Living adjacent a great natural resource, where streets run contiguously to a natural forest boundary, has its attractive points and its unattractive ones. For people who never think of venturing into our wooded neighbourhood ravine to enjoy its natural beauty in our four seasons, it must seem overburdened with nuisance value. With rabbits scurrying about in peoples' gardens, eating what has been planted, to squirrels digging up newly-planted spring bulbs, and vying for seeds placed out for the birds. And, to top it off, the squadrons of crows gathering, then descending to the lawns of the neighbourhood, destroying their green smooth presence, digging up great divots of grass roots and soil, seeking the treasures that lie beneath, great disgusting grubs, leaving havoc in their wake.

There was a time when we regularly came across grouse and partridge, tame enough not to mind our presence, giving us the opportunity to witness mating dances, and when foxes were alert to our presence just as we were to theirs, neither they nor we concerned in each other's presence, but most certainly enchanted. That time is long past; no more foxes to be seen, or grouse and partridge, and very few encounters with once-plentiful raccoons.

We did, however, note that the same pair of hawks that has been returning to the ravine after winter departs for the past five or so years, to nest and raise their young, has once again come back. We've seen the Pileated woodpecker, that giant of the species, around, heard its ear-piercing call, noted the great gaping holes it has left in insect-ridden tree trunks.

And we have ample notice that the beavers have been removed, their dam breached, likely by the provincial conservation authority because some people have lodged complaints that too many of the ravine's poplars have been cut down by those busy, enterprising little rodents.

She is among the brightest students in her Grade 10 classes. She tends to gravitate toward those students who take their studies seriously, some of whom she admires for what she identifies as their high intelligence, both girls and boys. They discuss, face to face, and more regularly, through texted messages on their cellphones, all manner of subjects, inclusive of their day-to-day impressions of pedestrian occurrences in their young lives.

She slept very poorly the night before. She was under the impression she had thought of everything, including preparing breakfast beforehand, so as to waste as little time as possible, being cognizant of the importance of feeding her brain before going out at 7:30 a.m. to await her school bus pick-up. Her classmates in her grade had all been exposed to a preliminary test, both to familiarize them with the process and so that the school administration would be able to judge whom among them required additional time to perform the actual test.

She thought it predictable on the basis of ordinary school performance which of the students would be segregated and placed in another test area, where they were to be given additional time in which to address the test questions. She had confidence she would not be among them, for she had performed exceedingly well herself; no cerebral slouch, she.

Although she was aware of the number of students that would be assembled in the gym, it was still a surprise to see all those desks arrayed, awaiting student occupation and the assumption of the test procedures. There were two cohorts; those deemed capable of completing the entire test within a three-hour allotted time frame; those clearly, from the results of the trial test, requiring considerably more time.

Those students who, in the final analysis, were not capable of completing the test, and performing well enough to respond accurately to the rate of 72%, would be required to do the test again, the following year. She recognized, among those assembled in the gym, quite a few Grade 11 students. It is a literary test, one designed and imposed on all the provincial school boards as part of the irregular curriculum, to give the province a snapshot of students' progress. Her school is known to be in the top percentile of achievement.

She was nervous, anticipating the two guidance-and-question books they would be using to achieve the goal of completion and accuracy in the testing of their literary skills, demonstrating how well they have absorbed the lessons learned not only throughout the academic curriculum, but through ordinary exposure to many facets of life-experience.

They had a halfway break after the first book had been completed, before settling down again to the succeeding and final book. She felt hurried, wished there were more time to respond to all the questions at a little more thoughtful leisure. The essay they were required to write should have come with a little more time to enable them to assemble their thoughts, she felt ruefully. When she was three-quarters of her way through that essay, she looked up, to try to assess the progress of a student sitting nearby whose intelligence she admired. Still doing his essay too, so she felt relieved.

But then, before she was finished with the essay, the teacher in charge announced only fifteen minutes left for completion and she had to force herself not to panic. Glancing again at her bright friend, she realized he had set aside book, paper and pencil; finished. She concluded her essay, gave her full attention to the following series of questions, completed them just in time, and sat back, exhausted.

She hopes she did well. That answer will be given to her soon enough.

I've always been curious about recipes printed in the newspapers in the Lifestyles sections published on a weekly basis. Many of the recipes are of little interest to me, but some of them do pique my interest and invariably I carefully scissor them out and set them aside for use at some future time. Often enough after once trying a recipe I tend to discard it, having no further interest in it, the result of trying it not quite hitting the mark in its completed state.

On the latest occasion it was a recipe for a 'goat cheese and herb bread' that took my fancy. In fact, though it was a bread dough, the finished product were fair-sized buns. The dough itself was that of an egg-loaf, comprised of milk, yeast, sugar, flour, salt, butter and egg yolks. When raised and rolled out into medium-sized rounds, they were to be filled with a mixture consisting of goat cheese, pesto, softened butter, snipped sun-dried tomatoes, chopped garlic cloves and a herbal combination of basil, thyme, chives, parsley.

That done, they were brushed with egg white, sprinkled with poppy seed (and for just two, additional sprinkles of rosemary), then baked until brown. Aromatic they most certainly were, and the resulting product sensuously tasty.

Would I bother with them again? Perhaps, but leaving out the pesto, since it proved to be too pungently robust a combination for my husband.

Who among us, in idle moments might give a thought to what it might be like to be someone living in a primitive environment, never having been exposed to modern civilization, suddenly coming face to face with a future that is represented by the great world majority, and which excludes tribes whose geographical placement ensured their solitary and hermetic evolution?

We've heard of the Kalahari, people who live in remote, isolated tribal communities who may harbour knowledge and dread of modern influences, far preferring to remain isolated, entrenched in their ancient ways of living. Most of the communities that exist do so in the far reaches of Africa, but there are and were other regions of the world where communication and knowledge of the existence of tribal communities were non-existent, particularly the polar regions of the world.
The photo that told the world the Sentinelese had survived the 2004 tsunami.

Imagine, in the late 1500s, the last quarter of the 14th Century, when explorers like Martin Frobisher felt the frozen North to be the final outpost as yet unexplored when during the Elizabethan era, he and others like him, allied with the British Royal Navy were drawn to a search for a passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean, convinced it could be found along the Northern Coast of North America.

In their travels they came across Inuit people, living in the most inhospitable places on Earth. Exploration at that time was polarized between the unknown reaches of the Dark Continent and the Frozen North, with its Iceberg-crowded Polar Sea. Where immense frozen mountains of ice, sculpted by an unknown hand in brilliant white that caught the incandescent colours of the sun shimmering within them, took away the breath of those who witnessed their coruscating majestic yet brutal way, driven by the ocean's currents.

The great historic populariser, Pierre Berton (*), wrote of an early 19th Century encounter between 'an unknown Eskimo culture', and one of the Royal British Navy's expeditionary forces into the Arctic under Lieutenant William Edward Parry. At their first encounter, these isolated natives were thunderstruck by the appearance of strange creatures of whose presence they had never before dreamed into existence.

"The scene that followed was pure farce. The natives on the shore hung back, obviously terrified at the strange apparitions on the ships. It was decided that one of Parry's officers should go forward bearing a white flag on which was painted the civilized emblem for peace - a hand holding an olive branch. The natives, of course, had no idea what an olive branch was, or what it was supposed to mean. On these bleak shores no olive trees grew - actually, no trees at all. Yet none of the white men seemed to appreciate the absurdity of the gesture. Ross made a more practical move. He put up a flag on a pole and tied a bag full of presents to it. that worked marvellously.
"These Eskimos had had no contact with the world beyond their desolate domain. They were astonished at the presence of Sacheuse, (a 'civilized' Inuit interpreter hired for his skills by the British) for it had not occurred to them that there might be others like themselves in the world. As for the men with sickly looking skins, they were convinced they had come from the sky. They knew nothing of boats, had never seen one; even the native word "kayak" had no meaning for them. They spoke to the ships as if they were living things. "We have seen them move their wings", they said. When Sacheuse tried to explain that ships were floating houses, they had difficulty believing him.
"They were startled by their first glimpse of a mirror and tried to discover the monster they believed was hiding behind it. They laughed at the metal frames of the eye-glasses worn by some of the seamen, spit out in disgust the biscuit that was offered, wondered what kind of ice the window panes were made of and what kind of animal produced the strange "skins" the officers were wearing. They were shown a watch, thought it was alive, and asked if it was good to eat. The sight of a little pig terrified them; a demonstration of hammer and nails charmed them; the ships' furniture baffled them for the only wood they'd ever known came from a dwarf shrub whose stem was no thicker than a finger...."

* The Arctic Grail; The quest for the North West Passage and the North Pole. 1818 - 1909.

There is stark disorder in the world view of our melancholy and confused little sun dog. Riley cannot understand what has been occurring. A full week of abruptly-occurring summertime weather last week, breaking all previous springtime records for transition from winter to spring. When suddenly the sun smiled graciously upon us and the atmosphere warmed to an incredible 26-degrees-Celsius. Unheralded.

And very, very much appreciated by little Riley who had become thoroughly sick of snow and ice and freezing temperatures. The brief periods when the morning sun shone through our dining room windows and he was able to bask in its warmth kept hope alive in his little breast that better days were ahead. And suddenly, there they were! Mightily confusing the garden plants which began thrusting our their hopeful green spears toward that balming sun.

Up came the irises, up came the lilies, and there are already blossom buds neatly assembling themselves on the barbed branches of the Japanese quince shrubs. Even the poplars in the ravine and the willows have begun to blush green. And then, the ambient temperatures did a turnaround, abandoning us back to memories of the winter just recently departed, back into the uncertainties of early spring.

Last night's temperature dropped to minus-9-degrees, and the howling wind didn't much help. It was icy-cold, and so was this morning, at minus-6-degrees. Before noon, Riley was anxious because he could see the deck was sun-kissed and he wanted to be out there, kissed by the sun. We patiently explained to him how cold it was, despite the sun, and he is, after all, a very small dog who thoroughly detests cold.

But he insisted, and out he went, laying himself out on the deck in full view of the sun's kissing rays.

A neighbour; I've known the younger of the two sisters for several decades. She's a cheerful, friendly woman who always took her dogs, a pair of large and equally cheerful and friendly red, long-haired retrievers to our nearby ravine. She, in fact, owns a house that backs directly onto the ravine. When we first met she was a young mother. Both she and her sister have flaming red hair. Although there the physical resemblance comes to an abrupt halt.

Whereas her sister is a fairly large-boned woman, she is so dainty in size and height - correction, was - as to pass for someone on the cusp of dwarfism. A pretty woman, mother of two emerging teens at that time, whose boys are now grown into adults, one of whose wife has just given birth to twins. Her husband is as friendly as she is, but he never struck me as owning more than pedestrian intelligence. She and her sister, however, keep abreast of local and world news and can easily sustain a knowledgeable and interesting conversation between equally informed others who enjoy others' point of view.

They've embarked on a personal health mission. Their 84-year-old mother is now in the final stages of Alzheimer's and this is not a future they envision for themselves. They have begun attending lectures on health and personal responsibility promoting healthy lifestyles and dietary nutrition. If such lectures are given by professionals who can boast on their promotional literature that they are recognized-in-the-field experts, such as cardiologists or dietitians, they take to their bosom whatever it is that is being promoted.

Wheat flour, they now believe, cannot be properly assimilated nutritionally by the human body, as it once was, for it has been changed so dramatically from its origins by processing methods and through the new strains that have been introduced into the food-production chain that it little resembles what it once was: a source of impeccable nutrition for us. An alternate is heritage grains and coconut flour. This they staunchly believe and adhere to.

Eating whole foods, preparing one's own kitchen meals with an eye to taste and nutrition is insufficient for their needs for they plan to enter old age healthy and to remain that way. They propel themselves along the ravine trails, up hills and descending the valleys with a walking stick in either hand. Each stick tall enough to complement the ambulatory struggles of a 6-footer. But, they had been informed at one of the health and lifestyle seminars they regularly attend, that these are the ideal-length walking sticks; one should reach over one's head to grasp the sticks.

Our tiny, delicate-framed friend with the pretty face and engaging manner has steadily, over the years, inflated to an almost rotund shape. We watch, incredulous, as she struggles with her two walking sticks, her hands awkwardly placed well above shoulder height; just as well her dogs are now late and lamented; she has more than ample challenges to contend with.

After over a week of summer-like weather we were abruptly plunged back into late winter. An utterly miserable day, heavily overcast, windy and bone-chilling cold. Our ravine walk was not quite as pleasant as it usually tends to be. After which we decided to drive downtown to visit Byward Market. with a particular goal, since in this type of weather strolling about the Market is no more pleasurable than strolling the ravine, with the inclemency of atmosphere.

The drive there, on the Eastern Parkway, was pleasant enough. Our passage along there two weeks earlier showed the Ottawa River frozen over, ice fishing huts still in place. Yesterday, the river was completely clear of ice; what a difference a few weeks makes, when nature decides to change the prevailing and anticipated weather for something completely different.

Canada geese were busy on the banks of the river, picking among the grasses for tidbits, grooming themselves; regal looking birds, fascinating to watch.

And we saw the usual area approaching the Governor-General's residence, which boasts the earliest show of crocuses, apart from east-facing lawns of Parliament Hill, in full bloom, with bursts of yellow and purple, not as full as they should be, the flowers reacting to the dark gloom of the day.

Striding through the Market, we carry our two little dogs in shoulder bags. It was busy enough, a popular area for people to walk about in, with a wide choice of boutique-type shopping available, as well as a large number of cafes, all popular with the young and the hip. For us, however, it was first to the magazine shop for art and antique magazines, and then over to a cheese shop we've long shopped at, where a wide array of specialty cheeses burden the shelves, at very amenable prices.

And then we headed back home, mission accomplished.

Now that the neighbourhood lawns are uncharacteristically - for the early spring season - free of snow and ice, their over-wintered condition is obvious, and appears for the record, far worse than is usually the case at this time of year.

Approaching late fall last year it was evident that most area lawns had begun to suffer attacks that left them with large areas of grass uprooted, the lawns dismal and dying. It was not just lack of moisture drying the grass roots, but rather it became clear that there was some source of disturbance that constantly seemed to pull out large plugs of grass, leaving the lumps of soil, grassroots and dying grass littered everywhere, the areas growing larger by the day.

And then we realized it was crows that were busy on the job, searching out grubs that lay in the soil, the crows determined to pull these tasty morsels into the light of day, and to consume them at their leisure. In the process leaving devastation behind. These are, needless to say, the very same hordes of crows that tend to follow us when we embark upon our daily ravine-walking routine, knowing full well where we place peanuts for squirrels and chipmunks, to retrieve them for their very own delectation.

Clever fellows they are, little doubt about that, certainly untroubled by the sinister thoughts fleeting through householders' minds when contemplating the damage done by them to pride in otherwise well-maintained lawns.

Each time I think it really is about time I stopped doing the neighbourhood canvass for one charity after another, that I've done it for far too long and it's about time someone else takes over the chore, I think of my area captain for the Cancer Society canvass and relent.

I have no idea how long she has been involved in helping out with the canvass annually as a volunteer. I do know that my own history with door-to-door canvassing goes back 40 years, for various causes, and I'm sick of it. Of going out, knocking on peoples' doors in the various neighbourhoods where we've lived over the years, and asking them to part with a few dollars in exchange for a charitable, tax-deductible receipt.

I am now 75 years old, and although I feel vigorous and remain in fairly good physical shape whereas others my age and younger haven't got my good fortune, I do feel it's time to step down. Yet she's chugging along, at ten years my senior. I recall how she appeared when she took over the position from someone who had earlier been involved; she looked robust and attractive ten years ago. Now, she looks more drawn and elderly, and although I know she keeps herself actively engaged in her community and with her family, she is struggling.

Of course it doesn't help that she was diagnosed several years ago with age-acquired leukemia. She has learned to balance her condition against her lifestyle and she manages exceedingly well. She no longer takes any prescribed medications because they made her so ill she felt the cure was far worse than the threat her illness posed to her. They were all gradually dropped, her doctors puzzled by her body's rejection of them all, and its seeming ability to get along without them. She no longer even takes the chemotherapy pills because of how they ravaged her, and now sails along with quarterly hospital visits, unless an event occurs that requires more immediate attention.

When she feels tired and ill she simply rests until she feels sufficiently recovered to carry on. She lives alone, in her own house located on a nearby street adjacent to ours, where she has lived since her husband's death from cancer. He was older than her, but it was she who had experienced the first serious illness, then recovered. Her daughter keeps in constant contact with her. Her daughter-in-law works as a geriatric psychiatric nurse.

She remains involved, engaged and interested in everything around her. She wakes each morning with an agenda, and manages to see herself through all that she has scheduled for herself, mostly with relative ease. She still dresses stylishly, taking great care with her wardrobe, her jewellery, and is poised and attractive.

She continues to drive herself anywhere she means to go, including delivering the canvass kits to her various canvassers. With her inspiration, how could I, in my situation, younger than her, decide to refuse to be involved with my community's needs?

Human nature becomes blighted when human consciousness is immoderately directed by a mind that seizes with pincer-like devotion on a fantasy of a higher order commanding humankind to obey and to fashion their lives in the service of a feverishly-imagined directive. For want of a better word - and it is good enough as it is - it is called fanaticism.

Both humbly-confused minds and the minds of psychopaths embrace the fanatic. It gives order and purpose to their lives.

During the time of the Spanish and Portuguese conquests the Aztecs and the Incas suffered the looting of their religion and their natural resources. The Conquistadors ravaged what they felt to be savage minds to instill Christ in their consciousness, while reaping the benefits of gold in whatever form it was manipulated into representing to take back to their regents.

The brutality of the native live sacrifices was no more unspeakable, and perhaps less so, than the vicious brutalities of of their conquerors.

In 17th and 18th Century Canada, French Roman Catholic missionaries sought, as they did all over the world, to convert the savages that lived there from their nativist faith to a life steeped in the worship of Christ. To quote Pierre Berton:

"It is not easy for the 20th Century mind to come to terms with Isaac Jogue's zeal for martyrdom. To others of his faith, death by torture in the name of their God was certainly an occupational hazard. To Jogues it was much more: it was a dream to be cherished, a goal to be fulfilled, a sublime climax to a life of sacrifice."

These passionate missionaries sought to convert, to bring to Christ the people who lived in far distant places, and in Canada, it was the First Nations who were their targets. They wished them no harm, but brought great harm to them in the form of diseases they had never been exposed to before the entrance of the White Man. The Indians learned to dread the presence of the Black Robes.

A similar, but far more malign and sinister conversion mission is now taking place throughout the world. It is Islam that is once again on the march, seeking to conquer and take the world community by storm. Their stormtroopers are the infidel-detesting fanatical jihadists like al-Qaeda who see no value in permitting non-Muslims occupy this Earth, and little interest in sparing the lives of co-religionists who are not sufficiently dedicated to fundamentalist Islam.

They aspire to rule, to bring to the fore through conquest, their vision of a version of Islam that holds no brief for accommodation and acceptance and co-operation, for they believe that all other religious beliefs are an affront to Islam, and have no right to exist. Those who will not convert and accept and submit themselves wholly to this distinctly fanatical Islam have no right to exist.

The threat that religious domination of society poses, sparing no compassion on those who are differently aligned, as evidenced by the millennias-long persecution of that stubbornly faithful world minority worshipping Judaism, a case in point. Ideally religious belief should bring humankind closer to the virtues of patience, understanding, acceptance and interest in a pluralist society.

Those of the various faiths who find it in themselves to be accepting and respectful of others, think of themselves as reflecting godly virtues. Those who may represent a minority portion, believe themselves to be far better servants of their gods when they pursue what they believe to be, from parsing their holy scriptures, godly commands.

By afternoon the heat becomes almost oppressive. In the early morning there is fog due to temperature inversion. But a clear sky and strengthening sun of the Spring Equinox quickly burns off the fog. We have sometimes, in May, had unusual weather like this, extremely warm for the time of year. But that's May, not March. March is the quintessentially surprising month, when winter gales can blow in all-enveloping, long-lasting snowstorms, teasing us with hopes for April.

Because of the weather all the snow and ice that had gathered and established on the front lawn and in our backyard is suddenly gone. The ground has thawed, and in the gardens the ranunculus and lilies have begun to push through the soil, the sharp spears of their leafage anxious to begin the process of robust renewal.

We are still unable to venture into the ravine without cleats over our boots for purchase on the stubbornly remaining ice. Up on the flats nothing remains of the ice, however, and it smells and looks like spring. Yesterday, just as we were talking about when we might see the first harbingers of spring in the insect world, there appeared a strenuously flap-winged Mourning Cloak, just where we see them every spring; far earlier this year. Soon there will be far more of them, if the weather doesn't do a turn to resemble its more normal course.

For some odd reason, despite the heat, there were few squirrels in evidence, but a veritable mob of crows instead, circling high above, dozens of them orchestrating a group caw; not quite a murder of crows, but from their racket and dark, determined presence somewhat resembling one.

They were, without doubt, communicating with one another, those clever birds, and many of them followed us throughout the course of our circuitous route in the ravine; up hills, down into the valleys, depositing peanuts in the usual cache places as we proceeded.

Looking back, we could see the crows swooping down to retrieve the peanuts, then knocking the shells against the branches of trees to free the peanuts from their shells.

Global warming? Seems like it. Should we be concerned? Certainly seems so. This was Ottawa and area a full year ago:

Fran Young shelters herself with an umbrella against Tuesday morning's wind and snow on Ash Lane. Light snow was to give way to bitter cold and biting winds, with the temperature plunging well into the -20s by late evening. Photograph by: Pat McGrath , The Ottawa Citizen

OTTAWA — It was only -1C Tuesday afternoon, downright balmy for this time of year, but the temperature was expected to plunge sharply over the subsequent 12 hours to –26. And according to Environment Canada, gusting winds would make it feel like –34.

At this time of year, the normal transition from winter into spring, normal highs for daylight hours are expected to be around 3 degrees Celsius. Last year at this time ambient temperatures in the great out-of-doors were slightly below normal.

And this year? We've been treated, confronted with, puzzled by temperatures that in no way resemble normalcy. On one hand, it's a break from the wind, cold and snow we generally experience at this time of year. On the other, it's a manifestation of something gone somewhat berserk in our atmosphere; certainly cause for some level of concern. When we spoke with our younger son last night who lives in Vancouver, Canada's perennial warm spot, he informed us it was at that time, snowing. Although true to form, cherry blossoms were out.

And this year, in Ottawa? How does this look, then?

Skiers enjoy spring skiing at Camp Fortune in Gatineau Park on Sunday, March 18, 2012 with an unconfirmed record high of 24 C exceeding the 16 C of 1966. Photograph by: Pat McGrath , Ottawa Citizen

What is currently occurring in our atmosphere is unprecedented, truly bizarre. We are still officially in winter according to the calendar and in accord with what we see surrounding us. But we are baffled by the incredible warmth that has now flooded Eastern Ontario. Yesterday our temperatures rose to 20-degrees Celsius, and today will be even warmer, according to Environment Canada.

Early morning fog tells us of a profound temperature inversion taking place between night-time ambient temperatures and those that follow, with sunrise and the growing strength of the sun's warmth in our Northern latitude.

We are not accustomed to such wholesale temperature inversions. Suddenly being able to throw open our house windows, to go outside in shirt sleeves, to sit on the deck and be suffused with the warmth. Our little dogs have been profoundly affected; they continually beg to be allowed outside. This is how they usually behave in the spring, but it is far advanced of the calendar. True, we will be officially in early spring in another day or two, but this is truly unprecedented.

Our ravine walk yesterday was incredibly peculiar. Without jackets, having shed also our winter boots, and having placed our cleats over hiking boots we set out yesterday afternoon for the ravine. It was oppressively hot directly in the sun walking up the street to the ravine entrance. And then, pleasantly warm dipping into the ravine, shaded by the surrounding forest trees. Once we set out on the trails, some of them a half-foot thick in ice, it became icily frigid again.

Our bottom half felt consumed by cold, while our upper half imagined ourselves to be in a tropical environment. The ice that gained such a strong hold in the ravine over winter is not yet prepared to relent and allow itself to be removed by anything as inconvenient as warm temperatures. The cold given off by the ice, meeting the warmth of the prevailing environment, however, temporary, seems quite as though we are still in the depths of winter.

If this weather continues, as it is forecasted to for another week the ice will have little option, but to depart. Because yesterday was Sunday, we came across teens (unusual for any Sunday) making their way through the trails, slipping and sliding and whooping with excitement, a trail of marijuana odour in their wake.

The weather has resuscitated humans and the birds and small animals that make their home in the ravine; they were everywhere, rejoicing, revelling in the freedom from oppressive cold and miserable winds in amazingly altered climatic conditions, brief though it may be.

What a combination; a grandfather and a granddaughter. What's a grandfather to do when tring to imagine what might most please a young girl mid-way between her childhood and adulthood, other than to take her shopping? Grandmother was busy in the kitchen, preparing bread dough, chicken soup, a raspberry cheesecake, and chose not to accompany them.

It's not that granddaughter specifically asked for anything remotely like a shopping expedition for new clothing. But when the offer was proffered why would she demur? She prepared herself for the outing in record time. Off they went, giving the stay-at-home one hugs and ample time to do the baking and cooking and clean-up for the morning.

And then, where were they?
Well, they were there, with grandfather patiently watching as granddaughter considered items then impulsively placed them in the shopping cart. She would hold up an item, cock her head, place it against herself, and ask her grandfather what did he think. What could he think? Anything and everything was enhanced held up against the youthful glory of his grandchild.

When she declared herself to have completed the search, she looked at her grandfather who was totting up the results. He didn't turn pale, not one bit, but he did recommend that some of the treasures be returned to the tables and racks, and granddaughter complied without murmur. Taking what remained to the dressing rooms where again he waited compliantly.

When they returned home granddaughter was anxious to show grandmother everything. One item after another excitedly extracted from the capacious, colourful bag she had been given to haul her loot home in. There were belts, filmy scarves, handbags, jackets and shirts. Each one colourful, fashionable and quite lovely.

Grandmother flinched only slightly when she had seen the size of the carry-bag and imagined what nestled inside. And, needless to say, the cost involved.

It was, after all, March break, a special interlude when school is out and students take a break, some going off with their parents to Florida, Mexico, Cuba, Costa Rica. This student came to visit with her grandparents. To share time and space, and companionship.