Given my confining immobility (my calcified spine no longer props me upright for prolonged period) I have no hesitancy chronicling today’s leisurely drive throughout the countryside. It was my version of a seasonal sleigh ride, an aimless but productive time to chat with my partner, a fanciful contemplation of the upcoming holiday. The morning’s crisp air and bright blue sky invited drama. It was a spirited but dawdling drive along dry roads from our small town into the hinterland to nearby villages and historic rural areas along the Ottawa River (the resort of reclaimed pinewood that once outfitted our study with the Vermont casting fireplace insert).

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My sister and I have always succumbed to the buzz of the impending late December holiday season. Once as children we began preparing Christmas displays in July!  Other times we rehearsed plays (to be performed for our parents) surrounding the common themes of Christmas. Our father drove us around the neighbourhood in NW Washington DC to look at the residential lawn ornaments and glittering trees. Our mother’s wonderful baking aroma filled the house.

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My goddaughter and niece Jennifer today sent me a delightful read (which, by the way, I listened to while being read to me by a terribly British lady with a refined accent). The website (Aeon Media Group Ltd. 2012 – 2025, a registered charity in association with Aeon America) hails from Australia.  It’s called Aeon Essays. I recommend it. Amusingly however I disagree with the predominant theme of the learned writer’s analysis in the featured column.  The author was writing about diaries.  My hurried perception is that she (Elena Mary, a postdoctoral associate member in the Faculty of History at the University of Oxford in the UK) suggested diaries fulfill the need to be productive; and, that many of them contain outlines of a manner of doing so.

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The best we can hope for is a constructive (and preferably comforting) dialogue with the mysterious pattern of life. Our narrative – though inescapably aligned with the universal truths and realities- is invariably unique; its detail surpasses any theme – dominant or subordinate – thar we or anyone else might possibly imagine or predict.  While we may conceive or pretend to believe that we are more than a tiny boat perilously bobbing on open waters far from land, our moorings seldom constitute more than mere resonance, that is, a reinforcement, a prolongation, a reverberation, a reflection or memory. Resonance is a polite and convenient label for a synchronous vibration, the largest possible response to a signal, a response to a higher energy.

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It’s a chilly slow-moving Sunday afternoon mid-November in the country. Already the sunshine is declining. The past 24 hours have exhibited a varied collection of wintertime weather – freezing rain, sleet, snow flurries and finally the crisp, clearing blue sky. The roadways have been remarkable for like scheme – slush, ice pellets and crackling salt mixture; and finally the dry, clear pavement ribbons.

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Not unlike my late father so many years ago when reading a profitable book, I become immersed in the narrative and subsequently relate (as perhaps I am doing now) the intelligence deriving therefrom.  There is always a lesson to reap. Plutarch’s Lives – though commonly denoted a Greek history – is inescapably recommended as a study of morality, confronting the sometimes rude and blunt truths of humanity.

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It’s 11:00 o’clock on a dazzling sunny Friday morning.  Sitting at the grocery store parking lot in my “loaner” car from the dealership while my vehicle is in repair. They just emailed me to advise the car is fixed and ready to be picked up.  I’ll collect it at Reid Bros in Arnprior after the grocery shopping. Meanwhile I entertain myself by watching the people who come and go. People of all ages and varied apparel. Some are driving automobiles; others have trucks.

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It isn’t every day one is inducted to the Hockey Hall of Fame. Late in life I have at last succeeded to the needle of Canadian celebrity. But even as I conclude this apocalyptic chapter of my life by addressing the cracked collateral of a precipitous bicycle fall on the beach years ago, I unwittingly advance upon a brighter cosmetic future (modestly initiated today by the bespoke composition of a bridge – the application of which must await 6 preparatory days following the extraction surgery). Nonetheless, dear Reader, the riveting particulars of the ensuing serendipity shall be set aside for later reference as I defer instead to the composition of a much warranted account of today’s event with the learned and capable professionals at DOCS (Dentistry On Catherine Street) in Ottawa this afternoon.

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I have discovered, when casually meeting an acquaintance, one gets a great deal of spontaneous information for the asking. Granted, the enquiry – if it is to be effectual –  goes beyond a dismissive comment about the weather. You ensure to ask directly, “So, what’d you do today?”

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When I arrived in Almonte I was immediately taken by the collaboration of all levels of society,  young and old, men and women, professionals and trades, student and teacher, minister and disciple, retailer and producer, farmer and townsfolk, clerk and customer, rich and poor, private and municipal.  It was a bountiful environment, fresh, teeming with vitality and variety, and predominantly egalitarian; that is, “believing in or based on the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities”. In that regard it resembled the purity and goals of what I understand to have been the Spartan way of life. Specifically Sparta exemplified the democratic model of government.

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