This morning I awoke to an uncommon greeting. A welcome one to boot!  It was an email sent to me at 7:05 AM from a gentleman about whom I could recall nothing whatsoever, embarrassingly not the least of which was his outward form (quite apart from anything related to his ancestry or current celebrity). I did however recall the familiarity of his name and that our first meeting (which had been ages ago) was nutritious, even flattering because he had then reported having discovered on the internet something I had written which piqued his attention. My narcissism is boundless! Otherwise the man was a mystery (though this is not a fatal compliment because I have difficulty remembering what I did 30 seconds ago).

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The first rule of compounding: never interrupt it unnecessarily.”

― Charlie Munger

As part of his philosophy Munger lived in the same relatively modest California home for 70 years. When asked about living in more luxurious homes, Munger was quoted as stating: “in practically every case, they make the person less happy, not happier.” Munger appreciated the utility of a “basic house” with few advantages over living in an ostentatious home. Munger appreciated modesty stating, “don’t have a lot of envy” and “don’t overspend your income”. In Munger’s last 2023 interview with CNBC he credited his success and longevity to a long-held sense of caution and ability “to avoid all standard ways of failing”.

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In 1973 after graduating from Dalhousie law school (and before commencing Articles in September with Messrs. Macdonald, Affleck Barrs. &c), I had a summer job with the Judge Advocate General (Brigadier-General James M. Simpson, CD QC) who was an acquaintance of my father (Group Captain C. G. William Chapman DSO). I mention the paternal connection because it was transparent that of the five summer students in the office each of us was related to or acquainted with someone there. It was, now that I reflect upon it, the same manner of nepotism by which I secured Articles. On that occasion it was my mother who knew someone (a lady friend of one of the firm’s lawyers). Contacts, as offensive as they may at times appear, are except in rare instances the manner in which a great number of jobs are secured.  It was also the manner in which I ended practicing law in Almonte (through Senator George J. McIlraith PC QC who, in addition to having been Counsel to Messrs, Macdonald, Affleck Barrs. &c was father-in-law of Michael J. Galligan QC of Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barrs. &c by whom I was first employed). That latter introduction not unnaturally led to my acquaintance with Raymond A. Jamieson QC whose office I ultimately replaced with my own.

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The world abroad has the aspect of abandonment, hibernation and dormancy.  Whatever once lived there has either left or lies asleep in an alternate state beneath the ground. All but clumps of earth and spiky vegetation have been muffled by snow. The deciduous trees are denuded and rise from their roots like mournful patterned fans. Flakes of snow continually and gently flutter from the grey frosted sky to the smooth white earth. The cultivated fields illustrate an incomparably precise line of narrows in the ground, wending up and down to the distant horizon. Above is a dome of placid uniformity with only the muted glare of the sun occasionally perceived.

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The next three days are forecast to be snowy. To dub the winter weather a storm is overzealous; but because this is a weekend preceding Christmas it is reasonably predicted there will be uncommon activity stirring about the community. It is too to be expected that tempers will rise, people will be in a rush, the aisles of the grocery stores and the fuel stations will be pressing. The weather (even if hospitable) will involve winter grime underfoot; and, it will be all one can do to escape the kerfuffle and to get back home and sit by the fire.

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It’s early December and a snowfall has begun. Our tiny world of privacy, like a crow’s nest atop a masthead, affords us a welcome overview of the now neglected and whitened fields spreading to the horizon and the grey-blue ruffled water of the Mississippi River seen blurred by the snow through the spiny branches of shoreline trees. Intermingled among these tranquil vista are wavering throngs of pointed shrubs and an open-sided relic shed sinking into the ground overtaken by the encroaching cattails.

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Sometimes it is best to sit inside and watch the changing images outside. A wintry day is such an occasion. I must however intercept that logic by reporting that early this morning  – because of a scheduled drive – we confronted the challenge of a heavy snowfall by traveling to Smiths Falls to deliver a curious gift to friends. The drive was passable but not without its treachery. One small car made the mistake of accelerating too quickly upon snow and ended swerving back and forth before regaining a correct frontal alignment.  Fortunately at the time there were no other cars within immediate vicinity but a number soon approached and it was apparent that everyone was on alert.

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Fast Cars Superstars

When the base get bumping up in the club
Pour another shot and show me some love
I wanna get the party going, ladies to front
Now let me see you shake it and turn the music up

There is nothing wrong with a bland day. In fact I rather enjoy a bland day because it memorializes everything else, from putting on one’s socks to relishing the soft hues and the spiky trees of the distant minor vale by the river. What, I ask, can be more fulfilling than rejoicing in the pleasure of seeing and doing what is at hand! It is a relief from urgency and projection plus of course the adjoining lack of compulsive necessity. It is the gratification of one’s pertinency.

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Today was a cool day in early December. Grey sunlight blurted from a murky orb low in the sky hidden in a wintry fog. By late afternoon the breath of indoor heat was welcome. I passed a woman in the lobby carrying a bag from which protruded a silvery bough heralding Christmas decoration. A delicate almost imperceptible snow had fallen and for the moment remains undisturbed, the first of the Artist’s gentle applications of which no doubt more shall follow. Recovering roost at my desk while overlooking a now mystified white field and frowzy grey river, accompanied by a bowl of sliced green apple to the left and a tiny mug of chilled espresso to the right, I was fitted to address that inexorable question, “Now, where was I?”

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