We've been experiencing, the past several days, winds of extreme ferocity. It whips through the atmosphere, along with rain, or sun, with low or moderate temperatures, impossible to ignore. Yesterday, during our ravine walk the wind incessantly clacked the denuded tops of trees together, their clatter atop that of the wind barging through creating quite the cacophonous symphony. Alerting us also, at the same time, of the potential danger inherent in such wind-vulnerable areas.

We found that the milder temperature and all-day rain that had fallen several days ago had finally eroded the thick ice of that portion of the trail we had been forced to bypass, enabling us now to simply skirt the ice and continue on our familiar circuit. The alternate routes we had been taking were fine, but we are creatures of habit and prefer to use methods and byways we are most familiar and comfortable with. Although when we do deviate the perspective seen from the different angles is interesting and motivates little Riley to alert curiosity.

It is amazing what a difference a day can sometimes make in the natural world we inhabit. Where, suddenly one day, trout lilies make their presence under the trees, given the opportunity to flower under the sun's influence, before the trees leaf out and leave them in shade. We noticed their presence a day earlier. And yesterday, there before us, were the first stirrings of the trilliums, even one clump where the flower bud was visible, hanging in anticipation of its crimson bloom.

And then the surprise, though not all that surprising, to see a venerable old pine had been sundered, its snag still defiantly raised to the sky, the top half lying shattered on the forest floor, across one of the offshoot trails. Sad to see one of the forest stalwarts that had been around so long and seen so much occur there, crumpled in the bleakly hostile negativity of death.

Twenty minutes later, as we were ascending the last long hill to reach the street beyond, we heard the long, agonizing rip-and-rustle of another tree behind us, succumbing to the brutal wind. It did not fall, but remain suspended, upheld in the close, sympathetic embrace of surrounding trees.

If the rain holds off this evening, I'll have the opportunity to go out to continue for a third time completing the door-to-door canvass I committed myself to, for the Canadian Cancer Society. April is the month for the Cancer Society to appeal to the public for financial donations, and the month is almost over. I've a few days left to cram some time for the canvass into. My attitude is cringe-worthy for having left it for so long, but you know how it is, busy doing all manner of things, including spring house cleaning, tidying up the mess that winter has left in the gardens. There's always a reason. Oh, and the rotten weather that nature has treated us to, of late.

In any event, our good neighbours respond as they always have, although I'm convinced the time for this type of fund-raising has seen its day. Far better for people to donate to charitable causes of their choice through the Internet. It's what I do, for the most part, myself. It's convenient and you can zero in on the causes that interest you, that you feel compelled to donate to.

The door-to-door canvass represents a kind of moral blackmail; one neighbour confronting another and the social pressure is there to accede to a neighbour's request for support for a specific charity. Or, in my case, a number of charities since up until this year I have been chronically incapable of expressing a definite "no" to all such request, and I'm convinced my neighbours got good and tired of seeing my hopeful face in their doorway representing one cause after another.

Still, it does have the advantage of creating an opportunity for people to become acquainted. A few young families have moved onto the street with houses changing hands. One door I knocked on last Thursday brought me face to face with a large black Labrador Retriever I had no idea actually lived there. Of course there was a human presence as well a harried looking young mother clasping a chubby baby to her chest, with the sounds of other children in the background. She would doubtless be very pleasant under other circumstances.

And another, on Saturday, down the other end of the street, a young man, father of three young children, the youngest in fact a year old, working in his garden, cutting back the dry stalks of perennials. An avid gardener, he told me, and so I knew I'd found someone with interests common to my own. We spoke for quite a long time about gardening, about the ravine that his house backs on, about his interests in nature and mine as well. He was half my age, but his interests mirrored in part my very own.

What's more, he decided on a most generous donation to the Canadian Cancer Society.

My husband remains concerned that area birds and squirrels not be bereft of food they can forage in this spring that refuses to insist that winter truly depart. So he keeps putting out fresh food for them regularly, ensuring they have no shortage of seeds and nuts, and we continue to be entertained by their antics, our very own private showcase of wildlife running amok.

Because of the occasional night-time visits by a rabbit which has been kind enough all winter long to fertilize my various flowerbeds, we got into the habit of peering out the front door through its floor-length window, to see who or what might have come around. The rabbit, since the snow finally melted, no longer does.

We know it isn't really necessary to feed them all any longer, that they will be able to find enough to keep them going on nature's seasonal provisions, but it's become a habit hard to break. But break it we shall, and then resume putting out seeds and nuts once again when winter comes knocking again for 2014-15.

We are now enjoying the occasional day when winter is convinced its time has passed for the winter of 2013-14, and spring presents a reasonable facsimile of glorious warmth and magnificent sun. That combination, along with the frequent rains of April has coaxed the peonies and hostas in our garden to begin their tentative early appearance thrusting through the soil released from its formerly frozen state.

In the woods, trout lilies have begun to appear on the forest floor, under the trees; not yet in bloom, but it won't be long; just as the trees begin to leaf out.

And last night we enjoyed some right royal entertainment. There, as we were heading up to bed for the night, was the raccoon that faithfully visits our backyard composters. It feasted two nights ago on the fresh product of the compost pail, and last night the raccoon decided there was no advantage in ignoring the tidbits of seeds and nuts put out for the other habitues, diurnal not nocturnal.

Aware of our gawking presence the raccoon was not the least bit perturbed that two  humans were agog at his appearance on their porch. Their porch is his porch, after all. His movements so strangely languorous, he simply sat there, hunkered down amid the seeds and nuts and delicately chose those that most appealed, and we watched, fascinated, as he jawed them placidly, eating his fill.

Few of my peer-age relatives are comfortable with a computer. The result being that they don't know what they're missing. Among other issues, that of communication and the ease of contacting those they care about through the Internet. I do have at least one old friend of my childhood years capable of interacting through email, and occasionally we send one another updates. Like me, she's a grandmother, though her children took the old adage of fruitfully multiplying their own issue far more seriously than mine.

She's had three partners in life; the boy we used to know who she married while young wasn't held particularly high in my personal estimation, though as a young couple newly married we spent quite a lot of time with them socially. He ended up leaving her and their three children for the greener pastures he saw in a younger woman. When she married for the second time it was only to nurse a good man through an illness that proved fatal. Now, closing in on 80 her boyfriend is in his mid-90s; a Holocaust survivor determined to live life to its fullest potential. They see one another often in a shared social milieu and just recently returned, in fact, from a four-month over-wintering sojourn in Florida, something that has become a ritual with them over the years.

I had responded to one of her emails on her return to Toronto with the information that we would be driving down there some time in the summer months to introduce our granddaughter to the city, to the environment around the University of Toronto, and to enable our granddaughter to take a tour of the university and meet with a course adviser to aid in her course selection.

Last fall when my friend informed me that she and her boyfriend were planning a trip to Ottawa to attend some kind of Holocaust memorial taking place in the city, I was quick to offer them a place to stay, with us. Assuring her we have ample room and would be delighted to have them stay with us. As things turned out, they didn't stay with us; if memory serves she informed me at that time that they had cancelled their trip or something like that.

So I was surprised when in responding to my email she offered us hospitality on our Toronto trip. It's been at least fifty years since we've actually seen one another in person, though we've exchanged photographs along with our messages. We wouldn't think of imposing on anyone the presence of two adults, a young woman and a very small dog, for we also wouldn't think of going anywhere without Riley.

It was a lovely gesture, much appreciated. Now I will have to explain to her why it isn't quite practical, though we will look forward to seeing one another after such a long hiatus. Now, if my sister extends the same kind of invitation, that'll be another story altogether....

Finally, I kicked myself out the door and got started with the door-to-door canvass I had pledged to do once again this year for the Canadian Cancer Society. It took long enough. I kept telling myself as the days in April clicked by, there's no hurry, plenty of time yet, just relax about it, you've got other things you have to tend to, and lo and behold the end of the month loomed and I'd yet to convince myself it was time to get at it.

Well, I've done at least that; got at it, for one evening's canvass, and more to go if I'm to do a decent job of what I've committed to. The thought of actually propelling myself out the door with canvass kit in hand is always worse than the actual doing of it. A little bit of psychological bullying does it, and the concern that I wouldn't be fulfilling an obligation that I had responded to. In any event, off I went, not early but not at all that late, either, after dinner.

I had a half-hour of daylight left, so I knew the much longer balance of the canvass would be during dark hours. But was intrigued to see as dark descended, that many people of the neighbourhood, ambling along the street in pairs, singly, with and without companion pets were out for a post-prandial stroll. The streets always seem deserted during the day, but in the evening, the call of a relaxing fresh-air walkabout seems to attract people. Sedentary in their jobs most of the day at least that offers a bit of exercise.

By the time I reached the top of the street beyond the entrance to the ravine, I was speaking to a householder holding a bichon frise to answer the door. A fairly new resident, I had no idea a dog lived at that address; the ravine directly behind him, I suppose it never occurred to the fellow to walk his frisky little dog in the ravine. He did tell me something interesting, however; that he regularly sees a red fox on a route within the ravine, taking a short-cut through his backyard.

Others have also informed us they've seen foxes close to their homes adjacent the ravine; we live on the side opposite the ravine, and though we used to see foxes often in our ravine rambles a decade and more ago, we no longer do; good to know they're still around. They've simply become more secretive as the urban build-up has closed them in; wary of the prevalence of large dogs who may pose a challenge to them.

On my return trip on the opposite side of the street in the portion I had decided to canvass, the young parents of three very young boys were not at home. But the parents of the mother of the children were there. And this was the very first time I can recall in my experience in neighbourhood canvassing that someone was eager to make a charitable donation in someone else's home. That's the thing about the neighbourhood canvass; it's specific to a street, to the very home where the canvasser knocks and when others are about in lieu of the homeowner no one sees the need to respond affirmatively.

We've rarely seen the mother of those children. She has a full-time job that keeps her travelling. We're more accustomed to seeing the children's father about. At one time they had employed a full-time nanny from the Philippines, but we haven't seen her in the past year and hope she managed to obtain the immigrant status she had often discussed with us. Whenever I knock at that door with a canvass kit I know I'll be turned away. Not this time. The grandmother was openly gregarious as was the grandfather, welcoming, and anxious to donate.

Since we were age peers, there was much to chat about because that's what the grandmother wanted to do; mostly about her pride in her busy daughter who despite, the demands of her job, was a wonderful mother. And she spoke as well of her love of her grandchildren. I should return, the grandmother said enthusiastically, for her daughter would want to make a donation of her own. Someone close to them is fighting for their life against the cancer that is consuming his body.

Far be it for me to dash a sweet woman's cherished beliefs.

Reckoning by the calendar we're over a full month into spring. Sometimes you'd hardly know it here, where for the past week the daytime high temperature has been struggling to rise above ten degrees. With a gusting wind and the occasional fully overcast day it seems like late winter re-visited.

Progress has been made, however. There's very little snow left on our street's front lawns. There's copious amounts of it within the ravine adjacent to our street, but that's another matter; it is melting there slowly but surely.

The proof of milder days is the very fact that we're no longer wrapped in winter gear when we venture to the outside areas of this community. Gone are the dense mittens and the cold-protective headgear. Gone too are the winter jackets, to have their place taken by light spring/fall wear. And it feels downright liberating.

No more boots to haul on every time we exit the house. Except, that is, for those people few in number like us, who enter the ravine daily. Boots are still a good idea. Better yet, boots with crampons. But there are so many areas where the trails have been freed of their burden of ice and snow it doesn't seem logical or reasonable to continue clumping along like that. One of our acquaintances simply carries his strap-on crampons until he reaches one of the ice-festered descents, then he straps them back on again.

We've left ours on, permanently. That is, until yesterday. We figured we could bypass for the next several weeks the one stubbornly worst area of the trails that every year takes forever to lose its thick layer of ice. It's an area that sees almost no sun penetrating to encourage the ice to melt. And without cleats you can forget trying to negotiate that trail section.

So, out we ventured yesterday with hiking boots sans cleats and it felt great. We took alternate measures, bypassing what we consider through long experience the very worst icy challenges along the way. It was a lovely day; sunny, windy, with a high of ten degrees. The air was fresh and sharp, clear and bracing. And it felt quite wonderful to traipse along without those cleats; they're heavy and can be awkward on uneven terrain.

About two-thirds of the way through our hour-and-a-half circuit we came to another familiar descent, and I noted that though the ice covered much of the descending area there were patches of the forest floor bare of ice and I planned to access those, bypassing the ice. And I did. And then I discovered that what looked like terra firma was really terra gliding. I found myself carried along despite my efforts to recover balance, to an eventual glide that became a slide and eventually thumped down straight into the muck.

It really is uncomfortable to have your hands coated with mud and to view your garments flush with it, and to feel also the cold penetrating your nether regions as the very wet mud becomes susceptible to icy infiltration. Just as well I'm limber and bouncable. No harm done.

The balance of the jaunt through the ravine presented fewer obstacles to striding completely upright, and little Riley trotted along jauntily with us, enjoying all the elements of an excursion into the natural world. Naturally, I had to hand-wash the guck off my clothing, but it soon dried handily in the sun and wind, draped over the railing of the deck.

So far this month when the weather has been fairly decent I've soothed myself with the thought that there's no point getting ahead of myself, it was still early days. Now, the early days have fled, and we've been 'enjoying' cooler temperatures, high winds and overcast skies, alternating with cooler temperatures, high wind and clear skies. Today is one of the latter, and it's already a nearly gone-month.

I have been indulging myself in the usual procrastination. There are so many things to do, why bother? Well, poor attitude. The month is nearly spent and I haven't yet gone out even once with that Cancer Society canvass kit. But then, that's the way it usually tends to work out. Coming down to the wire I begin to panic and plan and eventually shove myself out the door. I have yet to do that. But I will. And then relief will flood over me, and the job will be done for another year. The last year actually, that I will pledge myself to yet another door-to-door canvass. I managed to turn down all the other pleading charities this year, and I'll do it with the last as well, next year.

I haven't even gotten my spring cleaning in hand, for heaven's sake. I did, finally, spur myself to some limited action this week, though. I've started on cleaning out and tidying up the kitchen cupboards. The thing of it is, this yearly exercise satisfies some level of self-flagellating guilt that I haven't been as meticulous as I might be, becoming a spring-cleaning-dervish, but on the other hand I know there isn't really much to clean up. Clearing out the cupboards and sponging them down, then replacing everything neatly does have a certain element of satisfaction but it's hardly necessary. There's nothing to clean, in actual fact, though it's true that the exercise represents an opportunity to clear some clutter.

In any event, this coming week will represent for me a flurry of activity. Out I go with that canvass kit, to face my neighbours, a surprising number of whom are new, since quite a few houses have exchanged hands in the past year.

As for the house-cleaning, the spring scrub, it'll get done, too.

Why do we burden ourselves with so many possessions that require care?

Right!

Over the past twenty years or so, we've seen a succession of surveyors from the Rideau Valley Conservation Authority come along to assess the environmental degradation that takes place in the ravine opposite our street that goes on for miles and miles throughout the community in which we live. The forested urban ravine is a natural outdoor space jewel that a very small percentage of residents appreciate, use and cherish. When, on the rare occasion, we've come across such a crew I've ventured to enquire about changes, because it seemed to us from our experience over the years that erosion has taken a toll.

The surveyors, based on their assessments of previous records, assure us that whatever erosion does take place it is of little significance, about average for such a natural environment, and nothing notable. We've seen micro-bursts of wind, considered to be of relatively mild tornado-like strength roar through the ravine, taking down venerable old pines, and we witnessed and experienced a week of freezing rain during one winter that burdened the ravine forest and shattered a portion of the canopy. Copious rain events, hard winters, and other such natural events have all taken their toll of the ravine.

Of course encroaching urban settlement has played its part, as well. Where many years ago we often saw foxes boldly presenting themselves on the trails and even outside the ravine proper in the urban area; often came across partridges performing a mating dance, and grouse drumming the ground in spring, often seeing families of raccoons up in the trees, we no longer do. People claim more recently to have seen coyotes deep in the recesses of the ravine very early in the morning hours and late at night in the winter months, but we never have.

We have noted, however, how ominously over time the banks of the ravine have slowly caved in, filling the creek itself with clay deposits running in the direction that the creek waters that tend to spread them, widening and shallowing the creek in the process. And threatening to wipe out parts of the trails that wind their way quite close to the bank shoulders overlooking the ravine. Trees topple into the ravine over time in the relentless but, one knows, perfectly natural maturing and degradation of such natural environments.

A few years back, a portion of the creek bank along which the trail made its way fell wholesale into the creek, requiring trail walkers to seek alternate routes until a municipal crew came along with a small set of bulldozers, razing some trees to make way for a new trail section replacing the old, collapsed one. The soil in this urban forest just happens to be comprised of leda clay and sand, a combination that is unstable, and prone to such collapses. The clay itself can become almost liquid in nature when it has been exposed to a super-abundance of rain.

The series of highway-standard bridges that were built to replace earlier ones only six years ago, last summer came to the attention of the municipality as lacking infrastructure stability, resulting from that very clay-sand instability -- inspiring them to put up warning signs alerting the ravine-centric public. In an obvious, but futile move to protect themselves from possible lawsuits should anyone come to harm as a result, municipal parks personnel proceeded to place barricades over each end of each bridge. Which, happily, most people have no difficulty negotiating, while cursing those authorities and wondering what comes next.

Yesterday, returning from our afternoon ravine walk we decided to remain outside, and gathered up rakes, shovels and giant compostable bags to finally begin the task of cleaning up the driveway, walkways and parts of the gardens of their winter-long-collection of detritus. Primarily, it consists of vagrant fall leaves along with the never-ending deposits of pine needles from the large pine on our front lawn. When we were finished our labours we ended up with three compost-bags-full of twigs, dessicated foliage, copious piles of dry needles and other bits and pieces of nature's discards.

It was pleasant and invigorating work, and we enjoyed it. The area is drying up nicely, now that most of the snow and ice is gone from the street's landscape. Not so in the ravine, not quite yet, and there are some places that traditionally will take yet weeks, despite the warming atmosphere and the gaining strength of the sun, before thick ice layers will finally relent.

There is still enough snow and ice left in the ravine to require that we continue wearing boots and crampons fitted over them for traction on the ice, particularly going up-and-downhill; without them venturing in there represents a sure formula for broken limbs; human not those of trees.

In contrast, our daughter's six acres of woodland on the Canadian Shield over an hour's drive from where we live has long since lost its snow and ice, and the wetland pond behind her house has finally abandoned its ice-sheet cap, enticing its resident creatures to cast aside their hibernation mode. There, spring peepers and bullfrogs serenade nightly, and trout lilies have already thrust their way through the frost-released soil.

This morning we heard the long-familiar sound of the municipal street sweeper as it drove slowly up and down one side of our street, and then the other. An annual working visit that informs us that winter is truly gone and all the gravel, sand, and impolite detritus that gathered on the road over the winter months has been scooped and removed.

There is a preoccupation that inordinately takes up the time and attention of many ordinarily intelligent people, those who might know within themselves better, but who are nonetheless intensely involved in searching out news, morning, noon and night. What satisfaction they take away from their intense fascination with the news is questionable. Particularly given the unassailable fact that most news is comprised of footage of natural disaster linked to narratives of harm that has come to the unfortunates involved.

Other news focuses grimly on humanity's failings as compassionate, intelligent, reasonable people, for we are, in the aggregate, seemingly, none of that at all. Rather we are given to succumbing to base, primitive instincts based on tribal, clannish reactions of "us and them", and them always lose out, for they are never seen as "just like us", but rather as competitors in a world scarce of resources. And even those who have managed to gather resources aplenty are loathe to share them with those that have not, and become instead well prepared to heap further suffering on those who dare question inequity.

All that being so, why do we bother daily to gather unto ourselves more and even more news that simply reflects the dire news of the day before ad infinitum? We surely are gluttons in many ways, assembling for our gratification more of anything and everything than we possibly require to live meaningful lives. And for some people, that includes garnering news stories and coping with the results.

Because there certainly are results. We become moodily introspective, and anguish over the inequities and miseries of the world, knowing we are inextricably part of it all. Of course there are good-news items as well, but they so often seem contrived, as though representing the motivation of guilt-and-expiation on the part of the news gatherers and distributors understanding the burden they place upon the minds of the inveterate news-gobblers.

I have a secret, one that I have shared with no one. I have discovered something so unique, so compelling and so obvious that I simply cannot understand why alert scientists have not recognized the phenomena and stated the discovery of a new phase in nature's dominion of all matters in existence. In the past seventy years, it has become abundantly clear to me that there has been a gross alteration in nature's compelling feature that enables life to pursue itself into imagined eternity.

Where seventy years ago gravity evinced a delicate assumption, enabling us to leap and twirl and climb and scamper with alacrity, it has incrementally firmed its grip upon us, making such activities considerably less amenable to the wonderful lightness of being.

It wasn't until five-thirty that it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't prepared cranberry sauce to accompany the half-turkey I had roasting in the oven. I wasn't feeling particularly energetic, and so confined my preparations to placing a few Yukon gold potatoes around the roast, as well as separately roasting cauliflower and carrots to accompany the meal.

It's Passover and Easter. We're not religious and don't pay too much mind to religion-inspired holidays. The ubiquitousness of Easter in our society does sweep one along, in a secular way, and the heritage-value to us as Jews of Passover is a sweet sentiment, absolutely devoid of religious fervour, however. My husband is fond of Matzo as a recall of our youth, and breakfasts like Matzo-brie delight him. I hadn't even prepared matzo balls to accompany the chicken soup I had cooking; just rice, as usual.

He had suggested turkey, instead of the usual Friday-night chicken meal, so I acquiesced, and he brought up a half-turkey from the freezer for that purpose. It had, after all, been there more than long enough. As it was, the turkey was flavourful and tender, just what my husband was looking for; he is inordinately fond of turkey, too.

But without cranberry sauce? A vital element to full satisfaction would be missing. So peering in the vast recesses of the freezer, I withdrew a frozen bag of cranberries and proceeded swiftly to cook up the cranberry sauce. Takes no time at all, actually, and while I poured the finished product into jars for refrigeration, I filled a small bowl with enough to do him for dinner, placed it in the refrigerator and by the time dinner was served at seven, it was refreshingly cold.

But it was the fruit pie I'd baked in the morning that really pleased me. I used three bosc pears, one black plum, and one McIntosh apple; used lots of clove and some cinnamon for flavouring and it was a delightful concoction to finish off that meal.

And now, the irritating aspect of having to deal with all that leftover turkey. Pies, of course.

At long, long last an end to this wearying winter. Spring has finally made her tardily shy entrance, though she is about a month late. Our lawns are now mostly free of ice and snow, and though there remain large areas in our neighbourhood forested ravine that are thick yet with ice and snow, on the flat areas the snow has gone, though the trails have yet to be freed entirely from ice.

In the past week we've heard and seen formations of Canada geese returning to our Northern climate. The past few days have been glorious, with ample sun and relatively mild temperatures hovering around ten degrees. Last night it was delightfully above freezing, though not yet mild enough to sleep with the windows open. But when that time arrives we will hear the early morning spring songs of the song sparrow, the cardinal and the robin, urging us to rise from our beds.

Yesterday we saw a tiny chipping sparrow at our bird feeder, for the first time. Also at the feeder were redpolls, those delightful tiny birds with red caps that we used to see so often in the earlier neighbourhood we lived in. Descending the long hill into the ravine for our daily walk a few days back we noticed that the bees that make their home in the large old pine at its foot, before the trail verges off in either direction, were out and looking for pollen. We can only surmise they have enough honey stored in the chamber they use in the trunk of that tree to help them survive over the interim after their long winter hibernation.

We saw, for the first time this spring, returning goldfinches, beautiful bright yellow birds with a tantalizingly lilting song.

The ravine doesn't present, at this time of year at its best; there are areas that look downright dismal, badly in need of the softening velvet tones of new-grown foliage. The creek is swollen with muddy run-off from the continually melting snow and ice. We can see the beginning of new buds on the maples and poplars. Hawthorn will take a long time, and so will oak and ironwood before they begin to evidence signs of spring renewal. We've already noted that some of the ash trees are dying, thanks to the pervasive presence of the tree-killing emerald ash borer.

We've been alert, the past week, to the first signs of the first butterfly to appear in the spring, the Mourning Cloaks. And today, in one of the two areas in the ravine where they tend to appear, there were two, performing an arabesque, winding in the air around one another, a fascinating twirl of butterfly courtship.

Once in a while, when we're setting out for our afternoon ramble in the ravine we access up the street from our house, we will come across an elderly couple, likely our own age, with the man, standing perfectly erect and in obvious good health, patiently waiting while his wife, dessicated with age and ill-health, laboriously takes footstep after footstep with the aid of a walker. He is obviously devoted to her. Or feels it his responsibility borne of a long partnership through life to see to her ongoing welfare.

I always call out a "hello", and because my own hearing ability is somewhat impaired I'm never certain that there is a response, since this man has a habit of looking straight ahead, and not ever in my direction if ever we confront one another, which we have done in the past, under different circumstances. My husband, who has a habit of naming people the way he sees them, calls him "the Nazi", and he tells me that there is invariably some manner of mumbled response whose gist he cannot quite make out.

So yesterday, embarking on our walk a little later than we'd intended, we did briefly see them on the street and the usual occurred. Perhaps the man feels resentful that another couple living on the street close by his own home are able to enjoy life without the constraints of physical disability. Who knows?

I do know that he has exhibited toward me a chronic churlishness that does no credit to his world view. Each time I have knocked on his door over the years representing myself as being associated with a door-to-door neighbourhood canvass on behalf of some well-known charitable health organization -- to fund research and medical-protocol coping strategy assistance for people suffering from ill health effects or from chronic conditions, or from a frightening health diagnosis they must learn to cope with -- he slams the door in my face.

Initially, he would ask me first in French, then in perfect English if I speak French, and if not, why not? I responded to him on the first occasion that I would be comfortable speaking with him in English, failing that using my second language, Yiddish, which would be of no use whatever to him. He grimaced grimly, I recall, but perhaps with an imagined hint of sympathy. But no donation was forthcoming.

On another occasion, he sternly addressed me with the lecture that he fully expects anyone who comes to his door to speak French, and only in French will he respond to any requests. We have other neighbours on the street for whom French represents their mother tongue, and they have perfectly good relations with all their neighbours.

We have as well people on the street who originally hailed from Egypt, Hong Kong, Russia, India and Bangladesh, and never has any of them balked at communication on the issue of language. But then, this is an issue that has many counterparts; culture, tribalism, clannishness, nationality, ideology; all of which can become socially lethal instruments used in malign ways to separate people and create animosity and rage between them.

It is the long, sad story of human failures to cherish the commonalities between people and societies when many among us deliberately choose to focus instead on the cultural, ethnic, geographic variations to evoke our darkest emotions to advance instead the differences that divides us.

He looked a lot better than he had when I saw him last, a year earlier. His face wasn't drawn with fatigue and he wasn't moving in an exhausted manner, as before. Courteous and friendly as always, he said, when my husband remarked that it looked as though he'd lost considerable weight, that he had, and he felt better for it. He was exercising, attending swim classes, and it relaxed him. And he planned to see fewer patients in future. The night before, he said wryly, he'd been called at 2:00 a.m. to an emergency, so he wasn't feeling all that alert, but that was hard to believe.

He is exactingly punctilious in knowing patient background, interviewing with distinct purpose, and carefully applying himself to respond in detail to any questions his patients may pose. At least that has been my experience with this man whose professionalism matches his humanity.

I am required to see him for his professional advice and he wishes to monitor my heart health, no more frequently than once yearly. He feels professionally compelled to keep an eye on my "leaky" valve. In the hopes that it remains stable, but with the understanding that it could also possibly become a problem, and catching that problem before it becomes a serious one is vital.

The EKG taken a half-hour before we met for the consultation informed him that there had been no real changes from the one taken last year; same time, same place. He ascertained that my lung capacity is excellent, and the series of six routine blood-pressure tests, results passed with flying colours.

My husband accompanied me for the appointment, and it was a relaxed affair. He is feeling rather grateful that all is well with his lifetime companion. Any question we asked was responded to in slow and careful detail, in language geared toward the full understanding of the intelligent, interested layman, and typically for this doctor, with hand-drawn impressions to further understanding.

Even Riley was impressed, so much so that he slept comfortably throughout the proceedings, comfortable in his little carrier, on my husband's lap.

April 14 marked the second year of our loss of our miniature poodle, Button. We had taken her to the emergency 24-hour animal hospital on the evening of Friday 13, 2012, and emerged hours later, into the morning hours of the following day, without her. Little did we realize that we were losing her at that time, but the sudden inexplicable and horribly violent seizure she had experienced that evening marked the end of her journey in life.

There is no comfort to be had in the knowledge that she shared our life for 19 years and four months. We wanted more of her presence, for a longer period of time, and we can only imagine that she too enjoyed whatever she could of life with her sharply diminished senses. Though blind and deaf she could still smell everything about her and 'feel' where she was. Though blind she never missed a day's walk in the woods with us, though she had to be guided with the use of a halter.

Without her presence we have memories of her as a puppy interested in everything around her, eager to explore, to have experiences, to be joyful and energetic. As a juvenile she was capable of outrunning dogs whose size and physiques suited them to speed and she was never loath to contest them, always the winner.

She was a magnificent companion to us, sharing our undiluted love of the outdoors, whether it was through close-to-home adventures or going considerable distances. She was able to climb the same mountain peaks we managed, despite her size, an eager little quadruped. Her endurance and determination expressed her qualities as a persistently reliable little soul, intrepid beyond our expectations.

On the night of the second anniversary of her leaving us we lit a candle to her memory. It is a tradition in the Jewish religion, although we are not religious. Each month, actually, on the 14th, a candle is lit. But we speak of her, recalling her exploits and her companionship on a far more frequent basis than that.

We look at the puppies and young dogs that other people bring with them into the ravine close to our house for their walking exercise, and admire their freshness and exuberance. Perhaps it's attributable to our chronological age, but we don't feel able to do as so many others mourning the loss of a beloved companion do, and acquire another in its place to salve the wound.

And then, of course, we have our other little dog, a pugnacious, sometimes-cranky, unadventurous little male poodle named Riley, whom we also cherish.

What a vast atmospheric difference 24 hours can make in this geography we inhabit. Yesterday, a balmy high of 24 degrees with high winds, sun in the morning, pelting rain in the late afternoon, but warm, so incredibly warm. Last night thunderstorms, and continuing warmth, during the night when a total eclipse of the moon presented itself. The night-time cloud cover was too dense, though elsewhere the spectacle was seen of a fiery-red moon slowly overtaken by a disappearing act, then its presence slowly revealed.

This morning we woke to another incessantly heavy downpour, and a temperature that had plunged to plus-2 degrees, and descending. The rain and the cold appeared to spur the ravenous appetites of neighbourhood squirrels, accompanied by cardinals, juncos, chickadees and a song sparrow. There was such a pandemonium of moving bodies shuffling among themselves for best seed-and-nut advantage it seemed like a staged entertainment.

First off, I counted seven black squirrels, one red and one grey and a multitude of birds. The birds weren't at the hanging bird feeder; they awaited their turn there, until a black squirrel tired of its antics, hanging upside down from the feeder in between righting itself to scoop seeds, then resuming its acrobatic position again, repeatedly. One little squirrel, black with a red tail, is clearly lactating or gestating, from the evidence of patches of hair missing on her haircoat, used to line a nest. In either instance she needs additional sustenance.

The competition between the tiny red squirrels, the much large blacks and the less numerous grey squirrels that come around is ongoing and amusing. Usually the red squirrels we see in the ravine appear to be dominantly aggressive, chasing the blacks whereas on our porch it seems some of the blacks are aggressive enough to claim dominant status over all the others.

By the time I decided to grab a few photographs, I had been fastened to the window of the front door for so long many of those present had dispersed, and a new horde had arrived; too late for me to capture the absurdly comic behaviour of the feeder-centric black squirrel. Besides which, the stage alters so instantly and so continuously, it's frustratingly difficult to grab the scenes I'm interested in filing through photography.

You'll just have to take my word for it.

And now? The temperature is still dropping and it's gone below the freezing mark. The rain has turned to snow. We've been advised to expect freezing rain pellets, episodes of freezing rain and snow, about three centimetres on a landscape that has just in the last few days managed to free itself from its winter-acquired burden of snow and ice.

Even for the Ottawa Valley's notoriously quirky weather presentations this is highly unusual. Perhaps it's nature's way of mourning along with us, our loss exactly two years ago, of our cherished little miniature poodle, Button.

This day began brightly enough, with relatively mild temperature and clear skies, the sun shining brightly down on the now-scant snow and ice left on front lawns, despite last night's booming series of thunderstorms, and heavy rain. The sun remained bright in the sky for the duration of the morning, as the temperature slowly rose, and the winds rose with them. Wind, ferocious enough to bring trees to their knees, and mimic a locomotive.

And warmth one normally associates with summer, a benevolent warmth that appeared quite at odds with the weather warning for tomorrow. After I had finished cleaning the house, we set out on our ravine walk. By then the sun had long gone, the sky had acquired a dense layer of white and grey clouds; a complete cover, the sun unable to even wink at us. But it was incredibly balmy, at 25 degrees centigrade. We did have the cautionary sense to take along rain jackets for all three of us, little Riley's tucked into a pocket.

The warm atmosphere, the intense rain events of last night and the wind has helped melt some of the snow in the ravine, but nowhere near the bulk of it. Some portions of trails have become bare of snow and ice and are grittily muddy. Most of the long slopes are more icy than ever, and without our cleats we'd never have been able to climb them.

We stopped to chat on a few occasions with people we know as ravine acquaintances walking their dogs, just as delighted as we were to be out and about. There were a few sprinkles, and one light rain that lasted a very short time. An hour and a half later we exited, well exercised.

And not ten minutes after we arrived home the heavens opened up to a lavishly heavy downpour. I watched as a little red squirrel took shelter under the porch roof and handy to the seed-and-peanut tray, and a cardinal kept fluffing his wings, seated within one of the ornamental miniature crab trees beside the porch.

Oh, it was quite the amazing weather day, up to an unimaginable 25 degrees with wind, sun and rain all thrown in for good measure. And oh yes, we're cautioned by Environment Canada not to become too accustomed to this warmth; tomorrow's daytime temperature will descend once again to minus-2-degrees, and there will be snow, sleet and freezing rain.

The last few days we've had temperatures soar into the double digits; low double digits but a world of difference from hovering on freezing, and we're grateful. All the more so when those days are accompanied by sun, and even rain, since it all helps our mounds and mountains of snow gradually melt. Gradually is the operative word here; there is so much snow if it melted swiftly we would be facing the risk of flooding.

As it is we've been warned by Environment Canada that the next few days we can expect quite a lot of rain, enough rain to guarantee floods will most certainly be an occurrence in some spring flood-prone areas of the province and this city. For the meanwhile, we're incredulous as it is at the pace of snow-melt.

The creek in our ravine is rushing madly with muddy water, and in places loudly exclaiming waterfalls have developed as the run-off makes its way over fallen trees and branches that have established themselves along the creek runway. Partly due to the hard work of the beavers that had been very much in evidence a few years back, but which were trapped and taken elsewhere to munch on poplars.

This morning we woke to a dark, dismal day of rain, and it was clear it had rained copiously overnight. Despite which, there was the exquisite song of a cardinal, and another of a song sparrow to sweeten the day. We dressed for rain when we ventured into the ravine, but despite the lowering grey clouds, none more transpired throughout our walk. In the ravine, crows are mobbing, the usual spring-time activity.

There are now areas of the forest floor that have managed to shed their snowpack, and it's amazing to seen the green underneath, with ferns and wild strawberries ready to refresh toward spring. Amazingly, we saw some sun come out briefly, before the clouds gathered once again to blot it from view.

Canada is well recognized as a country of immigrants. It is also recognized for the number of new immigrants who are welcomed into the country every year, numbers far outdistancing those taken in by other countries. Canada was built on an inflow of immigrants. Originally from Britain and the countries of Western Europe. At one time it was rare to see visible minorities.

How things have changed; now everywhere one looks people are readily identified by their physical characteristics, skin and hair colour and cultural or religious clothing, and the babel of exotic languages can be heard everywhere, embroidering English and French, in this officially bilingual country. The two 'founding nations' are still represented as the majority, but those who have migrated from elsewhere on the globe have changed the face of the country beyond measure.

There are over a quarter-million emigrants from abroad welcomed into Canada as new permanent residents, many soon on their way to achieving citizenship each and every year. Canada's open doors, easy accessibility, and assistance to settling and integrating into a new environment through government and private-enterprise auspices help guide new immigrants. In comparison to other countries increasing their population numbers through immigration, Canada is well recognized as a destination of choice for people from around the world. Canada's major cities as well as distant towns and villages no longer resemble the monoculture ethnicity they once did.

And increasingly, I see evidence of this not only in the most obvious fact that people of yellow, brown and black hue now intermingle comfortably in this pluralist society everywhere one looks, but on supermarket shelves. At first it was organically grown basic foodstuffs being presented on grocery shelves as alternate choices. Now, an increasingly large presentation of what to Canadian tastes can only be described as "exotic" foods are available not just in specialty shops dedicated to the clusters of immigrants that have newly arrived over the decades but on ordinary supermarket shelves.

Strange appearing fruit one had no idea even existed, much less how they are to be prepared for the table. Although, for those interested, the Internet swiftly solves that little problem. And vegetables whose provenance, names and identifying features, much less preparation, is completely beyond the ken of yesterday's Canadians. Yesterday, in the food store where I regularly shop, I asked an elderly Caribbean-Canadian how to prepare breadfruit, a staple I'd read about that existed in many countries, but had never before seen.

Our little dogs were always sun worshippers. They followed the sun. In the morning, in this house of ours, the sun illuminates the front of the house. And then for a time, it disappears, as far as they are concerned, to eventually reappear in the afternoon, at the back of the house.

They always began the day lolling and basking comfortably in the dining room where the sun shines through the floor to ceiling windows, enjoying its warmth and whatever healing properties it offered them, until it gradually waned and finally went. At which point they would disconsolately wander from front to back of the house, seeking those elusive sunrays. They would finally settle down in disgust at its absence, to nap without its warmth on their little hides.

But come afternoon and the sun shone full through the patio doors, there they were, lapping it up. In the summer months they sought to escape the searing heat, and during the hot months they preferred to evade the sun and seek shade instead.  Now that spring is truly upon us finally, even though the air remains crisp and cold yet, and the wind insistently brisk, Riley agitates to go out on the deck, to enjoy the feel of the sun.

He's the kind of little dog who detests winter, and the brittle cold it imposes upon us all, the discomfort and the misery of coping, trying to stay warm. His walks through the ravine with us daily in all seasons ensure he's kept mobile and that all his body parts remain well lubricated with activity at least during those times, otherwise at age 13 he's more inclined to just lethargically enjoy a life of leisure.

At the present time however, the attraction of the sun pulls at him, despite the exterior cold, and he continually asks to be allowed to sit out on the deck, ambient temperature be damned. So we accommodate him, putting out one of his little beds, covering him with a blanket, and he enjoys listening to the outside sounds once again, feeling the wind on the top of his head, and the sun seeping through his wind-protective coverings, to warm his little heart.

The diversity and complexity of human nature makes it a certainty that life in general is never boring, at least impersonally reading about the choices that people make. The timid and uncertain do not usually look for answers to life's puzzles. Nor do they tend to seek adventure to challenge their capacity to fend for themselves. It is from among the boldly assertive, the confident and the adventurous that surely human advances have been made in discoveries benefiting humankind, in their quest for answers to the puzzles of existence.

That said, it is from among the pool of the curious and the adventurous that an intrinsic drive to self-destruction also exists. A desire to push the bounds of endurance against all that nature has in her quiver of swift-as-an-arrow surprises of adversity. Benevolent at times, terrorizing at others.

Which doesn't stop a breed of teens so convinced of their exceptionalist ability to fend for themselves under all circumstances, that they will insist, for example, on setting out solo on an ocean voyage. Their drive is explicable to a degree, since the young are impetuous by nature and don't tend to think beyond their dreams to the consequences that might accrue.

Laura Dekker poses for the media on her boat Guppy in Den Osse, south-west Netherlands, Tuesday. A Dutch court has cleared the way for 14-year-old Laura Dekker to set sail on a risky solo voyage around the world.

Evert-Jan Daniels/AP

It is the tender acquiescence of parents so bedazzled by their offspring they permit them to challenge fate, that is perhaps less understandable. But then, it is parents agreeing to what their children wish to accomplish; parents who have confidence in their children's rare abilities to persevere and preserve their lives while accomplishing a goal of rare achievement.

What can we say of parents who decide, with their infants in tow, to risk life by embarking on a sea voyage, trusting to Dame Fortune smiling upon them to see them and their dependents through an adventure the parents seek and the children have no say in going along with?

The disabled sailboat Rebel Heart drifts hundreds of miles off Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. An effort to help a sick baby aboard includes the Air National Guard, Coast Guard and Navy. (California Air National Guard / April 5, 2014)

Take two young parents, Charlotte and Eric Kaufman and their sailboat, who set out on a two-week voyage around the world. Circumnavigating the world in two weeks? Their 11-metre sailboat lost steering and communications functionality 1,450 kilometres southwest of Cabo San Lucas Mexico

Sariah English/The Associated Press -- Eric and Charlotte Kaufman, shown pre-voyage, with Lyra 1, and Cora, 3

Their one-year-old child was ill with a fever and body-covering rash, unresponsive to medication. Their three-year-old, presumably was well, merely in danger along with her sibling and two world-travelling parents.

AP Photo/Sariah English

This undated image shows Eric and Charlotte Kaufman with their daughters, Lyra, 1, and Cora, 3.

- See more at: http://www.northjersey.com/news/navy-rescues-family-with-sick-baby-from-sailboat-off-mexican-coast-1.842709#sthash.cvMyAGL2.dpuf

In another age they wouldn't have been capable of sending out a satellite plea for rescue, but in this instance they were able to, and four California Air National Guard parachuted into the water to reach them, stabilize the infant until the navy frigate the USS Vandegrift reached them early Sunday. The sailboard, "Rebel Heart" was in the process of sinking.

Should these parents be charged for the rescue cost, and charged with endangering the lives of vulnerably dependent children?

Why, not at all! Charlotte's sister, Sariah Kay English was skeptical at first: "I thought it was nuts", but she came around, remarking the couple was always careful. "They were not going into this blind. I knew they were doing this wisely", she said, sagely herself.

Before the family left for the trip, Lyra had salmonella poisoning, but doctors cleared her to travel after she was healthy again, said Charlotte Kaufman's sister, Sariah Kay English.
When her sister first mentioned plans to sail with two young children, English recalled, "I thought it was nuts."
But English said the couple was always careful. Eric Kaufman is a Coast Guard-licensed captain who introduced sailing to Charlotte Kaufman during one of their early dates.
"They were not going into this blind. I knew they were doing this wisely," English said.
- See more at: http://www.northjersey.com/news/navy-rescues-family-with-sick-baby-from-sailboat-off-mexican-coast-1.842709#sthash.cvMyAGL2.dpuf

Before the family left for the trip, Lyra had salmonella poisoning, but doctors cleared her to travel after she was healthy again, said Charlotte Kaufman's sister, Sariah Kay English.
When her sister first mentioned plans to sail with two young children, English recalled, "I thought it was nuts."
But English said the couple was always careful. Eric Kaufman is a Coast Guard-licensed captain who introduced sailing to Charlotte Kaufman during one of their early dates.
"They were not going into this blind. I knew they were doing this wisely," English said.
- See more at: http://www.northjersey.com/news/navy-rescues-family-with-sick-baby-from-sailboat-off-mexican-coast-1.842709#sthash.cvMyAGL2.dpuf

Before the family left for the trip, Lyra had salmonella poisoning, but doctors cleared her to travel after she was healthy again, said Charlotte Kaufman's sister, Sariah Kay English.
When her sister first mentioned plans to sail with two young children, English recalled, "I thought it was nuts."
But English said the couple was always careful. Eric Kaufman is a Coast Guard-licensed captain who introduced sailing to Charlotte Kaufman during one of their early dates.
"They were not going into this blind. I knew they were doing this wisely," English said.
- See more at: http://www.northjersey.com/news/navy-rescues-family-with-sick-baby-from-sailboat-off-mexican-coast-1.842709#sthash.cvMyAGL2.dpuf

Pauline Marois just couldn't resist the temptation to go for broke, and transform her government from a minority to a majority administration. The irresistible urge to do so, wrapped tightly in her ambition to remove the province of Quebec from Confederation. With a noted majority of the francophone population of the province supportive of her proposed 'charter of values' -- where all civil servants who insisted on their human right to freedom of religion by wearing visible symbols of their religion while at work, would be fired unless they complied -- she felt certain of electoral victory for a renewed majority government and called a general election after a mere year and a half in power.

She lost her own seat in the voting process, and if that isn't an ignominious defeat, a final repudiation of hers and her party's separation agenda for the province, what is?

One of the leading student union personalities who helped lead an illegal, sometimes-violent protest against the prospect of a raise in university tuition fees which still would have left Quebec students paying significantly less than their peers elsewhere in the country joined the Parti Quebecois in the last election, attracted to the prospect of separation. He too lost his seat.

Another PQ candidate, a professor of sociology no less, at a Quebec university who subscribed publicly to the KKK-inspired slanderous charge that Jews and Muslims acquired funding through taxation of kosher and halal foods to further the political agenda of Zionism on the one hand and jihad on the other, lost her bid for election.

While Pierre Karl Peladeau, Quebec's media mogul who announced his intent to work toward secession, moving from cut-throat business leader to 'principle'-motivated politician, won a seat with the much-diminished Parti Quebecois.

But the leader of the province's Liberal Party, a federalist and advocate for functional and social bilingualism in a fervently unilingual province, ran a dogged campaign stressing the priorities for Quebec of increasing employment levels and coping with the staggering debt and deficit, along with the need for social harmony and inclusiveness, and it was his sane and sober platform clashing with the odiously divisive one of the Parti Quebecois that brought the Pequistes to their knees, and returned the Liberals to power.

Now it will be his priority to steer his Liberal government away from the traditional practices of corrupt alliances between government at every level in the province and industry and to temper the influence of its aggressive unions, while proffering much-needed overtures of reconciliation between the other provinces in the country we all share and cherish.

We were late into the ravine yesterday afternoon, after I'd done the usual Monday house-cleaning. But it was mild, though overcast and we saw others out a modest assortment of dogs walking their people. Lugubrious Charlie was out and about with her person, always happy despite her sad appearing face, to see people she is familiar with, and appreciative of a good ear rub.

Today, however, we set out in drizzle earlier than yesterday, wearing rain gear to venture into a colder day, where the snow underfoot couldn't make up its mind to revert to ice or remain slush. Making it difficult to get about, challenging both for the slippery effect and the fact that far more energy is required to plod ahead.

The snowpack is gradually melting. There is so much of it, and it is yet so deep that it seems, looking at it in an assessing manner wherever we turn our gaze, that surely it will take forever before we see green dominating the landscape again.

It is in weather that turns from winter into spring, when the air is still crisp and the sun shines that a sharp eye can see snowfleas (springtails) leaping about on the snow surface. In our younger days when my eyesight was not yet compromised I could see them clearly enough. I remember years ago describing them to an acquaintance, baffled by his disbelief that any such creatures even existed. I had the experience of seeing them, but he denied their existence.

Even little Riley was dressed for the rain and plodded along with us. This is when the pristine snow becomes detritus-laden and impressively unattractive, as it shrinks in volume to betray the sight of all the litter that it has acquired over the winter months.

The creek and its far-flung tributaries, all swollen with the runoff; in places tea-coloured, but mostly muddy appearing has also been transformed. You can smell the 'mud', and at other times the odour of swamp gas makes itself known in the rushing, swirling water headed toward the Ottawa River.

A week ago we heard a raven from somewhere deep in the ravine; heard it but weren't able to locate it. The cardinals have taken on their spring song, inexpressibly exquisite, vying with the robins for the championship of ebullient exuberance of natural musical expression.

In the woods, there are immature copses of beech and ironwood that stubbornly insisted on retaining their foliage, though they have turned crisply transparent. At times they seem the only colour relief in an otherwise monochromatic landscape.