At one time, it was not entirely unfounded to prefer a European rendition of almost anything over an American one. That preference, however, often translated into a certain hauteur when discussing American productions—food, art, music, even automobiles. It was difficult to escape the cachet of anything French, Italian, German, or Swiss.
I did, however, develop a bias in favour of American hardwood furniture from North Carolina—manufacturers such as Henredon, Thomasville, Maitland-Smith, Sligh, and Wesley Allen. No doubt this reflected my growing interest in home decoration. I broadened that education by researching Canadian-made products from Gibbard and by studying what I encountered in Country Life magazine from England.
Canada’s oldest furniture factory, The Gibbard Furniture Shops Limited of Napanee, Ontario, was founded by John Gibbard, a cabinetmaker who arrived in “The Napanee,” as the village was then known, in 1835. Shortly thereafter, he leased a mill on the canal that still runs through the Gibbard plant. He began manufacturing sash, doors, furniture, coffins, and a variety of implements for local farmers, including fanning mills.
The company remained under family control for four generations until 1940, when it was purchased by Jack McPherson, formerly its sales manager in the 1920s. Subsequent presidents included his widow, Mrs. Jack McPherson, David S. Roffey, and Bruce R. McPherson, the final chief executive.
In 1964, the company launched its flagship Canadian Legacy line of mahogany and cherrywood furniture—widely recognized as one of the finest Canadian furniture lines and sold internationally, from Kingston to Madrid. Seventy Canadian embassies and high commissions were furnished with Gibbard pieces. Bobby Orr reportedly slept in a Gibbard bed, and even Sir John A. Macdonald is said to have written at a Gibbard desk.
In 2009, after 173 years, the company closed its doors.
As for automobiles—an interest I was developing at the same time—I confined myself to nearby dealerships. The idea of interrupting my law practice to travel any distance for mechanical service struck me as impractical and unnecessarily time-consuming. Given that my practice was in the country, most local dealerships sold domestic models. Japanese and German marques were only beginning to establish a presence in those years.
That pragmatism did not diminish my fondness for American cars. Over a lifetime of roughly twenty-five new vehicles, every one has been an American make—exclusively General Motors and Ford. I continue to admire American automotive craftsmanship. With some regret, and a touch of disdain, I observe the current popularity of what I regard as imitations of BMW and Audi—vehicles that strike me as little more than glossed-up versions of Japanese racing toys, appealing to younger drivers with their noise and low profiles. I concede, of course, that this may simply mark me as an old fogey. My preferences have not changed in seven decades; I take that, perhaps, as a small compliment. I have also switched to fully electric automobiles – admittedly a vernacular attracting increasing popularity of Chinese makes.
Although I would not claim to be widely travelled, I have had the privilege of visiting Europe on several occasions—London, Paris, Düsseldorf, Hamburg, Rotterdam, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Helsinki, Oslo, Neuchâtel, the Costa Brava, St. Tropez, Sanremo, Rome, Montepulciano, Florence, and Cagliari. I have driven across Canada from coast to coast, visited resorts on both the Gulf and Pacific coasts of Mexico, explored many Caribbean islands, and travelled extensively along the eastern seaboard of the United States, with brief excursions to San Francisco and Las Vegas.
These experiences are tempered by the observation that there is, ultimately, no escaping oneself. Whether in my own home in Almonte or overlooking a forest of church spires in Rome with a martini in hand, everything is filtered through the same eyes and mind. Travel broadens, certainly—but recognizing its limits tempers the longing we often attach to distant places. I have always been somewhat sedentary, and with age I find myself less inclined to endure the inconveniences of travel.
All of which at one time brought me to the modest conclusion that Florida represents an agreeable compromise. There is something to be said—perhaps something shallow—for driving one’s own car, both to the destination and while there. Air and rail travel hold little appeal. Europe, particularly in its southern reaches, no longer exerts the same pull it once did. And there is comfort in remaining within the North American sphere—language, culture, and medical systems included.
It may sound complacent, even narrow-minded. I readily concede the charge. The truth is that my maverick impulse now extends no further than a road trip to Key West, to stay at the Waldorf-Astoria Casa Marina.
Alongside this inclination has grown a corresponding esteem for American ways of doing things. I had always taken pride in the conduct of my own business—an unqualified commitment to high-quality service. Nothing was permitted to dilute that objective. In my experience, the American model of business is often guided by a similar seriousness of purpose. I have generally found it a pleasure to deal with Americans.
An unusual feature of American society—one often acknowledged privately but rarely discussed openly—is its system of class distinctions. To deny their existence in a society that proclaims equality is, frankly, implausible. My own view is that such distinctions, however unfashionable, reflect a certain realism. They imply reciprocal duties and obligations and acknowledge that while circumstances differ, value and contribution are not thereby negated.
The phrase “all men are created equal,” penned by Thomas Jefferson in 1776 and refined in its final form with the influence of Benjamin Franklin, remains one of the most enduring declarations of the American experiment. Its meaning has been debated and expanded ever since.
The expression “Ugly American” is often invoked as criticism, though I suspect it is not entirely free from envy. Similar characterizations have been directed at other nationalities. The charge typically centres on a perceived brashness—a willingness to live loudly and visibly. Whether this arises from temperament, means, or both is difficult to say.
From where I stand, approaching the later chapters of life, I find something rather appealing in that inclination—to enjoy oneself fully and to expend more energy in living than in worrying about appearances. Not all Americans fit this description, of course; I am speaking of a certain type. Still, I find their company congenial. It encourages a robust camaraderie and an unmistakable sense of bon vivant.
Let me add one final point.
All cheese is processed. Every last bit of it. It is a human invention, not a naturally occurring substance. Even the simplest varieties—halloumi, for instance—require the deliberate intervention of rennet to separate curds from whey, followed by draining and pressing. More complex cheeses involve additional techniques: mozzarella and queso Oaxaca are kneaded and stretched; Gruyère and Comté are washed in bacterial brine.
So to the cheese purists, I propose a simple arrangement: you refrain from prescribing what belongs on my cheeseburger, and I will resist the temptation to place American Singles on your carefully curated cheese board.
