Inevitably one hearkens back to the past; curiously to reflect upon how things have changed, where people have gone or ended up and how things began so many years ago. And of course to repeat that some are no longer whinnying among us. Plus more acutely confronting where oneself has landed after the fray that is existence.
My idle reverie emerged today as we drove into the city to collect some freshly made crab cakes and other delicacies in anticipation of a New Year’s Eve celebratory dinner. We passed by a motel which I recalled was once owned by the family of a chap who lived in residence when we attended undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall on Bayview Ave and Lawrence Ave East in Toronto. He was a portly fellow but as is so often the case he combined his epicurean ornamentation with a personable buoyancy and an invigorating openness. He may have given me and my friend Max (from our boarding school days together at St. Andrew’s College) a Christmas card with what he denominated as “the gift for the man who has everything”. I believe it was a device for rolling up the expended portion of a toothpaste tube.
Thinking of him (the motel chap) reminded me of another remarkable character whom I met during the same period. Martha was her name. She distinguished herself particularly by demonstrating an uncommon familiarity with social showmanship. Not only was she spectacularly good looking; she was (as I subsequently learned) rightfully entitled to the prestige of being the granddaughter of a woman (her father’s mother) who, when traveling by train, had her own private car. Her father was similarly distinguished; he was a Privy Councillor and (as I latterly discovered) was seemingly acquainted with everyone who had been anyone in the city (though admittedly the specifics related to a bygone era). His colourful anecdotes for example spread across the North Atlantic Ocean to Italy where, as Henry (that was his name) rejoiced to inform us that it was customary for his Italian host afterwards to invite those with whom he had dined to the local brothel to complete the evening. All of which was followed by gales of uncontrolled laughter. And usually a nod to the steward for another round of libations.
The recollection succeeded to transfer my recovering images to the Château Laurier Hotel where I and many others of interest were members of the Health Club complete with its Victorian swimming pool, steam bath, sauna and massage parlor. Because the hotel was adjacent the Parliament buildings it was not unusual to encounter Members of Parliament amidst the fog in the steam bath. Even the nephew of a former Prime Minister (Chrétien); indeed once a Prime Minister (Trudeau) himself. Or members of the Cabinet.
I too confess to be amused by society. It pleases me no end to qualify my mediocrity dismissively as a country lawyer. There were in fact certain of my clients who, notwithstanding their social celebrity, pronounced it their preference to engage the services of a country lawyer. To them of course I am eternally indebted. And they have their own marks of singularity including mansions by the river, condos by the sea and a Rolls Royce automobile which one (Susie) laughably shrugged as easily confused with a Mercedes Benz.
Lately I have come to admit that all those teaching functions from elders to youth about the critical nature of choice and the prophetic need to work hard and continuously are not without merit. Naturally it is the abrasive tokens which one recalls, those which are not merely the word of wisdom from 1 Corinthians 12:8 but rather those of the character “I told you so!”
But we’re all now far beyond repentance. The prickings of conscience will not improve the bowl before our eyes. Instead our ambition ought less sorrowfully to be extraction of the gold in the veins of our past.