It was finally time, under the understanding that the rush for incoming University of Toronto students moving their required possessions to the residence our granddaughter was moving into had passed the day before, to deliver to her room the small refrigerator we had bought for her use while in residence in Toronto. Little did we know that the place would be as busy on Sunday as it had been on Saturday; so much for assumptions.

We were surprised when we arrived at the Chestnut Street residence to see that the presence of security personnel was even more evident than the numbers we had come across on Saturday. With them, this time, were uniformed men who were tasked with helping new residents still with their move-ins. And they took immediate control when we arrived with the refrigerator, moving it onto a dolly, transporting it into the residence, and leaving it in the care of those directing such traffic at the elevators.

One elevator in particular was dedicated to moving belongings to the upper floors, and it was manned by a giant of a man. Accompanying him upstairs to our granddaughter's floor, I was amazed to see him pluck the refrigerator off the floor of the elevator by the wrappings my husband had tied around its containing carton as though it was a five-pound bag of sugar. He brought it with ease into our granddaughter's bedroom, leaving us to our own devices.

Our granddaughter assured me she would have no trouble unwrapping and setting it up; she was, she said, used to this kind of thing, and I suppose she was, what with her familiarity with small appliances at home replacing older, malfunctioning ones, and the fact she had set up on her own for years the succession of computers and peripherals that had entered her family home.

So down we went to her waiting grandfather, sitting outside with Riley in our car, in deep conversation with several of the men stationed outside. And we speedily set off for our evening's destination, up Bathurst Street, north to what seemed once, so long ago, the distant reaches of Toronto where my sister and brother-in-law live for a family reunion and dinner.

Bathurst Street and its northern environs had barely changed from our recollections. We had always thought of it as a rather barren looking urban environment with stretches of store-front plazas and heavy traffic. It remains, with some modifications now what it had been then. It is a geographic area of Toronto where a large preponderance of the Jewish community now live. Many of whose families had started out life as immigrants to Canada settling in Toronto around Kensington Avenue.

It was moving to see everyone gathered there at my sister's home; my sister's two daughters and her granddaughter, my own granddaughter's second cousin removed. With them was also the daughter of my sister's new son-in-law. All three girls are roughly the same age. One is attending George Brown, the other Ryerson, and our granddaughter the University of Toronto. Meeting her extended family is a great comfort to a young girl on her own for the first time of her life, on the adventure of academic life, venturing toward a rewarding future.

In the hours that followed while the two older generations caught up mightily on family, social and other matters of great interest to us all, the three girls became companionably acquainted and it was clear that a bond was being forged, something that gave us great satisfaction, and we had little doubt held huge appeal and comfort for our granddaughter.