tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45832407475459861332024-01-20T13:07:51.233-08:00The Toy BoxA collection of anecdotes, a step-up from bathroom literature.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.comBlogger314125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-7003554903895923172017-07-13T19:56:00.002-07:002019-09-02T07:57:40.673-07:00Camping in Muskoka<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Although they were unheard of when I was a youngster, S'mores are now a popular conclusion to any camping or out-of-doors dining experience.</span><br />
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<i>... consisting of a fire-roasted marshmallow and a layer of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker.
Contraction of the phrase "some more". One early published recipe for a s'mores is found in a book of recipes published by the Campfire Marshmallows company in the 1920s where it was called a "Graham Cracker Sandwich". The text indicates that the treat was already popular with both Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts. In 1927, a recipe for "Some More" was published in Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts.</i></div>
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While going for our customary bicycle ride yesterday morning we pondered where we might direct ourselves later in the day. It was a Thursday, normally the day our housekeeper attended to go through the apartment. But as the result of the untimely recent death of her husband, her scheduled visits have been put on hold for the remainder of the month. Nonetheless our habit of tooling about on that day persisted in our minds. Initially we considered all the usual haunts such as Gananoque and the Ivy Lea Club along the St. Lawrence River, Cedar Cove Resort on White Lake, Neat Café in Burnstown and Renfrew and Arnprior in the Upper Ottawa Valley. When those places proved unconvincing we decided instead to attempt a jaunt to Lake Rosseau in Muskoka. I say "attempt" because in the past when trying to make a similar spontaneous tour we were disappointed to discover the JW Marriott hotel where we prefer to roost was solidly booked. Luck however was on our side. Even though when we called the front desk of the hotel directly we were advised there were no rooms available we were oddly able to make a reservation for two days through the on-line booking mechanism. So we were off and running! Conditioned as we now are to short trips (which we customarily take when we hibernate in the United States), it was the work of a moment to pack our things and get ourselves on the road.<br />
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The trip northwest to our destination was smooth and predictable except for a stretch of road construction through Algonquin Park. Other than that however the traffic was what I would describe as light (especially for mid-July). We must have done something unusual on this particular visit because our journey from Huntsville to the Marriott Resort was longer than normal, winding two-lane roads (though lately paved) through villages and remote locations. But at last we turned onto the familiar long manicured drive leading up the hill to the Marriott hotel perched high overlooking Lake Rosseau.<br />
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We have stayed at the hotel twice before, once just about a year after it opened (say about eight years ago) and the second time probably the following year. My failing memory on the exact dates is assisted by the fact that I must not have had an iPhone when we first stayed at the resort because I have no recollection of having taken any photos, something which is now instinctive. My first iPhone was an iPhone 4 so that gives some idea of the history of events. Google tells me the iPhone 4 was introduced on June 24, 2010. I can't imagine I bought mine until the autumn of 2010 so my speculation about dates seems to work. A quick look on the internet indicates the hotel under Marriott's management first started in the summer of 2009 (though there was some obfuscation precipitated by different ownership and receivership).<br />
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During our initial sojourn here years ago we stayed in what are touted as the most expensive accommodation, 3-bedroom condos located very near the Lake. The next time we stayed in a standard room in the main hotel. Being in the main hotel permitted readier access to the spa, front desk and dining facilities. This time we're in the main hotel again. While some of these rooms overlook Lake Rosseau ours does not, rather more of a side view of the hotel bounded by tall trees. There is a balcony (which of course we do not use). The bathroom is spacious and everything else about the room is perfectly adequate as far as I am concerned.<br />
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Because we didn't arrive at the hotel until after five o'clock - and because we had eaten nothing since breakfast - we headed directly to the lobby to investigate the latest restaurant choices. Apparently there are six or seven restaurants. In the past we tried the formal dining room which catered to Italian dishes and the more family restaurant for breakfast and lunch. Last evening we were greeted at the family restaurant by an enthusiastic employee who encouraged us to try the new chophouse. Though there was some consternation concerning whether we would be able to get a seat without a reservation, we succeeded to do so after some deliberation between the Maître d' and the hostess.<br />
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We were not at all disappointed with our decision. Every course without exception or qualification was superb - a dozen oysters, Maryland lump crab cakes, filet mignon with sides of broccolini, mushrooms and frites, and - wait for it! - S'mores complete with bonfire smoke. I have no idea how they accomplished that particular additive but the photo (above) does not lie. By the way I opted instead for fresh berries and whipping cream (the waiter also brought me a side-bowl of whipped cream which I handed over to His Lordship). Given the short duration of our stay here we booked dinner at the same restaurant again this evening. And we may even repeat the same menu (though the Halibut is tempting me as well).<br />
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Before leaving the subject of food permit me simply to remark that our breakfast this morning in the family restaurant was good. I did the buffet (so I could get tons of bacon and sausage); His Lordship ordered à la carte. After breakfast we walked around part of the extensive property, specifically down to the dock on the Lake where we perused the nautical artifacts and moored boats. The weather today is dull, grey and on-and-off rain. After we returned to the room I prepared myself for a visit to the spa.<br />
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Last evening I had enquired about availability of times today for mani, pedi and massage but there was nothing. So I contented myself today with the sauna, steam room, whirl pool and swimming pools. The spa has a smaller private pool specifically for spa guests so I dozed there for some time, wrapped in layers of towels and a robe.<br />
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Upon returning to the room a housekeeper enquired whether I wanted the room made up today, to which I replied yes and suggested the moment was now convenient. When she proceeded immediately to undertake the task it pleased me to give her a gratuity. It was apparent that it was unexpected but welcome. It isn't often we have the opportunity to express our gratitude to these assistants. We know they work hard and are under-paid.<br />
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For our return trip tomorrow we propose to travel directly south towards Toronto, then engage the 407 ETR (Express Toll Route) eastward before joining the 401 to the 416 to Ottawa. As much as I enjoyed the bucolic route we took to get here it won't disturb me to take 4-lane highways instead. I find many travellers are annoying on the 2-lane routes, always pushing to go in excess of the speed limit, sometimes dangerously so.<br />
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</span>L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-67428984278756928032017-04-30T08:20:00.003-07:002019-09-02T07:57:57.470-07:00Sunday Morning Niche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">For as long as I can remember Sunday morning has been a time of imperative relaxation decorated with everything that contrives towards elongation and reflection. It is naturally for me (as a relic of the Christian vernacular) a day of rest. In accession to its religious overtone I regularly play music by the likes of Thomas Tallis:</span><br />
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<i>Little is known about Tallis's early life, but there seems to be agreement that he was born in the early 16th century, toward the close of the reign of Henry VII. Little is also known about Tallis's childhood and his significance with music at that age. However, there are suggestions that he was a Child (boy chorister) of the Chapel Royal, St. James' Palace, the same singing establishment which he later joined as a Gentleman. His first known musical appointment was in 1532, as organist of Dover Priory (now Dover College), a Benedictine priory in Kent. His career took him to London, then (probably in the autumn of 1538) to Waltham Abbey, a large Augustinian monastery in Essex which was dissolved in 1540. Tallis was paid off and also acquired a volume and preserved it; one of the treatises in it, by Leonel Power, prohibits consecutive unisons, fifths, and octaves.</i></blockquote>
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<i>Tallis's next post was at Canterbury Cathedral. He was next sent to Court as Gentleman of the Chapel Royal in 1543 (which later became a Protestant establishment), where he composed and performed for Henry VIII, Edward VI (1547–1553), Queen Mary (1553–1558), and Queen Elizabeth I(1558 until Tallis died in 1585). Throughout his service to successive monarchs as organist and composer, Tallis avoided the religious controversies that raged around him, though, like William Byrd, he stayed an "unreformed Roman Catholic." Tallis was capable of switching the style of his compositions to suit the different monarchs' vastly different demands. Among other important composers of the time, including Christopher Tye and Robert White, Tallis stood out. Walker observes, "He had more versatility of style than either, and his general handling of his material was more consistently easy and certain." Tallis was also a teacher, not only of William Byrd, but also of Elway Bevin, an organist of Bristol Cathedral, and Gentleman of the Chapel Royal.</i></blockquote>
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<i>Tallis married around 1552; his wife, Joan, outlived him by four years. They apparently had no children. Late in his life he lived in Greenwich, possibly close to the royal palace: a local tradition holds that he lived on Stockwell Street.</i></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The sacred element of the music is quite incidental to its choral feature. I especially relish Latin no doubt for the same reason opera always sounds authentic only in Italian. Even though I have abandoned Saturday night drinking bouts, the pacification of Sunday morning choral music never fails to gratify. I confess to the ascetic pleasure of ancient music's seeming sternness, an oddly purifying submersion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On a Sunday such as this - when I have nothing planned but an evening dinner-and-a-movie with a friend and when the weather is uninviting, cold and threatening rain - I fluidly adapt to what is a manifestly indulgent behaviour. Granted we have expiated our guilt by doing some ritual laundry but otherwise the morning is dedicated entirely to leisure. I have for example enjoyed more than my usual quantity of strong black coffee, an extravagance I normally avoid because it inopportunely floods me. I have by contrast governed my food intake by restricting myself to the usual composition for breakfast; namely, orange wedges, ham, cheese slices, sliced cherry tomatoes and green pepper, one fried egg, a portion of anchovies and a large slice of dry whole wheat bread. If this sounds less than abstemious I rebut by observing that it does not include butter or peanut butter which I am historically fond of adding uncontrollably.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sunday morning is the opportunity to relish my things. While this hardly sounds flattering it is a shameless truth. Many of my favourite things are tucked away, hidden from sight, things like my Nikon binoculars (special ordered from an optician in Almonte), Shrade "Uncle Henry" knife (bought at a map store in Carleton Place), Mont Blanc key chain (purchased at the airport in Rome) and collection of silver ornaments and watches (from Holt Renfrew in Montreal or ordered on-line or found in inauspicious stores in South Carolina). My affection for portable trinkets is undeniable. And the bent is equally preposterous considering how seldom I use the items. I can only imagine that each of them was an effort to create a milestone or somehow mark the landscape, perhaps even as tacky as a memento. Few of my accessories have survived in my possession. With similar regularity I end up selling them or giving them away. Now I am more inclined (if at all) to employ these frills as strictly private absorptions, likewise secreted under the sleeve or collar of a sweater. Admittedly I still harbour a fascination with 18K bracelets but increasingly I am discovering my inherent distaste for such display. I have acclimatized myself to sterling silver instead. All that now persists in gold are two custom-made rings, a signet and a "pinky" which both harken to my younger days when I viewed those specific articles as marks of recognition and status. The watches, knife and binoculars speak generally to my fondness for precision.</span></div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-15926004099047161842016-05-15T17:24:00.000-07:002019-09-02T07:58:03.532-07:00Autumnal Sunday<div style="text-align: justify;">
As we hovered about the kitchen to finalize the preparations for this evening's meal, in an unrehearsed moment of synchronized lightheartedness we both announced how pleasant it would be to drink a frozen vodka Martini! No doubt because of the uncommonly cool air today, this Sunday has reminded me of an autumn Sunday. And that inevitably engenders fond memories of crackling fireplaces, grey tree branches tossed about in the wind and yearnings for drawing room coziness generally. The very sight of the sparkling Sherry decanter moves me! Earlier this morning we had cranked the heat on to remove the chill from the apartment. Nonetheless undeterred we went for our routine morning bicycle ride (complete with wool cardigan, jackets and gloves) along the nearby country roads; and afterwards when I went for a drive in my car to visit my elderly mother I insisted upon wearing my short pants (something I began to regret when standing in the icy wind by the gas pumps to fill the tank).<br />
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For about the past five days I have been suffering what I believe to be the effects of contamination from my mother's retirement home. Her place is on an alert from the Department of Health about a respiratory infection which I suspect I may have contracted during one of my daily visits. When I first felt the effect, I stayed away and basically slept day and night. Even now when I think I am all but recovered I would be quite happy to crawl back onto the green leather couch, don my black satin sleeping mask, cover myself in the jade coloured throw and succumb to a couple of dreamy hours of sleep. While I always awaken refreshed, the problem of course is that it rather kills the appetite for sleep when the hands of the clock later stretch toward the higher central numbers and the clang of the hours on the grandfather clock becomes mockingly louder and correspondingly less soporific.</div>
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Since last Tuesday when I met with my physician (and decided I could quit taking all my meds) I have been concentrating of necessity upon accommodating my body's lack of prescription and non-prescription drugs. Certainly there I feel the pain of arthritis (and I therefore pine for the Celebrex and Tylenol Arthritis pills) but equally there are other moments when I marvel that either I am feeling no pain or the pain is no worse than I normally felt when I was taking the medication. Overall I consider that my body is buoyed by the withdrawal from the drugs. I do not have any idea what the side-effects of the Lipitor of Coveryl are but I am convinced I am better without them. I previously had the distinct opinion that I had begun to resemble a toxic waste site.</div>
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Meanwhile, as this taxing physical ceremony plays out ceaselessly in the background of my existence, I am likewise adjusting to the inseparable manifestations upon my mind. Purification would too generous a term to describe the sensation, but clearly something approaching elimination is justified or perhaps the more poetic catharsis. It is the irrepressible element of purgation and cleansing, at the very least relief. Unlike most problems in life, I am having difficulty identifying the details of this process (being free of drugs) because I haven't an exact idea of the nature of the original contamination (from the drugs). I acknowledge it is yet possible that my revival is destined to some rough roads; and as a result I regularly contemplate going for a bottle of pain killers. However by and large I perceive that the answer to what I instinctively imagined was the overpowering influence of the drugs lies in removal of the contaminants and drinking a great deal of water.</div>
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When we dined with my former physician and his lady on Thursday evening last the topic of the Mediterranean diet surfaced during our aimless 4-hour chinwag. They like us are vastly interested in matters culinary and dietary. It was agreed by all that the Mediterranean diet (which - in the unlikely event that you do not already know - is heavy on fruits, vegetables, whole grains, beans, nuts, legumes and fish and less affectionate as to both the mettle and quantity of eggs, cheese, yoghurt, meats and sweets) is the one which will sustain us most judiciously and with the least unwanted corollaries. Except for the cheese and sweets I am a ready convert and in fact we largely govern ourselves accordingly. Removing myself from the pharmaceutical wagon has heightened my inclination to the diet, much to my surprise and added relief. Being able to by-pass the bakery counter today without a struggle was a vast improvement; and similarly the sectioned Navel orange and raw cashews I had at the conclusion of my evening meal was perfectly satisfying without the vulgarity of sweetened condensed milk or maple butter by the spoonful!<br />
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All other features of my inconsequential existence naturally continue uninterrupted during this otherwise paramount alteration. My daily routine is now so hackneyed as to border upon embarrassment to repeat it. I have condensed my entire life into but a few compartments most of which are directed to nothing more glamorous than managing our personal affairs and those of my elderly mother, literary diversions (reading and composition), bicycling and closely knit social gatherings. By design - and not without some reluctance - we avoid organized recreation or commitment to projects of any description. I do well to remind myself that there was a time in my career when I was so preoccupied with social activities that it was nothing to eat dinner out of a can while leaning over the kitchen sink. In those days I considered it a fraud to allow oneself the privilege of membership if one were a "knife and forker" only; I had to put out and that usually meant a lot of work. As I approach my 68th birthday, and after two full years of retirement, I seriously debate any talent I might have for anything in any event. Operating on any other than a low-level trajectory is not likely. Besides I am anxious to draw upon every possible virtue of this current state of inactivity. While it is nothing but a quip, it has been said that there is nothing more difficult to do than nothing. It requires at the very least a degree of submission; and once achieved, then the cleverness to extract the essence of what is within the scope of one's immediate gaze. Everything about our decisions to put us where we now are has demanded focus, refinement, precision and choice. Nothing we have or do is by accident or by default. There is no room for surplus in this critical environment.<br />
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Time and again I reassess the direction of my behaviour. When occasionally I lapse into the patterns of behaviour which have characterized me for many years (old habits and tastes seldom disappear I am discovering), I stop myself and conclude there is no point in reviving things whose time is already spent. I shamelessly flatter myself to presume that what remains of my material world and my own mettle is the distilled nectar of a lifetime. Just as my objects are a metaphor for the best of all I have once owned so too my character is the synthesis of whatever I aspired to cultivate. Approaching as I am the apex of maturity there isn't wide scope for anything. Frequently I catch myself falling short of estimable conduct, a failing I as regularly attribute to being curmudgeonly from age. It is true I have lost my sense of humour for almost anything that derails the urgency of studied contemplation and this I admit makes me a prig of the first order. I may perhaps sweeten the consequence of such motivation to advance my hope for improvement and accommodation.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-84793988355683369762016-05-13T14:42:00.001-07:002019-09-02T07:58:11.175-07:00Drug Free<div style="text-align: justify;">
From what best I can recall my habit of taking an over-the-counter pain killer started in 1967 when I was studying Philosophy in undergraduate university at Glendon Hall, Toronto. It was after I had left boarding school and when booze began to figure regularly in my existence (though even then the legal drinking age was 21 years so we "fooled" the authorities by frequenting upscale lounges and restaurants in downtown Toronto where our minority of 18 years wouldn't be questioned as would likely have been the case in neighbourhood pubs). Interestingly the professors at the university encouraged weekly "Sherry parties" in the residence common rooms (Glendon was unquestionably elitist in its foundation) but of course Sherry didn't provide much more than a possible alcoholic springboard to greater heights. Eventually I and others learned to "stock" a supply of the liquor of choice (which then, upon the heels of our latest visit to the Caribbean, was rum). The drug of choice was Aspirin, the round, white, common Aspirin pill before the days of "Extra Strength". This was also before Tylenol or Advil were either invented or certainly before they were popularized by the rapacious drug companies. I believe I used the pills to calm me down, not just to eliminate a headache or sore throat for example. And often I combined the digestion with strong, black instant coffee (generous tablespoons of the stuff and hot water). The concoction was partly a stimulant of course, with the assurance of a smooth ride. Unwittingly I had learned to cultivate a recipe which formed the basis of what eventually became an addiction. It was the first of my "dressing drinks" which were a preamble to a subsequent social engagement. Aspirin was routinely part of my bathroom commodities and certainly was always found in my shaving kit when traveling. I considered it an innocuous and effective additive, as much a part of my daily consumption as an apple.<br />
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Since my open-heart surgery in 2007 I have been taking a number of other drugs specifically those directed to heart disease and my burgeoning arthritic symptoms. My daily prescribed medication now includes Lipitor (cardiovascular disease), Coversyl (high blood pressure), baby Aspirin (blood thinner) and Celebrex (arthritis). In addition I normally take 2 Tylenol Arthritis pills, three times daily. As a result for the past several years at least I have generally felt drugged (or at least numbed) from morning until night. Most recently (in the past year especially) my legs and feet feel like de-sensitized appendages and my bowels feel as though I have been eating cement (I now consider prunes a mandatory part of my daily diet). Walking and movement generally has become a distinct liability bordering on disability, a condition I have excused as the purported combined effect of aging, arthroscopic (left) knee surgery and chronic lower back stiffness (for which I consulted a chiropractor for many years though I stopped a year ago when chiropractic was no longer having any meaningful effect). Privately I resigned myself to impending bone disintegration and even ultimate paralysis or at the very least being bound to a wheelchair for normal mobility. Inwardly I began exploring how much it might cost to refit my automobile to permit me to drive without the use of my legs.</div>
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On Tuesday, May 10th, 2016 I visited my physician (who is pointedly a new, young doctor in the area) with a view to addressing this issue. I have only lately hooked up with this new, young physician as a result of the impending retirement of my regular physician and the universal realignment of area patients upon the creation of the local "Family Health Clinic" (a provincial government motivation). When upon previous routine visits to my surgeon I asked whether I could quit taking the heart medication, the suggestion was categorically denounced. My new, young doctor however blandly observed, "<i>The prescription is not a life sentence</i>". This was refreshing news to my ears and all the motivation I required! So when I left his office on May 10th I decided I would stop taking any medication; and for the past several days I have continued to do so (or should I say, not to do so). I hasten to add that this precipitous alteration was my own decision. It was not a decision founded upon anything more than brief and global consideration with my physician.</div>
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As might be expected there have been apparent side-effects to quitting all the meds. Naturally I am not qualified or otherwise capable of measuring the repercussions of my quitting but I generally feel better. There has been a moderate decrease in the inflammatory feature of my legs (from the knees down); the balls of my feet feel somewhat less numb all the time and I am able to "crack" my toe and other foot joints more often for partial relief from the rigidity of the arthritis. My bowels feel less constrained (I don't feel perpetually fat). My neck has however worsened, getting stiff, though it might be that I slept on it improperly and that I am slowly recovering (I had for example a number of relieving cracks today). Cracks have traditionally been a relief for my muscular stiffness. Until last year I would normally have been able to lift myself off my feet at a counter, then twist my lower back to promote a relieving crack. Lately that hasn't worked and my back seemed locked in a muscular knot. Almost miraculously today (May 14th) I succeeded to imitate the start of what was traditionally the self-cracking of my low back and which was the device chiropractors formerly were able to precipitate. For the first time in years I can walk upright, I feel that my legs are my own and that they work as they should (though the balls and toes of my feet retain some numbness).</div>
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The little I have recently read about the prescription and non-prescription drugs I was taking has not been encouraging. My new young doctor also echoed my sentiments when he highlighted that all drugs have unwanted side effects. There is a growing view that we have seriously underestimated the deleterious impact of over-the-counter pain killers on our liver and kidneys; and the drug companies are at last being called to task.</div>
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Two things have unquestionably changed since I quit the drugs on Tuesday. First, I am not as fidgety; I don't seem as overcome as usual by so-called ticks or nervousness. Second, I have noticed a decline in my appetite particularly for sweets. Last week as my current medical condition approached its acme of discomfort I attacked sweets with a vengeance, concluding the mania by spooning sweetened condensed milk from the can. This obscenity was flanked by maple butter (also spooned directly from the jar) and homemade praline fudge. Perhaps by those excesses I succeeded temporarily to quell my appetite for sugar but I am inclined to think by quitting the drugs I have killed the appetite (which was becoming more of an addiction than an appetite).</div>
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Certainly after just several days of abstinence it is very early to draw any conclusions. It is possible that the euphoria is a temporary state only, perhaps with certain unwanted results, either foreseeable or long-term. My new doctor will of course monitor my cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. to ensure things are stable and not beginning to skyrocket. After our initial meeting I went for "blood work" to establish a baseline. We're also going to investigate my nervous system connectivity in my lower limbs. For the time being I feel less "under the influence", more authentic, less drugged in a word. My metabolism is working properly. I must do stretches to loosen the tightened muscles of the hamstrings of backs of my legs; and twist my lower back to provide similar relief.</div>
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When I get out of bed in the morning my first instinct is to take the usual handful of pills (which I have therefore secreted in a lower bathroom drawer). I feel rather like the alcoholic who imagines that the fastest and surest method to relieve the pain is to take the dope, but I have had all the proof I require to convince me that I will only catapult myself into a stunned zone. Actually the stimulation for my recent motivation was most likely the advice of an acquaintance that her elderly father left his nursing home, moved in with his daughter and stopped taking all his meds. The father has apparently faired incredibly well! I have no reason to mistrust this woman's observation and I accept that the father's improvement is due to lack of drugs, not the other way round. I acknowledge the medical community would be less enthusiastic about embracing such anecdotal accounts. My interest is not to prove or disprove the story, it just conveniently fits with my latest experience. By way of complete disclosure I should add that I had my usual daily 1-hour bicycle ride this morning and that my diet is mostly fresh fruit, salad and vegetables with minimal meat and cheese. And I call or visit my elderly mother every day!<br />
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Aside from the physical alterations precipitated by the lack of drugs, my mental state has likewise changed. In a word things are more critical. The exploit has the sensation of cleaning house. There is the collateral effect of wanting to rid myself of certain long-held opinions or thoughts. Given the sparseness of my current activity this purification process leaves some challenges in its wake. On the other hand I am just as happy to eliminate unwanted baggage by whatever process is necessary. Being in touch with the reality of my physical being mirrors the reality of my mental and spiritual state, all of which is to say that I am winding down and de-contaminating.<br />
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<i>Come down off your throne and leave your body alone. Somebody must change.</i></div>
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Eric Clapton, Blind Faith, "<b><i>Can't Find My Way Home</i></b>"</div>
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-24642592337705362072016-05-10T17:08:00.002-07:002016-05-20T09:33:23.809-07:00Speak with music in your voice!<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px;">“<i>The Platonists tell us, that the soul, during her residence in the body, contracts many virtuous and vicious habits, so as to become a beneficent, mild, charitable, or an angry, malicious, revengeful being; a substance inflamed with lust, avarice, and pride; or, on the contrary, brightened with pure, generous, and humble dispositions: that these and the like habits of virtue and vice, growing into the very essence of the soul, survive and gather strength in her after her dissolution: that the torments of a vicious soul in a future state, arise principally from those importunate passions which are not capable of being gratified without a body; and that on the contrary, the happiness of virtuous minds very much consists in their being employed in sublime speculations, innocent diversions, sociable affections, and all the ecstasies of passion and rapture which are agreeable to reasonable natures, and of which they gained a relish in this life.</i>”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px;">Excerpt From: Addison, Joseph. “<i>The Tatler: By the Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Esq;.</i>” Oxford Text Archive, Oxford University.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px;">Whenever the decibels of discourse rose to offending levels among our family my late father would rush to counsel, "<i>Speak with music in your voice!</i>" How often have I ruminated upon that edict both while my father was yet alive and afterwards! How often have I equally dismissed the recommendation! In the heat of the moment it is no small enterprise to control one's mounting anger and to reflect it in the loudness of one's voice and the disquiet of one's reaction. Anger - like love - once it comes in the door, then reason goes out the </span><span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: medium;">window! It requires mere moments to contaminate an otherwise placid social convention with the wreckage of sudden disagreement. It matters not what motivates the contrary disposition; the remnants of divisiveness and searing regard quickly enflame the gathering and as readily reduce it to ashes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: medium;">Take the instance of the State of North Carolina for example:</span><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">The legal battle over which bathrooms transgender people can use in North Carolina turns on a deceptively simple question: Can a law, written in the heat of the civil rights movement generations ago, apply to people the drafters never intended to cover?</i><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">The federal Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed after years of marches, beatings, sit-ins and lynchings, part of the convulsive change across the country that gave African-Americans the same rights that white citizens had to drink at water fountains, get jobs, buy homes, stay at hotels and vote. A creature of its time, the law prohibits discrimination because of “race, color, religion, sex or national origin."</i><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">The word sex made it into the bill at the last minute, almost accidentally. It was inserted only after the drafting and congressional hearings, when the bill went to the House floor. Representative Howard W. Smith, a Virginia Democrat who opposed the bill, introduced an amendment adding sex discrimination, prompting laughter from his colleagues, who mockingly offered other suggested additions.</i><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">Despite speculation that Mr. Smith meant to weaken support for the bill — he said his concern for women was sincere — his amendment passed, and so did the act. The rights of transgender people never came up.</i><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">This is the history that Gov. Pat McCrory of North Carolina turned to when he sued the Justice Department on Monday arguing that sex means biological sex, and nothing more. “The Obama administration is bypassing Congress by attempting to rewrite the law,” he said.</i><br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 1.0625rem; text-align: start;">But the Justice Department said the word also covers gender identity, not just anatomy, and filed its own lawsuit charging that a North Carolina law allowing people to use only those public bathrooms and locker rooms that correspond to their biological sex violates both the 1964 law and a 1972 federal law barring sex discrimination in education.</i><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 1.0625rem;">While I find it impossible to imagine that any man in North Carolina would prefer to see Caitlyn Jenner in a men's washroom instead of a women's washroom, the answer likely lies in the fact that this is an election year. Republican Governor Pat McCrory has conducted a poll and determined that by a slim majority the North Carolina constituents support the bathroom law. North Carolina has returned to the familiar territory of the toilet to fight yet another battle of discrimination in this former slave State. Though the issue of taking water at a fountain has been put to rest, the matter of eliminating water apparently has not.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 1.0625rem;">I suspect the North Carolina conservatives who support this "strict constructionist" interpretation of the law would be mortified to learn that Glendon College of York University in Toronto has student residences which are mostly co-educational including the washrooms.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 1.0625rem;">The influence of Christians in this kerfuffle is not to be diminished. Gov. McCrory has characterized the opposition to the "bathroom law" as part of a radical agenda sweeping the country. Seemingly North Carolinians view this issue as elemental to the preservation of their way of life.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 17px;">As usual there are myths surrounding the controversy. Most important is that although the law does affect state government-managed bathrooms, businesses and other private institutions across the state are still free to create their own bathroom policies. Meanwhile the debate has polarized opinions with some potentially catastrophic economic repercussions. One North Carolina woman commented that the social planning for corporations is frequently done years in advance of the event. If corporations continue to boycott North Carolina it will mean that the declension of tourism will echo years from now.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 17px;">Duck Dynasty Commander Phil Roberston, has weighed in upon the dilemma, promoting the Christian movement to "stand tall" for religious freedom in the face of government coercion. He fears that the Godly values that propelled America to greatness are under attack by the mob mentality of political correctness and that "we're slowly losing our soul".</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 17px;">As the dust settles on this noisy disturbance and as we analyze further our fear for our daughters having to use the same bathroom as a "man", I feel on balance we are well to keep in mind the consequences of a humble disposition and sociable affections. The American landscape is already polluted enough with insupportable differences.</span></div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-78907178504346001662016-05-09T15:27:00.001-07:002016-05-20T09:34:04.076-07:00Middle-C<div style="text-align: justify;">
In the compass of my admittedly shallow experience, the triflings of my existence have today changed from off-key to Middle-C. I had begun to think that the Forces of Evil had conspired against me; dissonance characterized my universe. To begin, several days ago I discovered by accident when examining my Moissanite "gem" in my pinky ring that there was an unmistakeable smudge on the centre flat surface resembling a small oil slick. As with any of these ostensibly negligible issues I at first pretended to ignore it. But my obsessiveness kept me re-examining the stone to see if by chance I had possibly been deceived by the mere refraction of light. I cleaned the jewel every morning as usual with Ivory dish soap and an old toothbrush. But the stain persisted. Because the blemish was so difficult to isolate (the exact light and angle were required), I entertained the further possibility that the smear was an anomaly only, a mere accident of circumstance, one that might never be repeated. This thesis also gave way in short order. Finally I concluded that the stone was defective and forever stained.<br />
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This might have been the end of the matter as it coincided with yet another unpleasant and irreversible experience currently on the map; namely, an abrasion of the chrome rim of my Cadillac's right, front wheel. I had stupidly attempted to park too close to a curb, something I've done before (though I replaced the entire rim when that happened). On this occasion the scuff was barely visible and if I hadn't felt the resistance when parking the car I might never have been the wiser. In order to minimize this particular catastrophe I engaged in endless philosophical rumination about the rough and tumble of life, its patina and all that sort of practical rubbish. Secretly I wanted to have the damn thing repaired. But two factors mitigated against that tact: one, the mark was so minor as to be hardly noticeable; two, I have already placed an order for a new Cadillac which is supposed to arrive late August.<br />
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The combination of these two abuses to two of my favourite things succeeded to disrupt my psyche. Of course I recognized how preposterous this admission was but confession did absolutely nothing to engender a resolution of the problems. I was stuck with them and I didn't like it.<br />
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Sometime early this morning while I was still in bed I decided to consult Google on my iPhone about the blemish to my Moissanite. To my complete surprise I was instantly able to locate a conversational thread which dealt with the identical problem I was having. The description of the smudge was precisely as identified by me. The solution was silver polish. As luck would have it, just the other day we had purchased two containers of Twinkle silver polish "<i>for long lasting beauty</i>" to clean the silver collars on the Port and Sherry decanters. When I applied the Twinkle to the gem, the smudge disappeared! The Google thread attributed the smudge to either suntan lotion or hair products (both of which I regularly use when bicycling and to keep my lengthening hair in order). Considering both products likely have a petroleum base it is not surprising that the effect of the contamination was that of an mini oil slick.<br />
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I have since talked my way out of the wheel rim problem. I know for example that there is already a small scrape underneath the front bumper where I failed to clear a parking abutment. Granted I had a pinecone dent on the hood banged out professionally, but I have convinced myself that these other very minor (and largely unremarkable) dings are tolerable. Let's face it, it's only a matter of time before another happens in any event. I could spend the rest of my life running after these inconsequential scuffs. Only last week our cleaning lady emailed us that she had inadvertently scratched our mahogany bureau (which we were able to "repair" with some paste finishing wax). The destiny is inevitable! I have now adjusted to what I believe is an acceptable (and predictable) level of material abuse along the line of a forgivable "patina". As I glance about me I see there is nothing that hasn't been on the receiving end of some minor misuse. For Heaven's sake, I need only look in the mirror to see the wreckage of Time! Nonetheless the purification of the Moissanite is an elevating event. The character of the two interferences is quite different; one (the car) was inevitable; the other (the gem) was intolerable. Reviving the Moissanite permitted a complete recovery of its purpose. The car will endure in spite of the abuse.<br />
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The narrow spectrum of my being bears repeating as its refinement (if I may dignify myopia as such) exponentially heightens the importance of my stuff to me. Perhaps I am simply making excuses; the truth is I have always been captivated by the detail of my jewelry (especially I might add upon the third sip of a frozen martini while sitting in my fireside den reading an improving British novel in the late afternoon). On s'amuse!</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-3607725072658183522016-05-08T07:26:00.002-07:002017-10-21T08:46:07.453-07:00Why I'm voting for Donald Trump<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are just too many people, organizations, movements and institutions that already object to much of what I do or think to persuade me to alter my view of Donald Trump. Long ago I stopped being impressed by contrary opinions generally. Not just because they were contrary but because they had no substance or were playing upon sensitivities to their own advantage and for no other purpose. Really! Who for example in their right mind in the year 2016 pretends to get offended by coarse language! The worst I can say about coarse language is that it lacks imagination; but to portray its usage as less than presidential is preposterous beyond belief! Do you really think politicians don't regularly lapse into the vernacular when they're not in public! Give me a break! Wake up! Let's start dealing with the real world!<br />
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And if the Republican inner circle imagines it advances its objectives to reel at the publicity of off-colour statements about women, Muslims and Mexicans, then I can only conclude they are living on another planet. Don't get me wrong, my objection is not that those statements are not harmful and misleading, but I don't for a minute think that burying the prejudice will do anything to advance the improvement of the cause. We have to address reality not some Cinderella world of fantasy witches. Besides it doesn't do any good to tell a bigot he is a bigot! You've got to meet him on his own turf and talk about what's really irking him. These heated superficial reactions which politicians normally attempt to dilute to the point of disinterest or tastelessness are only the symptom not the cause. Anyone in their right mind knows we're basically all the same no matter what our gender, colour or religion; but we similarly have to acknowledge we all harbour dislikes and preferences, that we're all capable of hostility and that from time to time we all feel the need to protect our territory.</div>
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As for the theory that Mr. Trump will single-handedly lead America into a world war, I doubt it. The government of the United States of America has always been managed by a council of authorities, many of whom we have to hope and believe have superior ability and insight. To think that Mr. Trump is going to make all the critical decisions on his own, unaided by counsel and intelligence, is absurd. How soon we forget that all we ever hear from Congress is that the Republicans and Democrats are locked in confrontation, unable to do anything! Since when will Mr. Trump overcome that congenital obstruction!</div>
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Without question people are relating to Mr. Trump. Apart from his alleged offensive behaviour (which pretty much reflects the bullying, arrogance and flagrant materialism which many people already attribute to Americans generally, at least on the international stage), I rather like his element of earthiness. He talks to people; he doesn't lecture. He says what many people are thinking even though most politicians obviously consider it dangerous to do so. Amateurs like Marco Rubio were an ephemeral imitation, proving there is more to Mr. Trump than mere theatrics. If vulgarity were the only answer, why didn't it work for Mr. Rubio?</div>
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The fact that Mr. Trump has seemingly embraced racists and Christians at the same time is no paradox in my mind. I can't imagine a more bigoted and blindly harmful group than Christians; and I certainly haven't seen much lately from the Christians to pull the country together. Divisiveness would be closer to the truth. From a strictly pragmatic point of view (and Mr. Trump has to be given credit for being pragmatic, after all he wants to win), I see nothing wrong with appealing to the common denominator of any number of groups. If nothing else, who is he to decide which group or another is worthy of admission to his fold of supporters! Even Christ purportedly welcomed harlots and criminals! So what's the big deal!</div>
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Similarly the accusation that Mr. Trump hasn't an agenda or that he vacillates from one to another within the same scope is hardly a demerit. I'd prefer to have someone in power who is not dogmatic, who is prepared to be convinced to alter his view, to negotiate. Any good lawyer knows your opening gambit is stronger than you're prepared to accept in settlement. And I have seen so many occasions on which a platform has proven to be incorrect that I see nothing wrong with an about-face on almost anything. What however I haven't seen is anything which leads me to believe that Mr. Trump has it in one for particular group. The Muslim and Mexican thing is a matter of keeping nefarious elements out, not eliminating what is already in. Certainly it creates some unwanted and potentially harmful sentiments for those groups but it is nothing that doesn't already exist. Mr. Mitt Romney is hardly one to point the finger! We all know his thoughts about the 45% supported by the rich! It's time to face the facts and stop plugging our ears and closing our eyes.<br />
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Calling Mr. Trump an egomaniac is something I think could be safely said about any number of politicians. When however Mr. Trump is criticized for having an inflated view of his personal worth, I think he is in pretty good company and the accusation amounts to little. I have yet to meet a man on any rung of the economic ladder who doesn't value his property at more than might be sustainable on almost any other scale.</div>
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Finally it is indisputable that the current movement in favour of both Mr. Trump and Mr. Bernie Sanders borders on a revolution (as Mr. Sanders himself calls it). The sheep of America are educated enough to see the abuse of their slave owners, the self-interested money class. Mr. Sanders calling the Sam Walton family America's biggest welfare recipients is just the beginning! The current political class (epitomized by Mr. Romney and his buffoon colleagues like Mr. Paul Ryan) are illustrative of the poisonous taradiddle being practiced regularly. Their leadership is a deceit, the unapologetic and unmitigated product of shameless self-interest! Their agenda would stand far more chance of digestion if they were as forthright about their objectives and themselves as Mr. Trump has been (though that would give new meaning to vulgarity).</div>
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The other reality about Mr. Trump is that with time he will of necessity move closer and closer to the centre, it's just the way things work. If he is elected - as I hope he is - he will sooner than later become drowned in the mediocrity of the system. In the meantime there's a good chance he'll shake up the establishment and move the whole incrementally towards some much needed renovation though there will certainly be some abrasiveness in the process.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-20750789916955063242016-05-07T17:02:00.002-07:002017-10-19T17:55:44.192-07:00Pictorial Summary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Of course I had a life before I met Denis. But things didn't really start to pop until then. We've been together since 1996 - over twenty years - and unlike many couples we have spent most of our time together since that date. Certainly work initially interrupted our congress during the day but because Denis retired at age 51 and we sold our condominium in the By Ward Market, Ottawa and began cohabiting in our house in Almonte (and he's now over 62 years of age), our time apart has been minimal comparatively speaking. The thing is, we enjoy being together, we're like the inseparable Mutt and Jeff, two peas in a pod, that sort of thing. We've even been likened to twins! And more than once! I can only conclude we exude a commonality of spirit. I guess it's generally true to say that we like the same things, furniture, cars, booze, food, hotels and places of travel. Naturally there are differences between us but rather than alienating us we have learned to thrive upon our distinctions, an important mark of our individuality and singularity. We view it as an imperative to preserve our uniqueness, not just because the differences are real but because we wouldn't want to compromise our separate characters by becoming a blur. Although Denis is perfectly bilingual (French/English) we comically share our private Esperanto of bastardized "<i>Frenglish</i>", an artificial language which even has its rules of pronunciation!</div>
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As a preamble to this narrative I feel compelled to distinguish my life PD (pre-Denis). Mine life PD was then a record of commitment and moderate adventure. I recollect that I worked hard at everything I did, mostly school, university and my first years of the practice of law. There was an inescapable obligation to do my best, to hone my skills and to tweak the evolution of my career. It was as a result a focussed and largely selfish preoccupation. What happened along the way during that period was diversion, a midway of entertainment, a collage of indulgences and inquiries. But it was never anything destined to be forever.</div>
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From the moment Denis and I hooked up, our relationship fit like a glove. Neither of us has ever felt the need to explain one another to anyone; the arrangement is both obvious and suitable. It would be too tiresome to go on about the magic of our relationship, the fluidity of our communications, the mind-reading, the understanding and whatever else one might say about a strong personal arrangement. I thought however that a pictorial summary might elicit some more tangible facts and references which would colour the relationship. I confess too that I was inspired in this enterprise by lately reconnecting with Karen, the long-time favoured sister of my former boarding school friend Nicholas. I believe these photographs serve as stepping stones to the elemental features of my life.</div>
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My partnership with Denis is one of equals. Our living arrangements were always characterized by joint ownership. Important as such capital arrangements are however the money has always been eclipsed by other matters. The first such element was Monroe, our little French bulldog. The photograph below is important not only because it is one of the few remaining photographs I have of Monroe but also because it captures the foot of Jill who subsequently painted a whimsical image of Monroe which to this day I count among my favourite possessions.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman,bold"; font-size: 12pt;"><i><b>Monroe</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>In the late summer of 1993, Mrs. Marilyn Harris called me unexpectedly to tell me that she and her
husband, Gordon, had “discovered” the very dog for me. The call was unexpected first because
Marilyn and I, although sympathetic to one another, were not in the habit of calling one another,
except perhaps to arrange a social engagement or consult upon some legal matter; and second, to my
mind I was not even in the market to buy a dog. As it turned out, however, Marilyn's call was more
than fortuitous, and to a degree she initiated a considerable change in my life.
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>Naturally, I inquired of Marilyn about the breed she had in mind, to which she replied “French
Bulldog”, to which I replied, “What is a French Bulldog?” Following, I suppose, some description
of the dog's general characteristics, Marilyn proceeded to invite me to visit the local breeder (Dr.
Dorit Fischler) for a closer examination. While I advised that I would in fact do that, I had no
intention of looking into the matter immediately, since I was about to head for Cape Cod for my
(then) annual pilgrimage, and I hardly needed to be strapped with a puppy.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>On my return from the Cape, I recalled my previous conversation with Marilyn, and I called her
again to get the particulars of the breeder's location. I then made contact with the breeder, and set
up an appointment. The first time I visited Dorit at her house on Hwy. 16 three kilometres outside
Almonte, I believe it was a noon-hour during the week. Upon arriving at her secluded country
residence, I was greeted by numerous very odd looking small dogs of equally many different colours.
In addition to their most unusual appearance, they also made odd sounds, some of which could pass
as an attempt at barking, but the majority of which noises parallelled the grunts and snorts of a pig.
While Dorit had a goodly number of dogs, only a few were for sale (the rest were for breeding). My
choice, I recall, was pretty much limited to two, unless I was prepared to take a pet which was no
longer a puppy. Of the two from which I could choose, there was clearly only one that I preferred.
In any event, that was only my first visit, and I really had not even determined that I wanted any dog
at all, much less that one. So I left, promising to “think about it” and return later for another look.
Apart from the dog, I might add, one of the other things to “think about” was the price, a wholopping
$1,500, which to date I considered to be out of my league, at least in the dog department.
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman,bolditalic"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>Today, I went to look at French Bulldog puppies. They've very expensive ($1,500),
and the breeder (Dr. Dorit Fischler) says the vet bills can also be high.
Nonetheless, it was good to see the little creatures. But I highly doubt that I would
succumb to dog ownership. September 27, 1993.
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<i><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">The next time I returned, I focussed in on the little puppy which had interested me the first visit.
Dorit, the puppy and I sat on the edge of her porch, letting the puppy run about, playing with him,
discussing more details about the care of this breed, etc. Whether I decided then and there, or
whether I called Dorit later to advise her of my decision, I do not recall. But I do remember
returning one wet Saturday morning (October 2, 1996) to pick up my new little pet, </span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman,bold"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">"Belboulecan
Chanson de ma Vie"</span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">, whose call name I gave as “Monroe” after Marilyn (it was really her idea, I
confess).</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">I was totally unprepared for this acquisition. There I was expecting to greet an old and
learned friend, who would charmingly accompany me upon my customary Saturday morning errands;
and I had not a thing to deal with what I actually had, namely a small, shivering but very enthusiastic </span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12pt;">and licking ball of flesh and fluff, who would no sooner sit still beside me for more than thirty
seconds, than he would think of not attempting to climb onto my lap and over my arms while I
attempted to drive us home. Then, I realized, I had to go on something which amounted to a
madman's shopping spree to obtain the stuff he needed: a bed (we would need a wicker basket and
proper pillow - and we'd need three of them - one for the house, one for the office, and one for the
condo); bones, toys, food and water dishes (three of everything!); and some nice cages to keep him
in until he was “trained” (I hadn't even begun to think about that one!); and of course food and
cookies; and lastly a carrying case for those times when he was in the car, between destinations. The
first few hours together that fateful Saturday morning went by pretty quickly, and not surprisingly
I had totally abandoned the idea of doing any of my other usual Saturday chores; and the idea of
going to Ottawa was right out! So we spent our first evening at home together, doing what you
might expect. However, the evening was not without its “moments”, as one might say. Cultivating
the idea that “they never mess in their own backyard”, I decided it would be quite satisfactory for me
to have the little beast sleep in my bed with me, and I would simply get up during the night from
time to time to take him out for a pee. So, while I undressed myself in preparation for a cozy nap,
he waited patiently at my feet, watching my every move. Then I picked up the little darling and
deposited him gently on the fluffy, clean and white duvet, whereupon he trotted gingerly up to the
head of the bed, onto a pillow and peed on it!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>I couldn't contain myself. It was bad enough I had entirely altered my day to satisfy his needs; that
I had ignored all my habitual duties and undertakings. But now, my efforts at providing clean
laundry and all the time I had dedicated to that thankless task were reduced to total waste. I picked
the little devil up by the neck folds (which I had observed Dorit doing when handling the puppies),
stomped downstairs, and deposited him on the porch step outside the front door, not really giving
a damn whether he walked off or someone else took him. Then I began the infuriating task of
stripping the entire bed, right down to the mattress cover, including not only the duvet cover but the
duvet itself. Having deposited that pile of textile in the washer, I then had to go about remaking the
bed with what available resources I had. And then and only then did I check to see if Monroe was
still at the front door. He was. And I suppose I was glad that he was.
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>The next three days were really more of the same, to a lesser degree. I had no idea that caring for
apuppywassodemandingandinhibiting. IfeltworsethanIdidwhenIwasengagedtobemarried!
I feared this situation would never improve. There were the usual “accidents” at the house and
office, and I felt that I punctuated my life with constant visits to the great outdoors, not only during
normal waking hours, but throughout the night. I was at my wit's end.
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<i><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">Fortunately, Dorit had been kind enough to include in her contract with me that I had 14 days in
which to reconsider, and if I wished to return the pet, there was an administration fee of $100 only.
On Wednesday, following the purchase of the dog on the previous Saturday, I called Dorit to advise
her I would like to return the dog. That evening, I arrived once again at her residence, complete not
only with Monroe, but also with all the other bowls, toys, cages and beds, which I told her she could
keep since I would never have need for such things again. I felt bad about the affair, but I knew I
was making the right decision. The drive home, down the dark and lonely laneway from the house </span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12pt;">to the highway, was not without its emotion, but I was confident in the correctness of my decision.
I simply was not in a position to have a dog.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>I made it through Thursday all-right. By Friday, things were a bit gloomier. I decided to visit Gord
and Marilyn Harris to tell them of my decision, since of course they had a right to know. I dropped
by their home after work. We had a drink together, but I was not really interested in discussing the
matter too much, so I left and went home. There, in my kitchen, I poured myself another drink and
stared at the rug on the floor, my mind flashing with images of that little fawn dog with the black
mask. I guess I had another drink, and then things started happening. I wanted him back! I was
positive! I called Dorit to tell her. She sounded more than unimpressed. In fact, she said I couldn't
have him back, unless I had someone who would help me from time to time in caring for the dog.
I assured her that this was no problem at all, since my sister (Lindy) would be more than willing to
take care of Monroe occasionally. This bald assertion was, however, not sufficient assurance for
Dorit. She would have to speak to Lindy. And soon, because Dorit was leaving for Florida
tomorrow morning!
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>I called Lindy. The line was busy. I called my mother. The line was busy. I called the operator and
told her that I had an emergency and that she had to connect me with my sister. Which she did.
When Lindy came on the line, I asked, “Were you talking with mommy?”, which she said she had
been. They could talk for hours! And I didn't have the time or patience tonight! When I told Lindy
what was required, she said, “Well, Billy, the only reason I would take care of the dog is so I don't
have to buy one for the girls!”, which I explained to Lindy was entirely legitimate since, first, the dog
wouldn't know the difference; and, second, it would fulfill the requirements of St. Maj. Fischler.
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;"><i>Lindy then undertook to call Dorit. And within 15 minutes, Dorit called me back and I was on my
way into the dark and stormy night to pick up my little friend, who has been with me to this day.
</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">Monroe has, in fairness, gone on to become a bit of a celebrity in Almonte. He has been
photographed or mentioned by name at least three times in </span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman,bolditalic"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">The Almonte Gazette</span><span style="font-family: "timesnewroman"; font-size: 12.000000pt;">, and there are many
people who know Monroe's name without even knowing my own. He is very popular with the young
children, and he is a constant amusement for all but one of my Clients (a lady who is afraid of small
dogs). Equally important to me is that my great friend, Denis, is extremely fond of Monroe; and
thanks to Denis, Monroe has an entirely different weekend pattern of very early morning walks and
eliminations, in addition to extremely satisfying massage and hide-'n-seek games at the condo. </span></i></div>
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Except for the last two years of my life (since my retirement from the practice of law), my law office was an integral part of my existence. Like most employment, it required assiduity, perhaps more so than most because it was I was a sole practitioner. As often as my mother dryly observed, "<i>Don't worry, it'll get done!</i>", I never discovered anyone other than myself to do it. My office was in that respect an overhanging obligation. But I never viewed my office as an unfavourable destination; rather it was my <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>. Once again Denis figured largely in my law office. The two cloth-bound comfortable chairs shown in the foreground of photograph below are ones which Denis and I bought in the Village of Merrickville on the Rideau Canal at the end of my 3-month hiatus from the practice of law following my open-heart surgery in 2007. Denis proved himself to be nothing short of saintly during my surgery and subsequent recovery. He literally supported me during the sometimes daunting recovery process, including accompanying me on my plodding walks which began as 5 minute outings and later extended to longer intervals as my strength rallied. His unselfish and uninhibited assistance to me at that time cemented our relationship. Little did I know that his contribution to my law practice would later become utterly irreplaceable following the precipitous departure of my legal assistant Marina when she was diagnosed with kidney failure. I cannot imagine having weathered these two medical emergencies which, apart from their combined impact upon my practice, were totally unrelated. This experience was the first of many insights I have subsequently had into the selflessness of Denis and his unflagging commitment to getting things done and generally preserving our mutual buoyancy against all odds.</div>
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I don't know anyone who doesn't have an opinion on what constitutes a good photograph of himself. The snap below of Denis is one of my favourites, very Bruce Willis. For the most part the photographs I have taken of Denis have not met with his favourable reception but I believe he tolerates this one. I started taking photographs regularly after I purchased my first iPhone. There was a time when I couldn't have imagined the necessity of having a so-called "Smart Phone" but now I can't imagine being without one. I am happy to report that this prejudice against modern technology was also once shared by Denis. Now we no longer have a land line and we look like typical kids at Starbucks poring over our respective iPhones.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">During the summer of 2010 while lunching at Les Fougères in Chelsea, Québec my brother-in-law's sister-in-law (Esther) introduced us to the idea of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Esther and her husband Rick are avid golfers and they had visited Hilton Head Island for that purpose. Frankly we knew nothing about the place. Our most recent travel adventures had taken us to the Mayan Riviera, the Caribbean and Boca Raton, Florida. We had lately developed that now not uncommon dislike for air travel and embraced the thought of being able to drive to South Carolina instead. We have since returned every year since our first visit in 2010 and are scheduled to return again in November for five months.</span></div>
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<i>Boxing Day on the Beach</i></div>
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<i>Sunday, December 26, 2010</i></div>
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<i>At last! Twenty-four hours after arriving on Hilton Head Island (South Carolina) and having completed the prerequisites to getting settled in, I was able to make my way along the grey cedar boardwalk from the hotel to the broad band of beach on the chilling Atlantic Ocean. As soon as my shoes hit the sand I was reminded of the striking softness of beach colours, taupe wet sand, blue-grey water, white and grey seagulls, all under the massive dome of an endless sky. I had forgotten how marvellous gold looks upon a beach background. Either way I looked, to the left or to the right, the beach was interminable, rounding distant corners beyond which I could no longer see. The vastness of the beach invited me to travel ever further, as far as the large American flag flapping in the distance and still more.</i></div>
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<i>It gave new meaning to “off-season” to be walking along the beach on Boxing Day with my Panama Jack hat turned backwards to avoid being blown off by the high, cold wind, trudging over the hard packed sand dressed in Sperry topsiders, thick white sport socks, khakis, windbreaker and silk scarf, bent into the driving snow showers. In fact the term “snow showers”, though seemingly colloquial, is far more apt an expression than our Canadian term “snow flurries” because here what you get when the temperature is only a fraction above freezing are small particles of iced rain which melt the moment they touch anything.</i></div>
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<i>I was almost alone on the boundless beach, except for an enthusiastic runner and his black Labrador dog, and a wary woman who walked haltingly from the beach resort unsure about whether to continue in the face of the irreligious snow showers and perhaps intimidated by the emptiness of the landscape. The woman’s curiosity and likely preference for some needed post-Christmas exercise finally trumped her concerns, though she walked along the rim of the beach closest to the resort for security. I headed determinedly into the wind in the opposite direction, breathing deeply as I walked, sucking in the Ocean air in an effort to burn as many calories as possible and to reawaken my body and mind after three days of concentrated driving from Canada. There were remnant tracks of a bicycle along the sand. The daily constitutional – whether on foot or on bicycle – would become our routine, the accent to our home cooked meals and evening cocktails. It naturally pleased me to have nothing other than that to consider. A year of diligence and attention to the demands of running a small business were now side-lined and temporarily behind me. In fact considering how obsessive I tend to be, it always surprises me that I am capable of extricating myself so completely from the harness during a vacation. It is as if I were simply unplugged and rendered instantly defunct though admittedly the daily routine would become my new agenda, my checklist of duties to accomplish and by which to assess myself. Nonetheless, as the saying goes, a change is as good as a rest.</i></div>
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The adage about being good to go home is not lost on us. Our summer sojourn in Almonte (now part of the new conglomerate of the Town of Almonte, Village of Pakenham and Ramsay Township called Mississippi Mills) is an ideal and soothing interlude for us. We invariably reignite our routine here by going to the Mississippi Golf Club for a breakfast nonpareil in the Club House. Our compass is expanded to include day trips to Gananoque, Ivy Lea Club on the Seaway, Kingston and Cedar Cove Resort on White Lake in Renfrew County. Each is distinguished by its bucolic scenery and tranquil marine environment. Of course we regularly bicycle as well.</div>
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As much as we relish the open fields of Lanark County, we can easily bear the deprivation of winter. Once we have reinstalled ourselves along the Atlantic Ocean on the barrier islands we succeed to immerse ourselves in maritime bliss. Our agenda is little more glamorous than eating, bicycling and sleeping. I simply never tire of the sea.</div>
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By design we are entrenched in Almonte. In a way our tangible connections with the area are now much diminished as we have sold our house, office building, condominium and moose pasture. Now we rent a small two-bedroom apartment belonging to a former Client and his wife. Although we considered other places to settle (including in particular Brockville and Gananoque along the St. Lawrence River) we have opted to remain in Almonte. We have just recently signed an extension of our current apartment lease until February 28, 2020. On balance Almonte meets the criteria which are important to people of our age; namely, proximity to banks, hospital, dentist, family, friends and acquaintances.<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-2629189712327342062016-05-05T18:16:00.001-07:002017-10-19T17:56:02.479-07:00Nadine<div style="text-align: justify;">
If I may be forgiven for using that preposterous and transparently dated epithet "cleaning lady", ours is a woman named Nadine. I am certain there must now be a more suitable term to describe someone who looks after cleaning one's house or apartment but employing "housekeeper" for example sounds rather more grand than the occupation implies. In any event what matters for purposes of this narrative is that Nadine visits us every two weeks and we favour her with the courtesy of getting lost when she is here, about a 2½ hour duration. The bi-weekly visits have become the occasion for an outing, one that normally takes us away for most if not all the afternoon.<br />
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Today our uncharted sojourn was initially to Gananoque but when we arrived there we decided to broaden our jaunt to Kingston, specifically Atomica restaurant on Brock Street.</div>
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But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me first say that we left the apartment around noon, after having taken our requisite daily bicycle ride along Country Street, Rae Road and 8th Concession Ramsay. Of course we had had our breakfast early this morning. In keeping with another tradition that has evolved in conjunction with Nadine's visit, we were out of bed by 6:30 a.m. and immediately began laundering of the bed clothes. Contemporaneously with this decontamination we had coffee, fresh fruit and a concoction of protein (in my case, a fried egg, smoked salmon, sliced onion, green pepper and blue cheese).</div>
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When we eventually nosed the Cadillac off the property we instinctively headed in the direction of the St. Lawrence Seaway. We had determined already that Cedar Cove Resort on White Lake (another of our regular haunts on these occasions) wasn't yet open for business. We might have gone to the beanery in the Village of White Lake but that didn't occur to us. Today was our first outing so we were rather flying on automatic pilot without being particularly creative about where we were going. Besides the route we have developed to go to Gananoque is a very pleasant bucolic saunter through Smiths Falls and a number of tiny villages between it and the Seaway, what might justifiably be called the "back roads" of Lanark County. There was a time when we first began these tours (shortly after I retired in 2014) that we would have customarily taken Highway 416 from Ottawa onto the 401 then detoured onto Ivy Lea Parkway for something less urban. I can't recall when we first discovered the back roads but we now prefer that route. We amuse ourselves along the way to enjoy listening to music, watching the rail fences and scoping the many charming restored brick farmhouses. Our conversation today dwelt larger upon our personal affairs, family and financial. Since we began these day-trips in 2014 we have been encumbered by many other preoccupations than merely our own. But this year matters have settled down in our family orbit and we have the privilege to focus upon ourselves. We gleefully contemplated our upcoming drive to St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, NB in September.</div>
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Today's venture was fortuitously marked by bright sunshine and blue skies. The predictable springtime blossoms were evident as well. The verdancy appeared to increase as we moved south towards the St. Lawrence River; and certainly the temperature began to climb.</div>
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Although our initial destination was the Socialist Pig in Gananoque, we abandoned that idea when we realized we had arrived there around 2:00 p.m. If we were to consume the entire afternoon, and if we were to have an "early dinner" instead of a "late lunch", that meant we needed to extend our journey. For that reason we moved along to Kingston which is only about 28 kilometres further. As it happens we both enjoy Atomica restaurant and the City itself so it was no great accommodation.</div>
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We have been to Atomica more than once and usually at the same time of day, mid-afternoon. Once again we were among the very few patrons in the place at that time of day which of course meant only that it was quiet and that we had the benefit of good service. Our meals were very satisfactory. We have never been disappointed there. As an indication of the level of service, our waitress had warmed our tea cups with hot water before delivering them to the table. And the Jasmine tea was above the standard leaf. As well the bread (and the olive oil and Balsamic vinegar) were superb. What followed was equally appetizing, including the desserts. When we had finished our meals we both chimed we had no interest in dinner this evening. I remarked that being in Kingston always puts me in mind of my undergraduate university days in Toronto when we were accustomed to race off-campus to Yorkville and Avenue Road. With the proximity of Queens University and the Royal Military College, the student element of Kingston is of course impossible to ignore.</div>
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As we walked back from the restaurant to the car (which we had judiciously parked on the western perimeter of the more congested business area), we passed an eye-glass store which I knew. Since I purchased a pair of Tom glasses there last year I had harboured an interest to return to view the stock. Today was the day. And sure enough when I went into the store I spotted several frames which immediately captured my attention. I tried all three but one in particular fit best (and it was the one which suited me best as well). The cost was $160 which is remarkably less than the $950 I have been paying for Dolabany frames. Both frames are sturdy and well made so I am at a loss to discern much if any difference (though the Dolabany frames proclaim to be hand made). The Tom frames especially appeal to me for their weight. I am pleased with my new acquisition and I have arranged to take them to my local optometrist tomorrow morning for the prescription lenses.</div>
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We arrived home about six o'clock. The one disadvantage of taking the scenic route home is that I miss the opportunity to have the car washed. No matter. I discharged my passenger and headed back to the City to round out the affair. I was perfectly content to conduct this ceremony on my own. I have a routine that I enjoy fulfilling, including listening to BBC to catch the latest intelligence which is guaranteed to be an improvement on the usual media presentations. The stretch of Highway #7 between Stittsville (where I go to the "Glide" car wash at a modern Petro-Canada station) and Carleton Place is one of my favourites. It is 4-lane, smooth, undulating and passes through open fields. In either direction the views are splendid.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-2020741554579572572016-05-03T16:09:00.001-07:002017-10-19T17:56:09.535-07:00Family, Friends & Acquaintances<div style="text-align: justify;">
Occasionally I have heard people remark as proof of their affection that their parents are their best friends. I prefer to preserve a distinction between family, friends and acquaintances. Each is important; but each is different. Neither requires the signals of one to elevate the other. Indeed to commingle the qualities of one with the other is a mistake and can lead to unfortunate results not the least of which is disappointment. One must learn to distinguish the substantive differences in order to avoid unintended contamination of the relationship.<br />
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At a plodding pace and after protracted and impassioned analysis I am proceeding to re-engineer certain of my sensibilities, specifically the response to complex emotional influences of those acquaintances whom I erroneously described as friends. The judicious use of the word "friends" is the heart of this imbroglio. While I won't attempt a definitive description of what constitutes a friend I believe instead I may rely upon the easy way out by suggesting that friendship is like love; namely, something you instinctively know and accept. Friendship is - if I may steal from a decidedly visceral context - as identifiable as any appetite. No amount of spiritualism or mental acuity or circumscribing wariness figures in the detection of a hunger; it is both palpable and indisputable. I wager that friendship is the same. You know who your friends are (though admittedly its employment commands both caution and precision).<br />
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It is axiomatic that we have few friends. Often by contrast we have many acquaintances. Frequently the extent of association with acquaintances borders on what one might expect of friends - sharing meals together, perhaps even travelling together; more often just working together or sharing common interests. Seldom however do acquaintances cross the line of friendship to become dependable and reliable any more than someone is mistaken as family; the natural boundaries invariably persist.<br />
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Anyway, whatever it is that captures the essence of friendship, the point is that we normally know when someone is our friend or not. What is not quite so clear is how to maneuver among acquaintances. Perhaps the simple answer lies in a study of the circumstances in which the congress of acquaintances arises. If for example the motivation for a convention is a unilateral need, then chances are the association fulfills some object of one of the parties only. There is of course nothing wrong being helpful to someone to accomplish their specific goals; but one mustn't confuse the purpose with friendship.<br />
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Generally speaking friendship is between persons of a similar age. There are naturally exceptions but the rule is certainly more common. Age differences, especially if particularly remarkable, hint at a myriad of possible qualifications and sometimes outright poisoning. It would constitute utter speculation to delineate the many undercurrents to such a confederacy. Suffice it to say that unless one can unequivocally vouch for the relationship then perhaps it is worth examining in closer detail before things get irrevocably out of control.<br />
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I must say that after having run an intense sole proprietorship for the past forty years, it was anything but uncommon for me to align my personal affections with my clients for whom I worked so assiduously. In hindsight I fear that I may have improperly characterized those associations as something more than they were. Not that there was anything whatsoever either wrong or improper about those associations; but I perhaps failed to distinguish the close business relationship from a personal friendship. This failure didn't become apparent to me until after I had closed my practice. It was then I discovered - albeit shamefully slowly - that the exhaustion of my legal utility had wrought a corresponding diminution of the foundation of my so-called friendships. This is something which is so well known by most and so well documented as to amount trite reiteration. Nevertheless I seemingly missed the point for quite some time. My only defence in my tardiness to make this realization is that the narrowness of my social scope throughout my practice of law succeeded to prohibit the cultivation of more varied relationships than those founded initially upon a business connection. In effect all of my relationships stemmed from the practice of law and I seem to have made an inductive leap that so too did my friendships (without of course knowing that there was any difference).<br />
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The only obvious clue I might have had to the true substance of friendship harkened back to my boarding school days when it was only one's friends to whom one was close. Every other relationship there was unmistakably stained with and strained by some ulterior purpose whether athletic (team related), by rank in the cadet corps or pipe band, by hierarchy as a House Captain or Prefect, or merely as an Upper School or Lower School boy. Because so many of us by design went to the same undergraduate university, those friendships continued in that environment as well. But by the time I got to law school the focus of my life was beginning to narrow very rapidly and very few people qualified as acquaintances much less friends. I did however make some fast friends during the law school period of my life and they continue to this day. Now the landscape is vastly different. I have concluded that my friendships worldwide are few. I am also learning to separate myself from those other relationships that I mistakenly thought of as friendship. This is not an effort to be chary; rather it is intended to understand the mettle of the alliance. Without a doubt I am very fond of many people whom I would not otherwise call a friend. The difference of description is not one of caliber; rather it is one of education. If one were to misinterpret the substance of a relationship, it can lead to some unforeseen and undesirable results which neither party envisioned. The metaphors for misinterpretation are just too rich and the consequences too absurd to bear repeating! Yet it requires a level of sophistication to avoid the trap. And there is also needed an element of maturity, in particular discernment (the ability to judge well). Once again it is a matter of education, being able to recognize something for what it is.<br />
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It would be ingenuous to suggest that the distinction between friends and acquaintances hasn't an upshot. Certainly it does. While both associations may be pleasant and rewarding, friendship undoubtedly warrants and merits greater absorption. The thing is, one mustn't allow oneself to become warped by a relationship which isn't what one imagines it to be. That's where the discernment comes in, being able to identify the substance of a relationship for what it is. Once those parameters are clear, the evolution of the relationship is guaranteed to be both fruitful and happy rather than characterized by deprivation and anger. Unfortunately there is no one but oneself to blame if the characterization of a relationship is incorrect. The recipient of the misconstrued beneficence can hardly be maligned for accepting the gestures of goodwill. But to expect something in return is an error.<br />
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To my thinking I dedicate a lot of energy (and sometimes capital) to the cultivation and preservation of a friendship. I won't pretend to be so innocent that I don't pursue an objective in most things that I do. If that objective is thwarted or diminished by misconstruction, I am inclined to resile from its pursuit. I may even seek to absent myself from the fray if for no other reason than to avoid further misinterpretation; and failing that, my sense of pragmatism evokes in me harsher considerations, sometimes even rebuttal. In short, an undertaking may not be worth the effort.<br />
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I embrace practical application especially now when time is running out. The toleration of slipshod behaviour is a privilege whose time has passed. In any event it is so much easier to deal with things when you know where you stand.<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-77445353083286804152016-05-02T14:59:00.001-07:002017-10-19T17:56:20.829-07:00Rejoining the Herd<div style="text-align: justify;">
Last evening I had a long telephone conversation with my physician who for the instant has alighted in Town before soon departing again for the other side of the Atlantic. Though I have in the past two weeks since our return home reconnected sporadically with friends and acquaintances, today's encounters were unexpectedly and pleasantly sustained. Perhaps being in the mix on Mill Street before ten o'clock this Monday morning contributed to the intensity.<br />
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I began the day by trekking to Bank of Montreal to make a deposit. We had attempted to make the identical deposit on the weekend but the ATM would not accept it (due to its size according to my favourite teller). When I completed the task with my favourite teller I asked whether I might meet the new Financial Service Manager with whom I had exchanged emails during the winter. True to form my favourite teller went out of his way to make that happen. I subsequently learned that the Manager hailed from Newfoundland, a distinction to which I instantly warmed as it reminded me of my days at law school in Nova Scotia where my first year roommate was from St. John's, Nfld. The Manager and I did however preserve the customary commercial distance in spite of what I mistakenly thought might have proved to be a closer alliance. Nonetheless it fulfilled my curiosity to complete the circle of our tenuous banking relationship.</div>
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As I was about to leave the Bank I encountered a former client whom I consider both intelligent and attractive. She updated me with concise information about her, her husband and family. Subsequently I chatted with another former client who was clearly preoccupied with her commercial transaction so it was a short communication. Outside the bank I passed a gentleman in the street. To my surprise (since I cannot recall his name though I recognized him) he wished me a happy return to Almonte. In retrospect I wish I had paused to chat with him but the moment was not to be. I know his charming wife by sight as well but each remains enigmatic.</div>
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When I reinstalled myself in the car to prepare to go to Ottawa to see my mother, another former client passed in the street. We ended having a protracted discussion which largely centred upon her autistic son, someone who has always caught my attention for his singular intelligence and generally appealing personality. He is the grandson of another couple for whom I acted as well. I learned from the boy's mother that his grandmother is now battling cancer.<br />
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The interlude which followed involved what has become almost a spiritual visit to the City. I went directly to the Petro-Canada gas station on Hazeldean Road east of Carp Road where there is a Glide car wash. The station property is new, expansive and well appointed. What however commends it more than anything is that the car wash has been tweaked recently. It now performs better than it did before. As well I have discovered an adjoining Tim Horton's where I now purchase my mother's favourite flavoured coffee drink (complete with whipped cream). All in all the visit to the gas station is an outing which combines the conclusion of the three objectives; namely, gas, car wash and coffee.<br />
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In Ottawa, aside from connecting with my mother, I dropped into my sister's house to deliver two old blankets we no longer use. They're for my niece who said she would be pleased to have them.<br />
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Once back in Almonte I decided to stop for an espresso coffee at Equator Coffee. Upon getting out of my car I received a telephone call from another former client who called to wish us a happy return to Almonte. She and her husband (and their son) are former clients as well. I like them all; they're gentle people. I began working for her father-in-law (now deceased) exactly 40 years ago. Apart from catching up on family affairs, we discussed her menagerie of animals which includes a 1½ year old miniature donkey, a horse and formerly a parrot and an English bulldog.<br />
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The crowning touch upon this day of conviviality was our meeting with our Landlords this evening to execute the extension of our residential lease for a further three-year term up to February 29, 2020. In view of my undisguised admiration for this apartment it affords me incalculable satisfaction to know that we are secure in our tenure.<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-25874917441540179252016-04-30T04:10:00.002-07:002017-10-19T17:56:34.440-07:00Tax Day (2016)<div style="text-align: justify;">
It is precisely 6:30 a.m., Saturday, April 30th. This day of the year is of course most commonly significant as the date by which one must submit a tax return for the previous year. I understand however that when the day falls on a weekend - as it does this year - the filing period is extended to the next business day which in this case is Monday, May 2nd. Yesterday we arranged to meet with our accountant at 10:00 a.m. this morning to sign papers.<br />
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Last evening in anticipation of this appointment I commanded Siri to set the alarm on my iPhone for seven o'clock this morning. I have just remembered to delete the setting. In fact we awoke much earlier this morning around 3:30 a.m. While I didn't remove myself from the lair at that time, I profited by the occasion to listen to classical music through my Harman Kardon Esquire Mini Bluetooth Wireless Speaker which I bought in South Carolina (and hardly used there) and which upon returning home I placed on my bedside table in the hope of getting some use of it. It performs remarkably well! We also have a similar Bose mini system but I prefer the Harmon Kardon because the bass is less pronounced (though nonetheless rich).</div>
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I am luxuriating in the uncompromising pleasure of our little apartment. We're surrounded by dark mahogany furniture, brass lamps, Oriental rugs, mantle clock, carriage clock and grandfather clock, oil paintings, towering solid oak book case, crystal decanters, fruit bowl, vase and ball, extraordinarily life-like green apples in a large wooden bowl and unique ornaments. There are as well the exceptional views unobstructed to the southwest. I have long maintained that the corner location of the apartment on the top floor affords singular light from outside, Just having that additional outer wall is so much less restrictive than an interior apartment. We are meeting with our Landlord on Monday evening to sign a three-year extension of our existing lease (which terminates February 28, 2017). To my thinking the projection of our accommodation to 2020 is stabilizing. Oddly as much as I adore this apartment I would never buy it (if nothing else the soundproofing is lacking). We obviously tolerate certain shortfalls here because of our limited inhabitation (7 months of the year) and because we don't own it. Getting out of the real estate market has been a relieving enterprise though unquestionably it lubricates the extrication to have the alternative of such an accommodating Landlord. Even if our tenure were threatened in 2020, by that time I will not feel hurried to have to make new arrangements. Our residential investigations have taken us as far afield as Kingston, Ontario where we discovered what appears to be a pleasing apartment building along the St. Lawrence River. It is a more urban environment than what we have now but generally the limestone buildings and the history of the City of Kingston please me.</div>
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We plan to initiate our commercial exploit with the accountant by going to the Golf Club for breakfast, something we've regularly done on the weekends for years. It is a decidedly cool morning (exactly 0℃) but brilliantly sunny. I insist on wearing short pants even in this weather. By the time the temperature climbs to 16℃ this afternoon I'll be glad that I did. Now that we "winter" on Hilton Head Island I find that I wear long pants maybe three or four times a year! And I abhor doing so. It reflects my horror of driving my car in the snow!<br />
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Speaking of which I look forward to driving my car today. I never tire of it. It is part of my composition. I can think of nothing more alluring than a concrete 4-lane highway stretching before me. Thinking about it reminds me of our upcoming tour to New Brunswick in September. What I recall of the highways in Eastern Canada (when I attended Dalhousie Law School in Halifax, NS) is that they are marvellous. The prospect is made all the more attractive by the seaside destination. In an odd way I inherited my late father's maritime proclivity though I rather doubt he saw the same things as I in the vernacular. His for example might have included fishing which is an exploit furthest from my inclination. I see the colours and the wind and the sun.<br />
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It is now just after six o'clock in the evening on the same day. The tarnished grey light of the late afternoon sun is bathing the apartment. The cooking dinner aromas of Cilantro and parsley impregnate the air. There's fresh Ciabatta bread (and butter) too! And frozen yoghurt for dessert! With Canadian maple syrup!</div>
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Moments before our conference with our accountant this morning we detoured hurriedly to Walmart where I purchased 22 silk long-stemmed white roses. They're identical to the ones I bought for my mother last week. I decided they'd be a nice compliment to our apartment and so much less trouble and expense than the real thing. Besides I wanted to use my Lalique vase.<br />
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This afternoon I cycled along my usual route (Country Street, Rae Road and the Eighth Concession of Ramsay Township). Afterwards I telephoned my elderly mother. When she intimated that she could bear the deprivation of my company today I decided to drive to Stittsville to get the car washed and to do some grocery shopping to complete the menu for dinner this evening.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-23203105210310915222016-04-29T18:07:00.001-07:002017-10-19T17:56:42.122-07:00What an odd day!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Seldom do I feel that absolutely everything is boomps-a-daisy! Today was however the exception. Try as I might, I could find nothing about which to hinder the carefree sensation. Normally I am encumbered by some modest disturbance, some niggling preoccupation or distasteful duty. But not today. No, the horizon was perfectly clear! I conducted a summary examination of all that normally amuses me, from things to people, and therein I could find no limitation. It was if truth be known mildly distressing that I want for nothing. From head to toe I am happily outfitted, including accoutrements and spectacles. Similarly the mandatory prerequisites of food, shelter and transportation are satisfactorily settled. The wedge of spiritualism widened before me, projecting me towards a rare state of intellectualism, as though a severance of the mind/body dichotomy. My erstwhile visceral state vanished from view. Instead what pressed upon me was an uncommon and curious condition of satiation.</div>
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Perhaps it was this morning's intelligence from our accountant that liability to Her Majesty had at last - and none too soon! - been quantified. We immediately settled the account as the final act of fulfillment. What could be more uplifting than determining that overhanging mystery! Or it may have been the very agreeable bicycle ride in the cool morning air, nurtured by the flourishing buds on the trees. Whatever the reason I was stranded in an atmosphere of perfect delight without a care in the world!</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-79336417427084781592016-04-27T19:19:00.002-07:002017-10-19T17:56:53.833-07:00Catching Up!<div style="text-align: justify;">
It was about ten days ago that we returned home to our beloved Almonte from our winter hibernation on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Since then we've been flying high. As usual, when things get going as fast as they have been lately, I start to feel out of touch and I become overwhelmed by the need to recapitulate in order to catch up emotionally! Sometimes the pace is so intense that I lose touch where I am. Trotting out the agenda of the past week or so would hardly capture the turbulence engendered by those frenetic events. It has been a marked distinction from our lazy regular day on Hilton Head Island; <i>viz.</i>, breakfast, bicycling on the beach and settling in for the evening. Yet the notable element of being home is the strength and variation of the competing emotions. Dormant sensitivities and passions have been revived by reacquaintance with family and friends and having to deal with the sometimes highly personal intelligence shared by people whom we know. How much easier it is to remain detached and unperturbed when listening to the babbling of a stranger! But friends and family command a measure of attention and responsiveness.<br />
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I like to think that I have willingly addressed those personal demands. Some of them are as practical as filing documents with the accountant to complete the annual tax returns; others entail broaching serious health concerns; still others reignite lingering family issues. In short it has been quite impossible to insulate oneself from a wealth of information!</div>
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This evening, on the occasion of an interlude in our domestic readjustment, I pointedly succumbed to sweetened condensed milk. It was that or Nutella! Unmitigated sugar! Straight out of the can! My passion for vulgar sweets is incontrovertible, always has been. Naturally we normally make a reasonable effort to avoid such obvious contamination but my resources have lately been drawn upon so liberally that there was a commensurate diminution of my better judgement and hence no resistance to the spoliation. It was, I am convinced, a necessary evil; it had to be done. Earlier in the day while collecting some groceries I had contemplated other Ferrero confection. Shortly thereafter in another mall I was captivated by an emporium selling exotic Belgian chocolates. Fate saw to it that retreat was foreclosed! Sweets are the last frontier for me, a reminder of my addictions (and my willingness to admit defeat).</div>
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The antecedent to this indulgence was a struggling restatement of current affairs. It was a struggle because I was so caught up in the details of the last ten days that I had trouble extricating myself from the fray sufficiently to adopt the requisite abstract view. At last I achieved some resolution by breaking the analysis into its constituent parts: first the visceral elements (lodging, food, clothing, and transportation) and then the cerebral features (family, friendship, productivity and generally the powers of reasoning). For the time being I am able to put my thumb in the hole of the dyke. I have no doubt that the waters are held back only temporarily, that it is assured that I shall suffer some assault of some description eventually. But even though I know from ample experience that the chaos of life is inescapable it nonetheless helps to smooth the waves.<br />
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When I glance at my electronic calendar (in an effort to gain an insight into where I have been and what I have done) I quickly recognize that the past is of no assistance to quell my inner anxiety. Neither I suppose does it matter what is to come. The adage about living for the present surfaces once again. Stopping the world to get off is impossible. No doubt my afternoon nap afforded some much needed rest. I suspect too that the yearning for sugar was a corollary of fatigue. By degrees the confusion of the moment - being, as the French are wont to say, "désaxé" (unbalanced) - subsided. Gratefully the fuss of the immediate past is replaced by stability and assuredness, no longer distressed by the turmoil of endless challenges requiring sometimes snappy resolution. I tranquillize myself amid this private combustion by laundering my clothes, polishing my jewellery and driving my car. And writing. Writing is unquestionably the ultimate catharsis (though it must first be nurtured by the other pacifications).<br />
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When all is well, when the storms within my head are quelled, I deliberately cast my gaze at all that I have, consider all that I have done, conduct an inventory of my family and friends, all with the intention of satisfying myself that the world once again is sane and that I am positioned to take the next step whatever it may be. Relishing these moments of pleasure is a rare event and not to be discounted. It requires the synthesis of disparate elements, the force or manufacture of which is unthinkable.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-46616843399334603802016-04-24T04:43:00.002-07:002019-09-02T08:38:27.635-07:00Bumps, Scrapes, Tarnishes and Tears<div style="text-align: justify;">
As a general rule, bumps, scrapes, tarnishes and tears are unwelcome. Consider the illustration of a new car. Upon discovering a nick on your new car, do you ruefully regard it then gently rub an index finger over the offending score as though you could expectantly make the blemish gradually cease to exist, hoping against hope that it were but the unintended and serendipitous smudge of an airborne fowl? The phrase "<i>wear and tear</i>" (an undisguised import from the legal exclusions of warranty contracts) is hardly the answer! In an instant the integrity of your vehicle is compromised. Indeed the entire point of getting a new car is under siege! The spiritual heights of the impermanent flight are unceremoniously grounded. Cinderella's vanishing carriage has nothing on this vaporization!<br />
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The late Hughie Whitten (along with the notable JC Smithson) worked for Stewart C. Burns at the former GM dealership Burns Pontiac Buick located across from the Legion on Bridge Street, Almonte. Hughie once observed, "<i>The first thing you do with a new car is beat is with a baseball bat then drive it through a barbed wire fence!</i>" The point is, bumps and scratches are ineluctable; and Hughie cogently reasoned (with wisdom well beyond his tender years) that it were better to relent than to resist. It is a philosophy which is hard and blunt, not for the pusillanimous among us and certainly not easily absorbed much less practiced. On the contrary our instinct is to combat the condition or at least to abhor the result. In the car industry for example there is an entire segment rapaciously dedicated to reversing the trend. And a productive business it is! A mere scuff on a new car adorned with one of the higher end paint jobs is assured to cost no less than $1,000 to obliterate it from memory. Meanwhile it is no "accident" (pardon the pun) that the insurance industry has spliced its own scheme of deductibles to coincide with this trajectory as though to remind the masses that certain things in life are inescapable and must be borne as ultimately personal without the benefit of recourse.</div>
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Oddly enough not all tarnishes are objectionable. In the jewellery vernacular the various abrasions and indentations endured by the metals (silver, gold or platinum) are approvingly labeled "patina". When applied to the green or brown film on the surface of bronze or similar materials it is called oxidation; when applied to fine furniture or people with money it is called polish or breeding. In certain contexts, bumps and scratches are a favourable consequence (though generally speaking car owners seldom aspire to such elevation except I suppose for those used in stock car races or demolition derbies).</div>
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In spite of its compelling logic accommodation of bumps and scratches when applied to the chronology of our lives is for some people an unattractive alternative. Sadly for them there is however virtually nothing that can be done to reverse the trend (though the cosmetic industry would have us think otherwise). I refuse to except plastic surgery (other than to deal with disfigurement, the unanticipated result of accident or medical misfortune). The purposeful elimination or alteration of nature's bounty is in my opinion bound to fail notwithstanding the ambition. Besides I see nothing wrong with wrinkles, grey hair and the plumpness of age. Unless one avoids reflective surfaces entirely we are regularly reminded that the course of Time has worked its mischief upon us.</div>
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The ultimate resolution of the problem of bumps and scratches is to discard and replace the item. In an era of low quality and disposable goods such wasteful abandonment is shamefully tolerated. It is however a plan of limited application and certainly not generally suitable to the human sphere except if one advocates a routine of divorce or parting of ways, the sequel to which may as likely be doomed to be the same as before (though some prefer to romanticize "<i>the second time around</i>"). Even if adopted as a recipe for perfection in the context of cars, getting a new one every year inevitably raises the tortuous issue of utility and maybe a deeper exploration of the psychiatry of the enterprise not to mention the collateral issue of the environment. Meanwhile I acknowledge that many of us are captivated by the allure of new stuff, whether as an ingredient of irrepressible passion or a sacrificial ritual dedicated to having the latest technology for instance. In that liberal and aggressive context, wear and tear doesn't even figure!</div>
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Normally there is a price to pay not only if one insists upon eliminating the distortions of use and age. Choosing instead to capitulate to deterioration has its own element of forfeiture. The latter choice is usually accompanied by a hardened disregard for the material world (a deprivation I'm currently not willing to bear) or perhaps the adoption of a mystical ideology designed to trivialize it (a posture I consider dangerously close to Voodooism). Our rational pursuit may be buoyed by an extravagant economic theory founded on the uncomplicated proposition that you can't have money and things, the logic of which is fairly indisputable. But make no mistake, you'll be left with one or the other, pits or polish! No amount of specious justification will change that.</div>
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One can avoid the drastic effects of bifurcation in the resolution of this dilemma by adopting a path of compromise. It isn't inevitable that one's automobile should be held together with duct tape or that one should lapse into dishevelment. The primary expiating resource is cleanliness. Here, as in all matters, simple is better. I find for example that lowly silver polish serves remarkably well to clean jewellery (and magically "improves" the patina). Water of course cannot be discounted for everything else from cars to one's corpus. The application of restoratives or additives should be equally guarded. When it comes to hair there are extraordinary (and astonishingly pricey) concoctions available but my experience has been that the basest petroleum products work equally well as silk powders, wheat protein or Jojoba oil. It is shrewd to recollect when succumbing to the marketing persuasions of the retail industry that anything you do is a temporary fix and not likely to accomplish a disguise of the original material. It is a fiction that anyone or anything can be restored to pristine condition. And it as soon becomes apparent that the pursuit has as much purpose as a dog chasing its tail.</div>
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In the struggle to resist (or ignore) decline, one must adopt a different tact, addressing the cause not the symptom. I have discovered there is considerable advantage to austerity. Plainly the thesis is inspiring because it diminishes the burden, proving once again that less is more. Particularly for those fortunate enough to have the wherewithal there is a distracting tendency to complicate and encumber one's life through profligacy. I surmise that the reduction of quantity has the unforeseen fruit of focus which effectively dilates the substantive (as opposed to cosmetic) characteristics of the remaining object(s). It is hard to imagine how anyone with a collection of automobiles finds the time to enjoy them all. The same applies to other things, whether crystal, artwork, sterling silver or real estate. By avoiding multiplicity one at least has the bonus of having more to dedicate to whatever maintenance may be required. This doesn't of course eliminate bumps and scratches but it affords a convenient avenue for moderate care and attention. As rich as some evidence of wear and tear may be (I especially like for example the swaths of grey on old stone foundations) sometimes the cracks of an oil painting are intolerable. Pointedly that process of recovery is called "restoration" and an analysis of it alerts us to serious reservations. I have sometimes queried whether the restoration of a "work of art" does anything to contaminate the original? Or is it only a matter of degree? When does the restoration stop being the work of the original artist and become that of the technician? How antique is a completely restored automobile? Does it pollute a custom-made ring to have it "sized" years afterwards? Does anyone really care? Should we opt instead for measured deterioration in the same way we're often encouraged to embrace old age?</div>
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Whatever the posture - repair or neglect - we are assured that one or the other will prevail. My personal preference is for preservation but occasionally I accede to declension. Surrender is more palatable if the object is of some sentimental value or perhaps its rejuvenation is either impossible or too costly to consider. It isn't of course implausible that one can enjoy one's self and one's things in spite of natural amortization. It does however require some sublimity to surmount the appeal of <i>nouveauté</i>; it is well to recall that except for a fleeting moment nothing is new. And of course nothing is forever.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-44238930951422817012016-04-23T20:02:00.001-07:002017-10-19T17:57:25.619-07:00New Pair of Socks<div style="text-align: justify;">
Saturday morning! I can't explain it, but even after retirement, Saturday morning still elevates me! This is particularly so when as today the sun shone and there was not a cloud in the bright blue sky! Rather like listening to the atmospheric music of Erik Satie's "<i>Gymnopédies</i>". I did however suffer a modest dampening upon briefly recalling the disagreement I had had with my elderly mother last evening. But I was, at least upon awakening this morning, satisfied that my intransigence about returning her vacuum cleaner had triumphed and my general approach to the new day was one of refreshment not hesitation or regret. This, I was about to discover, was to be a short-lived buoyancy. But for the time being, ignorant as I was of my overhanging destiny, I prosecuted the morning ablutions without reserve and prepared myself for what I then anticipated to be a perfectly splendid Saturday. As I dressed I amused myself to contrive to purchase new white socks and to discard the old ones. White socks are like toothbrushes, common, hardly a luxury and certainly not something one should feel the necessity to keep forever. Long ago I discovered the unusually gratifying result of capitalizing upon such petty indulgences. Rejuvenation requires far less exertion than one might imagine; the simplest modification can afford incalculable fodder!<br />
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About that vacuum cleaner, I should explain that the conundrum which surrounded its return to my mother was that she didn't use it (even though of course in her customary stubborn manner she protested against all reason that she did). More importantly, if she were to use it, she risked falling as her mobility is greatly reduced and at 90 years of age she doesn't need a broken hip to enhance her life. Nonetheless in spite of the soundness of my argument, my mother harkened to the days when she still owned her own home and before she was forced (by me and my sister as she no doubt asserts) to abandon it and all the associated rituals which she affirmed included her erstwhile passion for vacuuming. I have learned by seasoned experience to mistrust most of my mother's expressions of zeal which include dreamy ambitions like going to the bank to update her savings account passbook (in spite of my provision of on-line print-outs), buying more clothing (she doesn't wear a tenth of what she already owns), shopping for make-up (she has enough to parge the foundation of a castle) or getting a new car (her licence was lifted years ago). You might well surmise there is more than a degree of wistful reminiscence at play in the circumstances. When I expropriated the vacuum cleaner from her I confirmed from an examination of it that it hadn't been used. The dust drum was empty; certain of the levers were detached; there was no evidence of employment. This did not alarm me because my mother is regularly visited in her apartment by cleaning staff. As a result when my mother and I argued about the matter in a protracted telephone conversation last evening, I felt confident in resisting her emotional plea for the return of the vacuum cleaner in light of the incontrovertible facts. I realize now that I should have known her capitulation was ephemeral and that her calculation would be relentless.<br />
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In any event when the dawn in its frosty mantle broke upon us this morning, I foresaw only a pleasant day. We began by directing ourselves to the Mississippi Golf Club for breakfast. Yesterday we had confirmed that the dining room at the Club had opened for the season so we felt exhilaration in initiating our routine. I joined the Mississippi Golf Club as a social member almost exactly forty years ago. We have regularly attended on Saturday and Sunday mornings to enjoy what I unhesitatingly describe as a breakfast nonpareil! No matter what you order, it arrives hot, abundant and delicious. And the staff is exceptional! The adventure is magnified by the exceedingly comfortable surroundings and the thoroughly delightful location adjacent the River overlooking the manicured greens and verdant fairways. This morning's reunion was no exception!<br />
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After leaving the Golf Club sated and in good humour we returned to Almonte to search for a couple of items at Levi Home Hardware and Dandelion Foods. Then we pressed onto Ottawa to conduct what has become a ritual daily visit to my elderly mother at her retirement residence. But first we interrupted our objective by detouring to purchase new white socks. While at the mall I bought some superb silk white roses for my mother and, as a concession to her grievance, a small hand-held vacuum.<br />
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When we arrived at my mother's apartment, apart from encountering the staff assistant who was delivering a tray of food, my mother instantly and shockingly revived her demand for return of her vacuum. I was flabbergasted! There was entirely no remission of her foray; she picked up exactly where she had left off and in no uncertain terms! In an instant my happy Saturday morning and the brilliantly sunny day dissolved! The silk flowers and hand-held vacuum were utterly redundant. I regret to say that in answering my mother's untempered confrontation I suffered an undeniable lapse into the vernacular. The competition for direct language was too great to admit to the niceties of diplomatic prattle. I shall spare my reader the indignity of an account of the full communication which only intensified and lapsed further into mean-spirited and desultory comments. In the end I relinquished any possibility of persuasion and proclaimed in a huff that I would return to Almonte, collect the much sanctioned vacuum cleaner and bring it back to its rightful (and decidedly indignant) owner!<br />
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I needn't add that the ride home was marked by brooding and less than cultivated expletives! It is the privilege and gratification of aging to indulge in the commonality of the groundlings! I dismissed the significance of the debate by reasoning that I had done all I could to opt for the correct and appropriate course of action. But on balance it was proving to be a Pyrrhic victory. Undeniably a strain of dissatisfaction within the parent-child relationship was manifest and that deep undercurrent had succeeded to revive a history of suppressed emotions which apparently I had at last vented (though for what purpose and to what advantage I seriously questioned).<br />
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Oddly on the return voyage to my mother's retirement residence, I mechanically diverted to Tim Horton's to collect an iced Mocha coffee for my mother. She no longer has much of an appetite for food of any description but she is voracious about iced Mocha coffee.<br />
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Perhaps this deference to habit overcame the former hostility surrounding the vacuum controversy. More likely I was relieved to have reversed the cause of the acrimony. I mean, it hardly amounts to justification for a sustained battle! Thus when we reappeared at my mother's apartment the air was no longer blue and the perfunctory replacement of the vacuum in its former location attracted no attention whatever. Instead the conversation focussed upon the silk flowers, the weather, plans for dinner and one's heath. Effortlessly our family congress was restored to C-Major. We talked of my sister's anticipated return from Florida and upcoming proposals for the celebration of Mother's Day. It no doubt helped to erase the grittiness of our previous dust-up that during our now highly sociable and unperturbed yammering I received two welcome emails addressing as many outstanding concerns which frankly had been niggling in the background throughout the day. How miraculously things do at times resolve themselves!</div>
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If there had been anything jarring about the day, it had evaporated. We departed from my mother in peace. What remained was a brief dalliance at an Asian restaurant for spring rolls, Chow Mein and hot-and-sour soup. Thus fortified we headed west into the setting sun. I resolved to profit metaphorically from the sweetened return by traveling along the Appleton Side Road to complete the circle of the day's robust activities. We were treated to glistening sunshine on pools of water in the fields and among the clusters of trees alongside the road. The grass was turning greener almost by the minute. My sister called to confirm that her plane had landed and to book a reconnoitre over the digestion of oysters at lunch tomorrow. I was so completely motivated by the unanticipated turn of events and the resulting pervasive beneficence that I deigned to tackle the sorting of one of my most muddled files which until then I had successfully ignored for years. The sense of catharsis was unimpeachable! And tomorrow at lunch I would wear my new white socks!</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-68064430993850438992016-04-17T18:53:00.002-07:002017-10-19T17:57:35.859-07:00Back to Basics<div style="text-align: justify;">
The return from our winter sojourn has been a blunt confrontation. It's as though we've been back for weeks though it is but slightly more than twenty-four hours. We crossed the border (where I am pleased to report we had a very satisfactory encounter with an unusually pleasant Canadian border guard) and made a bee-line to home and by-passed the customary longer route which would have included a purifying car wash and grocery shopping. Our re-entry to the condo was (as frankly I had anticipated) instantly gratifying, re-uniting us with the serenity and gem tones of our familiar environment. There were no unsettling discoveries other than a note from our housekeeper regarding the malfunctioning of the aging vacuum cleaner.<br />
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We lugged our belongings from the car (which was shamefully stuffed) and immediately re-directed ourselves to the City where we first got the car washed, then scoped the new Cadillac CT6 at the dealership and finally re-connected with my elderly mother. On our way home afterwards we stopped at a Vietnamese diner then proceeded to the grocery store to re-stock our neglected pantry. The latter part of the evening was spent in a wasteful hour on the telephone with Bell Canada to attempt to resolve their failure to re-establish our WiFi and television services which we had commissioned them to do several days earlier. As usual we finally capitulated to have a technician attend today (which he did as scheduled and the problem appears to have been fixed).</div>
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Strengthened by a good night's sleep we attacked the surplusage of our closets and storage generally, a niggling task which has haunted us since we moved here two years ago. We discarded and disposed of mountains of clothing and paper (excess from my former law practice). Meanwhile the re-establishment of WiFi precipitated endless back-up and updating of various computers (all told we have about eleven devices).</div>
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We've engaged in tepid re-connection with certain acquaintances. We're in no rush to initiate social conventions There remain the more compelling attendances with the accountant, dentist and physician. I have yet to file all the paper I collected over the past five months.<br />
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So far our reconnection with home was singularly unceremonious and downright mundane.<br />
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Uninterrupted in our purpose, the next day started with similar vigorous prosecution, first to summarize and file the bundle of amassed documents, mostly stuff from banks, the financial advisor and Canada Revenue Agency. Some of it needed to be scanned and saved to our computers. That uninspiring duty effectively consumed two hours this morning.</div>
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At 11:30 a.m. I met with my contact at the Cadillac dealership and placed an order for an XTS identical to the one we have now. The CT6 was out of sight financially (and frankly I prefer the XTS in any event). The order for the 2017 model cannot be placed for about a month and we should have delivery of it by the end of August. So it looks as though we'll be driving it to New Brunswick when we go to St. Andrews-by-the-Sea for our autumnal holiday. There are absolutely no plans to travel this summer. At most we might wander as far afield as White Lake (Cedar Cove Resort), Ivy Lea Club, Gananoque and Kingston, a compassed limitation I am quite happy to observe.</div>
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After leaving the car dealership, I spent about half an hour on my mobile phone hunting down an iPhone SE ("Special Edition") which is the latest 4" device I've been eyeing since its recent release. Actually I just measured it and it's closer to 4¾". It would constitute utter tedium to recount the ensuing 3-hour marathon I had at the Bell store in Orleans to purchase the device. I had called at least four other Bell stores in Ottawa but none of them stocked the 64G model I wanted. Only the store in remote Orleans had it. Specifically they didn't have the black colour I wanted so I ended up settling for rose gold (a concession to my passion for bling I suppose). It is a miracle that I ended getting the device at all in view of the innumerable clerical obstacles at the Bell store. But it's done now and I have spent a good deal of this evening adjusting to the new toy.<br />
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I have arranged a terribly modest social affair tomorrow. My favourite gal and I will cavort to Ottawa to visit my mother (whom of course I missed seeing today).<br />
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Now it's off to bed. Hopefully I shall sleep.<br />
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I am unable to recollect when things started to go wrong with the iPhone SE. I suspect the problems evolved as I methodically made my way through the Settings. In a nutshell what ensued were hours of conversation with ever-escalated members of the Apple Customer Care departments. I became so agitated that I at last resolved simply to return the phone. While Apple touts its "no hassle" return policy, because I had bought the phone at a Bell Canada store I was reportedly bound to deal with that retailer. Someone at Bell had even told me I must deal with the exact point of sale, not just any Bell office. Turns out, next day when I called a Bell store nearby in Kanata, the clerk there advised I could exchange the phone at her office rather than have to travel to Orleans on the other side of Ottawa. Although this was incredibly good news, even after I got the new replacement phone I was still having very much the same problems as before. Again I spent an entire afternoon talking to ever-escalated member of Apple Service, from Ottawa to California. The California Apple office has additionally escalated the matter to their engineering department and we have re-scheduled a telephone conference on Friday at 4:00 pm.<br />
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Overnight - perhaps with the luxury of time and the concomitant benefit of complete downloading and uploading of the new phone - things appear (and I use that word both hesitatingly and cautiously) to have settled down. What made the whole drama the more disturbing was that the problems on the iPhone rippled through to the MacBook Pro and the iPad. I had a foot in three rivers as we attempted to navigate the seemingly circular error messages.<br />
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I suppose I should now know after all these years that every time I get a new device (or car for that matter) problems can be expected.<br />
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The final refinement in our readjustment to native living has been the re-installation of the Bose mini sound system in the living area and setting up the Harman Kardon mini sound system in the bedroom. It has been a wrestling match to tame these computing devices and associated WiFi and internet connections.<br />
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I won't feel I've put the lid on this account until I report as well that today - Thursday following our Saturday return - marks the first day here that we recommenced our ritual bicycling. As you might expect we chose the same route (along Country Street, down Rae Road, back on the 8th Line Ramsay and down the hill by the Town Hall) for our daily exercise. While it sounds pusillanimous to say so, the "hills" are an evident alteration from our recent sea-level jaunts. The round is however less enduring than our regular 2-hour outing on the beach. We consumed a mere 45 minutes roughly from start to finish (though we interrupted our journey to chat with two different people whom we hadn't seen since last autumn, catching up on as much news and gossip as possible).</div>
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Though of course I am delighted to have begun the exercise routine again, I confess I derive more than considerable solace from (apparently) having resolved what transpired late this morning as additional problems with my new iPhone SE. What developed was a palpable and highly identifiable problem connecting to the internet. Specifically, the APP store was inaccessible; I couldn't open any sites on Safari (for example my blog site or the GM Cadillac site). Just about anything connected with the internet was either severely retarded or mercurial (connection would occur from time to time but then evaporate almost as quickly). The first call this morning to Apple's StarShip Command elicited a plausible attempt to Reset Network Settings by disconnecting the WiFi then re-opening it. That initially worked but soon failed as a sustainable perfection. Subsequently a senior advisor had us wipe the entire phone clean and re-open it as a "New Phone" (as opposed for example to opening it by re-installing from an iCloud Backup). That gambit produced little if any improvement and we were therefore escalated to one of the head advisors who pointedly diverted the attention from the phone itself to other factors affecting its performance; <i>viz.</i>, the modem. Because - knock on wood! - the phone (and all other Apple products and computing devices) now seem to be performing well and normally, I am inclined to accept this as the remedy even though with a degree of trepidation. The head advisor questioned us about our modem which had been installed by Bell Canada on the weekend after we called to complain that we had no internet service upon our return home. We ended calling the same Bell technician who in turn directed our attention to what he speculated to be a competition for the internet information by the many computing devices we have (2 iPads, 2 MacBook Pros, 2 iPhones, 2 PC Computers, a scanner and 2 mini-sound systems). Through a scheme which I won't pretend to comprehend, we now have three modems directing traffic on the information highway - the main Bell modem, a "guest" Bell modem and the Apple Tower modem. This triple modification was orchestrated by the Bell technician in answer to our dilemma. After a number of trial and error attempts, my iPhone is now connected through the Apple Tower modem to WiFi (instead of the "main" WiFi network I normally used). This appears (note the deliberately cautious use of that word again) to have relieved the other modem transmitters of their congestion and dedicated a less obstructed path of communication for my iPhone SE. In retrospect I am attributing the resolution of the initial problems of the iPhone SE to the enormous burden suffered by the internet when we first returned home; namely, all computers were engaged in massive updates and backups which had been entirely neglected for five months during our absence.<br />
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Naturally I am reluctant to jump too high for joy at this time but the alleviation is irresistible. It quite surprises me to discover the inherent sensitivity I have to the proper functioning of these mechanical devices. Of course I obsessively re-visit each of my iPad, MacBook Pro and iPhone SE to verify all seems to be working as it should. To this point I have not been disappointed in my investigations. I am relieved to have abandoned what I was beginning to develop, a cavalier attitude to the necessity of certain functions on the iPhone, attempting to convince myself that I could somehow live with its inadequacies. For example, I argued with myself that as for the iPhone (as opposed to the MacBook Pro) I hadn't any pressing need for use of the App store or even the internet, just email and the telephone. This of course is utter codswallop! Frequently in the middle of the night I read articles on my iPhone, stuff that I access through the internet. I have even profited by a sleepless night to amend the composition of certain of my articles on my blog site. It would constitute an outrage to have the latest Apple iPhone with the least capacity for performance. Hopefully that threat has now been extinguished.<br />
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I complemented the advantage of our assiduity by tweaking my MacBook Pro and calling my physician's office to book an appointment for a general checkup. The ultimate refinement of a pedicure and haircut can await another day. We have I believe closed the circle of necessary activity upon our return to normalcy - things are unpacked; groceries have been bought; the car is washed; I've reconnected with mother; the devices are working; a new car has been ordered; I finally got the iPhone I've been yearning for months; mother's "movie" is showing tomorrow; the medical stuff is in gear; the mantel clock, carriage clock and grandfather clock have been wound; a watch battery and a light bulb replaced; and what remains is merely cosmetic - literally! We're home!</div>
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-63335121092015096042016-04-13T14:01:00.002-07:002017-10-19T17:57:53.061-07:00Last Day on the Beach (2016) <div style="text-align: justify;">
Imperceptibly over the course of an hour upon awakening this morning, we resolved to leave Hilton Head Island tomorrow instead of two days later as planned. The weather forecast is for rain tomorrow and the next day so there isn't much point lingering here. After five months on the Island we are of course content to get on our way; in fact, we're somewhat anxious to return home in a general way.<br />
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As I had done nothing to prepare for our return, I had yet to attack the packing. But I couldn't attend to that until after I returned from my scheduled dental appointment (teeth cleaning) at nine o'clock this morning. That meeting went very satisfactorily and I was out of there by ten o'clock. However when I returned to the condominium I decided that I would first go for one final bike ride on the beach. The beach has been the central focus of my life here for the past five months. I have frequently contemplated its upcoming deprivation (though admittedly I am assuaged in any possible nervousness in view of our planned return November next).</div>
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There was a gale force northerly wind on the beach which naturally made it extremely difficult for me when cycling into it. The enterprise was made more difficult by the rising tide which of course contributed to the wetness of the sand. Although I managed to make it through the initial stage near Tower Beach, and though I had hoped to make it as far as Beach Club, I reluctantly gave up half-way there and exited onto Beach Lagoon (near Turtle Lane).</div>
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When I wound my way back to South Sea Pines Drive I detoured to Sea Pines Bicycle Rentals where I spoke with a pleasant clerk and arranged to have our bikes collected either later today or tomorrow. The cycle home afterwards was pleasant. I hummed to myself as I cycled. There was unquestionably a degree of excitement in our looming departure.</div>
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Thankfully I saved all the plastic shopping bags which I had collected over the past five months from various purchases (sweaters, shorts, smalls, Polo shirts, mini sound system, etc.). Most of our stuff has now been loaded into the car starting with my portable piano keyboard. The back seat of the car is almost stuffed to the limit. The trunk is also bulging, barely enough room remaining for our two suitcases and several other small bags, pillows and duvet which we have yet to pack tomorrow morning. An interesting derivative of the packing process was an accounting of what I brought here from Canada but never used, mostly woollen sweaters (cardigans) and long pants.</div>
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We notified the estate agency of our premature departure, primarily to check for any mail (there was none). Then we sent an email to my sister and her husband (who are in Naples, FLA) to let them know. Further we terminated the suspension of our phone, TV and internet service at home so that it is functional upon our return in about three days. Naturally we subsequently received from Bell Canada a series of preposterous emails containing contradictory information about what we had just done on-line to effect the cancellation of the suspension of service. Considering we have been obliged to contact Bell every month for the past five months to require correction of errors on our monthly statements, it was no surprise to receive this additional codswallop from Bell.</div>
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Although we planned the amortization of our food supplies fairly accurately (had we been staying here another two days), we will be obliged to leave a number of items in the refrigerator. We are well stocked for our last dinner this evening (ribs, wings, salad, yoghurt and oranges) and for breakfast tomorrow morning (eggs, ham, tomatoes, onions, green pepper, cheese, Ciabatta bread, salted butter and peanut butter and coffee).<br />
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There remains only to amuse ourselves with the final vestiges of political prattle surrounding the Republican nomination primaries (specifically Donald Trump and all that he entails) and possibly the few last episodes of "<i>Frasier</i>" on Netflix. Oh, and packing our Apple TV device. I have to say I'll enjoy not going for a bike ride tomorrow or the next two days. The daily cycling for the past five months has unquestionably wearied my system; a break will be welcome.<br />
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In short it has been a terrific five months on Hilton Head Island since last November. We're delighted to be returning this coming November. We've already booked a condominium in the same property, but a more modern rendition on the second floor directly overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. And in the meantime we have the favour of anticipating a late summer journey to New Brunswick (St. Andrews-by-the-Sea). Except for weekend trips to Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland, this will be the first time I have revisited the East Coast for over thirty years.<br />
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Our ride home will consume the usual three days, a routine we've established over the past six years when traveling back and forth from Canada to Hilton Head Island. We have altered our original plans on this trip to exclude an overnight stay in North Carolina in reaction to that State's recent enactment of a stupid, bigoted, religiously-based legislation. North Carolina regrettably continues to epitomize everything that is lower class and uneducated about the former Confederacy. Anybody who accuses Donald Trump of racism or bigotry needs to take a hard look at Southern Baptists.<br />
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We expect that the next two days on the Island will in any event be swamped with visitors for the RBC Heritage PGA Tour at Harbour Town. This means Sea Pines will be inundated with traffic of every description so our early departure is no misfortune. We have by now restored the condominium to its status when we moved in last November. Gone are the indicia of our personalities. We're temporarily living in a hotel room. It helps too that the view of Calibogue Sound is grey and uninviting this evening. Normally the setting sun has put on a spectacular show of romance and promise.<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-20118238529522717132016-04-12T16:26:00.003-07:002017-10-19T17:58:06.475-07:00Banks and Insurance Companies<div style="text-align: justify;">
To speak of banks and insurance companies as though they were separate and unrelated entities is a misconception. They are the Janus face of the financial market. They each have one hand in the other's pocket and they each have their other hand in the public's pocket. The popular household mortgage and insurance binder are roulette games with about as much risk for the lender or insurer as for casino operators. If one extrapolates the association of banks and insurers they are one big family. By the time one ascends to the rarefied atmosphere of re-insurers it is an apex similar to tracing one's ancestry back to the Mongolians, the beginning of time. Just to be clear, the risk factor is not limited to insurance. It doesn't require much speculation to discover that lending $300,000 - 800,000 to someone on the street to buy a house has an element of risk. The mortgage lenders spread some of that risk among their insurers to cover foreseeable downturns. If, as sometimes happens, the real estate market is at "risk" of declining, the banks resolve the issue by acquiescing to the inflation of housing prices then reducing the cost of borrowing (while of course at the same time co-operating with the increase of capital borrowed). If things get totally out of hand it is never beneath the big guns to sacrifice the lesser of their own (who were likely to have succumbed to the false allure of securitized debt which had no financial cushion to absorb large loan defaults).<br />
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Even if one considers that the "numbers game" and "cost of doing business" are to be tolerated to achieve the greater goal of property ownership (which by the way I consider a fiction), there persists an equally annoying development. Specifically the banks and insurers (including the subalterns who fill their front-line ranks) have perfected a level of arrogance which is nothing short of appalling. Like the haughty butler in the home of the feudal lord, the banks and insurance companies presume to have the power and authority of their customers, forgetting who works for whom. The banks for example regularly weigh in upon private contractual relations, relying solely upon the abuse of their expedient position of control, sometimes to the extent of flying in the face of legislation. Meanwhile the clerks and salespeople of the banks and insurers are tethered to their masters. The mannerisms of the conglomerates overtake anything as mundane and parochial as customer service. The suggestion that the brokers (whether of money or insurance) are somehow "shopping the market for the best deal" is utterly preposterous! The brokers are nothing but inconsequential minions waiting (with their own hands outstretched) to collect their commissions after having served up whatever the primary providers deign to retail.<br />
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The ripple effect of this malignancy among the banks and insurers is the contamination of the entire marketplace. The last person of importance in the mix of these financial services is the customer. The manipulative media advertising of the banks and insurers is only geared to distorting the theory of money lending and risk management, portraying it as some corollary to the idyllic nonsense of Mickey Mouse Club. The best that the so-called competitors do is generate within the public an animosity directed at other lenders or insurers creating a false sense of fairness and economy. The only thing guaranteed by the banks and lenders is that they will win. Nevertheless it is still possible for John Q. Public to exercise some influence by calling the bluff and change suppliers (though it is ultimately of no consequence to the core suppliers).</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-54154151841631464522016-04-11T15:21:00.000-07:002017-10-19T17:58:39.532-07:00It's a festival!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hilton Head Island was unexpectedly calm today, something I hadn't anticipated in view of the upcoming RBC Heritage PGA Tour to be held at Harbour Town this week. I read somewhere that 100,000 visitors are about to arrive. But apart from a few decorations and the occasional road sign there were not many other indications of a looming festival.<br />
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Apparently there was a parade earlier today. But because we were <i>en route</i> from Jekyll Island, GA (where we spent the weekend) we didn't pass through the security gates of Sea Pines until after noon today. Once again there were no indicia of any alteration. In fact things seemed quieter than usual.</div>
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And it wasn't until almost two o'clock that I straddled the bike for my daily constitutional ride (which I deliberately - though with some hesitancy - directed to Harbour Town to see what was going on). Apart from a number of "Rent-a-Cops" sitting idly in small collapsible beach chairs at numerous intersections, there was no evidence of activity. I can't explain why the security people were still at their posts because nothing indicated that anything was about to transpire; they were so lethargic they were on the edge of dozing. Harbour Town - though the parking lots were packed - looked pretty much as usual, tourists aimlessly strolling about. There were however various pedlars setting up tents for the sale of memorabilia (T-shirts and baseball caps) and popcorn. I saw a number of people walking about with convention-style tags hanging about their necks. There were signs designating parking for media, standard bearers, contestants and bicycles. But generally speaking there was nothing happening on the golf course. I believe the major contenders aren't due to land here until the latter part of the week.</div>
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Yesterday on Jekyll Island we cycled around the entire Island, about a two-hour expedition.</div>
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The Island is only 7 miles long and 1½ miles wide so the enterprise is hardly Olympian. But it was an exceedingly pleasant outing. We confined our ride to the cemented pathway that borders the Ocean, partly because it is so pleasant but also because the bike rental agency made it clear that we would be charged an additional $50 for cleaning the bikes if we rode them on the beach (which we have done in the past when using bikes from another agency). But the elevated pathway along the dunes is so persuasive that it was no sacrifice to avoid the beach.</div>
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Anyway, the point of my Jekyll Island diversion was to recount that the two-hour ride just about killed me. I could hardly walk when we were done. And I had no resistance to a further two-hour lounge by the pool afterwards during which I regularly awoke myself with my own snoring. Later that evening I collapsed into bed shortly before nine o'clock. I subsequently had a fitful night's sleep, plagued by disturbing nightmares (which of course had no connection to anything and were merely disturbing, involving being chased on my bicycle, fear of some unknown pressures, that sort of nonsense). When I at last got out of bed this morning I was stiff in my lower back; my legs seemed exceptionally taut. Oddly however after we had a very satisfactory little breakfast of croissant, bacon and egg, with a hot cup of café latte, I recovered remarkably. By the time I got on my bike on Hilton Head Island this afternoon, I was feeling no discomfort at all. I queried whether my former unpleasantness was because of some sense of emotional stress as opposed to physical wear. Lately I have had a number of concerns about my aging mother and perhaps those worries were haunting me. I telephoned my mother as usual this morning and she was in good spirits. I also spoke with the Director of her retirement residence (concerning my mother's care) and it is likely that those communications succeeded to assuage some of my anxiety. The icing on the cake was a telephone conversation I had with my sister who is now in Naples, FLA with her husband. This has been a long-awaited sojourn for them and I am pleased to learn that it is going well.<br />
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Refreshed as I was by the compendium of favourable events today I revelled in what is one of our last few days on the Island this season. Even though I wasn't able to get onto the beach (the tide was too high) my leisurely tour to Harbour Town and back home couldn't have been more uplifting. Unquestionably the exhaustion of the "March Break" and Easter celebration meant an evacuation of the bulk of teenagers, children and parents. The bike paths were virtually empty, quite contrary to what they have been for the past month.<br />
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Just being back on Hilton Head Island meant something too. Even though we cannot claim entrenched resident status we nonetheless felt as though we were returning home. I even missed the substantial water pressure we have here! We contemplated a winter on Jekyll Island sometime in the future though I confess it will take a lot of convincing to pry us from Hilton Head Island and the very agreeable relationship we have with our local estate agent.<br />
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Meanwhile I continue to obsess throughout the day upon my favourite annoyances. It is shameful how glacial my progress is in the advancement of these matters. I am like an ant building a structure out of grains of sand. At times I pretend to dismiss the relevance of the "issues"; other times I fashion there is some compelling pragmatism in prolonging the agony. In the end I just go in circles and accomplish nothing. I will however admit there is strength to the value of time as a healing tool. Just being removed from some the people who vex me has provided a degree of relief. And the longer the estrangement persists the less likely it is that the severed bonds will be healed like old scar tissue. The mere act of having had nothing to do with those people enables further distance, which in turn diminishes whatever previously existed. Eventually one forgets what the fuss was all about in the first place. I prefer instead to reaffirm what it is I enjoy about my life. This is never an effort, there is so much about my life these days that I relish.</div>
<br />L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-27935626660927839222016-04-08T14:16:00.005-07:002017-10-19T18:37:32.288-07:00Fuck you!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">Nothing quite so succinctly captures a dismissal as the expletive "<i>Fuck you!</i>" Oddly it is an imprecation suitable to almost anyone, young or old, staid or whacky, man or woman. It does of course have the advantage of being direct and easily understood. It similarly does not admit to ambiguity or misinterpretation. The possibility of inviting comment or correspondence is slim; it normally represents a conclusion rather than an initiative.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">Armchair psychiatrists embrace the profanity as a liberating vehicle, usually aligned with an emotional catharsis rather than the product of a well considered syllogism. For that reason it is often equated with frustration and may therefore inadvertently cultivate the perception of a corresponding lack of intellect. I certainly agree in some circumstances but I also acknowledge that it may instead represent the height of incisiveness. At times there is only one way to surmount the pusillanimity of socially correct behaviour, and that is to be blunt. Such bluntness has the effect of reducing the frivolousness of namby-pamby behaviour. It speedily eliminates unnecessary debate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">Because of the irrevocable nature of the comment it is wise to recall that its use should be carefully weighed. It pretty much guarantees that building bridges subsequently will be a challenge. This of course assumes that there is a degree of planning surrounding the employment of the obscenity, something which is not always a given. On the other hand, many of the anxieties which promote the use of this strong language have simmered for a long time, sometimes for many, many years. The decision to set sail may appear abrupt but it can also be highly orchestrated, part of a calculated and determined effort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">I like to think that my own exploitation of this particular vernacular is the result of serious contemplation. My progress in this introspection has been prompted by a number of recent and current events. There was a time when my inclination would always have been to accommodate differences or at least suppress my contradiction of them. To adopt instead the retort "<i>Fuck you!</i>" is not in keeping with that particular tact. What has changed in my thinking is that I am making my own observations about the conduct of others far more critical, to the point where I am willing to confront the frozen truth about people without the adultery of compassion, forgiveness and charity. This so-called admission of "reality" is liberating in more than one respect. Aside from enabling myself, it also clears the path to an unqualified assessment of the matter or people under consideration.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">There are many factors which go into the making of a clear appraisal of fact. First and foremost one must dispel the inherent prejudice to sustain the existing model which is a tactical decision often buoyed by less than generous "pragmatic" choices. The second prerequisite is to delineate the truth of the relationship, again - what it is, not what you would have liked it to have been. Finally, after having dispelled the bias and the fiction, it is imperative to act upon the intelligence, take a stand, vote yes or no, jump in or out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "timesnewromanpsmt"; font-size: 18px; line-height: normal;">As I have wasted so much of my time already upon disguising the quality of my relationships and their utility in my life, it was at last fairly easy for me to conclude what had to be done. I confess that my bottom line may be more metaphorical than otherwise; that is, I seriously doubt that I will do what I may be inclined to do. But oh the temptation is alluring!</span></div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-49861863729700282662016-04-08T07:06:00.000-07:002017-10-19T17:59:33.534-07:00Morning<div style="text-align: justify;">
A fresh start is more than a carry-over from my law firm billing practice of latching onto a discernible alteration in the progress of a file as an occasion to render an account. It is a daily rejuvenation which permits me to start with a clean slate. As trying as it might be at times to withdraw from the warmth and shelter of the duvet, the reward of the opportunity of a new day invariably kicks in.<br />
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No doubt the ceremony practiced by each of us every morning is different. Some begin with coffee and a meal, others have coffee only. I have even heard of those who don't arouse themselves from the lair until almost noon (though I would never condone such poor behaviour). Beginning the day any time after nine o'clock is an outrage in my opinion.</div>
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The morning meal assumed especial importance for me during most of my professional career when I trudged every weekday morning to the Superior Restaurant on Mill Street in Almonte to join five others at our customary booth for bacon and eggs with toast and peanut butter. Even the manner of eating my meal was ritual, the ceremony of arranging the ingredients on the plate, the sequence of lathering the toast with peanut butter and finally the order of consumption. Without even looking at my watch I knew when the time had come to depart from the trough and head down the incline to my law office for another day.</div>
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After almost forty years of doing that I am now sitting at a dining table, staring at palm trees, a corner of a swimming pool and the glittering waters of Calibogue Sound on Hilton Head Island. Granted my open-heart surgery in 2007 abruptly ended my former artery-clogging breakfast but I still delight in the prospect of a toasted Ciabatta roll with butter and peanut butter. My regular breakfast now revolves around fruit and perhaps an omelet of Black Forest ham, cheese and chopped vegetables (green pepper and white onion). When eating out for breakfast in South Carolina I am particularly fond of "biscuits" which I enjoy <i>sans</i> gravy or even butter; and of course grits (a traditional food which can vary remarkably in quality from one place to another).</div>
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Almost without exception in my entire life, I begin each new day with fresh clothing, top to bottom and everything in between. The only time I might do otherwise is if I were ill or if I plan some immediate down-and-dirty task or sweaty undertaking but that is so rare that I cannot dignify it as an alternative. It helps now that my wardrobe is so limited that I can readily launder it every day, including my bed clothes and night mask. I also routinely clean my spectacles (using one of those spray bottles) and also my "diamond" ring (which has a claw setting that allows accumulation of soap and oils). For the ring I use a dish detergent which is not only inexpensive but very effective, more so than toothpaste or some industry standard such as Hagerty. While on Hilton Head Island I even wash my Crocs every day because I wear them bicycling and they always collect sand from the beach.<br />
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No account of morning protocol would of course be complete without including the rite of ablutions, the final act of matutinal purification. To begin with, I have always taken a shower not a bath. The last time I recall having taken a bath was once in a failed attempt to lessen a back pain (with the addition of Epsom salts) and another at a spa in a Toronto harbour front hotel. When I was in boarding school we didn't even have bathtubs, just showers. I much prefer the modern hotels which have only showers. Bathtubs are nothing but superfluous and dangerous. The very thought of stewing in one's own juices revolts me.<br />
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Now that we have succeeded to escape the plague that is winter we have the decided privilege to bicycle every day. We normally don't get into gear (literally!) much before noon which in any event is my preferred time for the outing because the temperatures are warmer and the sunshine (hopefully) is brighter. This habit concludes the morning routine and begins the afternoon routine.</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-89933612549727531152016-04-07T16:04:00.000-07:002017-10-19T17:59:50.079-07:00Sandy Day on the Beach<div style="text-align: justify;">
As keen as I am on the beach and matters Maritime in general it was only today - after almost five months on Hilton Head Island - that I interrupted my ritual afternoon bicycle ride on the beach to lay on the sand to soak up the sunshine. Granted today was a spectacular beach day, dazzling sunshine, searing heat (79℉) and a glittering sapphire Ocean. The riotous Ocean breeze swept the clouds wildly about the azure dome, enlarging one's thoughts and warming one's mind to new ideas. Suddenly shadows raced over the face of the beach like a changing mood. The wind filled the lungs and buffeted the soul; it tanned the hide, tousled the hair and billowed the garments. It was an overwhelming and arresting blend that transported me to ineffable reveries.<br />
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When the tide is out, the beach is unimaginably wide. There are however certain areas which are traditionally busier than others. The beach is approximately ten miles long. The strand extremities (north and south ends of the coast) attract less traffic primarily because the middle section coincides with a central location of the Town and has been set aside as a public park. As we hang our hat in Sea Pines at the southern end of the seashore, it is in that direction I go at the end of my daily bike ride. At the most southern tip of the Island where it rounds Calibogue Sound, I invariably discover a vacant stretch of white sand upon which to settle and to gaze idly across the expansive beach onto the huge horizon. As elemental as are its constituents, the view of the beach is never the same. The palette of splendid colours transforms constantly as do the sandbars and remnant troughs of sea water.<br />
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In previous years I have more than once made a point of conducting the ceremony of lying on the beach in the sand about this very spot. My failure to have re-enacted the melding routine until today represents a significant departure from historical behaviour. Perhaps I was dissuaded this year by the comparatively comfortable chaise longue by the pool (though I am hard pressed to make a case for plastic weave and aluminum rods). Lounging by the pool has become part of my daily regime following what is normally an exhausting 2-hour bike ride. Collapsing in the sunshine is essential recovery from the exercise even if at my age it would be shameful to call it rigorous.<br />
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Contrary to what one may think, lying on the sand is <i>per se</i> no great discomfort (the white sand is powdery and soft). The only indignity might be the mechanical necessity of lowering oneself to the beach (and of course later recovering the erection). But for this small sacrifice it cannot be wrong to succumb to the intoxicating allure of nature. Today for example I dropped my bike on the beach, then used the rear tire to prop up my rubber Crocs which made a passably cushy head rest. What however was somewhat annoying - and it took a moment before I either recognized or recalled the complication - was the assault of the fine sand. When airborne the sand is virtually unnoticeable except perhaps as a swirling spectre on the face of the beach. But the otherwise welcome Ocean breeze with its invisible cargo imprints a legible punctuation. The sand is so fine - and it was so violently propelled in the palpable breeze - that it succeeded to impregnate my every cavity, eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hair, around my watch band and generally plastered over my arms and legs like sugar. The sand is a stubborn passenger and adheres to whatever it touches. I have no doubt that the suntan oils, lip balm and hair product applied when preparing for today's seaside outing were ready instruments for securing these airborne particles. At one point I caught myself inhaling a small sand dune on my lips and it caused me to cough worrisomely.<br />
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Such trifles are not to be given more credit than is reasonable. They are - if you'll forgive the pun - merely the grittiness of life! My sandy condition among the dry sticks of seaweed was but a reminder of the natural congress one should promote in a beach environment. Compounding this cooperative effort was of course the radiating heat, the foaming Ocean waves, the glaring sun and the dry whistling zephyr. Nothing competes with the weather-beaten sensation of the invigorating seashore elements. I sat upon the beach with the sand accreting about me and contemplated the horizon that was but a distant pencil-line of Eternity. The silky sand dissolved through my fingers like gold dust. There was a pervasive fizzle as millions of specks of sand scoured the beach. I surrendered to the rhythm of the Ocean waves and the dry soporific heat. I dreamed of white sailboats.<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-56189353342731843592016-04-07T08:44:00.001-07:002017-10-19T18:00:00.735-07:00Filling the Void<div style="text-align: justify;">
As distinguishable as are youth and maturity, employment and retirement, ups and downs and almost any other binary juxtaposition one might assemble to describe the polarities of life, the components which have filled the void of my own life are oddly constant. If any difference exits it is largely characterized by my having more time now than formerly to dwell upon my ambitions. For example I have always sought a degree of excellence not only in what I performed but also in what I experienced. While this may resonate with a degree of haughtiness it is in fact no different from those who dedicate themselves to a lifetime of economy (though obviously the products of the two inertia are frequently at different ends of the scale). My father couldn't bring himself to rationalize the utility of sterling service, René Lalique crystal or Crown Derby china, much less Breitling watches or yew tree furniture. I on the other hand could never succeed to rationalize the compromise of quality for the sake of austerity (even though I knew it propelled me to a destiny of perpetual fiscal misfortune).<br />
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Lest I am accused of flagrant materialism (which frankly I confess), I have also always valued superior moral standards. From my earliest days (when I was approximately 5 years old) I can recall being in a state of turmoil for having hidden from my mother some indiscretion. I honestly cannot recollect what horror I had committed but I do remember crawling back to my parents' study where my mother was seated to confess my guilt. In later years as a lawyer this identical absorption of full disclosure landed me in a troublesome dilemma when I had to choose between hiding my Client's imperfection from the opposing solicitor or disclosing it. In that instance the conundrum was somewhat more easily resolved on the legal basis of solicitor-client privilege but I can tell you that the mechanics of implementation were no less tortuous.</div>
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In the middle of these two extremes - materialism and morality - exists the less glorified world of everyday living, matters calculated to appease our elemental needs and passions, reft of the glamorous overtones of spiritualism and philosophy. Yet the fecundity of the daily drudge must not be diminished. It is perhaps the greatest transition in life I have accomplished to delight in the transparency of life's underlying causes. For one, I am hopelessly dedicated to beauty. Beauty in all its manifestations utterly melts me! I further rejoice in the admission that beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, a qualification which merely enhances the thrill of it. At times I discover overwhelming beauty in people and things I know have no appeal whatsoever to many others since their demonstration may border on garish or earthy. Likewise I have a passion for stark contradiction, whether competing ideas or black and white photographs, a seeming paradox I have always attributed to congenital duality.<br />
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In line with more rudimentary aspirations I continue today as I have done throughout my life to excite myself with clothing, jewelry and cars. I complement these sometimes greedy passions with favourable features (also constant in my life) such as sunshine, exercise, nutrition and oils (olive oil, butter, fat, tanning oils, body lotions and greasy hair products). Technology - a more intellectual bent - has afforded me endless hours of happiness to the point where it becomes "like a drug". The incomparable precision of technology stimulates me. Faster and more powerful are never lost on me! Already I am contemplating the latest iPhone!<br />
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If there has been any alteration or amortization over the years, I would say it comes down to quantity. Though my bulging girth belies universal reduction, in most other matters I have actively sought to narrow my erstwhile attraction to prodigality. It is perhaps an eagerness for singularity which prompts the constriction. If nothing else refinement aids one's focus. Multiplicity only complicates choice. Because the basic features of everything I like are identical I am capable of appeasing my appetites through illustrative models. Even in cooking I have discovered that less is more.<br />
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What propels me these days is supreme satisfaction. Everything we do is strangely rewarding and its import is seemingly magnified by added doses of all that I have loved over the years. Surely I am occasionally haunted by the prospect of reversal but it is thankfully little more than an academic issue which has not taken root in my being. I continue to be grateful for all that we have and share. I cannot imagine a more fluid and gratifying way to fill the void!<br />
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4583240747545986133.post-41802749430699089262016-04-05T20:18:00.002-07:002017-10-19T18:37:43.824-07:00Marker 97<div style="text-align: justify;">
Just to recapitulate, the 10-mile beach on Hilton Head Island's Atlantic Ocean coast is punctuated by steel markers every 1/10th of a mile. Starting at the "toe" end of Hilton Head Island (a metaphorical reference to the astronomic appearance of the Island as a foot, where the toes are at the south end and the ankle and heel are at the north end), the first marker is Marker 1. Around Tower Beach (just north of South Beach where we reside) there is Marker 12 (approximately). This of course denominates 1.2 miles from the most southern tip of the Island. At Marker 39 is Beach Club (still within Sea Pines Plantation); then Coligny Park at Marker 59; Sonesta Beach at Marker 72; and finally Marker 97 at Burke's Beach at the upper (north) end of the beach where a break of large rocks effectively terminates the beach before having to transcend the inland waterway to continue further north.<br />
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When bicycling we have traditionally ended the northern trajectory of our journey at Marker 97, first because when the tide is coming in it is impossible to go past the breaker of rocks; and second because we're normally exhausted by the time we get there. Remember we still have to get back home (which means returning to Marker 9 approximately) which in turn means we've already pedalled about ten miles to get to Marker 97. I must concede we always consult a couple of indices before we commence our daily bicycle ride; <i>viz.</i>, the Tide Chart and the wind direction. For reasons I have never bothered to examine or consider, the direction of the wind on the beach alternates between north and south. One might suppose that the direction of the wind would be predominantly one direction or the other; but it is highly variable and almost evenly divided between the two directions. If I were to advance any possible theory it would be only that the beach is obviously along the Atlantic Ocean which in the area of Hilton Head Island runs parallel to the mainland; namely, north-south. And it is further reasonable to imagine that sometimes there are warm winds from the south; while at other times there are cold winds from the north. In fact it lends some strength to this observation to note that we generally have the same weather here as our southern or northern neighbours have, depending upon the direction of the wind. Considering we're at sea level and that there aren't any extraordinary mountain ranges in the area, it makes sense there are no geographic features to mandate the direction of the winds. Anyway what matters about the direction of the wind for purposes of this narrative is that we usually plan our long trip to Marker 97 if we cab cycle north against the wind so that we have the privilege of flying back home with the wind at our back. Depending upon the vigour of the wind, our cycle against it or with it translates into more or less time (quite apart from any consideration of the expenditure of energy required or not). Obviously the business of having wind at one's back is a reward which is best appreciated after having worked hard on the first half of the run.</div>
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When we first landed on the Island last November our enthusiasm was such that we regularly cycled from South Beach to Burke's Beach. Sometimes we profited by the favour of a wind at our back from the south (which meant we sailed northward in no time at all) but we took the easy way home by getting off the beach and returning home on William Hilton Parkway (which runs parallel to the beach for a significant distance and is sheltered from the wind by enormous sea pines). As time unfolded (and as we began to acknowledge the price which these 3 - 4 hour bicycle tours was exacting on our limbs and knees), our daily outings were reduced eventually to 2-hour tours (basically up to Coligny Park and back home). This still meant we were cycling at least ten miles each day (which admittedly isn't much by some people's standards) but it succeeded to satisfy our yearning and to expiate any guilt we might otherwise harbour if we were to become entirely sedentary. </div>
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Today is Tuesday, April 5, 2016. Canada Post has notified us by email that they will no longer be forwarding our mail from Canada to us here. We are scheduled to return to Canada on April 18th, leaving here on Saturday, April 16th. As you might imagine we are very aware of the amortization of our winter sojourn on Hilton Head Island and, apart from strictly watching what food provisions we now buy, we are dedicating ourselves to doing whatever we can to relish the remaining days here. It certainly is no difficulty to enjoy the time that remains. The weather has been spectacular, perfectly clear skies, warm temperatures, the azaleas are in bloom and the trees are beginning to fill with fresh greenery. We have also decided to take one last weekend trip to Jekyll Island, GA where we have stayed twice already.</div>
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But today I felt compelled to make a final bike ride along the full length of the beach on Hilton Head Island; and that meant heading towards Marker 97.</div>
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As is often the case - even though I was heading north towards Marker 97 against the wind - the cycle there was not inordinately difficult. In fact because the sun was so warm the headwind was cooling. However when I reached Marker 97 (after having made my customary pit stop at Coligny Park) it was evident that the effort of getting there was not lost upon me. Cycling is like that I find; you aren't fully aware of the rigour of it until you stop. But once I stopped - and struggled to pry myself off the saddle and to raise my enervated legs over the bar - I knew in an instant that I was close to worn out. That of course is the very reason we hadn't perpetuated the 20-mile round-trip cycle routine. It was more than exacting.</div>
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Being at Marker 97 is a temporary destination. It is not a destination which offers much in the way of alternatives other than to cycle back home. Normally I might have succumbed to lying on the beach in the afternoon sunshine, partly to catch the rays, partly to rest. But twice in the past week I had reposed on the beach and I was still smarting from the bites inflicted by sand fleas (or whatever the particular insect menace was). The most annoying corollary of the bites is that they itch. While I had applied Gold Bond earlier to relieve the itch, I didn't want to undertake anything further which might amplify the irritation. Accordingly I contented myself to sit for mere minutes on one of the large barrier rocks. As you might expect the rocks were not terribly comfortable. So within minutes I was back on my bike and heading south at a fairly rapid clip with a strong wind at my back. </div>
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I can't recall exactly when I last made the trek to Marker 97 but I am guessing it was over two months ago. I had forgotten how different the beach is above Coligny Park. It has a very different feeling to it than we experience below Coligny Park (which coincidentally is about the half-way point on the beach). I have always generally preferred the southern end of the beach, perhaps because the bulk of it is within Sea Pines (my favourite plantation). Palmetto Dunes Plantation borders much of the north end of the beach. It is I understand the oldest plantation on the Island and it is certainly charming. However I suspect there are more condominiums at the north end of the beach which naturally means more people and more traffic on the beach. Even though Burke's Beach has some very expensive single-family homes (complete with elevators), those homes are within walking distance to an apartment complex called Hilton Head Resort which clearly contributes to the flow of people to the same area overlooked by these distinctly pricier homes. This is not an issue which is entirely material to us since we know we're about to escape the madding crowds. But if one were to cast one's mind to the character of the beach in the summer, population contamination is inescapable. There are also two or three major hotels along the north end of the beach and they of course contribute to the numbers on the beach.</div>
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The character of the population on the beach, whether at the north or south end, is largely the same. There is of course a profusion of beach umbrellas and portable cabanas. Perhaps there are more students than families at Coligny Park. Groups of young girls lie in a row on their towels. Young boys form their own separate congregation and amusingly apply suntan oil to one another. Mothers and fathers stand captivated at the shore with their infant children watching them construct holes in the sand, holes which immediately fill with water and are instantly erased. Oddly today I spied two people at different places on the beach lying face down into a pool of remnant sea water which had gathered in a recession left by the receding tide. The first chap was completely immobile and I even questioned whether it was prudent of me to have cycled past him without having investigated whether he were dead. The second fellow twitched his feet and moved his hands during his particular enactment of this peculiar ceremony so I was accordingly much relieved. There were endless sports being played, kite flying, tossing a football back and forth, various types of "beach tennis" played with big and small racquets and discs, and innumerable people with clawed plastic extensions launching tennis balls down the beach or into the Ocean for the benefit of their dogs (mostly Labradors and Retrievers of every colour, yellow, black or brown).</div>
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My bike ride homeward was graced by that searing sunshine I craved. When I finally landed within our condominium property and locked up the bike for the day, I was already imaging what I was going to eat for dinner. My appetite had been stimulated by the 4-hour outing. I won't relapse into a menu description other than to say that I had some delicious toasted Ciabatta bread with butter. Bread isn't on my diet but I felt it was well-deserved, a fitting conclusion to my farewell visit to Marker 97.</div>
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0