We took great pleasure in afternoon conviviality with a gentleman who is in the throes of a great deal of activity. I am frankly exhausted to contemplate all that is on his table. It is nothing discomfiting or unfortunate. Quite the opposite.  Nonetheless there are burdens to be supported throughout the process of any transition. Coincidentally – while sipping my espresso – I remarked upon his interest in Canadian art.  Though my personal attraction is to contemporary – though traditional – expressions I confess a weakness for the Canadian vernacular (such as initially exemplified by the Group of Seven).  In particular the topic is reminiscent of my dealings with Heffel Gallery.

The Heffel business began with Kenneth G. Heffel, industrialist and art collector, who founded Kenneth G. Heffel Fine Art Inc. in 1978. He poured his heart, soul and love for Canadian art into his budding business. He opened the gallery in a stunning heritage building on Vancouver’s established South Granville Gallery Row, and slowly built up his collection and clientele, starting with a small but robust group of paintings by several Canadian masters. Heffel became one of the foremost galleries in the country and established a reputation for handling the very best artworks by Canadian artists.

Our rambling confab at Hummingbird Café – that is, before we stopped by the apartment – was momentarily suspended by a young lady whom at first I shamefully did not recognize.  It has been years since we have seen one another; though in fairness I identified her voice immediately.  Generally I excuse similar ignorance by declaring I know no one under the age of fifty. Of course the real reason behind the inadequacy is that my memory is failing by Olympic degrees. However I judiciously chose to crawl. I confessed my obstruction  – which she was good enough to dismiss. We enjoyed a robust and animated conversation, alluding to her dedication to two jobs while unabashedly maintaining her home on Reserve Street in one of Almonte’s oldest neighbourhoods along the southern shore of the Mississippi River (parallel Water Street which I believe is where her maternal grandparents lived). The skipping conversation went on to include her father and her mother (a former banker of mine). I was anxious to propel the idle chat with her because my companion (the one with all the goings on) is about to relocate to Almonte. I felt he’d cherish the inconsequential bits of local history the young woman and I shared.

This convention with the young woman, once concluded, led to similar observations about my companion’s brewing choice of property ownership in town.  As I indicated to him, Mitcheson Street and Union Street (parallel to one another) historically housed the senior members of the Rosamond Woollen Mill (including for example the Pinehurst mansion). Many of the property owners from Carss Street to Main Street were former clients of mine while practicing law in town.  I vividly remember attending at Greystone estate to have documents signed by a bedridden client.  Magically as the CNR train roared along the B&O Railway (the fabrication of Bennett Rosamond for the purposes of his woollen business), the woman’s bed noticeably rattled. The weight of those massive locomotives is not to be underestimated! And in my declining years I could not overlook the memory of Bennett Rosamond as the author of Little Bridge Street (where I had my law practice) and his dilution of the indebtedness of St. Paul’s Anglican Church (where over a century later I was pleased to be a Warden). Coincidentally in 1863 St. Paul’s  was the church blessed by the Archbishop with the support of the Freemason’s of which I am a former Master (Mississippi Lodge No. 147 A.F.& A. M).

It is thus I fashion we today conjoined the new and the old, by the manner of those unwitting coincidences of life – not the least of which included a casual run across with a gentleman walking outside the café with his ski poles in hand. The evolution of familiarity with one’s habitat is a diverse construct. Now, at the end of the day, I may thankfully position myself at my desk looking upriver, content to have nothing further to do than ruminate upon the nutrition of the afternoon.