The chronology of springtime is upon us. Its celebrated flourishing performance is as inevitable and unstoppable as its seasonal celestial transition. Everyone whom I know in this hemisphere of the whirling globe is anxious to proclaim to me their overriding occupation of late within gardens, upon meadows and adjacent ponds. As I drove home today from Stittsville along the Appleton Side Road it was evident beneath the azure dome that residents of the glistening county properties have undertaken the enhancement and definition of their rural estate. Things were in pristine order within the rolling boundaries of awakening green.  Its picturesque image was akin to a vast dining table set with silver, linen and Crown Derby awaiting the arrival of the guests. The headtable guest is Springtime itself, the innate burgeoning verdant grasses, hedges and trees, the overnight arrival of duty bound participants who will in turn flawlessly explode.

But while I willingly share the colourful anticipation of the springtime arousal, I confess to be far less exuberant about manifesting my glee with productive toil. I have now instead the pleasure to reminisce about the commotion from a distance; specifically from a 2nd storey balcony overlooking limitless fields towards the distant faded horizon and an upriver view of the Mississippi River. Late in the afternoon as the angling sun pinkens the river plateau and alters the horizon to an expression of discernible hues, I heard the magical sound of a loon amidst the endless cacophony of geese on the river.

Pondering the meaning of life within this remarkable environment of delight is a devotion fettered by universality and magnanimity. The urgency of the annual rebirth makes it impossible not to be consumed by prospect and satisfaction. Those erstwhile complaints, the fiery dispositions, the boiling vengeance and repeated proof of disfavour are now a matter of collective dismissal. The turnover of winter to summer’s impending promise is by far more strengthening.

Wearing short pants once again has reacquainted me with the frivolity of my past. Apart from the tailor-made wardrobe I believe my disquietude with off-the-rack long pants arises from never having been able to secure the exact 29″ inseam I prefer; nor to adjust to what was otherwise preposterously beyond esteem. This is a limitation which has since been modified by on-line shopping whereby one can search for and find the exact item without accommodation. It is the largest available interpretation of “I’ll see what’s in the back!” Even more compelling however is the recent evolution of other critical retail matters. LIterally for years I have fussed over what I believe constitute the precise retail illustrations of certain products. Some of these items are large (like cars), others are small (like jewelery), some utilitarian (like spectacles), others ornamental (like hats). And within the geography of clothing, the exploration has been predominantly for what fits, for what is strictly comfortable (though admittedly at times mildly disproportionate). It all speaks to the distillation of aging, the perfection of ingredients, removal of what is contradictory, settlement for what works. And maybe too at last the accurate definition of style.

And if you imagine there are so many more worthwhile subjects upon which to dwell, I hasten to remark that there are too as many matters of lesser concern. On balance I am guided in my ventures by the words of my late father who said, “Speak with music in your voice!”  I have determined that the adage is as much an invitation about what to do as what not to do. Nor do I mean merely the differences of what one says; rather the hidden exhortation to avoid conflict entirely. There are for example such a vast number of reasons to question the accuracy of one’s sentiments, not the least of which is the indignity of “seeing in others what we see in ourselves”.