Christmas Day Dinner

Though we had been invited to my parents' home for Christmas Day dinner at 3:00 p.m. that afternoon, knowing that we wouldn't sit at table much before six o'clock that evening, we deliberately delayed our arrival (thinking that the appointed time was far too early to be either reasonable or necessary). Upon our arrival sometime after 4:00 p.m., I was immediately greeted with a reprimand from my mother, who of course couched the assault in terms of concern rather than frustration. The others (my sister and her family - spouse, children and partner of one of the children) had already arrived, and by the looks of it had successfully made their way through the fresh oysters (which they described as disappointingly microscopic) and some alcoholic beverages. As always, the kitchen was the fulcrum of the congregation, as we hovered about the central table laden with shrimp, various cheeses and crackers (none of which especially attracted me mid-afternoon). Meanwhile mother had recovered the bottle of Champagne from the garage where it had been kept cool, and the contents of the bottle were distributed among those who wished to partake, which essentially meant everyone except my father and me. My mother asked whether I could smell the turkey basting in the oven, which I assured her I could.

Christmas Morning

The Sligh mahogany mantle clock in my study has just struck the quarter hour after noon, so we're but minutes beyond the morning of Christmas Day, and an eventful morning it has been.

For most people, an exciting Christmas morning would likely have included something to do with a Christmas tree (which we don't have), or children (none of them either), or gifts (we never exchange gifts), or maybe just a really nice breakfast (ours wasn't bad, but not exactly traditional, having been left-over tourtière meat pie from last night and two fried eggs, all of which we didn't consume until we got home after nine o'clock this morning).

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Somehow December 15th seems to be an auspicious day, though all that I can readily say for it is that we're now about one week from the Winter Solstice, when the days will thankfully begin lengthening. Perhaps it is the proximity of this date to Midwinter which also compels it to me. The ever optimistic human spirit delights in anticipation of what is to come, as we are about to round the corner so to speak. There is also no question that the pace of things begins to gather speed from this point onward, as we rush towards those magical dates of December 25th and January 1st, trying to condense within that space sometimes limitless obligations. Already I can see that regular business enterprise will give way to more pressing family and social commitments after December 18th, the last Friday before Christmas Eve. Christmas is such a licence for delinquence, as I can hear Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge's words echoing in my mind.

The Red Panda

Toby, who had a protuberant little belly (over which hung a tag strung from his neck announcing his pedigree), was a Red Panda Teddy bear made in Germany of Mohair, No. 458 of a Limited Edition of 1000 pieces. He "lived" in the Village clock shoppe of Mr. Dilwert Schomberg on top of The Concise Oxford Dictionary (Fifth Edition), which in turn rested upon two thick volumes of telephone books (one of which was the Yellow Pages, the other a listing of Regional Residential numbers). From this vantage atop the old metal filing cabinet (which in turn supported the Regional Listing, Yellow Pages and Dictionary), Toby was afforded a clear view across the room where Mr. Schomberg (squinting through his gold rimmed spectacles) worked assiduously during the day at his well-worn wooden desk, cluttered with a collection of pliers, small screw drivers and other implements of the trade. Toby’s view further extended over the glass-cased oak counter, and finally to the pine door entrance, appended to the outside of which was a large brass door knocker in the shape of a mighty lion’s head. Fortunately for Toby, in the poorly heated shoppe of Mr. Schomberg, he had the benefit by day of a nearby lamp which poured forth both its light and radiant heat upon Toby, at least that is until Mr. Schomberg at the end of the business day unpocketed his set of keys, turned off the lights, turned down the heat even more, then removed himself from the premises, locking the door with a double click behind him. As a result of Mr. Schomberg’s precautions, the nights were fairly uncomfortable for Toby, and no doubt accounted for the enthusiasm (in his heart only of course) with which he greeted Mr. Schomberg upon his arrival the next morning, when the light and heat were restored.

Sunday Drive

The two old fogies that we are, Denis and I went for what is fast becoming our traditional Sunday drive today. We began our rural excursion by lunching at the Blackbird Café in Burnstown, located about fifteen miles past White Lake. We arrived there around 11:30 a.m., just as they were opening the place. There was nobody else there but us and the two young, female servers (and probably a cook in the back), though other patrons began to arrive as we were leaving after we had finished our meal. More and more we are inclined to steer ourselves away from the City on these Sunday adventures. Sometimes we wander towards the southern end of the County, where we have our favourite spots in Merrickville and Westport; likewise, the Fall River Pub & Grill in Maberly (outside Perth). All these venues share the common features of good food in charming surroundings, located in bucolic settings; and, I should add, the staff are invariably pleasant, warm and efficient.

Familial Duties

After completing our somewhat overdue grocery and booze shopping this morning (we were out of practically everything), we ventured to pay a visit first to my parents and later to my sister and her husband.

My mother was not in particularly good humour today. By her own admission, she is tired of looking after things, something I think we can all relate to from time to time, though in the same breath she insists that she will host the customary Christmas family dinner at her house again this year. My sister and I, in the interest of relieving mother of all the work, had suggested instead a family luncheon at the Château Laurier Hotel, but mother dismissed that possibility, as much as I think it would have made for a pleasant change and even the beginning of a new and enjoyable tradition.

Staying Focused

Luckily for most of us, life is seldom rocked by catastrophic events or unexpected and unpleasant surprises. But when such things happen, the repercussions are myriad, not the least of which is the inability to stay in tune with what one is doing. A sudden jar to one’s habits tends to de-stabalize, catapulting us into what are frequently frigid and uncharted waters. The object of living becomes a commitment to return life to what it used to be, at least a conformity to ritual, tradition and repetition, those elements of daily activity which are the first to be destroyed when a severe shock occurs.

Lost Cause

It was a lost cause! There was no way in the world that Rebecca was going to fit into that dress, even if it were the only one she owned of any worth. The fact is, Rebecca Sample hadn’t worn a dress for so many years that it was no wonder it didn’t fit. The last time Rebecca had worn a dress (indeed the same one she was now trying to get into) was about ten years ago or more when she had been invited to Judge Newton’s retirement party, along with all his sophisticated and influential local friends and the other people who had ever worked for the Newtons. Rebecca had been their cleaning lady, that preposterous and obsequious expression used to describe someone who cleans toilet bowls. Anyway, she didn’t care what people called her (within reason), and she certainly never made the mistake of confusing herself with a lady in spite of the nomenclature. What was she to do! She had to have a dress for the luncheon at the Château Laurier Hotel in two weeks time. Rebecca had never been to the Château Laurier Hotel, though of course she had seen it on the occasional visit she had made to the City from the country to do some shopping (which expedition inevitably ended with an empty basket, she just couldn’t bring herself to pay those prices). Once, she had contemplated using the ladies’ room in the Château Laurier Hotel in an emergency situation, but her natural shyness prevailed, and she chose instead the more public (and more distastefully maintained) washroom in the By Ward Market. She could recall the stench even to this day!

Under the Circumstances

The rain, driven by a strong wind, splattered in large drops against the windshield of the decrepit Vauxhall as it made its way cautiously and bumpily in the darkness along the deeply rutted pathway into the thick woods, the tired wipers slapping back and forth as though in distress. If he could just get far enough off the main highway, thought Fred Aiken to himself, he’d be able to avoid anyone seeing the headlights of the car, which he would then abandon with its cargo. He puffed nervously at his cigarette, the last one he had in the packet. The car hit a large rock which Fred hadn’t seen, almost causing Fred to lose grip of his cigarette but only the ash fell onto the right knee of his grey flannels, and the small automobile tilted on its side momentarily before it came down on the rock again, this time on the undercarriage, causing a loud and unwelcome sound of damaged metal. Then the back wheel travelled over the same rock, and the car tilted again, followed by another crack. The pathway was only getting worse, and Fred could still see the distant and blurred lights of the highway in the rear view mirror. He would have to get further into the woods before anyone noticed him. There was no use contemplating turning off the headlights as he would be completely in the dark, literally, it was such a miserable night. Fred was anxious to ensure that the car was abandoned where it wouldn’t be found for a least two or three days, hopefully giving him enough time to get out of the area before anyone connected him to it.

Lunch in Burnstown

It's 4:30 p.m. on a damp and dull Saturday afternoon. I'm sitting at my desk in my study, the windows thrown open, having just got up from a nap on the green leather couch in the fire place room, where I was lulled to sleep by the mellifluous arias of an opera on the French CBC radio station. When I awoke, I lay inert on my side, glancing about me and staring out the patio doors onto the cedar deck, drinking in the rich gem tones of that exceedingly comfortable room and the soft colours of Autumn beyond.

Friday Afternoon

Can there possibly be anything more pleasant than a quiet Friday afternoon at the office! It helps, I have no doubt, that we have been exceedingly occupied both this morning and until mid-afternoon, and now I am able to gloat by celebrating the unexpected though thoroughly welcome surge of commercial activity and the reward of having successfully prosecuted the work at hand (especially as it involved that almost funereal business called corporate law, for which I have always thought a lawyer with perfectly white hands and manicured nails is so extremely well suited).

Who Cares!

In the scheme of things, there isn’t much that really matters. However, I regrettably find it difficult to distance myself entirely from the irksome details of daily living. There is always debate about what constitutes the anathema of life, but it is fairly safe to say that the popular opinion (even though perhaps wrongly held at times) is that it is others. Philosophically (and in contradiction to this thesis) one is inclined to reject the visceral reaction and turn the sword upon oneself, on the theory that we are ultimately responsible for our own happiness, and that we cannot conveniently blame others for disrupting our inner peace. As a practical matter though this generous and cerebral schmaltz seldom holds water for long. Instinct, the demonic thing that it is, prevails in the end.

You Don’t Say!

If ever we spoke the truth about one another, the conversation would be considerably more entertaining. To sterilize our comments is equivalent to removing all the fat from the gravy, it just doesn’t taste as good. The unfortunate part of such a candid posture is that it invariably dwells upon what are considered by many to be the more undesirable elements of another’s personality. Can you imagine, for example, what you’d be inclined to say if someone asked you how your family were? Of course the immediate inclination is to gloss over the matter entirely by saying they’re all fine, but that really tells the listener nothing. How much more engrossing it would be to say, "Well, my husband has become a certified alcoholic; we now know with certainty that my nephew will never marry; my mother is driving me crazy; I haven’t spoken to my sister since the fracas last Christmas; and my aunt who lives with us is a complete bitch!" Such an overview provides numerous avenues which to explore in further detail; cuts to the chase, so to speak, broadens the horizons. I mean, why bother with all that namby-pamby stuff about how excellently well everyone is doing? None of us lives in a cartoon world of defined edges and limits; we’re all constantly overflowing and making a mess of things, if the truth be known.

The "Retainer Agreement" - Say It Like It Is

My poor little office is becoming more and more like a museum with each passing hour. One can almost hear the dust collecting. After a dearth of activity in the past week (in which I diluted my income tax payable only by enlarging upon my tax deductible expenses - a replacement cheque writer), I had hoped that an improving Thanksgiving Dinner would have spurred my existing clientele to action; but, alas, I have done little more this morning than rearrange my collection of historical agenda (I have saved every one of them for the past thirty-three years except 2006 for some strange reason). Oh, and I also changed a light bulb and called a roofing contractor to see about repairing some eaves trough ruined by vandals on the weekend. My bank account (which I regularly check, about as often as I do my email) resonates with the same inactivity as my own business. Even sizeable trust cheques which I have written and sent to deserving Beneficiaries of the Deceased have not being cashed (or, at the very least, the bank employees are not posting the activity). One more reason to assuage my paranoia and accept that the current famine is universal.

Thanksgiving Monday Snooze

Shortly before noon today we drove from Ottawa where we had earlier been recapitulating with my parents the events of yesterday's family turkey dinner, a tradition of copiousness and excess which my elderly mother insists upon hosting every year in spite of her advancing age and all the work and preparation it involves. Following our brief but blunt dissection of the social components of the gathering (always a source of contention in our clan, compiled as it is of so many strong willed and opinionated characters), we reclaimed the chafing dish in which we had transported the leek concoction (our small contribution to the feast, along with the red and white wines) and then departed fairly abruptly, seeking with some gusto to remove ourselves from the heat of the reignited embers of the fray and frazzle of immutable family politics and economics.

Thanksgiving Weekend

Surely there can’t be anyone at this time of year, on the eve of the commencement of the traditional Thanksgiving Weekend, who doesn’t fill his or her head with images of turkey dinners, roaring fires, autumn leaves, windswept billowing clouds, Martha Stewart and family gatherings. Everything about Thanksgiving has such a compelling, cozy and woolly feel to it. Perhaps because the event is not plagued with the necessity and utter distraction of gift-giving, Thanksgiving is less tangled than Christmas celebrations often become. Thanksgiving is so thoroughly about the sensory delights of sight, sound and smell that even if one isn’t the least spiritual, there is ample room for indulgence (yet another pointed departure from the Christmas experience). The American amalgamation of Thanksgiving and the Pilgrims has all but been abandoned in modern society, at least as far as the Puritanical feature goes; and the wild turkey motif which has replaced it commonly comes in a glass bottle.

Quiet Times

In what would appear to be the indicator of business buzz, our first meeting of the day was at 8:30 a.m. this morning, to review and sign the last Will and Testament of an elderly Client. I had arranged to have my capable Assistant in attendance at that time, though she usually does not arrive until 9:00 a.m. Why it was that my Client wanted to meet outside regular office hours I do not know, nor of course did I ask; but it has to be observed (perhaps snidely) that only a retired elderly person would be intent on doing so.

Hitting the Wall

As the post World War II generation ages and continues to march ever more closely towards approaching retirement, the subject of the labour force in general surfaces again and again in a variety of ways both in the media and in casual conversation, and from many different angles. There is the obvious matter of declining numbers of older workers and the expanding spaces in the workforce which are being freed up for the younger workers. It is nothing to hear that it may be impossible to find enough people to plug the holes of the departing members, which might at least be a source of encouragement for youth. Another slant is that the younger people are going to bring to the workplace a significantly different approach to work, not just more balanced, but certainly more technologically savvy. This further entails that people may modify the traditional work environment by switching places in a standard office to a home-based production. The novelty of a "virtual" office is no longer purely hypothetical.

Drag Queens and Compound Interest

The natural effluxion of time has as we all know many repercussions, some of which - like aging for example- are not altogether enviable. On the other hand, the business of adding interest to the principal in order to earn interest on the interest is considered (by the lender or investor at least) to be a very favourable result. This fetching proposition illustrates, however, that time must be more than a vacuum if it is to produce desirable outcomes. It further captures the need to reinvest in what one already has, rather than merely allowing one’s resources to exhaust themselves. And finally, the corollary of the latter principle is that for every gain there is an off-setting deprivation. In plain terms, the summary of these generalizations is as follows: a) don’t just sit there, do something; b) take care of yourself; and, c) don’t be a pig about it all.

Darling, fetch the caviar for our guests, won’t you!

Some people enjoy the privilege of an exceedingly charmed existence. One can only hope for their sake that such generosity continues for a lifetime. Yet not all are so lucky. The subsequent loss of social face through the unanticipated changes of fortune can trigger some bizarre and unhappy results. In an effort to cling to the past, people sometimes re-enact polite niceties which have virtually no foundation in fact, though they certainly sound obliging enough. "We simply must have you for dinner sometime soon!"

Notions of Regret

A lot of people have been edgy for the past year, on the heels of the so-called "global economic downturn". With so many people having seen their investment portfolio diminish by 30% or more overnight (actually, I think the dreadful event - the unprecedented collapse of the stock market - took place exactly a year ago today), and the subsequent worldwide bankruptcy of major financial institutions, the loss of jobs and the foreclosure and repossession of over-leveraged houses, it is small wonder people are still feeling timid, unsure and less than buoyant. It is especially disturbing that no one is immune to the effects of the catastrophe. There was a time, for example, when those employed in the public service, including teachers, would not have imagined that anything as pedestrian as the private sector economy would have impinged upon their accustomed daily routine and reality, but the shake-up is generally acknowledged to be pervasive, if for no other reason than that the malaise goes to the heart of pensions (the well-known provocation for public service). Add to this the further indignity of a rash of perfidious financial advisors who have spent the private resources of their Clients, and the balance of the world seems even more precarious.

My Theory

It is probably peculiar to aged people especially to dwell upon the development of theories for living. If one has any inclination at all to tell other people how to run their lives (as older people so often do), it is expedient to have in one's arsenal a collection of theories to apply to the situation at hand. Not that these theories are only for others; indeed, the compelling feature of any really good theory is that one knows only too well how clever it is from having used it skilfully in the conduct of one's own affairs.

Saturday Dinner

About a week ago - also on an early Saturday evening - we were watching one of the Two Fat Ladies episodes on DVD (we have a box set). The particular recipe which caught my attention was their Boeuf Stroganoff. It reminded me that I once included that recipe in my limited culinary repertoire (the others being Caesar salad, Caribbean pasta - one of my own creations - and fettuccine Alfredo). Today, when we were shopping for groceries, I suggested that I could make Boeuf Stroganoff for dinner tonight, which Denis accepted as a proposition. I should have known, however, that it would be impossible for me to usurp his jurisdiction in the kitchen. The evidence against me began mounting innocuously enough, with Denis making enquiries about whether I would dust the filet with flower before frying it, and whether I intended to use Dijon mustard, little things like that. He then disclosed that he had been doing some research into the recipe, both on-line and in his collection of cook books. When I replied that I intended - as I do in all my recipes - just to wing it, that pretty much put him over the edge, and he insisted that I must seize this opportunity to turn from my vagabond ways and adopt the preferable habit of reading a recipe. In an instant I knew I was doomed. Asking me to read a recipe is equivalent to asking me to play the piano (which I play by ear) by reading sheet music. In either case, the result is assured to be a failure, if not indeed a disaster.

Island Living

When you hear the expression "Island Living", no doubt what comes to mind is some glossy American magazine about how the smart set live in Florida on the intra coastal waterways, in large mansions with endless bamboo and overstuffed furniture. In our small Town, however, the enclave known as the "Island" is considerably different, though equally exclusive in its own way.

Now There’s a Thought!

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation carried a story this morning about a groundswell idea. While I can’t recall the name of the group advancing this latest bit of popular legislation (I think it has something with the word "patriotic" in it), and in spite of its nationalist overtones (which I have always found about as inviting as the Fascists - though in this case its personal yet superficial appeal gives it more the flavour of something comfy like the Green Party), the idea struck me as not only novel, but more to the point, illuminating. The proposal is to give everybody in Canada who is over the age of 50 years the sum of one million dollars, on the condition that the recipient retires, buys a new car, pays off his debts and sends his kids to university. One hardly need dilate further upon the subject to disgorge the theory behind the plan, namely to create employment, revitalize the retail sector (after all everything is somehow connected to the automobile industry), put a stop to the preposterous debt/equity problem, and do what every developing nation knows - educate our youth.

Autumn

Something there is about a rainy Fall day that captures the very essence of Autumn. Already the skies are dreary enough in the morning when we rise, so the crying Heavens throughout the day sympathize nicely with the soggy landscape. We’re only missing the violent winds to rock the trees and dislodge the drying leaves. As yet we haven’t made the move to woolen goods, but the current warm temperatures are reportedly soon to drop to more seasonable numbers. It is likely but a matter of hours before the Summer blanket is ceremoniously retired for another year to the cedar box. The young fellow who looks after the grounds at the house and the office was in this morning (with another bill, naturally - he has a tiny son at home), already complaining that things are drying up on his agenda. Likely he’ll have but one last visit before yard maintenance becomes entirely redundant, and he must start to think (as do so many labourers at this time of year) about what he’ll do over the Winter and whether Employment Insurance will figure in his plans.

The Big Picture

I am currently reading a History of England (one of the many books on the subject). The author regularly has rather scathing comments on the Lords and Ladies about whom he writes; though in fairness he can at times be equally generous towards them whom he considers the mental giants of the era. In one instance, for example, he applauded the capacity of one of the leaders of the time for being able quietly to survey the broad political and military landscape, then cleverly and unflappably to draw conclusions about the action to be taken. The author distinguished this gentleman by saying that he was able to see the big picture (which I take to be a combination of wit, wisdom and most especially foresight). For someone like myself to hear this sort of thing is withering to say the very least. I am a confessed obsessive when it comes to detail; and an admitted nincompoop when it comes to seeing beyond the end of my nose, much less the front sight of a gun.

The Good Old Days

Unbelievably (at least to my archaic way of thinking), it is now virtually impossible to buy a new typewriter. Granted there are not many who would even want one, but it nonetheless alarms me. It is perhaps a slight to my office that we still use a typewriter (although my capable Assistant assures me that she enjoys using a typewriter, as accomplished as she is in the use of a computer). In the past several days I have been contacting people about repairing the typewriter we now have, but without success. The best that I have managed to do is locate an old typewriter sales firm which may be able to find a used IBM Selectric typewriter, one of those heavy, black metal machines which were once ubiquitous in every law firm in the country. When I spoke with the elderly woman whose husband owns the store, she expressed dismay that typewriters had been so callously abandoned. She considered it a mistake, though I would be hard pressed to advance a commercial argument in her favour.

Saturday Routine

As Saturdays go, this really could not have been better. We awoke with a bounce this morning (having for a change reined in the customary permissive habits of a Friday night last evening) and at once determined we'd go out for breakfast. At first we settled upon the Antrim Truck Stop (which oddly is no longer in Antrim - a move necessitated by the building of a new four-lane highway between Ottawa and Arnprior - but is now on the edge of Arnprior). However, upon further reflection, and knowing that we intended to visit my parents in Ottawa afterwards, we switched horses and decided instead to go to the more proximate Golf Club in the Village of Appleton. Besides, the venue of the Club, located as it is adjacent the meandering Mississippi River, is always a panoramic treat; and the breakfast is very much to our liking.

Is Nothing Easy!

The country law chambers were echoing today with the cry, "Is nothing easy!", a philippic uttered more than once by both myself and my very capable Assistant. Given that my Assistant is so much younger than I, I felt compelled to remind her to whom she was speaking (assuming, that is, that her denunciations in the adjoining office weren't merely rhetorical). After thirty-four years of practising law (albeit as a lowly rural conveyancer), I consider it standard fare to have to endure one road block after another in the consummation of even the simplest transaction. Why is this so, you might well ask? Well, it has something to do with choreography, that's for sure. Marshalling all the elements of a legal transaction is considerably more complicated than one might fully appreciate from the other side of the swinging gate. I suspect the rub is in the detail, those nit-picky little details which (apart from distinguishing the skilled practitioner from the hoards) are the very substance of the matter at hand. Make no mistake - getting the "gist" of the thing is never good enough! One must batten down the hatches, so to speak; hammer in the nails; straighten the crooked way; lay it out one measure after another, one step at a time. As I have so often observed, the law is a jealous audience and cannot be rushed.

The Ride Home

After a bit of a struggle to get my large cruiser bicycle out the back room of the office where I had parked it upon my return from lunch, through the oaken front doors and onto the veranda, I lift its lightweight aluminium frame down the steps and settle the Fat Frank balloon tyres onto the cement, pointing the mechanical missile towards the Town Hall and the path that will lead me home after another day at the office.

We’ll Meet Again

In 1939, British singer Dame Vera Lynn made famous the song written by Ross Parker (music) and Hughie Charles (lyrics) entitled "We’ll Meet Again":

Lazy Saturday

We hadn't anything planned in particular for this Saturday, other than having decided last evening that we'd go to the Golf Club for breakfast this morning, as the season will soon be over for another year. On our way through the Village at 8:00 o'clock this morning en route to the Golf Club, we stopped at the home of some friends who live along the River to see if they were stirring, but as I peered through the glass panel alongside the door I could see no movement. Some documents had been faxed to me from Toronto yesterday, and the parents of one of these friends needed to sign the papers, so I thought I'd see if we could arrange a time this afternoon. As it turned out, we returned to the house after breakfast and after having done some grocery shopping, and plans were made to rally at my office at 1:30 p.m. this afternoon. I was also given instructions to prepare some further documentation, so after returning home, I made my way to the office to complete that additional paperwork. Accordingly it wasn't long before noon rolled around. We had a light lunch, then headed back to the office to meet my Clients.

Back At It

When the air is as crisp and clear as it is today (an early September morning in the country), even the shaving soap smells sharper. There is none of that Summer humidity to thicken and weigh down the atmosphere; the household has an uplifting and ethereal air about it. The squared windows are all thrown up as widely as possible. Although the morning air was still cool, I rode my Electra cruiser to the office again today, flying downhill almost the entire way, rounding the corner at the old Town Hall, dipping under the railway bridge, then sharply braking in front of my office steps (secretly proud of my minor accomplishment).

What If?

Have you ever thought about what you'd wish yourself to be? Have you ever thought you'd like to be someone else, something else, someone with different characteristics? It really is a pointless exercise of course. We can't possibly change the putty of which we're made, though granted we can shape it to a degree; but after a certain point in life, the chance of making any remarkable alteration (much less an improvement) is pretty slim. So we're pretty much stuck with what we are.

We Just Need a Deed!

It is especially not uncommon in a rural conveyancer’s practice to encounter situations in which the Parties on both sides of a proposed real estate transaction are related to one another, and in a concerted effort by them both, they seek to reduce the anticipated costs by trivializing the extent or quality of legal services which they consider are required to give them what they want, usually based upon such irrelevant facts as the length of time the property has been in the family (customarily a bad omen, since no one has had a critical look at the property for years) or the vastness of trust which exists between them (a warm and fuzzy feeling which dissipates the instant the money comes into question). Invariably, such aggressive economic efforts are preceded by the word "just", which is meant to convey not only a sense of urgency to the lawyer but also the paucity of work which must be undertaken in the learned view of the Client. To the uninitiated, such reasoning is daunting and tempts one to take up step with the advancing column. For the old lawyer (or should I say, the "seasoned practitioner") such self-serving diminishment of legal services is both misleading, uninformed and ultimately dangerous. Nonetheless, as a facilitator (that is, a "deal maker" rather than a "deal breaker"), courtesy prompts the Solicitor to bridge the gap between negligence and diligence, hopefully providing the Clients with want they want, subject to intelligible and meaningful qualifications. As an aside, it is also common in such family transactions for the lawyer to be urged to act for both Parties (again, as a perceived cost-saving vehicle), even though the standard for non-related Parties is independent representation. The Law Society of Upper Canada does in fact provide an exception to the general rule of independent representation where the Parties qualify as "related persons" within the meaning of the Income Tax Act, Sec. 252 (which broadly includes blood and marriage relations). Where the Parties are obviously imperfectly matched as far as business acumen goes, the decision to opt out for either or both Parties is easier; otherwise, the decision to proceed on behalf of both is made.

St. John's, Newfoundland

The flavours of St. John's, Newfoundland are distinctly and transparently military and maritime, both steeped in history. The backdrop to the City is its traditional harbour-front, housing the massive stone buildings of the Court Houses, financial institutions, legal firms, churches, Masonic Lodge and the like. Upon touching down in St. John's (I am guessing that most arrive by air, for the only other alternative is by sea), it is immediately apparent that there is more that is ancient about the City than the rock upon which it sits. Its inaccessibility to the outside world has preserved the City from the monotony of North American cities, and I understand it is an unyielding and sometimes aggressive obsession of those who live there to keep it so. It is easy to be quickly transported into another world, far away from anything we know about city dwelling. The great thing is that it appeals to young people, not merely retiring bureaucrats and professionals who are now seeking to enjoy a slower pace in life. Make no mistake, however, there is a distinct smell of money about the place if you know where to look, and thankfully even that display of richesse has been crafted in a unique way.

La Vida Breve

When I think of the tragedies in life - the car accidents, the wars, the cancers, the brain tumours, the kidney failures, the suicides, the untimely deaths, the alcoholism, the business failures, the unemployment, the marital breakdowns - it’s a wonder I get out of bed. The miracle is that, once I’m on my feet, the oppressive weight of the contemplation of this life is somehow lifted. I’m not saying it’s always easy to throw oneself back into the flow, but there’s an almost immediate sense of reward for having done so. Knowing that the fortunes of life can turn on a dime doesn’t help, either. Such philosophical reflection does little more in my opinion than paralyze the process of living, being akin to a confession of the futility of life. One has to get into the act to experience any relief.

What’s on the Horizon?

What a spectacular way to start the month! At six o’clock this morning the sky was a dome of azure blue as I silently cruised on my bicycle along the Appleton Road towards the Village, five miles distant. The overnight temperatures were distinctly cooler than they have been for months, and as a result the mists on this early September morn were spilling off the fields onto the highway in volume. If ever there were an impetus to do the right thing in life, this was it! It was good to be alive! As the sun, a hazy yellow ball of blinding brilliance, rose flashing between the dark green tops of the corn stalks, I could also make out a slight tinge of rouge on certain clumps of high tree-tops in the distance along the River. We’re not quite to the point where the "morn in russet mantle clad breaks o’er yonder hill", but it won’t be long. Nature gathers speed pretty quickly at this time of year.

On We Go!

All is well in the best of all possible worlds! While I won’t suggest that I actually alighted from my virginal bed this morning - far too seraphim-like to be plausible - I can at least report that within minutes after the clock having struck the hour at 6:00 a.m., I was dressed and on my trusty Electra bicycle, happily bouncing on my balloon tires towards the Village of Appleton. The sun was barely breaking on the horizon. The cool air made the morning mists in the gullies and ditches look like winding water courses. The cows were let out already, vapidly chewing the grasses and looking stupidly in my direction as I sailed by.

Renewal

Well, that's it! Summer's over! This is the last day of the last weekend of August, and I can't see that there's any turning back. In my mind I have already begun to formulate the transformations I wish to make in my life, yet another of those new beginnings. September 1st will be the springboard of providence. The Fall I find is generally a time of refreshment anyway. It lends itself with impunity to reflection and taking stock, sitting by fires, wrapped in wool blankets, dozing and gazing out of patio windows onto cedar decks, watching the decline of life in earthen flower pots and surrounding trees as it prepares for Winter and reawakening in the Spring.

The Missing Assistant

There are many reasons one may miss one’s Assistant. Several days ago, my Assistant was pulled from her home, family and me by an urgent medical need, from which thankfully she is now recovering (though not without some unhappy consequences, namely the possible need for a kidney transplant).

Here’s to the Moose!

There really are some things in life worth repeating, and one of them is a meal at Ralph’s cabin. About a week ago we received a telephone call from Ralph inviting us to join him once again this year for a late summer luncheon at his cabin on the Indian River in the Township of Ramsay. As it turns out, the day was perfect from start to finish, complemented by invigorating weather, with clear blue skies and a fresh breeze reminiscent of the autumnal weather that is coming.

Monday Morning

I don’t know about you, but for my entire life, Monday mornings have spooked me. Having been obliged for the same period of time to go - uninterrupted I may add - to school, university or work, I can never get it out of my head that I should be preparing myself to do something constructive. Relaxing on a weekend simply doesn’t qualify in my books. So, as much as I enjoy an easy Saturday morning at the golf club for breakfast and like to imagine that I can suppress the need for the entire weekend, by Sunday evening the obsession to get back to it is pretty much galloping along at full speed. By the wee hours of Monday morning (when I invariably wake with a bit of a jolt from my honest slumber) the panic has firmly taken root. I needn’t tell you how messy those early morning thoughts can be, half-baked, disconnected and surreal as they usually are. While it’s all very well to pooh-pooh such witless preoccupation, the fact remains that the contemplation of one’s agenda for the coming week is not without its gravity.

It All Adds Up

I don’t know what it is, whether we’re just very good at what we do, or whether my capable Assistant, Miss N..., gives so much valuable and unaccustomed service, or whether after all these years I’ve finally learned how to run my office, or maybe a combination of all of the above, but whatever it is, things have gone along so swimmingly today, to the point where, after a mere five and a half hours of intensive labour, I told Miss N... that I was exhausted by it all, and that whatever we had to do could wait until tomorrow, though in fairness to my apparent laziness and avoidance, we together accomplished a good deal this morning and early afternoon, and in the process I even went so far as to tackle the essence of what awaits us on our agenda, which in itself is very relieving, an undertaking which clearly obviates the pain I might otherwise suffer in mere idle contemplation of our upcoming duties.

Walk It Off!

For one as fastidious as I, and who is seemingly intolerant of any disorder whatsoever, I find I have adjusted remarkably well to my many failings, weaknesses, short-comings, lapses and other general disappointments in life. I suppose it should come as no surprise. After all, there is no misfortune (or fortune, for that matter) in life which we have any option other than to accommodate. So much of life (indeed almost all of it) is simply beyond our control, random as some prefer to moralize. There are perhaps those who seek to resist imperfection, but we are powerless to do so in the end. This is a good thing, for recognizing the inherent lack of accomplishment in each of us (and here of course I am speaking for the miserable majority, not those very special souls who needn't bother with these singularly unhelpful observations), recognizing as I say these foibles we each have, enables us to stand taller in the morning or at the end of the day, on the heels of one source of dissatisfaction or another. After all, what profit is there is bludgeoning oneself needlessly? Pshaw! We are surely assured a far more prosperous outcome if we, like the clever oyster, coat life's rough spots with a bit of lacquer.

Appleton Side Road

For the purposes of my circumscribed universe, the Appleton Side Road is the straight ribbon of country road between the roundabout in the Town of Almonte and the Women's Institute and Tea Room on the edge of the sleepy Village of Appleton (though it does stretch several miles further towards the Town of Carleton Place). Two years ago I adopted this portion of the road as my road of choice for bicycling. It serves several needs. Foremost, it is largely flat, though the Village end is the crown of land affording the most sweeping views of the fields beyond and to the adjacent Mississippi River. On a good day, with the wind in the right direction, I can bicycle in top gear from almost one end to the other, with the exception of the rising hill towards the Village. The road is also essentially quiet, except during the morning and evening work traffic, but weekends are a charm. There is nothing on either side of the entire boulevard but fields, farms and severed lots for residential dwellings (many of them quite large). Several of the farm houses are ancient stone buildings. Some of the outbuildings are decidedly dilapidated, either rotten old wooden structures or steel buildings with sagging roofs, now almost hidden behind tall weeds. By perfect coincidence the distance between the roundabout and the Village is almost exactly ten miles, which means I am able to accomplish the hike in about an hour.

The Perfect Business Model

With an education in philosophy and law, I am hardly well positioned to run a business. However, like most entrepreneurs, I never tire of talking about business. Surprising as it may seem, it was only recently that I discovered that having a business model (a term I never would have dreamed of using thirty-three years ago when I began my practice) is as important as the business one does. I understand a business model to be a framework for creating economic value. To enlarge somewhat, as our good friends at Wikipedia have stated, "The term business model is thus used for a broad range of informal and formal descriptions to represent core aspects of a business, including purpose, offerings, strategies, infrastructure, organizational structures, trading practices, and operational processes and policies." Well, I hardly need observe that such a definition expands the desirability of having a business model far beyond my scope and imagination. Nonetheless, I have in my own way developed certain theses which I feel are useful for a small business.

Back to School

As I lay prone this morning in the dental hygienist’s exceedingly padded chair, my mouth agape, legs crossed (as though to regain some dignity), I overheard on the radio (one of those dreadful AM stations where the commentators are always laughing) something about going back to school, likely a sale’s pitch directed to the parents of young children. It reminded me that for the longest time after I graduated from university, the routine of returning to school in September continued to linger. The ceremony which had been repeated for so many years in my life was seemingly impossible to abandon. Then - suddenly - it was gone. The ship had at last sailed on that particular connection. As I developed my working career, the end of August and the beginning of September took on new meaning and associations.

Draw the Line

In the practice of law it is difficult to know where to draw the line. A good deal of what we as lawyers do involves other people, whether as sources of information (when conducting "due diligence" or settling an estate, for example), as other Parties to a commercial agreement, as co-operating or opposing Counsel, as the object of a claim, or as our own Client. While communicating with other people is greatly facilitated by telecopiers and email, there remains the problem of getting a response to those immediate appeals, for communication is by definition a two-way street. Getting a response is furthermore the lubrication to the wheels of commerce, without which things quickly deteriorate. Additionally, the failure to obtain a timely response can precipitate some very unwelcome last-minute attendances, corollary amendments and in certain instances the equivalent of professional negligence (where a loss may have been suffered as a result). The difficulty, as I say, is to know where to draw the line; when, that is, does one become perturbed enough to begin pestering the other person for an answer?

The Recession is Over!

The world is reportedly pulling out of the global recession, at least if one can rely upon the conjectures of the likes of those who are regularly paraded about the BBC and CNN. It is nonetheless undeniable that there are still a great number of people who are seriously smarting from the collapse of the financial industry and the capital markets that once supported it. In addition, the event has unquestionably caused a lot of suspicion about what’s going on. Yet the bitter truth is that few if any have any better idea about where to invest money, a dilemma made all the more tortuous when one recalls that money doesn’t disappear, it just changes hands. So where indeed did all that money go?

Everyone Has One!

Whether I have joined the ranks of the "with-it" people, or merely succumbed to what is a cheap and ineffective shot at grandstanding, I care not. Thanks to the clever Mr. Google (one wonders how he gets paid for his efforts!), I am now afforded what I consider a rather slick mechanism - a blog - by which to broadcast my humble literary endeavours (though it remains to be seen whether the casting is any broader than my formerly targeted email audience). But that doesn’t matter either, for the interesting shift which this new forum has precipitated is one away from the specific, and more to the general, a progression I view as a type of literary graduation. One might imagine that such generalization would in effect dilute an otherwise interesting account, but I don’t think it is so. Besides, where necessary or desirable, fictional names may be employed. Nonetheless, the deeper sense is a shift not so much from fact to fiction as from personal to universal. What I have hitherto written throughout my entire life is largely journalistic in nature, which everyone knows means the grimey details of one’s uninteresting life. The time has perhaps come to distance myself from the admittedly tedious and repetitious accounts of my recurring personal tragedies, and to engage in a broader and more philosophical view of the human condition. I accept as well that after six decades of climbing up and down the hills of life one is qualified to cast a remote (and dare I say discerning?) eye upon the proceedings.

Cutting Back

With the turbid affairs of the office having now moderately settled, I am able to surface, at least momentarily, from the torrent of what has been an exceptionally busy time in the past little while. Much of the bustling commotion was due to nothing more than the urgency of two Clients to complete transactions by tomorrow, in both instances a case of the Seller wanting to unload what has effectively become an unwelcome encumbrance, not an unusual occurrence these days especially for the aging members of the population. Like so many, these Clients were looking for ways to simplify life, and that often means shedding superfluous investments. As I have long known only too well, property management is not to be undertaken lightly. Whenever I feel the need to sanctify what has otherwise been a profligate life-style, I have but to remind myself how attentive I have been over the years to every need of my own little real estate portfolio. Indeed, while I am wont to consider that I have never saved a penny in my life, it expiates my guilt not inconsiderably to recall the amounts I have poured into the maintenance of these properties. As a result of the recent global downturn, I have the added pleasure of being able to wake up each morning to see the entire buildings still intact, rather than miraculously sliced in half and evaporated, admittedly a gloating observation on my part (but somehow delicious retribution for all those nasty things people said of my spendthrift ways).

The Church Wedding

When I told my father that Robert and I were going to my Assistant's wedding this afternoon, he asked, "Is it a church wedding?". Uninitiated as I am to the mysteries of matrimony in general, I wasn't entirely sure what the significance of a church wedding was in particular, except to divine that it captured the more traditional aspect of the affair. In any event, I was able to report that indeed it was to be a church wedding, and in most respects traditional as far as I knew. Robert and I had previously visited the site of the wedding, since it was in the hinterland of the Township of Bathurst, and we wanted to ensure we found our way there on time on the appointed day. The church is located in the hamlet of Stanleyville, which likely houses little more than the very church in which the ceremony was conducted.

The Walking Stick

A walking stick is not a common accessory for the majority. Of those who are in need of one, it is equally probable that only a minority of them own a stick which qualifies as anything more than a support device, often as painfully shabby as the legs they are meant to assist. Yet there are those for whom a walking stick is far more than a functional apparatus. Indeed, a walking stick can be a weapon of singular virtue when properly employed. As much as one's first instincts might be to limit the demographics of people to whom a stick might appeal, in fact there is pretty much a stick for everyone, young or old. Of course the use of a stick (apart from decapitating weeds while walking the dog, for example) is predicated upon some degree of physical infirmity, otherwise it is little more plausible than a nosegay. The extent of one's disability need not, however, be great, as even a slight sprain or touch of arthritis admits to the use of one without apology.

You’re Known by the Heap that you Keep

It is hardly enlightened to observe that - especially in Western society - most people have a deep affection for the things they own. Materialism seems to be part and parcel of the so-called modern world. The automobile in particular has long been acknowledged as exemplary of this disposition. But the affiliation goes far beyond what is at its worst mere unilateral idolatry. The ownership of a car can promote fairly significant barriers between oneself and other human beings. While it might be thought that only those who enjoy the ownership (or lease) of high-end automobiles are likely to turn their respective noses well into the air, the truth is that there are as many divisions of ownership as there are automobiles. Each brand carries with it its own entitlements (and causes for segregation). So, for example, the operator of an energy-saving small machine is just as probable to sneer at gas-guzzling SUVs. Likewise the owners of practical and economic cars are no doubt ill-disposed towards the owners of excessive and opulent ones (my preference, by the way). Then there’s the German vs. North American thing; propane vs. fuel, and so on. There’s simply no end to the forces which drive automobile owners apart and consequently provide ample fodder for indexing and honking horns when perturbed by a bit of bad driving on the part of  the other.