It was shortly before seven o’clock this morning when I awoke. One of the prescription drugs I took at 2:00 am had apparently worked its augured soporific effect. I wasn’t overly drowsy though. Because I had retired not long after nine o’clock last evening I didn’t want to spoil the uncommonly restful night by overdoing it. Besides if I linger too long in bed it only cements my arthritic ribs which then oblige annoying effort to regain something resembling mobility. As it was I alternately bended and stretched through my ritual morning ablutions which include swiping clean my iPhone to remove fingerprints. And soaping and brushing my pinky ring to maintain its brilliance (though its days are waning: I have arranged a meeting with my jeweller soon after our return to Canada). Last night before going to bed I cleaned the lenses of the spectacles I intended to wear this morning. My new “granny glasses” had already been cleaned yesterday afternoon when I removed them upon feeling the irritation of the cable temples to which I have not yet fully adjusted; otherwise I approve of them even with the limited graduated prescription (the consequence of small lenses).
The sky was cloudy today. Rain was forecast for later in the afternoon continuing well into tomorrow. I accordingly minimized my already casual apparel choice. There would be no bicycling today. I needed a break. My only ambition was to fulfill my routine of going to the car wash. When I arrived there shortly after eight o’clock there were blue plastic cones barring entry. I had seen them on previous occasions and they usually signify either a minor delay in opening or a brief closure for small maintenance purpose. If there is serious maintenance to be undertaken, they instead put up a barrier proclaiming maintenance; but there was no such barrier. I drove around the block. The detour required mere minutes to complete. When I ended back at the car wash the blue cones hadn’t been removed. So I abandoned the project. But when I turned back onto William Hilton Parkway and headed towards Sea Pines my vagabond fervour for driving reignited. At the roundabout I circled back along William Hilton Parkway, this time in the opposite direction. I headed to Palmetto Dunes where years ago we had frequented the Marriott Hotel spa for massages and where our former estate agent had contracted for us a 5-bedroom mansion for the winter. As I drove through the entrance to Palmetto Dunes I was taken by the gentility of the manicured and singularly hilly environment.
Not long afterwards I arrived back at the car wash. It was open. The customary attendants were there; we shared the usual gestures of greeting and thanks. I was in and out within minutes. As I drove back to Sea Pines I reminded myself with no small delight of our impending departure and the anticipation of being able to drive for prolonged distances. My late father loved to drive as well. And his father too (at least I knew he bought magnificent automobiles – Packard limousines). My father thought nothing of driving from Ontario to New Brunswick where he owned 200 acres of land inherited from his father. My father was mechanical which I am not. The only time I open the hood of an automobile is to add windshield wiper fluid. I am such a disappointment!
My father and I were different in many other respects. He was a golfer; I played tennis at boarding school and in the early years of my law practice. He was a gardener; my hobbies are all indoors. He walked; I swam. I entertained; he did not. I drank and smoked; he never did either. We both had a military experience; mine was metaphorical as Regimental Sergeant Major in St. Andrew’s College Highland Cadet Corps – his authentic and decorated by King George VI. My father and I did only three things together that I recall in particular. One, he took me and my sister when we were young skating on a winding, frozen creek in Alberta when the tree branches were grey but before the snow covered the area. Another occasion with me alone was a trip from Stockholm, Sweden to the Arctic Circle back through Oslo, Norway. The third and last was a business trip he, I and a chauffeur took from Helsinki, Finland to the northern border with Russia and back. They all stand out as memorable because during each we retained our individuality. My father was never one to impose his guidance on others though he seldom failed to make his opinions known. He wasn’t ostentatious about anything; I am ostentatious to a fault – and to make it even worse, smugly so. At the age of about ten years old I recall the early morning when the driver came to the house to collect my father to take him to the airport whence he flew for a year and a half absence to Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo where he commanded Canadian forces for NATO. It was one of two times I saw my mother cry (and on this first occasion not without reason: he was twice reported killed). The other time was about twenty years later when I exploded to her about a recent argument with my father (about some trifling subject I cannot recollect). It was generally apparent that my father and I should maintain a respectful distance from one another – though on several occasions (when he needed something at my law office) he would afterwards linger for lunch (which I was obliged to prepare off the cuff at my house). He gave me money and things as desired or needed. He ensured we were well traveled in North America and Europe (London, Paris, Copenhagen, Florence, Costa Brava, French and Italian Riviera, Switzerland, Sardinia). I haven’t any regrets about our casual relationship. We never once hugged; always just a handshake – and even then only at Christmas or on his birthday. A kiss was unimaginable! He eventually succumbed to my superior legal knowledge – though his submission may have been more the result of fatigue than acceptance. He lived to be almost 96 years of age and his health noticeably declined only in the latter two years. In the end he accepted my recommendation of an inter vivos trust for him and my mother (who, although she ruled the house, never failed to adopt his decision on business matters – though curiously she retained a large independent bank account for years before I got involved with their estate planning). I mention all of this only for historical purposes. I certainly have no regrets or misgivings about our relationship. If anything I find it mildly comical in retrospect. He never objected to anything I did – other than once having asked who I was trying to impress by putting on a jacket and tie for some informal meeting. Apparel was not a big thing for him. But furnishings were a different story, no doubt reminiscent of his own upbringing in the riparian mansion in Fredericton, New Brunswick.
