Every day is a weekend. It is one of the unparalleled advantages of old age, yet another bequest which I readily accept with unmitigated gratitude. The other bonuses are too numerous (and no doubt too inconsequential) to name; however I freely assert the uncommon superfluities of beneficence which I am pleased and privileged to relish and enjoy.
This morning while tricycling in the cool air and autumn sunshine about the neighbourhood where we live, I encountered two gentlemen whom I have seen many times during the past couple of months. They appeared to be overseeing the construction of two townhouses on the Mississippi River located not far from our apartment building. After a brief hello to one of the chaps, I decided it was time to enlarge the acquaintance. When I alerted my intention by slowing and approaching the younger fellow, he quipped, “How many miles have you done!” I thanked him for the compliment then enquired about the progress of construction. He confirmed the self-evident recent landscaping then detailed the current undertakings inside and outside the two homes. I then asked whether the properties were owned by the same chap who owns (or has a material interest in) our own apartment building, to which the fellow replied, “Yes. You were my father’s lawyer many years ago!”
Although I sought to remain inert, wallowing in the blazing sunshine, upon the deck chair on the balcony earlier this morning when the sun was yet at its acute angle, my profitless and tranquil retirement was soon obstructed. I was unable to dither and allow my mind to wander aimlessly and soothingly. The cool air was for the first time warning of prospective moments to follow commensurate with the prismatic evolution of the trees along the distant shoreline of the river. The decidedly northerly wind gusts challenged my autumn apparel of a Patagonia shell with a high collar (and a silk scarf to boot). What however convinced me more sorely was my admission that a trip to the Pembroke hospital and matters related thereto awaited my grieving attention.
The tawny vista of autumn has canopied the earth as the seasonal harvest evaporates and dwindles like a rainbow in colour and bounty. Soon the darkening days will overshadow the heavens with misty grey skies and softened winter sunlight. The final exuberance of summer will burnish the trees and brighten the yards before capitulating seemingly overnight to nudity and steely iron hardwood.
Another gorgeous day today, a faultless autumn day with white billowing clouds flying amidst the cool October air upon a faint blue sky reflected in the river mirror below. The yellow farms stretch to the distant wooded horizon like defined sketches upon an artist’s easel. Everything today was brisk, my early morning nothingness on the balcony in the mellow penetrating sunshine when a black and yellow hornet drifted in and out, my afternoon appetite quelled on the flagstone patio at the golf club where I overheard the gentlemen applauding their bravado, the narrowness of the roads and the sharpness of the speed competing with a sporty 2-passenger Tesla to the perimeter of Lanark County and then to Equator Coffee for the world’s most authentic tiny cup of triple espresso. Will it never end!
Fences have forever intrigued me, whether poetically (“Good fences make good neighbours“) or artistically as beautiful rustic or architectural images. Symbolically fences have lately acquired a distinct and often distasteful political tone connected with border walls to keep immigrants and refugees out of the United States of America. The construction of that wall has similarly garnered further toxic political attention following presidential aspirant Trump’s promise to have it built then paid for by Mexico (both of which intentions have evaporated and never been fulfilled).
There are people who, for whatever reason peculiar to each of them, wish to leave an impression. Very often the inclination is peculiar to the artist, who, by nature of his or her work, promotes an exhibition of his or her definition of something whether it were a view, a person or an idea. Mixed among this vast arena of possible impressions (which might reasonably include actors, comedians, singers and entire orchestras) is the writer who, depending upon the precise scope of the undertaking, may exemplify either information, narrative or detail or a broader dynamic of philosophy or fiction for example. What however is common to each of these enterprises is the determination to make an impression.
Things started with an energetic beginning this morning. It was another discernibly brilliant day. I had heard the seven o’clock chime but decided to remain in bed until precisely eight o’clock. When the clock chimed again, I knew it was time to inflate the day. I felt it was about to be an uncommon day. We had been invited to dine with my erstwhile physician at his country seat in the Village of Ashton. When we had last spoken about the proposal several days ago during a previous visit, he had informed us who the invitees were to be and that the meal would significantly constitute an end of season foregathering. My partner had already noted the profusion of small tomatoes in the vines circulating the deck overlooking the meadow. Our host also confirmed the meal was to be the traditional vegetarian pasta which we had so often savoured together in the past. We knew too that our friend’s gastronomic talent was not to be diminished. We looked forward to the repast with evident gusto.
George Hickes, Dean of Worcester:
“…for he was of no gentle or forgiving temper, and could retain during many years a bitter remembrance of small injuries ”
“He became indeed a more loving subject than ever from the time when his brother was hanged and his brother’s benefactress beheaded. ”
Editorial Note:
“To do Hickes justice, his whole conduct after the Revolution proved that his servility had sprung neither from fear nor from cupidity, but from mere bigotry. ”
Excerpt From
The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 3
Thomas Babington Macaulay
The following is taken from Matt O’Brien (comedian); viz., featured image and text. I was captured by this because it records the gusto of a young man for travel. Matt is married to my niece, the daughter of my sister and her husband. The account constitutes my vicarious enjoyment of the trip!