That kind of day…

Whence derives one’s gusto and impetus?  What gets us out of bed in the morning and allows us to sleep at night? What is the source from which to evince one’s expression or pleasure (our give and take)? Wherein lies our reward, our meaning, our calculated depth or purpose?  How do we step onto the stage that is life? Do we think of ourselves only? What constitutes a worthy ambition? Do we search for improvement?  Or is it safe without the existential nod merely to digest and ruminate (admittedly with discretion and application) upon what is at hand, before our eyes, without all the kerfuffle, rigour and complication? Are we no more or less than Alfred J. Prufrock, wondering, “Do I dare to eat a peach?” Shall we remain adamantine, hard as steel, inflexible, the way nature made us, strenghtened by the philosophic lethargy that is instinct?

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Military law

There are many types of law in Canada.  The varieties express the singular nature of each. Some for example embrace reciprocal behaviour (such as partnership law); others independent action (such as criminal law); others apply before death (inter vivos trust agreements), some only after death (wills). Apart from the Province of Québec which inherited the French Code Civil (the Napoleonic code enacted in 1804 as a child of the French Revolution) we’re predominantly part of the British “common law” system. The varieties of law can be broken among Administrative law, Aerospace law, Constitutional law, Contract law, Commercial (including Consumer, Partnership) and Corporate law, Civil Rights law, Civil Procedure law. Criminal law, Employment law, Environmental law, Esate (including Power of Attorney, Will, Succession, Trust) law, Family (including Marriage and Cohabitation) law, Immigration law, Insurance law, Intellectual Property (including Copyright, Defamation, Patent, Trademark) law, Landlord & Tenant law, Maritime Law, Mercantile law, Tax law and Tort (including Personal Injury) law.

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Mileage matters

If you have an interest in the domestic passenger automobile you will recognize at a stroke the reference to mileage.  To recap (for those of you who hesitate) it’s the summary assessment of a used vehicle.  It is the sine qua non of a used vehicle. It amounts to the historic enquiry, “Has the horse been ridden hard then put away wet?”  There is no escaping the element of mileage when it comes to evaluation. Of anything.

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No regrets

Last evening upon completion of an exceedingly appetising meal at the end of an equally remarkable day, and after unbuttoning the waistcoat and pushing back from table, I smugly proclaimed I haven’t any regrets. It wasn’t a somatic response to a perfect meal and a brilliant day. It was a summary of all that has commissioned itself to the mechanics and perpetuation of my existence. It is the abbreviation of what has transpired from my youth to old age.

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A remarkable day

So much to talk about!  When I awoke this morning I had in mind to cut back.  That was the first of my New Year’s projects to evaporate.  By the time I had eaten my gruel, in fact even before I had finished doing so, I was swept off my feet by an email from Fiona on the Canary Islands. In her inimitable way she bolstered my day with her seemingly inextinquishable energy, affection and positivity.  All that from another side of the North Atlantic Ocean!  And only last evening via FaceTime we had spoken with (and seen) our friends Ian and Pierre in New Zealand for an equally animated and improving discussion from the South Pacific Ocean. Nor can I overlook the first New Year’s Day message and photos from our friends Franz and Liz in Antarctica!  You would think after all that intercontinental sweep there would be very little competition.

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Tenerife in the Canary Islands

Editor’s Note:  Below is an email I received from Fiona whom I have known since I was 18 years old when we attended undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall, Toronto.  She has always distinguished herself as independent and unique. Her talents are numerous. In the event you are unfamiliar with the Canary Islands, below is a snap of the general location.  It is so small that one must adopt the astronomic view to get a remote sense of where it is. I felt this account by Fiona was too precious not to be shared.

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Maritime Sally

by L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.

Herewith a piece I wrote 4 years ago for the Millstone News. I felt the topic of a subtropical resort was useful medicine at this time of year!

It requires little in the way of ambition to lapse into utter lassitude in Key West. Certainly first acquainting oneself broadly with the territory helps. But once having scoped the grid and character of the Island – and perhaps after having elevated oneself by tottering about the botanical gardens (an intellectual expiation of the indolence that follows) – the door opens wide upon tireless evaporation. The mollification of life’s harshness is painlessly accomplished by the emerald sea, yellow sunshine in a cerulean sky, the soothing temperatures and blanket purposelessness. The amplitude of the lethargy is further broadened by the expansive open waters. Everything contrives to extenuate one’s erstwhile collywobbles. There is nothing here which doesn’t reek of sybaritism. Even as I learned today the botanical gardens on Stock Island are the only frost-free subtropical enclave in the whole of Florida! As proof of its singularity it is a paradise for the whimsy of butterflies (36 of the known 55 sub-species have been spotted here).

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New Year’s Eve (2023)

As is my custom in the late afternoon, I am seated at my desk overlooking the Mississippi River and the neighbouring farmlands, strengthening myself with a bowl of sliced green apple and a cup of chilled triple espresso coffee. I mention this in particular because it is likely an odd preoccupation on New Year’s Eve.  The explanation however – apart from the standard excuse of unforgiving habit and routine – is that we have just come off an exceedingly uplifting late morning and early afternoon agenda.  Several days ago we were invited to join a nephew and his children (and the sweetheart of one of the two boys) for coffee and a chat. It was an animated and highly nutritious conference.

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“The best mask for a treacherous heart is an honest face!”

Growing up I didn’t often watch television.  The common room was not for me a particularly favourable resort as dirty young boys sat about the television, sprawled upon the sofa and library chairs, throwing scraps of paper at one another, rudely joking, stewing (as my late father once so memorably observed) in their own juices. There was a reason I graduated Head Boy (a purely academic distinction). It was indisputably rubbed into me at a tender age that it was all about production and achievement, not idleness and camaraderie.  The latter social contact was for me reserved for those now emblematic dalliances upon the Lower Field on a brilliantly sunny day in chilly late autumn with my special school friend Max whose mother we later learned committed suicide by hanging herself with a school scarf at the Royal York Hotel when she was putatively frequenting a continuing learning medical course in Toronto.

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