Unusually I am listening to CBC FM 103.3 on a Tivoli Audio Model One AM/FM radio. With the advent and my discovery of Apple Music my usage of the radio as a source of music has evaporated. Nonetheless when, as today on a sunny summer afternoon, I am lucky enough to have nothing better to do than sip my chilled espresso while staring out the drawing room window, I find a bit of Chopin on the radio is intriguingly archaic and uniquely restful.
Today while reading Giles Coren’s article in The Times of London entitled, “Darn it, all the old skills are disappearing” about the passage of sock darning, crocheting, whistling, weather adages (“red sky at night, sailor’s delight”) and the like, it made me consider what if anything I miss about the past that didn’t make it into the future. Frankly, upon a speedy reflection, I am more inclined to list what I don’t miss about the past than the other way around.
Though I am always alarmed – something I know embarrassingly that I should not be – interjecting a new vehicle into one’s life is forever unbalancing. Since 9 o’clock this morning (when I met my sales agent Jane Dechert at Reid Bros Motor Sales in the Town of Arnprior to complete my purchase) – I have been “acquainting” myself with the Cadillac Optiq. The bottom line is that I am pleased. We have yet to defeat the Sirius XM business; but – most importantly – the mechanical side and comfort of the vehicle are good. I christened the vehicle this afternoon by putting it through the car wash at Petro-Canada on Campeau Drive in Kanata; then streamed along the winding country highway with the windows open on this splendid sunny day. We also have a small matter relating to the hanging of the charging cord – requiring what we believe to be a screw to suspend the heavy portion of the cable against the pillar where the 240v outlet is installed. Our building superintendent has helpfully agreed to address the matter on Monday.
Although a “Severe Thunderstorm Watch” now prevails at the end of the day, the weather this morning and earlier this afternoon was the ideal mid-summer heat with soft, balmy gusts and brilliantly sunny skies. The temperature rose to a commanding 35°C. By chance my lovely niece Julia and her husband Matt were visiting from California (on the heel of comedic performances in Montréal). They and my sister Linda and her husband Edward are staying at a cottage near the Village of Combermere along the Madawaska River. It is part of the Township of Madawaska Valley. It is named after Sir Stapleton Cotton, Viscount Combermere (1773–1865) though for the immediate reasons why I regret to be unable to discern. He has a vivid biography.
My dear Reader, for those of you who know me – perhaps more keenly than I care to confess – I have long suffered to endure a fascination with the North American passenger automobile. Though I am inclined to blame my father and his father (because each was throughout his life devoted to the same retail amusement) I recall being distracted as though instinctively by such conveyances from a very early age – say at least 9 or 10 when I recollect driving my father’s Oldsmobile sedan much the same way a young boy might play upon his father’s country tractor. At the time we lived in a remote rural area where the opportunity to do so presented itself. I should add in my defence that I knew from a young age that my father had previously owned a Studebaker sedan with power seats and windows; and that my grandfather’s 7-passenger Packard limousine was complete with a chandelier in the back. Indeed I later discovered that the vehicular trend insinuated the entire Chapman family and beyond. My cousin Richard Kitchen’s father (Uncle Herb) was a shameless champion of the Oldsmobile 98 (which was then an impressive display of sheet metal).
Driving into the city on a weekday after 7 o’clock in the morning is generally manageable. Typically – that is, for old folks – I have a medical appointment of sorts this afternoon. Specifically the meeting is with that very esoteric breed of professionals called ophthalmologists. About a week ago I received an unexpected email from their office – Focus Eye Centre, 1105 Carling Avenue – inviting me to participate in a post-operative review of my current state of vision. I had had cataract surgery from them several years ago. Predominantly my vision has since been Okay though I have on numerous – but not persistent – occasions found my sight to be obstructed by fleeting clouds. As a result – and maintaining as I do that technology is always improving at a rapid rate – I happily agreed to undertake the examination. After the office had called and booked the appointment they subsequently asked me to bring my Health Card and a list of medications – plus they interjected that the meeting could last up to 2 hours.
Once again today, dear Reader, I was reminded of the ineffable natural beauty of Lanark County (our local seat) and nearby Renfrew County (the erstwhile lumber towns which many years go indirectly afforded Almonte the facility of the national railway connection for its own thriving woollen industry). On my way out of Almonte today to Arnprior I passed along a roadway which easily competes with my beloved Appleton Side Road about which I have so often expatiated.
Unless you’re one of those fellows with an inexhaustible – and frankly acidulous – resource of gusto, one of those chaps who heroically prefers to start his day with pushups and a cold shower, I have found by contrast that starting a day is never easy. Often it is not only difficult to know when exactly to begin but also how to begin. For example, does one preserve the Stoic profile and get up at seven o’clock? Or adopt instead the vulgar urban model and linger beneath the duvet until at least eight o’clock? Or (as Samuel Beckett might ask) does it really matter when one gets out of bed on a rainy day? And then there’s the matter of what one should do? Or what must one do? Is there an appointment to keep? Or a place to go? Or something important to be done? And in the full scheme of things, what is the point of it all in any event?
The lush green cornstalks dart motionlessly into the air, resembling now the empyrean architectural projections of Dubai, an expansive formation of uniformity on a murky Sunday morning across the rolling fields. Another week has concluded and another week begins. Does it mark a lifetime or an eternity? Or was it only a day? The unmoving river perfectly reflects the undulating shoreline trees. The world is on pause. A wondrous insect moves unsusupiciously along the drawing room window. A Netherlands choir Vox Luminis mournfully sings on CBC Sunday morning radio.
For most of us change is moderately disturbing. We often like things the way they are. But when we feel differently about the way things are, change is not unwelcome. Yesterday – while reading an article sent to me by Prof. Daniel A. Laprès from Paris, France – I noted in particular the following blunt observation: