Though I no longer make a point of getting up early, there was this morning the unwitting advantage of seeing the sunrise shortly before 6:00 am. The brilliant dawn highlighted the artistic collage of clouds with a crayon book of colours. An hour later – and 40 kms afield (after a requisite pit stop at the local car wash) – I was seated in a correspondingly bright waiting area at the Queensway Carleton hospital. My partner was having a scheduled MRI scan.

The QC hospital is among my favourites (after Almonte, Pembroke and Daytona Beach in that order). I’ve been to Ottawa Civic and Ottawa General as well – and while I have no complaint about the medical service at either of them – the parking there is far less favourable than at the other institutions. Parking at Halifax hospital in Florida was not an issue because I was on both occasions delivered there in an ambulance and afterwards returned to our ocean resort by cab. Only then (following installation of a Pace Maker) was I spared further accommodation of life’s obstructive immediacy – as we cheerfully headed to Longboat Key for inspection of the next year’s projected sojourn (and conclusion of the relevant contract and payment).

Increasingly our weekly agenda is dotted with medical and similar appointments, an unwelcome reminder of the predominant social involvement of old age. When we have the privilege to address a time for a normal social outing – such as for luncheon or coffee – we seldom eyeball an inhibition until we recall the need to check for conflicting medical appointments.

In spite of the limited scope of affairs (as I dangerously approach my 8th decade), I am nonetheless bound to acknowledge the comparative freedom of the limitation. When on occasion I glance back upon the early record of my daily entanglement, it is recognizable that much of my day was then preoccupied with the gravity of legal research and drafting. Often I felt that I could never escape the necessity of constant assessment and verification. In short, working was hard. No wonder I have never regretted retirement. As much as I enjoyed my work, it was still work. There is no amount of wishful characterization that could encourage me to overlook the unadulterated reality of work. In this broad context I am obliged to confess that, speaking for myself naturally, I hadn’t any intellectual advantage when working (or, for that matter, doing anything else); instead, I solely derived any entitlement to credit from application alone. Work was a dreary undertaking – albeit rewarding.

Watching the parade of limping, crutching and generally decomposed visitors and patients passing through the waiting area this morning to the registration booth was evidence of the common decline of a generation (our generation). Occasionally I spotted a sylph-like candidate who, notwithstanding her remarkable youth, suffered a broken leg which, so I speculate, was no doubt the product of violation in some sporting arena. Otherwise today’s sphere of activity was preserved for the aged – and for much less glamorous decay. It was yet another rendition of the nursing home vernacular to which we have become inescapably conjoined. I won’t suggest it is an illustration of the Masonic adage that, “Nature teaches us how to die”, but it delicately treads upon the territory so often confined to the elderly; that is, a quiet reservation (with modest sophistication in spite of what appears to be universal immobility).

Thankfully there are younger people in our orbit who are prepared to dignify our being and enlarge our much needed social involvement. This afternoon for example we gratefully attended upon two new arrivals in town for coffee and cake at their lovely home on Almonte’s fashionable Mitcheson Street. Amidst the tranquillizing late afternoon sunshine penetrating three sides of the hillside residence, we carried on like old school cronies reminiscing about normally unspeakable events. Or, should I say, events about which one does not normally speak. It is paradoxically a refinement of traditional etiquette.  The ability to overstep the confinement of improvisation is the warranty of authenticity and humour. We flatter ourselves to believe that part of the guarantee is the sum of our years; that is, nothing more or less than age – an admission which somehow achieves a barrier to the young heart in us all.

Contrary to Abbey Lincoln’s mournful rendition of “Spring will be a little late this year”, it appears that the caution has no application to today’s astonishingly delightful weather, like summertime with a high of 21°C. Nor is an accident that she was an entertainer who relied upon the oldies and the goodies.

Lincoln made a career out of delivering deeply felt presentations of standards, as well as writing and singing her own material.