Seated on the balcony in the mounting noonday sun (on the inalterable and seemingly impenetrable black plastic armchair from Levi Home Hardware I so fawningly admire) – my eyes closed – I was lost somewhere in Greece on a small island in the Mediterranean, a sea of swaying green cornstalks with golden crowns before me, a refreshing azure river passing by and the clinging scent of the morning’s ablutions in the breeze. The radiancy of the sun was penetrating and dry. I contemplated an excursion. The evolving choice was homemade cinnamon buns (but no focaccia bread). I had called the bakery in Spencerville for certainty. That whimsical image vanished. The Ozempic is working.

I did however adjust my clockwork routine, first, to exclude a tricycle ride (it’s only one day of indolence – a relief from brutish humdrum habit); and, second, to unfetter my vehicular ambitions on this vibrant summer day in late August, a day of brilliant yellow sunshine, white wispy clouds and blue trailing sky. In preparation for this limitless outing – in preparation for the confrontation of my limited reality – I poured into the cup of my right hand the Tylenol pain killers and the orange rubbery soft gel of legitimized cannabis extract, then gulped it all down with a short cup of cold water. Where shall I go today?

Already CBC FM is playing its immersive classical music (by coincidence a favourite, Rachmaninoff), the ideal introduction to an ideal Saturday afternoon. Time now to prepare for departure, to elevate oneself from the colloquial idiom to one of moderate innovation or learning. There is always opportunity for learning. It is a privilege to devote oneself in whatever state of accommodation to the trifling diversions afforded. I say this with no intention to diminish. I wouldn’t rewrite the manuscript otherwise. Game on!

Hours later:

Apparently I misjudged the day’s anticipated activity. There was a long line of cars from the Queensway to an entrance off Palladium Drive into Tanger Outlets shopping mall in Kanata. No doubt, pre-school shopping. The traffic extended to the “back” entrance of the Petro-Canada gas station on adjoining Campeau Drive where I now have the car washed (pending renovation of the outlet on Hazeldean Road in Stittsville). Quickly I removed myself from the immediate area and headed northeast parallel the Ottawa River towards Arnprior situate adjacent McNab/Braeside Township, Renfrew County. Once again there was more traffic along that normally tranquil route than I had expected, almost all of which continued to pass me before I disconnected and drove home along Panmure Road.

No sooner had I accomplished the centre of town, I saw a young man wearing the kilt, walking his son in the direction of the Agricultural Fair Grounds on Water Street where I learned is being held today the 40th annual Lanark North Highland Games. This explained the commotion in town. I was reminded of the contribution made to the Games by the late Bruce Robert Henderson Monteith who exemplified the not atypical celebration of a native Scotsman of highland heritage. It was through Bruce that my partner and I (as well as Scott Jeffrey Reid, Member of Parliament, Lanark-Frontenac-Kingston) joined the Fraser Highlanders from Montréal.

Reid was born in Hull, Quebec, the son of Leatrice (Sibales) and businessman Gordon Reid.  He holds a Bachelor of Arts in political science and a Master of Arts in Russian history from Carleton University in Ottawa, and has written on federalism and the Canadian constitution.  He was raised in his father’s Unitarian church, and remains a member of that faith.  His mother is Jewish, with roots in Bialystok, Poland.

Reid also serves as Chairman of Giant Tiger Stores Ltd., founded by his father Gordon Reid.

In the early nineties, Reid published two books: Canada Remapped: How the Partition of Quebec Will Reshape the Nation (1992) and Lament for a Notion: The Life and Death of Canada’s Bilingual Dream (1993). In 2014, Reid and former Liberal MP Mario Silva co-edited a book, Tackling Hate: Combating Antisemitism: The Ottawa Protocol.

My vehicle is parked in the subterranean garage. The weather, the traffic and the festive spirit have been put aside and left to themselves. I now content myself to settle at my desk, looking upriver, idly contemplating whatever stirs me or is encouraged by Apple Music through my Bose™ headphones. A flock of Canada geese flew directly overhead, loudly honking. The golden crowns of the cornstalks sway alternatively throughout the broad lush field, down to the river’s edge. I made the mistake upon the drive home of listening to the BBC news, a chronicle of wars in Europe and killings in Africa. I suddenly felt miserably estranged from the reality of life for so many unfortunate people. Not to mention as well, the incomparable loss lately suffered by those living in town – from school bus mishap to a falling branch. Perhaps there is a way to understand such loss. I project however that there is no “answer” because we haven’t formulated the “question”.  What does one ask? Why am I spared? Why was he or she not spared? When is my turn?  It is all too dreadful to contemplate. Once again I am lost at sea.