Ah, the rewards that can be gathered from the unexpected.  As, for example, deciding at the break of dawn to descend from warm sleep in our comfortable bed, two floors below to the freezer in the basement, to take out a different type of bread for breakfast.  The full brightness of the morning not yet in its complete glory, but sufficiently so to pause for a moment before the front door with its large clear glass panel to look out onto the gardens in front.

And there, oh my, to see a small and very live object on the front lawn, doubtless nibbling away at clover in the grass.  An especial treat in the early morning, to be complemented by the song of the robins and cardinals as they greet the dawn.  That is the reward.

The penalty resides in the unfortunate circumstances of having descended in the same garb worn throughout the night's sleeping hours abed, sans bottom.  Although the front door is nicely concealed by the various trees growing in front of our home, and the public road is a discreet distance from the concealing gardens, who knows who might drop by unexpectedly, even at that hour?

Or, as it might happen, an unsuspecting neighbour opening his own front door and witnessing the unfortunate spectacle of an elderly man with light top, and nothing to cover his dangling bits?  Therefore, the photos had to be taken through the font door window, and were not, as a result, particularly clear.  But there can nonetheless be seen the image of a small brown wild rabbit, a welcome visitor from time to time, sharing the landscape of its natural inheritance with us.

Very early yesterday morning it was evident it would be a hot and muggy day.  There was the usual weather report following the morning radio news on the hour and in the morning newspapers.  So we knew we were in for another day of oppressive heat when we set off under clear blue skies and entered the ravine, where we found some respite from the glaring sun under the forest's canopy.

A nice, gentle breeze ruffled the undergrowth and the trees as well, bringing further relief from the heat-infused moisture that suffused the environment.  Mosquitoes were rejoicing; perfect conditions for them, the heat had not yet wreaked its damage upon them after a series of overnight thunderstorms, and they lit hungrily on any exposed skin they could find.

We enjoyed the walk, as we usually do, noting that the dogwood blossoms had quickly turned rusty, signalling the end of their bloom season, and the black cherry trees had developed the initial stages of fruit from their completed blossom stage.

In the distant, there was the low rumble of an airplane flying over.  And then, some while later, as we ambled along clambering uphill, repeat rumbles with some distance between them, strongly resembling thunder, despite that the portions of the sky we could glimpse through the canopy was blue-blue-blue and sunlight was streaming relentlessly through the interstices of the canopy.

As we progressed, the rumbles grew more frequently insistent and certainly louder, definitely announcing the imminence of a storm, despite that the sky still looked blue, and sunlight continued to beam its lightness everywhere we looked, transforming leaves into bright shimmering pale green transparencies.

And then, a hint of what was to come, as we could espie ragged washrags of grey clouds on the distant horizon, accompanied by louder rumblings and grumblings from above.

Then we realized that the sunlight had just about vanished, and the sky was becoming a uniform, washed-out grey colour, inspiring us to pick up our speed to some notable degree.  By that time we had almost completed our usual hour-long circuit in the ravine.  Continual and very close rumblings convinced us that we would prefer to witness the storm in action from the dry comfort of home, and we made a determined effort to pick up our pace.

As we exited the trailhead to the ravine onto the street, the sky above bore no resemblance whatever to the one we had noted as we entered that same trailhead, an hour or so earlier.  And, as we made our way up the driveway to our house, the big, fat drops began to descend in earnest.  And the deep, bass notes of the storm were music to our ears.

For the first five or six years after we had planted the holly, the rhododendrons, the Japanese maple, the azaleas, the magnolia in our gardens, we were careful, in late fall, to wrap them in winter garden blankets to keep them safe and secure as tender perennials, not native to this country and certainly not able to normally survive our intemperate winter zone. 

We stopped doing that four years ago.  We decided it was time for them to survive on their own.  That they had grown sufficiently mature and hardy in our micro-climate, to have finally adjusted, acclimatized to harsh winters and the freeze-and-thaw cycle that is inevitable in Canada, particularly in the Ottawa Valley.

They obligingly survived.  And each spring they burst out in a riot of colour, pleasing us no end.  Each of these ornamental trees and shrubs has their season for blooming, and when they do, it's an enchanting spectacle. 

Never quite lasting long enough; their blooms seem so ephemeral and in a sense, they are.  We must appreciate them while they bloom, as long as they last, and we do.

Quite apart from the usual pleasure of strolling through the ravine on a lovely spring day, we were gifted with two additional episodes that rendered especial enjoyment during our walk.  We always look out for Stumpy, the little tailless squirrel we've been happily acquainted with for years.  His audacious and sweet personality makes him our favourite among the squirrel population.

We never know where he'll pop up, to run up to us from sometimes surprising distances at an amazing clip of speed to ask for his daily treat.  We consider it a daily treat, certain that there are many instances where we may have already passed by an area, where he discovers peanuts already sitting there, awaiting his pleasure.  When there are yet none, he invariably tracks our progress and turns to us directly to amend the oversight.  Occasionally, he would do this repeatedly, throughout the length of our hour's ramble.

We save the largest peanuts for him.

And yesterday, there he was, surprising us with his sudden pop-up, along a part of the trail that we associate with large beeches, yew growing on the hillsides and Jack-in-the-Pulpits in their brief season.

A half-hour later a tiny bundle of energetic fur buzzed up a hill and espying us, ripped over directly toward us.  Yorkshire terriers are very small creatures to begin with, and this one was only twelve weeks old, curious about everything surrounding it in this strange and exciting world she was so recently introduced into.  She was a perpetual motion machine, a whirlwind of energy, an amazing presence, and an absolute delight to watch.

Nostalgia and sentiment filter through our subconscious as our wedding anniversary date draws ever closer.  In fact, it has succeeded in just about the arrival point.  That point at which, at the age of 18, we were (finally!)  joined in matrimony, in wedlock, to spend the entirety of our lives together, fulfilling a desire we had pledged to one another years earlier. 

How that for early-age, late-state romance?

In just over a week we will have been married for fifty-seven years.  Verily how time doth flee!  Is it only fifty-seven years?  Is it that long ago?  It seems like only yesterday, it seems like forever. 

It was, and it is.

Last night, when we were busy in the kitchen making a pizza for dinner, listening to "Randy's Vinyl Cafe" (Randy Bachman) on CBC radio, as we are wont to do, he played a recording of Fats Domino singing Blueberry Hill.  I stopped rolling out the bread dough, my husband suspended chopping the vegetables, and we clasped one another to dance to the rhythm and music of a tune that had a memorable history for us.

Riley was puzzled, just as Button had always been, whenever we'd engage in these strange antics.  He nipped at our heels, threw back his head and howled, and then he emitted short, sharp little barks of annoyed irritation at the behaviour he found mysterious, beyond his ken.

But not beyond his experience.

We have always enjoyed the spectacle of thunderstorms.  The sound and the fury, the lashing of windows by heavy streaming rain, watching as rain gathered into swift puddles that swirled and eddied down the length of a street, the darkness that descends, the drama of it all.  I can recall, as a child, how wonderful it all seemed, not at all frightening, and likely that was because my father demonstrated to me how much he too enjoyed such symbols of nature's majesty.

Yesterday afternoon after the hurly-burly of the usual Friday's cleaning, cooking/baking, shopping, Riley and I were nestled comfortably together on the glider on our deck, he snoozing, me reading the newspapers.  We heard the lilting loveliness of the cardinal celebrating life in spring, and breathed the heady perform of lilacs coming into their own. 

And then we heard the far-off rumble of thunder in the remote distance, promising to drop by for a visit.  Environment Canada had issued a violent thunderstorm alert for the afternoon, so this was hardly surprising, although the sun was still warm and visible.  Neither Button nor Riley ever evinced anything remotely resembling alarm in the midst of a violent thunderstorm.  Not even when we've been caught out while one was occurring.  Just another manifestation of nature doing what she does.

We moved into the house after another half-hour of awaiting the arrival of the storm, when the blue of the sky had evolved to dark grey thunderheads, and the claps became sharper and closer with regularity.  It's like welcoming an old friend, actually, whose excesses of humour one forgives because the friend brings so much in the way of companionship.

The rain is like that; it kisses the parched earth and brings to life, nurturing all growing things.  And it invariably breaks the gasping hold of heat waves.  This storm, like so many others, was welcome. 

We've experienced storms like this while paddling our canoe in the middle of a broad lake, having to hastily pull in to shore and seek shelter under our upturned canoe.  We've watched a storm unfold while alpine camping high on a mountain side in British Columbia, finding shelter then inside our tent.  Similarly while camping in Algonquin Park.  A thunderstorm that hit suddenly kept us from making the summit of a mountain in New Hampshire when we were but ten minutes from the top.  We shivered and sheltered ourselves in our tent while circuiting the Bowron Lakes in B.C.

A young couple in Ottawa yesterday was not quite so fortunate.  They were bicycling together when the storm struck and they sought shelter under a tree.  Unfortunately that particular tree was hit by lightning.  The young man was taken by paramedics to hospital, in serious condition.

The little weekly brain-teaser that generally assails me of a Friday morning resulted in a decision to return to baking a special treat I hadn't prepared in many years.  When the children were young I often made "butterfly cupcakes", an especial favourite of theirs.

So, this morning, after breakfast, after we had slowly and enjoyably walked through the gardens, performing a a few little garden tasks as we proceeded, I set about preparing to bake our Friday-evening dessert treat.  A simple white-cake recipe is quick work to whip up, consisting of granulated sugar, Becel margarine, two eggs, cup and a quarter of cake and pastry flour, tsp. baking powder, dash of salt, and two tablespoons of milk.

Popped into the counter-top convection oven on this very hot day, the cupcakes baked in no time, and the kitchen was spared becoming over-heated.  Then it was a simple matter to wait until they cooled enough to slice off the tops.  I had earlier mixed together sugar, cornstarch, a little cranberry juice and a cup and a half of frozen raspberries, for a thick raspberry sauce, slowly cooking it to a glazed and thick consistency.

When the cupcakes were cool enough, I sliced off the tops and ladled the raspberry sauce over the remaining cupcake tops, then covered the cut-off tops with plain vanilla icing (Becel, icing sugar, vanilla flavouring, dash of cream) and cut those tops equally in half.

The cut tops were then placed back on top of the cupcakes, with the halves cantered to resemble wings, and voila! there were our butterfly cupcakes for dessert.

From an early spring period during which, despite the appearance of bright little spring bulbs flowering bravely, when the garden looked as though it was still struggling to recover from the depredations of snow and ice and deep freezes, it has now recovered into the season, as though miraculously, giving full promise of what is yet to come.

The perennials have sprung to life, seemingly overnight.  Warm temperatures and a spate of truly heat-crazed days, interspersed with generous rain has awakened even the most reluctant of plants to display themselves in their full springtime glory.  And more, much more to appear given the fullness of the season unfolding.

The gardens have sprung to life in many other ways, as well.  As the architecture of the growing perennials begin to achieve their heights and form, there is the addition of the fragrance that envelopes the area accompanying the blossoming bodies of colour and luscious presence.

And there is movement, as well, not only the breezes that waft the perfume of lilac, flowering crabs and lily-of-the-valley abroad, but the flight of a multitudinous fleet of bees and moths, butterflies and birds.  Their whirring wings and delightful songs enliven the atmosphere to arouse all of our senses and emotions to the season of recovery and brilliant beauty.

And we are so besotted with our little slice of Eden, that we have once again resumed an old ritual, of perambulating about the gardens as a post-breakfast morning treat.

No let-up in yesterday's rain, but that was all right, since we badly needed rain.  Everything had become too dry, we've had a series of extraordinarily hot days.  Too hot to do much of anything, but requiring the avid gardener to ensure that vulnerable, newly-planted annuals and those placed in garden pots didn't dry out and expire.

Despite the rain, and perhaps in defiance of it, and given the fact that the newly-burgeoned canopy in the ravine does provide some protection against the elements, we set off, suitably garbed, to challenge the rain and have our usual daily ravine ramble, regardless.

It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last we would embark on a woodland walk in the face of rain.

The drenched landscape took on an emerald hue, as though we had been dropped into a perfectly green world, brilliant and bright, despite the enveloping dark gloom above with the rain continuing to pound down, but not particularly upon us.  Riley's little raincoat kept him nice and dry, so that was all to the good, as well.  The cooler temperatures that prevailed, albeit sultry, represented a refreshing change from a week of heat.

But the heat that had prostrated the mosquito population, now giving way to the moist conditions beloved of those blood-sucking pests had benefited them hugely.  The large areas of standing water inviting the mosquitoes to lay their eggs, and the squirming mass of larvae to mature quickly into swarms of exceedingly nasty predators that did their best to feast on what little exposed flesh they could find.

Fortunately for Riley, mosquitoes don't seem to enjoy the hormones he exudes as an odour that seems to repel them.  Selfish little brute, he refuses to share the formula with us.

Some relief from the heat wave that has struck this area, with a high of 33-degrees Celsius on Saturday, and almost as hot on Sunday, following Friday's simmering heat.  This day the high is set for 20 degrees, quite a difference.  And last night's heavy, constant rainfall was most welcome.

We're into the garden's spring succession of flowering perennials.  There's more, plenty more to come, but the munificently gorgeous magnolia blossoms are still on the trees, joined now by the flowering crabs, now in full bloom.

Everything, when we ventured out this morning after breakfast, is covered with a generous layer of dew-like drops.  There is a transcendental quality to all growing, blooming, blossoming creatures of the garden.

From the flowering peas, to the holly, the Japanese quince with its bright orange blooms, the tree peonies with their luscious, large flowerheads, and the spirea with its delicate, dainty clusters of lacy white, and the heady fragrance of the newly-flowering lilies-of-the-valley, the garden has been transformed.

The re-awakening of life springing from the winter-bound soil lifts our spirits as it cannot help but do, as we look forward to other, additional and ongoing revelations throughout the growing season, bringing colourful cheer, suspense and awe to the gardener's heart.

A week ago who might have imagined the Victoria Day week-end would result in a heat wave?  We've been enjoying staggering under incredibly hot weather for this time of year.  Quite unexpected. But then, living in the Ottawa Valley unexpected weather conditions are the norm, if anything.

So, after all, it's just as well that we boldly took the initiative (nothing like in previous years, when in the fever to plant annuals well before the danger of night-time frost had passed, we would have to cover tender plants which we'd installed far too early when night after night of below-freezing conditions occurred) and did our planting a week ahead of 'schedule'.

'Schedule' being characterized by the 'home-free' signal of the traditional date of the late, great Queen Victoria's birthday, now celebrated as the universal birthday of Britain's monarchs, which we in the greater colonialist-past community acknowledge as a festive national occasion.

 

So a flurry of planting took place, with our assumption that all would be well, so close to the week-end n question, and unquestionably, danger of frost had passed, although that assumption is rather a reckless one in this northern climate.

No regrets, however, glad to say.  Eventually all the annuals planted in our many urns and pots placed at the front and the back of our home will fill in and present a glory of texture, form and colour, and our eagerness to pre-empt the occasion will have been justified.

And the fact is, as it happens, had we waited for the week-end to assume the planting ritual, another problem would have presented itself.  It is, unfortunately, too hot by half to plant without risking heat exhaustion both for the tender young flowering plants and those gardeners anxious to fulfill their covenant with nature.

Here we are, in May, still without a television set since August of last year, and not suffering for the lack of one, either.  The distraction of television with its peurile offerings offset by the occasional worthwhile program is no longer part of our home's entertainment features.

A small set has been retained for another feature, that of hooking it up to a DVD player.  Which we make use of, once a week on Saturdays, generally.  To view a film of our choosing.  And the last few weeks we've been entertained by viewing the first of a set of discs that our older son sent along to us.  The first season of the BBC-Masterpiece presentation of Sherlock: a new sleuth for the 21st Century.

In fact, we've been in possession of the discs for quite a while, and have only now decided to view them, for we harboured doubts that we would be the least bit interested in being entertained by what was, obviously, a current-day take-off of a classic set of mysteries written by that master of intellectual clues-interpretation, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  Particularly given the seasons previous to it produced by the BBC with that excellent actor, now deceased, Jeremy Brett, whose performances were outstanding.

But, then, we succumbed, decided to watch the first one, last week.  And, despite our initial misgivings, we were more than a little impressed by the production.  Benedict Cumberbatch gave a scintillating performance as Sherlock, and Martin Freeman as his "Dr. Watson", acted the perfect foil.

The offering we engaged ourselves in last Saturday turned out to be a mini-masterpiece of puckish, quirky acting with impeccable timing, an affectionate parody of the original freighted with delicious irony.  We enjoyed the initial offering (A Study In Pink) so much, we could hardly wait for the following week when we would view the one to follow.

What followed, unfortunately, was a far weaker version of the original, in The Great Game, the second of the three features.  It was well enough done, but seemed to lack the clever panache of the one we'd seen the week before.  We can only hope that the creators, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss were able to assemble their wit sufficiently to produce an improved segment in the third one, to follow.

As spring continues to mellow with warm and dry days beckoning us increasingly out of doors, the living spaces of our home increase accordingly.  Becoming more inviting, more infused with colour and brightness, and drawing us to enjoy the seasonal outdoor 'rooms' of our home.

We find it soothing and comfortable to take our relaxation out of doors.  Sitting on the deck, enjoying the quiet and privacy of an extension of our house.  Where light breezes caress us, the sweetly brilliant sound of robins and cardinals and song sparrows are the music that appear most appropriate to the occasion, and the fragrance of blooming fruit trees waft on the air.

A glance around our immediate surroundings rewards us with colour and texture, and the sight of bees, butterflies and beetles taking advantage in their very own natural manner to themselves take what they must from these seasonal occasions.

Working in the gardens to perform maintenance and the numberless little tasks that invite the gardener to engage in that most pleasurable of activities provides an additional measure of comfort and enjoyment in the season.  Anticipating the growth and bloom of perennials, the maturation of annuals and the blaze of the colour palette that will ensue as the seasons progress all conspire to make for deep satisfaction in life.

Since losing Button to the inevitable misfortune of old age, we have begun devoting more time to Riley.  It's not that he was ever neglected, far from it, but our immediate and constant attention was necessarily focused on Button's well-being, as a result of her growing elderly handicaps.

She was with us for an awfully long time, as our companion in just about everything we did.  Her presence in our lives pre-dated the arrival, sixteen years ago, of our grandchild, by well over three years.

Now that Button is gone, there is a huge vacuum where her presence once dominated everyday events of our lives.  It is a vacuum nothing can quite fill, but it will, given enough time, we're assured, become less painful, less acute, less enveloping. 

And now that we're focusing on Riley far more than we were able to, when Button was around and about, it seems to us that he is very quiet, very innocuous, quite undemanding.  Not that Button didn't share some of those traits.  I suppose that everything just seems rather quietly empty sometimes when we look around expecting to see Button and she just is no longer there.

He always seemed like a solemn, pensive little fellow.  And now he seems that way even more, although in all likelihood, that is likely a result of our over-active imagination, attributing to him emotions that reflect our own.  He doesn't seem to miss Button, there was no time we could see that he looked for her, felt puzzled at her absence, required reassurance.

Because of the large age gap when they first met and Button's total disinterest in the new little puppy we had brought into the household, there never seemed to have developed an emotional link; she never mentored him.  He had always attempted to ingratiate himself with her at first, but to no avail, and he finally simply regarded her as she did him; a presence in the house, nothing personal.

Riley loves his comforts.  Our presence is integral to that range of comforts.  He's a little glutton, or would be, if we allowed him to eat whatever he wanted.  He enjoys being physically comfortable, and the height of that physical comfort is attained when either one of us sits down somewhere to read, and he's able to access a spot tight next to us, where he can snooze.

Above all, little Riley is a sun dog, a sun worshipper, and never more content than when he can bask in the sun.  Rainy, overcast days are morose days for little Riley.

Another spring ritual attended to.  We may be a day or two out, but around mid-May we invariably visit the rurally-located Cleroux nursery to look around and make our floral selections for annuals to be planted, mostly in our wide variety of garden urns and pots, and some to be planted in our increasingly rare open spaces in our various gardens, front and back.

When were by on Saturday they hadn't yet received their shipment of begonias.  We made do with one of their thriving colourful hanging baskets to join several others previously acquired, and a few flats of lobelia, several tomato plants, basil and parsley, to join the flats of wave petunias and New Guinea impatiens we'd already acquired elsewhere.

And then, on Tuesday, off we went, back to have another look.  There were some begonia flats, but not the extensive choice we usually see there; obviously they must have had a run on these, our most favourite of all annual garden flowering plants, but we were assured there were greater numbers on the way. 

(Come fall, those we freshly purchased will join the dozens of other begonia bulbs that we always shake free of soil and overwinter in our basement in baskets, to be brought out the following spring for re-planting, most of them having already begun to sprout while in storage.)

Red, pink, white, orange and pink begonia flats made their way to our cart, along with impatiens, a dozen geraniums, quite mature dracaena, ivy and ipomoea as fillers.  Other garden pot fillers were acquired a day later, among them million bells and bacopa.

And I was ready to begin filling the garden pots!  Actually, I meant to fill only one or two large urns, one that stands on the porch, another at the top of our rock garden at the side of the house, just to get a start before the Victoria Day week-end coming up, the traditional date at which it is deemed safe from frosts to install tender annuals.

Ah, what happened was a frenzy of planting, as I started and then found myself unwilling to stop.  Not all done completely, just the major transference of floral offerings from flats to urns, but a heaping big start; the rest will be the icing on the cake.

  

With warmer seasonal weather comes the need to alter meal-preparation patterns to reflect the different types of food-sets that appear more appropriate to the season and prevailing temperatures.  Yesterday turned out, like the days previous to it, warm and sunny.  So I thought: why not a potato salad for dinner?  And then proceeded to prepare it.

I used Yukon Gold potatoes and hard-cooked two eggs alongside the potatoes, slipping them into the pot when the potatoes were almost done.  The cooled potatoes were cubed, fresh parsley, chopped celery and green onions were tossed in with the potatoes, and then the dressing prepared.  A touch of sugar, salt and plenty of pepper, white balsamic vinegar, olive oil and mayonnaise went into the dressing.

A dollop of that dressing was used when I scooped out the yolks from the halved cooked eggs, and Tumeric was added to the dressing as well, at that point, but only to mix up the yolks which were then spooned back into the egg-white shells for devilled eggs.

A can of Sockeye salmon was forked over with a slight bit of dressing.  And then the salmon was spooned into the centre of the prepared potato salad which itself was placed in a large salad serving bowl that had been lined with shredded Romaine lettuce leaves.  Around it I placed sliced cocktail tomatoes, and finally the eggs.

Dinner was prepared!  Covered with Saran wrap and placed into the refrigerator to be removed just before serving.  Fresh blueberries served on plain yogurt completed the meal; refreshing and nutritious.  Just what was needed after an afternoon of gardening...

There now, the many and varied urns and garden pots at the front of the house have been filled with the usual mixture of garden-grade soil, peat moss and sheep manure.  I have only to dust them liberally with bloodmeal, and then set to the task of artistically arranging suitable annuals into them, to grow and become a colourful display for our enjoyment throughout the spring, summer and fall months. 

Fuschia, geraniums, lobelia, cascading petunias and above all our very favourite, ever-blooming tuberous begonias will tumble out of the pots once they grow into their robust summer foliage and bloom.  This will be as good a day as any to drop by our favourite garden centre to see if they've yet received their shipment of begonias.  And this week-end, Victoria Day week-end, marks the usual 'safety' marker for the planting of annuals in this weather zone.

The dozen and more garden pots in the backyard are also now being filled, and into them I will pop the begonia bulbs and ipomoea roots in their dozens that I have accumulated over the years and shelter over-winter in the basement, to bloom again another year.