Any rationally responsible individual and all civilized traffic regulations respond to the reality that it is a privilege to drive, one earned through certification that the license-holding owner of a vehicle, or a driver of a vehicle has adequate experience and knowledge and capability/dexterity to operate a motor vehicle in urban or other traffic conditions. 

One might assume that those who have been impaired by age-related cognitive and physical problems should have enough common sense left to recognize their responsibility both to themselves and to the driving and ambulatory public to cease driving when health conditions are such as to seriously impact on their ability to safely negotiate roads and traffic.

Yesterday, we parked close to a bank that we frequent, while my husband ducked inside to withdraw money from our account.  The parking space beside us had been vacant, but soon a silver-coloured hatchback slid slowly into place.  My husband returned from his mission just in time to witness, alongside me, an elderly, overweight, badly stooped man slowly emerge from behind the driver's seat of that vehicle.

He emerged slowly and clumsily, found his footing on the ground, and stooped over notably to gain balance and strength from contact with the outer frame of the vehicle, managing to shut the car door.  Then, clinging fiercely to the side of the car he laboriously and cripplingly made his way alongside the car until he was able to reach the trunk.  Where he stopped, stooped over and continuing to use the car as a leverage against falling over, he withdrew himself sufficiently to stand beside the trunk, not hovering precariously over it, to reach into its interior and take possession of a folded-up walker.

The walker withdrawn, he managed to bang shut the car trunk, still balancing himself by a grip on the car and unfolding the walker in a painfully protracted process that seemed to take endless time.  With the walker before him, he shuffled slowly and in the most ungainly manner toward the sidewalk, off the parking lot, lifting himself the one-step height with immense difficulty.

We witnessed this pantomime of dessicated health- and age-related fragility with incredulity that anyone so obviously incapacitated would still be manoeuvring a potentially lethal weapon on public roads.

Well fortified (we thought, as rank amateurs, which we most certainly are) with information gleaned on what precisely to look for based on our use of a family desk-top computer, thanks to our subscription to Consumer Report, we did some preliminary searches close to home, visiting a number of electronic outlet stores to have an idea of the variety, type and prices that we could anticipate in replacing our groaning, prone-to-tantrums 6-year-old HP Compaq Presario.

It's been nursed along through its hysterics and refusals and adamant pouts for well over a year and its incapacity or unwillingness to render any further service has quite impacted its usefulness and our patience.  We thought we'd wait for an impressive sale.  When an advertisement would come our way that listed a 'sale' price for a computer in our hoped-for range of at least $100 in savings, not the measly $20-off come-ons we mostly see advertised.

Of course, the computer would have to have a certain storage capacity, speed, RAM, that kind of thing.  My downfall as far as burdening our computer has been the value I place on securing a place for photographs, all manner of photos, all of which I treasure.  Likely, I should keep them on thumb drives. I have become an inveterate photo-taker.  Digital cameras have made that possible, for me.  I am technologically clumsy to a degree, and these cameras make it possible for me to perform basic functions to produce a superior product.

We went along to the outlet where the computers had been advertised, knowing from what we've read and from previous experience that there would be few at that price, and if we were serious, we should take advantage of the sale while it was still possible.  The young computer salesman who looked after us, answering our (undoubtedly naive) questions was patient, accommodating and helpful.  Of course he did attempt to sell us items we had no interest in.

And when we realized that the price for setting up the computer by the store staff before our taking possession of it wasn't far in expense from the cost of the computer itself, I probed the young man about how difficult it might be for me to do that myself.  He was not encouraging, but nor did he discourage me.  Nor has our habit of taking out a 3-year-extended warranty ever benefited us previously, so we decided to dispense with that, as well.

Now, all that stands before me and my new desk-top is that I manage, with my extremely limited knowledge, to get it up and running.  I figure:  if our granddaughter was able to do it on her own a few years back when we bought her laptop for her, why cannot her grandmother?  Um, yes, I'm well aware of the response to that.

What might impetuous youth have in common with cranky old age?  Possibly consanguinity.  A grandfatherly, granddaughterly relationship sounds reasonable, given the differential in age say, between a 23-year-old woman and a 69-year old man.  Made all the more acute since the 23-year-old woman's actual grandmother is 68, and the 69-year-old man is not her grandfather but her husband.

(Canadian Senator, 69 years of age, celebrates one-year marriage to 23-year-old wife in court, as she is arraigned for threatening him on a flight from Ottawa to Saskatchewan, allegedly endangering the flight and behaving erratically, spouting a rant of violently rude epithets.)

In traditional societies where patriarchy prevails it was customary for marriages to be arranged through intra- and inter-family consultation.  A 'good' marriage was sought both for the male and the female.  In those same societies it wasn't entirely unusual for pre-pubescent children, sometimes infants, to be 'betrothed', through societal covenants, then joined in marriage when the girl became thirteen.

It was also not uncommon for very young girls to be given in marriage to considerably older men.  So that a thirteen-year-old girl would be transferred from her parents' care to the marriage bed of a man in his 60s.  The result would most often be a master-slave relationship, although it was considered to be a marriage of traditional values.

Very often arranged marriages worked out very well.  If and when the two partners turned out to be compatible and valued one another, the stranger might well turn out to be a valued life-long partner bringing happiness to both members.  When there was oppression and misery in the marriage it represented a human tragedy.

There is much to be said for 'love marriages', for two people of like background, age and values to come together in a combination of companionship and physical ardour.  When those marriages work out - and they do not always - the result can be a lifelong relationship of incomparable satisfaction.  And most often, a family of parents raising children in a supportive, loving environment.

Human nature is so complex and unexpected that what works for some does not for others. But the combination of an aged partner to a youthful one remains a formula for failure.  The generations are so disparate, the emphasis on high-value priorities unmatched, the experiences and expectations finding no meeting place.

We live in a privileged neighbourhood.  As soon as spring arrives, the sounds and the activities begin.  People having in-ground pools installed in their backyards, others having their driveways renewed, still others getting cobbled walks and patios put into place.  And the inevitable, expensive installation of new windows and new roofs.

Our neighbour, two houses down from ours, now lives alone in his large house.  When he moved in over twenty years ago he lived there with his younger-than-he wife and her two children.  The two children have long since moved on to lives of their own, and his wife decided she would no longer accept his serial infidelities.  Our neighbour is a charming, sweet-natured man and he often tells us how much he regrets his wife's decision.

Whether he equally regrets his own roving eye and ultra-sensitivity to the allure of young women is another story altogether.  He has tried on numerous occasions to replace his wife's absence in his life with other young, pretty, intelligent women and nothing has ever worked out.  He is attractive to women, himself in good physical shape, although he does have some health issues - and he wants to share his life with someone, but not with an "old, overweight" woman.

That said, he is a very particular personality; everything must be 'just so'.  Although he lives alone, his house interior and exterior bear no resemblance to those of other men who have parted with their long-time life-partners.  His is neat and tidy, everything has a place and remains there.  The roof of his house was replaced a decade ago after a destructive ice storm.  It was a 35-year-roof but it just didn't last.  He is now replacing it with a 50-year-roof that has a lifetime-warranty.

He's nudging 70 and will certainly not live to see that roof replaced when it lives out its warranty.  He laughs about that.  Last year he replaced all the windows of that house, though when he bought the house he had paid considerably additional costs to have the windows all plastic-encased, ruling out the necessity to paint wood frames on a continual basis.  There were problems, discovered much later, relating to the poor installation of the windows allowing rainwater to escape down into the separations of the windows to impact the drywall and the wooden uprights.

Whoever eventually buys that house from this proud home-owner will be getting a house well maintained and cared for - presumably at a premium price.

This was a new experience for us.  Usually, when we wander through the trails in the ravine, leaving peanuts in the usual cache places, squirrels anticipate us, awaiting the drop.  Lately, some black or grey squirrels have become so accustomed to our presence and have made the connection that Stumpy and Stumpette, the two tail-less squirrels did long ago, that the peanuts are connected to our personal presence, that they have taken to confronting us directly.

Upon spying our presence, they will run helter-skelter toward us, not stopping their determined rush until they're right at our feet, and then waiting the slender time it takes us to withdraw peanuts from our bagful for them.  Never the red squirrels.  They continue to be suspicious of our presence, although alert to the potential windfall in our wake. 

And usually the red squirrels claim ownership of any tree or stump or crook in a tree or bridge rail containing those peanuts, relentlessly chasing the much larger, but obviously more timid greys and blacks away from those caches.  The odd thing is the blacks and the greys are not timid in approaching us, while the reds certainly are.  They are aggressive, however, beyond anything the others will attempt to, about their privileged position as they see it.

Yesterday, during our ravine walk the episode we were confronted with was quite different.  A black squirrel patiently awaited his peanut, and just as I was about to give it to him, a grey squirrel appeared as though out of nowhere and actually pounced upon the black one which, startled, quickly ran away, and the grey recovered the thrown peanut.

Not very civilized behaviour, to be sure.

I knew well beforehand that they would arrive late, driving in from New Brunswick, a long road trip, particularly after having driven there the day before, from Nova Scotia.  I also knew that they would arrive famished, and I had informed them that dinner would be waiting for them, whatever the time of their arrival.

We left the front door wide open, and when we heard little Riley barking furiously we knew they had pulled into the driveway.  It was after nine o'clock.  Earlier I had decided, despite that it was such a hot day, not to give them the simple fare of something cold and slapped together.

Hours earlier I had began cooking a polenta, because I thought it would be a good foil for the chicken dish I would also prepare for them.  Once the coarse cornmeal had thickened sufficiently I added a half-cup shredded old cheddar cheese, a tablespoon of butter, and a cup of fresh corn niblets cut from the cob, and then smoothed it all into a small casserole to bake until the top, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, was brown and crusty.

While it cooled, I put the chicken into that same little toaster-oven (too hot to put on the big kitchen oven).  I had sprinkled pepper and garlic over the chicken breasts, then plenty of fresh ginger.  Over top that went chopped red pepper, and finally slices of fresh garden tomatoes, and a sprinkling of olive oil.  That baked in the little oven, at a low temperature for almost an hour and a half until the tomato was reduced and the chicken very well done, but moist and perfect.

When they arrived, the house was suffused with the tangy-sweet smell of the chicken dish.  That, the polenta and a sideplate of grape tomatoes, baby carrots and snowpeas made up their evening repast.  And then we talked, talked, talked the rest of the evening away until a late bedtime.

We have been so busy lately, it seems, that we have temporarily given up our usual morning walk-about in the gardens, after breakfast.  This being Saturday, and no pressing business to attend to, the day stretching before us until our company arrives in the evening, we resumed our perambulations about our modest gardens.  Just to see what's happening on a broader scale than the usual glimpses we get, coming and going.

As usual, in late summer, many perennials are on the fading end of bloom and colour.  The two passion vines that I planted early in the summer, knowing their transitory life-span in this climate, but unable to resist the prospect of awaiting those wonderful blooms, turned out to be quite disappointing.  The vines themselves have grown vigorously enough, though not impressively, and their blossom output has been meager.

On the other hand, the appearance of echinacea, turtleheads, asters, phlox and Japanese anemones have gifted the garden with late colour.  And the begonia bulbs that I overwinter, along with the ipomea, have taken nicely as they unfailingly do, producing huge, gorgeous flower heads throughout the summer months that will continue well into fall.

Riley dogged us faithfully as we traipsed from the breakfast room out onto the deck, down the stairs to the back garden, through the garden fence alongside the house toward the front of the house and our front gardens.  Just as we're never bored looking through the gardens, so too is he never bored, following us, it seems.

There's work to be done in the gardens, there always is.  Weeding, thinning out, cutting back, splitting and re-planting.  It will all, over time, get done.  This quiet period of post-breakfast rambling is a time for the sweetness of appreciating what we've accomplished with nature's help.  The additional work can wait.

From the time I was a little girl dolls have fascinated me.  They do all little girls, more or less.  My fascination with them has never ebbed and over the years I have amassed a collection of dolls.  When we lived for a too-brief year in Tokyo I was able to acquire old Japanese dolls and I treasure them.  It's been years since I acquired another doll.  I don't actively search them out.  But we did see one that elicited my interest, being held for auction at the Salvation Army thrift store near where we live.

My husband started with the silent auction, writing down his initial bid for it; someone else had preceded us with a bid for $5, and my husband put down $20.  I don't really, at the age of 75, want to collect any more of anything, but this face reminded me of someone that I surely knew once, long ago, and cannot quite place?  My husband contends that it's an 'everyone' face and that's what makes it seem familiar.

When we arrived at the store at 6:00 p.m. there were regular shoppers there browsing among the goods for sale.  Those interested in the auction picked their numbers and waited.  When the auction began, though my husband urged me to look around, I felt compelled to watch.  While standing there as the auction proceeded, a young man approached me with the tiniest pair of slippers in his hand, asking me something.  I asked him to repeat his question, louder.  Did the colour represent slippers for a girl or a boy, he asked.  What's the difference, I responded, they're sweet and comfortable looking, suitable for a boy or a girl.  He looked puzzled and definitely dissatisfied with my response.  I relented and said that dark brown likely is more colour-suited to a boy and that satisfied him.

When the bidding turned to the doll I wanted, it seemed that there was no one present prepared to outbid the last bid my husband had put in.  He had returned to check the silent bids a few days earlier and someone had outbid him by $2, so he increased his bid to $40.  Returning again the day of the bid he found it increased to $42, all by the same person.  Joyce, evidently, wanted the doll as much as I did, and I wondered whether it might be better if I simply stopped.  But I thought of that fascinating face and agreed with my husband that we would return to the store in time for the actual auction.

The last bid my husband put in at $75 was not contested.  It's an appalling sum of money for a doll, some would say, but on the other hand, the money that exchanged hands between us and the Salvation Army is guaranteed to be of use to someone.

Perhaps even the man who swept into the store as we were leaving.  He had a bald pate and long silvery hair hanging down to his shoulders.  He wore a large smile of contentment with himself, along with a strapless summer frock printed with bright flowers.  He was bare-armed and -legged and exceedingly hairy.  He was grossly overweight and physically unimpressive.  But the bosom of the dress he wore was more than adequately filled out.

Seems this computer of mine is determined to breathe its last.  It groans and moans, it stutters and freezes.  I'd thought, after the last escapade when I'd had to completely restore the hard drive, and lost quite a bit in the process, having no option but to take that drastic step since I'm no whiz with a computer and when it refused to be normally activated I did what I could, with the result that an entirely new program was installed and I began the set-up for a new system. 

I thought I could live with it for awhile.  Trouble is, the computer doesn't seem to believe it can continue to live and produce service.

Regardless, the hard drive is too severely compromised.  It's about seven years old, and while there remains 60% free space, the drive wants a permanent retirement.  When I'm online and writing an entry in my blog the cursor will suddenly go amok, with a frenetic life of its own, eating up space at a tremendous rate, and eradicating as well whatever I've written.  It seems to overrule the 'save' function at times.

Yesterday, after our daily ravine walk we went out in the commercial neighbourhood to visit a few of our local electronic franchises to see what they had on offer.  There are sales but they're geared to the back-to-school crowd, with numberless makes and models of laptops and minis on sale.  Along with iPods, cellphones, and all the other paraphernalia so beloved of young people.

I want another desktop.  My husband looks at the speed and the storage capacity.  We're looking for a dual-core workhorse, nothing elaborate.  Those who stream video and download movies and play games look for the bells and whistles. 

Both places we went to were packed with young people, and sometimes really young people accompanied by their parents.  Too much activity ongoing for a serious talk with a salesperson.  If we want a salesperson to give advice, and that's questionable.

My computer is increasingly given to stalling and freezing, and it's inevitable that we make the leap to a fresh new model eager to go and perform its duties.  Built-in obsolescence, who knows?

Ah, the weather.  We are steadily, right on seasonal cue, moving into the late days of summer.  Longer nights, cooler nights.  Sunny days with quite regular rain events.  And cooler days, as well, particularly in the late afternoon.  We now need long sleeves, and bare legs are no longer as comfortable as they have been.

Conditions that call out for a change in the dinner menu.  So I thought about a garden vegetable soup.  And set about preparing one for dinner.  Onion and garlic chopped into a deep pot to sizzle until transparent in olive oil.  Into the pot then went chopped celery, parsnip, carrots, mushrooms, and plenty of chopped field tomato.  That mixture formed the basis of our evening meal.  I had added a chicken-soup cube, a large bay leaf, salt and pepper and let it slowly cook for an hour, although it hardly needed that long on the stove.  A half-hour before finishing the soup I added a finely cubed new potato, a handful of chopped snow peas, and cupful of fresh corn sheared from the cob.  The soup was finished by the introduction of a quarter-cup sour cream in each bowl into which I ladled the steaming soup.  And it was delicious.

As was the polenta that I served with it.  A half-cup coarse cornmeal added to two cups of boiling, lightly salted water, stirred until thickened, then allowed to cook, covered, another half-hour under a low heat.  Then I added a cup of shredded medium cheddar cheese and a pat of butter, stirred, and dumped it all into a buttered casserole dish.  Which then went into the oven, its top sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, for a half-hour of baking, until the top had nicely browned.

Dessert was fresh raspberries served over Greek-style plain yoghurt.  And a few chocolate-chip cookies I'd baked earlier, in preparation for another family visit by cookie-loving adults who are our children.

She had decided, she told us last week, to drive up to Sudbury again to visit with her parents.  It's a long drive, about nine hours' worth and exhausting.  This time she asked her daughter to accompany her, along with her two grandsons, aged 9 and 7.  The younger of the two boys complained about the boredom of the never-ending drive.  They were told this would likely be the last such trip; in all likelihood those they were visiting weren't long for this world.  That hardly mollified the boys, they wouldn't like the interpretation, its implied finality and grim, fearful mystery.

Because her parents lived in a small apartment, with room enough for her to sleep over when she visited solo, she had made reservations for all of them to stay over at a nearby hotel, to make things more practical, more comfortable for everyone involved.  The boys liked staying over at a hotel.  And she knew, that though her parents enjoyed having the boys around that enjoyment would pall if they were exposed to the boys' exuberant behaviour for more prolonged, uninterrupted periods of time.  It just worked out better that way.

And it was true, she didn't expect them to live much longer.  She wanted her daughter and her grandchildren to have a memory of the two old people, her own parents.  Her father was 82, in very poor health.  What seemed to keep him going was his love of walking, and he was hardly able now to do much of that.  When she visited she accompanied him on his walks in nearby parks, and they shared rambling reminiscences. 

He'd been a heavy drinker all his life, though not an alcoholic, and smoked heavily as well.  His heart was in fragile shape, and he had a slow-acting cancer that couldn't be operated on because of his heart condition.  So it was a matter of time.  His doctors had informed him he could simply go at any time, with no particular advance warning.  Her mother was in little better shape herself.  She wouldn't survive the death of her husband for very long.

So she was glad she interrupted her busy schedule and convinced her daughter to accompany her with the two boys.  Just one of life's inevitable conclusions to a long life replete with its various satisfactions. 

This has been an atmospherically peculiar spring and summer.  We started out with extraordinarily hot days quite above normal in temperature, spurring local flora to respond with precipitate alacrity; fruit trees began putting out their blossoms at an unusually early date.  Unfortunately, the heat was followed by a last-of-the-season frost, interrupting the maturing process and killing the blossoms.

The summer months of June and July were without moisture.  The days were extremely hot, even humid, but no rainfall came along to water growing things.  Farmers put out the alarm, and urban gardeners were only too well aware of how parched the soil had become.  Corn failed to mature as it should, refusing, through lack of rain, to advance to the stage of growing the cobs of corn.  They were sterile, stunted and represented an utter crop failure.  Other crops were not far behind.

In the City of Ottawa, which draws its water from the Ottawa River, an unending source of supply, residents were encouraged to water their lawns, their trees, their gardens in favour of restoring them rather than allowing them to dry to the point of loss.  The drought was causing the landscape to become a fire hazard, and wildfires did break out in powder-keg dry areas within the city, sending out fire crews battling them day after day.

And then, August brought rain back to us.  With day after day of sometimes-violent downpours rumbling through the area.  Some of which were violent enough to knock out power to substantial residential areas which in some instances took days to restore.

It was only on the week-end, driving along the Queensway, heading west, and deliberately scanning the views on either side of the highway, that we could finally see the long-term effect of the drought on the urban landscape.  The grass had returned to its green, from its dormant state, but many trees had failed to survive.  Those were, without doubt, trees that had already been impacted by a poor state of health which the drought built upon, passing the final blow to their existence.

The stark, black leafless limbs of dead trees among the green and thriving, a sombre reminder of how dependent we and all living things on our immediate environment.

Sometimes he is haunted by those eyes, the utter vicious venom that emanated from them, the sinister intent, the menacing language emitted from those lips curled in hateful contempt.  There isn't much that frightens this man, but on this occasion he felt fear.  He never steps back from a confrontational situation, it just isn't in his nature.  He has his own share of belligerence when he feels the occasion merits it.  Ever since we were teens I had mixed feelings about that.

On the one hand, even back then, it was symbolic of his masculinity.  And perhaps a certain source of masculine pride.  Yet even back then, and in the sixty-some odd years that have followed it has always been a source of concern to me.  In the sense that I felt great anxiety that he not enter a situation that would prove to be violent beyond his control.  This one could have been like that, but aside from the snarling warning that he was in dangerous company, because there was too much ambient activity, he was saved from what might have turned out to be a dreadful experience.

He had been walking back to work in late summer one afternoon after lunch time, heading to the Foreign Affairs building on Sussex Drive.  This was a month before his retirement.  It was his habit to get out of the building, to stroll down to the Byward Market and other nearby areas to stretch his legs, look about and sometimes come back home in the evening with a shopping bagful of fresh fruits, vegetables, cheese.

On this occasion he was crossing the street when suddenly a taxicab shot out at such a speed that his reflexes served him well, as he jumped back out of harm's way, and similarly reflexively, raised his right hand and finger in an internationally recognized salute of scorn.  The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver exited and leaped toward my husband, calling him an "old Jew", and excoriating him in language that exceeded even my husband's extensive vocabulary of nasty words.

He watched, appalled, as the man, whose features marked him as Middle Eastern in origin, looked around, obviously to determine how many potential witnesses there might be to an assault, then appraising the rush of traffic all about, and the occasional pedestrian, decided against anything physical, resumed his tirade, spewing filthy invective and racial epithets, leaped back into his vehicle and took himself away.

Who Knew?

"I think they need to take it very seriously.  It's much mores significant than a lot of other environmental health risks that people react to, for example [plastics ingredient] bisphenol-A and throwing out all the plastic baby bottles, when the risk is quite a bit smaller than radon.

"The problem is that that risk is tangible and you can blame someone: the people who made those bottles.  With radon, you can't blame anyone, because it's naturally occurring.  You can't smell it, see it or taste it.  And it's not immediate, it's long term."  Kelly Bush, Health Canada spokesperson

The public is vaguely aware that there are harmful chemicals and other substances all around us, in the earth we and our homes stand upon, in the air we breathe, and in the food we eat.  For the most part, arsenic exists naturally, and it's a deadly poison, but we take it up in such minuscule quantities in the natural environment it poses no risk to our health, unless there's something like a chemical spill from an industrial site; mercury or something lethal of that nature contaminating the environment.

But radon.  Seeping without our awareness into homes and in the event, representing the cause of lung-cancer deaths, far more than previously estimated by Health Canada?  A recently-undertaken study has concluded that radon in the environment (radioactive gas), is quite prevalent in some areas.  So much so that it represents about 16% causative of lung cancer cases; whereas the previous estimate held that number to be 10%. Because of exposure to radon naturally produced when soil-based uranium degrades, about 3,200 Canadians die on an annual basis. 

Radon reduction needs to be increased, urge researchers at Health Canada, publishing their results in the journal Radiation Protection Dosimetry.  And, according to Kelly Bush of Health Canada, it's an "uphill battle" to inform people, despite the increased public awareness and warning efforts of Health Canada.  People are simply more comfortable setting aside the notion of harms in the soil, whereas man-made substances that threaten health and safety are addressed.

"I get the calls from the 40- or 50-year-old Canadians with lung cancer who have never smoked and they say 'I wish I had known', or 'I wish I had tested'.  And that's what keeps me going", she states, recommending that Canadians everywhere have their homes tested for radon levels.  There are do-it-yourself testing kits sold at hardware outlets.  Alternately, professionals can be hired to do the testing.  And then, according to the results, corrective action taken. 

Kits cost about $50.  If radon levels exceed 200 Bqm3, "active soil depressurization" should be undertaken, whereby a pipe is installed in the earth below the house foundation, fed outside the house in a process that ends up drawing over 90% of the contaminated air away from the home.  The cost of the procedure ranges from $1,000 to $3,000. 

Radon is the next largest cause of the most deadly type of malignant lung cancer, after smoking.  Homes in Manitoba, Saskatchewan and New Brunswick are likelier than other provinces to register high levels of radon exposure.  One in five Manitoba and New Brunswick homes register above the permissible limit of radon gas.  But 7% of houses nationally register levels of radon above 200 Becquerels per cubic metre of air, alerting to the need of correction.

She saw it first, brought it to my attention, said she wanted my advice, whether she should buy the Weight Watchers cookbook.  I flipped through it and said she couldn't go wrong with it, and she bought it.  Later, at home in the afternoon she was looking through the recipes and brought some to my attention, and I thought: how did this treasure slip by me?  I said as much and she triumphantly declared it was hers and that was that.  She'll get a lot of excellent use of it, and I don't begrudge it to her, not one iota.  I'll eventually get a copy of my own.

She found a number of recipes that excited her and she shared her excitement with her grandfather.  They oohed and ahhed over the desert recipes and both proclaimed their love of coconut cream pie.  And I agreed to make a coconut cream pie for desert this morning for this evening's meal. Both were immensely pleased.  Granddaughter was eager to help.  And she did.  I learned something useful from that recipe although I didn't follow it scrupulously; for one thing I added a half-cup cream cheese and an additional egg yolk.  The recipe called for an envelope of gelatin and I thought that a fine idea.  The finished product sits now in the refrigerator, awaiting dinner.

Along with a yeast dough enriched with milk and a bit of butter to be used in the production of Chelsea buns to be baked early Saturday morning, for a different kind of breakfast.  Part of that dough, however, will be used as well this evening to put together cheese croissants for dinner.  It too sits in a covered bowl to rise for finishing preparations later in the day.

Granddaughter has promised to eat only one modest-sized croissant and to accept a smaller piece of coconut cream pie, to enjoy both without (sigh) over-indulging.

As if.

These are lovely summer days with a reasonable mix of sun and showers and temperature highs that are not exhausting.  Perfect days for strolling about in the ravine, shaded by the sun.  And this morning we came across two women we'd never before seen in there.  Older women in their early 50s and quite overweight, but enjoying the experience nonetheless.  One of the women was holding a teacup poodle close to her, giving the tiny thing a break from walking on its own four paws.  It looked a minuscule image of our own Riley, who paid it no attention even while we stood there talking for a lengthy period of time as the tiny dog's owner told us it was 14, had undergone a number of surgeries, one to remove all but two of its infected teeth, and on another occasion when it had a broken foot, a metal plate implanted.  A dog so wee must always be in danger of being stepped upon, sweet little thing.

Another person we came across was an East Indian woman, younger than the other two but also overweight, though not as much as they.  She stopped for a chat about how wonderful it was to discover the unspoiled ravine with its forest and its running water, its hills and intriguing flora and fauna, and how much it meant to her.  She had noticed me putting out peanuts and she reminisced about her mother in India, feeding ants, of all things.  And taking her and her siblings to old age homes to teach them patience and empathy.  She was certain that her health issues with high blood pressure have improved immeasurably since she began regular walks in the ravine, and it was my opinion, as I relayed it to her, that she was perfectly right.

Our granddaughter, who preferred to stay behind at home, choosing not to accompany us despite that we had taken her (or perhaps because of) out on a daily basis when we were her caregivers until she was nine years of age, had her lunch in our absence.  Leftover pizza pockets that all of us made together last evening, while we also prepared a large pizza.  She had wanted chopped onion in hers, along with bell pepper, tomato, cheese and no mushrooms, thank you.  Ours had mushrooms, and we also liberally sprinkled fresh sweet basil leaves from the garden on everything.

She's gone off with her grandfather to make a number of stops; the bank, the pharmacy, the bulk food store and the hairdresser where he will leave her and poke about in the Sally Ann located in the same plaza.  He will then accompany her to a shoe store where she had checked online beforehand to determine whether they had the type of shoes she was looking for.

Ambulating in the garden, I'm struck by its ripe beauty, and happy with yet another summer of gardening.  It's such a mature garden that in fact very little needs to be done with it, other than occasional trimming and weed-pulling, and not even all that much of it.  We're amazed and pleased to see that the magnolia in the backyard which has begun to really put on weight, although it's nowhere near the size of the magnolia in the front, has been thriving.  Unlike the magnolia in the front garden which blooms only in the spring, the one in the backyard blooms in the spring, and then hosts another bloom in late summer, which it is now treating us to.

I recalled an old recipe for lighter-than-air pancakes that was long beloved by my husband, and decided I'd prepare them for breakfast this morning.  Because they're different, and you don't rely on a pancake mix.  And because our granddaughter is with us again for a week's stay.  She loves her food and I don't recall her ever having tried these pancakes

The recipe is simple enough; three eggs separated, because the whites are beaten stiff.  A tablespoon of sugar, quarter-teaspoon baking soda and one-third cup of flour complete the dry ingredients.  A half-cup of sour cream is added to the beaten egg yolks, then the dry ingredients added, and lastly, the whipped egg whites are gently folded in.  It makes a surprising number of pancake.  The batter can be amended to produce a thin pancake or a thicker one by adjusting the amount of flour; more flour results in a thicker pancake.  They're pan-fried quickly in butter, and assume fluffy finished proportions.

My granddaughter loves to cook, and loves to learn new cooking tips.  She was happy to cook the pancakes and add each panful to a growing mound of finished pancakes.  We had sliced peaches, bananas, and fruit juice beforehand.  Grapefruit juice for my husband; a blend of pomegranate, peach and apricot for her.  They both had coffee and I had tea.

My husband and I enjoyed the pancakes, our granddaughter thought them lacking in flavour, preferring, she said, the finished product of pancake mixes.

And now that I've finally read Lawrence Hill's novel, The Book of Negroes, I can fully understand and appreciate the acclaim that he has received by reviewers and the reading public.  It is a magnificent, fully-realized book.  If the author's singular purpose was to convey to a wider public, from his perspective as a black man and the son of parents involved in human rights - as I believe it was primarily - the dreadful calamity that results from humans preying on one another, he succeeded.

His writing skills and ability to portray the life of a young African girl, through years of security within her parents' ancestral village, on to her eventual abduction, voyage to another world and slavery into maturity and all the heartbreaks she encountered on that voyage, are superb.  He earned the Commonwealth Writers' Prize, and the esteem that accompanies it.

The plight of innocent people abducted from their homes, their families, their clans, their country of origin and transported under dreadful conditions which to survive represented a miracle in and of itself, is one known to many, in general.  The details gleaned from this writer's careful research represent a journey into the nature of human behaviour that completely lacks empathy and honour.

The lovingly detailed description in the persona of a young girl violently kidnapped after she was witness to the murder of her beloved father, taken along with other helpless and vulnerable innocents on a long overland journey in Africa to the coast where they were boarded onto a slaving ship is heart-rending.  The journey to North America and the tremendous alterations taking place in the minds of those forced into slavery, the drear conditions of life they are exposed to, the misery and heartache described feelingly and intuitively, cannot help but move anyone exposed to it with a feeling of deep personal involvement.

This is a stirring, affecting saga of slavery in the 18th, sliding into the 19th Century.  One where African-upon-African prey is deftly described, as a source of trade and income, and where the abomination of white-upon-black domination is described to perfection.  This story of human degradation, pain, suffering, despair, resignation and finally hope should receive as large an audience as possible.

If only to inform people of the depths to which humanity can fall, and in reverse, to which it can raise itself through defiance and courage.

Life is not simple dealing with rooms with soaring twenty-foot ceilings.  All that height is impossible to reach by ordinary means.  Ladders tall enough to reach high up on the walls work, but they can also be tricky to use.  Particularly when their purpose is to give access to hang objects up high.  Or to remove them, as the case may be.

A set of collapsible, storable scaffolding will do the trick.  And that's just what we acquired when we moved into this house over two decades ago.  They've been used extensively, because my husband is given to doing things that most people would never dream of attempting on their own.  They're cumbersome and heavy, and he now stores them not in the basement, but outside, in the larger of our two garden sheds (which he built himself two years ago).  So it means hauling the components into the house from the shed, putting them together and putting the entire enterprise to work.

Anyone attempting to use them must have physical strength and dexterity.  At 75 years of age, hedging toward 76, my husband is still capable of dealing with them.  As he did yesterday, to enable himself to re-hang an allegorical 19th Century painting of Leda and the Swan, which he'd temporarily removed to enable him to put in place the stained glass windows on the upper story of the Palladian windows in that room.

It took awhile for him to get around to hanging the painting, because it required some restoration work, which he is also capable of doing.  And now, it's re-hung, and he can begin the task of replacing everything in the living room where it should go.

There is much that gives me pleasure in life, starting off with sharing it all with my husband at my side.  There is the pleasure that one's children provide on occasion, and observing the maturation of a grandchild, amazed at what a young mind is capable of absorbing.  There is pleasure in fond memories, in reading a good book, in writing an essay or a poem.  There is pleasure in anticipating and then embarking on an adventure.  Walking thoughtfully through the green enclosure of a narrow forest trail is pleasurable, hearing a birdsong that is particularly eloquently lovely.  Seeing wildlife in all its innocence.

And then there is profound satisfaction to be had in the pleasure of gardening.  It's a different kind of satisfaction from the profound type that results in cooking and baking for one's family, the nurturing function in which pleasure also resides.  Gardening, working with dark, moist soil, planting growing things that will give one aesthetic pleasure born of form, texture, colour and fragrance is like observing a covenant with nature.

Yesterday I grasped a brief opportunity between much-appreciated downpours throughout the day to finally plant the three new hostas I'd bought the previous week when it was far too devastatingly hot to disturb them.  And so, the hostas named August Moon, Stained Glass and Gold Standard joined our collection of garden hostas, one of our very most favourite plants.

We have hostas aplenty in our gardens, many of them divided from original plants we had bought decades earlier.  I've given pieces of our hostas to neighbours for their gardens.  And I've lusted after one particular hosta that one of our neighbours has had for a long time, but this is a hosta that sternly resists dividing. 

I'm not the kind of person ordinarily who observes others minutely. Unlike my husband who is capable of citing details that quite escape me.  Usually my attention is turned elsewhere.  As, for example, when I'm in a supermarket and am concentrating on the quality of the fresh fruits and vegetables arrayed on the shelving before me, intent on selecting what we require to take us through a week of meals.

Occasionally my attention is taken by the sight of a sweet-looking infant seated in a shopping cart, hands busy with a toy, eyes wide with wonder at the colourful sights abounding.  Or that of a young woman dressed in rather spectacular garb, making it difficult to be unaware of her presence.  One young woman, on Friday during my shopping expedition was wearing a floor-length black cotton dress, looking elegant and coolly serene. 

Women dressed in full culture-specific dress still take the attention of others, but increasingly less so, as their numbers become more plentiful and those sights far less exotic-seeming.

My attention was taken, however - although not to the extent that I completely abandoned my primary reason for being there - at the sight of two young black women in their 30s, I would estimate, casually clad in summer shorts and top, and speaking quietly together over the merits, it seemed, of various food choices on the shelves of prepared food products.

I glimpsed a bare head on one of the women, revealing an exquisitely-shaped skull, enhancing the beauty of the face below.  I thought little of it, other than that these were two beautiful young women, casual, confident, going about their business as I should mine.

I came across them again on other aisles, on two separate occasions and each time marvelled at their youth and freshness and loveliness.  It was only hours later, peculiarly, that it occurred to me - thinking about their luminous presence - that the young woman whose presence sparkled even without the usual complement of hair on her head, might have undergone chemotherapy.  It seemed impossible to believe; she looked so healthy and appealing.

I had thought, what if I turned to them and casually complimented the young woman on her stunning looks sans hair?  Might it have seemed intrusive, offensive, insultingly ingratiating?  Utterly unnecessary; or might it perhaps have been interpreted as an admiring gesture, as it was meant to be, an affirmative comment on life and youth and attractiveness?

The unthinkable has happened.  It has given me seven years' worth of sturdy service.  I've no idea how long a computer hard disk should be reliable.  There has been, I suppose, ample warning over the last year that this computer was groaning under the weight of trying to behave itself, following instructions and doing its technological best to serve my needs.

Because of its strange behaviour I've changed peripherals, hoping in that way to solve the problem of balky creakiness, since at times the peculiar things that have happened seemed to point, for example, to the mouse or the keyboard.  And sure enough, there would be months at a stretch where nothing untoward would occur of a really disturbing nature.

Other than that the hard disk was increasingly slowing down.  I still had 60% worth left of free space.  The RAM was doubtless being affected.  I was diligent about cleaning up files on a regular basis, and ensuring that corrupted files were taken care of as well through the process of constantly putting it through disk defragmenting.  And then, of course, having a virus protection on the go.

Perhaps all of that helped.  And perhaps the poor old thing was simply no longer capable of being restored to full functionality.  It began to evince unmistakable signs of fatigue that nothing I could do would convince it that it had a job to do and it should carry on.  When it finally began to stutter-groan audibly and loudly, and become truly recalcitrant I knew of a certainty I was in trouble.

With no option but to force my old faithful to a complete shut-down, which it sturdily resisted, I was unable to get it back up again; it was intent on its last and lasting, final slumber.  But then I prevailed, even though it presented me with a notice writ large of its resignation.  Managing to somehow revive it, I realize now that it is only temporary.

We could hear them descending the hill long before we saw them.  Not that they were loud, just enough for us to be aware of their presence.  An innocuous presence, as it happened, they were looking for help.  They were confused about the direction of the trails, and wanted to be pointed in the right direction.  So they could access the vehicle they drove to get here, which they had left parked on a main street before entering the ravine.

We were only too willing to comply, informing them of their many options all leading in the direction they sought; they had diverted and were uncertain which direction they should be following.  And they informed us that they were botanists, come into the ravine to search out the possibility of finding stands of ash trees.

There's a huge diversity of trees and shrubs in the ravine.  My botanist brother confirmed that for us.  And does so every time he visits and we make his pilgrimage-trip through the ravine, an activity he looks forward to, renewing his acquaintance with its unique botanic specimens.  And he casually names everything we pass; trees, shrubs, wildflowers, ferns.  And we try to remember, but fail to.

These two discovered what anyone who goes through the ravine regularly could have told them; there are groves of maples, but not of ash.  The ash are randomly dispersed throughout the length and breadth of the ravine, as are pines, spruce, yew, fir, elm, hackberry, bass, hawthorns, willow, poplar, serviceberry, wild apple trees, oak and countless other species.

They were embarked on a study, doing research to try to find out more about the emerald ash borer that is devastating area ash trees.  To try to determine, they explained, what happens with the death of the ash trees, when the ash borers look elsewhere for hosts upon which they may sustain themselves; what other vegetation they may prey upon.

They did not, in fact, find the ravine a very good study area.  Too diverse, too lacking in specific gatherings of their sought-for specimens. But far surpassing their expectations in other ways.  Leading them to the impression that we residents are extremely fortunate to have this urbanized micro-area of greenery at our disposal, so to speak, enriching the quality of our lives.

Yesterday's sky was unrelentingly sullen, threatening rain, good cause for celebration, in fact.  The day before we had just returned from our ravine ramble when the heavens opened up and the area was inundated with badly-needed rain.  In the early evening yesterday the rain finally pelted the landscape, turning it from arid to temporarily sodden, brightening all growing things with intense colour.

We had decided after our ravine walk yesterday to drive over to Byward Market, to visit the magazine shop that usually carries a full range of magazines covering every aspect of human interest - including my husband's intense interest in art.  And so we did, enjoying the drive along the Eastern Parkway, as we always do, passing the Aeronautical Museum, seeing small craft in the air, just under the cloud cover.

We were able to secure a good parking spot, not that far a walk up to Byward Market.  On the way, stopping at a jewellery stall, curious about the wares; nickel-silver heavily embossed, set with turquoise and lapis lazuli which the vendor told us were hand-made pieces from Afghanistan.  I don't wear that kind of jewellery but our daughter does and I enquired about the pricing, sorry immediately afterward that I had, because I asked just to satisfy curiosity, and the vendor responded in the hopes of a sale.  I felt dreadfully guilty and made my excuses, walking on.

At the magazine shop which we hardly recognized, having walked right past it because it had been altered with an entirely newly-installed exterior, matching in transformative quality the interior which had also been modernized and upgraded.  The proprietor proudly acknowledged the difference, a huge smile creasing his always-friendly face, when we remarked on the difference.

The Market was crowded with sight-seers and market-goers, people browsing among the many stalls selling hand-made and/or imported goods of all kinds from clothing to jewellery, bedding plants to cut flowers, and above all, seasonal and imported fresh fruits and vegetables, a more colourful array seldom seen anywhere.

We made our way to my husband's favourite cheese shop which always boasted a wide selection of cheeses from around the world, as well as domestic varieties.  And there he satisfied his needs of the moment, before we exited and made our way through the thongs of people, happy to be in that crowded, colourful environment.

Previously, the first and only time we'd seen her was two weeks earlier.  Obviously confused, not knowing which way to turn, a slight young woman out alone trying to make sense of the trails in the ravine.  We introduced ourselves and explained, after hearing her say where it was she wanted to go, how to proceed. We walked along for a short while with her, to aid her in the direction she wanted to go.  She had recently moved to the area and was enchanted by the closeness of nature to where she now lived.

And then yesterday afternoon there she was, seated with two very young children atop one of the hills, a man standing nearby, as we ascended, calling out to us.  Remember me? she asked.  The two children looked at us with the curiosity of bright kids, the two-year-old busy unpeeling a banana, soon to move on to a plastic bagful of cherries.  Her four-year-old sister babbling on about what they'd seen thus far.  Both little girls blessed by genetics with a full cap of shining black hair.

Their father reminded me of a bravura character out of a Kurasawa film, but I've always found it difficult to distinguish facial characteristics between Japanese, Chinese, Koreans.  We were soon to discover that they were Chinese, likely from Hong Kong, simply by having their given names revealed to us: Oliver and Millie, with the penchant from that community for adopting formal British-sounding names.

The unending conversation and observations of the precocious little girls was captivating.  They were fascinated by everything around them; when Stumpy approached us for peanuts they were delighted.  When we showed them a juvenile owl looking solemnly down from us all from its perch above the creek, they were ecstatic.  The older little girl began scattering sunflower seeds on the trail.  I suggested to her that she place them off the trail where passersby wouldn't crush them and the birds and squirrels might discover them.  She was not entirely convinced.

A lightning-swift visit.  They came, they're gone.  Arrived last night just before eleven.  Departed this morning just after nine.  Not much time together, but it's surprising how much talking can take place within the space of a few hours. There'll be a longer time together on the return journey.  Then we'll have most of a week to plumb the depths of what has been occurring since last we were together.

She finds it difficult to leave her pastoral work behind.  Which is ample reason for their late arrival.  It's just too difficult to leave, despite all the pre-arrangements that go into the enterprise of taking a break from ministering to those who require constant support, both emotional and religiously-inspired.

I had everything at the ready before their arrival, pre-prepared and -cooked to just put it all together as soon as they were ready to sit down and eat.  After taking as much of their baggage which they would need in from the car, which they had parked in the garage; our own vehicle remaining in the driveway, they were set.  Which precludes the necessity of emptying the entire car of their possessions to ensure no break-ins occur.

They're on their way to Nova Scotia.  They'll stop this evening at a provincial park in New Brunswick, where they'll camp out for the night before taking up their journey again to Nova Scotia.  She is faithful to her vow to be with her mother twice yearly.

She is the most intelligent, capable woman I've ever known.  Nothing escapes her, and there isn't much she doesn't know.  That is inclusive of culinary arts and modern trends in social customs.  She shares, with our oldest son, musical talent, both playing a variety of musical instruments, both traditional and heritage.  But while she ministers to peoples' souls, he explores the heavens with his astronomical commitment.

Each of them have degrees in history from the medieval era, and an oeuvre of academic papers to reflect that.  They're like shooting stars in our lives. 

The Fable of Arachne, by Velazquez

Did the pantheon of immortals over the ages create mortals, or did mortals create the immortals?  Did the gods imbue humans with emotional characteristics reflecting their own, or is the reverse true, that mortals, in attempting to reach plausible explanations for the mysterious and terrifying aspects of nature and human interaction with nature, create faith in immortals?

In any event, it is the human creation of the myths of the immortals as manipulating all that occurs that many attribute to science and nature, powerful beings that look down on the activities of mere humans, that has left us with literature that is truly fascinating at a corner of humankind's emotional needs to reassure us in a world that seems at times threatening and fearful.  

Attributing occurrences both wonderful and strange to beings susceptible to emotions similar to ours seems to give them an aura of fallibility and occasional kindness to humans despite their status as representing the all-powerful.  

We live with our illusions; nature herself is universal, omnipotent and neutral.  The gods, by contrast, can sometimes be viewed as sympathetic to frail humanity, aping them in so many ways.

On the other hand, they are portrayed in ancient Greek legend as temperamentally egotistical, sharing the frail emotional faults and insecurities of the humans who imagined them into being, whom even the rationally brilliant Greek philosophers retained faith in.  Fearing their tempestuously jealous relationship both to one another up above, in their divine realms, and down below, with humans.

The egotistical jealousy of a goddess invoked when she was made aware of a weaving talent not only matching her own renown, but outdistancing it, ensured that a young and artistically outstanding talent was removed from competition as a human, transformed into a spider where she was permitted to continue weaving her tensile-strength, creatively beautiful, enchanting silk webs.

My husband, noticing a minuscule spider had built an equally-small and perfect web on an outside corner of one our windows, and seeing a number of tiny flies caught in its web, offered a gift to the tiny arachnid this morning, a fly that had ventured into our house.  The flies we consider expandable, since they are capable of carrying disease, whereas spiders are known for their clean-living habits, making short work of pests.

When Button first came into our lives we were both still in the paid workforce.  It was agony leaving her alone during the day while we went off to work.  Returning in the late afternoon/early evening, to rescue her from her solitary confinement.  She was dreadfully anxious about having us with her.  As a normally curious puppy she wanted to explore and to test the confines of her narrow world, but she had no wish to do so alone.

We decided we would never leave her alone if we could help it, when we weren't at work.  So she would accompany us everywhere.  When the food shopping had to be done one of us would stay with her, waiting for the other to accomplish that weekly task.  Otherwise, she quickly adapted to our method of bringing her everywhere with us, comfortably seated in a carrying bag slung over my husband's or my shoulder.

It always surprised me when we were approached by complete strangers, attracted to the sight of her.  And this happened so often that someone would approach us to coo over her, and then relate the heart-breaking story of having had a small black poodle just like Button, and their grief over having lost her to old age and the inevitable.  That would always startle me, even though one might imagine I'd become accustomed to it.

Now I understand the deep well-spring of their memories, their grief.  Because, of course, we've experienced it first-hand ourselves.  But would I approach someone with a young dog and burden them in that manner?  I would not.  I would not wish to.  Not only because our loss is a very private one, but because it's simply unfair to others.

Yet I can also imagine that all those people over the years past who did that with us didn't really mean to.  They simply reacted to an emotion stirring deep within their consciousness, and the overwhelming sense of loss brought vividly to the fore.  And then tried to share their loss, meaning to convey how very much it deprived them. 

It cannot be done.

There are those who are drawn to the serene beauty and isolating comfort of living in the countryside.  There are the obvious benefits to nature-lovers and those who find the bustle, noise and crowded conditions of urban living not to their liking.  And then there are the irritations involved with not being on an urban power grid or sewage system, or water pipeline. 

Being dependent on providing the basics of living without the widespread assurances usually associated with urban living is not to everyone's taste.  Digging a deep enough well, hoping the water table will not be too impacted by drought; requiring your own septic system which needs periodic emptying, contemplating long rush-hour drives to and from employment in the city.

If there are power outages in the countryside they come with the additional problem of being unable to access your own well water because the pump is dependent on drawing electricity.  That's a huge minus.  Another is not having relatively low-cost high-speed Internet service.  Worse, unable to tap into an otherwise-accessible-to-city-folk cheap form of home heating; natural gas.

Weighed against the attraction of seeing a wide variety of bird species make use of winter bird feeders, watching small family gatherings of hummingbirds who return to spend their summers year upon year, and species that urban dwellers can only hope to see, like orioles and blue jays, and cedar waxwings, among countless others.

Squirrels and chipmunks, beaver, turtles, deer, raccoons and any number of other wildlife species turn up regularly, particularly if there's a wetland on your property.

Our daughter's home is in the countryside.  She has a log home originally built as a schoolhouse in 1864, since modernized and built upon and upgraded.  This summer her grass is golden thatch due to the dearth of rain we've been receiving, particularly in her county.  When, two weeks back, we experienced a violent thunderstorm, thousands of people were deprived of power for days, including her.  No well water access, no electrical light, no power.  But her telephone worked.

Unfortunately, some of her neighbours had no land-line telephone service.  So when Bell Canada sent out technicians to fix their service, they doomed hers, somehow.  And in the two weeks since, although technicians have come out time and again in braces no less, they have restored service, which immediately upon their leaving, lapses again.

On Monday we sent in our usual annual donation to the municipality's Humane Society.  Just recently it had built a larger, purpose-built building to house their operations and all the domestic animals that are brought to it for shelter and eventual dispersion within the community.  The new building is far more useful to the needs that they accommodate.  We have always felt a need to support the work they do, as do so many others.

Just three days later, to our surprise, there was a letter from them in our mailbox, and we speculated that it could not possibly be a receipt in such a short turn-around time.  As it happened, it was not.  It was a short and personal missive, explaining that the veterinarian clinic that had looked after our Button for almost twenty years had sent in a memorial donation on news of our having lost her.

Which was very kind and thoughtful of them, not surprising since there are, among the plentiful staff located there, quite kind and thoughtful people.

It did not, however, give us comfort, though we felt gratitude.  Instead, acute feelings of loss flooded our consciousness, as though we were beginning the grieving process all over again. 

He is an inveterate, enthusiastic shopper, as restless about poking about in various types of commercial establishments, as he is about employing himself busily on any number of projects he takes on out of curiosity and need, as the case may be.  If he embarks on a brief mission to pick up some hardware, he will also, most often, pop into nearby supermarkets or other purveyors of hard goods. 

I never know what he'll bring home; exotic cheeses, a basket of peaches (when we're in possession of a half-basket as it is), an artisanal bread, some new plants for the garden that have been half-priced by a nursery attempting to move the last of their spring-summer gardening stock, or a piece of outside furniture, which is what he brought home the morning before yesterday.

He had previously casually mentioned that it might be a good idea to replace the ornamental wrought-iron seating pieces we have in the small piazza he built years ago, in the centre of our gardens in front of the house, with a more comfortable accommodation that could seat two.  Even in very hot weather that particular area has a micro-climate of its own; it is shaded, far cooler than the backyard and there are always cooling breezes passing through. 

Along with the opportunity to catch glimpses, and sometimes more, of the ruby-throated hummingbirds that tend to flit around the flowers in the garden.  With the additional bonus of viewing the colourful gardens about us where the seating arrangement has been placed, enjoying the floral bouquet they present as they pass through their flowering periods.  Ours is a very quiet street with very little traffic beyond the residents' coming and going.

So, yesterday morning he set about moving the other outside furniture that he meant to replace with the new faux-bamboo seating arrangement, spent time putting the outdoor loveseat together, and we've now got a new area to refresh ourselves in the out-of-doors, an alternative to the deck, where sounds of pleasurable laughter from the rambunctious children behind us disporting themselves in their swimming pool are often intrusive to our relaxation.  Sounds anything but unpleasant, but unamenable to our needs.