Discovering meaning and purpose in life has ever been dispiriting and never been effortless. Try getting out of bed in the morning, especially Monday morning. Or even better, a rainy Monday morning! Now there’s a task! If you wish to accomplish the project with anything approaching alacrity, you’re going to need more than a little strength. And here I’m referring not only to physical strength but also to moral strength, that unseen stuff of which real men and women are made! If you’re akin to most of the herd, your expectations are high-principled, something which regrettably only makes the job more difficult – that business about reaching for the stars at a time when you can barely extend your weary legs to the hardwood!

Yet I’ll safely wager that if you were affirmatively to welcome the prospect of what awaited you on the other side of the bedroom door, your motivation would be considerably more aroused. The burden of living is not so much what has come before (if it were otherwise, hang-overs would be a tolerable penalty), but rather what is about to follow. In point of fact, it is far more likely that one will be disabled by the prospect of the future than by the percept of the past. The failures, embarrassments, inadequacies and short-comings which may distinguish our erstwhile personal history will, like so much dust beneath our feet, be washed clean with the benefit of time (not to mention the unfailing predisposition of our reliable friends and colleagues to empathize, something I’m certain you’ll agree we can take to the bank). But left alone to contemplate the distant morrow, watch out!

There is an understandable inertia to lying about one’s bedchamber. The metaphor of the covers is not without foundation. But even prolonged dalliance in the supine will ultimately loose its appeal, replacing complacency with little more than uncomfortable back pain. To horse, I say! To horse!

Here it is that one encounters those nasty bits of philosophy or, what is more probable in the bleary state of early morning awakening, those fears of the cold world that awaits beyond the warmth of the downy feathers. There is nothing comforting about having to face the world (barring of course the purely physical necessity of having to void one’s bladder). Whatever one may have successfully parried throughout the long night, whatever terrifying nightmares one may have forgotten upon the rude start of the day, there will however remain the inescapable confrontation with the proverbial “Why?”, or at the very least the less impressive “Now what?” I’ve heard it said that a similar plaintive ecphonesis (“What is the point!”) by some renowned French existentialist playwright was met with a concise retort from his cleaning maid, “To pay the rent!”, a crushing defeat for the absurdists to say the least. While having to pay the rent doesn’t exactly qualify as inspiring, it does at least have the value of being tangible. The last thing one needs before one’s morning coffee is a lot of nonsense about disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless and absurd world. One may as well check into the nearest clinic for schizophrenia!

No, no the deeper question is “Wherein lies the rub?”, or in plain terms, “What’s the catch?” If one is about to commit to a long-term relationship with life, one is entitled to know what likely disappointment waits in the wings. Granted it is a pity to have to re-enact this particular drama morning after morning, but like so many things in life, courage, courage! One cannot for example expect that such superlative awakenings can instantly unfold and disgorge their pearl as though on demand. It’s a matter of putting the right spin on things, showing off the subject to advantage, putting it all in the proper light so to speak. But as I say this takes time and considerable endurance. And small wonder! When you think about it, what I’m really asking is this: “What is the secret to life?”, not exactly a trivial question you’ll concede.

As you may have gathered from something I fleetingly mentioned earlier during the exposition of this thesis, the entire conundrum is made so much less trying if we have an appetite for what follows. Being properly inclined is what I mean to say, ebullience in a word. Now, there is no sense whatever in clinging to all those defeatist reasons you no doubt have stored in your handbag of grief and disillusionment; better simply to eject the collection and bounce into the next frame of existence. I mean, what have you got to lose? One hardly needs to be convinced of the inutility of it all, that’s a given. So one may as well put together a new knapsack of goodies (however optimistic) at the end of one’s walking stick and head off into the sunrise to greet the day! And if that doesn’t work, then get up to pay the rent!

It is easy to imagine that equable, balmy weather is a blessing. And yet (and I say this with overwhelming ruefulness) it is a subterfuge, calculated to unhinge us. Given a stretch of so-called “pleasant” weather, I guarantee one’s affairs become entirely discombobulated! The reason? None other than deception! The shrouding of our external lives with blue sky and a southerly zephyr is nothing short of deceit! Since when is life a bowl of cherries, I ask you? Mere rhetoric and free wheeling idiom!

Life is hard, let’s face it. It is even well documented that if you were to win the lottery today it is only a matter of time before you either lose it all or become disenchanted with your lot. Soon you shall rebound to your former state of discontent. For this reason alone, cloudy weather, drizzle, and storms are generally to be preferred; viz. , we can get back to the reality that is stagnation. That blip of our lives called youth is but a frantic effort to avoid confronting the ultimate truth: that in spite of it all we are destined to disappointment. How specious is the canopy of blue! How feint the summer breeze! One may as well tease a child with a distracting and senseless toy.

As a mature adult, however, one admits the facts. It behooves us as levelheaded beings to stand fast before cataclysm. No doubt you’re familiar with that pious ejaculation of remorse, “Vanity! All is vanity! ” The metaphor as you may already know has very little to do with narcissism. “Vanus” is Latin for “empty”. Understood in this sense, vanity is all about futility. Not surprisingly the symbols of vanity include jewels, gold coins, a purse and even death itself. These are reminders not merely of the ephemeral nature of youthful beauty, but also of the fleeting joy of life, its brevity and the inevitability of death. The upshot is that, try as we might, in the end life is devoid of content.

There are some who, confessing these inescapable (and may I say terribly well-reasoned) conclusions, seek to surmount the peril of such philosophy by strength of their own maneuvers. They witlessly adopt tactics such as alcohol or nefarious combustibles for example. Senseless! Perfectly dithering, not to mention a complete waste of funds. In spite of the broadside it appears to deliver to the enemy it is nonetheless right up there with the wild blue yonder, merely a diversion. Similarly conspiring to confound oneself further by bemused spiritual and mental distortions is equally doomed; no amount of goody-two-shoes philosophy will save the day! Mere recreation! Life communicates the language of condemnation and sentence; or (if one prefers the religious vernacular) it is ordained, our fate, our destiny.

If one is to accomplish anything in this life, one must discard the superfluities of our nature, cull from the essence of our being that which is mere fluff, both the dross and the dregs. Those worthless parts of our terrestrial experience are best avoided. We must get down to the hard work of being miserable. This is not a task for the faint of heart. No, no, this is serious business reserved for none but committed and clear-thinking individuals. Being wretched is not to invite pity; to do otherwise is synonymous with abject cowardice. Indeed if one is to avoid the woeful and deplorable contempt of a comfortable life, the adoption of a morose and humorless aspect is a duty not to be delayed.

More pressing is defining the very pith of life; namely, that life is nothing but a perpetual uphill battle with the only assurance being that of dashing hopes. It defies logic that anyone would actively dedicate themselves to bubbly living, a course of action which is destined to be a shipwreck. Hedge the regressive activity of dalliance and gird oneself for the trial that is living. Life is not a spare-time activity. Nor do the customary asides succeed to mollify the sting that awaits us. Embrace despondency and abandon yourself to loss of hope and courage! Only then will you be able to greet the morn – sunny or not – with anything approaching verisimilitude!

If that fails, have a cigarette!

One doesn’t have to look very far to encounter people whose fortunes in life are far less favourable than one’s own. Looking out over these sometimes distressing fates it is difficult to allow oneself to become anxious about one’s own lesser hardships. Nonetheless the universe is ultimately personal and our private reality defines our destiny whatever it may be. The thread which is common to the challenging experiences of both ourselves and others is the manner in which we address them.

The initial consequence of misfortune is customarily disappointment. This sentiment is at times aggravated by a general sense of bad luck as though the Fates have conspired to admonish us, sometimes as punishment (nemesis) for our great pride (hubris). Whatever the ramifications of such fortuity, it amounts to nothing more than an immediate search for the cause of the adversity. It is amusing how at moments like these we can become thoroughly philosophical, cultivating metaphors about crossed stars and elements of Greek and Roman mythology which make it inevitable that something unpleasant will happen. Characteristically the preoccupation is with the development of events outside a person’s control, sometimes regarded as predetermined, as though the course of one’s life is inevitable.

Eventually, however, these ideological sentiments give way to a random view of life’s allotment. It is then that the work of coping begins even though it is may be an up-hill battle to distance oneself from and abandon a fixation with the calamity. Putting the event behind oneself is as much a part of relieving the disaster as anything else. Allowing the cause of one’s personal misfortune to slip free enables one to proceed unencumbered, removing the risk of being further hindered and weighed down by it. While this may sound all too easily said, one need only consider the alternative, namely, what advantage is there in clinging to that which is past? In terms of pure reason, it makes no sense whatever to relive the moment of dashing hopes. Nor is there any legitimate possibility of reversing that which has happened as often as one might revisit the defining moment of disaster.

Life hastens along, bringing us with it no matter how reluctant or unconvinced. We regard our past like children looking out the back window of a speeding automobile at the receding landscape. It quickly becomes apparent that one must turn one’s direction to the future if one is to remain alive. This may sound to be an overstatement, but allowing oneself to remain entrenched in the past is little short of death, or at the very least disability.

A clinical estimation of one’s life is not an easy matter. Emotions tend to overwhelm our detached and objective view of the world. Nevertheless, it bears repeating that life is as neutral and yet as compelling as mathematics. Dealing with the numbers we have been dealt is what it is all about quite aside from the romanticism of a deity spinning the thread of our life or our notion of being seized by our fate. Even if it were so, we are bound to tackle what we have been handed. It is the removal of ourselves from the subjective arena that empowers us to proceed. Reduced to its elemental features, life is frequently not as difficult as it may otherwise appear. The binary system of mathematics comes to mind, similar to on and off, the yin and the yang, each representing mutually exclusive states or polarities. In short, you’re either in or out.

Assuming that one opts for being “in”, it behooves us to address our particular dilemma head-on. Given the complexity of the problems which some people face this is not always a colourless undertaking. However, one mustn’t under any circumstances be defeated by the principle that “You Can’t Get There from Here”. Until the thread of our life is cut, we owe it to ourselves to carry on. For every hill we climb there is the prospect of sliding down the other side. Today’s adversities can become tomorrow’s victories. The skill is learning to rise above it all, accepting a view of the world that is both detached and willing, not personal and recalcitrant. We are merely the drawing board upon which is written one of life’s stories. Granted, getting on the other side of a demanding situation is seldom fun. It exacts some fairly critical mental processes in the face of strong instinctive feelings. The reward is not merely slaying the dragon but nurturing our own finer qualities.

I think most of us have a sense of propriety when it comes to dealing with the ups and downs of life, as reluctant as we may be to do so. The bottom line is that we really haven’t any choice in the matter, which I suppose is the blunt foundation of fate and the portion of life we’ve been given.

I am beginning to think my office is a museum. After thirty-five years in practice in Almonte, and having assumed the practice and professional effects of Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson, QC who in 1976 retired at the age of 82 after 56 years of practice in Almonte and who was himself the successor to the practices of Percy A. Greig (1903-1962), Harold Jamieson (1892-1916), Alfred M. Greig (1873-1913) and Joseph Jamieson (1869-1893), there are ancient artifacts and collections of one thing or another here.

Among the paraphernalia is a large book containing drawings (on linen) of the “Water Works, Fire Protection” and houses and buildings in Almonte, colour-coded to illustrate whether they’re made of brick, stone or wood. The book, which is dated January 1950 at a time when the population of Almonte was stated to be 2,628, is described as an “Insurance Plan” being the property of the Underwriters’ Survey Bureau Limited, lent to Mr. Percy A. Greig on the following conditions: “That the plan is to be kept in good order, that it is to be used only in connection with business of Companies, Members of the Canadian Fire Underwriters’ Association, and to be returned on request”. I believe the book was used by Mr. Jamieson when he acted for the General Fire Insurance Company of Paris, for which body corporate I also have an antique glass paperweight.

Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson (the “A” was for Algernon by the way) wore quite a few hats during his lengthy career in Almonte. Foremost was his profession as a lawyer. When handling a real estate transaction, in addition to doing the conveyancing, he was well connected to people such as the late Dr. Johnson of Carleton Place who had seemingly endless piles of money to lend on the security of a first mortgage. I recall having seen advertisements posted by Mr. Jamieson in the Almonte Gazette proclaiming the availability of funds. And, as noted, Mr. Jamieson could also arrange your household fire insurance. He further acted as Clerk of the Town of Almonte which I fully suspect explains how he was able to secure the large 1893 Town of Almonte parchment map – one of two only, the other being in the Land Registry Office. The map now hangs in my inner office.Mr. Jamieson also acted as solicitor for the Town of Almonte. Note, for example, that in 1953 Mr. Jamieson was witness at the execution of an Agreement between the Corporation of the Town of Almonte and the Board of Park Management whereby “the trusts and special purposes mentioned in the grant of certain lands to the said corporation by the executors and trustees of the last will and testament of Winnifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill are hereby annulled”
This Agreement was part of The Town of Almonte Act, 1953 Statutes of Ontario, Chap. 110, a private member’s bill in the Ontario Legislature to set aside the terms of the last Will & Testament of Winnifred Gemmill to enable “Gemmill Park” to be used in part for residential housing. Gemmill was one of the rich British people who operated a woollen mill in town. The persons behind the private member’s bill included George M. Dunfield (Mayor) and Robert J. France (Clerk). The Chairman of The Board of Park Management was Geo. L. Comba and the Secretary pro tem was A. Levitan. It was a condition of this assault upon the will that The Board of Park Management “shall erect and at all times maintain upon the park property a suitable Memorial Tablet reading: Gemmill Park, donated by Winnifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill of the Town of Almonte, formerly the property of James Dunlop Gemmill of Almonte, deceased”.

Hanging on a wall of the office is a Crown Patent which distinguishes itself not so much by its date (July 3, 1828) but by the excellent condition of the large beeswax seal appended to the Patent by a faded ribbon. On the seal is clearly visible the word “Imperial” over the icon of an ornate anchor.

On another wall there hangs a picture of the graduating class of 1921 at Osgoode Hall which is singular in that it positions the 9 graduating ladies in a cluster, not alphabetically as with the gentlemen. I also display a photograph of J. C. Smithson on the day of his retirement as Land Registrar of Lanark No. 26,before amalgamation with the Perth office, Lanark No. 27. Coincidentally the photo captures Jack registering his last document which happened to be one of mine, a Deed (though whose I cannot discern from the photograph).

The office furniture, much of which I inherited from Mr. Jamieson’s office, includes a sturdy but uncomfortable bench in the waiting room. I’ve added a royal blue velvet covered cushion made by Mrs. Cynthia Guerard of My Upholstery to improve its comfort, though the back is still uncommonly rigourous. The bench came from Bank of Montreal across the street, and was, I am informed, where people sat patiently awaiting an audience with the manager. When the bank decided many years ago to convert its appearance to modernity, Mr. Jamieson enquired of the manager whether he could purchase the oak bench. The manager said he couldn’t put a price on it, or he wasn’t able to sell it, so he gave it to Mr. Jamieson for one dollar.

Mr. Jamieson also acquired a large safe in an odd way. The safe was being sold at a Sheriff’s Execution auction to satisfy a debtor’s creditors. I recall Mr. Jamieson having told me that the sale took place in Carp or possibly in some rural venue in the former Township of West Carleton. Anyway, when Mr. Jamieson expressed an interest in the safe and enquired as to its price, the Sheriff asked, “Are you going to move it?”, to which Jamieson said “Yes”, and the Sheriff immediately replied, “One dollar!”.

I now have three safes in my office, the smallest having been originally employed in the offices of the late Albert T. Gale who founded Gale Real Estate Company. The middle size safe – the most elegant – was one which Mr. Jamieson must have bought for himself. I learned more about that particular safe when a refined lady client was sitting in my office preparing to sign some documents. She turned her head to examine the safe, whereupon she exclaimed, “I didn’t know we made those!”. I asked who “we” was, and she explained, “I’m a McCulloch; that was my grandfather”. The florid writing on the safe was “The Goldie & McCulloch Co., Limited of Galt”. When I asked what “we” did make, she looked coldly at me and said, “Boilers!”.

In addition to having the Revised Statutes of Ontario going back to a two-volume collection of 1897, which I suspect was the first to be produced, I also have the Upper Canada Queen’s Bench Reports from 1845. Those case reports eventually morphed into what is today called the Ontario Reports. Just as the modern case law has much to do with the automobile, the ancient texts had much to do with horses. In addition I have an entire collection from the 1930’s of Halsbury’s Laws of England, which is to this day a reliable and incisive collection of the British Common Law. In many instances the footnotes are longer than the main text. I have a collection of numerous corporate seals, among them, The Rosebank Cheese and Butter Co-Operative Limited (Rosebank was the lovely former name of the nearby Village of Blakeney), Royal Scarlet Chapter L.O.L. No. 482, Stella, Ontario, Albert Gale (Ottawa) Ltd., G. H. Hill Motors Limited (one of the best know General Motors dealerships in Almonte for many years) and Mississippi Curling Rink.

Once you are bitten by the technology bug there are seemingly endless possibilities to feed the disease which is the fruit of the sting. The only governor of the ensuing wild gyrations is the knowledge that, apart from the capital cost of the product, there are always associated “connection” costs which, while seldom overwhelming, are nonetheless one more in the rising pile of automatic deductions from one’s long-suffering bank account. It makes you stop to think, “Do I really need this?”

Competing with the economics of the indulgence is the innate sense of competition which so many of the A-type personalities who are attracted to these devices secretly or unwittingly harbour. After all its gratification is more than just having a “cool” product. If we are to believe the media hype and even intelligent marketing of specialist magazine and newspaper reviews, these devices help us to work better and smarter, words which are a drug to the aggressive entrepreneur. Combine this conviction to modernity with the paranoia of being left behind, and you have all the ingredients required for a Saturday morning rush to the nearest Apple store to gratify the urge!

Have you been to an Apple store lately? It’s like visiting a lunar living room. Sparseness, plastic and chrome just about sum it up. There is absolutely nothing superfluous to the dedicated purpose of computers and gadgets. You do not risk losing the least bit of attention to the subject. There is nothing else to preoccupy you. Compare it to giving a dog a dish of food in an empty room. What’s not to like! The only reluctance I have about the place is that it is so decidedly adolescent that I almost feel as though I were a trespasser, or even worse, a criminal in a forbidden world of white-washed youth, although I accept that it is one of the failings of the baby-boomers that we are unwilling to relinquish our hold on the formative years.

Inevitably, however, the debate comes back to the fundamental question of whether I need to cart yet another piece of luggage about my person, as fashionable as it may make one feel to have a lap-top or other device slung over one’s shoulder (assuming of course that your knees haven’t become too weak to carry the added weight). Pointed deliberations about the essential need of these devices are like cold water on the heated acts of a frantic stock broker. The task, however, is not an easy one, given that it is so effortless to rationalize the expenditure of another $700 these days, a small price to preserve one’s place in the perpetual line-up to technology heaven. The devices further represent the puerile attraction we’re all so reluctant to admit, and to abandon involving the toy element.

Most of us have by now exhausted our original fascination with automobiles, ski-doo’s, sea-doo’s, ATVs and lawn tractors. Computer toys have the advantage of being not only highly personal (we don’t have to share them with the kids) but also highly portable (we can take them like a Teddy bear wherever we go). Yet one still must ask, “Do I really need this?” The question is almost indelicate, like asking Elizabeth Taylor whether she really needs another ring. Rubbish! It’s not about need at all! And who at our age needs to be told what to do!

So much of growing older is about defining one’s limits, not necessarily in a restrictive way, but in the manner of characterization. How do we see ourselves? And how do we want others to see us? Computers and gadgets help us define ourselves by enabling us to jump with both feet into the world of technology, easily bandying about the words PDF and USB as though they were second nature to us; or, we can recoil from the consumer gluttony sponsored by the latest commercial fiends, trading under the names of Microsoft, Apple, Rogers and Telus. We are able to get a grip on what really matters and snap our fingers at this popular madness.

And yet I’d really like an iPad.

We all know those rose-cheeked folk whom one suspects as having been born with a riding crop in hand and who profess to have no regrets. They invariably adopt a firmness of purpose and are prepared to re-enact every particular of their ineffable lives. I’m sorry, but my inclination is rather to let well enough alone. What’s done is done! Indeed even a bit of camouflaging dust thrown upon the tracks of the past is not in my opinion either unmerited or undesirable. Frankly there are things I never want to do again. Now don’t get me wrong, I haven’t to my knowledge any unpardonable offence to hide. There are simply certain dramas the repetition of which I can cheerfully bear the deprivation.

Take, for example, school. With respect to our devoted educators, as buoyant as one might become upon the subject in retrospect, I ask you, who in their right mind can honestly say that they liked school! I mean, what’s there to like about having to remain mum and glued to a singularly uncomfortable bit of pine plank for prolonged periods with nothing more refreshing on the horizon than knowing that later you’ll have to spend hours memorizing the principles which have just been paraded before you. It’s a sentence, not a learning experience! For all the enthralling things which have been uttered in song and poetry about reading, writing and arithmetic, I have to say that the experience is more a fantasy supported by voodoo folklore and failing memory than anything else. Back then, school was for most of us nothing short of a hardship to be endured. So humdrum was the undertaking (though I thankfully survived it and thus escaped a condemnation which would likely have been worse by comparison) that I would, for example, never consider going back to school for any amount of structured learning.
There are nonetheless certain individuals who spoil the averages by positively pining for higher learning – consider the chap who after a career as a bureaucrat decided to study theology. But those hyperboles are diverting more for their infrequency than otherwise. Perhaps in one’s latter years, the classroom holds other attraction, but to my thinking the trade-off is disproportionally against the likelihood of advantage. In any event the whole point of getting older is to cultivate the nuances of one’s private philosophy, something which requires the absence of interference except from the learned minds of the past specifically by way of leisurely examination of the ancient texts in the comfort of one’s drawing room. There comes a time to hang up the runners and ruminate upon yesteryear.

While getting a job is right up there with acquiring an education, the process is distinctly not something I wish to repeat either. My particular aversion to the enterprise is compounded by my inherent lack of political will, by which I mean I am more individualistic than corporate. I am not prepared to sacrifice my principles by acting in the interests of status within an organization. My object in life has always been to be independent and self-reliant even to the point of compromising, if necessary, creature comforts in order to preserve dominion over the conduct of my personal affairs. This is a luxury which most can ill afford in the budding stages of one’s career, and thus one is obliged to submit to the hiring mechanism to secure a foothold in the world of commerce. I am amused to hear of people who, after decades of having done one thing or another, choose to set themselves adrift in the hopes of finding a new and often unrelated business or calling. While I admire the enthusiasm, if the task involves applying for employment, I’ll give it a miss, thank-you!

Church is another hot topic in this context. Based upon what I’ve heard recently, the numbers of the congregation are dwindling steadily and maybe even exponentially. This naturally recalls that there was at one time a healthy congregation, something which is no mean observation considering the number and variety of local places of worship. Many of the older members of the community such as myself were raised in the bosom of the church. In fact as a youngster I literally attended church every day and twice on Sundays. For good or for worse, that pattern has lately been disrupted. Rather than fuel the fires of polemic, I prefer to rest my current preference upon a combination of factors which, temporarily at least, have caused me to distance myself from this particular form of association. I acknowledge that the choice is not dissimilar to throwing the baby out with the bath water, and yet the preponderance of evidence worldwide is in my opinion unfavourable. I am quick to add that my decision does not embrace anything larger than organized religion, that is, the controversy does not include the more far-reaching contemplation of the Almighty. As the world becomes smaller and smaller it is inevitable that we should bump up against the need for some comparative thinking and for the time being that has succeeded in immobilizing me in this particular sphere.

On a less heady subject, I am bound to include in my inventory of preferred abstinence no less than alcohol, dreadful subject that it is! I am the first to admit that a frozen martini was traditionally a glory not lost upon me. Now however I relegate the pleasure to youth and others more capable of withstanding the assault. Increasingly I find the visceral delectations of life are being overtaken by the cerebral, dare I say the spiritual. No doubt this development is no anomaly, but rather a mere by-product of aging generally and likely a small compliment as a consequence. Given the competing demands upon one’s strength, it is perhaps easier to face the music of another day without the contamination of the juniper berry (though admittedly its reputed remedy for rheumatism and arthritis makes the case less compelling). Nonetheless on the balance I am now prepared to look wistfully upon my hardier days of delight and cheerfully supplant them with Nature’s less provocative rewards of mind and soul.

I’m guessing that everyone knows the 1937 show tune from the Rogers and Hart musical Babes in Arms entitled “The Lady is a Tramp”, the one about the gal who “doesn’t bother with people she hates”. I don’t know about you, but I’m there! Having to put up with people whom I know will be nothing but trouble is that last thing I’m about to repeat. As unforgiving and shallow-minded as this may sound to those who cultivate a wider view of life’s oyster, I am steadfast in my opinion that there is far more to be garnered from active avoidance of controversy than the competing imperative for unrestrained inclusiveness. Granted this supreme satisfaction is not universally available, especially where one’s friction arises in the context of family. In such circumstances the best one can hope for is the foresight to rise above the perceived injury and maybe even politely excuse oneself from the arena before the fracas ensues.

I’ve heard it said that there are only four topics of conversation: sex, gossip, bodily functions and shopping. Based upon what has preceded, it appears that I have completely failed to target even one of the expressions of social exchange. I apologize for this conspicuous bankruptcy. Likewise I can see that my retraction from continued learning, alternative employment, social convention, the pleasures of the table and strict etiquette can easily be construed as little more than the slithering retirement of a curmudgeon. I prefer to speak of my withdrawal as one of rising tranquillity, not diminishing hibernation. The object is not to become either reclusive or surly, rather to afford myself the prescription for conduct that ultimately pleases. If the agenda induces me to side-step the venturesome patterns of my erstwhile youth, then so be it.

Frugality I have lately discovered is not only about penny-pinching, prudence and economy. Tragically it’s also about abstinence and self-denial. That isn’t exactly what I had bargained for months ago when I first began thinking about thrift and planning to reverse years of unrestrained profligacy. Adding this element of asceticism to the remedial project goes well beyond mere moderation in my opinion; in fact it transforms the endeavour from what I imagined to be saccharin accounting to something entirely different and personal, and not in a good way.

I have unwittingly unearthed this unforgiving truth repeatedly over the past several weeks. It now appears that I was temporarily insulated from this discovery during the first portion of the year when my disbursement was then marked by mandatory cost-cutting measures, or at least the necessity to spend what modest surplus I had on demanding things like capital renovations. It is a thankful blessing for me that abhorrence of disrepair trumps even my fiery passion for personal indulgences. Now however, with those property management responsibilities behind me, I am once again thrilling to the delight of having some loose change. Daily there are unfolding alternatives for its speedy disposition, just like the good old days! It is utterly remarkable how compelling the marketplace can be to those of us who are open to persuasion and materialism generally! The recipe for this catastrophe-in-the-making involves not only the expected prerequisites of capital and craving, but also such extraneous features as the weather and the regularity of one’s bodily functions. Combined there is a sense of unsurpassed bien être, and before long one is either caressing the latest object of admiration or typing one’s credit card number onto a now familiar web site.

But wait! It is at this critical juncture that sobering self-discipline, like a sudden wave of cold water, spills over me. Actually the awakening is far more intellectual than biological; there is an academic supremacy to this business about saving money. It really is as clinical as I had at first visualized! The higher form of analysis conveniently elbows the inferior instinctive appetites out of the way. Such blunt and superlative rhetoric as “Do I really need this?” comes to mind. Before long one is engaged in even more profound scrutiny invoking hitherto uncharted areas of examination, including for example a summary of the electronic devices one already owns or the recapitulation of the number of sweaters currently burgeoning in one’s armoire. The result is the same effect as dissecting a chocolate pie; viz., it all but kills the hunger, not to mention the enthusiasm.

While I admit that the insight is subsequent only (though happily never too late), it unceasingly astounds me how quickly one is capable of racking up a sizeable overhead on relatively unimportant items. As always it isn’t the grains of sand that matter, rather their cumulative effect, which I suppose is a distinction without a difference though the metaphor more readily affords the lesson. I am reminded of the adage, “One can’t have money and things”, a dire warning to the spendthrift!

Getting oneself into the frame of mind for stinginess requires more than a little adjustment. Overcoming a wastrel’s behaviour is I suspect akin to the alcoholic learning to avoid the drink at all costs. Like most religions, it is uncompromising. Granted the day may come when even economy can bend to the wind of excess, but there is likely as much hope of that happening as winning the lottery. Sadly frugality is a lengthy sentence. Consider, however, the alternatives; namely, being relegated to a lifetime of putting out the fires arising from burning up one’s credit card or line of credit. Eventually that motif becomes more than a bit tiresome. In the end the material world has by definition no attraction or relief. This of course begs the question whether, when all is said and done, is it better to have a fistful of the right stuff or a box with the most toys?

Here the debate becomes decidedly heady, highlighting as it does the dichotomy between the “here and now” and the “there and then”. Who hasn’t heard the arguments on one side or the other for enjoying life today or saving for the future? The question pits the extremists against one another. At times the cause is made the easier for the one by the untimely death of a comrade; at another by the prolonged misery of a destitute vagrant. No doubt there are those who would seek to straddle the boundary by advancing the theory of reasonableness in all things, as though that were somehow a popular commodity.

Having had to come down off the fence in the conduct of my own affairs, I admit there has been a goodly portion of luck at play. On the one hand I was able to indulge myself in the pleasure of my squandering, yet subsequently I was able to exchange the tokens for cash (albeit at a discount). This I interpret as fair compromise. I am keenly aware that not everyone is so privileged to be able to unload one’s misfortunes. Having been given the opportunity, I am now more than ever cautious about pressing my providence. Besides there are new openings on the horizon to which one must be sensitive in order to gain the advantage. Repeating the same blunders year after year is after all hardly advisable. And more than a bit boring.