While I probably have a passion for that Norman Rockwell picture-perfect view of middle class life, I have always harboured the idea that, because of my nomadic childhood, it was imperative for me to develop some kind of home-life.
And when I was asked if I intended to stay in Almonte, I replied yes. And the response was didn’t I think that I would get bored with it. Perhaps it was more of a reflection upon the person who asked the question. I was taken aback by the question. It has never occurred to me to leave Almonte. I have left enough places in my lifetime, and I don’t think that I could do it all over again. Anyway, I don’t have the desire to go anywhere else that would be as good for me. I’ve got too much into this place, and I love it, frankly. March 15, 1981.
Some little while ago I heard a fellow on the CBC saying that many Canadians are not happy, and the reason is that they do not have any cultural identity. It occurred to me when I heard that, that part of the reason I enjoy writing these notes is that they lay before me the fabric of my life, and give me some kind of background. This is not such a mad proposition if one recalls that for most of my life, I have moved from place to place, relying on little more than my own choice of activities and undertakings to create the meaning of my life. There was very little parental influence; little contact with grandparents; relatively short-lived friendships; and only temporary association with any particular city or town. September 24, 1985.
In the latter part of the 1970's and the early 1980's, this undertaking to develop a home-life really took hold. Getting my first house had a lot to do with it. As I began furnishing it and renovating it, I started to spend more and more time at home, or at least close by (that is, in the office). My first house had a very cozy but small room which looked onto the back yard. In this room, I had a desk and my typewriter, at which I spent a great deal of time, writing about mostly nothing, just the rather boring details of daily life, but it is clear that it was part of the “home-life” I was cultivating. During this period, I was also becoming deeply involved in Almonte life, including the Masons, the Business and Professional Association, and lecturing for Algonquin College. My work-load had also hit a high point, since I had two and one-half secretaries working. It was quite common for me to return home from the office after midnight, and frequently as late as three in the morning. But my nexus with the Town was not so solid as to prohibit me from taking regular trips to the City to exercise and swim at Carleton University, or to dine with friends, or take in a night of jazz or other entertainment. Yet I recall always having taken a good deal of pride and pleasure in returning home to Almonte. Driving an automobile is fortunately something I have always enjoyed. This, combined with the sight of the setting sun in the West as I headed home, made for a peaceful and happy occasion. I began to fashion myself as some kind of country gentleman, someone who could savour the experience of the City, but faithfully retire to the rural districts. This fantasy took on even greater dimension when I bought 25 acres of land in Darling Township, a fantasy which vanished within a short period of time however, and I sold it. But it let me live out the notion of walking around the woods with my yellow Labrador, “Lannie”. At least until the mosquitoes and mud on the car became too much to tolerate! Over the years, I have cherished more and more the tranquillity of a small Ontario town. Certainly we who live in such places still have our problems, and life is not totally without stress, but likewise there is so much to be said for being able to walk to work in twelve minutes, or driving without having to pass through an intersection with lights. I was obviously relishing my new-found status as a home-owner, having a local business, and not even being apologetic about my complacency and self-satisfaction. This complacency was something that would only grow over the years. I dismissed out-of-hand the suggestion by an Ottawa resident that I might someday return to Ottawa to practice law (the presumption being that business would be more lucrative in the city, and life would be more exciting). I was then, and I am now, enjoying being a country lawyer. And there were those who found it difficult to imagine how I could possibly live in a such a small community where, as they thought, “everybody knows everybody else’s business”, which of course is not true.
And when I was asked if I intended to stay in Almonte, I replied yes. And the response was didn’t I think that I would get bored with it. Perhaps it was more of a reflection upon the person who asked the question. I was taken aback by the question. It has never occurred to me to leave Almonte. I have left enough places in my lifetime, and I don’t think that I could do it all over again. Anyway, I don’t have the desire to go anywhere else that would be as good for me. I’ve got too much into this place, and I love it, frankly. March 15, 1981.
Some little while ago I heard a fellow on the CBC saying that many Canadians are not happy, and the reason is that they do not have any cultural identity. It occurred to me when I heard that, that part of the reason I enjoy writing these notes is that they lay before me the fabric of my life, and give me some kind of background. This is not such a mad proposition if one recalls that for most of my life, I have moved from place to place, relying on little more than my own choice of activities and undertakings to create the meaning of my life. There was very little parental influence; little contact with grandparents; relatively short-lived friendships; and only temporary association with any particular city or town. September 24, 1985.
In the latter part of the 1970's and the early 1980's, this undertaking to develop a home-life really took hold. Getting my first house had a lot to do with it. As I began furnishing it and renovating it, I started to spend more and more time at home, or at least close by (that is, in the office). My first house had a very cozy but small room which looked onto the back yard. In this room, I had a desk and my typewriter, at which I spent a great deal of time, writing about mostly nothing, just the rather boring details of daily life, but it is clear that it was part of the “home-life” I was cultivating. During this period, I was also becoming deeply involved in Almonte life, including the Masons, the Business and Professional Association, and lecturing for Algonquin College. My work-load had also hit a high point, since I had two and one-half secretaries working. It was quite common for me to return home from the office after midnight, and frequently as late as three in the morning. But my nexus with the Town was not so solid as to prohibit me from taking regular trips to the City to exercise and swim at Carleton University, or to dine with friends, or take in a night of jazz or other entertainment. Yet I recall always having taken a good deal of pride and pleasure in returning home to Almonte. Driving an automobile is fortunately something I have always enjoyed. This, combined with the sight of the setting sun in the West as I headed home, made for a peaceful and happy occasion. I began to fashion myself as some kind of country gentleman, someone who could savour the experience of the City, but faithfully retire to the rural districts. This fantasy took on even greater dimension when I bought 25 acres of land in Darling Township, a fantasy which vanished within a short period of time however, and I sold it. But it let me live out the notion of walking around the woods with my yellow Labrador, “Lannie”. At least until the mosquitoes and mud on the car became too much to tolerate! Over the years, I have cherished more and more the tranquillity of a small Ontario town. Certainly we who live in such places still have our problems, and life is not totally without stress, but likewise there is so much to be said for being able to walk to work in twelve minutes, or driving without having to pass through an intersection with lights. I was obviously relishing my new-found status as a home-owner, having a local business, and not even being apologetic about my complacency and self-satisfaction. This complacency was something that would only grow over the years. I dismissed out-of-hand the suggestion by an Ottawa resident that I might someday return to Ottawa to practice law (the presumption being that business would be more lucrative in the city, and life would be more exciting). I was then, and I am now, enjoying being a country lawyer. And there were those who found it difficult to imagine how I could possibly live in a such a small community where, as they thought, “everybody knows everybody else’s business”, which of course is not true.
My time was also occupied with the outfitting of my office (I was at this time renting the premises from Bill Guthrie and Jack Levi), and I had recently (1980) expanded my office to include the space formerly occupied by Dr. Lyon (who held evening offices there). I was as much intent upon collecting things for the office as I was for my home:
It is no secret that I’m extremely proud of the Office; and, in fact, I can easily say that my life in Almonte has been the happiest time of my entire existence. I love my work, the people, my little house, the Office, the Town, and everything about the place. It is, however, only in the past five months or so that I have begun to feel really comfortable about everything. The past four and one-half years have required a lot of work and numerous headaches. But I can recognize that time as one of growth and development. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to repeat a minute of it, but I’m pleased with the way things have turned out. January 29, 1981.
Sharing my home with family and friends has always been important to me. It is with a degree of embarrassment that I confess that I like to “stage” parties for the pleasure of my guests. Most of the time, when I am alone, I never have or take the time to look around and see what it is that I have accumulated; but, when I have visitors, I can enjoy with them the environment that I have created. Even such a simple pleasure as lighting a fire. It’s not something I do when alone.
Yet, as I was noticing even as early as March 1, 1981 (on the third anniversary of starting my own law practice), “It would, however, be dangerous to become complacent. It offends me that much of the energy which I have generated in the past five years that I have been in Almonte is focused on me only. I am well aware of my responsibility to my community, and I even have a religious sensitivity in this regard. But it is difficult for me to know where to direct this attention. I seem to be waiting for something to come along which requires my assistance. My daily association with business people and money-matters generally rather distracts me from more altruistic endeavours.” Part of “getting settled” into life in Almonte was awakening to the needs of the environment. It is rather like searching for the answer before you know the question. Obviously, the daily exigencies of life, the practice, feeding oneself and socializing, do little to filter the higher demands of society from one’s own requirements. But eventually that did happen. It easily took years to happen. The undertakings which I adopted over the next twenty years were in response to perceived needs in the community which I was able to fulfill with the resources I had. I have always accepted that each of us has something special to offer, and the realization of that sometimes takes a while to mesh with the need. And of course the whole affair was clouded by what continued to be a rather harried pursuit of affairs, as it had been since I started school. Until only recently, I constantly felt that I was just one step ahead of the next task to fulfill, the next duty to perform, the next obligation to do, etc. Small wonder that in such a state, one was ill prepared to contemplate the wider and perhaps grander view of life. That at least is one luxury that aging affords.
It is no secret that I’m extremely proud of the Office; and, in fact, I can easily say that my life in Almonte has been the happiest time of my entire existence. I love my work, the people, my little house, the Office, the Town, and everything about the place. It is, however, only in the past five months or so that I have begun to feel really comfortable about everything. The past four and one-half years have required a lot of work and numerous headaches. But I can recognize that time as one of growth and development. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to repeat a minute of it, but I’m pleased with the way things have turned out. January 29, 1981.
Sharing my home with family and friends has always been important to me. It is with a degree of embarrassment that I confess that I like to “stage” parties for the pleasure of my guests. Most of the time, when I am alone, I never have or take the time to look around and see what it is that I have accumulated; but, when I have visitors, I can enjoy with them the environment that I have created. Even such a simple pleasure as lighting a fire. It’s not something I do when alone.
Yet, as I was noticing even as early as March 1, 1981 (on the third anniversary of starting my own law practice), “It would, however, be dangerous to become complacent. It offends me that much of the energy which I have generated in the past five years that I have been in Almonte is focused on me only. I am well aware of my responsibility to my community, and I even have a religious sensitivity in this regard. But it is difficult for me to know where to direct this attention. I seem to be waiting for something to come along which requires my assistance. My daily association with business people and money-matters generally rather distracts me from more altruistic endeavours.” Part of “getting settled” into life in Almonte was awakening to the needs of the environment. It is rather like searching for the answer before you know the question. Obviously, the daily exigencies of life, the practice, feeding oneself and socializing, do little to filter the higher demands of society from one’s own requirements. But eventually that did happen. It easily took years to happen. The undertakings which I adopted over the next twenty years were in response to perceived needs in the community which I was able to fulfill with the resources I had. I have always accepted that each of us has something special to offer, and the realization of that sometimes takes a while to mesh with the need. And of course the whole affair was clouded by what continued to be a rather harried pursuit of affairs, as it had been since I started school. Until only recently, I constantly felt that I was just one step ahead of the next task to fulfill, the next duty to perform, the next obligation to do, etc. Small wonder that in such a state, one was ill prepared to contemplate the wider and perhaps grander view of life. That at least is one luxury that aging affords.
In the meantime, however, I was still young, and I was doing some young and foolish things:
Warm summer evening. Mixed emotions. Sitting here slightly red form the weekend sun, slightly tired from the bicycling, with the bottoms of my pyjamas on. Wondering what dreams are made of. Remembering awakening on Sunday morning, early, around eight-thirty, not knowing whether it was late or not. Got to bed at five. Out all night, from one place to the next. A bagel and cream cheese at four. Turning to see what was next to me. Pulling the covers a little. Not to awaken.
Saturday afternoon, late in the afternoon. Meeting and quick responses. Then dress for dinner, shrimp and steak and a bottle of German white wine. Cocktails, and more to drink. Then over to Hull, with the noise and the glitter. Not the big time. But certainly a difference from what I am used to these days.
Sunday afternoon at the beach. Brief. Exhausted, and all the thoughts that come with fatigue. Returned home. And collapsed. And spent the day today remembering. Certainly not a dramatic encounter.
Reminiscences of previous experiences. If nothing else, they give you something to think about. But those mixed emotions. The hell they play. And the hope, the futile hope. Reminding myself that I must simply say it was good, and be done with it. But ever so reluctant. Too mature for unrequited love. Can’t play games anymore.
Office today. Steady. Left twenty minutes early, and felt mischievous. Work to be done. Some work this evening. Planning to get up early tomorrow morning, to get a head start. Never been afraid to work. Deep drag on my cigarette. Slowing down a little after a very hectic Spring, befuddled by some many concerns that had little to do with the Office, and I am glad they’re finished. Time to think a little about myself, my present status, my future. Lots of talk about the failing economy. Almost welcome a decline. Even cutting my nails is a luxury.
Commitment. Thoughts about what I will be doing five years from now. Almonte has been very good to me. It has given me everything I have, and vice-versa. Thoughts about the compromises. We all have to make them. Essentially, I enjoy coming home. I loathe driving to Ottawa to bicycle, to swim, to exercise, but that’s the price. Winding down after months of hard work and organization. I always get into a state of lethargy at times like this. More because I spend time thinking about things that are foreign to me.
Warm summer evening. Mixed emotions. Sitting here slightly red form the weekend sun, slightly tired from the bicycling, with the bottoms of my pyjamas on. Wondering what dreams are made of. Remembering awakening on Sunday morning, early, around eight-thirty, not knowing whether it was late or not. Got to bed at five. Out all night, from one place to the next. A bagel and cream cheese at four. Turning to see what was next to me. Pulling the covers a little. Not to awaken.
Saturday afternoon, late in the afternoon. Meeting and quick responses. Then dress for dinner, shrimp and steak and a bottle of German white wine. Cocktails, and more to drink. Then over to Hull, with the noise and the glitter. Not the big time. But certainly a difference from what I am used to these days.
Sunday afternoon at the beach. Brief. Exhausted, and all the thoughts that come with fatigue. Returned home. And collapsed. And spent the day today remembering. Certainly not a dramatic encounter.
Reminiscences of previous experiences. If nothing else, they give you something to think about. But those mixed emotions. The hell they play. And the hope, the futile hope. Reminding myself that I must simply say it was good, and be done with it. But ever so reluctant. Too mature for unrequited love. Can’t play games anymore.
Office today. Steady. Left twenty minutes early, and felt mischievous. Work to be done. Some work this evening. Planning to get up early tomorrow morning, to get a head start. Never been afraid to work. Deep drag on my cigarette. Slowing down a little after a very hectic Spring, befuddled by some many concerns that had little to do with the Office, and I am glad they’re finished. Time to think a little about myself, my present status, my future. Lots of talk about the failing economy. Almost welcome a decline. Even cutting my nails is a luxury.
Commitment. Thoughts about what I will be doing five years from now. Almonte has been very good to me. It has given me everything I have, and vice-versa. Thoughts about the compromises. We all have to make them. Essentially, I enjoy coming home. I loathe driving to Ottawa to bicycle, to swim, to exercise, but that’s the price. Winding down after months of hard work and organization. I always get into a state of lethargy at times like this. More because I spend time thinking about things that are foreign to me.
A hope dwindles. It’s getting late. The day is coming to an end. Start the machine working again tomorrow. Preparation. Dictation. And the hope rekindles. Can’t do everything in one day. So I’ll try to do it in two. June 28, 1982.
Aside from the odd “glitch”, as I grew older in Almonte, my life clearly fell into routine:
So, like Godot, I wait for lamps to arrive, glasses to be completed, pants to have their bottoms turned up, and dishes to arrive. I put “bring-forwards” in my diary, check my bank balance, turn over funds, plan a birthday party, put firewood in the fireplace, and write this nonsense. Oh, and memorize ritual for Lodge, and hold rehearsals. And then I feel the tremor of an earthquake, and I lie in bed, cold and still, and wonder why bother. October 17, 1983.
A Saturday night. And what a luxury it is to be home, and alone! Able to do those little things which one requires for sanity and peace. Like Laundry and Writing. Just to be able to putter about the house, with nothing better to do than investigate the bottoms of desk drawers, or stand out on the back patio and watch the sky. Smoke a cigarette. Make a cup of coffee. What does it matter. August 18, 1984.
There is no question that one of the elements of stability in my life has been, as it has no doubt been in the lives of many others, the Church, St. Paul's Anglican Church in particular. The Church is beautifully situated on Brougham Street across from the old Registry Office, along the Mississippi River, and pointedly next door to “the Doctor's House” (which has been inhabited by a Catholic Irish physician since it was built). In fact, as a bit of poetic justice for the alleged indulgences of the Irish, an incident occurred one Sunday morning when I was one my way to attend the eight o'clock service. I had just bought a new car, which was equipped with an alarm system. I mistakenly tripped the system as I was getting out of the car, and the lights and horn started flashing and honking with what seemed to be an extra enthusiasm, no doubt as a result of the juxtaposition with the previous early morning quiet. I had no idea how to stop the event. And in fact, it appears that everything I was doing in an attempt to stop it, was actually prolonging the agony! In frustration, I simply walked away from the beast, and that eventually shut it down. But I could never escape nor forget the delight I experienced when I thought of what this must have meant to Dr. Francis Murphy, M.D. As for the service itself, it had its own special character:
The service lasts almost exactly 40 minutes. There is always communion at that service; but at the ten o'clock service, communion is only every second Sunday.
There weren't many people at the service this morning (about thirty), but all the regulars (with the exception of Britt Thurston, who wasn't there today): George Gomme (former Minister of Highways in the Ontario government; and originally a “home boy” from England); George Thompson (brother of the late Annie Johnston, who was the wife of the late Dr. Johnston, for whom Dr. Frank Glassow originally apprenticed in Carleton Place when he came to Canada from England, before moving on to a very successful career at the Shouldice Hospital in Thornhill, where he was eventually to become chief surgeon; his son, Nicholas, was one of my best friends at St. Andrew's); and a smattering of elderly ladies, who, like me, prefer to get the religious duties of the day over with early and expediently. The Reverend of the Church is Jack Truman, who replaced Harry Brown (who was a member of our Lodge), who replaced Geo. Bickley, in whose house I lived for two years when I first came to Almonte with my dog, Lannie, in June of 1976. April 14, 1985.
Aside from the odd “glitch”, as I grew older in Almonte, my life clearly fell into routine:
So, like Godot, I wait for lamps to arrive, glasses to be completed, pants to have their bottoms turned up, and dishes to arrive. I put “bring-forwards” in my diary, check my bank balance, turn over funds, plan a birthday party, put firewood in the fireplace, and write this nonsense. Oh, and memorize ritual for Lodge, and hold rehearsals. And then I feel the tremor of an earthquake, and I lie in bed, cold and still, and wonder why bother. October 17, 1983.
A Saturday night. And what a luxury it is to be home, and alone! Able to do those little things which one requires for sanity and peace. Like Laundry and Writing. Just to be able to putter about the house, with nothing better to do than investigate the bottoms of desk drawers, or stand out on the back patio and watch the sky. Smoke a cigarette. Make a cup of coffee. What does it matter. August 18, 1984.
There is no question that one of the elements of stability in my life has been, as it has no doubt been in the lives of many others, the Church, St. Paul's Anglican Church in particular. The Church is beautifully situated on Brougham Street across from the old Registry Office, along the Mississippi River, and pointedly next door to “the Doctor's House” (which has been inhabited by a Catholic Irish physician since it was built). In fact, as a bit of poetic justice for the alleged indulgences of the Irish, an incident occurred one Sunday morning when I was one my way to attend the eight o'clock service. I had just bought a new car, which was equipped with an alarm system. I mistakenly tripped the system as I was getting out of the car, and the lights and horn started flashing and honking with what seemed to be an extra enthusiasm, no doubt as a result of the juxtaposition with the previous early morning quiet. I had no idea how to stop the event. And in fact, it appears that everything I was doing in an attempt to stop it, was actually prolonging the agony! In frustration, I simply walked away from the beast, and that eventually shut it down. But I could never escape nor forget the delight I experienced when I thought of what this must have meant to Dr. Francis Murphy, M.D. As for the service itself, it had its own special character:
The service lasts almost exactly 40 minutes. There is always communion at that service; but at the ten o'clock service, communion is only every second Sunday.
There weren't many people at the service this morning (about thirty), but all the regulars (with the exception of Britt Thurston, who wasn't there today): George Gomme (former Minister of Highways in the Ontario government; and originally a “home boy” from England); George Thompson (brother of the late Annie Johnston, who was the wife of the late Dr. Johnston, for whom Dr. Frank Glassow originally apprenticed in Carleton Place when he came to Canada from England, before moving on to a very successful career at the Shouldice Hospital in Thornhill, where he was eventually to become chief surgeon; his son, Nicholas, was one of my best friends at St. Andrew's); and a smattering of elderly ladies, who, like me, prefer to get the religious duties of the day over with early and expediently. The Reverend of the Church is Jack Truman, who replaced Harry Brown (who was a member of our Lodge), who replaced Geo. Bickley, in whose house I lived for two years when I first came to Almonte with my dog, Lannie, in June of 1976. April 14, 1985.
Another reference to St. Paul's brings back fond memories:
On Sunday last, I attended the ten o'clock service at St. Paul's, since the newly installed suffragan Bishop, John Baycroft, was attending to confirm five young people into the Church. I later joined him and his very witty wife, Joan, at Jack and Nikki Truman's for lunch. The other people there were Alaister Gale (the Ottawa architect who lives in the stone house next to St. Paul's, which house was built by Raymond Jamieson's grandfather, and most recently owned by Grant Campbell, a lawyer who was once described by Alan Sheffield as “practising law with the contempt it deserves”), his wife, Margaret (who is People's Warden this year); Stephen Handfield-Jones (recently retired Rector's Warden), and his wife, Ida (pronounced “Eda”; she's Dutch, I think), and their daughter, whose name I cannot remember (she seemed to know everyone, although she was comparatively young); George and Mrs. Bickley; and then me, the Truman's, and the Baycrofts. I feel like I've left somebody out, but I guess not. It was quite a long table, and the two ends were really split down the middle when it came to conversation. March 18, 1986.
In later years (about the time of arrival of Rev. Rob Davis in July of 1990), I started attending the Wednesday Vesper service, which freed up my weekends entirely (as I was spending more time at the condominium in the Market). The Wednesday service generally attracts fewer people, though we have had our moments, so to speak, when Rev. Davis conducted study sessions after the service. But that was a lot of work for him, and we have fallen back to a smaller (though regular) gathering, including Mrs. Joan Rivington, who together with her husband, Robert, has supported the Church avidly over the years. Aside from the obvious benefits of the Wednesday night service (short, ritualistic and communion), Rev. Davis also took the trouble to deliver a sermon, so long as I was not the only member of the congregation present:
Rob gave a good sermon tonight, mostly because he stuck with his sure-fire story telling method. He's a good story teller, because he is not afraid to add elements of the exotic and mystical. He keeps up the “Arabian Nights” element, rather than trying to popularize the stories with more mundane and modern references. I've always felt that a really good story had to have happened long, long ago and far, far away. March 18, 1992.
On Sunday last, I attended the ten o'clock service at St. Paul's, since the newly installed suffragan Bishop, John Baycroft, was attending to confirm five young people into the Church. I later joined him and his very witty wife, Joan, at Jack and Nikki Truman's for lunch. The other people there were Alaister Gale (the Ottawa architect who lives in the stone house next to St. Paul's, which house was built by Raymond Jamieson's grandfather, and most recently owned by Grant Campbell, a lawyer who was once described by Alan Sheffield as “practising law with the contempt it deserves”), his wife, Margaret (who is People's Warden this year); Stephen Handfield-Jones (recently retired Rector's Warden), and his wife, Ida (pronounced “Eda”; she's Dutch, I think), and their daughter, whose name I cannot remember (she seemed to know everyone, although she was comparatively young); George and Mrs. Bickley; and then me, the Truman's, and the Baycrofts. I feel like I've left somebody out, but I guess not. It was quite a long table, and the two ends were really split down the middle when it came to conversation. March 18, 1986.
In later years (about the time of arrival of Rev. Rob Davis in July of 1990), I started attending the Wednesday Vesper service, which freed up my weekends entirely (as I was spending more time at the condominium in the Market). The Wednesday service generally attracts fewer people, though we have had our moments, so to speak, when Rev. Davis conducted study sessions after the service. But that was a lot of work for him, and we have fallen back to a smaller (though regular) gathering, including Mrs. Joan Rivington, who together with her husband, Robert, has supported the Church avidly over the years. Aside from the obvious benefits of the Wednesday night service (short, ritualistic and communion), Rev. Davis also took the trouble to deliver a sermon, so long as I was not the only member of the congregation present:
Rob gave a good sermon tonight, mostly because he stuck with his sure-fire story telling method. He's a good story teller, because he is not afraid to add elements of the exotic and mystical. He keeps up the “Arabian Nights” element, rather than trying to popularize the stories with more mundane and modern references. I've always felt that a really good story had to have happened long, long ago and far, far away. March 18, 1992.
A delightful combination of social and religious events arose from the organization of a course called “Alpha”, based upon video recordings of a British Anglican evangelist, the contents of which videos we would examine together after the viewing. The entire undertaking was preceded by a sit-down dinner provided gratis by several of the very energetic members of the congregation. One particularly enjoyable evening of this nature was spent at the home of Justice and Mrs. James (Mary) Hugessen. They bought and seriously renovated the large stone home next to the Church along the Mississippi River. The home had originally been owned by (and perhaps built by) the Rosamond family (of which Mary is a part), and who essentially bank-rolled the building of St. Paul's Church. Jim and Mary are the perfect hosts, and of course their grand and warm home lent itself perfectly to our friendly deliberations
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