The shaded lane

The quiescent afternoon river is a mixture of superficial confusion and glassy seemingly motionless smears elongating from the far weedy shoreline towards the opposite side then disseminating into the predominant disturbance. In the meadow the tiny yellow birds flit among the flowers and the weeds. It is the perfect mid-summer day in July.

To my unending gratification I awoke this morning to a day uncluttered by drama or necessity. Our former crippling agenda of medical and domestic matters has at last dissolved. What now remains are dental hygienist visits and breakfast at the golf club with friends. Paradoxically it was only moments ago that I rang off the phone following a conversation with my erstwhile physician. We have arranged to meet tomorrow morning for breakfast at the golf club precedent to his game of golf thereafter. We shall (I have no doubt) pursue the recent  – and what he correctly labels acclivitous – alteration of our winter plans. Though my erstwhile physician is a renowned vagabond of the first order, he occasionally interrupts his worldly strides to attend one or the other of his Florida rental properties. His personal acquaintance with the retail vacation market has ignitied both his interest and possible skepticism in the latest scheme affecting us. We meanwhile standby full of anticipation!

On my tricycle this morning I received an email from a former client who inquired about my tricycle. She heard of it from Bill Barrie of Almonte Bicycle Works. Cycling (and tricylces in particular) are a hot thing in the neighbourhood (no doubt reflective of the predictable demographics). There are at least two other tricycles in the neighbourhood though one of them (belonging to a chap who lives in the building) is electric. Once again the woman who emailed me currently lives nearby (just to complete the texture).  I look forward to reuniting with her and her husband.  It amuses me that the woman emailed me this morning by responding to an email of mine to her in 2018.  I had no idea emails had such shelf life. Re-reading my old email included a reference to something I had composed on a platform other than the one I currently use. I remember thinking only, “How quickly time passes”.