Fresh Start

While for some the subject of a fresh start is strictly seasonal and best reserved for springtime elucidation when the metaphors of rebirth lend themselves to enlargement upon the topic, it is my personal experience that the theme is relevant at almost any time of the year, though admittedly frequently more à propos rough water than melting snow. It is nevertheless in principle true that a fresh start can be as innocuous as a haircut or as forceful as a divorce. While I won’t of course suggest that there is otherwise no significant difference between the two, the disparity at least illustrates that the thrust of the particular fresh start depends very much upon where one is in life. Let’s face it there are times when all that is required is a bit of remedial work, general housekeeping so to speak, a brushing up; whereas at others a more strategic and even calamitous emendation is of necessity. In either case, the focus is not upon the disproportionate resolve but rather upon the relieving effect of the undertaking.

Oxymoron as a Culinary Device

One wouldn’t imagine being served haute cuisine in a rustic cabin, but I can vouch from first-hand experience that the same is true! Likewise the juxtaposition of seeming opposites normally reserved for the literary vernacular is equally effective in matters of gastronomy and architecture.

On Sunday evening we dined with a mutual friend in nearby Pakenham Township at his quaint cottage situated in a glade immediately adjacent the roaring Indian River. So carefully revitalized is the log cabin that one cannot help but think it part of an idyllic and archaic Hollywood set. Bing Crosby and Holiday Inn have nothing on this place! Everything about the cabin is homey and packed with charm. As with most similar social venues the walls are cluttered with paraphernalia contributed by our host’s many admiring guests who have thought to bring along a memento of one sort or another, often charged with over-lying comic relief. In addition the ancestral atmosphere is thickened by the presence of numerous paintings, sketches and bric-à-brac once belonging to other friends and departed family members no longer whinnying among us. Our host nurtures that peculiarly country custom of dilating upon one’s clan and other close associates, always proving to be a genealogical delight for the astute observer.

Ups and Downs

Why it is so I will likely never know, but I find my life goes in cycles, discernible seasons of ups and downs. The pattern mystifies me because on ground level there isn't a great deal of difference in my life one day from another. Mine is very much the life of a working stiff who, to have the things that life has to offer, is obliged to put on the harness five days a week. My evenings, on a good day, consist of a bicycle ride, an improving book and dinner. We seldom escape to the orchestra or theatre for diversion. Our weekends are spent quietly wandering about our immediate universe discovering new places for lunch, hopefully by the water. It would of course be unimaginable that our fortunes would be always favourable, but by and large we haven't much to complain about.

The Boonies

When I first came to this picturesque Town in 1976 the most hotly debated topic among me and my peers was whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to live in the country or in the city, the proverbial rural versus urban dichotomy. It’s funny how these things happen. It would be misleading to suggest that my move here was entirely by design. As with most of my adventures and misadventures, I essentially just fell into the scheme without much planning at all. If anything, my progress to the rustic was more noticeable for what I was running from than what I was running towards. When I became disenchanted (such an inoffensive word for such a tortuous reality) with life in the City, I made up my mind that there was nowhere within its caverns that I could escape the haunting recollection of all that then disturbed me. As a result I was determined to project myself as far as reasonably possible from the memory.

Law as an Arranged Marriage

Westerners in particular feign a disdain for anything approaching an arranged marriage, as though it is both barbaric and lacking in equality. This business is often thought to be the preserve of India, where apparently the class system is yet alive and well (much to the pleasure of those who hang onto the good old days of the Empire), although its legitimacy is contaminated by the reportedly popular affection there for the cow. My own experience leads me to swerve from this high road of morality, since in the past I have, for example, been accustomed to hear of the blissful marriage of Kippy Jaffrey and Morgan Eastman, an association which even the most myopic person couldn’t possibly dub a marriage made in Heaven rather than in Forest Hill.

Conquering the Forces of Evil

Even after a full eight hours in the hammock, I wasn’t especially enthusiastic about getting out of bed when the clock/radio abruptly announced the CBC news at six o`clock this morning. On the heels of seven weeks of almost uninterrupted disruption, caused by an unusually prolonged vacuum in business, car problems and a reactionary return to former indulgences, things are only just beginning to stabilize themselves once again. It is no fun being reminded of the unevenness of life though of course no one can escape it. Eventually circumstances dish out a measure of trouble. I can’t imagine why in the world I would ever assume that I should be spared such allotment, and yet it always comes as a shock, upsetting the pattern and progress of my erstwhile monotony. While I am always happy to find myself on the smooth side of the demarcation between regular and irregular events, I will never be persuaded to become so thoroughly philosophical about the rough ones to adopt an accepting view of them. It is just plain bother! And I could well do without the inconvenience.

Semi-Retirement

I don’t imagine the phrase “semi-retirement” is a term of art having a specialized industry connotation. It is however a step up from jargon and shop talk. No doubt the expression was spawned by the business culture generally, so for example it isn’t what you’d expect to hear from a housewife in her late fifties. Apart from that limitation the scope of the observation is fairly broad, dignifying everything from the former cop who works three days a week in the local hardware store to the 90 year old former CEO of a gasoline distribution company who insists on regularly checking the washrooms of its various outlets for cleanliness. Some might argue that even those who continue on full salary and who make an appearance five days a week are already semi-retired, a more flattering description than being called redundant.