blended with the distant sea and blazing sunshine.  I believe the recollection of that matutinal ceremony constitutes one of my fondest memories of Sardinia.

A dinner party is serious business, as serious that is as anything else I do, which is to say quite so.  When once I have committed to the affair I go full hog; the details are important.  Everything I do in preparation for the evening must be done to my highest personal standards.  For example, when shopping for the provisions I make a distinct point of getting all the constituent elements including the spices even if I already have the same spices in the cupboard.  To my thinking I may as well get everything from the ground up because I entertain so seldom that it wouldn’t hurt to refresh any stock I already have.  And if there is a repetition of goods in jars, that is not a bad thing as they will eventually need to be replenished anyway.  Meanwhile for the dinner party I’ll have the benefit of the new stuff.  As for fruits, vegetables and bread, they of course must be absolutely fresh.  My culinary repertoire is very limited by any estimate and therefore I must do my utmost to put my best foot forward.  Compromise is a needless and false economy in these matters (which now that I think of it is pretty much true about everything I do).

The talent of a good dinner party is only partly – though admittedly importantly – the food.  What matters as much if not indeed more is the reception one gives one’s guests.  If nothing else that means getting them talking about themselves.  True, a bit of sharing of one’s own recent exploits is imperative as well, but the preference is always to give the guests plenty of free rein.  As calculating as it may sound, knowing how to make a good cocktail also helps.  My latest rage is the once popular Side Car (Cognac, Cointreau and lemon juice):

The exact origin of the Sidecar is unclear, but it is thought to have been invented around the end of World War I in either London or Paris. The drink was directly named for the motorcycle attachment, the drink appears in literature as early as 1907.

The Ritz Hotel in Paris claims origin of the drink. The first recipes for the Sidecar appear in 1922, in Harry MacElhone’s Harry’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails and Robert Vermeire’s Cocktails and How to Mix Them. It is one of six basic drinks listed in David A. Embury’s The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks (1948).

It is equally important to get the guests to the dinner table without too much delay (which means not too much preprandial booze especially if there is to be wine and Porto subsequently).  I also recommend keeping the hors d’oeuvres to a minimum (on the theory that the best sauce for any meal is an appetite).

I prefer to keep the guests out of the kitchen although many feel compelled to do what they can to “help” (things like removing dishes from the table).  Normally this is superfluous for the small dinner parties I arrange (foursome); the service work can easily be handled by one person while the other host lingers with the guests.

Although I have always cherished the weight of sterling silver I have discovered that it is really unnecessary.  Much better to have flatware that can be put into the dishwasher.  No one will thank you for the expensive stuff when all is said and done. Quality porcelain on the other hand is not unappreciated.  The same goes for the stemware (Tiffany if you have the choice) and placemats (Bartlett prints being my favourite).

The astute host will be aware of the state of one’s guests as the evening progresses.  Even if the host has timed the drinks and the provision of food correctly a guest may nonetheless succumb to the soporific effect of nourishment.  This is easily handled by inviting the retiring party to recline on a nearby bed or – if that is considered too forward and perhaps embarrassing – then to ensure the prompt conclusion of the event.

While I have heard it said that if you are well enough to write a thank-you note the next day you didn’t enjoy the party, this adage is not of universal application and certainly won’t apply in all instances to the host (who should largely remain sober and in control of the proceedings).

Having recently retired from the practice of law after enduring it for thirty-nine years, I am regularly asked how I am adjusting to the new experience. Oddly it required some time before I was able to formulate a response but generally the blanket answer I now give is that retirement is very satisfactory indeed.  In fact I have accommodated the change of pace and occupation so well that I can’t imagine a more superlative state of being at this stage of my life.

Naturally this desirable adventure is entirely unique and it has therefore regularly given me pause for thought.  I have reflected upon my fortune many times and from many perspectives.  For one thing retirement encompasses more than my working career; I have retired from a former theatre of life.  The geography has entirely changed.  From the time I entered high school I have been perpetually preoccupied with performance; it insinuated every aspect of my being. The engrossment was so obsessive that it was nothing for me to have forfeited any number of normal human considerations for the cause of my profitable investment.  I thought nothing of working deep into the middle of the night and subsequently surviving on a mere several hours of sleep for the rest of the day; or forgoing the pleasure of social interaction (whether with family or friends) if it interfered with what I knew to be necessary study or work time; or driving myself for seven days of the week, fifty-two weeks of the year, year after year with never a holiday.  I fully accept that the force behind the devotion was more than a passion for success; probably it was a fear of being overtaken by failure for I likewise acknowledge that anything I have accomplished is very much the product of perseverance and has less to do with talent.  Less this sounds puffed-up  let me add that while I have always been happy with what I have achieved in life I am the first to admit that at best I am a big fish in a little pond.  No matter, the effort in getting there was for me no less demanding and I can assure you I’m in no rush to repeat it.  I am quite happy to let it go.

Retirement is as much a convenient accident of my life as everything else has been.  I wouldn’t for example have had the wherewithal to retire if it were not for my serendipitous alliance with my partner in crime for the past twenty years.  As unpropitious as it sounds even my former profligacy affords many of the material benefits which are collateral to our companionship.  As such I continue to ride the wave.  Certainly I am aware that planning and restraint are part of the current scene but once again these apparent compromises have been accomplished effortlessly and often more speedily than imaginable.

I regularly remind myself of what my physician said following my open-heart surgery seven years ago, “We didn’t think you’d get off the table!”  That has the salubrious effect of repelling any hesitancy I might have about making a career of inactivity.  Of course I’m joking; I haven’t any intention of becoming or inclination to be inactive.  While I am open to the possibility of employment on almost any level (my former ambition was to be a chain-smoking dishwasher in Key West while living in a concrete condo to keep the terminates at bay) I suspect the reality is that working for a living will never happen again.  What is more likely is that I shall become absorbed in reading and writing, not an altogether uncommon experience for those who have retired.  Until then I continue to relish the privilege of retirement.  I have even sought to purify this rarefied atmosphere by abandoning any other undertakings which might qualify or taint it.  In some instances the retractions have been elective (because they no longer advance my purpose) and in others mandatory (because I plan to be out of the country fairly extensively).

The removal of additives and impurities from my life has undoubtedly been helped along by the recent renovation on almost every front of my existence. Virtually everything has changed.  The office building was sold; my law practice was sold; I retired from employment; the house was sold; we moved into a small apartment; many of our valuable personal effects were auctioned and sold; I bought a new car; we’ve arranged to winter in South Carolina. Even my father has died, his estate has been settled and my mother’s financial affairs have been entrusted to a professional advisor.

Now I delight in snapping my fingers at suit coats and polished leather shoes!  Instead each morning I happily don whatever bit of commodious cotton I prefer.  If I fashion a bit of glitter, so be it!  And I can’t recall the last time I felt compelled to drive to the car wash at four o’clock in the morning to furnish myself the pleasure of driving my car.