Hot and humid.  That is what greeted us the first four days of our week away in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  I had checked the ten-day forecast for the Waterville Valley only a few days before our departure and at that point there was no hint whatever of the record-breaking temperatures awaiting the residents and visitors of that geologically remarkable area in the next few days.

The forecast optimistically predicted cool weather with occasional rain.  No whimsy; an educated, theoretical estimation based on previous years' weather occurrences at roughly the same time of year.  But that is not what occurred.  When we had visited a month later last year with our granddaughter we had been similarly greeted with steamy hot conditions; these were somewhat worse.

Even knowing that in advance, we would not have changed our plans.  We're committed to returning year after year, to be temporarily within the grand magnificence of nature in the raw.  It wins hands down for us when compared to the western Rockies where we've also climbed and done alpine camping.  That scenery is awesomely magnificent, but stark and raw in a way that the more modest White Mountains are not.

We prefer them to the Great Smokies where we have also done our share of mountain climbing, and the Adirondacks which were grand, but not comparable.  And the mountains and trails surrounding Tokyo and its distant environs were different, and enjoyable, but nothing near to comparison.  Reason enough to return year after year.

The heat, between 95 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit ensured we would not make any snap decisions to undertake climbs that would be certain to exhaust our abilities to endure long and difficult climbs, so we contented ourselves with quite modest ones, enjoying the cool shade of the forest canopy and the sound of rushing water as mountain streams made their way downstream.

Forty years ago, when our children were young, no summer would be complete without a week's stay in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  We would rent a housekeeping cottage, sometimes one on a lake that would feature loons, great blue herons, and boat around the lake, swim in it, take nature trails and thoroughly enjoy our close commune with nature.

As the children became older we became bolder and began to explore the mountain trails in the Presidential Range, gradually becoming accustomed to long hours of uphill climbing to finally reach a summit and look out on the mountain range laid out before us, one mountain top after another, the sky looming large above.

And then there were tamer, far more accessible places where little-to-no energy output was required to enable us to view nature's infinite grandeur and beauty at close scale.  Like Sabbaday Falls off the Kancamagus highway, between Lincoln and Conway, at Albany, New Hampshire.  This is a site not to be missed.  With little effort one walks alongside Sabbaday brook on a wide, well-travelled trail that takes the traveller to the gorge and a series of stairways leading to wonderful views of this powerful and lovely fall.

This time around, it was one of the places we returned to with memory guiding us.  It has changed quite a bit since we first observed it so many years ago.  Not the elemental geological features of the falls itself, nor its surrounds, but the access points that have been thoughtfully built around it to enable people to view it at closer range through a series of rough log stairs and open fencework.

Little wonder early settlers in the area used to congregate at the falls after church attendance, to share with one another this awesome spectacle of nature's beauty.

The spectacular views of nature's primal creations take no effort and are worth planning for.

It was good to get away for a week, despite my initial reluctance.  He won me over, he always does.  And so, off we went to the Waterville Valley of New Hampshire.  Re-visiting some of the trails we've been long accustomed to hiking through.  No longer embarking on the mountain climbs themselves, an activity that originally brought us to the White Mountains decades and decades ago, when our children were in their teens.  At 75 years of age my energy level and endurance for physical exertion no longer remotely resembles what I was capable of, even not so long ago.  My husband's physical capacity remains relatively intact, mine infinitely less so.

So there we were, on pleasant excursions to familiar places.  And there she was, a small black-ghostly figure, flitting about among the trees as she so often did, in the almost twenty years that she was our companion in that setting, as in the rest of our lives, during her time with us. 

  

She climbed so many mountains with us, from Mount Clinton to Little Haystack, Eisenhower to Mount Mousilauke and finally, when we could no longer manage those heights, repeated annual climbs to the twins, Welsh-Dickey.

When Riley was added to our little family compact we were reduced to more modest climbs, and there was no lack of enjoyment for all of us.  And then, eventually, when our granddaughter reached her teens, she too joined us in our mountain perambulations on a number of occasions.  But with us always was Button, through the years.

Last night, two days after we had returned home from the trip, I had a peculiar dream.  I was somewhere unfamiliar, and Riley was with me, my husband off somewhere, and we were awaiting his presence.  Looking out a window I saw someone walking by holding a small black dog, and it was Button.  I ran out after the person, desperately pleading with him to surrender her to me. 

I expressed my tearful gratitude to him as he handed her to me, and ran off with her, to await my husband's arrival, anxious to show him that she had returned to us.

Montreal was a pain to traverse as usual last Tuesday morning, but the drive to the cottage we had rented in New Hampshire was pleasant otherwise, under lowering dark clouds.  And then we reached the Derby Line border, saw there were a surprising number of vehicles waiting to get past border security, and my husband made the choice to go with the middle line-up.

Never one to suffer from indecision, he made a snap judgement, barely reason to even think of it, driving into the line-up, all three of which seemed to host a similar number of waiting vehicles.  And then, we waited our turn.  Giving us ample opportunity to witness which of the lines were moving expeditiously, and ours was not.  Obviously, the border agent was taking his time with each of the cars he motioned to move forward, while on either side of us, the line of cars stopped briefly and then swiftly re-commenced their journies.

When we eventually made it to his station, he accepted our passports for scrutiny, asked what's this? when he was handed the card from the veterinarian clinic testifying that Riley had all his shots.  Brusquely informed my husband his hat was to be removed, closely scrutinized our passport photos, returned them, and began questioning us. 

Earlier, we'd watched as the car directly before us had been halted interminably, the occupants questioned, orders obviously given for the trunk of the car to be lifted, watched as he went around back of the vehicle to rummage about, watched as the driver, a young man with long hair exited his car, did a comical little jig of sheer frustration, raising his arms to the heavens, appearing to tear his hair, eventually joined the border officer at the back of the car, seemed to expostulate, and finally resumed his place behind the wheel as they were permitted to leave.

We had been given due warning.  After all the other routine questions and clarifications, the one that asked whether we had any fruits and vegetables we were transporting.  We had a freezer chest on the back seat - we don't travel light, and in it were a few items, mostly perishables that wouldn't have lasted the week in our home refrigerator, so we had taken a few salad vegetables along with us.  Also in the freezer chest was a small, neat little zip-cooler-bag I'd packed a brunch in, to enjoy a mile distant from the crossing at a State of Vermont hospitality and tourism spot.  It contained two bananas, two clementines, two sandwiches, two napkins and hand-wipes.  One thermos of coffee, the other of tea.

He flipped up the lid of the freezer chest, pulled out the little cooler bag and unzipped it.  That's our brunch! I wailed, there are clementines in it we plan to eat within ten minutes!  Clementines, is it, he responded, locating them, withdrawing the plastic bag containing those small orange orbs, and depositing them directly in the garbage bin beside his glassed-in hut.  I could, he confided, hunkering down beside our open window, a tall young man in uniform, with authority and confidence in his wryly insincere smile, fine you $600 instead.

Quite the initiation to our week away in New Hampshire, enjoying the hospitality of our American neighbours.

After having hooted us derisively for so long, the great barred owl we've been searching the woods to see has finally decided to make himself available to our scrutiny.  As in years past, the male bird has begun perching on what appears to be a favourite branch of a favoured tree sitting over the main branch of the creek down in the ravine.  So that now, when we pass by that way, to automatically look up to see him perched there.  Often, he swivels his great head to appraise us, in our passing. 

With hot weather having descended, it has become dry and hot in the ravine too, although not nearly as hot as out on the street.  In the ravine, the forest maintains a steady, cool temperature, helped by the lofty green canopy above and the breeze that appears to have made its home in there of late.  The breeze helps to keep the mosquito population down, and the butterflies seem to think it's just right for their aerial displays.  We hear the pair of hawks circling above where they usually nest, year after year, though we've never seen their nest, much less the owls'.

Buttercups and daisies are in bright display, along with cowvetch, fleabane and hawkweed, all there in abundance, on the forest floor and the edge of the woods, providing a colourful display of wildflowers.  The bright red candles of the sumac have already begun to develop, as have the haws of the many hawthorn trees.  The bedding grasses have reached maturity and have begun to flower, releasing their heady perfume on the atmosphere.

It is a much-appreciated privilege for us to have such quick and easy access to the ravine, adding considerably to the pleasure of our everyday lives.

Last night we watched a film we'd never heard of. It was titled the War at Home. And little did we know it, but in selecting it out of a bin of films at the Salvation Army thrift shop we were in the process of bring home an outstanding film, powerfully motivated and superbly acted.

Produced in 1996, the cast was outstanding. The story of a middle-class family emotionally rent asunder at the return of their Vietnam-war veteran son.  His mind shattered by his experiences in the theatre of war.  Overwhelmed by guilt and raging anger, the film unfolds as the family undergoes further disintegration.

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There is no peace of mind for the young man, his expectations for the future are completely dashed, he cannot live with his memories, his mind is continually haunted by the fearsome experiences of bombardments, mutilations, deaths.  Deaths he witnessed, a death he caused, and the death of his own psyche.


We watch the pain, foreboding, confusion and rejection playing out on the screen,in a demonstration of love, anger, compassion and denouement.


Little wonder we'd never heard of the film; it cannot have represented anything remotely like the usual Hollywood box-office hit.

Five or six years ago we bought our first cellphone.  In all, we likely used it a total of one call a month.  It was extraneous to our needs, but we thought it might be a good idea to have one, for those times when we were away from home and needed to make a call.  Even so, it was hardly used.  We traded it in for another when we thought texting might be a good alternative for those times when we were out-of-country for maintaining contact at low cost.

At that time, although I'm no Luddite, I couldn't figure out how to perform the texting operation using the puzzling, inadequate, incomplete and absurd instructions that came with the Samsung model we were in possession of.  I asked a twelve-year-old neighbour if he could figure it out and it took him all of ten seconds, carefully writing down the instructions for me.  That was two years ago; after having used it to text-message while we were away on holidays, I never used it again, for anything, other than, during that period, for roughly two outgoing telephone calls.

I latterly picked up the poor unused thing and consulting the instruction booklet again - for I'd in the interim discarded the beautifully printed instructions our 12-year-old neighbour had given me - discovered it was as dense, opaque and useless as I had thought it to be two years back.  Another neighbourhood youngster came to the rescue, and sat patiently with me at the kitchen table putting me through the steps required to enable me to send and receive text.

This time I resolved to never discard the instructions that he too took pains to write out for me in lovely detail.

Never a more perfect time for a stroll in the gardens, we thought to ourselves this morning, and then expressing that mutual thought, off we set, leaving the breakfast dishes sitting on the table, slipping out the patio doors from the breakfast room to the deck and from there, down to the backyard gardens.

A lovely, cool morning with the bluest of skies above, the sun sharpening its rays to their fiercest plant-enhancing nourishment, we sauntered about remarking on what was new and developing and what was regretfully past maturity.  Riley, who was basking in the sun's warmth before the heat of the day descends, trotted along behind us, keeping his opinion to himself.

There is colour everywhere we look, and shades of green from lime to deep emerald, nature's sigh of summertime contentment.

As we stroll about, we automatically check the potted miniature gardens for moisture content, note which plants could use a little snip here and there, and those that could use the assistance of a tie-up.  We spend far more time ambling about exclaiming at the unexpected than we actually imagine.  And, in fact, it's difficult often to tear ourselves away.

We don't usually put mosquito repellent on when we embark on one of our ravine walks, preferring to take other measures equally practical and useful at keeping those pests at bay. Like covering up with light, white clothing. For some peculiar reason our little toy poodle seems immune to their predations, they are never seen to bother him.  It might be a combination of his light apricot coloured coat, and the hormones he exudes.

In contrast, our beloved little black miniature poodle, a female, was constantly besieged by mosquitoes and any other blood-sucking irritants that are common to the season.  We acquired organic-based repellent that we used for her on the rare occasion, otherwise we mechanically whooshed them away from her, but they would surround and follow her nonetheless.

During yesterday's ravine walk they were out in full force.  To stop momentarily to examine something at closer range and discuss it, or come across an acquaintance and stop briefly to talk is to invite the noxious miseries to feast upon you.  We did stop on several occasions; both because we came across other trail walkers, but once because we happened to espie the elusive barred owl we've been looking to locate for so long, whose provocative calls keep us on the lookout.

There he was, sitting on a fairly low branch of a tree leaning over the main channel of the ravine's creek.  Unperturbed by our presence as usual, just seeming to enjoy himself, the sun glancing off him, the waters below whirling muddily from the heavy rain of the day before.  A picture of calm and sedate enjoyment with life.

 

We know his mate is nesting nearby, but have not yet been successful in locating the whereabouts of that nest, nor the fledgling located within it.  With luck, we may find an occasion when we see them all together, or one of the adults alongside their young one, as we did last year.

It's the seemingly innocuous little things that happen that sometimes causes one to stop and think.    Do we ever think of the life-force, the will to live and survive inherent in tiny creatures that surround us?  I did, last night, because of a fleeting instant of observing a small bug trying to evade danger.

As we were closing up the downstairs last night preparatory to hieing ourselves upstairs to bed, at a truly too-late hour, my eye was caught by a sudden movement, something small and black, at the base of the Japanese Buddhist shrine that sits near the entranceway between our family room and the kitchen.

Like most of my gender, I view the appearance of any kind of insect life inside our house with great repugnance.  I had grabbed for my eyeglasses and identified the tiny creature as a sowbug, often seen outside, and the most inoffensive of nature's insects.  They have a propensity to curl themselves into a self-protective ball when trying to evade detection.  This one was leisurely making its way around the perimeter of the base of that piece of furniture.

It isn't all that far from where it was to the sliding glass doors in the breakfast room.  I obtained a tissue and with little confidence but much determination attempted to pick it up gently to cause it no physical harm, but it evaded me time and again, now in a frantic bid to escape capture.  I did, however, pick it up, and holding it loosely panicked as it too panicked and began to run all around the tissue.

Absurdly, I became agitated at the thought of it running onto my hand and up my arm, to disappear into the crevices of my clothing, a thought that came instantly to mind and caused me no little degree of alarm, so I burst out with a loud expletive, alerting my husband to something going awry, causing him anxiety as he excitedly asked what was wrong.

By this time I had reached the glass doors, slide one open and released the tiny creature to its natural environment, much relieved that the operation had been concluded with success.  A large mammal that I represent, with not much common sense when it comes to interaction with the other, far more numerous creatures of this Earth; the tiny creature exerting its will to action in a bid to survive.

When we were young parents we lived in fear of financial difficulties, because our financial status was that of genteel poverty.  We had to continually balance expenses against the necessities that compelled us to carefully husband every penny that my husband, the sole wage-earner of our little family, brought home.  It was a balancing act fraught with constant anxiety.

Yet, for the time, we were comparatively well settled, as parents of three infants by the time we were both 26.  We had been married, by then, for eight years.  In that time, we had saved what we were able to, while renting a small upstairs flat of bedroom and kitchen in the home of another family, sharing the bathroom with another renter of a single room, and with the family who lived below.

That saving enabled us after having been married for just over two years, to place a modest down-payment on a modest attached bungalow located north of the city, which meant we both commuted daily to our respective places of employment, downtown.  Two years later we became parents for the first time, and two other babies succeeded in rounding out our little family.  My husband, at that time, earned $2,500 annually.

We somehow eked out enough to pay for a first and a second mortgage, clothing for the children, food for our table, with an emphasis on whole foods; convenience foods then as a consumer phenomenon was just in its infancy, expensive and as far as we were concerned, undesirable.  We had a regular dairy delivery to the house, with milk, eggs, butter and even bread deposited in a small doored receptacle at the side of the house.  If relatives gave the children a quarter when visiting, that money would be used to help pay the dairy bill, for we had no money to spare for anything.

All of that is history.  And it is in sharp contrast to the entitlements given at the present time to people that were absent in our day of raising a family.  Those on welfare, those considered to be poor, own coloured television sets, cellphones, computers and all manner of extraneous consumer items that society feels them to be entitled to, despite their poverty and dependence on the goodwill of society.

Yet we were extremely fortunate, and we felt fortunate for whatever we had and the manner in which we were enabled to manage however we could, despite the obvious deprivation we shared in many ways.  The quality of our lives, despite the difficulties, was good; we sought our entertainment in the natural environment, using the many municipal parks and developing conservation areas to fuel our recreational opportunities.  Museums, science and art galleries and picnic-and-park facilities were freely accessed.

Contrast that, what we might consider our economic penury with true economic deprivation so movingly and accurately described by Frank McCourt in his memoir, Angela's Ashes.  There, set out in tone-perfect prose is an accounting of an immigrant Irish family living in America during the Great Depression.  Helpless ignorance, poverty and human despair reigned equally.

Not everyone was helpless and ignorant, while being poor.  Descriptions abound in the book of those who helped themselves even during the times of high unemployment and human distress.  His family, however, had a mother who knew nothing of child nutrition and adequate care and cleanliness, let alone the most basic kind of conception treatments through which she might avoid yet another catastrophic pregnancy.  Ill-fed and -cared-for children were especially vulnerable to illness and death.

He describes a loving father closely emotionally attached to his children, but unable to discipline his love of liquor to maintain employment; a man who, despite his familial responsibilities would take his entire pay (when he had brief employment) and spend it in a night drinking at a local bar, leaving his helpless wife and their children to cope with hunger on their own.

The kind goodness of neighbours and shopkeepers helped keep them from utter starvation.  Which was more than could be said of their immediate families back in Ireland who, when they returned in desperation to the crucible of their memories, left them to flounder on their own; a mother unlearned in maternal skills, a father devoted to his drink.

That is poverty.  Poverty of the spirit above all.

There is now a handful of peanuts left from the fifty-pound bag we bought in mid-March.  And of course it's clear that at this time of year there is abundant food for the wildlife in the ravine.  They no longer are in need - if they ever indeed were - of the daily handout of peanuts we place here and there in a wide range of caches they've become well familiar with.

I've thought about it enough.  On the other hand I've become somewhat accustomed to taking along a bag of peanuts for dispersal on a daily basis, into the ravine with us when we embark on our walks.  The squirrels, chipmunks and crows - and whatever else takes advantage of them when we're not around to observe - have also become accustomed to our leavings.

Yesterday I decided, would be the first day of our not sprinkling the peanuts quite so liberally.  I would take along only a handful, to be given to those squirrels who boldly confront us, twitching their tails, approaching us directly, awaiting their due.  Only, it did not quite work out that way.

I was dismayed to watch as a crow walked behind us all the way down the hill.  I wondered, would he rush over if I threw a peanut at him, as the squirrels do?  But he panicked instead, flying off, to return to the middle of the descending trail in our wake, once again, waiting for me to deposit peanuts.  So I felt badly, disappointing the bird's anticipation.

And felt no better about not leaving peanuts in the usual places, watching as the squirrels began to rush about as they usually do, to retrieve them, finding nothing there for them, other than a few meagre little bits I'd placed, with a guilty conscience, in a number of discrete places along the trail.

Back to the more generous sprinklings of peanuts.  I cannot stand to watch the dismay elicited at the abrupt withdrawal of treats the little creatures have become accustomed to.

Stained glass is a wonderfully artistic medium.  The glass that is coloured and artfully designed to portray an image, a scene, a landscape, brings brilliant light into a room, flooding it with colour and lightness.  But there is also this about stained glass; while it conveys light in a most magnificent manner, it also conveys the heat that the light-energy from the sun carries with it.

And if windows exposed to sunlight are capable of exhibiting stained glass to optimum aesthetic effect, they are also capable of introducing heat, sometimes at a time when it is not particularly appreciated.  In the winter months that introduction of heat into a closed environment is a bonus.  In the summer months, obviously it is detrimental to comfort.

And then there is the not-inconsiderable matter of the sun's harmful UV rays, helpfully brought along by those bursts of brilliant light, so wonderful to behold, but shining day after day on the light-sensitive canvas of a painting, or even fabrics, has a sorely detrimental effect to their longevity.

So much as we were loath to do so, we found it an imperative to preserve the integrity of the paintings whose aesthetic we also value, by covering the stained glass with sheer draperies.  They work very well to reduce the heat transfer substantially, and to halt the incursion of those UV rays on the walls of our living room.

In the process, of necessity we lose the brilliance of the colour.  On the other hand, the sheers can be moved aside on cloudy days or in the winter months when the UV rays are far less capable of causing damage.  We think.

If weather - which is of such direct and immediate, let alone long-term importance to the lives of people - can said to be just about right, we should lay claims to that being the case right now, in the Ottawa Valley.  Perhaps people who dislike constant rain and thunderstorms might disagree, but since we have also been receiving our due share of dry conditions interspersed with the wet, and plenty of sunshine as well, it's as close to perfect a combination as is possible.

The gardens are thriving, and so are the woodlands.  There's no need to fret about constantly ensuring that hanging pots don't dry out; they have no opportunity to do so.  The birds are happy, and so is insect life, let alone all other creatures of the Earth.  There is an abundance of elemental conditions so necessary to the continuation of life, under quality circumstances.

As for us, it's as close to perfection as possible, to sit out on our deck, shaded from the sun beating down on the gardens, reading the newspapers, smiling at one another in contentment, looking around at the beauty surrounding us, and hearing, in the distance the unmistakable peal of approaching thunder.  The sun begins to weaken as it is gradually covered with a determined set of ever-darker clouds, and then dark descends and the claps of thunder draw nearer.

Then begins the patter of droplets above us on the canvas of the awning stretched over the deck, under which we sit.  In concert with the thunder we see the sky lit momentarily with the electrical strikes that follow, and the drops turn into a thunderous applause of heavy rain sloshing the atmosphere.

Do we make a mad dash for the interior of our house, hauling along our little dog, the newspapers, the glider cushions and ourselves?  Hardly, we sit out that storm and another that follows soon afterward, enjoying the tumult, the rage above us, the freshening of the wind and the comfortable din and dim as we placidly enjoy the celebration of nature's renewal and consider ourselves exceedingly fortunate.

Clearly the weather was turning.  After a day of sun and a completely dry atmosphere, we were being visited once again with an alternate weather system.  Nature is, if nothing else, a clockwork-mechanism.  We were obviously scheduled for yet another storm.  And on it came, the sky gradually becoming more and more dark.

On June 5, when the Transit of Venus occurred, there was a window of opportunity for those souls for whom the rare spectacle meant much.  http://www.cbc.ca/video/#/News/Canada/Saskatchewan/1304131310/ID=2242541826

But for us, not being in possession of either a sun telescope or a pair of special observing eyeglasses, it was a moot occasion.  We saw the photographs of the transit taking place, and it was obviously a special occasion for astronomy buffs, like our older son.

For us, on the other  hand, witnessing another thunderstorm oncoming, with the punctuated streaks of lightning and the responding claps of thunder, that was a spectacle we could appreciate and stand in awe of.  Far more accessible, and immediately engaging us, the phenomenon never fails to amaze and entertain us.

We stood in our backyard watching the approaching storm, listening to the oncoming fury, until the rain became too insistent, then, withdrawing, contented ourselves by removing to the front of the house to watch as our colourful gardens descended into darkness, engulfed by pouring rain.

The garden update for the day is a consensus of two that we are mightily pleased with its progress.  The climbing roses have initiated their June bloom, and the Icelandic poppies have opened their large, beautiful and blowsy blooms; the orange ones are lovely but the pink are hugely spectacular

The magenta-flowered rhododendron is just about finished its bloom, and in its place the bright pink one is in full, fresh flower.

The clematis vines are progressing not in concert with one another, but in their own inimitable way, some of them blooming, others preparing to bloom with large, luscious buds ready to open, while others are still lazily making their way up the trellises too busy growing to form flower buds for the moment.

In the backyard the mountain bluets are blooming, and the bearded irises and the Siberian ones as well.  The plantain lilies have assumed their full height and width, in all their sizes and colour combinations, filling in the garden landscape most satisfactorily.

The riot of texture, shadings and colour nuances please us enormously.  The little surprises that each day inevitably brings simply adds to the pleasure of our daily post-breakfast perambulations.

The work involved in caring for the garden, planning its aesthetic appeal, nudging it along, snipping back, tying up, staking, merely represents the caretaking aspect of the enterprise.  Its presentation as a living thing of glorious beauty is unsurpassed.

With the welcome and inevitable arrival of warmer weather and the presence of summer on our near horizon there's also a need to reconsider what we put on the dinner table.  Lighter fare becomes an intelligent alternative to the "comfort food" we tend to prepare for evening meals when cooler weather prevails.

With that in mind, I microwave-steamed cauliflower florets, baked a few medium-sized baked potatoes in the microwave, then set about putting together a summer salad.  Cubing the potatoes, adding the cauliflower, I chopped celery into them, snipped chives from the garden, then added a cup of cottage cheese, salt and pepper grated over all, and began gently mixing it all together, with a few dollops of sour cream.

A tin of Sockeye salmon, moistened with a few tablespoons of mayonnaise rounded out the protein base of the prepared dish, with sweet and tangy sliced cocktail tomatoes sitting alongside.  Presented on two of the pottery dinner plates that our younger son had most recently sent us, it looked appealing and tasted just as good.

We capped the meal with a still-warm-from-the-oven (toaster oven) raspberry crisp, and gave the meal a thumbs up for future reference.

The result of continuous days of drenching rain, cool weather and the consequent challenge to the surrounding soil to absorb it all, meant that the creek down in the bowels of the ravine was unable to restrain itself to its normal levels during springtime runoff.  The hillsides were a riot of bright-green, utterly soaked trees.  The weight of the drenching on branches and leaves resulted in both wrenching themselves from their host, and falling to litter the ground below.

The trails were deep in muck and in many surprising areas, standing pools of muddy water.

Two large, mature trees had succumbed to the burden they could no longer sustain.  A bass and a willow, both standing at disparate places on the banks of the creek had completely bowed over, to the extent that the branches of each extended and fell over to the opposite bank, obscuring the trail, necessitating that alternate routes be taken.

The creek's rushing-whirling dash downstream will subside as soon as the weather begins to clear and sun makes its appearance once again, warming the atmosphere and wind does its work, helping to dry the environment.

And buttercups have made their appearance, despite the deluge, brightening up the green appearance with their insouciant little faces turned toward the general aspect of where the sun should be.  Along with a veritable starry multitude of raspberry flowers, presaging a good harvest of those berries in the months ahead.

Yesterday's activities in this house included the installation of the final two stained glass panels of the living room windows. The day previous to that installation marked a feverish burst of activity to finalize the second of the two panels that were to be put in place to complete the exotic, colourful scene that now greets us every time we look into the room, or are seated there.

On Thursday the last few pieces of glass were put in place, completing the puzzlework of fitting the numbered pieces into place.  On Friday the soldering of the joints of the lead was completed.  And on Saturday the putty was mixed and then applied to both sides of the finished panel, to allow it to dry and harden into place awaiting inspection on Sunday.  Which was the day that the last two panels were installed.

The first panel had been started around mid-winter, and when it was completed, it was set aside to await the completion of the second panel, matching and facing the first.  And it was when the second of the two was finally done with that the work of installation was proceeded with.  The longest of our ladders set up in the living room to achieve that end.

And now, beauty gleams incandescent with bright colour from the entire set of living room windows.  Glowing and changing in intensity and shading in reaction to the light that streams behind it from the out-of-doors. 

How strange life is.  When we were young the technological advance of transistor radios represented a huge break-through into modern communications and mass entertainment.  Fans of science fiction might have read some leap of the imagination conjuring up the absurdly impossible supposition that one day in the not-too-distant future human beings would be able to communicate as though magically, through something called cyber-space.

But that is precisely what has occurred; the hard-to-imagine become reality.  Back then, when we were teens, communication was strictly conducted at a remove by mail or by telephone or telegraph.  Now, we can reach out to one another through great physical distances, instantly with the use of the Internet.

And through its magic we were able to make contact with friends we hadn't seen nor heard of in almost 60 years.  For me, a close girlfriend with whom I'd lost touch long ago.  Communicating with her by email led me to other friends upon whom at one time I relied for companionship and friendship.  One of them we were close to until that time she became a young mother, and shortly afterward, so did I.

The physical distance of living at opposite ends of a large, populous and traffic-busy city, along with the pressing requirements of looking after very young children created an eventual distance between us and we simply lost touch.  That old childhood friend isn't comfortable with the Internet or the use of computers, and with her, and another, old-fashioned, mailed letters were exchanged.

In one of which we received neatly packaged a handful of old photographs of ourselves, my husband me as young adults still in our mid-teens, we had no idea even existed.

We'd had an enjoyable, relaxing walk in the ravine as usual, and made our way onto the street, then strolled down toward our house.  In the near distance we could see a handful of neighbours gathered on the front lawn of one of our good-neighbour friends, chatting animatedly.  When we reached the point where we were opposite them on the street, one walked down to greet us.

With the rather disconcertingly puzzling news that "our good friends" had dropped by, waited awhile, got out of their vehicle, looked around, decided not to await our return, then departed.  We asked for clarification: who were those "good friends"? to start with.  Grinning widely, our neighbour said, insouciantly, why it was the local police force. 

Visiting us?

Immediately it dawned upon me that something must have gone wrong when we set the alarm leaving the house.  This had occurred once before - at least six to eight years ago, when we were still giving all-day-care to our granddaughter, and in the melee of looking after her needs, and assembling ourselves, including the two little dogs, something had occurred out of the ordinary to distract us, and the back door had somehow been left ajar, triggering the alarm as we left for our walk.

On that occasion, on our return, settling on the back deck, we were surprised to see a young woman in uniform push through the back gate and approach us with a few questions; primarily, was everything in order?  It was, we assured her, then we heard the story from her of the local police detachment having had to send out a squad car because of a notification from our alarm company that something was amiss; they had been in cursory contact with our next-door-neighbour to determine whether it might be possible a break-in was in progress, but had received no satisfactory affirming collaboration.

We were issued with a fine, resulting from a false alarm.  We expect that something similar will occur on this occasion.  We discovered in the course of checking everything over that there had been nothing this time that we ourselves did to occasion the alarm that was still in progress when we arrived back home and turned it off, calling the alarm company to verify that all was well, but something had gone wrong. 

That "something", it turns out, is a malfunction in one of the motion detectors, for which solution a technician will arrive in the coming week to replace the aging mechanism.