There is I suspect a lot of ambitious though shiftless chat on the internet about Midsummer, no doubt some of it concerning its putatively lascivious nature and its patent evolution from springtime and rebirth and the multitude of poetic details arising from Nature’s calendar contribution to our daily life experience. The depth of enquiry may allude for example to moderately disturbing assertions similar to those surrounding the May pole and school children dancing around it.
Though I am grounded in the astronomic belief that Midsummer is on June 21st, I acknowledge that there is an argument to be made for June 24th in this particular year. This and any other variance of the date is however to me irrelevant, mere obfuscations aligned with ancient calendars and social festivities.
June 21 marks the longest day of 2023 for everyone north of the equator. In astronomical terms, summer begins Wednesday with the arrival of the summer solstice, which marks the longest day of the year for everyone north of the equator.
I first instinctively acknowledged the Summer Solstice early this morning when enjoying my highly agreeable breakfast of sliced green Granny Apple and cheddar cheese. The recognition was by any measure a casual observation, not one intended to prompt special validation. We were then mounting our assault upon the day which our diary included (for me) physiotherapy and (for us) housekeeping. Because we’re always anxious to remove ourselves from the apartment when our housekeeper visits we were encountering a degree of confusion because the two main events overlapped one another and timing had become a tick of an issue. And even if we were to venture – as in fact we did – to make discrete local purchases, we were uncertain of the specificity of the proposed enterprises. As it turns out we were able not only to gather the preferred commodities from the regular grocery store but also select treats from several of the exotic basins including the hallmark bakery items stretching from downtown Almonte (namely, Baker Bob) to the periphery of Carleton Place (Beckwith Kitchen) and hidden in Almonte (Almonte Butchery). His Lordship has a cunning eye for these brilliant extravagances, always skilfully aligned with a nourishing purgative philosophic conjecture such as, “What are you saving it for, the funeral!”
Apparently my preoccupation was focussed less upon the summer solstice or buttertarts and more upon the fulfillment of my duties of physiotherapy. I was for example aware of the dissembling feature of my physiotherapy; namely, that I had avoided empowerment of my new left knee by having allowed the walking cart to carry my weight instead of transferring the carriage to the knee for gradual improvement. My physiotherapist has narrowed upon the identical detail, reminding me (rather bluntly I might add) of my commitment to it for another week. And one more after that. I suspect it is no accident that in the result the advertized length of recovery is 6-weeks. The possibility of ignoring this seemingly popular surgery occurred to me; but I cannot escape the discomfort which seems inevitable one way or the other. Getting around the physiotherapy by whatever mechanism is universally ill-considered. Indeed the recovery interlude is as routine as a half-time intermission. I have this intelligence from men and women, young and old, who have undergone knee surgery; viz., do the physio!
Unquestionably the venture adds an unanticipated element to one’s life. It has proven to be a very singular obstruction. It is the primary consequence of which has been my inability to get on my tricycle. When I was speaking with a friend or acquaintance the other day, he or she instantly recognized the inexpressible pleasure of tricycling. It means not only getting about the neighbourhood but also doing it comfortably. As a vehicle of social expansion it is nonpareil!