This time I fell from my tricycle, my EVO tricycle, not from my bicycle as I did last year.  Apparently the issue is more than balance; the three wheels of the tricycle were profitless on this occasion. I was briefly on the sidewalk, attempting to regain the roadway after avoiding the construction crew, but I tipped onto the pavement.  As you might expect the fall was not entirely precipitous. But it was withal undignified.  I had been barely moving.  But the curb of the sidewalk afforded just enough elevation from the road that I lost balance.  I probably would have spared myself the embarrassment and injury if I had been moving more quickly.  But I wasn’t. The trike tipped. And I fell.  In the result I made a bloody mess.  Banged the left 4th finger (which I suppose was a welcome sacrifice in favour of the bloodstone pinky ring); uplifted the top layer of skin on my left-hand palm;  blunted my knee (the new replacement knee so I hardly felt a thing); and finally damaged my left shin (though I have no recollection what I hit, whether the pavement or an interfering particle of the tricycle).

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If there were a singular word to be said of old age, it is the word “admission”. The uncomplimentary thrust of the word must not defeat its liberalism or scope. Being free to acknowledge the realities of life is for me a welcome change.  Nor is the reality one which somehow contaminates the whole.  Nor one which I regret saying in the first place. The admission is not that life is bad; rather that life is indeed short, that we should endeavour to enjoy every minute of it and that nobody needs to hear your medical history once again.

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Thankfully I awoke this morning before ten o’clock.  I glanced at my watch and muttered that I had spared myself two extra hours today.  Yesterday by contrast I had slept into the eleventh hour.  It was noon before I made any headway. Yet both nights before I had retired at a sensible hour, say 11:00 pm two nights ago, then 10:00 pm last night.  So it isn’t that I am going to bed late.  It appears to a congenital affliction of old age.  Sleeping.  My father was always snoozing on the garden deck in the summer. I remember wondering how he warmed to the custom so easily. Now I know. I regularly fall asleep for a short while after breakfast. And I feel better for it afterwards.  Just a short absence.

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There isn’t one news channel I prefer.  In fact overall I have to say I don’t particularly like any one of them.  Apart from the tolerable retail angle (making money), the news channels are no different from any writer. They all want to be heard.  For the time being we’ve generally got what is called the news media (to which all broadcasters belong, feigning to be factual and unbiased).  And then there is FOX NEWS which is blatantly fulfilling a purpose beyond reporting the news.  It seems that adoption of opinion is a safer ground for cultivating one’s audience than relating the facts.

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It was Henry VIII who first proved the irrelevance of religion (except for personal gain). He didn’t care about theology. He just wanted what the Protestant monarchs had – freedom to act without approval from the Church. From the beginning, Anglicanism was all about the king. His supporters converted straight away. Those who opposed him remained Catholic. For those in power the independence of church and state became a classic example of, “Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer.” I suspect the barons and earls who controlled parliament felt much the same way.

Henry VIII (1491–1547), son of Henry VII; reigned 1509–47. Henry had six wives (Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, Katherine Parr) and three children (Mary I, with Catherine of Aragon; Elizabeth I, with Anne Boleyn; and Edward VI, with Jane Seymour). His first divorce, from Catherine of Aragon, was opposed by the Pope, leading to England’s break with the Roman Catholic Church.

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Light – as we all know – is critical to seeing things.  What however we don’t often euologize (or at least, champion) is the the singular and beautiful alteration of light through the effect of clouds or the humidity of the atmosphere. The quality of the light evident today for example seemed to reflect the time of year and the nature of the season, including the mounting ambient soft temperatures. As we motored down Hwy#416 from Ottawa to Prescott then subsequently along the St. Lawrence River, we repeatedly eyed vistas of riverscape, homes and properties which previously had not manifested themselves with such vitality and enthusiasm. It may have been the unmistakable awakening of green in the fields and upon the leaves of the trees; or the glistening maritime allure of the yachts moored in their coves; or the streaking azure skies among the billowing white clouds with their tincture of grey. The world had exploded with colour!

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After a lifetime of relentless accretion, getting rid of stuff is a challenge. It is commonly an abrupt reversal of tack, the downhome stretch on the port side. I say downhome because no longer is the objective the limitless open sea. Time to reef the sheets. Very often the perturbation is called downsizing; and, considering the square footage of the modern apartment, the accommodation is less than florid and far from figurative.

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Apart from geography and its potent enterprising images, the cruise industry is foremost abuzz with the pledge of unparalleled luxury. Nor is the epicurean extravagance just for romantic old fogeys. They encourage singles too. And the introductory video shows a suite with a Steinway & Sons grand piano (which once on board I have every intention of seeking out). I have no doubt too that the stimulation of the gastric and neurological sensibilities forms a vital part of this overall picture.

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Not everything at this time of year is about the blitheness of springtime. Though by contrast to that withering overture, I had an effervescent moment this afternoon at Walmart. I cleaned out their entire stock of synthetic long-stem roses both red and white. They’re for my precious Lalique vase. While waiting at the checkout counter I privately mused whether this bit of retail might qualify as springtime gardening. To be frank the quip is less than poetic.  I don’t recall ever having done anything approaching productivity in a garden. Unless perhaps when I planted those real red roses which the sun promptly detroyed because I foolishly put them against an unobstructed southwesterly wall. And I as perishingly overlooked the business of watering.

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It is unquestionably a small compliment that an old fogey such as I suddenly feels as though he were picking up speed.  Frankly since retirement precisely a decade ago, the majority of my time has been devoted to lethargy not vigor.  And by design. To my mind it constitutes the ultimate flattery (and muted satisfaction) to have nothing to do, nowhere to go. But guilt has overtaken me. The perception of time running out is equally incremental to the prepossessing hurry to run before I get there! To me that sounds like dividing a distance in half perpetually as though it were a logical formula to compete with finality. Which of course it is not.  Hence I settle for the camouflage of excitement. A convenient deceit.

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