As I move through the cadence of my day, I recognize that nothing new awaits me yet I persist, unraveling what is before me, shifting my perspective ever so slightly. Not in pursuit of novelty, but of reinterpretation. To touch upon what has always been there, yet somehow escaped me. It is the long way home. And I know I shall be home soon. Forever, inescapably home. The ocean reshapes itself with the tides, erasing footprints at low tide, leaving a fresh slate upon which new steps will tread each carrying the same quiet peril of moving on. Sandcastles dissolved by the unheeding sea.

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This cool, rainy morning on Hilton Head Island, I received a broadcast email from an alumni representative of my former prep school, St. Andrew’s College in Aurora, Ontario, from which I graduated in 1967. Strangely, I vividly recall both the day I arrived and the day I left.

I first arrived at 14 years old on a similarly dreary rainy September afternoon in 1963. I had just returned from a summer in Europe where my parents and sister were living in Stockholm, Sweden. A uniformed driver in a black sedan dropped me off—mistakenly—at the front of MacDonald House, the junior school dormitory, rather than Fourth House of the senior school, where I properly belonged. Four years later, at 18, I was one of the last to leave, alone in the nearly empty school with our small Upper Six graduating class after completing the requisite provincial examinations. More memorably, I had narrowly escaped Bobbie Ball’s infamous surreptitious water bombing while asleep in my room.

It was a long, long time ago.

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Yesterday I received an email from a Canadian friend who posed a question;

So, I’ve been wondering:  what’s it like being Canuks in the US right now?  I was speaking to some friends who winter near West Palm Beach in Florida last week and they say, while most of the time, one just carries on as usual, if people know they are Canadian, there have been a few unpleasantnesses.  Not to the point where they’d come home early, but they do feel a bit on edge.  I suspect that you’re probably not encountering any issues, but would love to know.

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At my advanced age, one might assume that unqualified leisure is both a welcome respite and an earned entitlement. In truth, it is neither. It is not readily embraced, nor is it a given right, for I find myself without any apparent resource upon which to claim such a privilege. The two—leisure and entitlement—are inextricably linked, each dependent on the other. This is not a limitation of my own making, nor one I have willingly accepted. And yet, its resolution (or at least its alleviation) is as self-evident as it is fundamental. Like so many advantages in life, even those as seemingly innocuous as leisure, one must earn it.

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The calibre of my day is invariably shaped by a set of identical characteristics: physical well being (sleep, exercise, nutrition), mental improvement (reading, writing), artistic features (photography, geography, material refinement) and social engagement. I hesitate to put society last on the list when it is probably my supreme endearment, the one without which I could least survive.  All the others are but additives to and interpretations of the central social theme.

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The British North America Act received Royal Assent on 29th March 1867 and went into effect 1st July 1867. The Act united the three separate territories of Canada, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick into a single dominion called Canada.

The creation of our country was in essence no more than the collective act of a number of people.  The governance of the country was determined to divide between general and specific matters, highlighted as Ss. 91 and 92 of the British North America Act (what later became the Constitution Act).

s-91 It shall be lawful for the Queen, by and with the Advice and Consent of the Senate and House of Commons, to make Laws for the Peace, Order, and good Government of Canada, in relation to all Matters not coming within the Classes of Subjects by this Act assigned exclusively to the Legislatures of the Provinces.

s-92 In each Province the Legislature may exclusively make Laws in relation to Matters coming within the Classes of Subjects next hereinafter enumerated; that is to say,

• 13

  Property and Civil Rights in the Province

I have chosen to highlight Subsection 13 because it is the basis of most argument (strategy) between the federal (S. 91) and provincial (S. 92) governments.  I am guessing the United States of America has a similar constitutional prescription which distinguishes the rights of Congress (federal) and the rights of States (provincial).

An example of Canadian debate arose upon the discovery of oleomargarine. Its use as a butter substitute precipitated enormous interest from commercial sectors across Canada. The governance or control of its use was hotly argued between federal and provincial authorities, prompted by the provincial profit interests and contradicted by the federal Peace, Order and Good Government (POGG clause) interest; that is, a conflict between general (federal) well being and specific (provincial) profit interests.

This article examines the rhetoric employed in the 1917-1924 debates over oleomargarine’s legalization in Canada, noting that health, extending from the individual to the collective body, emerged as a key battle cry. Oleomargarine was at once a tool of citizenship and a nexus for new theories of food science, anxieties about race and otherness, women’s emerging political influence, and contention about the roles of both industry and government in dictating food choices. As both sides promulgated their respective products’ contributions to personal and national welfare, health and citizenship stood as entwined ideals, inviolable but not uncontested.

By comparison matters relating to ownership of land and disposition of one’s estate were deemed to come clearly within the provincial legislative ambit of “Property and Civil Rights”.

Betwixt these two levels of constitutional authority (general/specific or federal/state) there exists untold interpretation.  There is nothing particularly strategic about Trump’s actions unless and until he seeks by virtue of popular mandate either to change the governing law or simply step over it. As a confirmed litigator he also knows the value of prolonged and expensive litigation, a reflection not of any legitimate authority other than bloodymindedness and refusal to compromise. But hot button issues such as those captured by MAGA (immigrant felons, widespread drug use, unconventional sexuality, overspending nationally and internationally) inspire ready ammunition for advancement of what is determined to be within the bailiwick of the federal government (which, in the case of Canada, is for the Peace, Order and good Government of the whole).

Accordingly if I were attribute anything to “The Strategy Behind Trump’s Defiance of the Law” it is no more than a debating tactic to employ the ready nutrition of a good argument which conveniently enjoys the applause of the American majority (and therefore embellishes the strength of the argument without corrupting the law). If, on the other hand, he were to go beyond what the Supreme Court (the highest court in the land) determines to be the most compelling argument, then he dangerously invades the true marshland of oligarchy and autotocracy. It wouldn’t be the first civil war in the United States of America.

Today is Sunday. I slept late, drained of both inclination and strength for activity. I wrestled with guilt and logic, trying to justify my tardiness and lethargy, but they eventually won. Resigning myself to duty, I abandoned my lair for morning ablutions and dressing.

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Reading the autobiography of an ancient writer such as de Montaigne (d. 1592, commonly known as Michel de Montaigne, one of the most significant philosophers of the French Renaissance) hadn’t prepared me for his gentle (though punishingly critical) humour at his own expense.

The conclusion to de Montaigne’s attack against pedantry are these heartening words:

When he arrived at fourteen he was transferred into the hands of four, the wisest, the most just, the most temperate, and most valiant of the nation; of whom the first was to instruct him in religion, the second to be always upright and sincere, the third to conquer his appetites and desires, and the fourth to despise all danger.

Nowhere in that prescription is there instruction to pervert the ambition and knowledge with lesser (though often more popular) desires the extent of which is open to one’s imagination. It is an unqualified recommendation. It is a universal safety net far surpassing for example the notoriety of fame, celebrity, wealth or position (civil or political).  It is a mandate without the fulfillment of which one is at peril of being labeled a coxcomb. It is a warning against dangerously self-reflective ambition (literally looking at oneself in a mirror), the result of which only you will truly see.

“My Perigordin patois very pleasantly calls these pretenders to learning, ‘lettre-ferits‘, as a man should say, letter-marked—men on whom letters have been stamped by the blow of a mallet. And, in truth, for the most part, they appear to be deprived even of common sense; for you see the husbandman and the cobbler go simply and fairly about their business, speaking only of what they know and understand; whereas these fellows, to make parade and to get opinion, mustering this ridiculous knowledge of theirs, that floats on the superficies of the brain, are perpetually perplexing, and entangling themselves in their own nonsense. They speak fine words sometimes, ’tis true, but let somebody that is wiser apply them.”

The identity of these great truths is certainly nothing new. Yet for whatever curious reason the warnings are often dismissed as the inconsequential preoccupation of those seeking lesser achievement or those wishing to excuse their incapacity or failure.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  There is for example no greater emptiness than a man with a full room of stuff without but nothing of substance within.  The violation of wisdom, justice, temperance or valiance renders incalculable poison and imbalance. It is our everlasting shame not to advance and promote among our youth and ourselves those theses before all others.  The instruction cannot be spared for Sunday school or temple as though it were fictional dialogue or religious rhetoric. And lest we imagine we shall for a time escape the penalty, be assured that the disease is unfettered by time or the ephemeral pleasure of the injury howsoever it may be fashioned or acquited. Long before you die with a smile on your face you shall perish still living but dissatisfied if nurtured by false knowledge. Nor is this threat purely mystical by any estimate. The rot with which we adorn ourselves will soon outweigh our stamina and we shall fall into the mire. Anything else is a joking lottery. The mantle we wear is an inalienable burden whatever its weight, its colour or its cost. We, and we alone, choose.

Yesterday, we planned what proved to be an exceedingly successful Saturday morning outing at Palmetto Bay Sun Rise Café, located at the northern end of the island on Helmsman Way, adjacent to the Yacht Club of Hilton Head and Broad Creek Marina. We’ve been there many times before.

Coincidentally, early this morning, I received my usual Sunday clipping from The London Times—sent, as always, by my erstwhile physician, who is wintering in Australia (they’re a day ahead of us). The article reflected what, to me, is a longstanding breakfast tradition.

The central theme of the piece was the governance of the menú del día, emphasizing affordability above all, followed by considerations of nutrition, popularity, and accessibility. It also touched on the inescapable social convention of dining out regularly, primarily for convenience and companionship—what the Spanish call casas de comidas (literally, “houses of meals”). Sun Rise Café is precisely such a place.

This morning, we were promptly seated inside, not far from the counter where we’ve sat before. The place was packed—inside and out on the adjoining veranda—alive with the commotion of a busy weekend morning. Amid the bustle, I spotted someone whose presence and energy distinguished her as a linchpin of the establishment. Her name is Paula. By her repeated affable attention to the clientele and her darting exchanges with the servers and kitchen staff, she exuded an unmistakable command of the place.

Paula has been attending to business at Sun Rise Café for over 23 years. In our brief chat, we recalled having seen her in past years behind the counter, overseeing the kitchen as a chef. She explained that she is now focused on training new staff. Stepping away from immediate culinary duties has allowed her to exercise an equally vibrant gift—her social warmth, which rises to the level of endearing, almost maternal, affection.

By further coincidence, The London Times article also considered the possibility of employing AI to determine an acceptable menú del día—a reference that mirrored, quite unintentionally, my ongoing exchanges with my physician on the subject of AI and its encroachment upon human roles. Yet, whatever debate may surround AI, there is one point on which I am certain: no technology, however sophisticated, can ever replace the singular charm and desirability of human expression—of people like Paula. Hers is a presence that defies replication, a bearing that is, by any measure, nonpareil.

I unequivocally extol the freshness and flavour of this morning’s breakfast. And as readily I concede that Paula’s presence may have added the je ne sais quoi.

Against All Odds

From the moment Daniel Whitmore was old enough to dream, he was told to lower his expectations.

“You’re not cut out for success, Danny,” his father would say, shaking his head. “People like us work hard and scrape by. That’s just how life is.”

His teachers echoed the sentiment. “Mediocre at best,” one remarked in a report. “Lacks ambition and drive.” It was as though the world had already written his fate before he even had a chance to decide it for himself. But Daniel refused to let their words define him.

At eighteen, he took a job as an apprentice in a modest but stable industry—manufacturing. It wasn’t glamorous, but he saw potential where others saw monotony. While his peers mocked him for choosing a “dead-end job,” he kept his head down, worked hard, and, most importantly, saved every penny he could.

Over time, he climbed the ranks. He studied after hours, took on additional responsibilities, and eventually secured a management position. Still, the naysayers persisted. “You won’t go any further,” they said. “People like you don’t retire early.”

Yet Daniel had a plan. He invested wisely, avoided extravagant spending, and took calculated risks in the stock market. By the time he was forty-five, he had not only built a substantial pension but had also accumulated enough wealth to step away from work entirely. His colleagues gawked when he announced his early retirement.

“You’re leaving now? But you have another twenty years ahead of you!”

“Why wait?” he replied with a knowing smile.

With his newfound freedom, Daniel and his wife, Emily, embraced the world. They traveled across Europe, marveled at the Great Wall of China, and lounged on the beaches of the Caribbean. They returned to a peaceful home where laughter echoed in the halls and the warmth of domestic bliss filled every corner.

One day, as he sat on the patio, coffee in hand, he received a message from an old teacher. “I was wrong about you,” it read. “You made it.”

Daniel smiled. He never needed validation. But there was a certain sweetness in proving everyone wrong.