Familial Duties

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

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

Staying Focused

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

Lost Cause

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

Under the Circumstances

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

Lunch in Burnstown

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

Friday Afternoon

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

Who Cares!

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