There has been a game of tug-of-war, or an instance of simple civil insubordination (disobedience?) taking place in our neighbourhood forest, the ravine where intertwined trails lead over, around, above, through the many hills and valleys, heights and creek tributaries at the very heart of our part of the city, to enable those residents with a love of nature to amble about to their hearts' ease when they so wish.

The municipality's parks and recreation department must have conducted a survey or received a complaint from a nearby resident. In their great wisdom, they decided, it would appear, to cut off access to all the bridges that link the trails together. Having made the decision that there is something unsafe about the bridges, perhaps due to environmental deterioration, erosion, extreme weather events. Whatever that unsafe-to-the-public insight might be, it has not been revealed to us, other than loosely oblique statements which explain nothing. When those links, the bridges, are closed off for public use, there remains simply no way that trails can be accessed.

The net effect is to shut down completely the use of the woodland ravine, a vast recreational outreach for the community, much beloved by many who have made it their second home as far as close-to-home outdoor recreation goes, for many decades. Without the approachability and welcome use of the ravine, to be able to wander at will throughout the forested areas, many people would have reason to believe that the quality of their lives has suddenly been diminished.

Certainly, we are among them. When various residents call the municipality to speak with those involved or write to them, there haven't been any satisfactory responses. In the sense that no one seems to have full authority there to disclose details of the situation, and no seems to know what further plans may be in the works to solve what is becoming a neighbourhood dilemma.

When those signs first went up it was thought that works crews would swiftly undertake repairs or whatever was thought to be necessary in remediation though there did not seem to be any problems we could detect with the condition of the bridges, built to robust standards and not yet a decade ago. Instead, nothing has been done. The signs remain posted, and the barriers refusing bridge access have remained.

That is, they would remain, our access to the bridges would be restricted, and we would have to continue our acrobatic manoeuvres to keep ducking under them to make use of the bridge, if some good soul hadn't decided finally to take it upon himself to remove them. Not entirely remove them, just dislodge them at one end of each barrier to effect normal entry.

So far, on three occasions workers have re-entered the ravine and put the barriers back in place, first with screws, then with long nails. And each time they have re-placed the barriers, some Sherwood Forest Robin Hood character has taken pains to carefully, without destroying the barriers, remove them again to permit access to the bridges.

Should that person's identity ever be revealed, ravine habitues would undoubtedly nominate him/her for a distinguishing medal of some notable type, a local hero.

The changes in our little dog are becoming more apparent. He evinces more interest in doing things. He is more invested in being out of doors, in anticipating our long walks in our nearby ravine. He no longer hesitates as has been his wont for years now, to descend the first long hill into the ravine from the street above, where our house is located.

Yesterday we had him out with us in the ravine, for the second time since his surgery. He was well covered to protect his wounded areas where the long incisions are located from being affected by the environment. An infection would not be the prescribed method for him to recover from his physical ordeal, the trauma of the operation. And nor do we want him to experience too much exposure to the sun, nor that nettles be caught in those areas that remain tender.

He is oblivious to all of this, happy to be out in the ravine with us. And no longer lingering, uncertain whether he really wants to proceed. It seems clear enough that the gross impediment to free movement that the numerous growing lipomas presented have suddenly, with their removal, freed him to move naturally and pleasurably. The back leg that had been turned outward as a result of the lipoma pressure, is now perfectly aligned, in a normal attitude.

Although we still take the precaution of picking him up at intervals to ensure he doesn't strain his weakened physical endurance, he makes it clear that he prefers going it alone, on his own sturdy little legs. Where once he wanted to be picked up, laden with lipomas, now he struggles to be set down again on terra firma.

There's a spring in his step that was absent for years. He no longer dawdles along like the little old man he seemed to be. His natural phlegmatic personality has now been enhanced by a touch of ebullience, a deep-seated appreciation for the ambiance and his place within it. His movement is now fluid and free, and he seems almost debonair at times.

Hid hind quarters and his belly, once so encased in fat deposits, now free of them, delineate the neat aspect of a well-formed and healthy little animal.

A week has now gone by since Riley's surgery and he is recuperating very nicely, we feel. Since the two drains in his leg were removed he no longer seeps as much serum tinged with blood as he did before. His little outfits are changed several times daily, and washed and hung out to dry in preparation for next use.

We are left to wonder what will happen, how it will appear to affect him when the last of his tiny opioid tablets is used and their cumulative effect wane, late this afternoon. We will keep him on his other medication for another week yet, until his stitches are removed. What are 'withdrawal' symptoms' like in a little dog, and will he experience them, we wonder? Will he evince symptoms of pain that we will be able to interpret, requiring another round of those opiates that we are informed can be addictive in human use?

It's a lovely sunny day, much nicer than yesterday when the humidity was so oppressive. Riley is beginning to assume his old routines. After breakfast, the outdoors beckons. He responds to the presence of the sun just as Button before him had, extracting huge pleasure from its warmth. Invariably he wants to go out and immerse himself in the sun.

Sniffing about, wandering the backyard, and finding comfortable places to lay about and soak up the warmth. We're aware that he must be protected from too much sun and it's a relief that he has to wear his little outfits keeping him from attempting to lick the incision sites across his stomach and his leg. Far more comfortable and preferable to wearing those clumsy, intrusive, preventive Elizabeth collars.  That coverage protects him from too great an exposure to the UAV rays.

Hot and humid again. As good a time as any for a leisurely morning stroll around our gardens. We've been housebound in a way we're not familiar with, concerned about little Riley who is nonetheless progressing very well in his recovery. We looked up the opioid medication we give him every eight hours and there's a warning that this particular drug is addictive to humans. Prescribed for dogs recovering from surgery unlikely since of their own volition they cannot obtain it. Still, one wonders if he will suffer any kind of withdrawal symptoms, expressed in ill humour. Time will tell; there's another day or two left of the tiny tablets.

He was happy enough to wander about in our wake, as we evaluated and appreciated the gardens. They are nowhere near as lovely as they usually have been in other years. The begonias which back in early July were exuberantly blooming, have suffered and are now assailed with mildew. In the backyard, Bergamot and Echinacea are in bloom as are turtleheads, phlox and Japanese anemone, and lilies as well. A few roses here and there.

And the begonias in the back representing bulbs we've stored overwinter for years are in fine shape, blooming beautifully. It is the begonias that we stuff into the urns and garden pots at the front of the house, nursery stock that was spring-purchased that are languishing. And that is a result of the overwhelming amount of rain we've had this spring and summer.

In the micro-climate of the backyard it is hotter than elsewhere and everything tends to dry out faster than in the front, and we assume that to make the difference.

The lace-cap hydrangea at the front is now in full bloom and its fragrance sweetly permeates the atmosphere. It's now the popular favourite of bees and wasps, even visited by hoverflies and moths. Some of the hostas have lost their luxurious fresh look and have begun dying back, much sooner than they should or would, we're convinced, in other years.

The gardens are still attractive, the red cut-leafed Japanese maple planted last year is beginning to put on some height. The growth of the backyard magnolia has quite surprised us, almost as much as the multiplicity of blooms it produced this spring. It almost seems as though there's a competition for blazing beauty between the older magnolia in the front and the much later one we planted in the back; both are magnificent, but the one in the back offers up additional blooms other than it's spring burst-out, through the summer months.

Well, then, relief. The stitched-in drains in our little Riley's thigh have been removed, both of them. He will continue to drain for a few days yet, sans the drains, until the wounds caused by their insertion finally heal. In fact, we've been informed the amount of body fluid mixed with blood can be expected to increase for a day or so. As it is, we change his little onesies several times daily including the 'leg' portion that covers his affected leg and absorbs most of the fluids. The technicians at the veterinarian hospital had never before seen a set-up quite like that. But it sure beats having to put one of those dreadful "Elizabethan collars" on the poor little guy's neck to keep him from licking the sutures and his incision.

We'll still refrain from taking him into the ravine for a while yet, until the wounds in his legs completely heal. We'll venture short walks and perhaps carry him part way until full recovery is complete. We prefer not to place him in a woodlands setting where a situation might arise that would contaminate the wounds. In any event, it will be weeks before he is ambulatory enough to go out for hour-long walks, and by then the stitches closing that horribly long incision from his shoulder across and down his belly will have been removed; not that he's devoid of energy. His recovery has been swift; we have to keep him from leaping about, jumping, but that hasn't been his style for years now.

We still monitor him but are nowhere as anxious as we were. He was underfoot this morning in the kitchen when I was baking cookies; he's a dreadful cadge, but chocolate chip cookies and ginger cookies are not canine fare, but meant for our young (relatively speaking) house guests. They're family, but guests all the same, and honoured as such. They may not be young in years but they're cookie monsters all the same.

When I preparing snap-beans to accompany tonight's dinner he tarried hopefully as well, on our return from the veterinary hospital. He was offered a small portion of an uncooked bean and courteously abstained; he prefers them cooked, unlike his after-dinner salad when he has raw salad vegetables.

And this really is a dog's life. This dog, in any event.

So caught up in our immediate concern over little Riley's welfare, I just gave a slight thought to the return of family from their extended trip to see other family members. Was entirely taken by surprise to receive a telephone call en route to give us a heads-up that they're on their way back.

Just as well we've a full refrigerator of edibles. Had the forethought at least to get the shopping done just before picking Riley up post-surgery. And in they walked at half-past seven while I was in the process of rolling out pizza dough to fit two pizza pans. One to go into the regular oven, the other into the counter-top convection oven. Oddly enough, both were ready at almost the same time.

The two pies slightly different; one with mozzarella and Parmesan freshly grated over tomato paste, chopped red and yellow bell peppers and tomato slices and fresh basil from the garden, the other with the addition of lots of chopped mushrooms and pepperoni. Fresh Ontario cherries made up dessert for a quiet, late-evening dinner among family.

Riley did his best to cadge what he could, despite having eaten fulsomely only hours earlier. Nothing dissuades him from feeling he is entitled to his little tidbits whenever anyone else is eating. Kitchen and dinner-time activity invariably invites his wistful presence.

He's back to his old tricks, the little imp. Reassurance to us that he is well on the way to full health recovery.

We are grateful for the compassionate skill of the mobile surgical specialist with the letters DVM, MVetSC Diplomate ACVS after his name; for the sensitive surgery he undertook on behalf of our beloved little Riley, extending for him the quality of life at his age of thirteen years. The EKG taken as a security precaution prior to surgery, interpreted by another veterinarian specializing in canine cardiology out of Texas, relaying his report that it was safe to proceed, the bloodwork assuring there were no unseen issues that could lead to complications all worked in the favour of a good outcome.

Now, three days post-surgery, he is recovering remarkably well. That first night of his surgery was an absolute nightmare. Despite having been treated with pain-relievers, our tiny dog was wracked with pain, and he whimpered constantly in an expression of his bewildered misery. We slept as little as he did, knowing his plight and hearing his complaints of sheer unadulterated fear and pain. Before dawn that night more pain relief medication was administered and food as well.

Gradually, as the morning hours wore on into full daytime his plaints become less insistent, his little body less wracked, and he found some peace allowing brief periods of sleep before he was overtaken once again by tides of pain.

We feared physically handling him, but my husband who has always been exquisitely capable and sensitive to such needs, was able to devise a method whereby he could manage to bypass touching that extensive incision site, and manoeuvre little Riley about, taking him out to the backyard to relieve himself when required, re-buttoning the little onesie he wore to give him warmth and comfort over his now-hairless body, and devising a method whereby his leg with its sutures and two drains could be covered  to keep him from licking the constant accumulations of blood and bodily fluids draining constantly.

We change those little outfits as they become saturated, for new clean ones, wash the old ones and put them out to dry in the sun, along with towels used to catch excess fluids as he wanders from place to place, looking for comfort before finally settling down. He has been drinking far more than he would ordinarily, but not to excess, replacing lost body fluids nicely. And he is eager to eat now, anxious not to miss any meals or opportunities for treats.

Supplementing his high-value kibble, he is now eating creamed cottage cheese, chicken soup, shredded chicken, chopped broccoli and red bell peppers and cooked carrots. The raw vegetables form a part of a daily salad he is accustomed to having served to him after his evening meal. The opioid tablets are given him rolled within cheddar cheese. This is his menu and it is one he anticipates avidly, along with scrambled egg several mornings weekly. All in small portions to suit the needed nutritional intake of a very small dog.

The area where the shunts are located on his leg has been washed with clear cool-to-warm water and he has been made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. His recovery phase will be considerably longer than a few days, but he has embarked on the longer period extremely well. He may not know enough to be grateful for nature's healing properties in a healthy animal, but we most certainly are thankful for the relief.

We felt on tenterhooks, knowing that the veterinarian surgeon was expected to be present at the clinic in the early afternoon, Riley's surgery to take place at half-past one. We knew from previous experience that this man was talented at what he did, and he would contact us personally to brief us on the outcome of the operation, since it was he who had operated on Riley almost seven years ago. It was almost three in the afternoon and I couldn't resist the impulse to call, to at least speak with someone there.

I felt much relieved being informed the surgery had concluded, Riley was in the recovery room, and the doctor would call shortly. He did, less than ten minutes later and both my husband I were on the telephone with him, hearing his cheerful voice, his reassurances that all had gone well and his confidence that he had succeeded, despite the lipomas' numbers and bodily dispersals, managed to remove 98% of them. We wouldn't recognize our little charge, he promised. Small as Riley is, as a toy poodle breed, almost two pounds of sheer fat deposit had been removed.

No, he reiterated, it's nothing such dogs who are predisposed through genetics to grow these lipomas, eat; they tend not to be overweight dogs, but of good conformation and weight, like Riley. It's one of those imponderables. We thanked him profusely, and were later informed through another call from the clinic from another veterinarian who had occasionally seen to the well-being of our little dogs that pick-up time was scheduled for 7:30 p.m.

At the clinic last evening, we spoke at some length with a technician who prepared us for Riley's needs over the next several weeks. There was a letter of instruction/advice from the surgeon, there was the protocol we would use over the next week or two to help make him comfortable, and aid his progress in recovery. Give him food and drink if he wanted it. Be prepared that he might vomit at first. His wounds would bleed, and he had two drains installed in two areas, his stomach and one of his legs, to enable the wounds to drain. They would be removed in a week at most, perhaps days if his recovery was good enough.

We were to return with Riley on Monday for a follow-up check of his progress. There would be another appointment in two weeks' time to complete the progress check. He was to have eight drops of Metacam administered preferably in his food once a day, and 10mg tablets of Tramadol, an opioid for pain management, every eight hours for seven days.

And then Riley was brought out to us, dazed from anaesthetic and painkiller, and the physical trauma he had suffered through the surgery. He was wrapped in a large fluffy towel, to catch the blood and liquids that seeped from the shunts, and placed in my arms. He lifted his head to look at us and began whimpering. Everything had been taken care of, the itemized bill presented and scrutinized and paid; the toll roughly $1000 per pound of fat removed, a complicated procedure given the extent of the lipoma growth.

And then followed the evening and the night from hell. Riley handled with exquisite care, his wounds so extensive and so painful we winced in pain ourselves in sympathy with what he was experiencing, and attempted to do our best to comfort the little creature who shares our lives. Swiftly a technique was developed whereby he could be picked up or held to best avoid those hugely sensitive areas.

Although at first he rejected eating anything, drinking anything, despite being offered his favourite food, he eventually came around to hungrily lapping up a small bowl of creamed cottage cheese and asking for more. He had some of his kibble, but rejected cooked chicken. He was hungry, he ate, and nothing was thrown up. Eating seemed to make him feel better for a short period. And then the whimpering resumed.

Before taking him to bed he was given the first opioid tablet. We hoped that it would give him some relief, enough to enable him to fall asleep and begin the healing process, since it was evident he was physically exhausted. But it was not to be. No sleep last night, but continuous manifestations of pain and discomfort. Conditions which we were fated to share.

 Given the hot dry weather of the last few days after a summer of incessant rainfall it wasn't surprising after all, and seemed fitting enough, considering our dread of this day, that we awoke to gloom settled over the landscape with the day's dawn welcoming a series of thunderstorms. When Riley was taken out first thing as usual into the backyard, it was while the rain was pounding down, and he wore his little raincoat for shelter from it. His hair takes on that smell of wet wool afterward, and that's how he still smelled when we arrived at the veterinarian clinic a short while afterward.

No food, and he wasn't interested in drinking anything. He was immediately alert to the inescapable fact that this was not a routine morning. So he wasn't riveted on being fed; rather he seemed to be attempting to interpret what was happening. As we prepared to leave, he was right there behind us, ready for his collar to be put on and to be taken along to wherever we were headed. And when we drove up to the veterinarian clinic parking lot he knew where we were. It's a newly-constructed building, purpose-built to replace the inadequate old one, and looks nothing like the old converted house that served the area for so long. He has been there a few times, and had no problem recognizing where we were. He trembled and voiced plaintive uncertainty.

The personnel are invariably warm and sensitive to the needs of their clients, from those working at the reception desk, to the technicians and the veterinarians whom we choose to see there. Small comfort, at this particular time when we know we're set to leave him. Someone entered the reception area with a very young dog, a puppy whose exuberant wish to be noticed and played with was a reminder of the cycle of life. He'll be a really big boy when he grows up and his enchantment with life's possibilities muted by familiarity and boredom. And then a woman brought in a young, black-haired poodle mix, reminding us of our lost Button.

As we were led into an examination room we spoke at some length with the nurse-technician who would take Riley from us -- my husband primarily, I felt incapable of saying very much, just clasped Riley pretty close to me, and he snuggled his head into the crook of my arm, quietly waiting. Although we haven't had too much occasion to bring him in other than for regular annual health checks, he's known to those there -- or at least we are, having taken our little charges in regularly over the past two decades.

A delicate exchange was made -- Riley passing from my arms to that of the young woman who kept assuring us that he was in good hands, to assuage our concerns. Riley would be made comfortable, hydrated to ensure he wasn't in bodily distress, and the surgeon would be arriving in a few hours' time. He would call us afterward. The same surgeon who had originally performed the same type of lipoma-removal on Riley almost seven years ago. This time, a more complex operation, not merely one very large lipoma but many, and we wonder how he will manage to manipulate and remove them.

He won't be able, given their placement and numbers, to remove them all. But whatever he can manage it will give Riley more time without the complicating factor of their presence and fierce growth, and at the same time render to us some immediate relief from constant concern over his well-being.

Last week we kept an appointment at the veterinary clinic with little Riley. A month earlier we had brought him in for the veterinarian who has always looked after him to update himself on the condition of Riley's lipomas. They have grown considerably, so much so that the one original lump, while continuing to become larger had spawned additional ones under his belly, spreading out to form ever newer ones, deforming his neat little body. He seems unaware of their presence, and moves without evidence of constraint.

But there is an obvious limit to what his small body can accommodate in these ferociously determined fat growths, which no amount of tinkering with his diet appeared to make any difference to. We had hoped they would diminish in number and size as has happened before, but nothing of the sort. The original surgery to remove a baseball-sized lipoma seven years earlier had given us assurance that such a growth would never repeat itself. Little did we know.

Post-surgery at that time his recovery had been thankfully swift. We'd dressed him in a converted baby one-piece outfit to keep the surgical site clean and prevent him from licking it, let alone to absorb the liquids including blood that continued to be exuded from the surgical wound until he was completely healed. We have now resurrected that little blue outfit for the same purpose.

Last week we had taken him in again, for pre-operative blood tests, an EKG and a sample of the lipomas to have them examined under a microscope to ensure that this was indeed what they were. A canine heart specialist from Texas responded to the electronically-transmitted EKG results that for a 13-year-old dog, his heart was in fine shape to proceed with the surgery, and his bloodwork came back with a green light as well.

He is scheduled to be admitted to the clinic tomorrow morning to be prepared for the surgery to follow. We have been thinking of little else constantly in the past little while.

He was a tiny creature, smaller even than our Riley who hadn't yet made it up the long hill to where I was standing at its crest, coming face to face with two women during this morning's ravine ramble. The children accompanying the women had already passed by me and were standing on the bridge we had just crossed over. We'd never seen them before; clearly this was a new outing for them, and the children were enthused with their green surroundings.

The little dog could barely be seen. He was hiding from view. Obviously shy and uncertain of the intentions of this human whom he'd never before encountered. His owner laughed at my interest in her little dog and her little dog's interest in playing invisible. He was a rescue dog whom she'd found at the local Humane Society when she was volunteering there. She adopted him, took him home and has spent the last year and a half trying to instill some self-confidence in the little creature. He's not stupid, just a slow learner, unwilling to surrender his ultra sense of caution.

One that seemed sufficiently validated when my husband came abreast of where we were standing, holding Riley whom he had picked up to avoid a confrontation between an aggressive little dog and an obviously timid one. The tiny rescue was a mix, his owner thought, between a Chihuahua and some kind of terrier; from the look of its little shoved-in face I would have ventured a pug.

He had improved, his owner said, transitioning finally to the point where he would make tentative sniffing contact with another dog without rushing to shelter behind her. He would sniff, stand beside the other dog, she related, laughing, and then look up at her for approval. He was born old, she said, preferring not to go for walks, looking wistfully at her as though to beg to be carried. Characteristics, in fact, similar to Riley's.

Who was energetic and playful enough until he reached his first birthday and then lapsed into old-man mode. He doesn't quite resist going for walks but displays little enthusiasm for them. In the first ten minutes he's reluctant to move along and needs encouragement, even though he accompanies us daily on long ravine walks. Once we're down the first hill, up the next one and moving along, he brightens up, invariably.

Perhaps this woman fairly new to the ravine, will decide she and her little furry charge would gain much by visiting it regularly, as well.

On the face of it the Western reaction to Russia's newly-enacted legislation relating to gays seems perhaps somewhat overblown in its outrage. The legislation itself should not be surprising, since Russia is a conservative society in every sense. Most Russians by far would agree that they have no wish to see young people receiving 'helpful' information about homosexuality to assuage their uncertainties, fears and misapprehensions and to, in the process, reassure them that in their confusion they are not alone.

Homosexuality is a simple fact of biology. And it is human nature to veer away, be suspicious about and deny the appropriateness of anything that is different, runs counter to or upsets the notion of 'normalcy'. Human beings are programmed by nature to seek comfort in groups of others who are like themselves. Humans scorn and degrade what they take to be differences, non-conformance with societal and biological norms. It is not one of our prettier attributes as human beings, but it is an attribute conferred on us as a survival mechanism, increasing our chances of overcoming adversity.

The trouble with the new Russian legislation is that it leads people to believe that the state sanctions the alienation of the 'normal' from the 'abnormal'. That it is right and proper and justified to be prejudiced against others because of their differences. Enhancing in the process the very real potential for not merely social discrimination of a subtle variety to be unleashed but thuggish violence to be perpetrated against gays.

Homosexuality is a personal matter, however, and it should be kept that way. Outwardly visible manifestation of gender preferences mandated by birth and biology have traditionally given rise to resentment and anger. The problem here is the visibility. Despite the damaging use of generalities to explain situations it is obvious enough that gays revel in revealing themselves when they are assured that the law protects them from abuse and discrimination, as it most certainly should do. Under that social-judicial protection gays behave en masse, like spoiled juveniles, pushing the limits of public patience.

Many people no more wish to witness overt gay love-making than they would wish to see heterosexuals making out in the public sphere. Sex is a private issue, one that should be pursued in the confines of the bedroom, so to speak. Being gay, because it is a normal condition for a surprisingly large proportion of any population, should be seen as no different than heterosexuality in its public acceptance, but it should also not be a condition of acceptance that gayness be thrust continually at the attention of the larger society.

The pretentious conceit among too many gays is that they are entitled to flaunt their sexuality at everyone, and this is offensive coming from any quarter. The ostentatious displays of near-nudity, colourfully perplexing costumes, mock pantomimes of sexual congress, accompanied by general hilarity speak more of vulgar excess, deliberate and provocative "just because", than the actions of intelligent beings committed to getting along amicably with everyone else. If overt displays of gross indecency are offensive coming from heterosexuals and as such are considered social insults, no less so are those committed by gays.

REUTERS/Jaime Saldarriaga

Western societies, after having harboured among themselves oafs who mocked and denigrated, violated the human rights of outed gays and in the process imprisoning them, setting the stage for violence to be committed against those communities, have now committed themselves to a full turn toward compassionate understanding and commitment to full equality within the larger community. They have also meekly accepted childish cavorting and public displays of outright sexual stupidity for which no rebukes result because of an eagerness to demonstrate just how cosmopolitan we have become.

It is a situation that insults intelligence and the need for people to fully accommodate themselves to one another. It is a situation that has resulted in heterosexuals accustoming themselves to accept without question, behaviours that would never be countenanced with equanimity if it developed from their own communities, but which are judged to be appropriate from within the gay community.

This is not equality, it is pandering to those arrested in the juvenile stage of social development.

( Mario Tama/Getty Images )

Last weekend he was busy with supervising some of his grad students, on site at the B.C. research forest. For him it isn't an uninteresting guidance, he is fully integrated, fascinated, immersed and excited by any kind of biological surveys and research initiatives. But the concentration required for these things isn't quite relaxation, so he took time off mid-week to take the ferry to Vancouver Island.

Drove along to the Juan de Fuca trail, not far from the West Coast trail, but newer. He had done the West Coast trail many years ago. That had been quite the adventure. The trail had been a gruelling experience, all the more so that he had embarked on it past the season, and there was no one else about, the weather had closed in and by the time he finished he was marooned in unending rainfall until someone on the other shore saw him and took a boat over to convey him back.

Nothing quite excites him and relaxes his mind like being in a wilderness setting. And, mid-week last week that's just where he was. Within Juan de Fuca Provincial Park, and settled into a camping spot for a few days. It's in these kinds of settings that he settles into nature, observes everything around him and appreciates what life has to offer of true value and meaning beyond ourselves.


Close to where he camped there was a tidal pool and he relaxed by observing what went on in that pool, identifying the aquatic creatures and watching their behaviour, a natural enough thing for anyone fascinated with nature, and all the more so when that anyone is a biologist. We get to experience these things second-hand, through his enthusiastic narratives, compelling and of huge interest to us. In our younger days we used to accompany him on some of his forays.




The colour, form, purpose and variety of nature's creatures are nothing short of astounding. He found a shell midden and within its area a multitude of intriguing sea life. Their activity riveting and instructive in the complex devising of nature's purpose and presence all around us, awaiting our witness. The drama of witnessing a hidden octopus begin to roil the waters as he watched, sending the shells floating about crazily, then whipping its tentacles back into its hiding space was rather different.




There are so many times when I recall our adventures with our children when they were young and so were we. As a child myself I recall how I yearned to be in natural surroundings, as a child of the urban inner city. When I was older and met my husband when we had both just entered our teen years we discovered a like fascination with nature between us, as yet another binding element of our budding relationship. Our youngest son's full embrace of nature is then perhaps not quite surprising.

They were already in residence on the street when we first moved to our new home. Our was the last house to be built on the street, fully two years after the other houses had been constructed and sold. So when we moved into the house we had just bought, we introduced ourselves to our new next-door neighbours. A fairly young couple in their late-30s lived directly to our right. They had a young baby, only a few months old. That baby is now an adult of 23 years of age, and her brother born a few years later is now 20.

I can recall how amusing I thought it was when the children were toddlers and I could hear their father on occasion shout for his wife, that he could smell that the children had soiled their diapers and a change was required. He did nothing whatever in helping to care for their children, and not much more in the care and upkeep of normal everyday things around the house, either. In a sense she was kind of privileged that he earned enough on his own as an IT specialist to allow her to remain a stay-at-home mother, living in a fair degree of comfort on a middle-class street, close to good schools and many green spaces whose park-like areas held play structures for neighbourhood children.

That was then. Back then, we were helping to raise our granddaughter, born several years after our neighbours' youngest son. Our grandchild found some friends on the street, but the two living right next to us were not among them. Despite which, the mother of the two children has always been a good neighbour and our friendship with her has lacked nothing. She is one of those outgoing people who likes other people and enjoys being in the company of others. Her smile is one of high wattage, her personality warm and generous.

She had married at a time when she wondered whether she ever would, she told me once. Because she and her husband married relatively late in life each had  amassed savings enabling them to buy a good house in a good neighbourhood where they found themselves lacking nothing of value. As far as durable goods is concerned, that is. Her husband, while a fundamentally decent person, is afflicted as a true social introvert; he will go to any lengths to avoid personal contact with anyone, however slight that might be. A simple, brief greeting like 'hello' seems beyond his capabilities.

But his wife, over the years, has made friends, been socially active, has gone wherever it pleased her to with the use of the family vehicle -- although not too far afield, since he forbade that, just as he forbade her from venturing out into the ravine for walks in nature because of the potential some harm might lurk within and deprive him of her services.

He is now retired. For the past year he has set himself up as a virtual hermit. He takes a daily stroll around the block, assiduously avoiding neighbours to the point of crossing the street should one be approaching. I have personally had no reason to criticize him; his privacy and solitude are vital to his well-being, and so be it. He has always been courteous with me, and responsive when I've gone my rounds over the years, inviting charitable donations on behalf of various charitable organizations.

It is now rare to see his bubbly, vivacious wife out and about. The person we once spoke with fairly regularly who always spoke optimistically about everything and anything, her smile lighting up the great outdoors in competition with the sun, appears to have become a recluse. He is displeased if she ventures outside the house while he is home, and now, he is always home. On occasion she will be seen accompanying him on one of his daily walks. How sad life can be for some people whose characters seem so ill-suited to one another.

Yet, who are we to judge? Even as she would occasionally comment to one or another of the neighbours with whom she had a personal relationship of friendship how constricting her husband could be over not permitting her to use the Internet, not allowing her the use of a credit card for fear of malefactors lingering in the background, prepared to pounce at the opportunity to abduct someone's 'identity', she would also claim him to be her 'best friend'.

What wrong could there be in binding ever more tightly with one's best friend?

It seems endless and it is, the ongoing attempts by unscrupulous fraud artists to enrich themselves at the expense of bilking others of their disposable cash. Offers that should appear as suspect target those incapable of fully thinking things through. In direct confrontations like a telephone call or someone knocking at your door to envelop you in a spiel you may feel seems legitimate most people respond with trust.

Whatever the individual at your door, at the other end of a telephone conversation states must be true, because most of us instinctively and prefer to trust others. At the very least not to risk giving offence by evincing distrust and listening courteously, becoming entrapped.

Because we are not ourselves involved in get-rich, illicit schemes that depend on gulling other people and depriving them of whatever can be squeezed out of them, it simply doesn't occur to us that there are malevolent sociopaths that have no regard for the well-being of others. The misfortune they bring upon others impacting positively on themselves seems to dull whatever human compassion they may be endowed with.

But for the relative few that do long-lasting harm to others to benefit themselves there are hordes of others who believe the manner in which they pursue their living, albeit on the shady side, hurts no one. While in fact, it does in most instances; either persuading people to sign onto utilities service and delivery contracts that are of no benefit to them and in fact decrease benefits while increasing payments, or persuading people to give generously to charities whose major beneficiaries may turn out to be the very people who have made a personal enterprise of charity.

Almost on a daily basis we are contacted by people geographically close who set out to represent themselves as responsible to reliable, official enterprises which provincial laws permit to operate under certain guidelines but which are committed to bilking people, or by telephone to foreign-sourced agents purporting to represent an internationally-recognized corporation like Microsoft, offering to "fix" problems traced to your personal computer - for a substantial sum. By giving permission to invade one's computer they retrieve all manner of private, personal data, including banking and finance.

And then there are those enterprises who set up shop as franchised store-front retail operations, perfectly legal, selling second-hand goods as virtuous second-time-around acquisitions. They advertise their support of medical charities like the Canadian Diabetes Association, a small portion of their proceeds handed over to the CDA, while they retain the lion's share of profit gained from goods they have paid nothing for. People are manipulated to feel they have 'given' to charity, whereas if they had such an intention, giving their unwanted belongings directly to the Salvation Army Thrift Shops, helping that enterprise fund its social-charity agenda is a more direct and honourable way to do so.

Other ploys are telephone calls from those purporting to represent, for example, the Cystic Fibrosis group, or any others, asking whether the homeowner wishes to donate unwanted goods for pick-up at a certain date; again, benefiting the sellers of freely obtained items, who as a business ploy and an irresistible come-on to the gullible, hand over a small amount of their profit to the charity in question.

Official-appearing letters received in the mail, or falling into one's email account from sources in Nigeria, as another example, personalized with the receiver's own name, clarify that a death of a distant relative has left them with a substantial inheritance, but swift action must be undertaken to legally claim what is rightfully theirs, and sending cash to those willing to represent them in court will result in receipt of that substantial inheritance.

In swift succession sometimes telephone calls come in with what appears to the experienced to represent trite messages meant to disarm the inexperienced, with generous offers of assistance you never asked for. Those irritating dinner-time calls from India, compete for nuisance factor generation with the incessant knocks at one's door from those selling garden-maintenance contracts to collections for suspect charitable enterprises.

Never, ever a dull moment.

 Photo: Marwan Tahtah)

"A more transient atmosphere existed on the other side of the front line, just beyond the heaps of dark earth at Galerie Semaan. If the Syrians moved to a coordinated plan, their potential Palestinian opponents still lived on their emotions. On their side of the line, singing was coming from inside the shell-smashed, desecrated church of Saint Michel. The Palestinian gunmen crouching behind the sand embankment across Boulevard Ariss went on watching the Syrian tanks, ignoring the sound. But when we walked inside the church, we found five small Palestinian boys standing in a line just where the altar would have been.

"Each was dressed in a miniature guerrilla uniform and each carried a gun. The eldest, who had unwashed brown hair and could have been no more than ten or eleven years old, was holding an automatic rifle in his arms. The boy on his right was grasping a rocket-launcher. The youngest, perhaps only eight, was bowed down under the weight of an M-16 rifle. He had grenades strapped to his chest with military webbing. Under the eyes of a serious, tall Palestinian with a pistol in his holster, they were singing, over and over again: 'Fatah, we are your children and, when we are older, we will be your soldiers.' Stamping their hopelessly outsize boots, they trudged in single file out of the gutted, white-stone church and slogged off over a ditch away from the barricade.

"The guerrillas there still ignored them. Instead, they went on watching the Syrian tanks manoeuvring down the road half a mile away, in what had the previous day been the Christian front line. Shells exploded a long way away across Beirut, down by the port. The thump of each explosion sounded like a door being slammed far beneath our feet. One of the Palestinian guerrillas turned irritably to a companion and asked 'Why don't we shoot at them?' Had he not heard the Arab League spokesman that morning, promising that the Syrian 'peace-keepers would 'strike with an iron fist' at any resistance?

"But then a remarkable event occurred. From behind us, from the Muslim district of Shiyah, came about 20 people, husband and wives and a few girls in summer dresses and a man with two little boys walking beside him. They were the nearest residents to the front line and most of them had not dared to walk down the boulevard for more than a year. Cars began to draw up amid the rubble and whole families, 60 or 70 people in all, climbed out of them to view the silent barricade. Businessmen and elderly women picked their way over the broken concrete and steel to stare in disbelief at the crippled buildings with their bulging walls and blackened balconies."

Robert Fisk -- Pity the Nation, The Abduction of Lebanon, 1990

Many years ago we kept a simple Brita water purifier jug on our kitchen countertop. When my husband was in the throes of renovating and updating our kitchen about a dozen years ago we thought why not a built-in water purifier? And we bought locally an American Standard kitchen sink tap set with a built-in water purifying capacity. It required that the carbon filter that was part of the set be replaced at regular intervals, with a newly fresh one to be installed.

At first we were able to procure fresh new carbon filters by American Standard for this special tap set through the same local source where we had purchased the tap set itself. The set didn't come cheap, but it came with a lifetime guarantee. And over the years of constant use American Standard has dutifully as per its guarantee replaced failed parts, free of charge.

Changing the carbon filters is another thing entirely. We discovered of late that the large big-box store of American origin located locally from which we had bought the tap set and subsequent filters no longer carried them, but affiliates in the United States did. We had meant to drop by and pick up a few of them when we had been on holiday in New Hampshire, but once there it had slipped our minds.

The alternative was to order from various outlets online, but we found shipping costs to Canada to be prohibitive.

A week ago my husband called American Standard to ascertain directly from them whether their filters were available at any Canadian sites, to which the answer was in the negative. But the sales representative to whom he spoke offered to send a replacement cartridge free of charge. Apparently, it arrived in the mail yesterday. I say apparently because though it may have arrived, we are not in possession of it.

A key had been placed alongside our mail to be retrieved from our little mail cubby in the group mailbox up the street from our house. The key was linked to a particular parcel box located in the bottom half of the group mailbox. When the door was opened, a vacuum greeted us; nothing inside. Evidently the parcel, package or whatever it was had been erroneously placed in an entirely other box, not the one to which the key we'd been left connected.

We attempted as of yore to contact our local postal station, but to no avail. Cut-backs and 'improvements' in customer service were no longer through person-to-person engagements, but electronic in nature. A recorded message informed of a 1-800 number to call to register concerns. Which was done, and which elicited to our surprise, an email announcement that bounced into our Outlook email account, informing us of a "ticket" number, and that our concern would be addressed in the space of a day or two at most.

How Canada Post obtained our electronic email connection information is beyond us, but then life is full of mysterious happenings including privacy, if one assumes entitlement to it.

A short while later another automated announcement landed again in our email account to inform that the "ticket" had been closed because the matter had been resolved. How this is presumed to have taken place is beyond our knowledge since no further information came forward.

How helpful of Canada Post.

In Ontario, high school students will not be awarded their Grade 12 matriculation papers without providing authenticated documentation that they have committed themselves throughout their high school years to a minimum of 40 hours of community volunteerism. For some students, access to volunteer opportunities is readily obtained. Many young people have the option, for example, of volunteering at the local churches to which their families belong. In the summer months it is not all that difficult to rack up volunteer hours for any number of reasons.

Living in a large urban centre provides ample opportunities in many areas for responsible young people to offer their volunteer services, generally in the provision of volunteer activities and aid of social welfare services, but the field is larger than that. Volunteering to stock the shelves of local libraries, to help raising funds for charitable causes, working in a Food Bank, in a hospital setting, for example.

For young people who live rurally and are unable to take advantage of any form of public transit, and cannot readily walk to a destination, acquiring and accumulating those necessary minimum hours can present as a real difficulty. Some young people in their final years of high school have taken driver's education classes and obtained their licenses; they can be more mobile if they have access to a family vehicle. Others, like my granddaughter, who is indeed taking driver's ed now, are dependent on the flexibility of a family member who drives to take them to sites where they can volunteer their services.

For my granddaughter, volunteerism came in bits and pieces, wherever and whenever opportunity arose, and she was able to assemble a paltry 20 hours up until this summer. She will be in her final year of high school this coming term, and hopes to be able to acquire far more than the minimum 40 hours of volunteer time. And she's on her way to doing just that. She has been able to get a drive to her closest sizeable town and volunteer there at the animal shelter that operates as a municipal operation. And while she doesn't personally care for the company of cats, far preferring dogs, she has been assigned to clean out cat cages.

She wasn't looking forward to that duty, and surprised herself by coming across some cats at the shelter to whom she responded positively and found herself actually caring for. The cage-cleaning has gone very well. Her last five-hour stint there had her come across a fairly good friend from school and the two girls together tackled some fairly tough cleaning jobs, actually enjoying the tasks put before them and accruing additional needed volunteer hours when their supervisor topped up actual hours worked with bonus hours in reflection of their demonstrable commitment and hard work.

The girls are scheduled to work together again, and they're looking forward to that opportunity. And my granddaughter is now planning to make arrangements for the coming school year where she may stay behind after school to spend a few additional hours volunteering at the shelter to increase her volunteer hours as much as she can manage, if she succeeds in obtaining a drive back home afterward. And as long as the hours she commits to do not interfere with her homework time and the completion of assigned projects.

Her anxiety to enter university and begin her studies there overrule all other interests, at the present time. And for that, more power to her, feels her loving grandmother.

"Their hair is always curled. They spend all their fortunes and more", on fancy clothing, despite having to catch up with last year's fashions from France.
"One of the first questions they propose to a stranger is whether he is married", said the writer.

The second consideration that appears to have occurred to the writer was whether these girls appeared to be prettier than those whom he had left behind, at home. Home was Sweden, the young man in question of Swedish-Finnish heritage.

And then it occurred to him to think of something else: "And the third, whether he will take one home with him?"

The single women of Montreal, he wrote, were jealous that the ships coming from France made their first landing in Quebec where the girls there were enabled to be first to scoop up husbands fresh off the incoming boats.

The writer was Pehr Osbeck, a Swedish explorer and naturalist. His journey through New France, tasked with the mission as an apostle of Carl Linnaeus, the botanist who first introduced taxonomy (the classification and naming of natural species) to the world of biological science of discovering the presence of hitherto-unknown and unnamed species of growing things.


And the year was 1749.

	Osbeckia named for the Swedish explorer and naturalist Pehr Osbeck.

In retrospect, thinking back to what he observed yesterday morning, my husband now thinks that the little boy was attempting to punish himself. Perhaps thinking in his emotionally immature years that somehow, magically, making himself suffer would transform future events, make them benign, lessen the chance that he would be punished in familiar, miserably unhappy ways.

Emerging from his vehicle in the parking lot of the close by Canadian Tire store, my husband's attention was immediately taken by the sight of a small boy, alone, standing beside a van, a belt around his neck. Looking at the van, hoping to see an adult emerge, he realized the little boy was alone. He walked the few steps over to where the child was standing, all the while imagining that his parents would be along in a minute or two, that the little boy had preceded them back to the family vehicle.

My husband asked the little boy whom he judged to be around six, whether he needed any help. No, he didn't said the child, swiftly pulling the belt loose from the knot he'd tied it in around his neck, so he could pull it over his head. I'm lost, said the little boy when my husband asked where his parents were. Don't worry, responded my husband, you wait here, I'll go into the store and look for your parents. His father only, said the child; he was with his father and his sister and he got lost.

It's easy enough for anyone to get distracted walking through the store. The aisles are thick with interesting objects, crowded with shoppers, and seem to go on forever intersecting with other aisles. Little wonder a child would get dis-attached from a parent intent on searching out a product he was interested in buying. It's difficult even for a height-impaired adult like me to see over the tops of the aisles.

Another car drew up, inside an older couple.

When the driver disembarked he asked if there was a problem, so my husband explained. The other man offered that he and his wife would remain beside the boy while my husband entered the store. When he approached the service desk he could see that the young woman on call was busy with another customer. Standing silently beside the man was a young girl, about twelve. In her hand the microphone for the public address system, and he heard her ask for a name. The name the man stated, standing beside the customer service representative was the name that the child had given my husband.

My husband immediately intervened, turning to the man to tell him his son was fine. He was standing, waiting for him, beside the car; commenting how clever the little fellow was, finding himself lost and unable to find his father and sister, deciding to wait out in the parking lot where he knew were the car was since that was where he reasoned his father would end up. The man completely ignored my husband. With the first words locating his son, his face had hardened, he jerked his daughter toward him, and made off for the parking lot, my husband following, trying to assure the man his son was fine.

Before they arrived at the spot where the child was waiting, the older couple beside him, the man spotting his boy, called out to him loudly, angrily. The boy looked hesitantly at the couple beside him, at my husband, and ran toward his father. The man pulled his son's hand roughly, shaking his small body then turned abruptly, children in close tow, back toward the store. Where his purchases remained, waiting to be paid for.

Not a word to my husband, nor to the couple. The dismay on the child's face as he joined his father and sister will undoubtedly be one long remembered by all three.

My husband, turning to the couple who had obligingly kept the little boy company, said he'd better not think of buying a lottery ticket today. The other two shrugged, their faces as puzzled as my husband's, the parting word something about having fulfilled the day's good deed.

There must be something about the profession that attracts slightly deranged minds. Somewhat like computer geeks happening to be typified so often by social introverts attracted to mechanical abstracts, allowing them to avoid human contact as much as possible. My personal observations over the years in seeking the professional services of optometrists, on the other hand, seem to point in the direction of self-obsession to a degree. People who are strangely egotistical, tending toward showmanship, self-promoting.

For years our family was well served by the professional optometry know-how of a tall, gawky-looking man who was kind and friendly but given to peculiar physical mannerisms that reminded one of the drama of being in the presence of a practitioner of the magical black arts. It was simply his way, likely a nervous reaction to something or other where a structured formula of excessively dramatic-appearing mechanical physical acts set him apart from most 'normal' people. As far as we were concerned this never impeded his professional competence.

More recently, I came in contact with another optometrist in whose office all new clients were asked to fill out a lengthy form. That seemed like fairly standard procedure, the first page consisting of basic individual identification. Succeeding pages of the questionnaire, however, were strictly commercial in nature, eliciting information on shopping habits, requesting permission to allow commercial interests to contact the form-filler with offers of 'special deals'. I handed in the top sheet, returned the others blank, and when the office administrator informed me frostily that I was expected to fill out the entire questionnaire I disabused her of the idea. My voice likely rose in indignation, and the optometrist herself appeared briefly from the back offices to ask what was happening. When she was informed that here was a new client refusing to complete the forms, she glared at me.

Later, through the course of the following eye examination, the hostility that exuded from this woman was thick enough for an ice-pix, despite my efforts to disarm her attitude. I felt convinced afterward that her enmity expressed toward me resulted in a prescription far too excessive for my needs, and never became accustomed to the use of the new eyeglasses, finding the lenses too strong for me.

She was replaced by an optometrist that my husband had gone to several times. And this man was another one of those peculiarities of nature; again, darkly gaunt in appearance with greasy, stringy too-long hair and a gruff manner, attempting to exude friendliness. His mode of dress was meant to make him look debonair, but the effect was disconcerting. His office suite was spectacularly decorated with elaborately framed mirrors, exotic paintings, peculiar but very attractive clocks, the coffee table and bookshelf in the waiting area heavy with fascinating picture books.

And one of his examining rooms boasted all the very latest in electronic dental diagnostic tools, more than comparable to those existing in hospital settings where the cream of the ophthalmologist-crop of specialists had access to the most advanced equipment on the market. This optometrist charged his patients for the use of this expensive equipment, which came free of charge if conducted in a hospital setting (Canada's universal health-care). And he was self-promoting to the point where he gave me personal notes to hand over to the renowned ophthalmologist-surgeon whom I was also at that time seeing. Who, on seeing the note's signature, grimaced, and discreetly placed it in his out-box.

I found myself dissatisfied with the last prescription and resulting progressive lenses I'd got several years back, since my peripheral vision is good and I rarely wear glasses when I'm out and about, confining their use primarily for reading. My intention was to eventually return for an evaluative examination resulting in a new prescription to fulfil my resolve to get only reading lenses this time around. I kept putting it off, but an out-of-the-blue call from this man's office inviting me to come in for a regular examination, had me make an appointment for the following week.

An hour prior to the appointment time a call came from the same receptionist at this optometrist's office to inform me that it was decided to close the office early that day (my appointment had been set for 1:30 pm). Because I had psyched myself up to finally get the examination through with, despite my reluctance to return to the services of this disagreeable man, I promptly set about looking for an alternative appointment. And was able to make a 4:00 pm appointment the very same day at a nearby optician enterprise which also employed a full-time optometrist.

There, I found the service I was looking for, in both departments, optometry and optical. The professionalism and humanity of both of those departments was evidenced in the persona of an all-female team of individuals of immigrant-stock to the country. The owner of the well-known optical chain was a self-promoter, too, it was abundantly clear, a flamboyant personality who framed and posted letters of congratulation for representing a successful immigrant class of entrepreneurs in the province, sent by government officials.

And other framed letters of appreciation and obsequious recognition were also on the walls from exotic sources where this founding optician-company's owner spent recreational time in his yacht on the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and where he deposited useful sums of charitable dollars to help educate and further the advances of those far less privileged abroad, than we are in Canada.

And the following day, quite early in the morning came a strange telephone call. An unfamiliar voice barked gruffly through the connection: "Is this Rita?" The thought quickly ran through my mind, who on Earth speaks like that? "Billy?" I asked tentatively, thinking it might be my prank-loving brother advising me he was planning a visit in the near future. No, that loudly grating voice responded, it was the optometrist that I had hesitated to return to. In a staccato-fired message to inform me a regrettable misunderstanding had taken place the day before when my scheduled appointment had been cancelled.

I took pleasure in immediately responding with the information I had seen another optometrist and everything was fine, just fine, thank you very much.

Cliches ... Nothing like visiting family members to excite that old familiar impulse to get going and do some baking. It may be a hilariously-referenced item in society's album of familial characteristics, but there is truth to the emotional response recognized as a cartoon of mother-child relations. So, anticipating just such a visit I set about satisfying the requirements of a pair of not-too-sweet tooth 'children' in their 50s whose own busy lifestyle precludes home baking for the most part.

Chocolate chip cookies were first on the agenda; short on the sugar and high on the chocolate chips. And for this occasion, special chocolate chips: 72% cocoa, intense dark chocolate sourced from Venezuela, "ideal for making fine mouldings, coatings, pastry and praline ganache, mousses, biscuits, sauces and cake decoration, ice cream and sorbets. They turned out just fine in the cookies.

One evening we were served with my husband's home-made vanilla ice cream, into which was dumped more of these chocolate chips. Not so fine, but edible; next time minus the chocolate chips.

I'd erred when baking some quite delicious carrot muffins, forgetting not to put walnuts in them; one of the duo is allergic to nuts, alas. Watermelon, sweet, cold and crisp more than made up for a good dessert that night. The moist, chewily spicy fruit-filled muffins with their creamy cheese-frosting went unselected but for us.

On the other hand, the still-warm-from-the-convection-oven blueberry pie baked with British Columbia berries was a decided hit with everyone, the crust good and flaky, the interior mouth-wateringly delicious. That was last week.

Today, grocery shopping day, I used left-over fresh fruit for a mixed-fruit pie. A cup of blueberries, a cupful of depitted fresh cherries and four large peaches for the interior. I always pre-cook the pie fillings, using about three-quarters of a cup of sugar to four cups of fruit. Mixing the sugar with about three tablespoons of cornstarch, mixing it with a quarter-cup of cranberry juice, dumping in the fruit, and slowly cook-stirring it all until the liquid becomes thick and glossy. Sometimes, depending on the fruit, I add a tiny bit of pure almond extract, sometimes plenty of cinnamon, and sometimes a tablespoon of butter is melted into the finished filling.

When it cools, it's time to prepare the pastry dough, and that's simple enough; a two-crust pie needs close to two cups of flour, a dash of salt, two-thirds cup of vegetable shortening (Crisco works best) worked into a rough crumble. To that I add a dash of lemon and enough cold water to knead the resulting dough into a ball to be divided and rolled out for a top and bottom crust. To be baked until it's brown and flaky.

Works like a charm.

We experienced, throughout our recreational lives of hiking, canoeing, camping enough episodes where we were directly exposed to violent thunderstorms to have a fairly intimate knowledge of what it feels like to be caught out. Caught out in the sense of having set out on a perfectly blue-sky day, the sun warming our paddling backs, in the centre of a lake when suddenly the unmistakable rumble of distant thunder sounds, repeats and repeats itself, growing clearer with each repeat, while the sky suddenly takes on the appearance of dark gloom.

You paddle with quite a bit of physical enthusiasm. We're the kind of people who appreciate the magnificence of nature, while respecting at the very same time the randomly threatening nature that can from time to time, erupt. We've experienced it at semi-wilderness remote camping sites, and at the near summits of mountains during alpine camping expeditions. And we've had some fairly hair-raising occurrences, caught out in our canoe with wind whipping up whitecaps and thunder serenading us while lightning lit up the dark heavens above.

Through it all, we've come to appreciate nature all the more. And at the same time we appreciate that though we might have presented on those occasions as prime victims to untoward natural events, we never really did experience any true danger, just the potential of it. After the adrenalin settles down, and the event has passed, comes evaluation and thanksgiving.

Occasionally news items come to the fore to dislodge old memories of one's own. In yesterday's paper a short news item about the misfortune that fell upon a New Jersey man of 53 who was out canoeing with his 20s-year-old daughter at Clear Lake, close by Elgin, southwest of Ottawa. Their experience was one of pure unadulterated misery followed by catastrophe.

Joseph Higgins of Mickleton, N.J. was out fishing on the lake with his daughter. A pop-up thunderstorm was launched by nature, which turned into quite an intense affair. They paddled to shore and found refuge under the porch of a cottage, the only habitation at that site. And while they thought they had found a dry, safe haven, they hadn't. An electrical strike hit the cottage, actually hit Mr. Higgins, and he was killed. The cottage caught on fire, the daughter who had attempted CPR on her father, emerged from under the cottage, and waved in the distance over toward the other shore of the lake, begging for help.

There, Chris Cadue, owner of Clear Lake Cottages, saw fire and smoke and someone waving for help. He launched a boat and accompanied by one of his guests reached the shore where the cottage was afire. There he attempted CPR as well, but to no avail. "I just kind of looked at her and said, 'I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do here."

In the event, that of an emergency where people were caught out in the most vulnerable of positions during a violent electrical storm, they attempted to take advantage of what was offered to them by circumstances. Anyone would have chosen the same response as this father and daughter did. Taking shelter under the cottage porch made perfectly good sense.

"You and I would do the same thing", said Mr. Cadue. "You get off the lake and seek shelter, and that's what they did."

Now that's a bit of something different. A few years back a nephew 'invited' me through Linkedin to join the site. I'd been 'invited' on earlier occasions by others whom I know. This time I went ahead and registered with Linkedin, and although I did fill out the preliminary and fairly broad statistical requirements, I just left it at that and more or less abandoned the site, having little interest in it.

But I do regularly receive these "Linkedin" recommendations, to contact others registered at the site. Without doubt it can be a useful mechanism for linking up with old acquaintances, as a tool for furthering one's career through helpful contacts, and to gain knowledge of opportunities that might turn out to be useful. I simply look at some of them with brief curiosity, but for the most part just eliminate the message.

Today's was different. The lead contact name gave me second pause. And I thought: What on Earth?!? The name is Chiheb Esseghaier, a PhD student at INRS. The name, though it hasn't been lately in the news, is rather unforgettable. The man is an engineering student and seems quite brilliant in his field of study. But he is also, unfortunately, weighted down with a pathology of hatred, severe enough that he would link himself into a network psychosis of loathing for the West. Leading him to commit himself to the sacred duty of Islamist violent jihad. What is normally termed a terrorist.

Back in April 2013 this was in the national news:

Chiheb Esseghaier, the younger of two men charged in the al Qaeda train plot, is a Tunisian-born PhD student at a Université du Québec nanotechnology lab who was threatened with expulsion for his disruptive behaviour and strict religious views that alienated his colleagues.
 
One colleague at Institut National de la Recherche Scientifique (INRS) in Varennes, Que., described Mr. Esseghaier, 30, as “a brainwashed person, basically,” who tore down posters he did not approve of, and pestered the administration to install a prayer room.
“He had very strict religious behaviour that made many people frustrated,” said the colleague, who asked that his name be withheld. “He had problems with the administration.”
His co-accused, Raed Jaser, 35, is a Palestinian born in the United Arab Emirates, who has permanent resident status in Canada. Search warrants were being executed Monday at his home in a Toronto suburb, where neighbours said they have seen a group of young men in traditional Muslim garb weightlifting.
‘‘If I was outside, or getting into my car, he wouldn’t even say hello. He was a very reserved guy. They kept entirely to themselves,’’ said Sanjay Chaudhary, 47, who lives next door.
Mr. Esseghaier has a lengthy public profile, including several academic publications on new methods for detecting prostate cancer and HIV, and a profile page on the professional networking site Linkedin that is illustrated with the black flag of the Islamic State of Iraq, an umbrella group of Iraqi insurgent groups affiliated with al Qaeda.
 The two men are charged with conspiring to carry out an attack against, and conspiring to murder, persons unknown for the benefit of, at the direction of, or in association with a terrorist group.

Bizarre beyond belief! What's with Linked In? What planet do they inhabit? What, precisely, are they promoting?

Just curious.