I thought I'd awoken to the comforting sounds of an approaching storm. Dimly recalling that this wasn't in the weather forecast, but feeling good about the prospect of an oncoming rain event watering the gardens. We just happen to love the sound of thunder.  I've been lax about that; due diligence to ensure the gardens and our pots of flowers don't dry out; keeping them well moistened prolongs their life with night-time temperatures dipping perilously close to freezing. And since we've been enjoying fabulous late-summer weather in early autumn this past week, with full blue skies, a baking sun and summertime temperatures, we could use some rain.

Cracking my left eye open to peruse the sky from our bedroom window, there was blue sky and sun. And then my husband reminded me that our next-door neighbour had given us a 'heads-up' a week or so back that he was having some pretty noisy work done on his house. We'd noted that he was emptying his garage, putting some things out for trash pick-up, hoping that some discerning eye would decide that the chest of drawers placed at the curb was worth their while hauling away. We still cannot figure out why people who discard items that would be of value to others don't take them to our very local thrifts shops or even call them because they will themselves pick up such saleable items.

In any event, we could also see that they had filled their large deck with items taken out of the garage, to completely empty it. The floorspace, in any event. Reason was, they had arranged to have the cement floor of their garage torn up and replaced. We live in what's called a "rust belt" area which means in our northern climate winters so ferociously inclement that road salt is commonly put down for vehicles to gain traction on icy roads during ice storms and other adverse driving conditions. Which naturally results in a deterioration of concrete and steel, affecting not only bridges and road surfaces, but the surfaces of garages as well when vehicles are driven into them.

Most people know that the resulting cracks are surface blemishes and that remedial work can be readily accomplished by the homeowner. Our neighbours are far more ambitious; they're tearing up the entire surface to replace it, and then having some additional driveway work done, tearing up the surface for brick replacement. It's just their style. Some might consider it a manifestation of having more money than brains. But, to each their own.

The jackhammers being used in the garage next door, don't really sound like thunder. They're noisy and intrusive, but thunder? Nope.

When Riley first came into our lives as a puppy he was incredibly tiny. At six weeks old that was hardly surprising for a toy poodle. He would be, even full-grown much smaller, though eventually not as dainty as our miniature Poodle-Pomeranian Button. Their personalities were much different. And Button never did fully accept Riley as a companion, though that is precisely why we brought him into our lives, thinking to enrich hers.

She is now gone, and Riley is left with us, now thirteen. There had been seven years separating them in age, and perhaps that, as much as anything is what hadn't appealed to Button. She'd enjoyed a robust friendship when she was herself a puppy with our daughter's then-companion animal, a German shepherd-husky mix. Button lived to over 19 years, our daughter's pet didn't live beyond 9.

When Riley was very small we accustomed him, just as we had with Button, to being carried about in an over-the-shoulder bag, when we went places where one wouldn't ordinarily take dogs. We felt that since they were our companions they deserved to be taken wherever we went, and as long as there were no rules against, and no one protested, they could accompany us wherever we went.

At first, because of his minuscule size, Riley fit into a small camera bag. He became so accustomed to it, that if it was placed on the floor preparatory to departure, he would take an energetic leap and ensconce himself comfortably within in, ready to go.

We now use a much larger bag, but still a camera bag. He's no longer a really tiny dog, but rather a robust but small dog. And he attracts the attention of so many people when we're out and about, in interiors, the only place where he's required to be in a bag. Everyone exclaims over him, wants to see him, pet him, talk about him.



When he was young he used to crave that attention and literally lap it up. Whenever anyone paid any attention to him, slung over my shoulder, he would be instantly alerted, and become so excited that he'd literally try to leap into their arms, further charming those who focused on him. Now, he sleeps through all the fuss, quite disinterested. Except when someone he knows begins to fuss over him and then he responds, languidly and modestly.

Yesterday, a woman who was taken with his presence, in his bag, sitting in a shopping cart at a local linen goods shop. She spoke longingly of a miniature Poodle-Pomeranian with whom she had shared fifteen years and how much she missed the little dog. It really is surprising, in a sense, how many people one comes across who speak so movingly of their sense of loss in recalling their relationship with a beloved pet come to an end.

I woke this morning to the unmistakable smell of roasting coffee. As is often the case my husband was not beside me in bed. Not unusual to smell coffee roasting in the morning, but since in this instance the coffee roaster had broken and we had ordered a replacement, it seemed odd. I wasn't delusional, it was coffee roasting, nonetheless.

I had checked last night on line to see what had happened to our Purolator delivery for which we had paid the express rate. It should have been delivered yesterday afternoon, but hadn't been. And I could see why; the driver had missed a 5:30 delivery deadline and our package had gone back to a sorting terminal. Delivery would, obviously, be put off until Monday.

This represented a serious situation. My husband faced the disaster of being deprived of his fresh-roast coffee. The beans, organic and fair-trade are all there, but they've got to be roasted before they can be used.

Well, he is nothing if not resourceful. When he awoke early in the morning, he went downstairs to the basement workshop, and took apart and cut to fit a small aluminum waterbottle. Whose shaft was just the very right size to sit on the coffee roaster in place of the smashed glass insert. And he then proceeded, as usual, to roast his morning coffee.

Ingenious, he is, without a doubt. But it's a temporary fix; the timer on the device has long since gone wonky and that alone meant that it was time for a new coffee roaster.

On the way.

Just incidentally tomorrow is International Coffee Day; September 29.

"Coffee is the No.1 consumed item in the Canadian marketplace from a food and beverage standpoint", according to the executive director of food services of the NPD Group.

Canada's love affair with coffee, evidently, is second only to Italy's.

"Annually, Canadians consume 2.1-billion servings of coffee, which reprsents over $6-billion in sales. And that's just out of home. It's crazy", he said.

Yes, it most certainly is, considering that there's a preferential (to me) alternative: tea.

We can't help but feel far more kindly disposed toward the grubs and other insects that may infest our lawns, along with the unwanted weeds that crop up when we're not attentively drawing them out of the grass manually, than we feel toward the ubiquitous, irritating telephone calls, door-knocks, and advertising leaflets that we are inundated with by lawn-care 'specialists'.

Those would be the very same companies who had, until a municipal and then provincial by-law was brought into effect banning the cosmetic use of pesticides and herbicides as identified and validated health and environmental hazards, continually sprayed area and neighbourhood lawns with chemicals proven to be injurious to the health of children, pregnant women, domestic pets and wild animals alike. Since it has been legally forbidden to use such dangerous chemicals so widely and cavalierly, those lawn-care specialists have taken to using alternatives.

That being so we still view their operations using 'organic alternatives' with suspicion. We never had any intention of seeking the services of such companies for the upkeep of our lawns and have never had any reason to change our minds about that decision. We view their operations with distaste and have no use whatever for their presence.

We were always amazed at the oblivious attitude about using herbicide/pesticide chemicals so carelessly on the part of many of our neighbours who did see value in having these services performed for them in desperate search of a perfect lawn. These are the very people, often enough, with small children in their homes and with pets to whom they profess they are devoted. Yet exposing children and defenceless pets, both vulnerable to the deleterious effects of such chemicals never appears to have entered the heads of their parents, and owners.

And if we would mention such details, we might be rewarded with a puzzled, querying glance, and a shoulder shrug. Yet, given all the controversy that arose from their use, and related news items proliferating in various media, pro and con, one might be forgiven for imagining that the data were out there.

All of which to say we were rather more than disconcerted yesterday when we drove back home from an errand, to see one of those tell-tale white signs plunged into our lawn, from a company called Weedman, indicating that our lawn had been sprayed against broad-leafed weeds. The hand-written portion of the sign gave a telephone number that turned out to be incorrect, a time of day that indicated it had been done in the wee hours of the night, and insufficient information about the type of product used.

When we called the company they suggested we check our porch mailbox to retrieve an invoice which would inform us of the correct address which the individual performing the process incorrectly took for ours. We dutifully wrote an explanatory note, walked the sign and the invoice up the street to the home of a younger couple with two infants and a dog, and nobody being at home at the time, left it all in their porch mailbox.

They're all high achievers, known for their good academic performance at their high school. This is their last year at high school, all of them thinking of their future, planning to make application at various universities. Mostly within Ontario. There's plenty to select from. Their guidance counsellor for reasons of his own, tends to recommend more rurally-based colleges and universities. This infuriates my granddaughter who knows where she wants to attend university, and all of her choices are located in Canada's large cities, though one or two if her first selections don't come in, are in smaller cities.

She doesn't seem the least bit fazed by the prospect of leaving home. She's downright euphoric thinking about her upcoming university years. She has her first choice selections and is hoping... Her student record is a good one, she's a hard worker and has ambitions for the profession she has chosen, law. She sent me yesterday in an email the latest group-of-four photos taken at school; her and her three closest friends all wearing pink because it was a "pink day" for them.

She tells me daily about the driving exploits of her closest friend whose parents have just bought her a black four-door Honda Civic, as a gift to celebrate her having achieved her permanent driving licence. She despairs that her friend hasn't even bothered looking at the handbook that came with the vehicle, and it was she who showed her friend how to turn on the back window defroster, set the clock, and other things she had no interest in pursuing herself as the car owner.

Telling me that her friend, while driving herself and several other girls home after school, backed into the car behind her while negotiating her way out of the parking spot where she had left the car. How, a week later, she had almost run into a bicyclist who had been serenely unaware of the danger he was in, earbuds firmly in place, oblivious to road traffic.

She would be a better driver, she tells us. She plans to stop fully at all stop signs, not slide past like her best friend. And she would strictly observe the speed limit, also not like her friend who has a tendency to drive too fast. And who had failed her first few attempts at persuading the license bureau tester of her consummate driving skills, the first time by persistently having one hand only on the steering wheel.

Somehow, one never thinks of a tiny breed of dog being surrendered to a humane society. But they're there, along with the larger breeds, of all ages. Not in the same numbers, but very small dogs are also abandoned by their owners. And often they, just like their larger counterparts, have been abused before being abandoned.

The little fellow we sometimes come across in the ravine, was obviously badly abused. Your first reaction on seeing such a small dog with such a beautiful conformation is admiration. And then surprise, when the little thing reacts on seeing you or anyone else he's not familiar with. He goes instantly into attack mode, and begins barking, running back and forth from the object of his hostility - another dog, a man or a woman unfamiliar to him, barking incessantly, hair standing up at the back of its neck, having identified an enemy, a potential threat.

So he was abused, and you think, who would be brutal to such a small creature?

It's strange in that when he's out as we've seen him occasionally with a young man in his late teens, he seems more nervous, uncertain, and prone to overt hostility. When he's out with the young man's father, he is often kept on leash and the little dog doesn't tend to bark, although he is careful to remain physically remote from anyone other than his benefactor.

The people who now share their home with the little dog had just lost their elderly golden retriever. Because the man suffers from arthritis they decided that though they wanted another dog, it would have to be one he could easily handle, a small dog. They saw an advertisement in the newspaper by the Gatineau Humane Society for that little dog, and telephoned, feeling that surely he would have been claimed already, but he was still there, they were assured.

They drove right over and brought that little fellow who was named Taz, into their home and their lives where he is valued and taken very good care of. Taz may be hostile toward people he doesn't know, equating them somehow with the ill treatment he received before he was taken to the Humane Society, but he appreciates the emotional warmth emanating from the people with whom he now lives.

And that appreciation is bestowed in turn upon him in acknowledgement of how his presence in the lives of those people with whom he now lives feel he complements their lives, increasing its quality and offering them the opportunity to enjoy an extended companionship with a trusting pet.

It has served him well over the five or so years he has been in possession of it, I'll say that for the thing. But if I were designing a domestic-use coffee roaster I'd take steps to ensure it was slightly less destructible. That the glass portion fit far more securely on its base, for one thing. Yesterday I forbore from crowing "I told you so!"

Even if I had, repeatedly to the point of nag-nagging, implied it.. Leave the damn thing on the counter, where it is, and use it there. But no, that wouldn't do. Mostly because roasting coffee results in the coffee roaster becoming very, very hot. And exuding a very emphatic odour quite resembling burning food in the process. To which our smoke detector located closest to the kitchen never fails to respond. Necessitating that we close all the doors leading to the kitchen to avoid the sharp alarm, driving us to distraction until one of us can race over and disarm it.

Options for my husband have presented themselves in carrying the coffee roaster downstairs to the basement level of the house and using it there. Well, then, leave it there, right? Nope. Alternately, in good weather as during the summer months, taking it outside to the deck, and using it there. If prevailing winds blow the burnt-coffee odour back into the house, then off goes the smoke detector.

On one occasion a year or so ago, when he was carrying the machine back upstairs from downstairs something happened and the glass cracked. Still usable. Until yesterday morning when, carrying it upstairs from downstairs yet again, the glass slid off its moorings and this time finished the job. So, we're in the market to acquire a replacement.

From Green Beanery. Trouble is, their Internet website set-up requires that one become a 'member'. We already are members since we order all our organically-grown free-trade coffee from them in any event. But their protocol spurned my 'password'. And even when we were given a new, temporary password by their office, it was rejected once again.

Leaving us feeling very unloved, abandoned, fearful of what the future may hold for our coffee-drinking pleasure. Better change that; I don't drink coffee; my favour goes to tea. And never once did I say to him "Toldjaso!"

I cautioned my husband that we would need rain gear. He looked out the window at the sky and saw no warning of imminent rain; why, the sun kept coming out and it seemed that the rain events were concluded for the day. I looked out the glass doors of the breakfast room and saw ample warning that we were yet in for more rain, and it would certainly catch us while we were out ambling on our ravine walk.

I wore a rain jacket, stuffed one into my pocket for little Riley, and my husband set out without one. But not very far. No sooner had we ventured far out of the house, noting that the driveway was well in the process of drying out after the last rainfall we'd experienced just an hour previously, than I felt the telltale ping on my head and sure enough the first tentative drops rapidly turned into a heavy rainfall. So we sat on the porch and waited. I put Riley's raincoat on him, and my husband ventured back into the house to grab a rainjacket.

Before too long the drenching had ceased and we set out again for the ravine, this time all of us properly clad. The trees were so soaked that though the rain had stopped, we were being pelted with rain falling off the bright-green-wet foliage. And then, as we ventured further into the ravine, fifteen minutes later the sun made its reappearance, sending bright shafts of light through the forest.

Unlike most Sundays we saw no one else out enjoying the adventure that a ravine ramble permits us. Until finally, close to the finish of our hour's perambulation we came across Lilly, a pure-white Shepherd, with her genial human, both of whom we hadn't seen in quite some time.

We were looking this morning at an old Atlas of the world that we have had for quite some time. That 'some time' dated from an event a number of years back, in fact, when we noticed a large number of boxed books put out for garbage collection on our street, while we were headed onward for one of our daily ravine walks. As book lovers, we simply could not understand how anyone might want to relinquish books to a rubbish-heap.

So we stopped, regardless of  how it might seem to an onlooker to see two people rummaging through discarded books set out for city waste, to have a look at what was being so cavalierly disposed of.  This book from Everyman's Encyclopaedia was a 'supplementary volume', titled World Atlas and Index of Maps. I had been curious about how close Russia was to Syria, having seen mention in the news of 'border' issues. And although we have far more recent and up-to-date atlases in our library, this neat little compendium of maps always intrigues us.

It is, of course, badly outdated, but the essentials are there. Published in 1932, it is fascinating to look at how the world has changed since then; country name-changes no longer reflective of what was then current in the days when colonialist powers still held huge influence over the countries they dominated. Countries like the State of Israel, the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, and The People's Republic of Bangladesh, for example, not even on the world stage. Along with Burundi, Central African Republic, North Korea, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, among others.

And to see statistics relevant to the time, of "races of the world", the very concept of which is repugnant to modern humanity recognizing the reality of one human race, with ethnic divisions. At that time 'Mongolian' was the considered race with an estimated 655 million souls, along with 'Caucasian' with slightly fewer at 640, 'Negro' at 190 million, 'Semitic' with 81 million, 'Malayan' at 52 million and 'Red Indian' with 23 million.

Just as interesting was the divisions within global society relating to religions up to 1930. Christianity divided between Roman Catholics at 273 million, Orthodox Catholics at 120 million, Protestants at 172 million, then Confucians at 301 million, 'Mohammedans' with 222 million, Animists with 158 million Buddhists with 138 million, Shintoists at 28 million, Jews with 12 million, and 'others' at 15 million.

Time, and history and a burgeoning birthrate has done much to change all of that. Six million Jews, for one thing, perished in the Holocaust; their number globally now stands at a standstill 13.5-million. Christianity can boast about 1.3-billion, and Islam around 1-billion. But then, the world grew in human population numbers from two billion in 1930 to the current 7.1-billion for the year 2013.

There is always the chance that we might come across a close-up view of the very large red-capped Pileated woodpeckers that we hear and see in the distance so often in our ravine forays. We will, on the rare occasion, see the pair close together. It's not hard to tell when they've been around; great piles of wood chips surrounding the base of an old tree, whether dead or still struggling for survival attest to their presence when they're not being sighted.

We once came so close to a Pileated woodpecker, seemingly oblivious of our presence, having a go at one of the trees close by our first long descent leading into the ravine off our street. I cursed myself for not having brought along my trusty little digital camera. That missed opportunity has led me over the years that have since passed, to impulsively grab the camera as we leave the house for our daily peregrinations in the ravine.

Occasionally there are scenes or objects or creatures whose presence take my photographic fancy; more often there are none particularly appealing.

Over the decades I've taken more than enough photographs of bright, colourful fungal formations, birds, squirrels, woodland scenes in all seasons, and wildflowers. I've an excess of them in my ravine-photo inventory. I look for things that are different than what we've already seen and experienced.

Invariably when I have a hunch that this very day there will present to us scenes worthwhile recalling through photographs, we conclude our foray without any results. Leading me to neglect taking the camera along the following days. And inevitably when I haven't the camera with me opportunity for memorable photographs result and I am left frustrated.

Take that day about a week ago when we again came across an older couple with their pet ferret on its slender leash. A lovely little creature, its fur sleek, eyes brightly inquisitive, tiny ears alert, eager to introduce us to his olfactory memory himself. And no camera. Over the years we've come across this little fellow occasionally and I've thought how delightful it would be to take a photo of him -- another opportunity lost.

Angela Guglielmino walks a Ferret on a leash at the San Francisco Zoo on June 13, 2003.

This isn't the little fellow we saw last week, but a reasonable facsimile. The little guy we came across was tinier but this one looks almost as appealing. We listened to its companions describing its lovable personality and its understanding of signals it receives from them. Its habits, inclinations and clever interpretations; open the refrigerator door and he's right there, hoping for some treats.

A few days ago we were halfway through our usual walking circuit on the ravine trails when we heard a distinct but very small yap resembling the sound a minuscule dog might make; familiar to us because our daughter has a teacup-sized Pomeranian. Suddenly, rocketing in a little furry fireball out of the woods came a tiny Yorkie, eager to make our acquaintance, dancing around our feet, leaping up for a little pat and recognition.

Oops, no camera. 

Three weeks ago all the bananas available for purchase at our local supermarket where I tend to shop were raw green. Usually when such green bananas are put out they're interspersed with ripening bananas in various stages of pale yellow. This time there was no choice but the ultra-green ones, so I bought my usual number, two large bunches. Reasoning that at this time of year bananas tend to ripen fairly quickly. Past experience failed this time.

We begin each morning breaking the night-time fast with a banana for each of us, along with either an orange, melon slice, or, at this time of year when Ontario peaches are available in sweet and juicy abundance, sliced peaches. During that time when the bananas nudged themselves agonizingly slowly toward ripeness, we'd acquired other, ripe bananas. Today, those green bananas are finally beginning to ripen. But so slowly that I'll still have to buy ripe bananas today to take us through the week.

Peaches have passed the height of their season, and that's sad. We always look forward to being able to stock up on ripe Ontario peaches; their taste is incontestably superior to peaches we've eaten anywhere else, including the famed Georgia peaches. Having them as an alternate to citrus fruits or melons for our daily vitamin C intake has been a tasting sensation for us.

Last Friday I baked a luscious peach pie. On those occasions when we have melons for breakfast, we alternate with peaches for dinnertime dessert, sliced, unadorned, delectable. This morning I baked a peach-upside-down-cake. It won't be long, we know, before the peaches from Ontario are unavailable. Then only the imported, hard, tasteless and fragrance-less peaches will be available. Not worth the bother of adding to our grocery list.

It could happen to anyone. The use of public transit is widespread in the Ottawa area. We have all taken advantage of a fine network of buses instead of relying on personal vehicles to get around from time to time. When we were still in the active workforce, each of us regularly used public transit. When we listened to yesterday's morning news there was a shocking announcement that a double-decker Ottawa Transit bus had been involved in a collision with a Via Rail train.

It happened in a southern suburb of Ottawa at a rail crossing used countless times daily by road traffic. The crossing had working-order, high-quality flashing lights, sturdy barricades and sound and all had been activated at the time of the collision. Bus passengers report that they had been horrified to realize that the bus they were travelling on didn't appear to be stopping as it should before the barricade. They could clearly see the train before them. Why didn't the bus driver react?

They shouted desperately at him to "please stop". And he, seeming to be in a reverie of his own, appeared to suddenly realize imminent danger, applying the brakes to the bus, but much, much too late. The front end of bus was sheared off in the impact of the collision. One of the train car's wheels left the track. No passengers on the train were injured.

The bus driver was killed on impact. Also dead at the scene were four passengers. A fifth died in hospital. Eleven people had been critically injured and were rushed to area hospitals for immediate, emergency attention. Those on the train were asked to remain where they were for an hour before being allowed to disembark. Passengers from the bus fled their vehicle, and stood helplessly, grim-faced and disbelieving, many weeping their fear and grief.

Police and investigators from the Transportation Safety Board investigate a collision between a Via train and an OC Transpo commuter bus in Ottawa on September 18, 2013. (ERROL MCGIHON/QMI Agency)

First-responders were propelled directly to the scene, fire-fighters, police and paramedics, all trying to do their best to alleviate the situation which had gone well beyond the most fearfully imaginative considerations of such a disaster. Leaving the city to consider its decision years earlier, to bypass the potential of avoiding just such a scenario by building an elevated area that would eliminate the prospect of local traffic intersecting with rail lines, because of the exorbitant cost.

Wayne Cuddington/Postmedia NewsA Via Rail train and a city bus collided in Ottawa's west end 

Wednesday, Sept. 18, 2013. The front end of the bus was severely damaged.

Fall is a nostalgic time of year. Tinged with a kind of pensiveness. The smells, textures and colours evoke memories of earlier falls that we have experienced. Recalling to memory events that occurred many years ago, impressed deeply within us and recalled at the repeat performance of nature in her transit from warm, languid days of summer toward cooler days and nights.

Now, the nighttime garden stroll has a different fragrance and atmosphere. And if we stop to listen on an overcast night when the wind has abated from daytime events and all seems still, you can hear cheeps and chirrups here and there. As migrating songbirds begin their long flight to southern climes, calling out to one another, depriving us throughout the long winter months of their presence and their lovely symphonies of sound.

Clear nights where it is velvety-dark but the stars are seen twinkling above and the full moon reveals its presence, there are no such sounds. Flight is automatically cancelled, it appears, since clear nights provide predators with the opportunity to pick off the little warblers' flight plans, one by one.

During the day and early evenings is when we hear the geese calling high above and see their formation of flight against the sky. And their calls to one another, encouraging, urging discipline, remind us of each year we have witnessed the ancient phenomena when nature's creatures prepare for the atmospheric alteration that compels them to take flight, to migrate on a route they seem to be born familiar with.

Canadians are fortunate in the human quality of the prime minister currently in office. He is a conservative by nature, a humanist by nature as well. A man of great personal integrity and outstanding social values. For some he is a greatly admired figure. For many others who are suspicious of his motivations and his plans for the future of the country, he is more controversial.

ctvnews.Roland Paris

Many despise Prime Minister Stephen Harper; certainly unionists do, and most certainly he is regarded with disdain by academics and intellectuals of a liberal persuasion. But he is governing responsibly, a meld of conservatism and liberalism. In itself a reflection of the political makeup of the entire country.

There are some areas in which it is not difficult to disagree with him; a diminution of funding for critical areas like science and the environment, for example. Where any forward-looking country would wish to advance critical areas of scientific discovery. And where Mr. Harper's administration has seen fit to cut funding to pure science, and focus through government auspices on practical science meant to benefit commerce and industry. Its practical face is employment, production and trade.

Though he is scorned by many for his lack of empathy for others, that perception lacks depth. He is a man who demonstrates his concerns for humanity, for Canadians, for ordinary people in a firm and quietly resolute manner. He is a reserved individual not prone to easy socializing and it is this reserve in his personality that seems unattractive to onlookers.

Whereas other people who are themselves naturally reserved, more given to introspection and inhibited social displays, introvert by nature rather than extrovert, can see what he represents and respect him for it. His wish is to be of service to the public weal. And despite his critics and some legitimate criticisms, he has proven himself more than capable of doing justice to his position, guiding Canada into the future and embellishing the present with his common-sense attributes.

Canadians love their country and have assured reason to trust the Right Honourable Stephen Harper to make decisions through his office that reflects well on the country and augurs well for its well-being in every sphere of life.

CBC News, Canada

When our daughter was born, our second child, she was in a hurry. We'd entreated with the nurse on duty at the maternity ward to call our doctor; she had, but had informed him there was no hurry; he could turn back over and get in another hour's sleep. By the time he eventually arrived he was ten minutes late for the delivery. The nurse who'd assured him, trained in Britain as a midwife, had told my husband to slip on hospital greens and assist her in delivering our daughter.

When, 34 years later, I watched our granddaughter slip from her mother's womb into independent life, we'd had to impress upon nurses that birth was imminent; a gynaecologist-obstetrician who had just finished delivering her patient's baby had to be co-opted into another delivery, before our daughter's obstetrician had arrived. The memory is acute in my mind of a tiny baby with long slender fingers and toes.

She was, in fact, a tiny girl as she grew toward school-age attendance, spending every day of the working week with her grandparents. When she entered the world I was just about to enter my 60th year. And for the next decade her day-time care was in our hands.

Yesterday, as she folded me into a big hug, she smiled down at me, saying she was convinced that I kept growing smaller every time she saw me.

There is no denying the obvious. Nature speaks to us and only those oblivious to seasonal transition are not affected. At night, from our backyard under the cover of darkness, we can hear the incessant tiny peeps of migrating songbirds calling to one another, leaving us for warmer climates in anticipation of oncoming winter. During the day, we hear the unmistakable, skyward-distant sounds of geese flapping their formations to the south, drawn by their instinct to survival to leave our northern climate before winter arrives.

The evenings now are cool, and the mornings the same. There's a chill on the air that only a clear sunny day is capable of dissipating. Several days ago we got caught out while on our ravine walk, in a powerful wind-and-rainstorm. We had dallied, talking too long with others we met along the way. It hadn't seemed likely when we had set out that we would encounter rain. We did see what looked like thunderheads far off, however.

I'd taken the precaution of stuffing little Riley's raincoat into one of my pockets, and took along as well a single umbrella, as I'd done on many previous occasions. We'd had many close calls with thunderstorms this year. Some of them amazing; beginning just as we concluded our daily ramble, and had reached our house.

This time the thunder rumbled far off. And after awhile there occurred suddenly a single loud clap nearby, when we'd parted with someone we had chatted long with, deep in conversation. At that point we were almost halfway through our daily circuit. And at that point we decided to double back, to return the way we had come because though at the half-way point, it represented a straighter, less arduous journey back to the ravine ingress on our street.

But the rain beat us out. Despite which, though we put Riley's raincoat on him, we didn't bother unfurling the umbrella because the forest canopy succeeded wonderfully in keeping us dry, but for the occasional large plop that landed on us. It was only when we left the security of the forest and embarked onto the street that the umbrella was lifted, protection achieved in part. Where our bodies met in communion as we paced ourselves down the street to our house we remained dry; the outside portions as we strode along quickly became drenched.

The wind did its malicious best to see to that. And the rain, dropping heavily from a now-darkened sky was more than happy to comply with the urging of the wind. Our brief exposure was all that was required for us to arrive back home, half-dry, half-drenched, and laughing all the way.

Today we've no sun, unlike yesterday when Riley spent most of the day, however cool it was, basking in the sun he so loves. Today he must make do with lying alongside the fireplace in our family room, taking from its flaming heat whatever comfort he can.

At one of the bridges, where the barricades had been set aside for several weeks by some nearby resident who had taken exception to their having been closed off for access to the ravine trails, we came across a crew of two municipal workers who were busy taking soil samples from the area under the bridge. The purpose, of course, was to try to arrive at a conclusion about the rate of erosion. The bridges, sturdy affairs far more costly to build than their predecessors and meant to withstand the effects of erosion for a long time were erected a scant five years ago.

And now they were deemed by the local parks and recreation ministry to be in danger of collapsing as a result of steady environmental degradation? I recall about ten years ago coming across provincial environmental engineers who were taking samples and evaluating the extent of changes taking place in the ravine and who, when I'd mentioned the erosion and other types of environmental damage we had ourselves noted over the past years, had laughed. Nothing out of the normal for the area, they had assured me then.

The bridge closures have been a real irritant to those people who depend on the ravine and its trails for their leisure-time activity, their accessible and enhanced enjoyment of nature. Time and again the municipal employees have put those barriers in place, and just as often some local has taken the initiative to remove them. Not destroying anything in the process, but removing the lag bolts or huge nails that have been used alternately to put them in place.

Day before yesterday we came across someone on one of the trails, a tall, elegant-looking man, and I called out to him that his height must present as a challenge ducking under the bridge barricades, that  had just recently been re-installed. He stopped, grinned wryly and said he was an employee of the parks and recreation department. He also lives nearby and has done so for decades. He knows the ravine intimately, he has taken his own children over the years through it.

So we stood there, talking and explaining the irritation of trail users and he commiserated in complete understanding of our frustration. He had himself suggested, he said, that they simply post signage reading "use at your own risk", but his superiors had shrugged it off. But, he said, it was useful for him to be able to discuss the issue with others resident in the area who often use the trails.

And, as far as he is aware, there is no intention to block off access to the trails indefinitely. A solution to the issue of soil degradation leading to slippage of the main support posts holding the bridges in place is being looked for. And eventually, he said, the bridges will either be placed under reconstruction or replaced. But the cost and the work involved won't be attractive to city administrators nor to city council. Prepare for taxes to rise.

On the return portion of our circuit we discovered that someone had, in the interval, kicked down several of the barricades. Then taken the trouble to flatten the nails in the downed barricades to ensure that no one might be injured.

One of our neighbours remarked admiringly a few days back how good our gardens still look this late in the season; fresh and colourful. Compared to what? I asked myself, while responding with a thanks but rebutting his perception (not meaning to seen churlish, just relieving myself of my own impressions).

With my own remarks on how disappointing the gardens have turned out to be this summer. I've noticed that generally speaking most gardens, like our own, looked pretty exhausted, and anything but colourful. A certain amount of that should be expected at this time of year when late-blooming perennials still labour to pepper the garden with colour, while annuals continue to pump out their floral displays.

This year, unlike all others past that I can recall, the annuals have long since seen their better times, and the perennials are struggling to put some colour into a monochromatic scene of greenery. Green, we have lots of it, in various shadings.

It's the foliage that has done well, not the flowers, this year. And in a sense, that's kind of odd. There's been a lot of rain, so much that we have hardly had to water the gardens, the garden pots and floral urns; nature has done that for us.

There's also been no deficit of sun, since we've had plenty of that too, the sun beaming down hot and bright just as we're accustomed to seeing it in the summer months. So it's a bit of a mystery.

Our tomato plants have rendered few fruit, despite an initial burst of offerings. There's been runaway growth on the vine-and-leaf portion of the plants, though. And it's only now, fairly late in the growing season that they've been covered with flowers. There won't be time, I'm certain, for the fruit to develop and ripen before real fall with frosty nights kick in. We've already had intimations of their onset.

So, it's a bit of a puzzle. Aside from which we enjoy and admire whatever the gardens continue to entertain us with; winter remains a way off, yet.

Sixty years ago I last sat in a school classroom. I completed Grade 10 high school, and that was when my parents felt I had achieved a high enough degree of academic education to prepare me for the working world. I was expected to find a job, to earn what I could, and add to my family's financial fortunes. Although my parents by then owned their own home, it was a modest one to house two adults and four children with the occasional room rental to perfect strangers. And some of them were, to be truthful, perfectly strange.

I had wanted to continue school, although I was a mediocre student at the best of times. And when I was informed that I could not anticipate returning to school it upset me terribly for I had no wish to leave the educational environment, just at a time when I felt I was beginning to at last hit my stride, I had no option but to obey my parents. I attribute my love for literature and my voracious reading habit to my informal, ongoing education from that time on.

So it strikes me as rather awry to see obvious spelling and grammatical errors commonly published in newspapers, on product labels, on signage. Canada boasts a literacy rate (basic functionality in reading and writing) of 97%, although that would surely be open to scrutiny. Canada rates 7th out of 16 peer countries in university graduation rates.

Close to 27% of working-age Canadians have a university degree, above the 16-country average, but well below the leader, Norway, which has a superior university completion rate of 35%. Norway, the United States, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Denmark, Australia all have higher university completion rates than Canada. It's debatable from my personal experience with the use of the language whether the United States surpasses Canada's dismal record in media expression.

Which leads me to a little pet peeve of mine mentioned above; the spelling and grammar errors too often seen in the public arena. Two of my three children have university certification at the doctoral level, one has a college degree. The two who write countless scholarly, academic papers practise exquisite writing skills, while the third does on occasion slip into spelling errors that cause me to wince.

One would think that having a well-remunerated professional position in advertising or public relations would require a sound background in English, in flawless writing techniques. So I was rather taken aback when I bought a Canadian-manufactured-and-bottled shampoo (as opposed, say to the far more ubiquitous product manufactured and imported from China) and to my dismay saw an obvious and inexcusable error in spelling:

A trifling thing perhaps, but a symbol and symptomatic of gross ineptitude, inexactitude in language proficiency and an unforgivable oversight by the producers and distributors of the product, none of whom appear to be the least bit aware, oblivion being the obverse side of public relations.

The error a reflection of the inability to differentiate between the possessive and plurality.

Yesterday we were delighted, as always, to be confronted by Stumpette. She has taken the place that Stumpy used to occupy for us, in anticipation of an encounter, the delight of observing how he would interact with us, and our response to his expectations motivating us to continue to bring with us bags of peanuts on our daily ravine strolls, because of his sense of personal entitlement and his boldness in approaching us.

Stumpy and Stumpette had much in common, although their personalities are quite different. She lacks his boldness, though not his overt sense that our presence in his environment required that we offer tokens to him of our appreciation of both his antics and his tolerance for our encroaching upon his home in our daily excursions.

They are -- were, in the case of Stumpy, our original friend, whose presence we have missed for two years, and whose friendship we prized for the previous six years -- both small black squirrels. And each of them absent a tail. Presumably because, in the nest when they were newly born, they had become twisted together with those of their siblings, and nature's solution was to have one nibbled away so all could survive. I recall friends who used to operate a wild animal shelter informing me years ago that they would on occasion receive such nestlings and have to spend frustrating hours trying to separate the intertwined tails.

We named our little black tailless friend for obvious reasons, differentiating him from all the other squirrels that abound in the wooded ravine. And when we had made a tentative acquaintance with the second little black tailless squirrel years after our initial introduction to Stumpy, our granddaughter had named that little creature Stumpette, on the assumption it was a female, a conceit that we have maintained in the subsequent five or six years.

She is now approaching the presumed age that Stumpy had attained when we no longer had the pleasure of his intermittent company on our ravine walks. Although there are other squirrels, grey and black, but never red, a far more edgily suspicious little breed, with whom we've become familiar and who similarly confront us for peanuts, not satisfied to visit the usual cache spots where they're left daily, it is the two little squirrels sans tails that managed to grab our affection.

Yesterday, while I was cleaning the house, my husband went out to do some shopping. He went to the bank, he went to Home Depot; then; because they didn't have the lumber he was looking for he ended up at Lowe's. And there was surprised to see well-finished pine boards selling for an irresistible price, so anticipating future projects, on top of the one he's currently involved with, he bought quite a bit of that stuff. Good thing he went prepared, with the car-top carrier in place.

He was by no means finished. From there to Farm Boy where he saw more irresistible buys, coming home with a giant cantaloupe to join the other cantaloupe sitting in the refrigerator along with a honeydew melon, and of course we'd had cantaloupe with our breakfast that very morning. They're locally in season, and delicious. Also, like producing a rabbit out of a habit, my very own magician showed me proudly the fresh sausages he had bought and was proposing to barbecue for dinner. They needed buns to go with them and they also were produced.

And dropping by the bulk food store as well, gained us a large bag of muesli. Oops, it had slipped his mind that he already had a bag of the stuff and didn't particularly like it all that much; the raisins tend to become mushy when the muesli is cooked however briefly and he could hardly find any of the advertised hazelnuts that were supposed to be in the mix.

When my housecleaning was done we set out for a ravine walk, and on our return I plopped on the sofa with the newspapers and he dispatched himself into the kitchen. I could hear him banging things around, being very busy doing something, which I assumed was making preparations to use his bread machine. I asked, and he confirmed. The ingredients he carefully assembled, he informed me later, were yeast, milk, butter, eggs, sugar, candied fruit, spices and flour. What eventually came out of the bread maker was an indigestible sweet-loaf, much to his crestfallen disappointment.

What's in the oven at this very moment, is a yeast-raised coffee cake that I put together this morning and left to rise while we went out for a morning walk. In it is grated orange zest, a bit of orange juice, milk, butter, sugar, eggs, and flour, along with walnuts, raisins and cinnamon. When we left, the mixture filled a scant one-quarter of the tube pan I'd prepared to receive it. On our return from the ravine walk, the volume had more than doubled.

My husband has such fond memories of the yeast-risen buttercakes his mother used to bake. He's looking forward to this one.

In all seasons and for a multitude of reasons, our neighbourhood wooded ravine provides us with a whole spectrum of various types of pleasurable encounters. In the spring, a succession of wildflowers bloom to delight us with their fresh shapes and colourful presence, and throughout the summer others take their place in seasonal succession.

And then there are the birds, everything from visiting great blue herons and dabbling ducks transiting through seasonally, to the three types of woodpeckers that normally inhabit the woods; from the tiny downies to the slightly larger hairy woodpeckers and then on to the impressively large Pileated. Bluejays visit, crows abound joined occasionally by ravens, and we host seasonal hawks that nest there and owls as well. Goldfinches delight us with their bright presence, and cardinals with their exquisite songs, vying with song sparrows for attention.

We see the early-appearing butterflies Mourning Cloaks and later skippers and Monarchs and everything in between; as well as damselflies with their iridescent bodies not quite the measure of the more voluminous-presence dragonflies, but almost. And bees and wasps going about their business of pollen-collection. We appreciate the blazing floral display of the ravine's wild apple trees and their later ripening many of which please our palate.

And then of course during the winter months when we slog through the snow drifts with our little dog we are presented with downy snow-covered scenes that appear as though they have been lifted out of someone's imagination of a white wonderland.

But it was only this past week that I fully realized the potential of the ravine as a place where hugs can be given out freely. Apart, that is, from those my husband and I exchange in a exuberance of appreciation of our lives and the good fortune that caused us to move close by such a wonderful recreational source that so enhances our daily lives.

Last week we happened to come across a small family on the trails, a father, mother and a tiny four-year-old girl of surpassing charm and social skills. A child who suddenly approached me and gathered her tiny presence close around me in a distinctively warm hug, taking me completely by surprise and warming my heart at her guileless humanity. The child had gathered a number of very small apples into a pocket of a vest she was wearing, and in her hand was a bright maple leaf; clutched beside it a small piece of white birch bark. A nature lover recognizing the presence of another nature lover, over 70 years separating them in age.

And then, several days later, we came across a young man accompanied by two very young children and a rambunctious black Labrador. The four-year-old child was initially quiet, grasping his father's hand as they clambered up one of the hills. The five-year-old was loud and inquisitive, roaming about almost as wildly as the family dog, overjoyed at the ambiance. The older of the two children decided too that I was deserving of a hug, and he grasped me close, happy to have me stroke his small back and say how pleased I was to meet him.

This was a Down Syndrome child, but obviously high on the spectrum of achievability, enjoying his surroundings and eager to communicate. Our very brief acquaintance soon brought his younger brother out of his shy period and both boys wanted to know why I was distributing peanuts and whether they could do the same. Their inquisitive dog soon discovered that the small objects the two boys were tossing about were very much to his taste.

And a good time was had by all, before our most amicable parting.

Christine Caron, a 49-year-old mother of four, who suffered a morbidly rare infection back in May is in the process of recovering. The infection that assailed her was a rare one, reported no more than two hundred times worldwide since 1976. It exacted a catastrophic toll on this woman, who happens to be a dog lover.

She has four dogs of her own. Three and a half months ago she was playing with her dogs. A game of tug-of-war with two of the dogs. During which event she experienced a small accidental nip from her three-year-old Shih Tzu. So slight, she thought nothing of it. The other three dogs, as dogs are wont to do, licked at the small wound.

And three days later, she subsided into a coma, one that lasted a month and a half in duration. A few days after she regained consciousness, doctors informed her that her condition was so dire it demanded amputation of her four limbs. Before that took place, however, some signs of life were detected in her right hand, and she was informed her right arm and hand would be spared amputation. The other three limbs, both her legs below the knee and her left arm at the elbow were taken, to spare her life.

It cannot be known which of her four dogs transmitted Capnocytophaga canimorsus to her, a bacterial contamination commonly found in dog saliva. A bacteria that rarely leads to infection in humans. Public Health Agency of Canada affirmed the rarity of the condition that afflicted Christine Caron.

Since that time of her surgery and her initial withdrawal from accepting the reality of her new condition, she has rallied enormously. She has been at the Ottawa Hospital's Rehabilitation Centre in downtown Ottawa since that time. Her recovery has her exposed to an hour daily devoted to learning how to walk on her prosthetic legs. Extremely fit-conscious before her personal tragedy, she now aspires to begin jogging again on special running prosthetics.

In the community where she lived, residents raised several thousand dollars to assist with her rehabilitation back into the community. A larger fundraising campaign named Caring for Chris on fundrazr.com has raised almost $80,000. Funding she plans to use in renovations to a new house that will accommodate her wheelchair.

Christine Caron, who lost three of her limbs following a dog bite in July, gets her new prosthetic limbs put on for exercises by her physiotherapist, Alison Davis, at the Ottawa Hospital’s Rehabilitation Centre Thursday. “I plan on dancing soon,” laughs the upbeat Caron.   Photograph by: JULIE OLIVER , OTTAWA CITIZEN

This dauntless woman kept photographs of her four dogs beside her bed at the Rehabilitation Centre. "A lot of people have asked me if I put my dogs down or am afraid of dogs now. I am not", she said, looking forward to reunification with her beloved companions.

Despite the turn of the weather to unseasonably cold, our little sun dog insists he must be out there, enjoying the sun's rays on his poor little battered body. In the last few days, morning has dawned bright and cold. Cold enough on one morning to have left a light layer of frost on the roofs.

Riley has never liked it when summer passed into autumn. As soon as it begins to get cooler, he begins to shiver. Our solution was to use a light-weight infant-size tee-shirt for him. And that seemed to do the trick. He became accustomed over the years to wearing a little tee-shirt for bodily comfort removed only at night time when he would be sleeping, and worn throughout the day.

As the days would progress into winter the little shirts became progressively thicker and hence warmer and more comfortable for him. He missed the natural light and warmth of the sun, and any time it could be captured shining through any of the windows he would position himself just there until the opportunity passed as the day wore on.

While he was recovering from his surgery, he kept insisting he must be out in the sun, and we couldn't resist his demands, so out he went. We had to keep him covered with a more protective-sized infant garment, little sleepers that we bought used from the Salvation Army thrift shop. On the past several mornings it has been not only cold but windy, so here's how Riley looked out in the sun.

Yesterday he was taken to the veterinarian hospital to have his stitches removed. It was just two weeks after his surgery. And there were plenty of stitches to be removed. He's not a stoic, as Button before him was, and in fact as most dogs tend to be. If he's uncomfortable he'll complain, whimper, whine and snarl. All of which he did as the technician, as gently as possible, removed all of those many stitches that marched down the length of his belly and the side of his haunch because of the extremely long incision to remove all those lipomas.

His hair is beginning to grow back and his bare skin looks just a trifle less vulnerable and shocking to the eye. And finally, we're able to handle him without fearing that we'll inadvertently hurt him where the injury to his body was so tender, post-surgery.

Living in the Ottawa Valley for the past forty years of our lives we have learned to expect the unexpected as far as weather is concerned. In this area Nature loves to practise her penchant for unpredictably perverse and fickle tricks and treats.

Last week it was extraordinarily hot, the last dog days of summer. And this week the weather has suddenly turned its imperturbable face toward fall, so precipitately that though we're accustomed to such quick changes, we're still taken by surprise. This morning there was a discernible frosting of rooftops. Only once before, in the 1940s, was overnight temperatures seen to have dipped so precipitously.

We'll manage our way up to 21-degrees today under sunny skies, we're assured by weather forecasters, while yesterday struggled to get up to 17-degrees with a pervasive wind. Meaning that when we ventured out for our ravine ramble we were well advised to wear light jackets.

The flora in the ravine have responded to the change in seasons. Many of the Hawthorns have lost their foliage, their dark, slender branches with their sharp thin barbs naked to the sky above. But not quite; it has been a bumper year, it would seem, for tree fruits and the haws glow red and numerous, food for the birds if they want to take advantage of nature's offerings. And the staghorn sumachs' brilliant red candles beckon birds as well as our appreciative eyes.

Jewelweed is blooming bright orange, their tiny orchid-like flowers on tall stalks down by the creek a bit of what else, but jewel-like brightness? Red baneberry's bright red berries light up the dark green of the underbrush, but it is noticeable that many understory plants have begun to die back, their leaves turning yellow, preparing for resorption back into the the earth to enrich the forest soil.

Asters are in bloom everywhere at the edges of the woods, and alongside them bright plumes of goldenrod, nodding in the wind. There is one wild apple tree in particular that we know offers the most delicious, crisply sweet and juicy Macintosh-type apples, whose bounty has become a regular treat for us of late.

A strange contrast to the nursery-grown stock that some unknown neighbourhood homeowner strips of their apples and trundles them presumably in a wheelbarrow to the ravine entrance, dumping them in a colourful array of perfectly good fruit, consigned to waste, but for the attention of birds and furry wildlife venturing a nip of the intrusive bounty from time to time.

I'd taken with me a book to read yesterday in the waiting room at the Eye Institute. A much-acclaimed novel about the earliest days of New South Wales where Sydney, Australia began its life as a penal colony. Great Britain's undesirables, men and women and children who were cast off to fend for themselves, those who were largely poverty-stricken, born into endemic indigence and destined to die within its cruel clutches, and who were sometimes caught stealing bread or objects for resale to feed themselves and their families and whose penalty under the laws then practised, was capital punishment. The fortune ones, those who escaped the public spectacle of the noose, were exposed to the rigours of a nine-month voyage within a crowded dank, dark ship's hold, their families held elsewhere on the ship, experiencing no more pleasure in the passage than the 'criminals'.

The book's narrative kept me engaged for awhile, but the tension and boredom of awaiting medical attention never fails to grip one. The large waiting room area was full of others awaiting attention and many eyes were focused on the large overhead television screen. On it, endless images of American officials being interviewed over the carnage in Syria and the atrocities that the regime of Bashar al-Assad was treating his Sunni civilians to. Thankfully, the sound was turned off and people had to make do with the printed headlines, but in fact, anyone interested in those occurrences knew precisely what was being discussed.

Directly across from the waiting room is an infrastructure stretch of a reception area behind which a number of receptionists were kept busy by the people streaming onto the Eye Institute floor of the Civic Hospital building through the elevators situated directly across from the elongated reception desk. I was to be informed later by one of the receptionists that this particular day was noted for its chaotic busyness, an unusually stressful day for all who work there.

From time to time I would take my eyes off the pages of the novel to briefly scrutinize what was happening, as names were called and people in the waiting room were ushered off to examination rooms and others steadily took their places, awaiting their turn for attention. On one occasion I saw exiting the elevators a man in a bright orange jumpsuit, his hands shackled before him, accompanied by two burly plains-clothed security personnel.

My husband, waiting patiently for me down below on the first floor's capacious waiting room, observed the later departure of the trio; the prisoner had been given preferential treatment, was speedily examined and whatever transactions needed to be done, concluded, allowing all three to leave without experiencing the need to wait their 'turn'. Expediting attention and passage and allowing medical staff to continue their professional scrutiny of those who haven't run afoul of the law.

Perhaps leaving some to arrive at the silly conclusion that crime does, after all, pay?

I have one eye with impeccable vision, the other whose peripheral vision is quite good, but the central portion has been impacted by a tear in the vitreous, creating gross distortion. A vitrectomy was unsuccessful in solving that issue, so that eye is useless for reading. So when I felt slight pressure appearing to present at the back of my one good eye on the week-end, I didn't think too much of it until I noticed what appeared to be a blister on the lower left eyelid and realized it was that which was responsible for the pressure I felt.

I immediately thought of shingles, having gone through a bout of it once, about four years earlier and it was an absolute horror of an experience, one I would not the least appreciate re-experiencing. Knowing too that shingles can be dangerous to eyesight if it is sited proximate to the eyes, I resolved that as soon as I could, I'd see my doctor. It was Saturday of a long week-end and I preferred not to go to a health clinic. On Tuesday morning I was given an appointment for that day at 1:30 p.m. My doctor didn't think it was shingles but operating on caution prescribed a powerful anti-viral medication. Amazingly, mere days after I'd first noted the presence of that 'blister' on the eyelid, it began to subside and I thought how wonderful modern medicine is.

To be on the safe side, however, my doctor insisted I have an appointment at the Eye Institute. The very next morning there was a call from the Institute informing me of an appointment that very day at 1:15 p.m. Two young ophthalmologists examined me carefully, after having taken exhaustive notes of my eye history, my symptoms and what they were able to observe, through the use of a battery of tests and electronic devices. Coming to the conclusion that nothing ocular was involved, but that tiny ducts in my eyelids might have become obstructed causing a backup of the normal moisture that emanates from them, ensuring that the eyeballs never dry; an eye-health-critical natural protocol.

I'll return in two weeks' time for another final check just to ensure that the condition has cleared. Which it already has started to do; the single 'blister' appearing now to be scarcely noticeable, although two days earlier it looked as though it was spreading, and the area under the eye was notably swollen and alarmingly red. At the present time I look almost normal; my personal panic subsided.

The doctors were young, professional, sweetly attendant, and genuinely concerned. Encouraging me should anything appear untoward in the future, I should be just as vigilant, and turn to their expertise in examination, diagnosis and prescribed solutions at any time; that's what they're there for, they emphasized. From the receptionists to the nurses, busy as only a community hospital can be, to the doctors who staff that necessary monument to compassionate civility and health care, they have no peers.

Instant attention to a suddenly presenting condition that appears to confound and frighten. Top-notch medical care, as needed, when needed. Canada's universal health care system is quite simply the absolute best.

The forested ravine close by our house, an entry to which exists just across from one of the group mailboxes that service the street we live on, represents quality of life to us in our easy access to green recreational opportunities. The majority of those who live within the area make no use of it whatever.

On the other hand, it is occasionally used as a dump. There can still be seen household objects, once an old abandoned sofa, and occasionally bedsprings and mattresses, even old used tires. Every fall someone rips ripe apples off their backyard apple tree and hauls them over to the ravine to dump them rather than using them. There they lie, a colourful offering to the denizens of the forest. And there they rot, filling the atmosphere with a sour fragrance of fruit gone to waste.

There is a good soul who goes around the ravine on occasion, hunting mushrooms. He always carries on his large, strapping back a capacious rucksack and into it he deposits any detritus he turns up, from discarded water bottles to broken bits of ski equipment. He has been responsible for dragging bedsprings and vehicle tires out of our beloved ravine. We certainly owe him a debt of gratitude, but he tells us he feels compelled to do that, it fulfills a need within himself.

Most days when we're ambling through the ravine we see no one else doing the same thing. Particularly on clear sunny days when the temperature is very pleasant, and that's quite puzzling. Yesterday, on the other hand, the sky was overcast all day. When it didn't appear like a solid lid of pure aluminum, there were clouds scudding across dark and menacing. Surprisingly, there was a ten-minute block of pure sunshine.

I cleaned the house yesterday and that took hours so it wasn't until fairly late in the afternoon that we were free to embark on a ravine ramble, intending to make it a relatively short one, given the time. I carried with me in a pocket little Riley's rainjacket, and a small umbrella dangled from one of my wrists, along with a bagful of peanuts to dole out. We thought, though, that we'd make it through the hike without fear of a sudden downpour.

But just as we began the downward ascent into the ravine, we heard a far-off distant rumble, and weren't certain because of its dim quality whether it was a truck somewhere on the road or indeed thunder. Indeed, it was thunder; that was verified as it continued and gradually drew closer. Surprisingly quickly, it overtook us so that by the time we were merely halfway through our ravine walk it was deafeningly loud, almost overhead. Amazingly, despite the weather, we encountered more people running through, bicycling, or simply hiking as we were, than we would normally, in a month of rambles.

One young man, just mounting a hill wasn't even aware of impending storms; he had ear buds tucked securely into place, obviously the sound up high, and could hear nothing else until we alerted him. The cracks of thunder were, as we closed in on the last quadrant of our hike, right overhead, and the volumes increased in number just as lightning too began to strike close by. We were amazed, as we exited the ravine to see a group of young bicyclists just preparing to ride down the first long hill into the ravine. We urged them to find shelter quickly.

And then, there was a muscular young man with two large dogs also just entering the ravine obviously for a leisurely ravine walk. He paid no heed to our greeting and continued on his way. We no longer felt hurried as we entered the street and walked down to our driveway. And just as we came abreast of the garage, a long streak of lightning rent the air close by. It had grown appreciably darker, so much so that as we entered the house it resembled night in the dim interior.

And then the rain broke with massive torrents spilling out of the sky. A spectacle we enjoy watching from the comfort and safety of the interior of our home, far less so caught out in the middle of a forest.