Our transitorily-connected acquaintance at the group antique shop which we had visited countless times over the years, commenced to tell us some of her background, filling in what she had left out when we had met years earlier for the first time. This co-operative shop had opened about ten years earlier, in response, we supposed, to the closing down of one we had visited for years, the largest one in the area.

Burlwood Antiques had originally taken shape close by where the owners had later taken possession of a much larger building. There, at the original site, we had moved about in the much smaller interior and visited booths that had been set up in the exterior, on their sprawling property. You'd never know what you might come across and we were surprised many times at the quality of the offerings and the accessibility of their pricing.

That changed somewhat when they re-located to their much larger premises, with an emphasis at the front of the building, on tall glassed in showcases stuffed with expensive jewellery; "estate" jewellery at "estate" prices. It was still interesting to look about, since once past those choice items there were countless other booths on three floors all offering a plenitude of both junk/collectibles in an amazing variety, and genuine antiques as well, along with original artwork. After a decade or so in business there the original owners sold to another pair of entrepreneurs, and eventually they too decided to leave the business and put their real estate up for sale.

They must have felt that their property would realize a premium price, particularly with the "goodwill" attached to its reputation. It stood empty for years. Eventually it sold, obviously for far less than the owners had wanted, and it now stands as a motorcycle museum; appropriate one supposes, since the area is known as a motorcycle enthusiasts' gathering spot, attracting motorcycle aficionados from all over North America and abroad.

The shop we were in now housed a fraction of the dealers who formerly rented space at that place. Far more friendly people in total were always present at the front desk. As for our friend, she spoke of living a major part of her life on U.S. army bases in Germany where, she said, often French and Canadian forces were also present on their own bases nearby. She married eventually into the military and lived abroad with her husband and eventually, their daughter. She loved the life, abhorred war, valued the lifelong contacts she had gained with people of other nationalities.

Now a widow, her husband once a robust independent-spirited man, had died at 65. He was in the throes of Alzheimers, she explained, although he also suffered from heart problems. One night, he had decided to leave bed to go down to watch late-night television in their living room. When she awoke the next morning she found him sitting in his favourite chair, television still on, his head slumped forward, chin on his chest, eyeglasses in place, sound asleep.

Or so she initially thought. She feels that the grace of God smiled on her husband, sparing him further confusion and pain of disoriented loss of self to become something he was not. She was calm and collected, telling us this, but I was not. It would have been difficult for a heart of stone not to be moved.

She carefully wrapped the clock we had decided on. Then she called out her two little dogs to take them outside, onto the surrounding grass, for a pee break.