Not every day do things fulfill themselves so gratifyingly as they did today. Two redeeming vaccinations late this morning and afterwards uninhibited in the sunny though wintry weather, I nosed the Cadillac out of the garage onto the dry pavement though yet with anticipation only, not perceiving anything of singularity. Soon however it was apparent that the day was special. Now free of the morning’s pharmaceutical task – and later learning that the Queensway Carleton Hospital had mistaken a medical matter – I was at liberty to dissolve into blithe indolence. I employed the opportunity to address my casual ruminations. My vacuous thoughts wandered aimlessly, spirited by the fresh air and unsubdued by the lack of traffic.

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Days ago our resident acquaintances Joy and Gary L shared with us a recommendation of Constance Lake Lodge. Shamefully after having lived for approaching fifty years in the Ottawa Valley and having acted for people who lived on Constance Bay, I hadn’t heard of the establishment. The subject arose only upon having casually mentioned to J & G that we had lately returned from breakfast at Neat Coffee Shop in Burnstown at the other end of the Valley. Such is the value of gossip. Early this Sunday morning as an opener to our customary perambulations we chose to venture to Constance Lake Lodge to have a look at the place; and to put on the nosebag. We had the indisputable fortuity and favour of a brilliantly sunny though decidedly fresh day.

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The battle between the Papists and the Church of England is legendary. It has been going on for centuries – both overtly and secretly – and naturally its distasteful residue has spilled from the Motherland to the Dominion of Canada and the United States of America. It is a characteristic of England which to this day haunts the place and belittles the realm by its Gulliver’s Travels Lilliputian mockery. It was a tool of dominance and enforcement by successive monarchs (and pointedly in varying application). Notwithstanding what may be written in a constitution or charter of rights, there persists in certain regions a disregard for the separation of church and state. I can only think that King James II would marvel at the regrettable jostling.

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The obscurity of clouds and mist is a welcome interlude.  We needn’t have our prospects perfectly lucid or brilliantly beguiling. Indeed it is perhaps a reminder that seldom do we see things as clearly as we might imagine. There is always a bit of fog. The dour atmosphere of a misty, rainy day is besides an opportunity for introversion and personal settlement, a metaphorical relief from the world outside, an opportunity to do all those things which hitherto we conceded to isolate our private thoughts and indolent aspirations, the luxury for example of an afternoon nap or a relaxing cup of tea while gazing wistfully upon the early winter scene with its promise of seasonal retreat, dormancy and renovation.

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Furniture is of endless scope.  Rather than wear you down, my dear Reader, with trivia, permit me instead to mention those articles of peculiarity in our possession. I shall begin with the object which captured my domestic interest not long after having purchased my first home.  It is the snail table. I believe it was manufactured in Italy. The retailer I bought it from was in the By Ward Market in Ottawa. Basically it’s a coffee table consisting of a large wooden snail carving to the top of which is attached by a brass circular plate and a large screw a round glass top with indented edge.

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No doubt at the risk of being labelled a consummate consumer or a vulgar materialist or some other anti-spiritual condemnation, I will continue this brief catalogue of our personal possessions in our private domain.  The topic today is rugs.  We have 11 of them scattered about the apartment, including (by some standards unusual) in one of the two bathrooms (where in fact there are two because it is an uncharacteristically spacious room).

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The largest collection of stuff we have belonging to the same category is that generically identified as paintings or wall hangings (which includes prints, an historic map, original documents and wood carvings). There are 51 of them in all. Most of them are original paintings, some antique. They reflect not only local artists but also several from Ottawa, Kingston, Toronto and Montréal. One is memorably from Hilton Head Island (a resort which is forever a favourite of ours). There is one exception to the list of hangings and that is a collection of drink coasters consisting of exotic images of bow ties, tobacco pipes, pocket watches and shaving accoutrements given to me by Audrey O’Brien, former Clerk of the House of Commons. Audrey was also M’Lady in the Fraser Highlanders from Montréal. We were both initiated into the Regiment at the Hunt Club with Grete Hale (of Morrison Lamothe Bakery fame) then in attendance.

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Heavy metal has long been an attraction of mine. Here I am speaking of accessories not rock music. The distinction applies to gold and silver jewellery as well as artwork and other casual ornamentation. For example, I have a bronze crab, the centre of which services as a magnifying glass. I keep it handy on the right side of my desk whence I regularly grasp it to afford myself a closer look at some detail. It was a gift to me by Jill C. Halliday, an artist from Toronto who now lives in Almonte.  We met many years ago at a private dinner party in town and have been friends ever since. There is no decipherable marking on the piece to indicate where or by whom it was made.  It is very well made in my opinion and I count it among my most favourite possessions.  I have attempted to polish it on occasion but to my dismay I discovered I have left hidden dried traces of the cleaner in cracks beneath the top and bottom elements. I must try to improve my cleansing on the next occasion. Perhaps I’ll use a toothbrush and some hot water.

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Life is what you think each day. And very often what I think is generated by what I see. While the most notable visual frequency is Mother Nature, it is a close second to inspect (and to be prompted by) what treasures I own. After all, what we have is the fruit of deliberation. This is especially so at an end-of-life juncture after having downsized and purged in order to permit habitation of diminished space. The corollary is a distillation, a purification and a fluidity of assembly. Nothing is hidden or otherwise unwanted; instead the distilled choices are the best of the best.

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From the instant of birth we begin an unfathomable enterprise of bouncing around and as often bouncing back. I have never discarded the adage that we discover whence we come only by leaving it. Bouncing around is just the unpremeditated journeys we undertake or encounter as the product of environment, family, education, employment and sometimes misadventure. From tribulation and debacle, and the evocation of necessity, want and need, we travel along a timeline of incalculable change and circumstance from which we end at times in the most unlikely situation. In short, barring the life of a monastic, we seldom know how, when or where we shall end up.

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