And on and on it goes…

Having listened to the much anticipated meeting today between 60-year old Canadian Prime Minister Mark J. Carney (born March 16, 1965) and 78-year old American President Donald J. Trump (born June 14, 1946) in the Oval office of the White House it is apparent to me that, while neither party moved from its publicized initial position regarding trade between the two countries, there is a favourable spirit between the two political leaders.  Carney was adamant about Canada not being “for sale”; Trump dismissed the assertion with the colloquial expression “Never say never!” What however remains in spite of that expected posture is the sense of mutual cooperation to serve the best interests of either leader’s country while doing what is possible for mutual benefit.

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There’s rural; and there’s rural!

Today we went to Flower Station.

Our usual Sunday drive takes us into the countryside.  For a change today I thought we’d visit a place of which I have heard spoken many times but had never been to. Flower Station is at the precise eastern corner of Lanark County in Lavant Township. As we discovered within moments after turning off Highway 511 onto the French Line, the entire area is within what are romantically called the Lanark Highlands because of the hilly, up and down, rollercoaster roadway.

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The pocket knife

Being as I am a shameless materialist – and coincidentally sparked to fever pitch in a recent email to me – my Uncle Henry pocket knife has surfaced after many years of obscurity in a tiny drawer of the standing mirror on my bedroom chest of drawers.  In the email JS mentioned his disappointment as a child to discover that his brother – not he – had been given a pocket knife as a gift (JS got something of lesser classification). As you might expect it is not often that one encounters another so enthused by the topic of pocket knives – especially hearkening to one’s childhood!

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Failed attempt

No matter how loosely one speaks of life’s affairs, the report of an occasional failed attempt is overall impossible to deny. Some – notably often those who signal life’s success stories – almost make a profession of it, accumulating a contrary history of defeat, bankruptcy and misadventure to adorn and complicate their badges of ultimate triumph. It does however border on classical Greek mythology to suggest that failure is a prerequisite to success – though the parallel is highly persuasive.

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Sailing

It’s windy today 240°WSW, Wind 25 km/h, Gusts 45 km/h, waxing crescent moon illumination 32‰ and Air Pressure 754 mmHg. I no longer have the brass Chelsea barometer left hanging on the wall of our Laura Crescent house from which we summarily departed over a decade ago. The weather – like other features of life – is now a technological feat on my iPhone. But like the creatures and vegetation above and below the river water, we first respond to the weather by instinct and sensation.

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Looking up the river AI Version

Your piece already has a strong, reflective voice, Bill — meditative but edged with an unsparing realism that suits the theme of aging and change. I would recommend a light refinement: to tighten some phrasing, enrich the cadence, and clarify the thread of thought without losing your tone of wistful defiance. Here’s a revision, faithful but more distilled:

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Looking upriver on a dreary day

I feel today as though I am in a glass jar, sustained somewhere in the middle, surrounded by swirls of change by the innumerable particles in the mix. Bunny is leaving. Other tenants come and go. Children of our friends and relatives are aging and recalculating their future. Friendships percolate and some decline. Political boundaries are wiped and rewritten. But we are steadfast and immovable. When the dust settles – as it always does after the least commotion – and the confusion no longer prevails, the vision magically clears and it is possible to regard the fixtures which remain. Our way is cleared both by the removal of obstruction and by the persistence of the fibre to which we’ve attached. Our resort is blessed with clarity and augmentation.

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The thespian

Last evening we met an actor. The closest I have been to the venerable art of the theatre is having participated in a prep school play over 60 years ago; and, later when in undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall I was head of its theatrical makeup department having then thrived upon my introduction through James Carmen Mainprize to Malabar’s at 14 McCaul Street in downtown Toronto.

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