Autumn

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

The Big Picture

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

The Good Old Days

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

Saturday Routine

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

Is Nothing Easy!

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

The Ride Home

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

We’ll Meet Again

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