tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39840496763467232212024-03-13T05:28:01.580-07:00Duffy St. JamesA series of succinct monographs.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.comBlogger648125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-85193647092046118992019-11-29T16:53:00.003-08:002019-11-29T18:00:58.281-08:00New York Times November 1, 1970<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">New York Times</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b><i>About the Archive</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>This is a digitized version of an article from The Times’s print archive, before the start of online publication in 1996. To preserve these articles as they originally appeared, The Times does not alter, edit or update them.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Longboat Key: Sanctuary for Man and Beast</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>By William G. Connolly</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Nov. 1, 1970<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">LONGBOAT KEY, Fla. — Drive west on the Ringling Causeway from down town Sarasota, turn right at a dollop of overpriced shops on St. Armands Key and head north on State Route 789. Sweep across a concrete‐and‐steel draw bridge draped with aging fishermen decked out in loud shirts, short pants and anxious expressions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Up to $100 fine,” the signs say, “for throwing trash on highway. Peddlers license required. Welcome to Longboat Key. Speed limits strictly enforced. This community is a wildlife sanctuary.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">A wildlife sanctuary it is — and refuge for the harried Northerner in need of escape from a slushy winter and the well‐to‐do retiree in search of a quiet, sun‐dappled denouement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Longboat Key is a narrow, 10‐mile spit of sand clutched in a clutched in a tangle of pine, mangrove, sea‐grape, buttonwood, live oak and palm roots that — with a few other islands — keeps Sarasota Bay from being just the last five miles of the Gulf of Mexico. It is fringed on the west by beaches of blinding whiteness that have all the ingredients for a shell collector's orgy and on the east, the landward side, by a maze of bayous, in lets, basins and canals — the stuff of a yachtsman's dreams.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The yachtsman's dream of a home on the water is coming true here for hundreds of wealthy renters and buyers, and the dreams of the golfer, the fisher man and, the sun worshiper are being realized, too, for the 4,000 or so visitors — some of them not at all wealthy — who materialize each winter on Route 789, a, two‐lane blacktop road that slits the island up the middle like a seam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The road wanders for much of its length through thick jungle, interrupt ed here or there by two housing developments (discreetly shielded by palm and brick from the gaze of the idle passerby), a passel of apartment buildings, one predictably plush golf course, a few lavish motels done up in a Bahamian motif and a score of modest hostelries in the superhighway tradition. The rookeries and restaurants are varied enough to suit the taste of almost any vacationer whose budget does not include a knapsack; the sun, the sand and the sea are nowhere better, and at night there de scends upon the place a silence that is downright un‐American. For though the inevitable developers have plans for More apartment buildings, shopping cen ters and parking facilities (see box on Page 26), Longboat is still mostly jungle —a tropical island of lushness and quiet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Birth of a Trek</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Almost any one of the 3,000 souls who call the key home will tell you that Juan Anasco, a Spaniard on the payroll of Hernando de Soto, set a mailed foot here in 1538. A year later, local sages maintain, the conquistador himself arrived in what may have been the beginning of his four‐year trek across North America. De Soto's itinerary is a subject for contention hereabout (sages of other locales have their own claims, and a De Soto festival of some stripe seems to be an annual attraction at every crossroads within a stone crab's throw), but there is little argument that the Spaniards passed through. For one thing, the island's name was chosen only after the discovery in the sand of the wreckage of what was said to be 16th‐century Spanish longboat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">De Soto's inability to find the pot of gold in this neck of the woods apparently cooled things off for a few centuries — until the Florida land boom of the nineteen‐twenties brought John Ring ling, the circus tycoon, paddling across Sarasota Bay with his bankroll. Ring ling bought roughly, half of the 2,700 acre key and set boom collapsed, work was suspended, and the jungle quickly engulfed the golf course and the re mains of the building (its rusted skeleton was torn down a few years ago as a hazard).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Though the State built a bridge to Lido Key, on the south, in 1929, life on Longboat did not become exactly lively. Mrs. L. H. Garaux, a widow who moved here in the mid‐forties with her husband, a real‐estate broker, and two daughters, remembers that most of the activity then was aerial or aquatic:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“There were so many mosquitoes you...</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“A 10‐mile spit of sand” midway along Florida's Gulf Coast, Longboat Key is “a wildlife sanctuary of idyllic lushness and quiet.” It is also a “refuge for harried Northerners, a place where yachtsmen's dreams come true,” with beaches for sand castling, a bridge for relaxed angling, a golf course just a chip shot from the apartment and nearby, a shopping center. had to wear a raincoat to the beach. There were lots of hawks, flamingos by the hundreds, spoonbills, gulls, egrets. It was nothing to catch 40 or 50 mackerel or 50 trout in a day.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">When Mrs. Garaux arrived, Longboat had only, two facilities that might be called resorts, small groups of beach cottages that have recently been razed to make way for apartment developments. Within a decade, though, Herbert P. Field, a shaggy, pipe‐smoking entrepreneur who had been in the resort business in Wisconsin and Arizona for 13 years, had bought a chunk of Gulf beach and started to build Colony Beach Club, “an island paradise right here in the States.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Colony Beach opened in 1954 with eight kitchen‐equipped cottages and started to grow almost immediately. Before long, Field was developing the Buccaneer, a restaurant and bar on Sleepy Lagoon, the site of a rundown tavern that older residents remember as “the Sloppy Spittoon.” Though its owner says the Buccaneer was built to be no more than “an interesting restaurant,” it now has 10 hotel rooms, 16 apartment units (the daily rates range from $14.50 for two between May and December to $41.50 for two in prime time, March 1 to April 13), a pool and dock facilities for 50 cruisers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Old Ball Games</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Colony Beach, meanwhile, has grown to include “championship” tennis courts — together with a pro and a pro shop; Tiki House, a “teen hut” with pinball machines and a pool table; a cocktail lounge “with unique lighting using real starfish,” and an expansive sun deck and pool overlooking the gulf beach. The resort's 50‐odd gray build ings are tucked among clumps of palm and sea‐grape on winding shell drives (Field landscaped with crushed shell ra ther than grass to deny the insects a breeding place) and house 102 rooms and suites that range from a two‐bed room two‐bath and private‐pool layout ($125 a day for two at the peak of the season) to a room and a bath with a patio that couple can snap up for $16.50 a day between May and December.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">By the late fifties, Field and Jack Kahn, a Milwaukee TV executive and guest at Colony Beach, had joined forces in another hotel, Far Horizons, just hail ing distance up .the road. Within a few years, the Kahn family bought Field's interest, and they have since turned Far Horizons into what is in many ways the island's most luxurious resort. Jack Kahn Jr., who runs the place with his father and his brother, Bill, says they can play host to “75 couples, of whom 60 can bring one to three children” (except between Feb. 1 and March 15, when “nonadults” — the term is undefined—are barred).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Fever‐Pitch Prices</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Far Horizons complex shows the Field touch in its one‐story and two‐story gray cottages, its crushed shell paths and its accommodations everything from a “Sunset Gulf‐Front Superior Suite,” which boasts two color TV's and commands $125 a day when things are at fever pitch, to a “studio” that's available for $22 a day for two when the business temperature subsides. Far Horizons claims only two tennis courts rather than the Colony Beach's six, but they're “all‐weather” as well as “championship,” and there are putting green and tether ball to boot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Kahn, a thirtyish Yale graduate who </span>seems to enjoy rubbing shoulders with the great and the near‐great (or at least the rich and the near‐rich), says: “We try to create a special kind of place where a guest can be graciously treat ed.”. Apparently, he's serious; he interrupted a recent tour of his fiefdom three times in an hour to be sure that one guest was happy fishing off the hotel's beach, that charter‐boat reservations had been made for another, and that personnel at Sarasota‐Braden ton Airport had been alerted to watch for a third who would have extra luggage.</div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Not every Longboat resort can supply all such amenities, of course, IRA not every one is so expensive and all have the main assets of the best hotels—the beach and the sun. The Silver Sands, for example, contains eight motel units, a cottage and a three‐bedroom home. The daily rates begin at $10 for two in the slow season and go as high as $36 for two when the fun is most frenetic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Silver Sands, owned by Bill Wal lace, a husky former Michigan contractor Who is president of the Longboat Key Chamber of Commerce seems to have as its main off‐beach attractions lime, orange and grapefruit trees. “It's fun to have people see how they grow,” says Wallace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The visitor who tires of watching an orange grow can avail himself of the Longboat Key Golf Club, a par‐72 spread that meanders among palm‐shad ed water traps at the southern end of the key. The larger resorts maintain guest memberships at the club and make available — for a fee — water skiing, sailing and charter‐boat fishing in the gulf or bay. The Longboat Key Art Center, of which the town is surpassing proud, provides lessons, demonstrations and exhibits from November to May. The shops on St. Armands Circle are convenient, if more chic than economic al, and Sarasota offers the Chicago White Sox spring training camp and the usual assortment of tourist attractions (the Circus Hall of Fame, Sarasota Jungle Gardens, Cars & Music of Yester year, the Ringling home).</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">After dark, one may retire to the Garden Dining Rooms of the Colony Beach Club, where the dinners cost about $4.50 to $7.50 and where two guests were recently served a relish bowl that included a solitary radish, a bread basket containing nothing but two rolls and cream so curdled that it couldn't be poured.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Gourmets Avast</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The hungry refugee front the Colony Beach will find that the Buccaneer has pitfalls of its own — it is a “pirate” restaurant. “Welcome Matel” the menu bellows. “. . . Shake out your mainsail, trim your jib and pull your captain's chair in a little closer. . .” Once the old salt is bellied right up to the groaning board, he discovers that “Cutlass Carved” roast beef is priced at “3 Doubloons, 3 Pieces of 8, 4 Pieces of 40,” which he may laboriously trans late into $6.95 (a doubloon is $2, a piece of eight 25 cents and a piece of 40 is 5 cents). The doubloons and pieces of eight add up to $8.25 for the flagship of the fleet, “The Hernando de Soto Ex tra Thick T‐Bone,” and one should not up anchor without noticing that the menu includes “The Jose Gaspar Chicken a la Kiev” at 2 doubloons, 7 pieces of eight, 4 pieces of 40.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the early diner not so much interested in alcohol or atmosphere, Shenkel's, a neat, unpretentious restaurant near the center of the key, offers, for $2.35, a chicken pot pie to which any pullet should be proud to aspire. Shenkel's has no bar and serves din ner only from 5 to 8 P.M.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">By any measure, though, the best dining on Longboat Key is to be found at the Reef Dining Room of Far Horizons, a red plush retreat awash with white linen and (in season) fresh flow ers. The menu is extensive, it changes daily and one pays for the privilege. A random sample of the fare over two weeks disclosed white lump crabmeat Mornay ($9.50), paprika of veal with mushrooms and spaghetti ($6.50), beef tenderloin ($8.95) and frog legs ($8). The wine list includes Chateau Mar gaux, 1937, at $50 a bottle, and two domestic Burgundies at $6 a bottle. One dinner for three that included two rounds of drinks and two half‐bottles of wine elicited a total damage of $61.80, plus tips. It was worth every...</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He who hopes to cap a Far Horizons dinner with some night‐time entertainment on Longboat is in for a disappointment. The island's brightest light after 10 P.M. seems to be in the tele phone booth in front of Sal‐Lu Cottages & Apt's. The bars at the big hotels close when the night is but adolescent by New York standards, and the only ideal watering hole unaffiliated with a larg er establishment, the Broken Reef, is not out for the tourist trade; its builder apparently had a relative in the refrigerator‐crate business, and its owner is obviously on less than intimate terms with the decorating and advertising crowds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The visitor in search of some kicks, says Mayor Samuel Y. Gibbon, would do well to hie himself to St.Armands, where “he can find anything he'd like.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That may be, but back on Longboat, though Mrs. Garaux no longer finds raincoat necessary except in the rain, only the mosquitoes are out after 10.</span></div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-10921760998187753232019-11-28T12:03:00.001-08:002019-11-29T01:05:39.260-08:00 Not far from home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It is assured that wherever one goes within a 15 km radius the particulars will amount to a distinction without a difference. Nonetheless the nascent human hankering provokes alteration in one’s daily habits. Living on this tiny barrier island the scope of adventure is largely north or south since the island is narrow and I can bear the deprivation of the mainland. I much prefer being surrounded by water.<br />
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The first point of singularity which I added to my proposed campaign southerly this morning - rather than northerly along Gulf of Mexico Drive - was to manage a convenient way to cross the bridge to the City of Sarasota. Naturally there is the obvious route which is directly across the bridge but I preferred the other side to the one that was immediately before me. I know from experience that it is possible to go under the bridge and double back in order to cross over it. This morning instead of doing that I simply crossed the road at a convenient time and proceeded by the anticipated route directly across the bridge. Today is Thanksgiving in the United States of America. The vehicular traffic was unexpectedly light as a result. No doubt things will change atmospherically tomorrow for Black Friday Shopping.<br />
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Once I got across the bridge I entered what is locally called Lido Shores - but it is part of the City of Sarasota. I suspect its Spanish overtone and the fact that it was begun in 1950 suggest a modest beginning. Now it is predominantly a luxurious residential neighbourhood.<br />
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After I crossed the bridge I followed what is the customary tourist route. This understandably skirts the rim of the Gulf of Mexico. With a grain of submission on my part I allowed myself to be drawn onto a slightly different route at the southern end of my enterprise. I was led to what is another common park. It is dedicated to kayak paddling. There were a number of young entrepreneurs hawking their skiffs in the parking lot. One of them greeted me in a noticeably friendly manner as I would’ve expected from an enthusiastic business owner. <br />
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This modest diversion lead me to what was a reclusive and swanky residential domain. This was no surprise since many of these homes are very close to the City of Sarasota from across the Bay. Strangely I became disoriented in this area. It required some effort on my part to discern the exact route of my return. My former scouting skills were obviously lacking and it was by accident that I got back on the right road to Longboat Key.<br />
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It is impossible when surrounded by such conspicuous opulence not to wonder, first, who owns these places; and, second, whether it is all worth it in the end. This debate on my part is probably nothing more than sour grapes for having failed so miserably to save a nickel of anything I ever earned! It is nonetheless an unquestionable corollary that around most of these properties the contractors are ubiquitous - new screens, new windows, complete renovations, plumbing, electricity, security systems and no end of electronic requirements to satisfy popular demand.<br />
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While it is certainly true that profound inutility often accompanies aging, I am quick to recall that working and making money was historically the career of property ownership and management. As I relax by the pool, sunbathing and contemplating unending nothingness, I am not certain that I would change into more formal clothing to achieve an alternate result. For the moment I am content to apply more sunscreen to my nose and to listen to the chirp of the birds among the magnolia trees.<br />
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The decided advantage of poolside sunbathing is that I don’t feel so indescribably lurid as I imagine some other folks whom I see bicycling must feel when they’ve cast aside their shirts in the mistaken belief of regaining youth with a bit of colour. I am always tempted to inform them that it is a losing battle. There is besides the logical issue of why bother tanning your complete carcass when one has no intention of parading it anywhere at any time.<br />
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It is these trifling postulations which divert me as I leisurely rotate the tires on the sea-level pathways. During the middle of the night I recall that I am regularly abused by reflections upon equally preposterous matters, even the most significant of which translates into something like a modern French play involving existentialism!L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-88171686257010761152019-11-27T09:52:00.000-08:002019-11-28T08:14:42.579-08:00The Latest Rage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have settled upon a highly rewarding late morning potion; <i>viz.</i>, Mariani Premium Walnuts and Greenwise Organic 100% Maple Syrup (Amber Rich Taste) - accompanied by a chilled glass mug of Starbucks Espresso Roast 100% Arabica coffee! This and the sonorous music of Sarasota's WSMR non-commercial classical FM radio station at 89.1 and103.9. Oh what elation! Though I will deny the spiritual persuasion of the Church of England I will nonetheless confess its philosophic wheedling - to the extent that it encourages this toxic and august lapse only after a mandatory 15 km bicycle ride. The relieving punishment accelerates the permeation of the antioxidants from the caramel syrup and the narcotic inebriation of the caffeine. It insinuates a national pride as well. The Province of Quebec is by far the largest producer of the concentrated sap - 70% of the world's output.<br />
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When one such as I is relegated to a barrier island where apart from seemingly endless sunshine and warmth, white sandy beach and the strict agenda of mealtime - an imprisonment not far removed from that of a common household canine - there is a refined elevation of my daily habit by this elegant blend of xylem sap and Arabica java with its echoes of the indigenous peoples of North America and the European colonists (and less favourably of its use during the American Civil War because cane sugar and molasses were produced by Southern slaves). It is by contrast the Southern teetotaller's answer to the Mint Julep!<br />
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Speaking of diversions and dogs, as I cycled today on Gulf of Mexico Drive I came upon a woman walking her French bulldog. When I stopped to see the dog, I noticed the woman was carrying a 13-week old copper-toned Frenchie - what she informed me was the latest edition to the family. She put the puppy on the sidewalk and he immediately came towards me, hopping onto my lower limbs and licking me! I said to her, "<i>Well there goes...</i>", but before I could finish she said, "<i>...life!</i>" and we both laughed. It reminded me of my own engulfing exploits years ago with a French bulldog puppy; and it heralded what I know is about to transpire on December 20th for friends of mine at home. They'll need a stronger weapon than maple syrup and coffee to sustain themselves! Parenthetically I am bound to remark there is an odd etymological parallel between beauty (<i>bella</i>) and outright war (<i>bellum</i>)! Bellissimo!<br />
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<br />L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-45002957473291777482019-11-26T11:47:00.001-08:002019-11-27T06:27:17.642-08:00I couldn’t have been more superfluous...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I couldn’t have been more superfluous no matter how I tried</i></div>
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<i>The morning, afternoon and sun were really in my stride</i></div>
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<i>Today is tomorrow in Wellington, the egrets don't give a damn</i></div>
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<i>After lounging for hours under the splendid sky, I bathed in the pool and swam!</i></div>
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<i>I'm happily redundant and unjustified, these pleasures my wanton bliss</i></div>
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<i>A profligate degenerate, the useless parts will hardly be amiss</i></div>
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<i>In the awesome time I smugly linger like dinner by the sea</i></div>
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<i>The palms and music, the espresso cup - a sacrament for me!</i></div>
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My complete lack of purpose today was enervating. But what a rhapsodic dalliance! Where was the necessity? Where was the need? I initiated my morning cycle in the reclining chair, closing my eyes, drifting into darkness, contemplating my contemplation. At last I grasped the enthusiasm to continue doing nothing while riding my bicycle. The euphoria was so manifest. It erased any resolution or revolution. The wind was pleasant, the sea-level motion unobtrusive, the want of ambition propelled me up and down the Country Club Lanes to the sea and back, a cycle of ecstasy.<br />
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On the other side of the boat slip a family gathers on the lawn overlooking Sarasota Bay. It must be a Thanksgiving congregation. Their chatter and ejaculations mingle with the tossing fronds of the palms and the pelicans.<br />
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I have already prepared my evening meal, a mountain of chopped raw vegetables cluttered with premium cheddar cheese, Fleur de Sel and extra virgin olive oil. A shard of chilled salmon.<br />
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The nautical texture of the island is pervasive.<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-3984049676346723221.post-888446382619489362019-11-25T15:39:00.003-08:002019-11-25T16:16:37.413-08:00Going home from work...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When cycling back to the apartment late this afternoon from Bayfront Park I was oddly overtaken by the sensation of returning from the office. My day began promptly at 7:00 am. I had an appointment to have my hair cut at nine o'clock. Afterwards I had another appointment with the chiropractor. Accordingly I wanted to ensure some nourishment before leaving the condominium. Each of these undertakings was duly accomplished. What transpired subsequently added to the day's commotion.<br />
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Our immediate project was grocery shopping. American Thanksgiving is Thursday next. Already people are scurrying to fulfill larder necessities - which are historically dynamic to an Olympic degree. Any reservation I had about grocery shopping was dispelled when I saw the desirable quality of what was available. Everything was of the first order, ripe, firm and fresh! The pinnacle was the six salmon pieces cut for me. They were superlative! Later when I cooked them for 2 minutes in the microwave oven (in the new plastic containers which I had also purchased) the results were perfect.<br />
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What however insinuated these successive achievements were emails I received from various correspondents to whom I had previously written. My customary keenness to deal with them overwhelmed me. The missives were each of great interest to me and I was for that reason as well eager to deal with them. They involved some work on my part. One in particular obliged me to contact an office in Sarasota. Another necessitated amendment to a manuscript. A third entailed forwarding information which I was not yet certain was in proper form. Work, work, work!<br />
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Admittedly each of these duties was welcome. In spite of the appeal I turned my attention first to my cycling which I consider not only a catharsis but also an imperative. The matutinal interruptions though successful had effectively side-lined what is normally a priority. The speedier decline of the sun as we approach the Winter Solstice meant that time was of the essence. Getting onto the bike and onto Gulf of Mexico Drive was an instant relief. There were very few people along the route. My usual pit stop at Bayfront Park was essentially private.<br />
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Upon my return I saw that my Sarasota enquiry had already elicited a response. I had been invited to telephone the gentleman and I accordingly did so immediately. We spoke at some length and exchanged a good deal of information which in turn I forwarded to another chap to whom the advice was apt. Doing business in this efficient manner always fortifies me! Another personal matter was similarly handled with equal success! These unbroken fortuities - and the mouthwatering salmon - caused my sense of well-being to rocket!L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-47212183060024222942019-11-24T23:05:00.002-08:002019-11-25T11:17:44.645-08:00The Women in my Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In some respects - and without exaggerating the matter - I grew up and lived in a predominantly male environment. I went to an all-boys boarding school at St. Andrew's College; I prolonged those prep school coalitions into undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall where I lived in an all-male residence; I studied law at Dalhousie University where the majority of my classmates were male and I lived in the all-male <i>Domus Legis</i> law fraternity; while attending Osgoode Hall for the Bar Admission I was a Don at Devonshire House, an all-male residence of the University of Toronto; I practiced law first at Macdonald, Affleck and then at Galligan & Sheffield where all the lawyers were men; I belonged to the predominantly male Lanark County Bar Association; my primary social venue throughout my 40 year career in Almonte was the Mississippi Golf Club which consisted initially at least of mostly men; I belonged to the exclusively male Masonic Lodge; I was on the Board of Directors of the all-male Mississippi River Power Corporation; and my closest friends have all been male.<br />
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Now however my professional associations are all with women - lawyer, accountant, publisher and (for a while) physician.<br />
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When one is inclined as I am to reflect upon the past - for reasons which are not entirely clear to me whether purely for recollection or for confirmation, substantiation or justification - the motive whatever it is dwindles in significance if there is any hint of ulterior gain. The frozen truth is that my existence however it may be rendered or characterized is in the end but a grain of sand upon the planet. I was reminded of this dreadful fact upon reading of the untimely death of Harry Morton who, if you don't happen to know anything about him, died at 38 years of age and had lately purchased the former Beverly Hills estate of Elvis Presley for $25 million. I can't help but think that all that celebrity and all that money was for naught. On the other hand it is a well known adage that if you want a good funeral, die young. The point is, either way there is no easy answer.<br />
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It occurred to me while regarding the ceiling above my bed at one o'clock this morning that there is far greater utility in noting some brief detail about the women in my life. Obviously contaminated as I am by a perversion of nature and a history of male dominance, the singularity of women is of moderate social and civic interest if nothing else. Naturally I hesitate to record my associations with women in any particular order because of my fear of intoning any priority of importance. Quite frankly the only thing in my mind which separates the women in my life is the temporal boundary, by which I mean the secular and profane though not so much the corporeal.<br />
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<b><i>Heather Gunn</i></b><br />
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Having said that I feel duty bound to mention at the outset my friend Heather Gunn to whom I was once engaged to be married. Though we hardly had a torrid affair, the expansion and evaporation of our marital alliance was extraordinarily precipitous at both ends. We had been dear friends throughout the entirety of our law school attendance together, frequently socializing with one another, taking Saturday morning drives to the Atlantic Ocean together, getting to know one another's family and relatives and finally getting drunk enough one evening over dinner at Henry House in Halifax to propose that marriage was the next logical step. Sobering up from that inadvertency was propelled the following morning by a fellow classmate Joe Weir who announced in what I thought at the time was a less than sporting gambit and an oddly aggressive tone, "<i>I wanted to marry her!</i>" And indeed he eventually did, which is a good thing all round and I have every reason to believe they've had a very happy life together as a result. My subsequent visits with Heather have been infrequent but we've never lost that heartfelt initial affection for one another.<br />
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<b><i>Rosalind Morgan</i></b><br />
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Though I won't suggest my experience with Heather cured me completely of my dalliance with women I cultivated for a short time during Articles at Macdonald, Affleck a camaraderie with Rosalind Morgan who was a stenographer at the law firm. She like Heather combined two features which I found especially beguiling - she was prepossessing and kind. Our intimacy - apart from culinary adventures at her apartment (with her father who had just been released from prison) and one New Year's Eve - never extended beyond having spent several occasions dining and dancing at the former Château Laurier dining lounge where Moxie Whitney and his band performed.<br />
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<i>Moxie was music director for Canadian Pacific hotels from 1962-1971 and brought big acts such as Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie to audiences in Canada. After retiring from the Imperial Room in 1971, Moxie and his family moved to Grand Cayman Island where he was as a hotelier. He returned to Canada as bandleader at the Chateau Laurier, Ottawa, from 1976-1986.</i><br />
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<i><b>Evelyn Wheeler</b></i><br />
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Evelyn is now my lawyer. She has been since I retired in the Spring of 2014. I first met her when she was introduced at the Lanark Country Bar Association dinner at Bass Lake Lodge near Perth, Ontario upon the commencement of the Fall Assizes of the visiting County Court Judge. She was notably the first female lawyer to join the Bar in the Country of Lanark. Coincidentally Evelyn later joined Galligan & Sheffield where I had begun my own professional career in Almonte and after I had left to start my own practice. Evelyn later started her own private practice. Evelyn has proven herself to be both skilful and endurable. She has now graduated to the doubtful distinction of being the old fogey lawyer in Almonte. It is a measurable prejudice of mine that Evelyn purchased my law practice when I retired. She was not the only candidate for the purchase of my practice but obviously the preferred choice.<br />
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<i><b>Angela Giles and Janice Blackburn</b></i><br />
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I mention these ladies in unison because they are sisters and they are both legal assistants, both in the office of Evelyn Wheeler. Angela and Janice have been with Evelyn for as long as I can remember. They are renowned pillars of the community. Like my own former clients, they arose to primary significance in my life because I dealt with them on a regular basis. Angela operated primarily in real estate services; Janice confined her duties to estate administration. Both those areas of law were similarly salient elements of my own practice. After I retired and following the death of my parents, Angela and Janice were strategic allies in settlement of my personal and succeeding professional affairs. Through their longevity in the legal profession they too have acquired the same celebrity as Evelyn, including their indisputable capacity for talent and performance.<br />
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<b><i>Patti Flesher and Suzie Campeau</i></b><br />
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When I began studying Philosophy in 1967 my mother took me to Flesher Furs on Cooper Street in Ottawa to buy a racoon coat. I met Mr. and Mrs. Flesher and their daughters, Patricia and Suzanne. Although not immediately Patti and I subsequently "went out" together on several occasions. I also later acted professionally for her and her husband Horace Cohen. Though I acted as lawyer for Suzie and her husband Jacques Campeau (son of Robert Campeau, developer), my relationship with Suzie has always been that of a friend only - that is, without the social context. I have to say that I adored Patti's and Suzie's parents. They were the kindest and most entertaining people. I later developed a friendship with Patti's second husband Moishe Smith (son of Nate Smith and nephew of Dave Smith). To this day I maintain a meaningful relationship with both girls and consider them childhood sweethearts!<br />
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<i><b>Terry Martens</b></i><br />
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Terry - though I think I do her no disfavour to suggest she was partially inclined to me romantically - was more importantly for us both a fun-loving person who enjoyed the good but simple things in life. Much of our memorable moments were spent digging clams on the Nova Scotia seashore and then steaming them, drinking beer and laughing. She was an exceptionally talented cook, unforgettable for having made black bread in an empty bean can. She also had the distinction of being Canada's first female oceanographer. She accordingly spent much of her time in Florida during which I had the advantage of seconding her apartment in Sandy Hill, Ottawa (along with her two Siamese cats for whom I was the intermittent guardian).<br />
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<b><i>Helena Olynyk</i></b><br />
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We met at undergraduate university when I was 18 years old. Helena was foremost a voluptuous woman. I have forever been attracted to the full-figured woman. The cosmetic appeal of Twiggy is completely lost on me. I marvelled at the porcelain features of Helena's face. She epitomized the struggle which attends people of her stout figure but for me she captured the allure of self-indulgence and sensuality. I never reckoned her appearance as other than beautiful. She was always very well-groomed and turned out. At times she was lascivious but that too was endurable. I needed all the help I could get!<br />
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<b><i>Christa Bingley</i></b><br />
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When I first came to Almonte Johnson Cross Yanosik was the name of the accounting firm which dominated the local landscape. Fortunately for me I handed off all matters relating to Canada Revenue Agency to that firm at the outset of my professional career. Somewhere along the line the firm transformed to Nephin Winter Bingley. Initially David Nephin handled my account but later it was turned over to Christa Bingley who continues to be my advisor. She began her association with my office very quietly as a pure administrator, an unassuming collector of data. She has since translated her accreditation to that of a reliable and informative confidant on whom (with her assistant <i><b>Hali Crain</b></i>) I greatly rely.<br />
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<i><b>Edith Cody-Rice</b></i><br />
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I count it a distinction to have worked for Edith as she was senior counsel to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Though I am certain she would deny it, she was largely instrumental in starting the <i>Millstone News</i>, Almonte and area's first and only electronic newspaper. Not long after the publication began Edith invited me to join the ranks of contributing columnists. This I did for about seven years. I shall always be indebted to her for the opportunity. My limited acquaintance with Edith also introduced me to her enviable talent for cooperation and fluidity which undoubtedly grew from her time at the Sorbonne in Paris and as a leading Canadian lawyer.<br />
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<b><i>Karen Hirst</i></b><br />
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Karen is someone whom I first met unintentionally at a seminar I gave at the Almonte General Hospital where she was I believe at the time a practicing nurse (though she was most recently head of nursing operations at Fairview Manor prior to her retirement). She is the senior child of John Hawley Kerry who was unquestionably my most valued client throughout my practice. It is this connection from which our subsequent familiarity grew. While neither of our careers collided, what proved later to be of especial attachment was my continuing relationship with her father and our mutual interest in writing. I confess that of the two of us, Karen is the only one who is a published author but to her credit this paramountcy has not diminished her kindly observations of my own literary instalments. Karen is among those woman whose society I now prefer who carry the banner of a prior generation. John is now 90 years of age and of necessity my involvement and association with him is restricted. For this reason alone I have a high opinion of my continuing acquaintance with Karen. She also credits the worthiness of those who have trod before us. It is this genealogical feature which similarly strengthens our friendship. We are ships in the night but seemingly on the same path.<br />
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<i><b>Fiona St. Clair</b></i><br />
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Whether it is rose petals on toast in a Rosedale flat; socializing with mutual friends at law school; judging a debate at Devonshire House; dining at By Ward Market; lunching at the golf club; or emailing one another from India or Longboat Key my confederacy with Fiona has always been marked by memorable events, initiated by her introduction to me of pink Egyptian gold. She is a markedly strong woman who nonetheless has an engaging and gentle disposition. Everything about Fiona is exotic and out of the ordinary. She can be counted on to rise effortlessly to any social situation including those which occasionally become awkward (as reportedly it once did when she was approached by an uninvited guest at a Bloor Street bistro). Fiona warrants the highest compliment of femininity, having all the sophistication without any of the monotony.<br />
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<b><i>Joanne Trudeau</i></b><br />
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As with most women in my life, Joanne is married. It is therefore not unexpected that the frequency of my relationship with her is thereby limited. Though it has been years since we have communicated it would constitute a shortcoming to omit to include Joanne as one of the women in my life. When we attended Glendon Hall together I had the distinction of watching the moon landing from her penthouse apartment on St. Clair Avenue West in Toronto. Her father Clarence was then the President of the company which owned Holt Renfrew whence Joanne regularly acquired stunning possessions. I recall having had lunch with her on her penthouse patio, it was the first time I had seen a French press coffee maker. She was particularly fond of milkshakes as well as I recall.<br />
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<i><b>Cindy Edmonds</b></i><br />
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I first ran into Cindy when she worked as Paul Courtice's primary legal assistant. I recognized in an instant her infectious humour. Much of her comedy is shielded in dryness so it is necessary to remain alert in order to capture the full thrust of her amusement. Cindy now works with Al Jones (another lawyer) who is equally bent on satire. As a result of her legal career Cindy and I crossed paths often. We're now limited to electronic encounters on Facebook.<br />
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<b><i>Linda Chapman</i></b><br />
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This may seem an odd addition to my list of the women in my life as Linda is my sister. I account her as critical to my female ententes as that of our mother. The blood relationship obviously runs deep but its appeal is not only vital but also willing. We were separated early in life when she took up schooling in Europe and I in Canada. Luckily for us and our entire family we were all reunited by chance late in life and then had the benefit of regaining that which was lost. Following the death of our mother last year, I appear to have adopted my sister as the crucible for my endless and predominantly meaningless codswallop.<br />
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<b><i>Charlotte Smith</i></b><br />
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Charlotte is a friend of the family. Though I have had no direct relationship with her she continues to be someone to whom I am connected. Following what for her seems to have been a rough start in life she has accelerated to a level of competence and what I perceive to be impending celebrity. She has cleverly translated her initial adversities into the material of her personal and community improvement.<br />
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<b><i>Yvonne Chapman</i></b><br />
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My mother will forever remain the favourite of the women in my life. She drove me crazy on more than one occasion but I never doubted for a minute, whatever the circumstances, whatever the realities or the tolerable human prejudices and misfires, that she cared about me. After that, what else matters? It is a licence to love!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">M. M. Yvonne Chapman, dec'd October 28, 2018</span></b></td></tr>
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L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-846698126937254982019-11-24T11:31:00.002-08:002019-11-24T22:52:02.035-08:00Sunday Sunbathing by the Pool<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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I won’t be so vulgar to suggest I spent the entire day lolling about the pool in the gloriously refreshing air of unparalleled clarity and dryness. Late this morning I expiated my Sabbath guilt for not having attended worship service by conducting the statutory 15 km cycle along Gulf of Mexico Drive to Bayfront Park. The uncommon equilibrium of the day has seemingly provoked similarly acute recollections, unrelated thoughts and images: St Andrews By-the-Sea, Key Lime pie, my late precious parents, the fortuity of life’s affairs, the comedy of the past, the undeniable purity of the present, the duties to others, the measure of truth, people I’ve known including those who are no longer whinnying among us or estranged by disaffection or disfavour or doubt or misunderstanding, roast-of-beef and Yorkshire pudding for Sunday dinner in an ivy-covered Rosedale red brick townhouse, the penetrating shards of afternoon sunshine, the fleeting white clouds, the canopy of blue above white yachts and white buoys and placid emerald palms, James Carman Mainprize and private dinner clubs, the commonness of un-bejewelled hands, a black Thunderbird with narrow red, white and green stripes on the tires alongside the football field at Trinity College School, Winston cigarettes and vodka martinis, the promise of the wind and the seasons, the blue sea and the vast horizon.<br />
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The confluence today of restorative sleep, weeks of sensible eating (fruit, raw vegetables and fish), settlement in our very agreeable digs, the memory of the past, the prospect of the future, the sun, the burnish of the sun and the warmth of the Florida Gulfcoast.<br />
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As I rode my Sun bicycle home from Bayfront Park I succumbed to the roar of the sea. It was easy to cross the rode today, a Sunday. But the beach was more active than normal, people playing, lounging and walking along the shore. Everywhere was picturesque!<br />
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Though I made it to the pool, sunbathed and swam, the cool air caught up with me. I retired to the apartment and donned a light sweater. The evening began to take form. It is quite impossible not to be swayed by the allure of Bill Evans and Longboat Key as the sky turns to pink and the day draws to a close, dinner prepared, plans for tomorrow and the benefit of exercise, the ablution of swimming.<br />
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<br />L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-77149493608987151542019-11-23T11:57:00.002-08:002019-11-29T03:42:22.586-08:00Greetings from the United States of America<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Greetings, Socialist Canadians! Greetings, Liberal Politeness Enthusiasts! From the alabaster gated community of Longboat Key amid <i>Fanfare for the Common Man</i>, Greetings One and All!<br />
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And the tiny geckos reel across the sidewalk. The low slung black Bentley cabriolet a noiseless tributary on Gulf of Mexico Drive. The shimmering clay roofs against the azure western sky and the stately wavering palms.<br />
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Gratitude to the Town of Longboat Key for preserving the sidewalk patina and manicured Sea Grape bushes! A small wooden sign on the golf course, "<i>No Fishing Private Property</i>". Publix is secreted like a clubhouse against Sarasota Bay.<br />
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In the cocoon of the condominium overlooking the yachts bobbing in the boat slip the soporific television is perpetually tuned to MSNBC, CNN, PBS or Fox News (and pretty much in that order for us interlopers). Catch the latest episode of <i>Impeachment</i>! What possibly did the journalists do pre-Trump! The equally constant animosity between liberals and conservatives, democrats and republicans is like Longboat Key; <i>viz.</i>, a very private matter. The only ones indiscrete enough to share their politics are New Yorkers. Canadians know better than to trespass upon the pedigree!<br />
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Mexicans clad in large straw hats rake the fallen fronds from the enormous palm trees. The tortuous sound of the leaf blowers is everywhere. The man on the lawnmower obsequiously stalls the engine as pedestrians pass.<br />
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Downton Abbey competes with the American Dream for class distinction. Buy a Cadillac and tell them you've arrived!<br />
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How can this self-described modern Roman Empire suffer the universal indignity of medical insurance, bankrupting prescription drugs and prohibitive educational cost! Are the Chinese onto something? Will they overtake the most powerful nation in the world, the wealthiest country in the world, the seat of democracy and freedom? And how precisely did a reality TV show host become the President of the United States of America?<br />
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I ignore any heed of the exchange rate as I choose the Sumo Citrus oranges, jumbo shrimp, Savannah honeycomb and pre-cooked tenderloin. Mine is now a low-level ambition, a product of neuropathy and accelerating declension. I have exhausted my appetite for the visceral. Time is the more acute resource.<br />
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<i>Do I dare</i><br />
<i>Disturb the universe?</i><br />
<i>In a minute there is time</i><br />
<i>For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.</i><br />
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<i>The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T. S. Eliot</i><br />
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The American flag flutters forcefully above the spreading palm fronds. In the distance sailing yachts tilt and artfully regain their posture. The wind is refreshing. I shall go for my bicycle ride, streaming among the greenery, the ferns and the bougainvillea, rejoicing in sea-level rolling. The sunshine is warm, the project is serene.<br />
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<i>Dulce est disipere in loco</i></div>
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<i>Sweet it is to relax in the right place</i></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-3984049676346723221.post-64912664971879961692019-11-22T12:46:00.003-08:002019-11-22T16:49:35.558-08:00Rogue Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Minutia was not only the substance of both my educational and professional life, it was - and continues to be - the subsistence of my restoration, refinement and restitution. I live for detail! An odd corollary of this search for the finer points - or what some have mockingly called trivia - is a complete absorption in my immediate surroundings. We translate this "condition" to pragmatic - and dare I say instructive - rarefaction. When for example we stayed at the Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side of New York City we confined our entire furlough to the hotel for breakfast, lunch, dinner and the cabaret. Each event was in a separate and unique venue, one with white linen and silver service; another cast in a pub-style character; the other a nightclub atmosphere. We may have dwindled briefly on Madison Avenue to purchase a <i>millefiori</i> but for the most part it was entirely agreeable to remain within the Hotel which significantly opened in 1930 and was the popular platform of pianist Bobby Short and singer Elaine Stritch.<br />
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I spent a good deal of my time today attempting to resolve the etymological difference between the words obtuse and abstruse. I've decided that one (obtuse) is about beating up against things (<i>tundere</i>" implying stupid whether deliberate or arising from ignorance); the other (abstruse) concerns hiding something (assimilated form of <i>ab</i> "off, away from" + <i>trudere</i> "to thrust").<br />
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<i>So the line that would conceivably separate obtuse as modifying willfully ignorant people and abstruse for the language that one might use is blurred somewhat. It’s possible, after all, for remarks that are both insensitive and phrased in esoteric language to be both obtuse and abstruse.</i></div>
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<i>Merriam-Webster (1828)</i></div>
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On a less knotty level consider the exchange I had lately with a chap from Boston who is visiting here for the first time. When he enquired whether I were familiar with a destination (whether a restaurant or merchant outlet I cannot recall) located in nearby Sarasota, I unhesitatingly asserted that we restrict our perambulations to the Island. Again the promotion is primarily the immediacy of our scope but naturally it carries with it the indisputable elements of convenience, proximity and familiarity.<br />
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The intimacy of one's surroundings does not limit the occasion for exploration. There is no need when visiting a place to go abroad, to "<i>get on your horse and ride off in all directions</i>". The misconception that it is possible to see everything, everywhere is unfortunate as it sandpapers the often unforeseen details of the local environment. I won't say that my rogue adventure today qualifies as a spiritual boost but I avow that my discovery of a hidden walkway behind the Catholic church approached transcendent.<br />
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The church property like most of the properties on either side of Gulf of Mexico Drive (which extends down the middle of the Island) whether overlooking Sarasota Bay or the Gulf of Mexico - is but a glimpse of what is invariably hidden behind. While I make a point of not trespassing upon property which is patently private I did not see anything which prohibited my cycle about the church property. It is a large estate. I ventured behind the church itself and even beyond the rectory and activity centre to the back of the property. There I spotted a boardwalk leading into the marshes towards the open water of Sarasota Bay. At the end of the winding boardwalk I found two open decks overlooking Sarasota Bay. There were benches and an Adirondack lounge chair. It was idyllic!<br />
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The path to discovery always means leaving home and returning whence we came to appreciate what we have. It is a journey I welcome no matter where I am, where I call home. It is an exploration I have conducted throughout my life with regularity. Until the time I was 14 years old I had lived in Nova Scotia, Washington DC and Alberta. Thereafter until the age of 18 years I went to boarding school in Ontario and travelled to Europe twice a year. From ages 18 to 28 I went to undergraduate university, law school, articles and Bar Admission in Toronto, Halifax and Ottawa. It was only when I settled in Almonte for my professional career that I developed something beyond a Nomadic existence. I have however never lost the facility to move and adjust. Likewise I continue to promote the value of my current coat rack. It's always an adventure!<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-3984049676346723221.post-12041084275899129192019-11-21T11:47:00.000-08:002019-11-21T15:50:35.128-08:00No more than a whimsy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The condition precedent to today's morning animation entailed as it customarily does on the heels of a cup of strong black coffee, sliced green Granny apple, a wedge of Brie cheese and a bowl of steel cut oats a bicycle ride along Gulf of Mexico Drive to Bayfront Park. It is a jaunt which thanks to Mr. Apple's watch I can report with authority was a total of 15.92 kms. While at the Park I lingered upon the bench overlooking Sarasota Bay. During my respite I met Lincoln a tiny and exceedingly friendly Havanese, the national dog of Cuba developed from the now extinct Blanquito de la Habana (itself descended from the also now extinct Bichón Tenerife, a cross-breed with the Bichon types including the Poodle).<br />
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Lincoln, so I was told by his Canadian mistress (who hailed from nearby Toronto) preferred the company of humans to that of other dogs. I willingly reported that I reciprocate the compliment. Though of course I did not know it at the time, the little dog's comical activity was a serendipitous introduction to what was to follow.<br />
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Upon my return to the condominium I was anxious to soak up the stunning sunshine from the azure sky. This in spite of the intoxicating allure of the on-going impeachment proceedings which had accelerated upon the damning testimony of Dr. Fiona Hill. But even the glamour of the Flavian Amphitheater with its gladiatorial combats and wild animal fights were - pardon the pun - trumped by the divine weather and the irresistible temptation of the swimming pool. I had judiciously decided to avoid the Gulf of Mexico because I am just now recovering from the advances of no-see-ums which I credit a spinoff of the sandy beach.<br />
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Playful behaviour I think correctly captures the poolside antics today. My new acquaintance from Boston was in league with me not long after my own arrival by the pool. Following a polite exchange of social niceties we quickly descended into our common hobby of storytelling and humour. It is unnecessary to recount the pleasantries which followed but sufficient to say the time passed quickly and it was only after the exhaustion of our droll sparring match that we restored ourselves to our respective <i>chaises longues</i>, I to absorb the sun, he to do the New York Times crossword puzzle (a manifest strength in my opinion).<br />
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In the context of the most whimsical conversation there is to the eager mind fodder for serious contemplation. My friend said with marked humility that he hadn't succeeded to especial pinnacles in his erstwhile professions (which importantly to me include writing and film). Maintaining as I do the philosophy that modesty is a hint of far greater achievement I calculated his comments to be worthy of enlargement. I also disclosed to him my discovery of his <i>curriculum vitae</i> on the internet through Wikipedia. This too he diminished as insignificant and even proffered a plausible account of its unpretentious evolution.<br />
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What intrigued me in particular was the related view which unfolded in the description of those who have risen to acclamation. The thrust wasn't that others have been successful but that those who have been successful often suffer the same human despondency which any of us does. As a lawyer and student of philosophy (in particular deductive reasoning) I flatter myself to acknowledge without hesitation that commonality of humanity (whatever its expression) is axiomatic. I accounted for example that the two suicides with which I am familiar were by those whom one would least expect to endure the prejudice. In a broader perspective my friend and I shared the conclusion that no one is spared the challenge of living. While this is hardly insightful it nonetheless bears repetition that no amount of money, prestige, position or ancestry will succeed to eliminate the identical human conflicts we are all bound to address.<br />
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Lest this colloquy devolves into an entire evaporation of gusto I am anxious to record the favourable peroration of our foregathering. When one gets close to the weakness of humanity it constitutes a blunt but percipient connection. Stepping back permits recovery and stability. Humour is a valid resource.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOgyq3opK5k&app=desktop" target="_blank">Noel Coward</a><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-3984049676346723221.post-69551919642424989452019-11-20T11:29:00.001-08:002019-11-20T16:43:24.072-08:00Quid Pro Quo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Everything in life it seems involves a trade-off in one measure or another. It's a corollary to the stern caution that we can't have it all, that there are choices to be made. Frequently the decision to do one thing instead of another invokes an undesirable compromise. We may for example be obliged to give up something in order to gain another. Whatever the bias it nonetheless remains that the exchange is "something for something". The indignity which often attaches to the meaning is balanced by the feature that barter involves reciprocity, again reminiscent of that other popular adage that "<i>life is a two-way street</i>". Admittedly the aphorism captures what is occasionally considered unfair accommodation. The colourful details surrounding this Latin maxim thus vary from "<i>give and take</i>" to "<i>one hand washes the othe</i>r". The implication is thus not always favourable.<br />
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The most casual restatement of my past reminds me that every critical step I took involved one choice over another. Often the decision was complicated by the appearance of gain on one side and loss on the other. In retrospect from this distant view I believe I am entirely correct in saying that the directions I chose were the right ones for me even though an alternate choice may have been appropriate for others for different reasons. I have at times amused myself to contemplate how different my life would have been had I made other choices. Equally I am thankful that I didn't second guess my instincts by infecting my future with hapless decisions. But the incontrovertible observation is that a trade-off was imperative since otherwise nothing would have been accomplished. It is this practical motive which compels many to engage in <i>quid pro quo</i>.<br />
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The concept of exchange of something of value for something else of value has its well known legal foundation in the law of contract where the exigency is called "consideration". It is for this reason for example that a gratuitous contract is unenforceable because there is no consideration (swapping) for the promise. The act of exchanging values therefore legitimizes the engagement. Naturally the contractual relationship exists between two different people unlike the philosophic rendition of the concept within the scope of one's own imagination.<br />
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If considering the matter outside the private realm, there are competing principles which often prevail - including the fairness of the trade and whether the imposition of one for the other is seemly or repugnant for exterior reasons. The admonishment may extend to the fraudulent substitution of a useless article for a genuine one. The expression normally relates to something done for personal gain with the expectation of reciprocity. It has been invoked at the highest levels to include religious connotation; namely, "<i>that believers in Christ have to do their part in return to forsake the devil and all his works</i>". Though the concept is not uncommon within diplomatic circles there are over-riding doctrines of probity which work against the contamination of the notion.<br />
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Most often our common law has been reluctant to disturb lawful relations between consenting parties. For example lobbyists are entitled to support candidates that hold positions with which the donors agree or which will benefit the donors. Translating that conduct into bribery only occurs when there is an identifiable exchange between the contribution and official acts. This may however result in a distinction without a difference.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-34429594920745188752019-11-19T11:09:00.001-08:002019-11-21T12:06:37.462-08:00Getting in Focus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Serendipitously more than one event has fallen into focus within the last 24 hours. Unreservedly this constitutes an uptick. Clarity is not always a welcome receipt but in this instance the fortuity is unanimously desirable. The scope is not only personal but more widespread, including the favourable local weather and extending as far abroad as remote friends. In one case for example it was gleefully reported that chemotherapy works! Considering the understandable depth of that account, most of what followed, while agreeable, was of less significant import. Its corporate effect however was spaciously uplifting.<br />
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As one descends the final steps of one's performance on this planet it becomes increasingly diverting to seek clarification of all that has past. The distinction between this and navel gazing is the search for illumination, the glow of which is sought to disinfect otherwise casual and disconnected recollections. While it is plausible that some memories are shrouded by irrelevancy and misdirection, it is as a point of logic less tenable on balance that the majority of pivitol events are unrelated. On the contrary the inescapable reality is that in this context nothing happens without reason. It is this conviction which animates the pursuit of lucidity. One of the collateral spinoffs of rendering things in focus is the added benefit of simplicity which similarly diminishes obscurity. It may be a poetic exaggeration to equate focus with the adage that "the truth will out" but the process is unquestionably relieving. Though not arising within this particular vernacular, the observation that those who know what they're doing are able to say it in plain terms reflects the indisputable value of simplicity. Obfuscation on the other hand is more often characterized by complexity.<br />
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A report of the transition of personal matters into focus is domestic and therefore uninspiring. This doesn't detract from their inner entertainment and satisfaction. I am more disposed to capture the delightful crystallization of current affairs by this insinuating crispness. My private agenda is not terribly glamorous. Yet the distillation of these revealing enterprises is an indisputable drama. It eliminates the trifling austerities of living. I won't suggest it happens either quickly or automatically. In fact it requires considerably more focus of its own. Acute deliberation is sometimes perceived as superfluous. This is an accident of acuity and what is sometimes portrayed as obsessiveness. Putting things into focus requires particularity and refinement. Focus is not the evolution of randomness or indiscriminate collections.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-82875681959131918432019-11-18T14:47:00.001-08:002019-11-18T15:44:45.402-08:00Relaxing by the pool...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Robert Krieger's life is quickly falling apart.</i><br />
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<i>He’s been fired from his job, split with his sexy girlfriend, and has a controlling overbearing mother he feels obligated to call at least once a week. As a result, he’s developed a distressing anxiety disorder.</i><br />
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<i>Robert lends money to an acquaintance across the hall in his building, a small-time drug dealer named Skids. When Skids is later assaulted by enforcers working for an inner-city drug gang, the Dragons, he hands Robert a package to hold for him until he either asks for it back, or dies.</i><br />
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<i>Lonely but determined to find a new girlfriend, while jogging one morning Robert meets the beautiful and willowy Lindsay Marriott, whom he awkwardly begins to romance. Not long afterward, he finds himself in a bloody one-man war with the Dragons, who believe Robert possesses money Skids owes them.</i><br />
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<i>Robert is soon juggling an increasing array of anxiety-heightening issues, which together conspire to wreak havoc on his fragile sanity.</i><br />
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<i>Gritty and violent, ODDBALL IN 3G (by Marc Berlin) is a psychological thriller that’s also surprisingly funny.</i><br />
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The day did not begin on a genteel literary theme. Though it most certainly ended on one. But before I acquitted myself poolside and met Marc Berlin (the kindly and stimulating author from Boston) I first had to endure spinal decompression. The therapeutic agenda nonetheless afforded me a sense of obligation which is otherwise notoriously wanting in this vacation idiom. Besides I like to drive my car and I haven't many other opportunities to do so, least of all to the extent of going to Bradenton Beach.<br />
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Following the conclusion of my conference with the learned chiropractor I wasn't long fulfilling my habitual bicycle ride. The weather was fine and the temperature had risen noticeably above the shocking cool of yesterday. My subsequent dip in the sea, while refreshing, hadn't the tropical allure of last week. The water was more turbulent and as a result less clear. Yet I adore the salt water whatever its commotion. My swim in the sea was partly an act of duty since I know that as the days grow shorter the opportunity to do so will diminish commensurately. I don't regret being resigned to the pool but I prefer the sea.<br />
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Our poolside chat revitalized my interest in humanity and current affairs - both of which were touched upon in the most discrete but telling manners. So invigorating to know that one is at liberty to dwell upon these sometimes sensitive though stimulating subjects!<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-3984049676346723221.post-25260271063446247002019-11-17T07:52:00.001-08:002019-11-18T09:19:07.510-08:00Passing Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Hi Bill</i><br />
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<i>… thought you would appreciate this info. What a time this is!</i><br />
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<i>Divorce is easier… burial of 90 year old parents is easier… this one not so much!</i><br />
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<i>Hope you are enjoying the sunny south, my ducks on the bay are getting grumpy as the water is beginning to freeze. We’ve had our first significant snowfall - pretty… but chilly!</i><br />
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<i>J</i><br />
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The uncommonly cool northern air has for the moment overtaken our subtropical retreat and as abruptly frozen activity. We're submerged beneath dreary grey skies. The mechanical air control in the apartment has been turned off completely. As I rolled in my bed on this languid Sunday morning, reaching for my iPhone which heralded an email (what I expected to be advertisement from another hotel chain to which I persist to subscribe) I was surprised to receive sad news from an ancient friend regarding the sudden loss of her husband. It made me reflect. These startling events are increasingly at the forefront. The platitudes about aging and continuing to enjoy what time remains are never a complete answer to the distress.<br />
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Almost perversely I welcomed the news because it prompted communication from one who had unintentionally faded into the background. Hearing from her instantly revived a multitude of memories. Perhaps not by hazard it was only recently that I contemplated - as admittedly I have lately done with regularity - the diminution of relationships I've had during the entirety of my life. I quell this historic despondency by mentioning as well that I have contemporaneously rejoiced in the continuance of those acquaintances which I presently enjoy with frequency. In both cases - current and past - the topical fellowships are founded upon duration and what I identify as the heartfelt necessity of any meaningful association, namely integrity and openness (or what may more recognizably be called candidness). By the same token of musing there are certain alliances which no longer subsist, corrupted by change of motive in some instances; in others, dwindling familiarity; and in some cases, blunt disagreement or alteration. In each circumstance of loss I have reasoned a cause, adjusted my disparate emotions of injury, bewilderment or pique to the particular situation and succeeded to rise above the fossilization. If indeed one accepts the adage of dwindling time, then moving on is the undisputed goal. This arcane philosophic ambition is nurtured by the more forceful reality that nothing can change the past - though neither is it absolute that the future will not improve. Such I suppose is the strength of optimism. Anyway I hardly see the advantage of incinerating oneself in the combustion of the past.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-65726435928440802412019-11-16T14:18:00.000-08:002019-11-16T17:50:55.807-08:00A Day at the Circus!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What began innocently enough this morning soon descended into an Epicurean spectacle! The initial plan was no more sensual than a drive in the country, a proposal to identify a local optometrist's clinic in anticipation of scheduling a visit later this week to verify that my recent Toric lens implants are functioning properly. Having quickly located the venue - and assured the parking lot was equally convenient and manageable - the investigative event dissolved into something far more hedonistic. We decided to go to Anna Maria Island to put on the nosebag at Rod & Reel. Of especial allure were the onion rings succinctly described - and quite legitimately - as "Really Good".<br />
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It was only shortly after 10:00 am when we formulated this marginally nefarious undertaking. We disregarded the early hour since we were then in Sarasota on South Tamiami Trail. It would take nearly an hour to get to Anna Maria Island through Longboat Key, Bradenton Beach and Holmes Beach along the winding Gulf Coast roadway. We were not mistaken - although to be honest some people in the pier restaurant were still dipping morsels of French toast in the remaining pools of maple syrup. Our early arrival enabled us to secure our choice of seats, inside or out, window view or not. We chose to sit by a partially open window overlooking the sea. The north wind howled outside but we had cautiously observed the Floridian custom of donning woollen socks in our topsiders and wearing a sweater beneath our windbreakers (though we abandoned the necessity of a toque which we noticed some others were judiciously sporting). The restaurant rocked mildly on its piers.<br />
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When the animated server promptly arrived she enquired what she could get us to drink. In a dedicated resort such as this on the Gulf of Mexico - where the time of day and concerns about agenda are largely meaningless - there are expectations. We however ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water and a cup of black coffee. This is equivalent to seeing a production of the <i>Good Bad and the Ugly</i> in which Pee Wee Herman sidles up to the bar in fleecy chaps and orders a lemonade in a dirty glass. Our server however was unmoved. She pronounced the daily specials and said she would return. We relaxed our posture and stared, mutely at the rollicking sea.<br />
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I won't insult my reader by tediously accounting the meal that ensued except to say, yes, there were onion rings and, yes, they were superb! And yes if you must know there was a sweet course (hint: rhymes with sea and contains lime). We both smacked our lips, put down our paper napkins and pronounced the entire affair a categorical success! We proceeded below to the pier where the roughly clad fishermen mixed with the tourists and the squawking gulls. <br />
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I would have imagined this to be the end of our exploration but this was not to be. His Lordship directed the chauffeur (that would be me) further along the coast towards another of our erstwhile haunts, next door to which is located a renowned ice cream parlour. Again, not without justification.<br />
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As unimaginable as it may seem we wasted no time consulting with the young clerk behind the tubs of ice cream seductively displayed under the refrigerated glass counters. Nor were we disappointed. Afterwards it was all I could do to keep myself from purchasing as well a bag of Uncle Bud's salted deep fried peanuts ("<i>...so good, you can eat 'em SHELL-N-ALL</i>"). I did however examine the bag as to its ingredients and was surprised to discover apart from the predictable salt and oil, there was no sugar. I should have got them!<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-3984049676346723221.post-86089864341434336362019-11-15T10:49:00.001-08:002019-11-16T05:51:44.250-08:00Apologia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Vindication can on occasion suffer the belittling appearance of a self-serving argument rather than a mere explanation. It can on the other hand be perceived more charitably as the difference between an apology and a justification. Even the most prestigious expression of human conduct is at times subject to clarification.<br />
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"<i>The Church of England bore everywhere upon it the signs of human imperfection; it was the outcome of revolution and of compromise, of the exigencies of politicians and the caprices of princes, of the prejudices of theologians and the necessities of the State.</i>"</div>
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Giles Lytton Strachey “Eminent Victorians”<br />
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On a less lofty level one might ask, "<i>So what's your excuse?</i>" It's an idiomatic inquisition having the flavour of a loaded question but it disguises a potentially more interesting inquiry. I won’t say that it extends so far to cover one’s ancestry or that it amounts to a diatribe in league with Thomas Paine and other rash historians of that legitimacy. Yet it most certainly opens doors to the question of what, apart from God‘s word has anything to do with one’s outcome. Although to a degree it would be unfair to pretend that developments in life are entirely random or uninfluenced by exterior forces, resolving what mechanism it was that made one tick goes a long way to enlarge the finer insight.<br />
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As a tireless believer in the priority of the individual, I nonetheless confess there are numerous examples of unwitting manipulation insinuating one's character. We mockingly reference the Chinese with their mass congresses, all dressed in the same costume, headed in the same direction, performing the identical salut. An abstract view of our own society might as quickly paint a similar picture of uniformity. Whether it is correct to equate our norms with freedom and those of the Chinese with communism may not entirely grasp substantive distinctions. I am more inclined to imagine that people of any political or social environment have fundamentally the same nourishing fuel. I say this because suppression is in my experience never something to which one submits internally. Instead all people are driven by similar ambitions - self improvement, self expression, community, affection, family and friends.<br />
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The fundamental elements affecting our personal affairs are not those inspired by public marches while carrying guns and goose-stepping. Instead they are the more basic ingredients of education, religion, sport and social traditions - things which affect all of us in our every day lives with regularity. It is a poison by degrees only, not a knock-out blow. Acquainting ourselves with these incremental narcotics educates us concerning the hitherto uncredited manipulations. At the root of all of these stimulants are people and groups who have something to gain. It is well documented that the intellectual hierarchy has a disdain for the masses - other than as a resource for capitalization (whether of power or money or both). We already know that beneath the grandest vestments stir the basest interests. Like any other organism it is only by yielding to age that we acquire the patina of durability which admits to shine. Life is a knotty product.<br />
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“<i>And besides, the Movement offered another attraction: it imputed an extraordinary, transcendent merit to the profession which Manning himself pursued. The cleric was not as his lay brethren; he was a creature apart, chosen by Divine will and sanctified by Divine mysteries. It was a relief to find, when one had supposed that one was nothing but a clergyman, that one might, after all, be something else—one might be a priest.</i>”</div>
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Excerpt From: Giles Lytton Strachey “Eminent Victorians”</div>
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The American critic Edmund Wilson wrote in the "The New Republic" of 21 September 1932, not long after Strachey's death, "Lytton Strachey's chief mission, of course, was to take down once and for all the pretensions of the Victorian age to moral superiority... neither the Americans nor the English have ever, since Eminent Victorians appeared, been able to feel quite the same about the legends that had dominated their pasts. Something had been punctured for good."</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-3984049676346723221.post-36585977691458876892019-11-14T17:56:00.000-08:002019-11-14T23:26:18.145-08:00Complexion for the Connection <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Some things are just distasteful! We all live in this country together. That is why we have to get to know one another. This is not much of an issue in the average rural white community in Canada. Nor is it commonly table conversation in a gated community on a barrier island in Florida. What I do know however is that any time I have got close to another person - whatever our differences - I come away not only better informed but also convinced how similar we are. It’s a start. But it can’t be overlooked that there are some differences which exist; and that sometimes they really matter.<br />
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Nor can it be overlooked that change is inconvenient. There is no need to heighten the distress surrounding racism; most white people accept the guilt if they haven’t yet faced the disturbing reality of having to answer for it. Addressing the problem is more than just saying some of my best friends are this or that. It's a matter of tangible corrections many of which are far beyond the niceties of a Sunday picnic conversation or the immediate remorse of an adulterous husband.<br />
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To the average Canadian white privilege is about as topical as white supremacy which is to say not at all. Granted ghettos of any description in Canada are less evident than in the United States of America. As a result the need for relative social and political reform is less proximate. This in turn isolates Canadians from the poisoning effect of racial contamination. Yet racism is a simmering pot which cannot be allowed to idle unattended. The sooner its volatility is confronted the less caustic its effect. It’s a bit like climate change in that respect; that is. already manifest and not to be ignored except at our collective peril.<br />
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If white people insist upon evidence of the looming significance of this assertion there are plenty of demographics to support the expected change in population within the near future. The alteration will of necessity seep into more than just a change of colour. It will strategically affect economic, educational, political, medical and religious factors. In short nothing will be spared least of all one’s ill-founded theories of entitlement or superiority. Already Caucasians are collectively accepting the encroaching superiority of Asians arising from their notoriously aggressive commitment to hard work and education. Historically it is wise to recall that - although I know of no one who witnessed the building of the pyramids or Cleopatra in gossamer apparel sailing upon the Nile - Egyptians in their heyday were likely not white-skinned or of European origin. The StarWars vernacular of multiplicity may prove to be more than science fiction.<br />
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The irrefutable argument for social accommodation is its simple digestibility. Part of that modest insight I earlier mentioned about the similarity of people is the more forceful recognition that we can all contribute to one another's advantage on the face of this planet (or beyond I suppose). As I have stated elsewhere I have never known anyone of any ancestry who was not equally committed to advancement and improvement. Why should it be otherwise? This is hardly an expression of intellect to accept the obvious!</div>
L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-13938669997930171562019-11-14T09:55:00.004-08:002019-11-14T23:01:36.200-08:00Tiptoe through the tulips!The steady dedication to one's personal preferences has long been recited with cautionary reservation. The risk of disclosing or exposing oneself to the potential humiliation or narrowness of such privacy invariably predominates. The enterprise has as well an undeniable element of isolationism which admittedly conflicts with normal social interaction. By contrast the well known source of Tiny Tim's rendition of the idiosyncratic adventure involves another, to all appearances a romantic liaison, though it hardly detracts from the indisputable peculiarity of the undertaking.<br />
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<i>And if I kiss you in the garden</i></div>
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<i>In the moonlight, will you pardon me?</i></div>
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<i>Songwriter: Al Dubin/Joseph A. Burke</i></div>
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The droll persuasion of individuality is not uncommonly subject to harsh observation, the sobering realization that mediocrity is far more powerful than whatever it is that propels those on the periphery.<br />
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"<i>It's funny until someone taps on your window at 3am or the 3rd floor.</i>"</div>
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The eureka is the discovery that on balance the distraction of one is more sustainable than the frustration of the other. This summary neatly captures the two imperatives: want and won't; that is, what I want to do and what I won't do. Importantly the two require equal suppleness. Removing oneself from obligation is not a simple ambition. Too often it is attended by not only benefitting calculation but also enervative anger. The pragmatic element is a rational feature effectively surmounted by emotion. But anger seethes with vitriol and heartfelt conviction. It requires the admission that no amount of reason will satisfy the conflict. Not only is it best to put the entire matter aside; it also eliminates the vexation and bitterness. If there is any cerebral character to the decision it is this - some things defy logic. There is also a real possibility that others suffer the same incompatibility and incongruence as do we. Until the day arrives that the Universe revolves about us, we should continue to revolve around it, colliding as we must with whatever ensues. This unparalleled assertion of inevitability doesn't remove us from our personal endurance of what transpires.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-82333242997950548622019-11-13T05:17:00.000-08:002019-11-14T08:35:41.458-08:00The King has no clothes!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Even without knowing the outcome of either the Congressional impeachment of the President of the United States or the deciding vote of the Republican controlled Senate, Trump has already suffered the superlative indignity. This is a collective, predictable and irreversible assault upon his fantasy-book march to monarchy. He has had to endure the iconic demeaning constitutional ritual equating him with other discredited low-level or lascivious figures - a far cry from the royalty he has so frantically sought and mimicked. His impeachment (the 4th in American history) is certain to remain his sole and defining characteristic, an abrupt and distasteful compendium of his already notorious pattern of misbehaviour. Whatever else is said about Trump either now or in the future will rapidly dissolve to this public and political embarrassment.<br />
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As in Hans Christian Anderson's tale about the vain emperor, the delineating moment in the charade arises upon the assertion of an unpretentious child who merely states the facts. After the child blurts out that the emperor is wearing nothing at all the cry is then taken up by others. It is likewise significant that even when the emperor realizes the assertion is true he continues his procession.<br />
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The story is as much a ridicule of the <i>bourgeoisie</i> who were willing to engage in hypocrisy, snobbery and intellectual vanity. As importantly the metaphor highlights collective denial and hollow ostentation. For this reason those who persist in denying the reality will themselves pay a similar price.<br />
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Challenging the accepted prestige of the US Presidency is clearly not for the pusillanimous. Nonetheless the authenticity of the impeachment reveals its sting in spite of the cloak and mantle of the office. It also has to be acknowledged that other people stand to lose their job as a corollary of these proceedings. It is a human consequence which cannot be ignored, another blatant truth.<br />
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The division between Democrats and Republicans is so entrenched that most members have already made up their minds without hearing the evidence. This polarity serves only to perpetuate the cat fight. Histrionics appear to be the primary theme on both sides. Small wonder the average viewer will quickly descend into disparagement about the utility of the entire process. Moral conviction has - once again some would argue - taken a back seat to dramatics. Maybe it's all just another fable!L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-21360315152901387672019-11-12T13:09:00.001-08:002019-11-14T05:38:16.497-08:00A normal Tuesday...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Group Captain C. G. Wm. Chapman, dec'd April 8, 2014</td></tr>
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Apparently I smell of the sea. And not in a good way, more fishy than salty! I'll blame it on the red tide which reportedly has come our way. Oh well it's the least of my worries today. Another Tuesday, another ho-hum day in Paradise as the saying goes! Truly in the broad picture it couldn't possibly be more desirable! Though I grudgingly extricated myself from the lair this morning (I remained glued to the mattress as though covered in an unctuous glob of honey) - and though I dawdled at the matutinal trough fully long enough to complete a protracted and most indulgent meal (including if you must know wedges of subtle Brie with my green apple slices and Kerrygold Naturally Softer Pure Irish Butter on my compatible Irish Oatmeal) - I at length resurrected myself from the grip of indolence. I mounted upon my trusty Sun bicycle and headed north along Gulf of Mexico Drive as seamlessly as if entering a tributary from Sloop Crescent. I love by the way the collection of nautical/sailing names for the interjecting lanes in this area - Spinnaker Lane, Hornblower Lane, Gunwale Lane, Outrigger Lane, Cutter Lane, Yawl Lane, Schooner Lane. Ketch Lane and finally Sloop Lane and Channel Lane. Nothing like the seafaring element!<br />
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Cultivating the maritime theme is naturally effortless here on this tiny barrier island. As is my ritual I paused at Bayfront Park to drink the cool water from the fountain, void my bladder, take a break and check my email. Then I pursued my athleticism northward beyond 4000 Block. Either the black coffee or my deep sleep energized my usual limit today. As I cycled I stopped alongside a young man who was crouched on the sidewalk attending to his ruptured bicycle. I asked if he needed help to which he replied, "<i>Only if you have a tool kit</i>" which I did not. I mentioned however that there was a bike shop within walking distance not far above the 5000 Block marker, an intelligence for which he thanked me but advised that a friend was already on the way.<br />
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I discovered that the Backyard Bike Shop was further away than a casual walk. When I got there I stopped to verify the business was still operational (information which I considered useful should I suffer a flat tire as I did once last year and had to call upon Charlie - the Proprietor - for assistance). Charlie and his wife Lisa and their dog Cody were all still there, caught in very much the same positions as they were when I last saw them - Charlie reclining in a chair, Lisa working upon an inverted bicycle and Cody curled upon the walkway at the front door. I told Charlie about the kid with the defunct bike. Interestingly Charlie said the police often pick up the struggling party and deliver him to Charlie's store. Just one more example of the many virtues of the Town of Longboat Key.<br />
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Going back southward I initially debated which beach access I would choose today. My passion for novelty was however overcome by my preference for habit. This meant Bayfront Park - which I reasoned afforded other conveniences (including WiFi).<br />
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There was no one else on the beach. Four young men bobbed about not far from shore. They wore goggles and snorkels and repeatedly dove underwater. One young man returned ashore. He was skinny and bearded, tousled hair, having the appearance of a Robinson Crusoe in his knee-length khaki swimsuit. He took a dark coloured bottle of something resembling a pop from a knapsack and drank a small amount.<br />
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The sea today was more turbulent than previously. It was mid-afternoon when I arrived and the tide was coming in. The immediate shoreline was relatively deep water (peculiar because further outward there is a sandbank which reduces the depth). There remained a precipitous drop from the shore to the sea, a feature which is no trouble when entering the water but a challenge when departing (especially if one suffers weak knees). Notwithstanding the increased commotion of the sea I sustained my precise location in line with my personal items on the beach. I gleefully floated and dove under water, at times imagining myself a parachute diver falling from the air. At first the flavour of the salt water was refreshing but it later assumed the impression of a fish stew (which likely contributed to my less than cosmetic stench later). On balance it was invigorating at the time!<br />
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I was in no rush to abandon my resort. But the sun was already declining across the horizon and I wanted to relish the remaining afternoon sunshine and heat. I was already nearby my home destination and the wind from the north was at my back. Upon arriving at the condo my first instinct was to attach myself to my computer and a chilled cup of black coffee. Subsequently we went together to the pool for a ceremonial dip before preparing the evening meal and all that that entails.<br />
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It is shameless glory to end the day thus!<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-3984049676346723221.post-77581980772483246492019-11-12T07:23:00.000-08:002019-11-14T23:50:58.919-08:00The Pollution of Merry Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The December holiday ads have already begun the seasonal contamination of the television. And with them the jingoism that in my opinion pollutes social media.<br />
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When considering this warlike foreign policy I have been bound to conclude an unsettling probability. There is a good chance - as I have unwittingly discovered - that wishing someone Merry Christmas will reflect a narrowness of mind and may indeed offend. Imagining that there is some superlative and redeeming quality which attends a preconceived entitlement to express one’s own unconsidered habits is upon reflection nothing short of shallow.
There are currently two obvious transitions affecting traditional western culture. One can no longer chuff when confronted with the novelty of another's convention. The day may come - and sooner than we think - when the customs to which we are fastened by years of popular usage are no longer either the fashion or the imperative.<br />
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First and foremost there are many new residents from other cultures some of which are ancient and complicated. It is therefore no indignity whatsoever to address other people either in the context of their own acquaintance or in general social terms. The belief that we are somehow legitimizing other people's traditions by imposing our own - and making them a part of them - is misguided. It is no more relevant to them than it is to us to express some unfamiliar or meaningless adage. If the object is communication and civility then it is far more receptive to speak in terms which each understands.<br />
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Equally important - and perhaps even more astutely - is the broad demographic alteration affecting longtime residents and citizens; namely, a positive distaste for organized religion of any stripe whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim or otherwise. This abhorrence may have been replaced by spiritual sentiments resembling pantheism or mere conjecture involving an interpretation of nature and the human condition.
The result is that the incorrect or xenophobic identification of the measure of others’ social beneficence is either plainly rude or deliberately blunt. In either case it betrays a mistaken concept of propriety in addition to an intellectual and spiritual ignorance.
The dreary fact that most of us grew up as mere sheep in a herd hardly entitles us to rational superiority much less universal dominion. Even more tragic is the prospect that our singularity will utterly contaminate the enlargement of our knowledge and life experience.<br />
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The marketing of the objection to the demise of the use of "Merry Christmas" is frequently touted as an erosion of our sincerity - as though accommodation of the peculiarity of others diminishes our authenticity. If in fact saying "Happy Holidays" is considered a distortion of "Merry Christmas" then I suggest both phrases be avoided entirely. The object is not "Who wins?" but surely rather how best to express one's magnanimity for others.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-76893086428246676092019-11-11T11:27:00.000-08:002019-11-12T08:34:34.047-08:00The best sauce for any meal is an appetiteThe benefit of necessity has been touted numerously and with great variety. Not unlike so many adages the deeper resource lies in the question, not the answer. It has for example been asserted on the most far fetched level that conspiracy theories resolve untold manipulations, distortions, innuendo and nefarious undertakings. It may seem a wild step from appetite to politics but the product is the same. They both answer a need and the selection similarly comes down to taste. It remains however to ask what is the best decision. Granted you can only digest what is palatable; a meal should not be tolerable merely because of the propelling appetite. But the aphorism ("<i>The best sauce</i>, etc.") contains inherent mischief; namely, appetite enhances the need but colours the substance.<br />
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The classification of one's desires and one's imperatives evokes different processes. It isn't enough simply to want something to choose it. It is foremost a reminder that many have advanced theories of living, an equal number of which are based upon bad habits not good reasoning. For example, "<i>Any damn fool can make money but it takes a smart man to keep it</i>"; or, "<i>Don't stay out all night drinking liquor</i>". While true these proverbs do not address mankind's innate curiosity of thought. Geese fly south to find their food; but they don't require the elevation of logic in the affair. Mankind on the other hand is amused by intractable thought - there has to be a reason for everything.<br />
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Reckoning the reason for our choices is a sobering enterprise. It turns the process of activity upon its head. Instead of advancing solely in the direction of our craving we relinquish enthusiasm to the far less vivid domain of justification. It requires some blunt analysis to confess at the outset that appetite is not the answer to consumption. The more profound examination is not why you're eating it, but what you're eating. Isolated from the visceral additive the substantive undertakings we choose to pursue become far less contaminated by seasoning - its own form of impertinence (as in "<i>saucy Worchestershire</i>"). It is a metaphorical redirection to raw vegetables and fruit rather than cream cheese and olive oil.<br />
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Naturally there will be those who argue that life is short so just about any indulgence is preferred to the dreariness of introspection. I'm not convinced. Reflecting upon my past I have to say that not every choice proved the worth of its initial yearning. It is all very well to override historic wantonness but it fails to contribute to what for most of us is the hard reality of living. If we're intent upon reducing behaviour to catchy phrases then it at least behooves us to render more than a comic account or what might satisfy J. P. Donleavy's bawdy tales.<br />
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Though I have yet to crystallize the formulation, I'm inclined to promote the advantage of distilled thinking or what in the vernacular is denoted as simplicity. Reducing one's otherwise complicated affairs to this level of analysis itself requires work but its expediency arises from natural persuasion. Submitting to our visceral promotions is an important part of the project - again what is customarily labelled as "gut reaction" or revived in the comment, "I knew I should have listened to my instinct!" Certainly the clarity of distance helps, removing oneself from the immediacy of preoccupation and influence. Standing back permits us to see the context of what is really happening. At a certain distance life is a mere spectacle. Deciding upon how to interact with the performance, whether to remain in the fro of centre stage or to exit stage right, these are critical observations. Though they are metaphorical only, their implication is more integral. Deciding upon the best sauce for any meal requires more than an appetite.L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-78178399810683489472019-11-10T17:46:00.004-08:002019-11-11T11:22:43.287-08:00News from abroad...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Thanks again Bill!</i><br />
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<i>Sounds (and looks) like an awesome bicycle ride. Seems like your weather is cooperating, much more so than ours. Your photos are amazing as always and we thoroughly enjoy the scenery.</i><br />
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<i>Our backyard pond dried up/froze over, then we had one small dumping of snow, perhaps 5cm. It is gone now and we await a low pressure system packed with moisture and cold arctic air expected to arrive tomorrow, and last into Tuesday.</i><br />
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<i>Our local High School football team has done quite well again this year, and we (or possibly I only) will be braving the elements tomorrow, mainly to cheer on our nephew and a few of my judo students. Should we be victorious in this match, the finals will be played late in the week. We could be contending with some real harsh winter conditions by that point in time.</i><br />
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<i>With this sudden onset of winter (and associated salting of roads), I have now parked our RV for the season, and in all probability the motorcycle as well. Transportation reverts solely to our little Toyota - to which I provided a liberal spray of undercoating only weeks ago.</i><br />
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<i>Tomorrow includes a call to Scheels of Pakenham for replacement of a rather old fridge of ours which passed away mid last week. Scheels received the nod as a similar fate was dealt our freezer just months ago - and Scheels rose to the occasion. We still consider this as a local purchase, and are happy to have avoided Home Depot and others who flatly refuse to stock these items. All large ticket purchases from the Box stores now seem to carry at least a one week wait time, and inability to see/touch the unit until it arrives.</i><br />
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<i>We enjoyed a busy weekend, and our calendar suggests a very busy week ahead, combined with likely weather challenges.</i><br />
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<i>We're thinking of you and Denis, and living vicariously as we are able.</i><br />
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<i>G & V</i>L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3984049676346723221.post-82468138504477984962019-11-10T12:38:00.000-08:002019-11-10T15:31:49.579-08:00Commune Vulgaris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Vulgaris, a Latin adjective meaning common, or something that is derived from the masses of common people.</i></div>
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<i>Commune: empathize, have a rapport, feel in close touch; feel at one, feel togetherness, identify, relate to. relate spiritually to, feel close to.</i></div>
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<i>The Commune, the group that seized the municipal government of Paris in the French Revolution and played a leading part in the Reign of Terror until suppressed in 1794.</i></div>
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Though it hardly seems appropriate to introduce an account of public domaines by exhibiting an image of a decidedly private venue such as the one above, it nonetheless captures one feature of commonality and that is the proximity of the two, what some might feel to be more evident than desired. That however is nothing but fuel for those arguing for gated communities - such a contradiction when you think of it! My interest is more enthused by the evidence afforded me by the late Dr. James B. Coupland, DDS who gifted me an album of George Frideric Handel's <i>Messiah</i>. Amusingly it included an extensive biography of the composer's personal life not just his music. Apparently Handel made a habit of frequenting public parks in London where he delighted in recording for example how many hot dogs were consumed by the visitors. As unusual as that may come across, to my thinking the predilection captured more a mathematical interest than a culinary curiosity. That however is irrelevant to this particular narrative; rather I merely wish to advance that the popularity of public places is not confined to "the masses". I say this not by way of deprecation; rather as illustrative of the sometimes diminished view those with their nose in the air take of these locations.<br />
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The public park I frequented today - as is almost my daily custom when cycling - was buzzing with activity, tennis, paddle ball, kayaking, shuffleboard and basketball.<br />
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Given the absurdly magnificent day (a cloudless sky, cool breeze and warm temperature) I had determined to vault from Sarasota Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, a jaunt of mere feet from the Park. This particular access point is one of many secreted along the entirety of Gulf of Mexico Drive on Longboat Key.<br />
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Once I had hastily disrobed and stuffed articles in my shoes I plodded into the sea. Instantly I was relieved by the buoyancy and refreshment of the salt water. As I floated about I watched another beach visitor who strangely took an inordinate time to convince himself to go into the water; and even longer to delve far enough into the sea to surpass his knees.<br />
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The insinuation of popularity into the veins, while not necessarily a remedial transfusion, has the effect of philosophic cultivation. To segregate oneself from any of life's exploration is by definition a limitation. I discovered the living truth of this conclusion subsequently by the pool at the condominium. There I met a gentleman, a longtime resident who is anxious to extend his horizons as far as the exotic world of Taiwan. Pointedly for me his son is a chiropractic practitioner who happens to offer the benefit of spinal decompression. I fully intend to acquaint myself more closely with this as yet unexperimented therapy. My new friend and I quipped about the relative obligations for a free dinner depending upon the outcome of the therapy!<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-3984049676346723221.post-2692899485379401732019-11-09T14:28:00.001-08:002019-11-09T17:40:00.530-08:00Fatuous Pleasure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's something almost moronic about my present disposition. Whether it's the taste of the coffee or the sweetness of the prunes; the breeziness of the air or the buoyancy of the sea; whether it's the clerk in the shop or the kindly driver at the intersection; the absence of agenda or the risible absorption with utter fluff, I simply can't stop getting a buzz out of things! I feel like Scrooge on Christmas morning! I haven't however suffered any preliminary purgatory other than the tolerable prejudice of daily life. Lest this temperament appears entirely peculiar, we both agreed earlier today that we've struck upon a bumper seam. Ours is an enviable lot to be sure!<br />
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I won't saturate my present caste of mind other than to observe that its elemental characteristic is one of complete simplicity. Which is to say that the availability is universal and transparent. There is nothing which I can denominate as being of rare or infrequent consequence. The dual advantage of the celebration is that it mingles very nicely indeed with the evolution of events for the past seventy years. This I realize sounds an absurd impression but it is precisely that unanimity with the past (and the inherent prediction for at least the immediate future) which makes for an exceedingly desirable present!<br />
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But enough of this puerile effervescence! The shameful corollary to this gusty assertion is that were it not for the delight of the the images which I have intentionally added to this humdrum narrative, I haven't anything of consequence to relate in connection with my activity. My day began as it always does with its statutory breakfast of fruit and steel cut oats; and although we briefly interrupted our traditional catalogue of behaviour to do some minor grocery and retail shopping, the remainder of this otherwise uneventful day was spent cycling and swimming (in my case in the sea nearby Bayfront Park).<br />
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I won't deny that my primary objective when taking my bike ride was to capture the indescribable salubrity of the sea. The combination of buoyancy, warmth and saltiness is in my opinion the <i>nec plus ultra</i>. For this reason I didn't linger long upon the park bench in Bayfront Park but instead headed directly to the sea - which of course enjoyed the added benefit of being adorned by the declining sun in the west.<br />
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My routine at the beach is by necessity limited. I carried neither towel nor folding chair. My industry was confined to removing my boat shoes, filling them with my watch, phone, lip balm and sunglasses then covering the assortment with my golf shirt. By design I wore a Speedo bathing suit which doubles as casual shorts (with pockets and inner brief). This accomplished, I marched as purposely and as athletically as possible in light of my neuropathy and spastic spinal cord to the sea. It was like soup! It required but seconds to conclude my submersion.<br />
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I swam for a long time plus floating, paddling and diving underwater, back and forth, to and fro, tirelessly relishing every moment of the nautical excess. The beach at Bayfront Park is more precipitous than in some of the other locations I've stayed or visited. The beach at the Longboatk Key Resort for example is broad and flat; in other places along the coast it is narrow and shallow. I'm comfortable at Bayfront because the water is conveniently deep close to shore.<br />
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I left the sea and headed homeward. There is a magical view immediately south of Bayfront hidden by grape bushes. When I arrived back at the condo I hastened to capture other late afternoon scenes before dipping into the pool as a final reward.<br />
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And all this is before I've even mentioned what's for dinner: sliced fresh veggies (celery, zucchini, green pepper and Sugar Bomb grape tomatoes) and jumbo shrimp, drizzled with sesame oil, sprinkled with Fleur de Sea and doused with freshly squeezed lemon juice. Simple but delectable! If this constitutes fatuous pleasure, then I crawl!<br />
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<br />L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01555504964253101072noreply@blogger.com0