He has the genes of a nomad; restless, uneasy, interested in what lies beyond his immediate understanding, preoccupied with new pursuits, with getting things done. To a degree that imposes upon him deadlines, even when there is time aplenty.

His curiosity takes him to strange places, introduces him to both odd and mundane things. He has no need for formal instruction. He searches out answers on his own.

His mind so actively engaged, so given to the pursuit of finding answers, it represents a challenge to my own sense of curiosity, even to try to keep abreast of whatever it is that consumes him at the present.

He is forever on the move, finding something that needs to be looked after.  I, on the other hand, am content to just look. His response is to react. And often enough to be proactive. He understands in a way that I am not attuned to, that things deteriorate, and anticipating that, fixes what is not yet begging to be fixed.

If there is a process, mechanical or artistic, ingenious and aesthetic, his interest is piqued and he begins his process of studiously examining it to determine whether he might be interested in going further, to master it.

He is, in a sense, a Renaissance man, a man of multitudinous gifts and endless patience.

Yesterday's rain was so constantly overwhelming there simply was no opportunity to get out and enjoy the out-of-doors. It was as though some giant hand had overturned a bathtub-full of water onto a miniature landscape, inundating it and repeating the exercise time and again. There was no let-up.
When we did the shopping I took along a few clean garbage bags to cover the entire shopping cart at the supermarket, so that our groceries would remain dry, being wheeled out to the car.

The rain continued well into the night. But there's something comforting and enjoyable about such a rain event, particularly accompanied by thunder and lightning when one is snug and dry at home. Perfect time to indulge in reading. When we awoke this morning everything was beyond being drenched. Many of the flowers in the garden were beyond rescue, but many others will recover. The plants themselves loved it. And the colours seem brighter, more luminescent, and the sight of translucent pearls of water on all the foliage was superb.

Even though the clouds seemed to cover most of the sky, and many of the clouds were that threatening dark grey tinged with purple-black, the sun managed to come out for prolonged periods, urging us to embark on one of our regular daily ravine walks. When we arrived back home, we did some garden work, just snipping here and there to make things brightly-neat.

And then we went off briefly, to look at what one of the garden centres had on offer; this late in the planting season many things are usually on sale. We came home with another herb melange to augment what we already have; parsley, rosemary, basil and oregano. Three more dracaena spears to plop into the centre of a few garden pots. A small flat of begonias and another of trailing petunias, and a large tomato plant which will make the third we've got -- and finally -- a mature pot of a new hosta, called "Guacamole".

I've indulged in planting the dracaena, the tomato vine, and have set the new herb pot on the side steps beside the laundry room off the kitchen for easy access. The rest can wait until I carefully consider where I want them to be situated to best advantage.

There is just so much one can do to avoid untoward occurrences from happening, and no more, it seems. Our sleek little silver Honda coupe with its neat sun roof that our granddaughter so much likes is no longer in the immaculate condition it represented yesterday morning. Five years old, with eight thousand kilometres, never driven in the winter, oil changes meticulously looked after, it now awaits bodyshop work.

Fine mechanically, but relatively superficially, given what could have occurred, in its bout with a GMC monster-SUV, cosmetically altered. It's painful to look at, actually. I'm just supremely grateful that my husband wasn't physically harmed. Remediation will happen, the insurance paid for by the driver of the SUV will legally look after that end of things.

Always careful where he parks, never between two vans or SUVs, for example, and never minding how far he has to walk once parked, to his destination, things happen anywhere. And invariably, it seems these relatively minor and extremely irritating collisions occur in parking lots. He had gone out yesterday morning to run a few errands close by - to the bank, the library.

And that's when the driver of the SUV, without checking behind her, gunned the motor and backed out so swiftly that it gave no time for avoidance, and the right, passenger side of our little car was smacked. I was at home. Wondering why those two errands were taking so long. When the telephone rang and my husband informed me he was at the local police station, arranging for an accident report.

Later he filled in details. Like the gratitude expressed time and again by the woman who also kept repeating how sorry she was, for my husband's calm demeanor. For not shouting at her, raging and cursing. How much she so very much appreciated that. A mother of three teens, she will have quite the shame-faced admission to make to them, about her own lapse in vigilance and judgement.

Judgement because she was unwrapping a shawarma she had just zipped into a store to acquire for her lunch. Her attention focused on eating it, instead of whether or not the way was clear for her to exit her parking space so blindly, and rapidly.

This well-cared-for-vehicle, our little silver Honda is meant to be a hand-over to our granddaughter when she begins her first year of university year after next. She will be living in residence, and that too will be a gift from us.

Later, we went for our usual ravine walk and came across good-natured, sloppy, goofy, hairy Charlie. Her human companion described what he'd just experienced with her. Come home from work to find her in obvious discomfort, refusing to put her left front leg down, hobbling along. Close scrutiny revealed an ingrown nail that had split. An emergency visit to the local veterinarian clinic led to an operation to extract the nail.

Details aside, our ravine-walking friend was poorer $535. But Charlie was in excellent spirits, romping about in the ravine, and that was what mattered. As for our little silver car, the preliminary cost estimate is around $3000. And it too should be as good as new.

Interesting statistics just released from Statistics Canada. Evidently the percentage of Ottawa respondents to the 2011 StatsCan survey reveals that 31.5% of those living in the city stated they had university degrees. Generally, throughout the country, about 37% of women age 25 to 34 had at least a university degree in comparison to 26.5% of men in the same age demographic.

"Men are lagging behind now. That's a bit of a concern for me because in a knowledge-based economy, where are they? Employing a lot of young people, I found a lot of the young women coming out of university, they're focused, they're disciplined and they made better employees than the men did", a news story quoted Doug Norris, chief demographer at Environics Analytics.

That kind of focus and determination reflects the attitude and psychology of our granddaughter. Back when we were young, her grandfather and me, it was largely men who attended university, woman were an academic-achieving disposable afterthought. And even at that, far fewer young people attended university than now do.

We hadn't the opportunity, ourselves. Neither of our sets of parents conceived of us returning to higher levels of education post-high-school graduation. Nor were they particularly interested in having us complete our high school education. My husband attended high school to grade 12. At that time and long afterward in Ontario, those planning to attend university needed to complete grade 13 to qualify.

By that time, we were 18, and married. Our concern was to be able to support ourselves financially.

From age 13 onward my parents expected me to get out into the workforce. At first, in the summer months. And if my own search for employment was unsuccessful my mother entered and hauled me off to apply for factory jobs. I worked for a garment manufacturer and for a manufacturer of toys. My boyfriend, soon afterward my husband, worked nearby in a chocolate factory (Hershey's) and for a company that manufactured chrome-and-plastic household products. He hauled heavy loads onto transport trucks and sometimes drove those trucks around the factory compound as he was ordered to do.

Unlike him, though, I went no further than Grade 10. I recall doing some clean-up chores in my parents' kitchen when suddenly my mother informed me, close to the end of that summer when I was complacently contemplating return to high school, that I was expected to find a permanent job, to add to the admittedly modest family coffers. I was aghast, utterly disbelieving, even back then in 1953.

But that's the way it was, and despite my disappointment I entered the workforce.

The changing of the floral guard in the gardens is as luxuriantly lovely as it is inexorable, but even so as each floral offering arrives at its moment of crowning glory, our aesthetic senses swoon at their presence. At least mine do. My eyes feast on the glorious colour, texture, fragrance presented with each new appearance. As though nature carefully choreographs each entry stage-left of her flora, while we gape in wonder.

From the time in early spring when the garden beds look promising after their winter cover has melted, but appear dismally raw and bereft of form, the emergence of tulips, crocuses and hyacinths are balm to the anxiously-awaiting gardener.  They are succeeded by the bleeding hearts, the irrepressible and gigantic magnolia blooms, the vibrant rhododendrons and azaleas, and the sweet tiny presence of forget-me-nots, vying for room with the violets that pop up everywhere.

And then, up come the irises, and the gorgeous peonies, and they become the celebrities of the garden for as long as they are able to withstand the wind and the rain that burdens those fabulous flowerheads bowing under the added weight of water, which leaves them even more bewitching in appearance, those crystalline drops of rain-water decorating the multi-layered petals of the peony blooms.

The Jacks-in-the-Pulpit remain, their shy purple-striped heads hidden behind their spade-shaped leafage, the trilliums long gone, but their remains still to be seen over the vibrant green of their leaves, and the foamflowers send up their delicate white sprays, while lilies of the valley scatter their divine fragrance, in competition with the lilacs.

Poppies open their large, colour-perfect flower heads, and mountain bluet their feathery-blue flowers, while the allium floral heads turn their appealing light purple, swaying gracefully in spring-time breezes atop their green wands. Monarda, with its very special bergamot aroma filtering through the garden offers colour punches of pink and red, reflecting the flower-fall of climbing roses draped over walls and fences and arbours, alongside clematis vines with their perfect flowers challenging those of the nearby honeysuckle sprays.

The Japanese quince's bright orange flowers are turning to nascent fruit, the bridal-wreath spirea has spent itself in a white-veiled fountain of flowers, just as the hydrangeas are setting their floral buds and the princess spirea have released their lovely delicate pink sprays. The sprightly bright white and the mauve of Canterbury bells, the gentle pink of rose mallow, all conspire to delight the heart.

The garden is a pleasure-centre of the senses.

            We experienced a quite unusual occurrence on Monday. It was one of those days when thunderstorms kept whacking through the area, interspersed with brief appearances of sun flooding the saturated environment with a golden glow and warmth, because it was also quite incredibly hot, at 34-degrees Celsius. I’d been cleaning the house, my husband had been involved in one of his many spur-of-the-day activities, when finally at four in the afternoon we’d both finished our chores and decided to take ourselves out to the ravine for our daily walk. It would be a shorter walk than usual, we thought, because we were both kind of tired, and it was late, relatively speaking.

            As things turned out it was even shorter than we’d anticipated. We ended up going over the first bridge, up the hill and up over the tallest part of the ravine, then down again to the last descent before we hit the last ascent to the street above. And we did it in double-quick time. Even Riley quickened his usual lackadaisical pace, uncomfortable at the suggestion that he might be left behind since we were going at such a swift pace.

            When we had set out for the walk, just as soon as we’d exited the house we heard thunderclaps nearby. Looking up at the sky we could see nothing but black-and-blue clouds, some darker than others and all scudding along at a fairy hefty pace, because it was windy and it was getting even windier by the moment. Clearly, yet another storm was brewing. Yet there had been so many throughout the course of the last few days we thought surely they had exhausted themselves. And we thought the chances seemed iffy, but possible that if we really hot-footed it we could outrun any oncoming storm.

            Don’t ask me why we made such an absurd assumption given all the warning signals, especially the booms from above; they could hardly be misconstrued, they heralded serious storms and related downpours. But we set off anyway, eschewing raingear because it was so hot. 

            The wind kept gearing up, and it kept getting darker and darker as we slithered about on the morass that all the rain had made of the trails. We kept urging Riley on, to proceed a little faster. As we came to the first bridge we observed the first casualty of the day, a large old tree had somehow been persuaded to twist near the base and fall directly over the creek, its branches and green leaves crushed in a sodden heap on the opposite side. Ominous.

            We heaved ourselves up the slippery slope after the bridge to attain the height along which we meant to proceed, hoping that if the deluge did come, the canopy would help to keep us from drowning in it. And then we heard it; heavy volumes of rain coming down, smacking against the foliage above us. We expected that the already-soaked leaves wouldn’t keep us dry and we were probably right, but we kept dry anyway, despite the pounding of the rain above us. The wind became more blustier, and soon enough it was dark enough to emulate night; everything took on a strange, vibrant hue, overwhelmingly green, and the winds raged above, while the sound of the boughs and tree trunks clanking against one another and the leaves taking their sodden hits of rain pounded in our ears. Still, we were dry.

            Eventually we exited the trail and found ourselves on the street, wind still moaning through the trees bending under their influence, the street looking like dusk had long since descended, street lights on – and though vestiges of the last rain still drenched the street there were dry patches where the wind and earlier sun-peeks had begun the drying-out process. It hadn’t, after all, despite the thunder, the lightning, the sound and the fury, the dark and the unmistakable odour and sound of rain, actually rained.

Soon enough, though, it did, ferociously.

On a few brief occasions yesterday the sun did manage to flash its golden presence, finding a break in the overall cloud cover lowering over the Ottawa Valley, bringing with it days of incessant rain. The gardens don't mind. They look both snug and smug in this humid atmosphere, flaunting their green freshness and the beauty of luscious blooms enjoying their opportunities to dominate their micro arras surrounding our home.

In the late afternoon there was the opportunity we had awaited; the rain had lifted sufficiently to encourage us to rush out into the great out-of-doors for our daily ravine walk. Somehow, for the most part, even though all-day rains blemish our expectations for a ravine walk, we do manage to get out there. We expected that the trails would be mucky and slippery and they most certainly were. There hasn't been an opportunity for them to dry out; the forest floor is completely saturated. The creek, while not dreadfully high, runs vigorously and muddily.

The trails so much of a challenge that in some places they just ooze thickly with gliding clay. Not too much of a problem for properly-shod walkers to manage, but a problem writ large in some places, in particular for bicyclists. We hadn't been out long after starting out when we heard the excited shouts of people and soon discovered they were coming from two young boys, around eight and twelve years of age, accompanied by their father, all on bicycles. The bike tires were thick with accumulated muck. And the younger of the two boys found himself in a dilemma; he'd got off his bike and was walking it along a narrow portion of trail that is particularly tricky at most times, and he was slowly but inexorably slipping down the slope toward the running creek, his bike following.

As we descended a part of the trail that clambers above, knowing enough to avoid it, we saw the father set his own bike aside and move toward his son, pulling his bike up, and then his son, with no little amount of stretching and grasping until success was realized. We spoke together for a while, and then they set off again. We watched as this time it was the father whose bicycle slid out from under, and he found himself laid out on the muddy trail. The boys and their father were wearing running shoes thick with muck, the muck reaching up around their legs and their hands encrusted as well. An afternoon's outing whose reality did not quite match their anticipation.

We came across a surprisingly large number of other trail walkers, where we often enough see no one else. Partly because it was Sunday, partly because people were sick of being sequestered by weather conditions in their houses, and figured if they got drenched in a downpour it was warm and humid enough not to matter, in any event. As it happened, the rain did hold back. That is, until we completed our circuit and reached home.

And in the evening, thunderstorms blasted through the area, one after another.

Albertans are experiencing dreadful flooding, with thousands of homeowners being forced to leave their homes, vulnerable to the floods. There will be countless people who will have lost just about everything they value, but for their lives, when this natural disaster finally concludes.

We have little to complain about here, other than the incessant rain which, though it has impaired our normal enjoyment of late spring and early summer, hasn't caused any great hardships. In fact, crops here and gardens have hugely benefited from the rain. We woke to heavy rain yesterday morning and rain continued throughout the day.

We took advantage of one narrow window of opportunity when the rain became light enough so we could venture out for our daily ravine walk, clad in raingear. The light rain didn't bother us, but the mosquitoes and blackflies appeared to revel in those conditions and they certainly did bother us.

My husband spent most of the day in our garage, clearing it of the cars which remained in the driveway, taking advantage of an impromptu car wash under those rain conditions. He was busy cutting up a large sheet of plywood recently acquired for the purpose of building another bookshelf. Last week he and I struggled somewhat to move a bookcase he had built many years ago, from the studio in the basement to the upstairs floor of the house. We've too many books for our library to accommodate.

Despite the spillover bookcase in one of the back bedrooms. As it happened there was enough space in the hallway outside that bedroom beside a linen closet to welcome that bookcase. So there it sits now, half full of books already. And the replacement of the one that had sat for so many years downstairs is now being built so that the books and magazines that sat on the one upstairs can be replaced into a bookshelf again.

We viewed two films last night: Mile Zero and The Memory Thief. Intriguing films, both, but juxtaposed not guaranteed to result in an evening of lighthearted entertainment. Just incidentally, I looked at my email afterward, in the wee hours of the morning, to discover one message and attachment from a very old friend of my teen years. She had forwarded a link to a CTV video clip.

For the last perhaps 20 years my friend had been keeping steady company with a man who is a Holocaust survivor. He is now 94 years old, very active and alert, determined to continue getting as much out of life as possible. Every winter they travel together to Florida to spend the winter months there in comfort. The video clip was of a prom held at a synagogue last week, for Holocaust survivors.

It showed these elderly people vigorously dancing with their children, their grandchildren, getting the most out of life, faces lit with happiness and contentment at the dusk of their lives. My old friend's boyfriend was crowned King of the Prom.

Few things are as pleasurably satisfying as noodling through the gardens, front and back of our house. We do this, weather permitting, every morning after breakfast. To get our daily fix of aesthetic pleasure from viewing the architecture of the garden, its hardscape, decorative features in the shape of urns and garden statuary emphasizing the rich green of foliage. And above all, the various perennial vines, shrubs and flowering plants coming into their own.

And then there is the maturing of the sundry annuals planted in pots and urns all over the front and the back gardens, emphasizing further the immense aesthetic appeal in a mixture of sizes and shapes, textures, fragrances and floral offerings.

Yesterday my husband got around to moving the birdbath located in front of the dining room windows over to the space under the pine tree where we had pondered what could most suitably be placed there. And around it I planted some new hostas, having divided a large clump into three parts for that very purpose. We're pleased with the results.

We were finished just in time to greet the window washers who have come around annually to wash our exterior windows since we moved into this house. Sparkling bright windows to enhance visibility looking out onto the gardens.

When we first took our children up to see the Sabbaday Falls, they were teens. We had been intrigued by the legend surrounding it of a spectacular site that early settlers would visit on a Sunday after attending church. So we went along, and were no doubt impressed. It would be difficult not to be, for it is, after all, another one of those innumerable geologic-and-aquatic landscapes of nature's irrepressible devising.

It's so long ago I cannot recall details. At that time we would have been a difficult group to impress. For by then we had experienced so many mountain climbs in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, so many difficult mountain trails that had led us to and often past amazing waterfalls that we felt, doubtless, that we had seen the finest of whatever nature had on offer, in that area, and then some.

Five years ago when we took our granddaughter, then in her early teens, with us to share a week's excursion in our favourite mountainous terrain -- to expose her to the thrills of climbing a mountain and gazing far out over a horizon of other peaks marching off into the distance under a wide sky that either welcomed the climb with white scudding clouds in a blue background, or a low ceiling of bruised clouds heralding inconvenient weather for the mountain ascent, undertaken in defiance, regardless -- it had been our first time back to the falls in decades.

She had enjoyed herself, and we had enjoyed her company and the opportunity to share with her our love of the great out-of-doors and in particular mountain range territory. When we introduced her to Sabbaday Falls on that occasion we hardly remembered what our first exposure to it had been like, but found it difficult to believe that what we observed then hadn't astonished us back then, decades earlier. Surely much had been done to the site since our first visit. To elaborate upon nature's work.

Look-outs and a series of steep steps mounting the area where the mountain stream zipped its way downstream, in a series of lovely and one amazingly beautiful rocky outcroppings, lavishing the air with spray from the boiling maelstrom of a mountain run-off in full steam. This time around, on our own, with just one one little dog accompanying, we ventured onto the trail leading to the falls, in a veritable downpour.

It had been raining all night, and continued raining throughout the day. When we embarked on our day's trip from the rented cottage it was heavily overcast with no sign of the weather lifting, and we wore raincoats. Which, on our arrival at the Sabbaday Falls site, to find one other vehicle parked in the lot, would be an absolute necessity if we were to enjoy the outing.

And enjoy it we most certainly did; the well-leafed canopy of trees bowering the trail kept some of the rain from drenching us completely, but the scenery was so captivating, we hardly cared.

The Waterville Valley in New Hampshire, already sodden beyond capacity, was treated to yet another full night of heavy rain. Comfortable enough when you're in secure, cozy quarters, which we most certainly were. It was cool enough that the windows were closed tight to the rain. Cool enough in fact, to use the electrical baseboard heaters for ambient heat to feel really comfortable.

We awoke to heavily overcast conditions, but that was expected. We hoped the rain would hold off for long enough to enable us to exercise our lazy bodies, having opted to traipse about by car rather than clamber mountain trails yesterday. We decided we'd drive over to the Winnipesauke Lakes area and climb the Rattlesnake. Not much of a physical challenge for most able-bodied young people, but it represents an endurance-reasonable haul for me.

The drive there, as always, was a pleasant one. Passing architecturally beautiful, gracious old 18th- and 19th-Century homes maintained with pride is always an especial treat. Particularly with mountains looming high in the background, along the highways.

There was an unusual absence of vehicles in the parking lot when we finally arrived at the trailhead. Unsurprising given both the weather and the fact it was a week-day and school was not yet out for the season. Even in the parking lot, blackflies made their pestiferous presence known, inclining us to the use of an insecticidal skin lotion, something we'd much rather not use, even at the low dosage of the product we had with us.

The climb isn't the most exciting, not by any measure, nor the most attractive, but it does have its share of micro-scenic areas, and some venerable old oaks and hemlock grow there as well. No wildlife to be seen anywhere, a puzzling anomaly in the entire area where we seldom see creatures of the forest. If we were with our youngest son he would show us things like toads and salamanders that we aren't capable of sighting on our own.

Riley was resolutely determined to do the climb on his own, indicating to us he had no interest whatever in being carried at any point in the upward journey. We saw a few young people descending, exchanging a few brief words of greeting in the process; many people are taken with the presence of a little dog in such surroundings.

Before we reached the summit we veered off a few yards short of it to climb to a lookout that is blessed with far more spectacular views than the summit itself, overlooking Little Winnepesaukee. And we took quite a few photos there, before going on toward the top of Rattlesnake, which we discovered, as we imagined, to be bare of the presence of others.

Apart from a few lethargic drizzles, no downpours occurred, for which we were grateful.  The descent was leisurely and seemed surprisingly swift.  Oddly enough when we did arrive back at the parking lot the skies opened up, and we drove away from the site in a reasonable enough facsimile of a downpour.

When we were finally graced with a lovely mild and mostly sunny day, we made a truly arbitrary decision to waste it. Yes, truly, we did. Oh, we made a return to Smarts Brook trail, and enjoyed doing so, trekking uphill to view the spectacular red-striped rocky gorge with the tremendously full spill down the mountainside, but we also went off on a side-trail that we'd taken on a previous occasion in an earlier year, which we knew didn't really lead to anywhere of interest before turning back. The trek was more of a stretch-your-legs exercise, and another opportunity to sight wildflowers, but this time the atmosphere was so rife with blackflies they came at us in well-regulated little black platoons.

We hadn't meant to stay, in any event, for we planned to devote the major portion of the day not to clambering about on woodland mountain trails, but driving instead from north to south in New Hampshire. Past Antique Alley which had exhausted itself of an always-spotty inventory of antiques and 19th Century paintings and porcelains, and further on, to an area which my husband had done some Internet research on, where he had been assured a great number of antique collectives had set up shop.

Traffic was fairly heavy around Concord, and we found ourselves soon in a run-down suburb once past which we came across the first of the presumably many group shops. This turned out to be the most extensive such warehouse-building we'd yet come across with myriad little dealers, their offerings for the most part reflecting a variety that any salvage shop would have been proud of. And, on occasion, something of real historical, aesthetic value did pop up, but invariably in fairly poor shape. We almost succumbed to a few items, but managed to restrain ourselves.

In chatting with other questors-after-collections-value we were informed of yet another shop a few miles' distant which had a considerable number of paintings and that information intrigued us sufficiently to draw us out of the confines of the massive junk shop, onward. Eventually we recognized some of the narrative-landmarks we had been given, and launched ourselves into this new venue. Which, as it happens, turned out to be hands-down the most authentic, pleasing and attractive such venue we'd yet come across, anywhere.

The quality of the antique furniture, paintings, sculptures, decorative items and porcelains was beyond expectation. Their prices matched their quality, needless to say. We moved breathlessly, as though through a minefield of precious jewels, from one room setting to another, each replete with the most carefully selected genuine pieces of antique furnishings we'd ever encountered, anywhere. Transfixed, we kept wandering, and whispering our astonishment to one another.

It was an amazing exposure, quite the experience. All caution was dropped to the winds. We saw one painting after another that grabbed our attention, and which my husband decided the walls of our home were pleading with him to acquire.

So much is made of those 'special days' of recognition: Mother's Day, Father's Day. We have never, between us, paid much attention to them, viewing them as quite wholly commercial events. The commercial advertising surrounding them is testament to that. Homage should be paid at a different, emotional and foundational level if the roles of parents are to be truly appreciated. Just a personal kind of reaction we have always shared.

Because of the advent of yet another year's recognition of fathers through the formality of a national holiday dedicated to the role of fathers, one of Canada's national newspapers to which we subscribe, had a number of articles highlighting the current role of fathers in children's lives. In particular how fatherhood has changed in more recent years. Perhaps since the advent of women's liberation. Which in some ways liberated men too, to value some aspects of life that were always thought of as solely feminine, and to clasp them to themselves.

Or, at the very least, want to share them. A closeness with their children, for one thing. A willingness to take parental responsibility in a more nurturing way. "As a society, I think we are just now starting to have a meaningful discussion about fatherhood, outside the reactionary dichotomy of the incompetent/emotionally absent dad vs. the overly mocked helicopter dad. Having said that we still have a long way to go -- there is still an unspoken imperative that men shouldn't honestly talk about fatherhood (the joys and challenges) lest they be shamed or ridiculed", wrote editor/publisher David Michael Perez.

This anguish - it is much ado about not too much. Becoming a parent has its distinct pleasures and its equally distinct obligations. To look upon the new fatherhood as a milestone beyond comprehension in comparison to generations past, lauding fathers who nurture their offspring, are not beyond changing diapers, soothing a weeping child, patiently teaching parameters and in short, ensuring primary support by being a "there" parent is not necessarily anything totally new.

It was our personal experience when we first became parents in our early 20s, having our first child after four years of marriage in 1959, that the journey was a shared one. Equally invested in emotion, nurturing, love and care. We had naturally, both of us, assumed that one of us would remain at home with our children, looking to their care, and I was the one who did just that. We lived on one very small salary, in what might be termed genteel poverty. When my husband returned home from his working day out in the general workforce he joined me in looking to the care and needs of our three small children.

We lived modestly, just managing to squeeze by and pay all our bills. And we spent week-ends taking our children to outdoor venues for which there was no charge, to roam about in woodland settings, to have picnics, to play with them and encourage them to explore their own interests in nature. We took them to zoos, to museums, to science galleries, to playgrounds. We lived richly.

It was, for us, quite simply the natural thing to do.

The day we visited the Franconia Notch Basin Cascades with its spectacular series of rushing, spuming cascades heading down to the Pemigewasset River running below the mountains, heavily swollen in magnificent volume by incessant spring rains this year, we had ample time left over to make an appearance at a family garden party we had been invited to by our genial hosts.

The party was in celebration of the third and youngest child of the couple from whom we have rented cottage accommodation over the past decade and more, graduating from high school. Extended family living within a several hours' driving radius were expected to attend; about 25 people, we were told, and that invitation had been extended to us. Where the party was taking place, close to the main house, was quite far from where our rental cottage was located, and there was no need out of courtesy or any other considerations to invite us, but invite us they did, regardless. We offered up several bottles of wine for the occasion.

Driving back to the cottage from the Franconia Notch took under an hour, and by then it was late afternoon. We were introduced to grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. It was evident the twenty or so people who were there, sitting under canopies which held back the rain that never did materialize there, were a happy lot, comfortable with one another. We met our host's brother, of whom we'd heard quite a bit over the years. It was his honey my husband was always so eager to buy on our annual arrival, taking home enough to last the year. Honey that was far superior to any other he'd ever had, insists my husband.

And father/father-in-law, mother/mother-in-law to our hosts as well. The brother's youngest child, an infant not yet a year old, was the apple of everyone's eye, handed over from one adult to another. We stayed and we talked for awhile. (The everpresent blackflies seemed to ignore everyone else and head directly for the back of my neck and ears only.)

The young graduate had changed his mind; his father had informed us he would attend college for museum management, but now he has focused on American history instead. American history particularly at the turn of the century, he told me, that's where he had narrowed his focus, he said, definitively. We'd been to an excellent bookstore the day before and I thought about a missed opportunity to look for a book as a gift focusing on his interest.

What put a glow on the afternoon garden party for me was the discovery that both the father (in his 70s like us), and the apiary-owning brother were avid gardeners. We talked about wildflowers, we discussed garden-variety cultivars, our favourites among both, and exchanged tips on gardening. That was immensely satisfying for me. Wind me up and I'll happily talk gardening to anyone who's similarly intrigued by nature's immense bounty.

I always find it difficult to accustom myself to sharing a double or 'full-size' bed, since we've enjoyed the luxury of a queen-sized bed for so long, at home. It isn't that there is a lack of room for my husband and me together in that cottage bed, but Riley, despite his pint-size, takes up a surfeit of room and I'm always fearful of smothering him. He doesn't take kindly to moving over and when I manage to get him over to the side of the bed then I'm anxious to ensure he doesn't tumble off the edge. Minor but irritating little details.

On the 8th of June dawn crept in dark and heavily overcast, but it was no longer raining, having exhausted itself throughout the nighttime hours. We decided to drive back to the Franconia Notch and parked at the Basin Cascades. Under those conditions the parking lots were relatively free, although we did see a group of older teens troop through the forest toward the Basin footpath under the highway, preceding us, heavily laden with serious backpacks.

When we caught up with them later, at the Basin itself, I wished them better weather for their obvious trek up the mountain, likely headed toward the lake at the top and the cabin, for an overnight stay.We'd experienced the rigours of that climb many years ago. The young man to whom I spoke laughed and said they'd gotten over weather anxiety; they'd already experienced two solid days of socked-in rain, traversing various mountain cols and summits. I know what that's like; it's just what we experienced in the northern British Columbia Cariboo Mountain Range when we did the Bowron Lakes circuit years ago; unremitting rain. Which, regardless, doesn't stop the determined adventurer from enjoying their nature-bound enterprise.

We made our own way up the rock-strewn and heavily-rooted trail, in a light drizzle, glad we'd taken light raingear for the occasion. There was so much muck underfoot there were times Riley, faced with a leap over bogs and rocks he couldn't manage, had to be helped along, but it was exceedingly pleasant, given the spectacular views to be had beyond the forest and over to the Basin stream rushing down the mountainside toward the Pemigawasset River, more full and widespread than we'd ever seen it before.

The sound was all-enveloping and thunderous as the water tumbled and raced down the wide granite face of the mountain raceway, sending up spray to compete with the light rain, and tossing itself furiously against boulders, in a froth of white. We took photograph after photograph, each with our own digital cameras, reminding one another to mind our balance on the rocky, uneven and very wet tree-root-mangled surfaces we trod.

Most often the place is full of tourists and sight-seers, not so much on the trails, but certainly down below at the main bore of the Basin. Not this day, however. Too cool and too wet and windy for most to consider its attractions worthwhile, evidently. We did come across a family, parents and two children, one barely out of infancy on his father's back and stopped to chat briefly. The young woman, mother of a ten-year-old boy who clung closely to her, offered to take a photo of us together, quite surprising me, and we gratefully acquiesced. It hadn't occurred to me to offer to reciprocate, an unfortunate oversight.

Twenty years ago when we first began creating our gardens in front and back of our newly-acquired home, we planted quite a few Alberta Spruce trees. These are small, pyramidal-shaped, thickly-needled ornamental trees, and we really thought they were excellent to offer architectural balance to various parts of our gardens. This year, my husband had to remove two of those much-valued trees.

They had overgrown the space they were in, which wasn't so bad, but they also weren't looking very good. Their needled branches had become sparse, some had died back quite a bit, and one of the trees actually looked headed on its way to extinction. So two of those prized trees were taken down. And for small trees, which they still were in height if not in pyramidal girth, they had taken up quite a bit of space. One of them had been growing in a long, narrow rock garden on a slope beside the house. The other had been planted in front of the house, under and beside a large pine tree.

The space made free in the rock garden has been planted variously with small clumps of divided hostas (plantain lily), one of our favourite garden plants, along with portulaca, marigolds and petunias, for it is a sunny spot. A few of our begonia bulbs were planted there, as well, between the stepping-stones. And it looks just fine; a few birds' nest spruce remain there.

Under the pine at the front of the house there remained a significant space, and we thought why not place something interesting there aside from growing things? We thought about going back to a place located at the far west of the city where we'd last gone about a decade ago, and where we'd bought a number of Greek-inspired statuary as well as classical pedestals and capitals and urns, which grace various parts of our gardens.

After our daily walk in the ravine located close to our street, we drove over to see what was on offer at the place we hadn't visited for so long. We'd tried calling but voice mail simply urged that a message be left. We decided to risk the drive, and discovered when we arrived where we recalled it to have been located that it was no longer there. We were disappointed, but that's how it goes, sometimes.

The area had been semi-rural, and it has, in the decade, been entirely transformed. Houses, schools, shopping centres have all taken the place of the countrified look that we recalled. The city has spread itself immeasurably. We did discover a purpose-built, huge barn of a place advertising itself as an antique barn. Entering out of curiosity we were pleased to discover that someone discerning enough to recognize what constitutes an antique had set up in business -- also selling quality reproductions. Not that we need any.

We've decided to move a birdbath that we'd bought at that same place long ago, from its current place to the newly-opened space under the pine, and that will suit us just fine.