As diminishing as the observation so often is, there is certainly no unexceptionable need to feel embarrassed about a habit. One of mine of especial note is an afternoon custom. Nor I suppose is it necessary to dignify the regularity by calling it a custom. The relieving feature – howsoever characterized – is that I adore my afternoon ritual. It is a fully anticipated ambition to which I project myself from the moment I set foot upon the floor planks in the morning.  It is as much an unwitting though imperative part of the scope of my everyday ablutions.

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The US presidential election is Tuesday, November 5th, 2024. Voters in each state and the District of Columbia will choose electors to the Electoral College, who will then elect a president and vice president for a term of four years. By contrast to this impending event of global curiosity and gravity we here at home have to remember to remove our car from the subterranean garage in anticipation of a floor cleaning.

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Though it speaks both to my indolence and my industry, doing anything or doing nothing today was but another uncommon late summer wonder.  The singular predominance in spite of the stoic or sybaritic posture was without doubt the weather. The temperature climbed to 22°C and the sky was clear. The forceful 213° SSW wind (gusts at 49 km/hr) enlivened the balmy air with a velvety caress. It was only late in the afternoon as tomorrow’s cooler autumn air approached that the cloud formations began to overtake the azure dome.

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Things today have gone from good to better to best.  I won’t say I awoke early this morning. Traditionally I do not sleep well, never have.  While I may have slept well as a teenager (though frankly I haven’t any recollection that far back), I do know with clarity that in my early career it was not uncommon for me to stay up late at night flipping through television channels while lying on the floor in my upstairs den, my head on a pillow, with my French bulldog Monroe cuddled in my right arm.  I found that if I stayed awake until 2 o’clock in the morning I had a better chance of falling asleep when I finally blended in with the feather bed under the goose down duvet.

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Being as I am inclined to reckless extravagance and perhaps as a result not having made a financial success of myself in the past ¾ of a century, I am reluctant to touch upon the decorous subject of understanding money.

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A flat tire? Get it fixed. Keep moving. It doesn’t mean you’ll never have another obstacle. Nor does it matter who is at fault. But neither is it a question of predicting the future. It’s about moving to the next cog, applying a bit of the old oil along the way then slowly but determinedly increasing the gear ratio while keeping your eyes on the road.

Though this paradigm may seem elementary it is pragmatic as well. Dealing with matters other than theoretically is a more reliable way to confront life’s modifications. Its certainty is in fact its paramount attraction.

There are nonetheless alternatives to certainty. I won’t say those postulations are entirely a gamble. If you’re the type of person who can survive without an identifiable result; if you can sleep soundly through days of ambiguity or mere possibility; if you haven’t the need of plausibility or borders, then no doubt you can overcome the hindrance of miscalculation or redirection too. Thus to an extent it’s a question of opinion and options. Perhaps simple forbearance.

Although I have advanced the utility of certainty, it may be the preserve of the obsessive mind to monopolize what is in fact only the demonstrable fiction of regulation. Notwithstanding its validity a putative right turn can just as easily and just as theoretically transform to a wrong one. But there is a limit beyond which the prediction of peril is unwarranted and unhelpful. Once again it isn’t about wagers; it’s about being prepared.

Oddly in spite of the incontrovertible wisdom of these words there is a tendency often to endure or succumb to the inconvenience of the alternative; that is, in the face of pitfalls we mistakenly assume our capacity to leap over or bypass the impediment. What it is that restrains us from adaptability is curious. My experience has led me to conclude that it isn’t overt resistance rather uneducated training or stubborn resolve both of which are characteristic anomalies in any context. And be assured that it is a fault common to those whom you might think were spared the indiscriminate conduct. Indelibility by its nature knows no boundaries.

A hurried look at my MacBook Pro calendar discloses a number of events planned within the upcoming ten days: a Pre-op at the Queensway Carleton hospital, Bose® headphones ear cushions from UPS, my brother-in-law’s 70th birthday, month end deposits from pension plans and our financial advisor, a routine visit from our housekeeper, annual ultrasound imaging of my partner, my erstwhile legal assistant’s 40th birthday, a nuclear injection followed by melanoma, wide local excision and sentinel lymph node surgery for me. And finally somewhere in that bewildering mix, the United States of America presidential election.

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October 28th, 2018

2:40AM

An autumn snowfall, the first of the year. We were with you when the breath left your body, holding your hand. I know you knew we were there. The nurse said it wouldn’t happen tonight, but we hoped it would; it was torture to see you in pain. She said sometimes people might hang on, not wanting to leave if they know their loved ones are there. We stroked your hair and let you know it was okay for you to go.  We toasted you and thanked you. We were filled with a sense of privilege and duty to accompany you on your final journey. When your eyes fluttered open and you jolted, we were told you couldn’t see us, but we reassured you anyhow and we noticed your last tears. No one will know what you saw as your lungs slowed; but then we felt your peace. We didn’t let go until we were sure you were really gone. In the hours between the worlds you left this one a red fox appeared at the window, and we knew you were okay

Editor: This affectionate memorial was composed by my niece and goddaughter Jennifer for my late mother Yvonne.

As we crawled amidst the burdensome traffic into the city early afternoon today en route to a family foregathering at the home of my sister and her husband along the Rideau Canal nearby Dow’s Lake, memories bubbled to the surface. My first recollection arose after crossing Pretoria Bridge onto Hawthorne Avenue. It is a now abandoned roadside building which once housed a highly reputed antique sterling silver jewellery and accessories retailer.  The owner was notoriously well-informed (to the point of didactic), thorough and reliable. For his part my partner recognized the grocery store where he formerly shopped when living on nearby Metcalfe Street in Centretown. The immediate object of our journey was the Green Door at 198 Main Street. It is a vegetarian restaurant and bakery.  We had ordered a specialty cake as our contribution to today’s luncheon. Over thirty-five years ago I had been associated with the owner when the store first opened. Though we haven’t been able to return as often as we would have liked, each time we have done so has been an unqualified hit.  Today’s dessert was no exception at table.

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If comfort is happiness and happiness is inexpressible then comfort is inexpressible. Sounds about right to me.  Incontrovertible (though admittedly not hugely informative). But it’s a start. Having absorbed myself assiduously this morning on the balcony ruminating about the logic of life’s elemental premises and conclusions while idly looking upriver at the glistening water and hearing the cacophony of Canada geese assembled overhead in various incalculable patterns, I have derived from this elemental yet elegant logic the straightforward conclusion that comfort is inexpressible. The deduction is immediately reminiscent of the similarly ambivalent talisman, “If she knows why she loves him she doesn’t!” Each inference is the product of a direct and simplified method of reasoning. Yet to say that lovers do not know one another, or that contentment is ineffable, is clearly not without its complications.

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