To my credit I began the day by reading The History of England by Thomas Frederick Tout.

Born in London, he was a pupil of St Olave’s Grammar School, still then at Southwark, a graduate of Balliol College, Oxford, and a fellow of Pembroke, but failing to obtain permanent fellowships at All Souls (1879) and Lincoln, his first academic post was at St David’s University College, Lampeter (now the University of Wales, Lampeter), where his job title was ‘Professor of English and Modern Languages’.

This vigorous literary introduction to Sunday in the Ottawa Valley was sufficient to engender a continuing recognition of the constancy of the author for unimaginable exertion.

His descendants have said that this famous outpouring of influential biographical ur-essays was due to no more than the sheer poverty of a young married academic needing cash for words.

The nutritious remarks of the author in turn prompted me to investigate another broadly related manuscript (a copy of which I include below to satisfy any impending curiosity).

Ur-Fascism
Umberto Eco

In 1942, at the age of ten, I received the First Provincial Award of Ludi Juveniles (a voluntary, compulsory competition for young Italian Fascists—that is, for every young Italian). I elaborated with rhetorical skill on the subject “Should we die for the glory of Mussolini and the immortal destiny of Italy?” My answer was positive. I was a smart boy.

I spent two of my early years among the SS, Fascists, Republicans, and partisans shooting at one another, and I learned how to dodge bullets. It was good exercise.

In April 1945, the partisans took over in Milan. Two days later they arrived in the small town where I was living at the time. It was a moment of joy. The main square was crowded with people singing and waving flags, calling in loud voices for Mimo, the partisan leader of that area. A former maresciallo of the Carabinieri, Mimo joined the supporters of General Badoglio, Mussolini’s successor, and lost a leg during one of the first clashes with Mussolini’s remaining forces. Mimo showed up on the balcony of the city hall, pale, leaning on his crutch, and with one hand tried to calm the crowd. I was waiting for his speech because my whole childhood had been marked by the great historic speeches of Mussolini, whose most significant passages we memorized in school. Silence. Mimo spoke in a hoarse voice, barely audible. He said: “Citizens, friends. After so many painful sacrifices … here we are. Glory to those who have fallen for freedom.” And that was it. He went back inside. The crowd yelled, the partisans raised their guns and fired festive volleys. We kids hurried to pick up the shells, precious items, but I had also learned that freedom of speech means freedom from rhetoric.

I was from the moment of awakening this morning intent upon clarification. Or perhaps a fitter description might be refinement or distillation. Anything to get rid of the muck and dust that lately has stricken me. Possibly a psychotic product of the narcotics from recent surgery; or maybe nothing more than adjustment to everything new.

But first, in accordance with what has been a lifetime of loyalty to limited exercise, I took the tricycle out of the stable for a ride.  It was a longer than normal ride.  I had early in the proceedings resolved in my mind to extend the performance beyond the usual 4Km. The weather, though moderate only, invited outdoor enterprise. I went to Paterson Street, the thoroughfare most elevated from the river. This in turn took me past Orchardview Lodge which, as I would imagine to be true of most retirement homes, has a piano.  I know this for a fact because I have played it a number of times.  The most recent time was only two or three days ago. As I passed by the place I thought to myself, “I want to play the piano”.

Permit me to back up a moment.  For the past couple of days I have re-visited the piano pieces I recorded of myself years ago.  I may as well confess at the outset that Bose® headphones are to the ears what wine is to the soul!  Listening to myself playing the piano on these headphones made me think again about getting a piano. This, I have unwittingly decrypted, is an error.  Playing the piano today at Orchardview – pointedly sans Bose® headphones – reminded me in the most unapologetic terms that my appetite for the piano is at an end.  Naturally I hurry to add that there were several who commended my production. But I realized then that the energy is gone!

This is nonetheless a good thing.  By contrast what isn’t so good and what apparently hasn’t been exhausted is my retail interest.  In addition to buying a new piano I have lately contemplated as well the acquisition of other stuff. Reigning in my proflgacy is a challenge. It improves my being to isolate it from the old to the new.  Certainly the perceptions are diverting; but the appetite is insatiable.  Meanwhile I am afraid of expending my now modest gusto on things from which I no longer derive material advantage. I fully accept that coincidence as a corollary of old age. The limitation expedites what are hopefully more propitious endeavours.

This internal confrontation was sufficient to commit me to a balcony lounge chair for an hour in the sun.  When I erupted from my snooze I slowly and painfully (after my 5.90Km cycle) got myself to the garage and launched the Aviator in the customary direction.   At the car wash, I had a pleasant conversation with an attendant named Patrick who in addition to speaking well of his job and his employer enlightened me that MacEwen Petroleum Inc. owns Halo Car Wash®. This appealed to my national pride!