Harmony is an artistic compatibility akin to sympathy, friendship and like-mindedness. It it seldom a pursuit; instead it is a simultaneous narrative invoking subtle congruity. Last evening – leisurely sitting on the balcony while relishing the enchantment of the Northern Hemisphere’s approaching maximum declination to the sun on the Summer Solstice –  I heard someone call out, “Hello! Hello!” Recovering from my trifling endeavours or rampant thoughtfulness, I listened, then heard it again, “Hello! Hello!” Looking about – both up, down and along – I focused on a woman on a nearby parallel balcony.  I waved in reply.  She said, “I’ve just moved here.” to which I responded, “Come visit us next door!”  “Now?”, she asked.  “Yes, now.  Come ahead!”  At which I then lifted myself and moved towards the screen door into the drawing room as evidence of my invitation.

Continue reading →

We are fast approaching the Summer Solstice (also called Midsummer; the Longest Day; the Shortest Night; Estival solstice). When I awoke from my deep sleep shortly after five o’clock this morning, the glaring sunshine was already framing the borders of the window blinds. Today is Saturday, what promises to be an ideal summer day, an azure sky, wisps of white clouds on the horizon and moderately warm temperatures.

I continue to be haunted by an adage I see repeated on Vita Mahjong (“an Exclusive Puzzle Game of Tile Matching, a relaxing yet mentally engaging gaming experience particularly focused on older adults”) to the effect that the meaning of life derives from the detail of what is at hand. I find this to be a compelling observation, certainly one more potent than “Don’t worry, Be happy!” although even Aristotle reportedly said “Happiness is the meaning and purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence.” The dedication to detail is something to which I have always been drawn, no doubt a reflection of my obsessiveness. But more importantly than the psychological analysis is its alignment with practicality and immediacy.

When considering the scope of human happiness, there are limitless prescriptions: existentialism, nihilism, transcendentalism, romanticism, Platonism, etc. I am more bound by the blunt and less idyllic scribes such as Betrand Russell who famously said for example, “There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it.” The practicality of living surpasses the oddity of numerology or the ponderous philosophy of Wittgenstein: “If I am inclined to suppose that a mouse has come into being by spontaneous combustion out of grey rags and dust, I shall do well to investigate them to see how it may have got there and so on; but if I am convinced that a mouse cannot come into being by spontaneous combustion out of grey rags and dust, then this investigation will perhaps be superfluous.” Less you think his deeply considered though is entirely unsound, consider this:

The Greek philosopher Aristotle (384–322 BC) was one of the earliest recorded scholars to articulate the theory of spontaneous generation, the notion that life can arise from nonliving matter. Aristotle proposed that life arose from nonliving material if the material contained pneuma (“vital heat”). As evidence, he noted several instances of the appearance of animals from environments previously devoid of such animals, such as the seemingly sudden appearance of fish in a new puddle of water.

Abstract theory may amuse some; but I can never escape the preponderance of meaning in what is at hand.  Nor increasingly am I able to convince myself of the necessity of other than doing so; namely, I confront a logical subterfuge whenever I extend the bounds of my curiosity beyond my environment. Fiction, for example, does not attract me. I am however remarkably more absorbed in conversation of local matters with an acquaintance or friend. And – as you, dear Reader, may already surmise from my repetitive behaviour – I am smitten by the beauty of what is at my front door, my so-called “view up river and across the fields”. Honestly, when I contrast what I see at this moment with what I have seen on the coastlines of the North Atlantic or North Pacific Oceans, or the streets of Paris and Stockholm, the slopes of the Rocky Mountains or the beaches of the Caribbean, and when I ponder the meaning and delight arising therefrom, I am unable to resist the conclusion that the definition and blend of the present detail is inexpressible and incomparable. I acknowledge the truth that one must first leave home to discover its worth; but nonetheless the voyage is not perpetual except on home territory.

June 15, 2025

Toronto, 0ntario

Greetings Lads!
I came across a favourite recipe from my days of living on a farm in the wilds of Zululand, South Africa and thought it might give you a giggle!

Safari Stew
Rinse and pat dry 1 medium to large elephant
Add:
1500 chopped onions
1 truckload chopped carrots
1 truckload diced potatoes
3000 peeled tomatoes (fresh or canned)
10 barrels of elephant stock
50 buckets of minced garlic
And don’t forget the secret ingredient: 25 smoked warthogs
Finally, for that special touch of extra flavour, add 1 bay leaf
Season to taste with salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, then let simmer for 2 days.
Feeds 2000 – it was a big farm!

On a less frivolous note:  I was delighted to read your thoughts on travel because you have grasped what I feel is an important realization at our stage of life: that home is where the heart is when achieving a sense of perfect harmony with your bucolic surroundings.  This is a gift.   Whether or not you find yourself on the road again will be a matter of choice as opposed to yearning.  Too many people fail to recognize that while travelling per se, may feel like an act of fulfillment thanks to that dreaded concept of the bucket list, the recognition of balance between the familiar and the sublime is so often right on our doorstep.  Even I, despite plans for exotic winter get-aways, know that I have found my idyllic mind-set when it comes to time and place:  I am definitely in a place of tranquility that molds my perception of time, stripped entirely of any frenetic pace.  Life can be so full of repose – and in my mind, the best journey takes you home.
And, so we drift along, smiling, peaceful and gratefully alive.
Night, night.
Fi

Elderly people have a lot in common – matters beyond their health and the weather.  Lately – within my confined orbit of association – everything is about change and movement. It is a topic of perpetual animation and exploration. One cannot disregard the latest frequency of moves by acquaintances and friends in and out of the apartment building, to and from local towns. Nor is it possible to escape the insinuation of repeated conversation about travel both locally and abroad. The gusto of this binary contemplation does however force the premiere question, “Do you wish to move?”

Continue reading →

I’ve been in this predicament before – so many things to honour after another day of unparalleled and unanticipated favourable outcomes. Where to begin?

For starters – that is, a moment ago – while reclining on the balcony chair overlooking the maturing corn fields and the glistening river, I dared not stare directly upwards into the Summer Solstice from which descended the sharp (almost imperceptible) tapered bolts of radiance. My feet were comfortably and barely poised upon new black Crocs (Made in Mexico), judiciously chosen in Size 11 (to accommodate the alternative of woollen socks in the fall and winter). Meanwhile the interior rivulets of bumps afforded a welcome relief from neuropathy in my feet. This unpredicted beneficence arose casually this morning as we drove into the city to have the car washed. By further chance the retail shop (Tootsies Shoe Market) was located practically adjacent Petro-Canada in Bells Corners – in the same mall where my late mother (who would have been 99 today) once shopped for groceries nearby her cherished and bespoke home built by her and my late father around 1966.

And I needed relief from weakness of another nature – but equally peripheral.  After returning from our morning venture, I immediately dislodged my Pronto tricycle from its subterranean cage then effortlessly streamed along the river to nearby tranquil road extensions, round about and directed back to home.  But – again, first things first – there was a clatter at the back of my trike.  A hurried examination disclosed the separation of a screw from the right rear fender; the nut bolt was missing (and perhaps a washer). Of course without a particle of reservation I instantly called His Lordship for assistance and advice.  Soon – in keeping with his acclaimed reliability – he arrived with adjustable screw driver. But no bolt or washer.  So, off to Levi Hardware where, with the assistance of the youngest son of my late first client – we secured two small boxes containing independent bolts and washers. But when we restored ourselves in the basement to attack the problem, we met coincidentally with Renato who confirmed the suspicion that a needle nose plier was required to attach the bolt and washer to the screw. A moment’s lapse. Then with acute dexterity the two aligned their skills to coordinate the union of the pieces.  Success!

But I am ahead of myself.  The morning began purposively early at 7:00 am, showering and dressing for the journey to Recess Café in Portland past Perth and near Westport. Guided by Google Maps we took the route through Smiths Falls to get there but returned via Westport and Perth which we found to be a less hurried and more bucolic passage.

Recess Café

Now to the nexus of the matter! This morning’s breakfast at Recess Café was nonpareil. In a word, we’d go back! From the moment of our cordial welcome, the experience was exactly as one would hope. Our summer-student server could not have been more kind.  Her evident intelligence was the welcome layer of communication. She informed us (upon our inquiry) that she and her family have been cottaging in the area for many years.  She is presently studying at the University of Waterloo.

The University of Waterloo (UWaterloo, UW, or Waterloo) is a public research university located in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. The main campus is on 404 hectares (998 acres) of land adjacent to uptown Waterloo and Waterloo Park. The university also operates three satellite campuses and four affiliated university colleges. The university offers academic programs administered by six faculties and thirteen faculty-based schools. Waterloo operates the largest post-secondary co-operative education program in the world, with over 20,000 undergraduate students enrolled in the university’s co-op program. Waterloo is a member of the U15, a group of research-intensive universities in Canada.

A final note of gratitude. I continue to play with my new Oticon hearing aids (left and right). The experimentation includes fussing with the App on my iPhone. Once again with the assistance of His Lordship, I determined that there is in fact a mild orchestral theme upon peremptorily inserting each of the hearing aids. There is admittedly adjustment required to the balance of treble and bass – as well as to the unaccustomed clarity of sound. On balance there is improvement of sound and exceedingly tolerable fit of the devices.

And across the road from Recess Café there is a cemetery.  I have always been amused to investigate a cemetery – especially in the country where the ancestry is often easier to trace and commingle with local descendants. The juxtaposition of the living pleasures and the recorded past is a muted lesson to us all.

After dinner this evening, still recovering from Fairbairn’s maple syrup enhancing the fruit for dessert, and while sitting languidly on the balcony overlooking the glassy river and the young corn shoots in the field, I saw a woman in the distance. She was running along the gravel road. Her determined effort was, I thought, exemplary.  But as positive and engaging as was her enterprise, it little compared with the excitement and elevation I derived from having just hours before consumed the content of a thoroughly unanticipated email from an old boarding school acquaintance.   I hadn’t until then read a more exacting detail of prep school upbringing than that of Holden Caulfield.

Holden Caulfield (identified as “Holden Morrisey Caulfield” in the story “Slight Rebellion Off Madison”, and “Holden V. Caulfield” in The Catcher in the Rye) is a fictional character in the works of author J. D. Salinger. He is most famous for his appearance as the antihero protagonist and narrator of the 1951 novel The Catcher in the Rye. Since the book’s publication, Holden has become an icon for teenage rebellion and angst, and is considered among the most important characters of 20th-century American literature. The name Holden Caulfield was initially used in an unpublished short story written in 1941 and first appeared in print in 1945.

The email was from Bobbie Ball, the chap who distinguished himself in our final year – and while writing our graduate exams – as the “Mad Bomber” . Each night – probably after midnight – he would sneak into the room of one or other of the Upper Six class and smack them in their sleep with a water bomb (I’m guessing an otherwise innocuous balloon filled with water). Thankfully he never succeeded to trash me – though I believe he may have tried but was somehow thwarted in his attempt.

It is only recently – and by casual circumstances – that I have reconnected with Bobbie. His email – for which I have his approval to repeat – is in my opinion a model of sublimity. His unassuming countenance is unique. And I have subsequently learned why; viz., if you’ve got it, you don’t talk about it. And he’s got it! In spades!

Like so many insightful pieces, the probity lies between the lines, the sphere of the unspoken but intimated. Considering the acuity of what he has said, I am not convinced even Bobby fully grasps its depth. The latent turmoil of the precocious mind is not to be understated.

June 11, 2025
Somewhere in northeastern or central Ontario.

Hi Billy.. so I have been reading your very interesting and evocative Substack daily for about a month now.  It is a wonderful thing to hear your voice describing your world in a passion that is as unfamiliar to me but as colorful and striking as your stylized photos.

Since 1969, a lifetime ago literally, you had disappeared from my radar as I had from yours. I am enjoying having the intervening years unveiled by your writings. I knew you lived somewhere near Ottawa but that was it. So the Bill Chapman I knew for less than a decade has come to life for me. It seems like a good opportunity to flesh out my journey from then til now.

Part one… I was born in Durham Ontario a town of population 2,500. My dad was a small town pharmacist and the mayor. My mother was a victim of bad luck.  She developed rheumatoid arthritis early in her thirties and suffered the gossip of a small town when the mayor ran off to Toronto with a twenty year old who worked in his store. She died in the spring of 1960 with my sister and I alone in the house.
Five months later my father remarried and I was  somehow off to St. Andrew’s.

I spent the first months at the school so lonely I cried my eyes out on the front steps of MacDonald House daily. The teachers moved me to the back of the class because I posed no threat to their rule.  My new step mother convinced me to join the treble choir so yes I was lucky the bullies didn’t target me.

But… when I went home to Don Mills for Thanksgiving my new step mother was gone and my dad said I could leave SAC at Christmas if I was still sad. Well that never happened.  By Christmas I had the place figured out. I loved it. As for the bullies they steered clear after watching the wild man on the sports fields. By the time you arrived in grade ten I was comfortable.

In the summers I worked as a caddy and club cleaner at the Donalda Club. Morning til night they kept me busy seven days a week. In the summers I worked in a veneer factory and in grade twelve summer cleared a 12 acre swamp for a sewer company in Markdale.

St Andrew’s raised me.  There was no love but it became clear to me life is a game and if you can figure out the rules you can survive. In later years I described it as a round table top.  You can play safe and stay in the middle or you can venture out to the perimeter edges.  Lean over, test your balance put one foot in the dark side but don’t be stupid and fall off the edge.  It is almost impossible to get back up.

I started as a new boy at SAC but through tenacity and guile wound up as a prefect.  The place worked for me.  It doesn’t for everyone.  My son included.

Then it was off to York.  I lived at Glendon first year and commuted to the main campus. There were a few of us (at Glendon Hall).  You, Reed Osborn, Dave Love, Murray Shields (deceased last December), plus Gord Lownds, Martha Davis, Bill Rutledge , Jamie Sifton and others (Bill Mulock, Michael Perley).

Second year I went to the main campus and took a break from the St Andrews mode. A radio station was starting and Jaimie Crookston recommended I join. So the rock and roll king came to life.  Along with Chuck Azzarello, later with CHUM fm and then a long career building CFRA radio in Ottawa as program director, we spun the discs.

My first ever girlfriend dropped me and I graduated with a degree in political science.

While working as a hustler on the midway at the CNE that year Jamie Sifton of the broadcasting family recruited me to join him at CFJR radio in Brockville .  Six to midnight and weekends.  I was on the Air at the sound of the seaway. I was fired after ten months for being too out spoken.

To be continued…🙉🙈🙊

Photo courtesy of: just stephen

For most of us the pathway is forward.  This is so whether what we achieve by that prospect is actually an advance or an improvement. We instinctively prefer going ahead, looking straight in front of ourselves as opposed to sideways. And yet we may inadvertently discover by a sideways glance that we have overlooked something of value.

There is nothing predictably surreptitious about a sideways glance; it is however indirect and unconventional, maybe even unorthodox. The sideways glance is assured however to reveal what we may have been missing. Nor is the sidelong regard limited only to the physical sphere of our lives – though that too can be unveiling. Once again the commonality is the unanticipated fizz of perspective.

In my limited experience with this particular viewpoint I have discovered that it enhances the relative importance of things, affording an overall sense of proportion. The journey forward can be mistakenly marked by peril or unintended destiny. The venture may as well oblige far greater energy and other resourcefulness than that which a sideways glance might conveniently occasion. The sideways glance is by definition the road less travelled; it is frequently a hitherto unopened source of interest and reward.

With this enthralling element in mind this sunny morning, I undertook an adventure on my tricycle to the other side of town – that is, over the Maclan Bridge in the centre of town by the Old Town Hall to Jamieson Street where we used to live and where now resides my friend and erstwhile legal assistant.  It is her 80th birthday today, a celebration I feel confidant neither of us predicted when we began working together on March 1, 1978, the day we opened the law practice together. She sat in the place of the esteemed Evelyn Barker, LA and I in the place of Raymond Jamieson, QC (who was about 84 years old at the time, having retired from 54 years of law practice). The old office at 74 Mill Street on the second floor was about as antique as they get! Little did we imagine our perspectives would change so extravagantly over the ensuing half century.

Propelled by the novelty of my excursion to the other side of town, I was kept alive by the sight of so many long-forgotten landmarks and associated personal recollections as I streamed by one hint after another, past the Elizabeth Kelly Library, onto Church Street and Tait McKenzie Street, then past Thoburn Street and Vaughan Street before finally connecting with Jamieson Street – all critical names in the history of the Town of Almonte. Benji excitedly barked and greeted me as I knocked upon the door but no one was home.  So, in keeping with the purpose of my outing, I struggled to secure the envelope containing my birthday wish in the brass door handle. Then I reversed the position of my tricycle and pushed off – back towards the other side of town, over the bridge and around the corner at the Doctor’s House made locally famous by Dr. William Mostyn, MD who built the place around 1863 and where thereafter lived an uninterrupted succession of qualified medical practitioners.

As I was about to navigate the turn onto Brougham Street in front of St. Paul’s Anglican Church, a sideways glance informed me of a gentleman with a set of keys in the act of opening the door of the former Land Registry Office where I began my legal career in the Town of Almonte a half-century ago. The gentleman had his back to me.  I called out, “Sir, may I ask a question?”  He turned and revealed himself.  He was by coincidence a chap for whom I had worked many years before. After sharing the usual congenialities, he advised that he was the new owner of this ancient building, the construction of which I believe pre-dates the Old Town Hall.  He and I both knew as well that the architect of these initial Land Registry Offices (I believe he said there are about 24 of them throughout the province) had constructed them upon an identical model.

What however he confirmed distinguished this particular Land Registry Office is that it is the only one in the province not located next to a court house. This seemingly inconsequential fact is however pregnant with meaning.  In the County of Lanark the county seat is the Town of Perth where the ancient stone court house is located and adjoining which is a Land Registry Office virtually identical to that in the Town of Almonte . The fact that the Town of Almonte had its own Land Registry Office independent of that in the county seat speaks to the thriving importance of the town at the time of confederation.  The vibrancy at that time was of course the wool growers’ trade – nurtured by the position of the Town of Almonte along the roaring waterfalls of the Mississippi River and the railway line which Bennett Rosamond had exacted from the Montreal board of directors.

Ken Friesen Audio Services

Reportedly the construction of this monumental building has sustained itself to perfection over the many years. I am excited to witness the evolving work to restore the building to utility (both it and the new Land Registry Office are now closed – a response to technology and on-line electronic registration). It forms a part of what is already an historic society in the immediate neighbourhood, including George Slade’s old house at one end of Clyde Street (initially converted by Ian Lecheminant from a wood burning home to a magnificent antique once owned by my erstwhile physician), along with the Doctor’s House, Judge Hugessen’s former mansion (now The Monte), the Anglican Church and Grant Campbell, QC’s former mansion along the Mississippi River.

It is not uncommon for me to encounter a fellow septuagenarian or octogenarian who proudly proclaims the occupation of his or her grandchildren.  This morning’s brief and unexpected meeting while waiting at the grocery store was however of a singular nature. The proud grandfather remarked that one of his grandsons worked at the grocery store and the other studied civil engineering at Carleton University – then adding (significantly I thought) that everyone needs to find their niche in life.  Amazed by this unique and profound reflection, I instantly agreed. We’re not all made out for the same occupation or pursuit.

The instant agreement between me and the grandfather on this preeminent summary was not overlooked. We nodded our further approval. I asked only, “What does he look like – does he have black hair?”  Previously I had seen a young fellow moving carts about. The grandfather confirmed the boy had black hair and that he was 22 or 24 years old; and that he handles cart removal and other activities in the store.

By utter coincidence as I sat in my car in the handicap parking space awaiting my partner in the grocery store, another gentleman (whom I have known for 40 years or more) approached and we began an animated exchange which as usual involved local history.  He reported upon another young man who had begun his working career as a truck driver/delivery man and who went on to become a successful businessman. I haven’t the precise details; but what is seminal to me is that change is an inevitable part of the full story. This is not to diminish the initial expression; rather to highlight the variety of later possibilities.

Of foremost importance however is that employment of any description is noteworthy; and, like anything else in life it is a matter of perception. How we see ourselves is as far-reaching as what we do. I am reminded, for example, of my own beginning in life as a young law student. Before my final year of study I had a summer job with the office of the Judge Advocate General. On the condition that I commit to work with JAG for five years after being called to the Bar, JAG would pay all my law school, provide paid summer vacation and immediately appoint me to the rank of Captain. Impressive as it was, I declined the offer.  I opted instead for private law practice; and, within four years I had opened my own law practice in a small rural village. I distinctly recall the raised eyebrows of certain of my family and friends. While, in retrospect, I can see that I may have made a doubtful choice within certain context, I have to this day never regretted my decision to work and live in Almonte.  It is one of two choices I have made in life which I consider unassailable. And, yes, should you care to know, the other is my life partner.

The separation between working in a grocery store and studying civil engineering is no different than that between an urban law practice in a firm and that of a rural sole practitioner; which is to say, of course the spread between the two is astronomic! And the decision to opt for one or the other is critical to life’s meaning. Neither is assured to afford complete happiness; the prospects of either is open to debate and assessment; neither is incontrovertible. Strangely nonetheless the niche which each of us chooses is guaranteed to affect our well being and state of mind. And be assured that the calculation of that niche will colour the rest of our lives. Unhappily I have heard more than once of young men who, in an effort to gratify a father’s wishes or to preserve what is perceived a family tradition, have made the wrong choice; that is, they did not find their own niche in life.

Contrary to DNA, bloodline, ancestry or any other additive, we must each find our niche in life sooner than later. Failure to do so will only delay the inevitable or contaminate the present. The lack of familial support in the chosen pursuit is an embarrassment to the family, not the child. I know of nobody who is contradicted or disappointed by the adage, “If you do what you like, you’ll like what you do!”

A rainy day such as we’re enduring today permits me to withdraw from my customary – and admittedly tedious – habits. Outdoor cycling, for one, is adjusted to the concrete plateau of the subterranean tomb. It also enables me to linger beneath the duvet for longer than I prefer, on the theory that an occcasional day of prolonged relaxation is never a bad thing. A rainy day further stimulates those delicate but mesmerizing thoughts – reflections upon the state of one’s union with the Universe at large, the uncommon withdrawal from the pressing demands of a monotonous agenda into the realm of unrestrained contemplation and wistful conjecture. The raindrops on the windows subdue the world beyond, as does the grey atmosphere discolour the sunlight. The shades of springtime are uniquely contrasted in the diminished effulgence, distinguishing the flourishing greenery while softening and darkening the river, its once placid sheen now fettered with creases and distinctive arrows by the whistling southern wind.

Continue reading →

There is no amount of vaporizing or philosophizing that will overcome two blunt truths: 1) we are devoted to pleasure; and, 2) anything contrary to that proposition is avoided.

Continue reading →

The alnage was first ordered in 1196, during the reign of Richard I, that “woollen cloths, wherever they are made, shall be of the same width, to wit, of two ells within the lists, and of the same goodness in the middle and sides.” This ordinance is usually known as the Assize of Measures or the Assize of Cloth. Article 35 of Magna Carta re-enacted the Assize of Cloth, and in the reign of Edward I an official called an “alnager” or “aulnager” was appointed to enforce it. His duty was to measure each piece of cloth, and to affix a stamp to show that it was of the necessary size and quality.

“It is in this manner that money has become, in all civilized nations, the universal instrument of commerce, by the intervention of which goods of all kinds are bought and sold, or exchanged for one another.”

“Nothing is more useful than water; but it will purchase scarce any thing; scarce any thing can be had in exchange for it. A diamond, on the contrary, has scarce any value in use; but a very great quantity of other goods may frequently be had in exchange for it.”

Excerpt From
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
Adam Smith

What immediately occurred to me was the value of water on a desert? Testing and evaluating is a complex process.  It is however an undertaking in which we routinely engage, often without the expertise of an assayer. As frequently we are prepared to accept our evaluation with or without the scrutiny or the analysis. There are some for example who prefer the weight and feel of sterling silver to the look and substance of gold.  Determining value isn’t always about cost or price. When the more generous mining of gold in North America was discovered, the value of it in Europe declined commensurately. Talking about Bitcoin far surpasses anything explicable but just because it is electronic doesn’t mean it is any less worthy than a copper penny once was. Cryptocurrency is effectively just another exchange/barter vehicle for the popular savants. Until however it graduates to a more controlled environment (such as we now have for banks) I am steering clear of it.

Meanwhile my interest in measurement and value is confined to everyday exploits – once those affecting my merchandising of legal opinion, now surrounding matters of more common acquisition. Strangely I have always been drawn to stamps of authenticity – some of which (like precious metals and exotic foods) relate directly to ascertainable weight and cost of production – others of which (like vehicular engineering and accessories) are more personal and ambivalent. For the even less transparent realm of intellectual perspicuity (everything from religion to accounting) there are a myriad of symbols adapted and adopted to portray the intended worthiness of the product. Once again the ultimate value of the product is aligned with the inscrutable weight of personal choice.

It is useful to keep in mind when assessing the accuracy of the evaluation that the party advancing the value has often a material interest in the outcome.  This influence – frequently called advertising – varies in significance from balderdash to science. The regularity of the testing process is itself an added measure of success or failure in the final outcome. Obviously nothing in this world has an irreconcilable or incontrovertible substantive value; the final measure and determination of content and quality is subjective. In daily practice we accept the conveniences of wealth and value; but it is a reminder that underlying those determinations are not flawless rules, rather cooperative choices.

In the result it “pays” to recognize the guiding principles in the measurement of each pice of cloth.  Wool – clearly a foundation of the British economy for generations – has for many been replaced by synthetics. Attacking the less demonstrable assessment of things and ideas remains open to a limitless array of features affording a happy consequence. Some of the assessments drive sustainability and environmental advantages.  The Chinese are producing an inexpensive electric vehicle of commendable character – far removed from the North American “land yacht” vernacular.

But the ultimate matter of interest is that value emanates from within. This is not to diminish a diamond. It merely highlights that the inherent value of anything is what each of us considers it to be independently of others. Assaying our own lives is a combination of weigh scales and personal choices. Just as there is no one calculation of value for anything, there most certainly is no arbitrary determination of ourselves and the choices we make in the fulfillment of the barter of our time on this planet.