We've used the services of the same security company for the past several decades. It is the 'same security company' only in a sense. Originally we signed on to a local security company and they installed all the electronic equipment required to monitor the security of our home. A few years later they were bought out by a larger company and our service was reliant on that larger company. And then, years later again, an international security company bought out the second one, and we've been with them for many years.

It hasn't happened very often to us that we've had a false alarm, but it has happened. Years ago, actually. Police arrived and it became clear that they responded to a false alarm. One of our neighbours has the key to our house, and in theory the security company is supposed to contact that neighbour who could look around the perimeter of the house to determine if anything is askew. If that neighbour cannot be contacted there are other contact names. If the security company is concerned that a break-in has occurred they call the police to investigate.

The police then charge the homeowner for their services. In the case of a false alarm if it is negligence on the part of the homeowner that an alarm has been triggered, it makes sense that they pay the penalty. If, however, it is the equipment that is faulty, and one has a service agreement with the security company in addition to paying monthly security fees, the security company should ethically foot the bill for the false alarm penalty.

That's the position we've been in for the past month or so. In the space of several months we experienced no fewer than three alarms, all false. Each generated a visit by police, and as a result we received billings from the police for each event they responded to. Clearly, something was wrong with the equipment. And that is the responsibility of the security company. So along came a seasoned technician to check things out. This, only after a length of time during which if we used the alarm we hazarded the potential of another false alarm.

Poor service by any standard. So we began to look around for another security company's services. One of our neighbours recommended a local company he uses, so a representative came around to evaluate matters and left a proposal. When we informed our current security company of our opinion of the service we were entitled to as opposed to the service we were getting they apologized and offered to lower our monthly fees. Which does nothing whatever to answer to poor service.

Finally, however, that senior technician arrived to replace every bit of equipment that had been originally installed in the house with technically advanced equipment more or less guaranteeing no further false alarms. We're still flirting with the temptation to dismiss them and sign onto a local company. Our current one is local only in the sense that their administrative and technical offices, though they're an international conglomerate, are over the border in Quebec.

Critically, given our dissatisfaction with the service, we're also awaiting a decision on their part to share the cost -- the lion's share I should add -- of the costs associated with paying a penalty for false alarms to the local police services. It's a matter of principle.

It is demonstrable fact, a stark reality, that the world we inhabit is skewed in its human values. Any view of history will attest to that incontestable reality, biased or not.

All of it complicated by the very fact that an ancient people whose religious devotion gave birth to monotheism informed and directed the formation of offspring-religions, both of which would go on to become the most influential and compelling of social-religious faiths in the world, absorbing countless millions into their sphere.

And both of those offspring religions, Christianity and Islam, inspired by Judaism, have gone on to pose an existential threat to the existence of Judaism and the Jewish population -- relatively minuscule in numbers by any standards of ethnic-population demographics -- through actively plotting and succeeding in slaughtering huge numbers of Jews throughout historical reality.

Three-quarters of a century after the start of the Second World War when Europe's Jews were targeted for mass annihilation, the number of Jews in existence was slashed by half. Even before then Jews comprised an insignificant-in-numbers proportion of human society. Jews were portrayed as sub-human, as undeserving of life, presented as a threat to world peace needing to be destroyed to prevent them from achieving a malign purpose of enslaving the rest of humanity.

This, a people, despite its paucity of numbers, that has given birth to a disproportionate number of acknowledged and awarded Nobel Laureates for their creative genius in literary, artistic, scientific and medical contributions to the advance of human achievement and understanding of the world around us.

An unprecedented program of mass annihilation was launched by a fascist government to favour the world by removing the scum within it, exemplified by the presence of Jews. The world looked on, fascinated, unresponsive, while six million human beings were systematically persecuted, and ultimately destroyed.


The scourge of anti-Semitism, put temporarily to rest as a result of the guilt that ensued has come roaring back to life. Jews now have a homeland of their own returned to them, however unwillingly by the international community. Guilt assuaged, that same international community is now hard at work helping the last and most tribally irredentist and scripturally hate-inspired offspring of Judaism destroy once again through libel and violence, what remains of world Jewry.

Jewish existence has not yet been restored to its pre-World-War-II numbers. The Jewish citizens of Israel, the heritage homeland of the Jews, only now has attained the numbers that were destroyed by the Third Reich with the aid of European supporters. The diaspora consists of an equal number of Jews living primarily in the United States, France and Canada with the largest numbers, and dispersed elsewhere in smaller enclaves globally. Altogether approaching the numbers that existed before the Holocaust stained the world.

Small though their numbers are, the rage and hated that can be enlisted against that threatened people is legion and speaks of an undying tradition of anti-Semitism all its own.

They're eight months old now, and still the frantic little devils they ever were. If there's silence in the house it spells trouble, and we set out to investigate what, at the moment, they're up to. Invariably it's to no good, for themselves and/or for the items with which the house is furnished. On the other hand, sometimes, on rare occasions, they're merely contentedly settled down with a rawhide chewie, satisfying their chewing impulses that would otherwise victimize items as diverse as one of their little beds, stray slippers, ball-point pens, book bindings, you name it.

Basement door, staircase

They spend the night sleeping together, curled up comfortably toward one another. During the day it's a different story. Although they're inseparable; what one is up to the other must also be involved with, and they're rarely apart from each other; they do tend to, when it's down-time for a nap, separate themselves. Each has a favourite place to perch, for those all-too-brief slumbers. Jack usually on top of the sofa back, and Jill on a large, flat red cushion sitting before the fireplace. It used to be Riley's favourite resting place. I wonder if she can detect his odour impressed into it. 

Basement Study

We did, however, two weeks ago, remove the large, cumbersome pen my husband had put together and plunked down in the middle of the family room for them when we brought them home to live with us. They seldom used it on their own initiative, although Jillie from time to time, who is more inclined to settle down for naps than her brother Jackie more given to restlessly wandering about to find bold new exploits, might from time to time use it. Its purpose was for us to install them somewhere if we had to leave the house without them, where they would be safe from self-harm.

With the removal of that pen a great deal of space has been released for us, space that we sacrificed somewhat needlessly in retrospect for months, while in the process of house-training the devilish duo. They don't miss its presence and we certainly don't. It's very nice to luxuriate in the released atmosphere of free space, absent the irritation of a pen with limited use and maximum inconvenience quotient.

They've grown more accustomed to accommodating themselves to what they at one time viewed as frightening challenges. They would never descend the staircase to the basement, for example. And if one or both of us decided we had something to do there where we have a study, and a large all-purpose activity room along with a bathroom, they would be puzzled, thinking we'd gone upstairs, and race up to the second floor only to find it devoid of our presence.

Jackie

It took a little while for them to fully understand that a staircase didn't necessarily lead up to a second floor, but could also lead down to a sub-floor. Now they negotiate that staircase with ease, following us downstairs and amusing themselves in the discovery of yet another large space to roam about and discover intriguing new opportunities -- for mischief.

Jillie

We do love paintings, always have done so and likely always will. We acquired our first painting together when we were in our teens, engaged to be married, excited that we would have an original oil painting in our shared possessions. That was well over 60 years ago. We had been walking along Bloor Street in Toronto, past a shop and there was a small painting in the window, in a contemporary frame and we felt we could afford the $5 pricetag. It was a conventional painting, nothing out of the ordinary, of a small cottage. I believe it is now in the possession of our daughter.

Since that time we have had quite a number of opportunities to avail ourselves of original works of art. We can probably remember where each of the paintings we own were bought, when, and likely for how much. We don't buy for the purpose of acquiring an inventory that will gain in value over the years, as a long-term investment. That isn't our market, in any event, one that requires ample financial resources.We buy because there is something in the painting that appeals to our aesthetic, an appreciation for the artist's talent and vision.

On our last trip to Antique Alley near Northwood in New Hampshire we re-visited a refurbished old barn which features quality original American furniture, and paintings for sale, along with other items of interest to collectors of antique objects. We had previously bought a still-life from them a few years back, reminiscent of the 18th Century Dutch still-lifes of fruits and butterflies, although this was of a much later vintage, though still likely approaching a century in age.

This time they had a very small portrait. It was undated and unsigned which likely accounted for its affordability for us. The painting was obviously the work of a professional portrait artist of the time, commissioned to produce it for someone in the era of its production. It was painted on brass, and there were tiny flakes of the paint that had been loosened over time, leaving a number of minuscule gaps. My husband has long had a interest in painting himself, just as long as we've been collecting, in fact. And he has in the past painted his own landscapes, and done remedial work on paintings that required touch-ups.

And this is precisely what he did with this little jewel. When the touch-up has dried and a fixative applied and dried, it will be re-installed in its frame and find its place on the walls of our home among others of its kind we have amassed over the years.

Ever since I was a child, a very small girl, I was fascinated by dolls. Despite which, I never did have a doll, not until I became much, much older; in fact an adult woman and mother of young children. Since then I have collected dolls. I'm not a purist, if a doll attracts me because of its face, its costume, I enjoy it. I do have antique French and German dolls in my collection, but I have never focused primarily on them, though I do like 'fashion dolls' of the 19th Century. When living in Japan I loved Japanese ceremonial dolls and acquired those at antique shops in Tokyo and Yokohama.

When I acquired Abigail early this month I was surprised to see her within a few steps of entering a group antique shop in New Hampshire. She agreed to come home with us.

When we were paying for her, an elderly woman standing nearby surprised me by asking what I planned to name her. I had never named any of the dolls I've collected over the decades, but I quickly responded 'Jennifer'. In reconsideration now, however, Jennifer doesn't seem to reflect her too well, but Abigail does in my opinion.

I've no idea when she was made, how she was made, and by whom. There is no signature on her back or the back of her head, her neck or anywhere I can see. Not that it matters, but it is a curious thing since dollmakers tend to identify themselves with pride on their products. She is large, a pudgy little girl with aspirations toward becoming a chatelaine when she grows up. She already possesses some of the outer manifestations of a well-bred lady, and is accoutered with fine clothing and jewellery and a silver mirror.

A few days ago I decided to tackle what I'd been putting off; undressing her to examine her more intimately, to wash her clothing and her as well, and gently brush her hair. Washing her clothing did extract some dust, though it's difficult to determine how old the garments are. There is hand-crocheting, there is lace, there is fine lawn cotton and her clothing was expertly made to fit her precisely. I was not able to entirely remove waterstains, but the end result is pleasing enough.

I carefully ironed the garments once they had dried in the sun, finding that some of the ribbon-work was fraying; these things must be handled with great care. The lace flower that once sat on top of her crocheted cap completely disintegrated; I carefully snipped it away.

I took my time re-dressing her. She is articulated so her arms and legs move, as does her head. She has a Mona Lisa smile; slight and discreet. Her eyes are large, luminous and beautiful. The careful manner in which she was designed and created closely mimics reality. Her finger have fingerpads and creases where they should be on her hands, along with fingernails, and the same is true for her feet.

She is quite the lady, in fact.

We've evolved toward absolutely perfect summer days. Not too hot and humid, bright and breezy. What more could anyone ask for? Particularly given the fact that intermittent rain events keep everything from drying out. The ongoing, episodic rain in fact has given a real spurt to everything green, from the garden to the forested ravine.

Our ravine ramble yesterday wasn't entirely devoid of mosquito pests since the breeze, though credible enough, wasn't like the high winds of the day before, keeping mosquitoes at bay. And there they were, delighted to take advantage of our exposed flesh, from the back of our necks to our wrists.

We're still seeing Mourning Cloaks floating about, though they're most often seen in early spring, the first of the butterflies to make their presence known, and delighting us no end. Nuthatches, chickadees, robins, cardinals, song sparrows, crows and the occasional flycatcher zip about in the woods, entertaining us with their melodic presence.

Jack and Jill are familiar now with the trails and they're eager enough to be out there in the woods, finding new sources of interest and amusement, not to speak of whatever they can ingest, on a daily basis. Immature, tiny apples dropping from the trees and turning slightly brown as they begin to decompose have become an especial treat.

Our eyes are treated to the presence now of purple cowvetch and clover in bloom, golden buttercups, dazzling-white daisies, delicate pink fleabane and orange hawkweed. And the berries of the baneberry plants have now turned their eye-catching flaming red.

As a result of the rain we also come across interesting fungi formations. And that's the thing about strolling about in summertime woods; never know what you may happen to come across to delight your senses.

Yesterday morning brought us a few brief and one brief-but-heavy downpour before eventually persuading the clouds to part and emit some rays of sunshine. But the day, until the late afternoon arrived was hot and humid, uncomfortably so. After our garden perambulation we set out on a regular ravine walk.

Another factor that distinguished the day's atmosphere was the ferocity of the wind, so ravenous of the air that it whirled through the ravine, cooling us, and keeping mosquitoes at bay. And even providing some orchestration, soughing loudly through the canopy with a cardinal providing the melodious upper notes.

We decided it was as good a day as any to go off to Byward Market, and did so, stopping by the magazine shop for my husband's anticipated latest publications of the American Art Review and the Maine Antique Digest. Moseying about to look at the exotic wares in folk-art apparel and jewellery at various stalls is fascinating. Seeing the fruits and vegetables piled high on other vendors' stalls; with the emphasis on spring fruits at this time of year and their abundance is always appreciated.

And taking advantage of all the choices at the Market shops specializing in cheeses is an additional bonus, more than validating our regular trips to the popular destination crammed with speciality boutiques, bars, restaurants and other food outlets. It's arguably the liveliest place in town for perusing food offerings.

And since, earlier in the morning I had prepared cheese blintzes for dinner for my husband, awaiting just the last step before presentation (I prefer grilled cheese sandwiches myself and that's what I had, along with a fresh vegetable salad for each of us and sliced fresh peaches and cherries from California for desert), there was no hurry to return home at any given time, so we took our leisure.

While we were away hiking in the Waterville Valley of the White Mountain range, our younger son who when we were all many decades younger hiked with us there, was himself hiking about in Spain. He had travelled to Spain before, spending time in Barcelona, in small towns, and in various parts of the country. This time once again, he went to a city in northern Spain to attend a conference and to deliver a paper. When the conference, almost a week-long concluded, he remained for an additional three weeks, as he is wont to do when he travels abroad.

He didn't stay entirely in Spain, although he stayed awhile with a friend who lives in Barcelona. He decided to rent a car and drive to France, and then to Italy where he has also been before; Italy in particular representing his favourite part of Europe where he has also travelled on his own extensively. In Italy, again, he stayed for a short period of time with another friend.

He returned to Spain and spent time hiking in the Pyrenees. And he sent along photographs he took hiking in the Ordessa National Park; Cirque de Cotatuero. Like all the photographs he takes while hiking in mountain ranges wherever they happen to be, from Hawaii to British Columbia, Spain to Italy, the landscapes are immense, picturesque and breathtakingly daunting. Just as these are:

When the building of the UNESCO-recognized world heritage site, the Rideau Canal was completed and opened in 1832, the thousands of stonemasons, Irish and French-Canadian were out of work. They looked elsewhere for employment while still remaining in their profession, hiring out to build town and country homes and buildings throughout the Ottawa Valley and beyond from the same stone excavated around Kingston, limestone from the Frontenac Axis, construed of rocks formed 1.35 to 1.06 billion years ago (Precambrian: middle to late Proterozoic age) and then deformed and metamorphosed 900 million years ago.

Those heritage homes and buildings stand as beautifully designed and constructed today as they did in the mid-19th Century, with features reminiscent of British classical architecture, some of them incorporating Palladian windows and in the interiors panelling, along with other then-popular details including central staircases leading to a partial upper story with slanted ceilings echoing low roofs and rooms radiating out from the staircase, without a central hall feature such as we know them today. In the more modest of the home's rooms tend to be relatively small, but numerous. The wide pine floorboards feel warm and smooth underfoot.

We had the privilege of being guided through one of those homes on Saturday. We marvelled at the beauty of the deep window sills, a feature of stone buildings. The limestone exterior was beautifully dressed, the rooms, one leading into another without benefit of a connecting hallway, led us into another architectural era entirely, one pleasing to the eye and sensibly envisaged. One entire side of the house is blessed with a covered porch, with a roofline of its very own, beside which was a later addition; a roomy two-car garage.

The first floor is comprised of a small, modernized kitchen, beyond which is a laundryroom and a powder room. From the kitchen there is direct access to a fairly large dining room and leading directly from it, the living room. In fact, entering from the front door the living room is on the right, the dining room on the left, and the kitchen beyond it. Off the living room is a study/office.

Upstairs, there is a large bathroom with all modern appliances suitable for up-to-date plumbing. At the head of the stairs there is a small, roomy area and radiating out from the staircase are three bedrooms, and a sitting room. The original panelling is beautiful, the interior is immaculate with fresh paint and period-appropriate wallpaper. And the rooms are furnished with pieces of furniture of the period that the house itself represents; some given to the couple owning the home by her parents, avid collectors of Canadiana a half-century earlier, and some since acquired.

In the back, beyond the house was a driveshed, where implements such as tractors are kept, necessities in managing an acreage of that size. The owners have been busy in the short time since they bought and moved into their heritage home, cutting walking trails through the nearby bush. Soon after moving in they had a white picket fence built around the front of the property, which sits adjacent a highway, and two minutes' drive from a small town. That the house sits on a large acreage comprised of fifty percent each bush and tillable land for a total of 70 acres, represents another vast bonus. The land, the watershed of the South Nation River is flat, resulting in a vast sky landscape.

Close by the house grow gigantic old honey-locusts, and nearby the house are also beautiful old flowering crab trees. Beyond, in the bush, which is likely of third-growth generation at the very least, poplars predominate, along with native buckthorn, cedars, wild grape vines, a proliferation of dogwood and maples; further off on other acreage of bush are where conifers have regenerated.

And oh yes, besides our daughter and her partner, our granddaughter lives there awaiting resumption of her university year in Toronto. There are also, on the exterior very large enclosures where eleven dogs, most of them now quite elderly, enjoy the out-of-doors when they're not being taken for walks on the acreage, using the newly-cut trails. Two cats live there as well.

It's arrived, the first official day of summer, 2015. Although we have long since enjoyed our post-breakfast ramble in the gardens as a delightful gift to ourselves, the months ahead promise ample opportunity for surprises and much gardening gratification.

It never ceases to surprise, these leisurely garden strolls, for what can be noticed on any given day that wasn't there in quite the same presentation the day before.

My husband is forever marvelling at the incredible restorative powers of nature. Spring regeneration always takes us by surprise in the most positive of ways. Everything looks miserably drab and unproductive once the snow has melted and the garden is exposed. Here and there tiny spears of green begin to appear and early spring-blooming bulbs exercise their options, exciting us to admiration.

It takes a while for the gradual rebirth to begin in earnest, and the yawning, empty space of the gardens looking sad in their bleakness of appearance find their echo in our yearning to see everything fill out and present in robust bloom. That time has come; there isn't a spare inch left in the garden. Everything is thriving, the living architecture of the garden in full sway.

And garden succession is well underway. The first bloomers have faded, giving way to those impatient to take their place. No more lilies of the valley in bloom, no bleeding hearts, the irises have finished, the rhododendrons as well as the magnolias and the mountain bluet, to name a few.

Succeeding them have been the poppies, the lilies, clematis, peonies, bellflowers and roses. The Ladies Mantle has its own peculiar blooms, as did the Japanese spurge.

Everything presents as a treat for our eyes. In the morning foliage is often jewelled with radiant dew drops from the overnight temperature inversion if not from overnight rain, catching the sun and sparkling with colour.

Jack and Jill enjoy accompanying us; they know the difference between the backyard and the front gardens; both experientially and verbally. When we invite them to come along they rush to join us, and agreeably return with the reverse invitation.

They too are ardent gardeners, having cleverly learned to dig up violets, exposing the roots which seem to appeal to them as especial delicacies.