When he paints the house exterior, performs some interior/exterior electric work, or spends hours in the basement of our house replacing plumbing piping that was originally installed at a gradient not useful to the efficient passage of wastewater from the kitchen, he does these chores on his own.  He neither wants nor expects me to aid him, though I offer, knowing full well my presence would only be an impediment, not a help.

When it comes to the daily household chores requiring attention in the house that have fallen to me, representing traditionally female work, he has never hesitated to offer help, nor to think of initiating some of the work on his own, unasked.  A fairly uneven situation, but one of long standing representing the initiative, capability and thoughtfulness of a partner in life who recognizes no gender divisions.

A reality of our partnership that was expressed when we were 18, married, and undertook to divide household chores so we would then be free to enjoy one another at leisure, when work was completed.  When our children were infants on his arrival home from work he would always make an effort to ensure that another mind and another pair of hands were capably available to look to their needs.

When the children were in their teen years, we routinely cleaned up from the evening meals together, in a harmony of shared purpose that really reflected the tenor and quality of our relationship, when I washed the dishes and he dried them, our three children being excused to do their school homework.  But the message of working together was one that trickled down successfully through exposure, leading our children to understand that there are few divisions and much that bind us together.

Yesterday, he undertook to spread mulch over those of our garden areas that are subject to the fiercest heat of the sun, and which have suffered as a result of the unusual heatwave we are undergoing, coupled with drought conditions, although I am the family gardener, not he. 

Today, when he saw me filling up the container for demerara sugar that he prefers in his coffee, he expostulated that he should be doing that, since he uses it, not me.  And then he set about assembling the constituents he uses for bread baking, to produce the dark, rough type of bread that I prefer.

That done, hied himself outside to retrieve the trash bins after weekly garbage collection.  And then to turn his attention to the assembly of a two-seater faux bamboo garden seat to take advantage of early afternoon shade and breezes that roll through the front garden, where we can sit in comfort our little dog between us, enjoying the gardens on the cobble patio he constructed years ago when he was only 69.

We wonder how wildlife is faring in the face of this prolonged drought.  It cannot be a good situation for birds and mammals living in their natural environment that has, in a sense, turned against their best interests with water scarcity.

At least the wildlife in the ravine is not completely bereft of a water source.  The creek running through the ravine to the Ottawa River downstream, still is pouring through, albeit at a low level.  So there is moisture there for the animals and birds that require it.  Elsewhere it can be a different story.  This area is rife with wetlands, and when the water table goes perilously low, the wetlands tend to dry up.

As we were entering the ravine yesterday to make the first long descent, we interrupted the activities of two hares, and watched while one, then the other, taking its time, scurried elsewhere out of range of our sight, and therefore, lessening the potential threat to them.

A short while later we saw what appeared to be a juvenile owl flapping and teetering about on the lofty branches of an old ash tree leaning over the ravine.  It looked as though it had very recently left the nest, although we know that others like him had done so a month earlier.  Below, where we stood, a few squirrels rapidly approached to cadge peanuts from us.

Made me wonder whether with our daily presence and peanut handouts we were patterning these squirrels to lose their natural sense of alertness to danger from all directions, including from above.

Last night we viewed a video that proved amusingly entertaining even while it had at its heart a serious look at the changing world around us, the impact of those changes on traditional cultures that have managed to survive through dwindling ethnic numbers and the irresistible drag of both modernity and humanity's melting pot on tribal and ethnic alliances and pride of heritage.

Using the medium of a family caught halfway between the remnants of their original culture, wishing to retain its authenticity and the allure of science and technology that has gradually sieved out many elements of any traditions that defied the reality of the present, a happenstance encounter between a Mongolian herder and an expatriate Russian employed on contract to bring the world to an isolated yet waiting-to-be-developed corner of the world results in an interplay of culture, amiability and change.

The humour is wry and meaningful of the ability of humans to find levity in any situation.  With an overlay of bewilderment of the people involved at how their world has been slipping away from them, and their resulting feelings of guilt at allowing it to happen. 

Their inner consciousness leads them to cling more fiercely to what they value, while the reality of their lives slowly slipping into another kind of conscious awareness of being left behind, instructs them to embrace change.

But change does eventually absorb them all, just as surely as the Mongolian way of life on the steppes, herding sheep, goats, cattle and horses undergoes a wholesale alteration when civilization intrudes with its roads enabling development, reflecting the collapse of social-political systems at the same time, with the emerging collapse of the Soviet Union.

For the past week we have been appreciating and hugely enjoying perfect summer weather.  True, because of the drought, we have also been hoping for rain events that have been slight in number, but overall, we have nothing to complain about.  This has been, thus far, a good summer for people who look forward to typically such weather after a long, cold winter.

The weather has been bringing more people out of their homes than usual.  One of our neighbours, a young mother of two infants, loves to talk about her children.  She is conflicted about motherhood, wanting to enjoy being with her children, unwilling to miss any important milestones, yet, though her family fortunes are in good health, does not feel she is suited by personality to be at home with the children full-time. She resents her care-givers seeing her children grow and learn and mature throughout their care hours, and her short time with them, restricted to the busy hours pre- and post-working hours.  She is offended as well that her parents are no longer as anxious to spend time with the children now that they are more demanding, and require to be played with and constantly stimulated.

Another neighbour, who now has two infant grandchildren worries incessantly about their welfare.  The first child, a little boy, underwent a series of health problems when he was younger, and now appears to be completely healthy.  The latest one, now six months old, a little girl, is colicky, refuses to eat, shows little interest in drinking, and the child-care specialists have no idea why she is reacting to food and drink as she does.  They have recommended feeding the child milk while she sleeps, though there is danger inherent in that, to ensure she is properly hydrated.

Yet another neighbour, an ebullient man, friendly and open-hearted over the several decades we have known him has become an inveterate world traveller.  He needs to occupy himself.  He has ample financial resources and lives comfortably, but does so alone now.  His wife, whom he married late in life and who was younger than him with two children of her own from an earlier marriage, finally left him, no longer willing to cope with his roving eye and his penchant to take up with other young women.  A succession of younger women began to live temporarily with him after his wife left, but nothing seemed to jell for him.  His wife refused to return, though he pleaded with her to do so.  Finally, he adopted a little homeless cat, and found a modicum of satisfaction there.  In the meanwhile, he undertakes at least two exotic destinations each year, with a few more modest ones thrown in for good measure.

People coping with their privileged circumstances, finding chasms in their lives difficult to cope with, despite those privileged circumstances. 

It's always been that way for me.  A generation of excitement and anticipation, thinking of being in a green space, preferably closed in with trees predominating; a sense of mystery prevails.  Something deep within beckons. 

As with the satisfaction of being out in nature that stirs within me, so too when there is the opportunity to plan a garden, to plant living things, to look forward to their maturity, their blooms, their wonderful presence that I am able to soak myself in, time and again through easy access.

Somehow, contemplating a walk in a forested area, despite feeling physically tired, imbues me with energy and the tired condition dissipates, as I stroll in the woods, enjoying its enveloping presence, feeling free and unencumbered with concerns.  Working in the garden, among the plants, in the warm, moist soil, engenders similar feelings, along with a deeper one of extreme pleasure.

Yesterday afternoon my husband went on a shopping expedition while I was busy at home, and he brought back a few surprises for me.  A gardening venue was selling off the remaining items in their summer planting inventory at a fraction of their original retail price, and he ended up buying two miniature globe cedars, and three ground-cover junipers.

We have a small garden out in front of the house on one side of our driveway centering around a blue spruce.  It happens to be very dry in that micro-climate, with the roots of the spruce soaking up whatever moisture happens along there.  Spring bulbs manage to survive, poking their colourful blooms up faithfully in the spring, but the many hostas that I've planted there have done dismally, and the coral bells no better.  As well, the annual wax begonias that do well in some years have been afflicted because of the drought, and despite our constant applications of water by watering pail, they have slowly succumbed.

In came the solution, we hoped.  Yesterday afternoon, in a cool light drizzle that never amounted to anything actually resembling rain in volume, we moved the surviving hostas and placed them elsewhere in other garden plots, and in their place planted the newly-acquired miniature spreading junipers. It looks much neater now, and much more hopeful.

Another of those huge water tankers rumbled down our quiet street yesterday, en route to the street behind us.  There has been an inordinate amount of loud mechanical activity from that street so far this summer, far more than usual.  Some houses have changed hands, and some home owners of long standing perhaps have decided to take the plunge into pool ownership.

It has always been a source of great puzzlement to me why anyone living in this climatic zone with our short summers would invest so much money, time and inconvenience committing to the mess that ensues with the installation of an in-ground pool (without even arguing the aesthetic-destroying-quotient of an above-ground pool), displacing space and gardens.  But increasingly, people seem to succumb to this desire for their very own backyard pool.

And in this particular neighbourhood, no doubt reflecting more of the same elsewhere, there are a good many pools.  In fact, many if not most of our neighbours have invested over the years in their own swimming pools, taking up a good deal of their backyard space.  Taking up as well, the work involved in looking after it, and the ongoing costs of operation.  And occasionally complaining loudly about that.

Oddly enough - or perhaps not, given human nature - after the first exhilarating year or two of enjoyment, their use falls off sharply.  All the more so if there are no young people in the home.  Those with quite young children who have opted for a backyard pool are more committed to its use.  And it is among those families that so often disaster strikes when, as occurs far too often, attention strays from the child's activities.

Inexplicably, our 20-year-old French lilac began the growing season as usual, put out its usual complement of emerging blossoms, but I noted leaves were not sprouting, and felt certain it was ailing.  It is now not dormant, but dead.  Its removal will leave more room for the adjacent maturing magnolia tree and roses to stretch out a little more.  It had its time, and although it's always sad to see something expire, it won't be missed too much.

Most of the trees, shrubs and perennials are faring quite well this summer.  It has been puzzling to see what has become of the first offerings of the tomato vines that I usually plant in large garden containers; they have been peculiarly cursed with the appearance of rot on the hanging bottom halves of the fruits.  Despite which, we allowed the largest of the tomatoes to ripen, took it off the vine, cut away one-third of the bottom where the rot occurred, and found the remainder to be exquisitely tangy-sweet and juicy.  We grow those tomatoes because it's fun to do so, to watch them develop through the summer months and because we enjoy their harvest.  Not much to enjoy this time; one of the vines grows a grape-tomato the other a field-type tomato, and there haven't been many blossoms, even though both are directly in full sun for most of the day and both have been well watered, despite the drought.

Strangely enough, the developing new tomatoes don't appear to be suffering from whatever kind of blight attacked the older ones, though the atmospheric conditions remain the same, as do our ministrations to the health of the two vines which look no different than others we've grown far more successfully in the past.

On the good-news front, the architecture of the gardens themselves, their texture, colour and variety continue to give us great pleasure for a minimum of effort, as established gardens.

It is summer, and no doubt about it, the living is easier.  More relaxed, spontaneous, comfortable and beautiful to look upon, our outdoor landscapes.  We are not forced by the extremes of cold weather to cope constantly going about our business.

Now, when we embark on our daily perambulations in the ravine where we are so close to nature, we keep reminding one another how fortunate we are, how pleasurable our pursuits, and how lovely the weather is, as it so often is.  When it is unbearably hot, there is cool shade aplenty in the ravine under the canopy of the forest, and gentle breezes waft cooler air up from the stream that runs through the ravine.

Without weather to incessantly comment upon, one sometimes wonders what folk living in the Ottawa Valley of Eastern Ontario would have to talk about.  And talk has, as in years past, focused on summertime weather extremes.  This year has given us a straight run of searingly hot days.  Along with drought conditions, with far fewer rain events than is normal for this time of year, following hard on a moisture-lacking winter. 

A poor combination for the growing of agricultural crops.  And local farms are suffering.  Rain is badly needed.  And yesterday, Environment Canada issued alerts for the high likelihood of violent thunderstorms, and some localized mini-tornadoes as well.  Around three o'clock yesterday afternoon the first of the thunderstorms rumbled in, blasting the landscape with torrents of rain under thick, black clouds and stabbing daggers of lightning.  We could hear hail pinging the windows.  We watched as trees bent low and were flung back up again under the influence of 'gale-force' winds.

In rural areas farmers got somewhat copious amounts of rain, more than they might have wished for at one fell swoop.  Trees were uprooted and power lines came down.  Rural dwellers, and urban dwellers alike found themselves without electrical power.  Not so bad for the urbanites, more of a problem for the rural folk whose wells run on electricity. 

The wished-for rain did eventuate, but so did the loss of their power source and the ability to mechanically draw water from their wells.  Life can be so complicated.  Nature is so immensely unexpectedly complex.  And through the night, more thunderstorms wracked the environment with their sturm und drang.

This unusually hot, dry summer is creating consequences that are proving difficult to cope with.  From farmers' fields drying up and crops being lost to the heat and the drought, to brush fires cropping up close to residential areas proving difficult to put out.  One multi-hectare brush fire after another, with fire crews spending day after exhausting day attempting to deal with the menace.

Others stay vigilant on the hunt for hot spots where fires have been contained.  Fire Services bring in their helicopters to assist in spotting fire the the air, monitoring spreads, dumping water.  "I never saw it as dry back there in my life" said one nearby resident.  It's why municipal authorities are encouraging people who draw their water from the Ottawa River, despite its relative decline, to use water judiciously, but to use it to water their parched lawns and gardens, to prevent spontaneous bursts of fire or the likelihood of fire caused by careless discarding of cigarettes.

Fire crews from CFB Petawawa have halted a forest fire at the base caused by tinder-dry conditions northwest of Pembroke.  CFB Petawawa borders part of the eastern edge of Algonquin Provincial Park, the semi-wilderness jewel in the crown of Ontario's precious natural landscape.  The Ministry of Natural Resources ordered an evacuation of campers with park rangers fanned out in canoes and a Twin Otter floatplane to alert campers to the dangers and point them toward the safest routes out of the park.

"The campground was easy, you just tell people to leave and they get in their cars.  But when you have people on multi-day trips on those interior canoe routes, it gets tough. But we think we now have everyone out of that Achray area of eastern Algonquin."

The Renfrew County area has been hard hit, some farmers reporting fewer than two inches of rain since summer's arrival, causing the area to be declared in a Level 2 drought with a complete fire ban in effect.  Eastern Ontario remains on high alert for brush fires.  "We have not seen this level of urgency in dryness, drought, and lack of rain in years.  The ground is beyond extreme in terms of fire conditions and potential for serious fires."

There have been 52 calls to Ottawa Fire Services in less than a week.  A 40-hectare blaze in the west end brought over 100 firefighters out over several days, and it took almost a week to bring it under control, and to deal with the follow-on spot fires.  "They were averaging between 10 and 20 hot spots a day earlier in the week.  It's in the ground now and we just have to stay on top and monitor it.  We'll just have to wait and see what Mother Nature throws at us."

My daughter and granddaughter seem to have little problems multi-tasking.  I suppose I do a lot of that too.  In all likelihood, most people do.  Even if it means being physically engaged in one thing, and thinking hard about something completely different.  Sometimes, as a result, things go slightly awry when focus is not completely on the task at hand.

Increasingly, I find on occasion that I've lost the thread of something I'm involved with.  As, for example, preparing breakfast while also putting on other things to cook having nothing whatever to do with breakfast, but becoming sidelined because I'm prepared to sit down and eat breakfast, and completely lose track in my immediate memory of something cooking away on the stove.  Particularly if I've given it a 'head-start' but having the heat too high, meaning to turn it to low as soon as it gets going.

I found, on Friday, that I'd forgotten I had put sugar, cornstarch, cranberry juice and halved, pitted cherries on the stove.  I'd left the heat high wanting to accelerate the process, to begin steadily mixing it until it thickened and became clear once it heated up sufficiently.  Except that I completely forgot to watch it, and then realized my colossal blunder when I could smell the cherries beginning to burn.  Fortunately I was able to complete the process without disaster occurring; while my memory momentarily failed, my sense of smell rescued the situation.

Later, when I had turned the cooled pie filling into the double crust I rolled out and placed in the convection oven on the counter top, I again lost track of time, until, from upstairs where I was tending to other things, I could smell the fragrance of cherry pie wafting through the house, trundled hurriedly downstairs and removed it from the convection oven, browned to perfection, on the cusp of becoming too brown.

Later still, when I had put rice on the stove to cook, and turned up the heat to get the water to the boiling point, I forgot it too, as I was unloading groceries into the refrigerator, then recalled as I smelled rice-water boiling over onto the range, and fortunately was able to rescue that food item as well.

Curiously enough, the very same thing happened when the same day I had put a chicken thigh and drumstick on the stove to begin the process of preparing a chicken soup, with vegetables to be placed in the soup on standby while I waited for the water surrounding the chicken to heat up sufficiently to begin the process of skimming the scum off the top of the water, preparatory to adding parsnip, celery, onion, garlic clove, carrot and bay leaf, salt, pepper.  My nose alerted me to the need to act instantly when my memory went off time.

If the immediate memory is busy elsewhere, at least another faculty kicks in to attune me to the present.

I cannot find it in myself to distinguish - perhaps it is because I am too close to the subject: myself - whether with the passage of time into the status of an elderly reader,  that I have become somewhat crotchety in my expectations, or simply more discriminating and fastidious in my ability to recognize and appreciate the worthwhile.

I always thought I had that faculty.  I always felt that, having selected with some degree of deliberation, a book that I would read, I was then committed to honour its author.  In the sense that, one should always complete a book before drawing any conclusions about its full value.  Lately it seems I've been deviating hugely from that commitment.  I have begun setting aside those (admittedly few) books, sometimes by writers whose other work I've hugely appreciated) that don't meet expectations.

I don't feel my expectations as a reader are immense and by their nature difficult to meet and even transcend.  Above all, the book's purpose should be a useful one; to entertain, to elucidate, to educate, enlighten, amuse.  The criteria are universal.  Relevance in a social, educative sense is never out of place, nor is presenting a topic with a unique perspective, meant to draw the reader in to the reality that there are many perspectives and many approaches to understanding the human condition and life in general.

Salman Rushdie's novel The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which has received immensely enthusiastic reception from literary critics: "Nearly every page of The Ground Beneath Her Feet offers something to arrest a devoted reader's attention....  No novelist currently writing in English does so with more energy, intelligence, and allusiveness than Rushdie" according to Time, has been a total loss for me.

Not only a loss, but an inexpressible waste of time.  It is the work of a self-admiring literary giant whose reputation is such that any trivial, banal, inconsequential work can receive hosannas of insincere admiration.  This novel is so weighted with dismal inscriptions to pop art, and admittedly clever but ultimately meaningless and trite comparisons to demonstrate the writer's cleverly ironic mindset, that it wearies any attempt on my part to slog through it.

Rock n'Roll, which is the signal named value of this novel in its universal acclaim and appeal to the masses for whom that kind of music framed the events of their lives, becomes the central theme, alongside the precocious claim of a famed Indian star of having 'invented' it before it ever became thematically North American; its origin denied as it was hijacked, and the anguish it caused its initiator whose paranormal experiences gave it birth.

The fanciful novel, as it expands and releases its inventive story line simply is not capable of carrying this reader's interest, resulting instead in irritation surpassing anticipation.  A complete and utter dud of a story relying heavily on fable and clever 'allusiveness'.  It should never have seen publication, and Salmon Rushdie is surely capable of better, far better than this?

One-third of the way through this epic is more than enough for me, exhausting my store of patience, overriding my wish to honour an author by completing his literary production.  Ugh.

Yesterday turned out a lovely summer day.  Not that most are not, but this one particularly so.  Thanks to the softening of the hot and humid atmosphere, and the good stiff breeze that accompanied the day.  We set out with expectations that the mosquito population might have recovered from the heat, and were delighted to discovered that they're still in abeyance.

And then we came across the gentle giant, whom we haven't seen in the ravine for quite awhile.  There he was, genial as ever, his booming voice greeting us with his own appreciation of the day.  Telling us just how pleased he was to begin his annual vacation, able to devote more of his time to doing what he loved best. 

We ourselves best love strolling through the ravine, up its hills, down into its valleys, noting the wildflowers in season, appreciating its wildlife.  He, on the other hand, does all of that and more.  He comes in with an empty backpack and exits with the backpack groaning full of detritus that he goes out of his way to retrieve and pack out of the ravine.

When he comes along items that require brute strength to remove; old tires, parts of rusted-out garden or farming implements, discarded lawn chairs, he hauls them out to the street where he then collects them and drives them over to the dump - or, when feasible, leaves for the regular trash pick-up by municipal agents. 

We're grateful for his dedication to the environment, for the great service that he thinks nothing of committing to, and we tell him so whenever we see him.

After parting with him, we again saw one of the neighbourhood owls perched on a tree above the creek.  And later still, saw adorable little Stumpy, approaching us to demand his due.  We waited while he fastidiously took apart the three-chambered peanut, bit by bit, discarding the shell, and munching the peanuts, and then gave him another, even larger one.

Then proceeded on our way as he did on his, both of our days much enhanced by equal rewards.

Every kitchen, I'm sure, has them.  Little gadgets, simple tools that have a distinct purpose, and are uniquely useful in the kitchen.  I don't mean those expensive electronic mixers, juicers, choppers, but rather objects that with their particular design, allow you to make short work of food preparation.

This morning, looking about in the near-chaos of some of my kitchen drawers in search of the cherry-stone plucker I knew should be there, my eyes lit on that small strawberry-huller in plain sight, sitting where it should be, awaiting use.  I have not seen that little thing in over a year.  And it's not because I didn't want to see it, because I have been looking for it, and just gave up, thinking I had accidentally discarded it, and it was somewhere it would never be retrieved from: the garbage.

I'd given up looking for it.  And I missed its usefulness.  And there it was, precisely where it should be.  How could I have overlooked it for so long?  Now that I have it securely in my known possession once again I will take special measures to ensure it doesn't get mislaid (but it wasn't mislaid if it lay there now, where it should be for easy access!).  Because this is a little device I have been unable to replace.  I haven't seen its like anywhere I've searched.

I'm preparing to pit a large number of fresh cherries.  They're not as firm and as delicious as the last cherries we bought, and I've decided to bake a pie with them.  That cherry-stone-pitter will come in most handy for that little task.  The kitchen resources are made up of many little action short-cuts like that. 

I value them, those little things that over the decades have been picked up and used repeatedly.

Although knowing full well that esteemed writers and their equally-excellent publishing houses would definitely not approve, I celebrated, nonetheless, the bonanza of literature acquisition that came my way yesterday. 

On a visit to our local Salvation Army thrift shop, we never miss perusing the groaning book shelves.

Invariably, we will find something of inestimable value to us.  A picture book representing an inventory of antique furnishings, for example, or the great houses of Britain or Austria, or a publication featuring some of the world-renowned paintings of a particular public or state art gallery. 

Biographies of people we find useful and educative to read.  And novels written by those with imaginations matching their command of language. We are seldom disappointed.  And this time around the choices were almost overwhelming. 

Which means, to us, that there are an awful lot of people reading excellent literature, generous enough to part with them once they have finished.  To our great advantage. 

The price is a pittance compared to what we pay through Amazon.ca, when we order books selected by our granddaughter; must-haves for her voracious reading appetite.

For ours, we will continue, with the odd resorting to commercial book stores, to haunt the Sally Ann.  Yesterday, my acquisition-fare, and mine alone included:

• The Climb; Tragic ambitions on Everest, by Anatoli Boukreev
• Baudolino, by Umberto Eco
• Happenstance by Carol Shields
• Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith
• The Help by Kathryn Stockett
• No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod
• The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill

My cup runneth over.

Drought conditions throughout a huge swath of the United States have reached epic proportions.  Farmers growing corn and soybeans have been expressly affected.  In Eastern Ontario drought conditions have prevailed for far too long, but it's doubtful, other than for specific areas, that conditions are yet as dire as they are in the U.S.

That's small comfort to those affected, particularly the rural areas where the stress on the environment is most evident in the sight of trees visually suffering the effects of little-to-no ground moisture.  Trees already under stress as a result of age or insect predation, will be certain to succumb.  We can see almost daily the failing health of a few of the trees in our nearby ravine.

We have felt guilty about watering our garden pots, our garden, even our grass.  In most normal years we never water the grass.  This spring we ameliorated our grub-and-crow-ruined lawn with compost and grass seed and have nurtured it along with the sprinkler on several occasions.  These hot, dry weeks have spawned prime conditions for fires and forest fires are on the increase.

The city is also faced with a growing incidence of brush fires and the public is being warned to be very careful with the butts of their cigarettes.  The municipality is so concerned with the prospect of such fires that they are urging people, despite/because of the drought, to water their lawns, water their gardens and trees.

And last night, the hoped-for event of an all-night rain did become a reality.  Rain, at times very heavy, came down throughout the early morning hours to greet the morning-riser with the sight of foliage glistening wetly in the early morning sun.  This will not rescue the environment from its water-starved condition, but it will help. 

And if more does occur, we're all the more fortunate for it.

Eastern Ontario is in the grip of yet another prolonged heat wave.  The days succeeding days of hot, humid air and clear blue skies with a burning sun are taking their toll, along with the lack of any rain leading to a truly parched environment.

We are on the verge of a Stage 3 drought declaration.  After which there will be an imposed state of water conservation, and it will become illegal to use water for any other than fundamental purposes relating to hygiene and normal interior usage. 

The trees are gasping for relief, their leaves beginning to shrivel for lack of moisture.  The only saving grace has been daily breezes that move the hot air around, giving some relief.  The public is being warned to conserve energy, not to engage in strenuous physical pursuits in this environment.  Alerts have been published, affecting the most vulnerable; the very young and the very old.

People are being urged, if they haven't direct access to air conditioning, to use public places like libraries and shopping malls to have a bit of relief from the unending heat; two hours of exposure to air conditioning for people is being recommended, if their homes are not air conditioned. 

Floor fans, we've found, help immeasurably; we've got one in every room.  If we enter a room to remain there for any length of time we put on the fan for the slight relief it offers.

Farmers' fields are wilting for lack of rain, and irrigation is becoming a greater problem with the levels of local aquifers and rivers and lakes at a very low seasonal level.  Crops will likely be permanently adversely affected for this summer.  We'll note that when we venture to the market to buy fresh fruits and vegetables.

How's that for luck?  She is very conscientious about her belongings.  Cares for them and makes every conceivable effort to ensure they sustain no damages.  She likes her books in pristine condition, and has assembled a veritable library of 'favourite' books, giving them out on loan with the knowledge that they will be returned to her (if they are returned to her) in a condition quite unlike how they were when they were handed over with the request to 'be gentle' with them.

She may be the typical teen-ager with her clothing, tossing items carelessly in a jumble to be retrieved if still wearable, to be laundered if not, but she looks after other things in a manner meant to preserve their longevity. 

She had wanted a new cellphone before the turn of the year, and we agreed.  A BlackBerry was what she wanted, so she chose the one she had done her research on, and we brought it over to her.  Eight months later the device is inoperative.  Just before the conclusion of the school year when her Grade 10 class was enjoying a 'sports day', she and her classmates had placed their backpacks in a neat pile, admonishing one another to 'keep an eye' on them.

She had secreted her cellphone in the middle of the pack to ensure its safety, and no doubt others did as well.  When it was retrieved after hours of fun in the sun and sand playing beach volleyball, she discovered that someone must have run directly into and over the pile of bags, and hers was evidently one of those that was directly trod upon.  Her cellphone screen was scratched and the mouse was stuck.  She managed to get it to work, but over the period of a month it gradually declined in usefulness.

Today, it's inoperable, and she and her grandfather have gone off to shop for a replacement.

 It's obvious, or should be, at this time of year there is ample naturally-available food for the wildlife in the ravine.  Still, I feel compelled to bring along the daily outlay of peanuts for them, to sprinkle them here and there in the various cache-places all the squirrels are accustomed to seeking them out within.  And whenever the resident crows see us entering the woods they're alerted to their opportunities as well, clever birds that they are.

They're even teaching their young-of-the-season to look for the peanuts in various places they know they'll be.  And owls sit placidly watching all the activities below.  I think sometimes of the owls' regular perch over the streambed, close to one of the bridges where we often leave peanuts and the regulars; tiny red, the larger blacks and the robustly showy greys; whether they appear as tempting tidbits for the owls, and whether my peanut-largesse represents a serendipitous hunting strategy for the local owls.

A few days ago, on an inner woodland trail we looked back behind us to follow the sound clatter that had erupted.  There, on the trail, three crows had settled and two more had alighted on nearby branches above the three on the ground.  Two of the grounded ones were uttering caws obviously appealing to the third crow, and lifting and lowering their wings.  We adduced immediately the third crow was a parent being harassed by two juveniles, pleading to have food placed into their open maws.

We could see, even from that distance that the third crow had a peanut held securely in its beak.  Once taking possession of peanuts it is the crows' method to break the peanut shell on a handy piece of wood, a stone, anything solid, to extract the nuts within.  This poor bird wasn't, obviously, getting the opportunity to follow conventional methodology, standing there, exhausted with parenthood.

We're moving through such a prolonged heat wave, with no relief of precipitation in sight at all that roses, past their bloom are simply drying as they are, in full bloom, just as though some mysterious hand has sprinkled a magic drying dust upon them.  Monarda has followed suit, something I've never seen before.

And on these truly heat-exhausting days, my husband decided to begin painting the front of the house.   First came an inspection of all the wood surrounds, and then the necessity to replace some of the mouldings, so he cut mouldings in the workshop and installed them, replacing those that had rotted.  Then came the dirty, exhaustive work of scraping down all the old paint off to the bare wood, and following that, sanding it all to a nice, smooth finish.

And then came the application of the undercoat paint.  All of this, of course, took a succession of days when he would clamber up a long ladder, hoisting another smaller ladder with him, to the lower garage-roof of the house to enable him to reach those front windows.  Well enough for him that once the very early morning hours have passed the sun no longer glares directly down on the front of the house.

After the base coat came the first of the finishing coats of paint.  Dark green, we have decided, this time.  A sea change from the ivory-coloured paint we have used over the past two decades.  A change that pleases us; it makes the finished product look somehow more substantial, neater, well defined.  And it matches the dark green of the storm door that we had installed at the front door.

A break today; he has decided to wait a bit for cooler weather to come in, since today will top 35 degrees.  We note that there are plants in stress in the gardens, and hope that rain will eventuate.  The potential for rain the coming Sunday and Monday has moved from an earlier-predicted 60% to 40%.

One winter, years ago, we began to see the tracks of an all-terrain-vehicle throughout the ravine trails.  One day we followed the tracks as they led out of the ravine, up a nearby street and into the driveway of a house.  We knew whose house it was, knocked at the front door, and spoke to the wife of the man who ignored the signage warning that motorized vehicles were forbidden entry to the neighbourhood ravine.

We knew them, a young couple living nearby with their Golden Retriever pup named "Crook".  Named thus because of the crook in his tail.  Crook was a rare, truly emotional dog, needing to be cared for with plenty of physical contact to reassure him of his enduring value.  And his humans - she, in any event - fulfilled his need for that reassurance; he was her first 'baby'.  Three more, human babies, eventually followed in fairly rapid succession.

These were people whom at first we saw often in the ravine with their dog, and increasingly less so, as they settled into becoming a family extended eventually by the appearance of their children.  From time to time, over the years, we would see her with her growing brood walking the trails in the ravine.  At first, pushing an infant stroller as far as the geology would permit, on the areas that were relatively flat. 

We enjoyed her company, a lovely woman with a broad, engaging smile, eager to talk about her children.  And her beloved Crook was always nearby.  Crook could tell when someone he knew was approaching and anyone approaching who knew Crook could tell when he was about.  His idiosyncratic voice was unmistakable.  His anxiety not to miss greeting a friend, his anxiety to be greeted by a friend, was emoted in a characteristic high-pitched whine, a pleading to be noticed.  It wasn't possible not to notice Crook.

A few years ago Crook was lost to them through natural cause; old age and the eventual ingathering of the Grim Reaper took its course.  The family acquired a new companion, a rambunctious (like Crook) Husky who was shy and mute (unlike Crook).  Now, it was mostly the children who took the new dog for walks in the ravine.  We see them on occasion, just as on the rare occasion we may come across their mother on a walk of her own.

Two days ago after the lapse surely of a year, back to last summer, we came across the oldest of the children, 15-year-old Anna, walking the family Husky.  She is a tall, wholesome-looking beauty with a ready flash of a smile just like her mother, though her facial features bear more resemblance to her father. 

Seeing her, speaking with her, was an absolute tonic, a bonus, making our day just a little brighter than it already was.

My younger son, the youngest of our children, remarks from time to time, that it must surely depress me, my constant choice of literature.  He recommends reading books that are more upbeat, while still being informative.  My husband and our granddaughter too have remarked on occasion about the tenor of the books I read.  And I sometimes wonder myself.  But I am drawn to these books.

This month I have finally read Frank McCourt's memoir of his childhood, Angela's Ashes, I have read and appreciated also Khaled Hosseini's excellent and tragic novel A Thousand Splendid Suns, and I have just completed reading yet another tragedy, a memoir by Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish, I Shall Not Hate - a Gaza doctor's journey.

All of them through their portrayal of real-life events sketch out in harrowing detail - in the case of Frank McCourt, leavened with a grim humour - the misfortune of self-defeating emotions and propensities that nature has bequeathed to us through her original and somewhat flawed formula in constructing us human beings.

Our penchant for acting out the lesser of our free choices, and corrosive effects of our biological imperative to survive, which includes both tribal negatives of suspicion, blame, hatred and strife, and our instinct to replicate ourselves through time immemorial.  We succumb to all the miseries that circumstances and our own frail emotions impose upon us, making life tawdry, miserable and misunderstood.  While claiming love for our children we expose them to all the extremes that misfortune can thrust upon them.  Sometimes they survive their personal ordeals, sometimes they do not.

Humankind is endowed with charitable impulses, but mostly directed toward those we consider sharing elements of primary existence; extended family, tribe, culture, heritage - and express animus toward all others.  We are at once inclusive and exclusive.  We are capable of great kindnesses to one another on a one-on-one basis, and exhibit psychological disorders and violent physical acts on one another through the lens of clan psychosis.

While reading of such affirmations of the condition of humankind one learns a great deal to complement what life's experiences have already taught.  That can be both a positive and a negative.  The negative lies in despairing that the human animal will ever come to terms with its potential.  And no one can possibly understand what that potential could possibly represent.

It's official, as though we haven't been abundantly aware of these extreme weather conditions.  Environment Canada has confirmed that we are facing unusual summer weather conditions.  We have been reading for several weeks how urgent the situation has been in parts of the Eastern seaboard of the United States, and we are in the throes of experiencing a similar situation, albeit not nearly as severe and dramatic, as they are.

We've received a distinct dearth of precipitation this year.  And this summer has been consistently hotter than normal.  We've just come off ten consecutive days of plus-30-degrees Celsius, with no relieving rain in sight.  Although the temperatures at night and through the day have improved the past few days, we're scheduled to return to the plus-30s in a day or so.

We've been watering the garden pots and they don't look too bad, although plants that don't thrive in hot, dry conditions are beginning to show stress.  Nothing compared to what area farmers are facing, however, their vegetable crops threatened as a result of these conditions, forcing some to resort to improvised and inefficient irrigation to balance the situation.

If this continues we'll be facing mandatory water restraints and that will make us decidedly more cautious about the water use we normally take for granted.  Meanwhile, we are in the fortunate situation of being able still to admire and take comfort in the beauty of our gardens.

She telephoned early in the morning to enthuse over her new elliptical trainer.  She used it, she said, for thirty-five minutes and felt it to be excellent, more than meeting her hopeful expectations.  She is able to monitor her heart rate and is full of praise for the machine.  Easier to use, smoother, without the deleterious impact she was exposed to when using other types of exercise machines.

We were glad to obtain it for her in lieu of her going out bicycling regularly on the country roads surrounding her home, where traffic during the summer months can be heavy with both cottage-bound urbanites who aren't much concerned with their driving speed in such areas, and the prevalence of log-filled trucks lumbering along the road.

She called later in the day to ask for my potato salad recipe and methodology, so I was happy enough to oblige, waiting while she wrote down instructions and ingredients-choices.  Later, when I had a look at my email I discovered a message from her BlackBerry along with a photograph of her finished product. 

She likes the idea of ramping up the protein content of a potato salad by adding a tin of salmon or tuna, moistened slightly with mayonnaise, in the middle, atop the salad, not mixed into it.  She was pleased with what she had produced, but claimed that it hadn't the taste of mine.

 A logical outcome, since most people's tastebuds are emotionally involved, appreciating the taste of a dish prepared by someone else, to the taste of one they themselves produce.

It feels like the aftermath of a whirlwind having passed through the house; the peace and quiet that ensues after the prolonged visit of two teen-age girls.  I've cleaned the bathroom, changed the linen on the two beds, emptied the waste baskets brim-full of pristine facial tissues, and no longer contemplate what to prepare for lunch.  No preparation of bread dough for lunch pizza, nor macaroni and cheese casserole, nor potato salad or pasta salad, or grilled sandwiches, sigh.

We're done with, for the present, driving two sixteen-year-olds to local shopping plaza, because it truly has been far too hot and muggy to walk any distance other than within the sheltered confines of a canopy-shaded forest.  Although, truth to tell, the day they were driven to the hairdresser they did walk back home rather than call to be picked up.

We're well accustomed to the presence of our granddaughter, and have for many summer past, hosted one or another of her friends for a week's stay.  Worth it, to ensure that our granddaughter really enjoyed her visit, having the company of a friend, although she often enough tells us she is never bored visiting with us and doesn't need a friend accompanying her.  We wait for her to ask permission to invite someone over, and then agree to her request.

This time her friend is a new one to our experience.  She lives on the family farm, a dairy-milking operation, and nearby live her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, with their own farms, one a beef-raising farm, all of them fully operating farms planting wheat, oats, barley, corn for generations past.  Amongst other traditional family farms in Eastern Ontario.

No boys in this family, so the two girls, sixteen and fourteen have their daily chores cut out for them.  The younger one assigned house-keeping tasks, much preferred by her and her older sister does work in the barns, alongside her mother and her father.  On the week-ends she has the midnight milking shift, so she sleeps in week-end mornings.  If she does the milking on her own the process takes two and a half hours; with help from her mother or her father it takes one and a half hours.  She dislikes milking.

She plans, however, to attend agricultural college in Guelph and to obtain a degree in farm administration.  She anticipates her future in taking over her grandparents on her mother's side's farm. 

When they're young they are malleable, gleaming with pleasure at attention that flows toward them.  They are sweet and innocent and know of a certainty that they represent the hallowed future and the world in fact revolves around them.

And then there's that gradual transformation when suddenly they are far less willing to be seen as objects to be manipulated at someone else's will, not that it sheds any light on the fact that they are not, after all, the centre of the universe.  For that central role yet remains with them, somewhat intruded upon by a growing sense of puzzled insecurity, when they've reached the mid-teen years.

Try then to take photographs.  Make an effort to convince the reluctant teen who, despite wearing new clothing you've paid for, and insist you'd like to retain a record of the time, the place, the person, and you needn't wait to be rebuffed.  Photographs are forbidden.

Mind, the photos taken at spontaneous moments of great hilarity when a gaggle of girls are assembled and hooting and hollering in glee, and someone snaps them in sisterly communion, that is treasured one, with faces glowing and grimacing in the moment captured.  That's legitimate, it's one of their own.

Make do what those you have, when the child was yet a child, not hovering between childhood and an elusive maturity that will surely, some day arrive.

Our granddaughter dutifully made up her bed after breakfast this morning.  Her girlfriend of whom I was informed sees no value in so doing, did not, though she managed to, the previous few mornings.  The bathroom they are sharing is littered with the paraphernalia of sixteen-year-old girls, their towels hanging helter-skelter to dry, the vanity counter-top hosting gadgets I never even knew existed.

I quartered a large cantaloupe this morning to avoid the grimaces that met me when I proffered oranges yesterday morning, and the girls made their own pancakes for breakfast while we had dry cereal with milk, and coffee went the rounds.

The house is momentarily absent their presence.  Given some spending money, and dropped off at the large shopping mall with all those name-brand little boutique shops they love to poke around in, they won't call to be picked up until one in the afternoon, and I'll have their lunch ready when they arrive back. 

Their absence gives us the opportunity to do our thing; for him, mow the lawns, for me bake the raspberry-white-chocolate cheesecake I promised our granddaughter we'd have for dessert tonight.  Yesterday it was freshly-baked tiny doughnuts, along with diced pineapple, the day before freshly-made ice cream served with sliced strawberries.

We've a busy day ahead, and moving along with our schedule.  Planning to take a quick ramble in the ravine before we set off to do the weekly food shopping.  The girls' presence is delightful, but with the additional work involved, it will be just as delightful (almost) to drop them off back home on Saturday. 

They are lovely girls, thoughtful and sweet, and to see them in tandem is an additional bit of pleasure.  They don't particularly care to pose for photographs, though I did sneak a few in when they returned from the hairdresser, and then again when they came back from a nearby shopping expedition.

It's another hot-hot day, already humid and sticky, with the temperature set to top 34-degrees Celsius. 

What a day.  We embarked on our hellish drive as soon as we could, feeling the load in the trailer was as secure as a knowledgeable knot-tier and rope wrestler could make it.  Trouble was, it had to be conveyed in a standing position, and it was tall, awkward and heavy.  An elliptical training machine was what our granddaughter wanted for her birthday and that was what we got for her - second hand, at a quarter of the price it commanded new.

And we even stopped here to pick up another 50-pound bag of peanuts to feed our ravine squirrels.  The price, since March, has increased from $50 to $70.  Mad, that's what.

But ours was also the task of retrieving it and conveying it.  The knock-down trailer that was stored in our garage had to be put together, and the thing safely secured within it, tied down to Kingdom Come.  Despite which when we set out on a sunny, hot and windy Tuesday we hadn't gone too far when it was necessary to stop and re-secure the load.  Stopping on the highway with heavy traffic is not quite possible, so the trailer had to be pulled onto side roads, also busy, and the hazardous and time-consuming work of re-tying proceeded.

Twice that happened, and that was two times too many.  But we did, eventually arrive at our destination, hot, harried and tense.  Then came the job of moving it up the graduated steps leading to our daughter's front door.  Most drives in the country and visits with our daughter aren't fraught with quite as much anxiety as on this occasion.  But, eventually, the two weight-lifters, father and daughter, managed to wrest the monster into the house and to place it where it was wanted.

Then it was a drive to the farm a half-hour distance where our granddaughter's best friend lives, to pick her up, load her suitcase alongside our granddaughter's, and haul the two girls back with us.  Where they will remain with us until the week-end, finding things to do, going to the hairdresser, shopping at the various stores a short walk from our house, and simply hanging out, as the young people are wont to say.

Thank heavens they're both avid readers, so they won't miss the absence of a television set in this house.

It seems, increasingly, as though we have become a nation of the elderly.  There are so many people achieving a ripe old age and living to tell about it.  Our health care has improved considerably, and there are myriads of medical and surgical interventions using new technologies enabling the elderly to remain active. 

And then there is also the matter of self-confidence, an inner assurance one gains from looking at oneself and feeling that despite the passage of time there is ample energy and psychical well-being to remain actively engaged in life.

 

When I look around at our immediate neighbourhood it seems as though most home owners are either retired or soon-to-be-retired.  Not surprising, among the original owners who bought their homes around a quarter-century earlier.  Increasingly, there are fewer children on the street, more young adults living with their parents, preparatory to moving on elsewhere with their lives, leaving the old folks to it, on their own.

Most of the retirees are robust enough, to varying degrees.  Some, having reached the heights of their 80s have undergone surgeries that have left them partially debilitated, when they were previously physically active in the community.  And some, like Margaret, who lives on the street behind us, seem increasingly birdlike and frail; she informed me yesterday her daily walks around the block have become more infrequent because of the hot weather, and it looks as though she can barely toddle along.

Others, like my husband, (and me) refuse to let the years dictate their limits.  They actively engage in taxing physical endeavours, look after themselves, acquire the mindset of those who value life enough to take charge of their immediate future.

Last month her grandfather had a trailer hitch installed on the new car, now a year old.  A few days ago he put together the knock-down trailer and went to pick up the elliptical trainer he bought for her sixteenth birthday, a device she has wanted for a year.  It will be delivered to her home tomorrow when we make the long drive to pick her up.  Her and her best girlfriend, who will be staying with us for the following five days.

Living in the country as they do, they haven't the close exposure to shopping opportunities so dear to young girls' hearts.  Our granddaughter also plans to visit all those neighbourhood playgrounds with their equipment beloved of four-year-olds that we used to take her to every day without fail when we were her daytime guardians until she turned nine and her mother moved to the country.

Yesterday evening I baked chocolate chip cookies, when the atmosphere began to cool off from the hot humidity of the day, and the house didn't as a result, warm up too much.  I put fresh linen on the beds of the two back bedrooms in anticipation of their stay.  I'll be busy when they're here, making lunches for them, when we haven't eaten a mid-day meal ourselves in decades.  They'll have quiche, pizza, grilled sandwiches and salads.

The refrigerator is well stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables.  The day following their arrival they'll go over to the hairdressing salon our granddaughter visits each time she stays with us, to have their hair done.  They'll giggle, and talk incessantly, preen and shop, as young girls do.  The house will be a livelier one than usual, and we'll be, no doubt, exhausted, by the time we return them to their families.

Her grandfather also bought a basketball for them to take along to the park so they can use the hoops there, and kick the ball around as well, since they're also besotted with the fun of soccer.  How can you kick a basketball? she asked when I told her, over the telephone.

There are other things aside from nature's natural beauty that attract us to New Hampshire for a one-week yearly visit.  Although nature is the main attraction, fulfilling our desire to immerse ourselves fully into a fabulous natural landscape, we also succumb to a curiosity about what is available from year to year in the acquisition department of antiques of which that area appears to have an abundance.

Junk too, of course, but the discerning collector has no difficulty separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.  We are most definitely not interested in 'collectibles', 'memorabilia', 'vintage' or any other such items.  But we do have a deep and abiding interest in 19th Century paintings, porcelains, clocks and other items of creative and lasting beauty.

Over the years we've seen many shops open, only to close again for lack of clientele.  Whenever the economy does a nose dive, so do places as financially precarious as antique shops, hugely dependent on peoples' ability to spend beyond the necessities of life.

So, we drove down to Antique Alley to have a look at what a variety of group shops had on offer.  Found a lot of the usual junk and a smattering of items of interest to us.  In some places anything remotely decent is vastly over-priced beyond its actual value, and we see such items gathering dust in various shops, year after year.

We discovered a new place had opened in an old barn that had been wonderfully well restored to its original condition and beyond.  In it, a friendly proprietor to welcome all who passed through that portal.  Not a group shop, but a discriminating collector who had on hand handsome pieces of furniture dating back to the early 19th Century, from Britain, from America.  Highboys and lovely chairs and desks, some interesting paintings and Japanese porcelains.

It was not there, however, where we discovered a few paintings that were of interest to us and affordable, as well.  The two group shops operated by Parker-French offer a huge assortment of items from junk to uniquely antique treasures, and this time was no different for us roaming through it, to discover two paintings that were destined to return home with us.