Marching Along…
What feels like only days ago, I was marvelling at the abrupt transition from the short month of February to the long stretch of March. And now, we find ourselves approaching its final days.
In our own springtime fashion, we have joined the parade of Canada geese—those purposeful creatures who gather in clamorous assembly along the shores of the Mississippi River, then take to the air in sweeping formations over distant fields.
Meanwhile, the broader world persists in its unrest. The bullying tactics of foreign leaders continue to erode any fragile hope for peace. Closer to home, and with far less consequence, our neighbours begin returning from their winter migrations. Soon, the farmers will resume their annual labours—furrowing and seeding the fields, setting in motion the quiet magic of another agricultural season.
As for us, yesterday marked a small but satisfying ritual: we resumed our habit of sitting on the deck, facing upriver, basking in unexpectedly generous sunshine. The warmth was astonishing. The black plastic lounge chairs, having endured the blunt force of winter, remain sturdy and welcoming. I take a simple pleasure in their reliability—this modest, ready-made resort at hand.
I suspect—perhaps not entirely honestly—that I attempt to dignify such indulgence by framing it as something more purposeful. Already, I find myself contemplating modest excursions for the months ahead.
Yet these pleasant anticipations are not without interruption. There is the steady, undeniable presence of physical decline—what physicians so casually attribute to age. Nothing to be done, they say. No surgery recommended. Just stretches, and the quiet instruction to adapt.
Still, there are small mercies. Alongside the loss of thirty to forty pounds with Ozempic, I have experienced an unexpected improvement: switching from Tylenol Arthritis Pain to Tylenol Regular Strength has, for reasons I do not pretend to understand, proven more effective.
Our ambitions remain sensibly local. Among our preferred destinations are the Ivy Lea Club along the St. Lawrence, Katarina’s Coffee Shop, the JW Marriott The Rosseau Muskoka Resort & Spa, and Fairmont Le Château Montebello—once the Seigneury Club, that remarkable log-built refuge of an earlier elite. And, just yesterday after recalling that I hold a marine licence to operate a pleasure craft, I am contemplating boating on nearby White Lake.
There is, too, a slightly more ambitious notion: a train journey from Smiths Falls or Ottawa to Fairmont The Queen Elizabeth. It is an idea shaped as much by limitation as by desire—mobility constrains the means, but not entirely the imagination. There, at journey’s end, one might still enjoy a pool, a sauna, a spa, and a commanding view from above the city.
And perhaps that is the essence of it. This is the ardour of a Canadian spring—felt more keenly this year, having endured a full and unbroken winter at home. There is no regret in that. Age advances, as do the world’s discontents, but so too does one’s capacity to adjust.
These small proposals, modest as they are, align with my present circumstances. That, in itself, strikes me as a quiet form of ingenuity.
Meanwhile, I have my tricycle, and my Cadillac Optiq—two reliable companions in this ongoing exercise of adaptation.