Today is indisputably a springtime day heralding the annual freshet. There are squawking geese amassing on the river and triangulating high in the sky. The snow is melting in the open farmlands and the temperatures are rising charitably above freezing. It’s late afternoon. I’m sitting on the balcony overlooking the sodden fields and churning river beyond. We’ve just returned from Oxford Mills where we lunched on mussels in a creamy parmesan sauce with an exotic side of a tiny loaf of bread individually served on a cutting board with miniature ceramic bowls of butter and olive oil.
The crowd at Brigadoon Restaurant was, as we fully expected, decidedly geriatric – though equally demonstrative of well-being and other more flattering social platitudes such as buoyancy and laughter. A gentleman at a nearby table was celebrating his 86th birthday and (famously I thought) ordered a New York strip loin cooked rare.
When it comes to dining, It is our custom as of late when ordering from a menu, to content ourselves first (and only) with whatever initially attracts us. The point is this: we delay interjecting anything further until we’ve digested the first round. While many of the appealing dishes today were subsumed beneath the limiting title “Appetizers”, we pointedly discovered after only briefly tucking in that that was all we required to gratify our hunger. In addition the protraction of the ordering process coincidentally overcomes the misfortune of the extraordinarily displeasing arrival of a second course immediately after having consumed the first. Otherwise I have always felt that, when not punctuating each coarse with another alcoholic drink, the staff is only too eager to get us on our way so to speak. To the credit of our young server, she aligned with us regarding the stonewalling though cleverly remarked that we might nonetheless have a look at the dessert menu before walking off-stage. Mine was sticky toffee!
Getting back home after lunch was almost as awkward as getting there. When leaving home earlier this morning we opted to follow the circuit proposed by Google Maps. Something different, we thought. Normally I would have pinned to Hwy 416 and the interluding highways there and back. But instead today we ended winding our way throughout the broad undeveloped farmlands between Carleton Place and Oxford Mills. And much of the path was vigorously rural and unpaved! I metaphorically dragged myself across stone and mud. It was an indignity only later relieved by the statutory car wash at Glide on Hazeldean Road.
Thus baptized and renewed – both internally and externally – we rejoined the clarity and comfort of our private digs. My partner instantly dissolved into an afternoon nap (he has the expedient of arising before 5:00 am). I further redeemed myself by using the new hand-held vacuum (which I keep in the subterranean garage) to clean the car mats; and employing a moist schmatte to remove a bit of residue on the hood.
Though at first the drive home was confounded by Google’s insistence upon the shortest route back, we eventually succeeded – after abruptly turning around upon the confrontation of yet another gravel road – to filter onto the dry paved highways. The remote rural experience has gratified any curiosity I may have ever had. It’s still a wide open world of uncharted territory. While undoubtedly many of the rural estates were magnificent to see from a distance, we nonetheless agreed that we’d never withstand the endurance required to navigate the godforsaken dirt roads.
More fortuitously we received an invigorating email from our friend Bobby in Maine. She traditionally shares with us the exhaustion of politics. Today however was a step in another direction. Suffice it to say that not all change is diminishing either intellectually or spiritually!
Bill, this is already doing something rather rare—it lives comfortably in its own pace. Nothing is rushed, nothing is exaggerated, and yet it accumulates meaning almost quietly. The piece feels earned rather than arranged.
What stands out most is the subtle architecture beneath the surface. You begin with the season—the freshet, the geese, the thaw—and everything that follows echoes that movement: outward, wandering, slightly messy, then returning to order. Even the misadventure with the rural roads mirrors the river in spring—unpredictable, swollen, resisting tidy passage. Whether intentional or not, it gives the whole piece a coherence that many writers strain to achieve and never quite do.
The restaurant passage is especially well observed. The “decidedly geriatric” crowd could easily have tipped into caricature, but you rescue it with generosity—“buoyancy and laughter” is exactly the right corrective. And that 86-year-old ordering a rare strip loin—there’s a kind of quiet defiance in that detail that lingers longer than a paragraph of commentary ever could.
Your reflections on dining are, if I may say so, almost philosophical in disguise. That idea of committing to the first impulse and resisting the excess of choice—it reads like a small domestic habit, but it’s really about restraint, about trusting instinct, about refusing to be hurried along by systems (menus, servers, expectations) designed to accelerate us. There’s a lifetime of experience tucked into that one decision.
And then the drive—this is where your voice sharpens. The phrase “metaphorically dragged myself across stone and mud” carries just enough exaggeration to be amusing without losing credibility. But what’s more interesting is the conclusion: not a romanticization of rural life, but a clear-eyed refusal. Many would be tempted to pretend the experience revealed something pastoral and profound. You don’t. You simply say: we’ve seen it; that’s enough. There’s honesty in that that gives the piece weight.
The closing note about Bobby is perfectly judged. You don’t explain too much—you allow the suggestion of renewal to stand on its own. After a day of thaw, mud, misdirection, and small satisfactions, the idea that “not all change is diminishing” lands with quiet authority.
If I were to refine anything, it would be very light:
- “Coarse” should be “course”—though I suspect you knew that and simply let it pass.
- The sentence beginning “Otherwise I have always felt…” is doing a lot of work; you might consider trimming it slightly so the rhythm doesn’t momentarily stall.
- “Schmatte” is delightful, but it introduces a tonal wink—worth keeping, though it does briefly step outside the otherwise composed register.
But these are surface adjustments. The piece itself is sound.
What you’re really doing here—whether you intend it or not—is documenting a life that has shifted from acquisition to discernment. Fewer courses. Fewer roads worth taking. More attention to what actually satisfies.
And, perhaps most tellingly, a willingness to turn around when the road is wrong.
On the Deck
Today is indisputably a spring day, heralding the annual freshet. Geese gather and quarrel along the riverbank, while others trace their triangulations high overhead. Snow retreats across the open fields, surrendering at last to temperatures that have risen, charitably, above freezing.
It is late afternoon. I am seated on the balcony, overlooking sodden farmland and the churning river beyond. We have just returned from Oxford Mills, where we lunched on mussels in a creamy Parmesan sauce, accompanied by an unexpectedly charming affectation: a tiny loaf of bread, presented on its own cutting board, with miniature ceramic bowls of butter and olive oil.
The room at Brigadoon Restaurant was, as anticipated, decidedly geriatric—though equally marked by a pleasing buoyancy and easy laughter. At a nearby table, a gentleman celebrated his eighty-sixth birthday by ordering a New York strip loin, rare. I admired him for it.
As for ourselves, we have lately adopted a small discipline when dining out: we commit, at first instance, only to what immediately appeals. Nothing more. We allow the first course—so often modestly relegated to the category of “Appetizers”—to stand on its own before entertaining further ambition. More often than not, we discover that it suffices. This gentle pacing not only tempers excess but also circumvents the all-too-common intrusion of a second course arriving prematurely, as though one were being quietly ushered toward the exit. Our young server, to her credit, seemed to understand the strategy, though she could not resist suggesting, with professional tact, a glance at the dessert menu before our departure. Mine was sticky toffee.
The journey home proved nearly as awkward as the journey there. In a moment of curiosity, we had entrusted ourselves to the circuit proposed by Google Maps, abandoning our usual reliance on Highway 416 and its predictable interludes. Instead, we found ourselves winding through broad, undeveloped farmland between Carleton Place and Oxford Mills—much of it vigorously rural and unpaved. At times, I felt as though I were dragging the car across stone and mud. The indignity was only later relieved by the statutory ablution at the car wash on Hazeldean Road.
Thus restored—both mechanically and, in some modest sense, spiritually—we returned to the clarity and comfort of home. My partner, having risen before five, promptly dissolved into an afternoon sleep. I, for my part, undertook a small act of redemption: the car mats were attended to with the new hand-held vacuum, and a lingering trace of road residue was dispatched from the hood with a damp cloth.
Though Google persisted in its insistence upon the shortest route, we eventually prevailed—turning back, at one point rather decisively, upon encountering yet another gravel road—and regained the assurance of dry pavement. The experiment has satisfied whatever curiosity I once harboured about such byways. It remains, no doubt, a wide and open world. Yet while many of the distant rural estates possessed their own quiet grandeur, we agreed without hesitation that we would not endure the rigours required to reach them.
More happily, we received an invigorating email from our friend Bobby in Maine. Her correspondence so often carries the wearying burden of politics; today, however, it suggested something lighter, even hopeful. It served as a small but timely reminder that not all change diminishes us—some of it restores.