The goalie

This morning in the subterranean garage, whilst conducting my customary back and forth on the tricycle along the dry basement floor, I encountered Wayne and Penny returning from an early morning outing.  I thought at first that they may have attended a matins service; and I was preparing to ask the usual quip, “Whether they had remembered to put any money in the collection plate on my behalf?”  It turns out they had been at a hockey game with their grandsons. As they descended from their vehicle it was soon apparent that they were in the company of two others, children, one older than the other. The older chap was introduced to me. He was identified as the team goalie.  And they had won today!  The congregation did however give me to understand that the celebrity was not altogether common. This was the first win in some time. Nonetheless I congratulated the fellow accordingly.  His younger brother (with whom the older brother had an obvious attachment) made a scene by playing fisticuffs with his older brother who merely manipulated his younger brother and kept him at bay while fluttering about. The older brother’s lack of intolerance pointed, in my mind, to a caring relationship between the two. The recent hockey game win may have softened the old brother’s endurance; but a quick glance told me the generosity was usual between them.

The grandparents interrupted the sports engagement to remind themselves and everyone else that they were due back for another game shortly.  This was only a short interlude. So the four of them reunited themselves as a group with arms connecting briefly to one another as evidence of the corporate enterprise, then herded themselves towards the exit to the stairwell and disappeared.

In an instant I was back to pedalling along the basement floor, hearing the odd crunch of grit (no doubt from the sand and salt outside this time of year) beneath the broad tricycle tires. Not long afterwards I fulfilled my objective of 30 minutes of recorded Workout (Outdoor Cycle). Afterwards I ate my breakfast during which time friends telephoned to advise they had a Christmas gift of goodies to deliver to us today. We’ve left the arrangement of the time to them.  I shall however take my ritual jaunt to the city. It is a lovely day!

Now the rush begins!

As we descend astronomically to the critical point of the Winter Solstice (Saturday, December 21, 2024 @ 4:21 am Eastern Time) the bustle heightens.  Today, Friday, also constitutes the beginning of the last weekend before Christmas Day. The coincidental decline of the sun (when the Earth’s northern pole reaches its maximum tilt away from the Sun) expedites the commotion as darkness falls precipitously upon the picture.

There is evidence that the winter solstice was deemed an important moment of the annual cycle for some cultures as far back as the Neolithic (New Stone Age). Astronomical events were often used to guide farming activities, such as the mating of animals, the sowing of crops and the monitoring of winter reserves of food. Livestock were slaughtered so they would not have to be fed during the winter, so it was almost the only time of year when a plentiful supply of fresh meat was available.

Plentifulness is commonly a theme of the winter season. The exaggeration aligns not only with gifts from Santa Claus for the children but notably also food, sweets and glögg (a Swedish warmed red wine and spicy additions of cinnamon and berries heated in a large cast iron pot hanging over a crackling fire).

Glögg Ingredients:
These are the ingredients you’ll need to make this traditional Swedish glögg recipe:

Alcohol: This big batch Swedish glögg recipe is quite boozy. It calls for a combination of port wine (don’t throw away the bottles!), bourbon whiskey, and white rum.

Spices: The glögg gets its warm and cozy flavor from cloves, a cinnamon stick, and cardamom pods. A strip of orange peel lends fruity flavor.

Sugar: Sweeten things up with ¾ cup white sugar.

Raisins and almonds: Raisins and almonds lend subtle, yet welcome, flavor.

An iron fire poker, heated among the burning logs, was traditionally employed to augment the warmth of the glögg by inserting it into the mixture.

The images of the season – Hanukkah this year runs from sundown Wednesday, Dec. 25, 2024, through Thursday, Jan. 2, 2025 – are normally unparalleled bounty and light. In Modern Hebrew, Hanukkah may also be called the Festival of Lights.

The festival is observed by lighting the candles of a candelabrum with nine branches, commonly called a menorah or hanukkiah. One branch is typically placed above or below the others and its candle is used to light the other eight candles. This unique candle is called the shammash‎, “attendant”). Each night, one additional candle is lit by the shammash until all eight candles are lit together on the final night of the festival.

The name “Hanukkah” derives from the Hebrew verb “חנך‎”, meaning “to dedicate”. On Hanukkah, the Maccabean Jews regained control of Jerusalem and rededicated the Temple.

While we in our household have shamefully abandoned the cultural, religious and commercial instruction upon which we were raised, it is nonetheless impossible to escape the frivolity of the season.  And the baked goods!  Oh, my, those minced meat tarts are extraordinary! Gone – conveniently I suppose – are the days of social gatherings into the early morning hours. Occasionally we have a vicarious hint of the festive enterprise when hearing some high-pitched laugh in the hallway or from the elevator.  For the present however we confine our preoccupation to consideration of dim sum at Sea King on Christmas Day.

 

 

Breakfast in the country

Today was Fire Alarm Day, the day “they” come to conduct the annual inspection of the fire alarm system throughout the 3-storey building and in each of the 42 riverside apartments. We accordingly thought it as well to absent ourselves during the process. By coincidence upon vacating the property we learned from one of the inspectors at the front door that he anticipated completion of the test by 11:00 am.

Prior to departure we briefly reviewed the breakfast alternatives. Once airborne we settled upon Neat Café in Burnstown, County of Renfrew. We’ve never been disappointed there. It nonetheless always surprises me to discover and rediscover uncommon excellence in a remote rural venue. The bias, as you might imagine, is an unsubstantiated prejudice, a myth that unparalleled cuisine should be confined to the urban environment. We proved once again this morning that it is not. Indeed my investigative pursuit à la carte did nothing but augment the chef’s talent and artistry. The accompanying grilled cheese sandwich on seeded rye bread was non-pareil in addition to being fortuitously unctuous. And the bacon!  It were enough to tempt a young Jewish girl when conveniently beyond the restraint of home (as indeed I recall Debbi Ages having been sinfully provoked when visiting my sister in my late mother’s renowned aromatic catholic kitchen). The eggs too were ideally cooked. And the assorted fresh fruit constituted a colourful and healthful addition. What however I must not overlook mentioning is the Breakfast Cookie, a chewy collection of nuts, dried fruit and cocaine. Perfection! And the double espresso served appropriately in a tiny glass cup and saucer. Meanwhile the dining room hardware performed functionally though otherwise unnoticeably. The sun shone brilliantly upon the frosted grounds and beamed warmly upon the interior hardwood. The consummate breakfast achieved. And I might usefully add the same for the Party of the Second Part. An undeniable 100% accreditation! Including as well the not unattractive waitress who not only performed admirably but also efficiently, affably and precisely (yet another art form) in an often underrated employment!

Before and after our country sojourn today we received communications from abroad.  First upon arrival at Marrakech.

Our driver Fariq met us at the airport and all is well. First impressions palm trees, chaotic traffic, cars and motorcycles spewing fumes. Snow capped Atlas Mountains in distance. Great to have Yasmina with me! This is going to be fun! More later.

And second from the United States of America.

For us to wish you a very Merry Christmas and a wonderfully Happy New Year.

We appreciate your letters and enjoy learning about your past and present…the realism being ever so clear.  Today we are 81 and 84;  next week I turn 82…never thought I’d be alive at this stage!  But we’re lucky.  And, I sing “Happy Birthday” to me on the 26th of every month!

George had a laminectomy last month and told the doctor, “Whatever you do, let me get to Florida!”  So he’s healing well, doing PT, driving…and we leave for parts south on Monday!  Glory be…

We’ll visit friends and family from Boston to Washington and then take the auto train on the 30th.  We’re looking forward to being in Florida for three months.

Keep the words coming, friends.

George and Bobbie

Punctuating these gratifying emails is my reinstatement upon the bridge. From here I overlook the boundless passage to the horizon. It is a curious metaphor when the visibility is so blindly clear and the perfection so utterly incomprehensible. It would require more than a pinch to remove me from its credibility and complacency.

Hoosier

Serendipity is forever a sustaining strand of my life. Specifically I am enthralled by those whom I chance to meet. Inevitably there is an unanticipated connection, a degree of commonality, a vein of deeper association and conviviality. Not entirely unexpected is the link we’ve developed with people living in Indiana, USA (not far from the Province of Ontario in Canada). These are predominantly people whom we’ve met while wintering in Florida (either Longboat Key or Key Largo).

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A bit of history…

40 years later

Bill-99by L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.

It was exactly 40 years ago that I came to Almonte to live. The date was June, 1976 and I was 27 years old. I had been tipped off about a possible opening with Messrs. Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers, Solicitors, &c., Almonte who had recently purchased the law practice of Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson, QC who retired in 1976 after 52 years of practice in Almonte. The tip had come from Senator George J. McIlraith, QC who was Counsel to Messrs. Macdonald, Affleck, Barristers, Solicitors, &c., 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa where I was then practicing following my Call to the Bar at Osgoode Hall. Mr. Michael J. Galligan, QC (who had once practiced with McIlraith, McIlraith & McGregor, Barristers, Solicitors, &c., Ottawa) was the son-in-law of Senator McIlraith, having married Mrs. Janet E. Galligan (nee McIlraith).

Library

Thanks to the influence of Judge Alan D. Sheffield (then of Galligan & Sheffield, Barristers, Solicitors &c.) I rented the home owned by Rev. and Mrs. George F. Bickley on Martin Street South (where Martin Street rounds into St. Paul Street at the Mississippi River and then connects with Spring Street just past the Almonte General Hospital). Rev. Bickley was Rector of St. Paul’s Anglican Church on Brougham Street. During his tenure and until retirement he and Mrs. Bickley inhabited the stone manse located behind the Church on the River. My introduction to Mrs. Bickley taught me to give her a wide berth. I had made the mistake of asking whether I might deposit certain of my belongings in the garage of the Martin Street home before the precise date of commencement of my lease. Mrs. Bickley sharply rebuffed the proposal by telling me in unqualified terms that the current tenant had not yet fully vacated the premises (which of course was an understandable objection though I hadn’t anticipated being told so quite so forcefully). Later when I met Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson, QC he coincidentally told me a story of Mrs. Bickley which oddly proved to assuage my sense of private injury. The story goes that Mrs. Bickley, upon arriving in Town as the wife of the new Anglican minister, had taken a pair of her shoes to Mr. Philip Needham (cobbler) on Mill Street to have them repaired. After depositing the shoes on Mr. Needham’s counter and being about to exit the store, she turned and said to Mr. Needham that he hadn’t given her a receipt for her shoes. To this Mr. Needham replied, “Who’d want them but you!” Mr. Needham owned the building (now owned by C. R. Gamble Holdings Inc.) which housed his store (street level) and Mr. Jamieson’s law office (second floor). Mr. Jamieson paid rent of $25 per month. It was Mr. Fred Larose who, over a two-day period, arranged to get Mr. Jamieson’s vault up the old wooden stairs (next to what is now Cortelli’s Pizzeria) on the second floor. When I later moved out of Mr. Jamieson’s former office to my own building at 77 Little Bridge Street next to Baker Bob, Drummond Bros. removed the same Goldie & McCulloch vault from the second floor window and transported it to my new office in a matter of hours. Though I relinquished to Bell Canada the antique black desk telephone used by Mr. Jamieson for the many years of his practice, Mr. Jamieson’s former telephone number (256-3072) which I acquired is now owned by Ms. Evelyn Wheeler, Barrister, Solicitor, &c. who is the successor to my own law practice.

Spring Street (overlooking the Mississippi River) was among the first “subdivisions” in Almonte, succeeded by the “Gale Subdivision” which turned up Gale Street onto Evelyn Street (named I believe after Mr. Albert T. Gale’s wife) and Laura Crescent (named after Mr. Gale’s daughter, now Mrs. Laura Douglas). The Gale Subdivision was in 1976 so relatively recent that one of my first duties upon beginning to work for Galligan & Sheffield was to arrange the registration of hydro-electric utility easements in conjunction with Mr. Brian Gallagher, General Manager, Public Utilities Commission of the Town of Almonte (coincidentally my introduction to Mr. Gallagher would many years later bring me shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the Board of Directors of Mississippi River Power Corporation). Although Mr. Gale had no doubt been the prime mover behind the infrastructure and hard surfaces of the subdivision, by the time I arrived on the scene the majority of the actual housing development had been assumed by Messrs. Alan Gale (son of Mr. Albert T. Gale) and Frank Kremarik who operated under the name of Meadowdale Homes Limited. That Company would later develop the land between King Street, Perth Street, the former Town Limit (separating from Township of Ramsay) and Highway No. 29. Within months of my arrival in Town I had a slightly unpleasant encounter with Mr. Kremarik as a result of having ordered a “Certificate of Status” for his Corporation from the Ontario Government. The government official responded that the Certificate would not issue until the Corporation had filed the latest annual return (which is nothing but a tedious bureaucratic filing honoured more in the breach than the observance). Meanwhile Mr. Kremarik (who clearly was unaccustomed to such finicky enquiry having been made) harboured the view that I had told him he had an ugly baby. He nonetheless perfected the matter by filing the return and thus restored his Corporation to technical “good standing”. This was the first instance of many which followed over the ensuing 40 years in which I succeeded to annoy local businessmen and other lawyers with so-called petty concerns, most of which revolved around real estate conveyancing (an art I preferred not to practice with the contempt which some apparently thought it deserved).

Galligan & Sheffield owned and operated out of the sizeable building which was then as well the offices of the Royal Bank of Canada and Dr. James G. Coupland, DDS at the corner of Bridge and Mill Streets (the former O’Brien Theatre). The Bank eventually bought the building from Galligan & Sheffield and ultimately transferred title to Almonte Community Coordinators (the HUB) then championed by Mrs. Nellie Hempell, Mrs. Janet Duncan and Mrs. Fern Martin. Dr. Coupland’s dental practice was subsequently purchased by Dr. Naji Louis, DMD.

The first day I arrived in Almonte I went to the Superior Restaurant for lunch. I sat at the counter and I remember having coconut cream pie for dessert. The place was then owned by Messrs. George and Terry Charos. The server who attended upon me that day was Mrs. Gladys Currie. Mrs. Currie immediately struck up an animated conversation with me and we have been laughing and gossiping with one another ever since! It was the vivacious Mrs. Currie who over the next 30 years primarily took care of me and my five other colleagues (including Mr. John H. Kerry and Mr. Nick Magus) when we met each morning promptly at 8:30 a.m. to put on the nosebag for coffee and breakfast.

While I have already mentioned in passing my own annoying habit of particularity, I should note that I was not alone in my dedication to propriety. Early in my career I was introduced to Mr. John H. Kerry whose reputation – as the saying goes – unquestionably preceded him. In fact as I awaited his arrival and introduction for the first time I was full of trepidation. I had been told that Mr. Kerry, aside from being one of the Town’s senior businessmen, was not to be trifled with and that he could drive a hard bargain especially when it came to getting what he wanted. On this particular occasion, the object of our meeting was devoted not to Mr. Kerry’s personal affairs (which I understood were extensive) but rather the administration of the United Church Perpetual Care Fund for the Auld Kirk Cemetery. The Ontario Government had issued a mandate that the Perpetual Care Fund was required to “pass its accounts”, a formal audit procedure. Mr. Kerry (who was closely involved with the United Church) had no objection to this process, but when I informed him that it entailed the contracting of a chartered public accountant and the production of reams of paper at considerable cost, he hit the roof. Mr. Kerry was not about to tolerate the satisfaction of the mandarins in Toronto for their sole pleasure at the Church’s expense. Besides Miss Elizabeth Schoular (who managed the books of the Perpetual Care Fund) had in her own less complicated way already provided all the evidence needed to support the proper management of the fund; and Mr. Kerry felt that if the Government wanted to translate that information into some esoteric form then they could pay for it themselves! Initially I exchanged a barrage of letters with the Government officials concerning the resolution of the matter but nothing substantive transpired until Mr. Kerry (who by then had had enough of this fruitless back and forth) literally summoned the Government officials to Almonte to review the matter in person. The Government ended by conducting their due diligence at their expense to the complete satisfaction of all concerned. Coincidentally I have subsequently joined the ranks of many others who participate in the Perpetual Care Fund in anticipation of ultimate interment. As Mr. Raymond A. Jamieson, QC once said upon being informed that Mr. John H. Kerry was adding a chapel to his funeral home, “I’m looking forward to going there!

As quaint as some people fashion a country law practice, it is of course a business and that means getting paid for one’s services. After almost 40 years of practice my only account receivable was $1,000. I remember the exact amount because it was one of the very few occasions on which I undertook any work without a retainer. As might be expected there were signs of trouble from the outset (though I foolishly chose to ignore them). To begin, my client arrived unannounced and unexpected. I had never heard of him and he wasn’t from Town; and he certainly hadn’t called to make an appointment. Even before I could usher him into my inner office to acquaint myself with his legal needs, he bizarrely asked whether he might use a washroom to change his clothes. Apparently he had bought some new pants and shirt and he wanted to put them on. I suspect there was some other collateral explanation surrounding this unusual request but I cannot recall. When at last we seated ourselves to discuss his requirements, he instructed me to prepare an offer for $1,000,000 for the purchase of mining rights in a nearby rural Township. He led me to believe that he had sufficient evidence to support existence of an extensive mineral vein in the area (and he was acting on behalf of Toronto prospectors who wished to proceed accordingly). I realize this must all sound too preposterous for words but, by way of defence, I must tell you that I had learned early in my career that Mr. W. H. Stafford, Barrister, Solicitor &c. had reputedly a large mining practice in Almonte and that most of his clients were from Toronto. Accordingly I felt that the possibility of a renewal of this paradigm of legal elegance was not entirely without substance. I did by the way insist upon a $1,000 retainer from the gentleman at this stage particularly because I sought to remove myself from the engagement by telling him I had no experience whatsoever in matters relating to mining or mineral rights (other than having read about their exclusion from Crown Patents). The gentleman however insisted that I undertake the matter, no doubt persuading me by a combination of arguments about getting my feet wet, jumping into the deep end and having to tackle new things to learn old tricks. And he gave me a cheque for $1,000 (which was honoured upon presentment). Because I flattered myself to imagine that I could write a contract for anything given enough application, I did in fact produce a contract and submitted it to opposing legal Counsel in Perth for consideration. At that time it was close to Christmas and before I received a reply from the Perth solicitor I left the country for a brief southern vacation. Upon my return from the holiday I was greeted by a counter-proposal from the other solicitor. It was at this stage I made my mistake. Although I immediately telephoned my client to inform him what I had received, and although I asked for a further retainer, he told me to proceed forthwith to redraft the contract and to resubmit it to the other lawyer. This I did, all with considerable effort and additional time. I cannot recall the outcome of that gambit but I know I never heard from my client again in spite of repeated follow-up calls. Obviously no contract was ever concluded. To this day I am amazed that I was an agent to these proceedings which clearly had some strength to them. I will never understand how the apparent interest evaporated so quickly nor do I have any idea who were the other parties involved. While I doubt there was anything nefarious involved it nonetheless stymies me why such a seemingly lucrative opportunity simply vanished.

I have learned two important things about real estate over the years. One, never buy a house you can afford; and two, never buy vacant land on a sunny day. My first house was eminently affordable even by standards 40 years ago. I never had to make any compromise of the quality of whiskey I purchased or the frequency of my vacations. What however evolved was that I ended by spending far more to improve my little house than it was worth. By the time I sold it, I suffered a significant (30%) loss. As for vacant land, I got it into my head that as a country gentleman I needed a place to walk my dog (a Yellow Labrador named “Lanny” – short for “Lanark Drummond Beckwith of Rosedale”, his official registered name). The vendor of the acreage was a seasoned real estate investor and he knew in an instant he had hooked a sucker. I recall it was a spectacularly beautiful sunny, dry day when we first visited the country property (25 acres). The deal was practically concluded within minutes. What however I had overlooked is that I despise a dirty car. And mosquitoes. After I had purchased the property it seemed to rain almost every day that I proposed to visit it. The property was on a dirt road. And did I mention the mosquitoes! The rural fantasy was short-lived.  I sold and barely broke even.

You have no doubt heard mention of the “Doctor’s House” on the corner of Clyde and Bridge Streets next to St. Paul’s Anglican Church. That house (apart from reputedly having been where the assassination of Thomas D’Arcy McGee was hatched) has been owned by an Irish born medical doctor since the day it was built by Dr. William Mostyn in the 1860s. Shortly after I arrived in Almonte I was invited by Dr. Frank Murphy to attend a Conservative political gathering at the house. Although I naturally had many Conservative associates in Town the history of my political involvement had been with the Liberal Party (especially because one of the lawyers where I had articled in Ottawa was President of the Liberal Party of Ontario). When I arrived at the house party, things were in full swing. I was later informed that, soon after my arrival, the plumbing in the entire house failed to work properly and the suggestion was my unwelcome Liberal influence had precipitated the defect! I can’t recall having ever been invited to return.

My first office sign was painted by Mr. Norman Guthrie. It was traditional gold lettering on a glossy black background. I hung the sign outside my office. One Hallowe’en the sign disappeared. Weeks later a young gentleman named Mr. Kevin Finner (who then worked in the engineering department of the Almonte General Hospital) arrived at my office with my sign. When I asked him where he found it, he said in the back seat of his car. When I asked him how it got there, he said through the back window of his car. Kevin and I naturally became fast friends!

A reminiscence covering a generation in Almonte would be incomplete without a mention of its artistic element. We are so blessed to have among us so many talented artists. I will be forgiven for mentioning those who in particular have touched me; namely, Robert Pauly, Dale Dunning, Edward H. Winslow-Spragge, Jill C. Halliday, Blair Paul, Stephen Brathwaite, Scott Downey (R&S Tool & Die), Rosemary Leach, Ian (“Bertram”) Paige, Ingrid Harris, Anthony St. Dennis and Al Barratt. One of my first social events was attendance at an art show at the Old Town Hall. As I backed up to get a better look at a painting, I inadvertently backed into another gentleman who was doing the same thing behind me. When we both turned around to see whom we had backed into, we exclaimed with surprise, “What are you doing here!”; to which we both replied, “I live here!” I had bumped into my former colleague John R. Cameron, QC. Later that same evening I met Stephen Brathwaite who had once dated Margo Miller whose parents were old family friends. Mrs. Norma Blaine (who made incredible porcelain dolls) was also an ancient family acquaintance. Not long after my arrival in Almonte I visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts where I discovered bronze reproductions of works of art by R. Tait McKenzie whose notoriety, like that of James A. Naismith, the Americans shamelessly expropriated as though he were one of their own.

The breadth of Almonte’s influence extends beyond its boundaries in other ways too. Many years ago on a late August afternoon I was having a picnic on the banks of the Ottawa River along the Parkway in Ottawa with Ms. Janet R. Rintoul. My French bulldog Monroe was in toe. A young scantily clad jogger came along and stopped to pet the dog. During a subsequent brief conversation the jogger informed us that although he had worked in Ottawa for the summer he was from Toronto and was returning there on the following day. I took a gamble and asked what law firm he had articled with. He replied that he had clerked for one of the Justices of the Federal Court of Canada. When I asked which Justice in particular he said Mr. Justice Hugessen. “Oh”, I said, “Jim Hugessen!” The astounded interloper was Alan S. Diner (now Mr. Justice Diner of the Federal Court). Alan ended joining Janet and me and several other guests for dinner in Almonte that evening and naturally Alan renewed acquaintances with Judge Hugessen. I subsequently came to know Alan’s wife and children.

I recall in particular two instances of testamentary bequests made to the Municipality (specifically the former Town of Almonte). The first was that of Winifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill (“Gemmill Park”). Though the expressed intention of the Gemmill bequest was the use of the land as a natural sanctuary, the Town of Almonte Act, 1953 (a private member’s bill) effectively nullified the limitation upon the bequest and permitted the construction of private residences (though subject to restrictions as to size and material). Whether, in the course of the Ontario Government’s subsequent conversion of historical Registry Office records to the current electronic Land Titles system, those restrictions will survive is questionable. It is all too common to see modest bungalows replaced by “monster homes” in desirable residential areas. Contemporaneously these now long-forgotten restrictions (unless specifically revived by repetition in a current conveyance – which is not the norm) are effectively “buried”. In some cases the Municipality may “duplicate” the restrictions in present-day land use by-laws but once again this is not to be expected.

The second instance of a testamentary bequest was that of John D. McCallum to the Town for the lawn bowling property. McCallum was the proprietor of McCallum Soap Company located on Water Street. The McCallum bequest to the Town for lawn bowling was I believe subject to a restriction that if the land at any time failed to fulfill that purpose, it was to revert to the McCallum family heirs. It is possible that the original bequest included more land than what is now recognized as the lawn bowling club on Robert Street; it may have included nearby land which has since become used for baseball. Whether this is correct (and if it is, whether it contaminates the original bequest) is a matter of some technical interest only at this stage, given the effluxion of time and the application of the general laws of laches and limitation periods. Once again the foundation of these assertions is likely “buried” and may even have been obliterated in the name of progress (as applied to the preservation of historical land registry records).

A perfectly divine day!

Here it is, exactly the middle of December and as precisely 10 days from Christmas! Judging by the prolific number of cars in the garage this morning when I went for my routine tricycle ride back and forth on the smooth basement floor, most people in the building opted to walk to the Sunday matins service. I defend my irreligious bearing by deferring instead to the overwhelming incapacity of my limbs. They sadly haven’t any prolonged mobility. Honestly I’ve tried to enforce them as I once did but within minutes I am bent out of proportion for having attempted the Olympic objective. Thus I have in turn opted for my own substitute.

It won’t surprise you, dear Reader, to learn that my surrogate venture is not entirely sedentary; nor that it didn’t dissuade me especially from launching my little Cadillac into the open air for a gallop along the magnificent Appleton Side Road with its plaintive white fields punctuated by stems of undergrowth and withering dry tawny corn stalk. The subsequent pathway along Hwy#7 always succeeds to gratify me as well because there is little room for argument along a 4-lane divided highway that magically floats up and down to the city and back. It is my settled view that the Village of Stittsville remains plausibly within the rural boundary while still affording the latitude for Petro-Canada and all that that entails.

I mention these petty details because it is they, those common notations within the overall theme, which heighten my exuberance to such evident gusto today. Nor do I say so dismissively! Be assured, dear Reader, that it is these trifling parameters, and they alone, which have so animated me on this late mid-winter afternoon in mid-December approaching Christmas!

As much as Christmas is about gifts – whether spiritual or otherwise – I find enormous satisfaction in the ingredients of the season which abound. Not the least of these gratuities is the ineffable image from my writing desk. It is a reminder of the fulfillment of all the most desirable pictures of the season; viz., snow, shabby dark trees, chilled blue sky, distant barrenness, the frozen purity of the river with its glassy surface costumed by blended streaks of wind. To this seemingly austere depiction I have added the well-known seasonal music of the Czech Symphony Orchestra (the likes of the Nutcracker and Good King Wenceslas); and, by chance today a former neighbour called and gave us two exceedingly tasty tiny mincemeat tarts.

A mince pie (also mincemeat pie in North America, and fruit mince pie in Australia and New Zealand) is a sweet pie of English origin filled with mincemeat, being a mixture of fruit, spices and suet. The pies are traditionally served during the Christmas season in much of the English-speaking world. Its ingredients are traceable to the 13th century, when returning European crusaders brought with them Middle Eastern recipes containing meats, fruits, and spices; these contained the Christian symbolism of representing the gifts delivered to Jesus by the Biblical Magi. Mince pies, at Christmas time, were traditionally shaped in an oblong shape, to resemble a manger and were often topped with a depiction of the Christ Child.

By lesser stimulation we also received advice today that the wife of an acquaintance died last evening. She had lately been diagnosed with incurable illness. Having to confront the dreadful thread of death at any time is an unimaginable burden; but I posit to say all the more so at Christmastime when so much of our communal enterprise survives upon matters of buoyancy. There are of course the customary platitudes to attenuate the sharpness of the sting of death; but it too persists as vigorously as the contrary elements of the day. Perhaps the divinity of perfection is both binary and forever inexplicable.

Back to normal

It doesn’t require much novelty to elevate an otherwise mundane existence to one of complication and obstruction.  The regrettable truth is that even the most minor deviation from habit is, for those of us beyond a certain age, an incalculable disruption and inconvenience.  The image of the old dog lying comfortably by the hearth is thus an enviable alignment.

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Languishing on a Friday afternoon…

Though I haven’t any plausible entitlement, I nonetheless cherish myself with a speciously well-deserved indolence this Friday afternoon because from precisely 9:30 am this morning until now we’ve been about the neighbourhood and back and forth from the City doing things. Important things. The composition of the overall enterprise is of course irrelevant; all that matters is that it bespoke more expedition than lying in bed or having a morning coffee in one’s nightgown.

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