Sometimes the most irritating things unexpectedly occur, causing a cascading series of other untoward events to make for a most annoying type of grudging efforts to attempt restoration of what one can consider normalcy. As, for example, what occurred in this household yesterday.

A week earlier we'd received an automated telephone alert that our local electricity distributor had a planned outage to take place overnight; for a two-hour period in the wee hours of the morning, there would be no electricity. So we were prepared for that, and in fact since it was between the hours of two and four a.m. there was nothing to be interrupted. Some of our clocks, of course, had to be adjusted next morning.

When we awoke yesterday morning we realized when we went downstairs to the kitchen that there had been an overnight power interruption. One of two hours' duration, necessitating that the clocks once again be restored to real time. Eventually I got around to turning on my desktop, only to find there was no Internet connectivity. A glance at the modum showed us that though it was powered on there was no connection; a red light and four blue ones under the green power light. So we made one of those reluctant calls to our Internet service provider.

A technician guided my husband to a few attempts to restore power. Finally, he was instructed to interrupt a few wires leading to the modum and our connection was restored. All well and good, if somewhat frustrating. But I didn't know how frustrating until I had turned to my Outlook email account. It looked transformed. The folders I had kept for years holding items I wanted to retain were missing. And my inbox kept filling up with hundreds of emails. The day's usual incoming emails, yes, but there were also those that had been deleted over the past week or so, and others, many others interspersed among the almost one thousand that had been retained by me in those now-disappeared folders.

It took hours to go through them all, to restore the folders (on a previous occasion when a similar event had occurred this had happened as well, only the Outlook program had 'restored' itself, bringing back the folders, but not this time) and tuck back into them, one by one, the files I planned to keep. A waste of time and a grating annoyance, placing me in a grim mood that tainted much of the morning.

Good thing my husband always has a smile and a hug to spare. As a mood restoration there's nothing like it.

Life is full of little annoyances. We encounter them, feel mistreated by them, decide to carry on or alternately attend to them, and they're forgotten until the next time something similar erupts to interrupt our placid daily events, mostly anticipated and welcomed.

Yesterday when we set out for our ravine walk with our two little dogs we realized belatedly that the municipal snow plow had been around. And from the look of the mound at the foot of our driveway that sweep through our street hadn't been a recent one. Usually we're attentive to the sound of the plow going through, and usually it's in the aftermath, the recent aftermath, of a new snowstorm.

This time the plow went through long after the snow had fallen, to push the slush off the street toward the edges of the road, and of course, to line people's driveways with it. This was done obviously the day before, which had been relatively mild. And we hadn't noticed. It had been a busy day and we'd been out earlier in the day, not later.

Since then the temperature had dropped markedly and what had been slush turned to firm snow and ice, and mostly ice, solidly impervious to shovelling. Because our house is located at the turn of the street, we tend to get more than 'our share' of such deposits. And because although it wasn't dreadfully high, it was unevenly mounded and as such a nuisance that required to be hacked away, which was what my husband did on our return from the ravine.

Last evening I placed a half-cup of dried yellow peas in a small bowl to soak overnight preparatory to plans to prepare a vegetable pea soup for this evening's dinner. A cutting board that I had propped against the counter backsplash slipped and banged against the bowl, sending it and its contents everywhere in the kitchen. Good for a lusty bit of cursing.

When, later, we settled down together to view a video we'd taken from the local library, we remembered we'd already seen it at some time in the near distant past, but couldn't be bothered getting up to change it, just comfortable sitting there. But it did point out to us that no actor, regardless his/her merit, seems beyond the allure of lending talent to a third-grade film if it pays well enough, even if they're critically acclaimed Shakespearean stage actor Sir Kenneth Branagh.

Perspective helps to adjust one's mode of thought. Recalling the day's news, for example, of the plight of refugees, of people living in war zones, in incessant poverty, of concerns over the global effects of climate change, for example. And then those little annoyances become the petty foils of a comfortable few through which to express dissatisfaction with their lives. As in gimmeabreak.

As Canadians we rarely consider how privileged we are to live in a politically and socially stable, wealthy country where social welfare programs like universal medicare, education and social supports are available to all residents of the country, enabling people to enjoy lives of decency of the kind that others around the globe can only dream of.

Failed countries where poverty and all the disadvantages and ills that accompany that endemic condition are bleeding people. These are desperate times for millions of people across the international community, from Latin America to Africa, the Middle East, Southeast Asia and beyond, who make the wrenching decision to leave their homelands where they have experienced misery and want, and the fear and dislocation aligned with conflict.

From unaccompanied children in their tens of thousands leaving the drug-infested, gang-ridden areas of Latin America, hoping to leave crime, violence and poverty behind by trekking through Mexico to gain illegal entry to the United States, to the unprecedented streams of young singles and families taking leave of their failed countries flooding Greece, Italy, France, and Germany whose resources both human and practical, are incapable of either stemming the flow or coping with the needs of the haven seekers and migrants.

Let alone those Syrian nations who flee their own barrel-bombing government whose vendetta against its Sunni-citizen sector has demolished their homes, killed their hopes as well as their family members, and left them gasping for the air of freedom. In their desperation to escape their own deaths they have filtered through to Jordan, Lebanon and Turkey, crowding themselves into refugee camps and there living an existence of mere 'moderate' deprivation as opposed to the terror they have left.

It's difficult to equate their shape-shifting lives of extremes and wretchedness with ours of contentment and plenty, but from time to time reading accounts of what is continuing to transpire throughout the rest of the world, empathizing with both the refugees and their reluctant yet compassionate hosts throughout Europe, we are reminded of the fragility of the world we have made for ourselves, and our immense failures as human beings.

Serge, our glob-trotting friend and neighbour, just back from another of his sun-seeking, winter-escaping trips, stopped his car as we were walking down the street, caught in a bit of a snow squall, with our two little dogs in tow, just finished our afternoon ravine hike. First thing out of his mouth was how nice it was atmospherically, a cynical smile emphasizing his meaning with the clear intention of indicating how little he could appreciate the cold and the snow, on his return from sunnier climes.

Our response was agreement, that it was indeed 'nice'; beautiful, in fact, and he would be astonished how lovely it was deep in the forested ravine that he had never once ventured into despite living right next to the ravine for 30 years. He changed tack immediately, nodding in agreement that it was indeed quite special, thus redeeming himself as a Canadian, able to recognize nature's blessings when he sees it. Who can blame him?

We've tried the sunning-on-a-beach routine, and found it wanting. It seemed farcical, false and we felt as though we were props in a public relations getaway aimed to propel discontented people toward a lifestyle they imagined more reflective of casual recreation. Simply put, it was not 'our thing', reflecting either our values or our propensity to be actively engaged in any natural environment we find ourselves in.

At this time of year, when February is preparing to depart and the following month anxious to march in, however, we're kind of tired of the unrelenting 'weather'; the deep, bone-chilling cold, the winds, the freezing rain, ice pellets, incessant snow and dreadful driving conditions. This time of year presents as the dreariest, the most grasping at the limits of our patience, awaiting spring and the renewal of life.

For us, it's a relief that we're interested so deeply in nature, and wish to remain a living part of it by inclination, propelling us into our natural environment daily, to restore that bond. And if we're tired of the cold and the ice, how much more tedious and difficult it must be for those who haven't the least wish to install themselves however temporarily in nature's bosom to enjoy what winter offers? Let alone those who would like to, but cannot for reasons of encumbering health problems.

When the sun is out, this house of ours is agleam and aglitter with light, as a result of its many large windows, some of them of two-story-height. When it is overcast as it tends to be when snow falls and the sky is still bright, but with the colour of pewter, the house interior tends to be, of course, on the dark side.

Walk the short few steps it takes to gain ingress to the ravine on our street and everything is transformed. True, the sky still has that pewter cast, so much so that it is difficult to tell where the horizon separates sky and earth. But because we're out there directly in the landscape everything takes on a bright cast of silver-white.

That is yet further enhanced when we're in the midst of a heavily determined snowfall. The forecast yesterday was for snow, up to 10 cm, turning at times to freezing rain, and as the temperature rose, to plain rain. Truth is, it was mild, the temperature having risen to zero-degrees and remaining there for the day.

Which meant that we could dress lighter and still expect to be comfortable, and Jackie and Jillie had no need to demonstrate their rare patience as their Muttluks were painstakingly pulled on over their tiny paws and skinny legs. With or without the ice-protecting Muttluks they're enthused beyond belief once they're released to the mysteries of the ravine. Racing about, sniffing everywhere, leaping happily and like good little fellows, returning when they're called.

To say that the atmosphere and the scenic environment appeals to our appreciation of nature is to understate the reality. At no time does the forest look more inviting and beautiful than it does when layers left behind by previous snowfalls have created a dense base on the forest floor, and a fresh snowfall is in the process of nicely dusting the trees in a layer of pure white fluff.

Our boots crushing through the newfallen snow were silent, the sound absorbed by the all-encompassing comforter of frozen flakes, loftily celebrating winter. We saw nothing stirring, not even a squirrel, though they tend not to appreciate deep snow layers, since they can become mired all too easily making them easy pickings for predators. When we had just about completed our usual circuit, however, the faint staccato of a Pileated woodpecker penetrated our consciousness; that too muffled by the ambient cushion of snow.

By the time we've completed the circuit, taking anywhere from an hour to an hour-and-a-half of slogging uphill and down, we're well and truly exhausted, but pleased at the excursion.

Jackie is an energetic and fun-loving little fellow, but he will not submit gladly to anything he appears to feel does injury to his dignity. He initiates overtures with huge enthusiasm, but he has his limits. For some reason, although he enjoys intimacy at a certain level, he does shy away from probing and even gentle handling at times. He isn't enamoured of having his head or his ears petted and although eager for touch at times, at other times tactile demonstrations offend him.

And he was offended yesterday afternoon when he was on the examining table and it was time, after his annual physical, to have his vaccinations. Earlier, on our arrival, both Jackie and Jillie reacted with spirited annoyance at the visible presence of the Ottawa Veterinarian Hospital's resident cat, an inoffensive and attractive feline, unobtrusive at most times, but entitled to display herself when she feels like it, usually around the counter of the reception desk.

So they were both growling and intermittently barking very annoyingly at this cat whose composure never once faltered, simply ignoring the silly upstarts, unwilling to start a brief and predictable war between the species. One of the receptionists suggested we collaborate in allowing the three to become acquainted at close quarters and it was a good solution since our two have never on encountering another animal, become physical, close encounter encouraging a relaxation of tension, but by then it was time for our scheduled interview/examination to take place.

When they were weighed, it was confirmed that Jillie weighs almost two pounds more than Jackie. Given their size, that's a considerable difference in the two siblings. But it's always been that way, over the year they've been with us. We'd decided to make this venue and its veterinarians and staff our home vet service, since we so often end up here in any event, as it is also a 24-hour emergency veterinarian service.

We'd met this veterinarian before, and asked for him specifically, having taken immediately to his kindliness and unaffectedness. His interest in the animals he encounters and the extent of his appreciation for them is unmistakable. He took considerable time explaining to us his philosophy respecting health, nutrition and required vaccinations, and we appreciated that. He is a tall, broad and bluff man with a confident but personable approach, his manner as gentle as his speech.

We've been there often before during Jackie's yet-brief lifespan, given his proclivity to get into one kind of trouble after another, from pulling out one of the stitches from his neutering, to ingesting a toxic mould that affected his central nervous system, and earlier than that suddenly experiencing a series of choking paroxysms from something he had ingested in the backyard, last winter that ended up with his having a severe reaction whose symptoms of a deep chest cough lasted a month before full recovery.

Jillie, far more robust than her brother, has never been a cause of anxiety attributable to a brief health breakdown. This examination that took place yesterday verified that both are in excellent health; their dentition particularly impressed their new vet, who recommended that their teeth be brushed regularly, something my husband had done faithfully with Button and Riley, but hadn't yet begun with our new companions, and which when he did, Jillie acceded to gracefully, while Jackie firmly rejected.

It has been half a century, and over that period of time my husband has selectively acquired a number of time-pieces that continue to intrigue him. It is as though in some way, we capture the essence of the mystery of time, that elusive quality of which we never have enough to satisfy our needs both temporal and existential. Time is the past, the present and the future. We have lived it, are within it, and will depart it.

The number of young boys fascinated by time-pieces is as legion as the tales of a ingenious child satisfying his curiosity by taking a clock apart and re-assembling it. That attraction to the mechanical remains, although modern timepieces have long since moved on to other inventive means by which time can be accurately tracked.

For my husband, the presence of clocks from various parts of the world, throughout different eras, reflecting a variance of styles, and impeccable workmanship, allied with the mechanical process of spinning wheels is irresistible, and provides a valued aesthetic backdrop to his passion for such man-made objects in homage to nature's natural rhythms.

There are times that he goes about, a number of keys in hand, to wind the clocks and the sound of their ticking, their beautiful and sonorous marking of the quarter-hour, half-hour, hour, resounds softly through the house.

Their movements are a never-ending source of fascination to my husband, and when one or another of the clocks suspends movement for some reason, this is the signal for him to gather a few choice tools, and peer into the inner sanctum of time suspended. Over the years he has familiarized himself with various mechanical movements and can observe what may have gone wrong, make subtle adjustments and once again the clock is mobilized into ticking action.

What a gorgeous, bright day this morning greeted us with. Earlier, while out in the backyard with Jack and Jill I heard a cardinal trilling happily. Along with the clear skies, typically, the extreme cold has returned, with the temperature plunging again overnight to minus-20. It was still minus-16 when I was out, with a brisk wind making it seem even colder, but oddly in our protected backyard with its micro-climate it didn't seem very cold at all.

Some of the massive snow accumulation has been reduced as a result of the rain we'd had a few days back following hard on the heels of that snowstorm, but more than ample snow has been left everywhere.

We'd thought that because of all that rain falling directly after the snow (all right, a few days later), conditions in the ravine would be dreadful, but that wasn't the case at all. The trail was just fine, good and firm underfoot, and unpunctured by boots even though the day previous was mild and the snow melting. In fact, when we were out yesterday, it was just after a morning snowfall, defying the temperature of plus-three.

So all of us enjoyed the daily trek. Right after breakfast Irving hied himself out to the front to clean up the accumulated birdseed and nuts, and to refresh the feeders. There was a flock of goldfinches at the feeders and roosting in the trees this morning. And, of course, the ubiquitous squirrels, large and small, grey, black and red, they come calling throughout all hours of the day, their presence entertaining and amusing.

Although it wasn't all that cold yesterday we had a bubbling-hot lentil-vegetable soup for dinner with a small salad and grilled cheese, and sliced mangoes for dessert. I'll be busy cleaning house today, but will have time enough to put together a French onion soup with a bit of a twist; bacon scattered atop the finished product. With a fresh salad and sliced strawberries a nice dinner will result.

More time-consuming productions come with the rest of the week when there are fewer other distractions, allowing more preparation time.

Neither of the two newspapers that we subscribe to -- one local the other national -- publish on Sunday, so we're bereft of printed newspapers to go through at breakfast time. Which has led to my husband driving off locally to get us a Sunday paper. One of Toronto's dailies publishes on Sunday, so that's what he picks up. Neither of us care for the paper, but it does have an insert that we're interested in, a New York Times international section that is crammed full of interesting articles to pique our curiosity and inform us.

As he does most Sundays before breakfast, my husband went off this morning to the convenience store nearest our home, about an eight-minute drive from our house. The person who looks after the store in those hours is always eager to talk, and this morning was no different. He showed my husband a print-out still, taken from the store's closed-circuit video camera. It was of a youngish black woman who, pointed out the man, had taken lately to coming by the store in the wee hours of the morning. The person whose shift is midnight to eight is the unfortunate one who has interacted with her in the past.

She has repeatedly feinted all manner of ruses enabling her to grab packs of cigarettes at the back of the counter and make off with them. She obviously has a need to fill. Waiting for her, usually outside the store, is a young white man. On the last interaction, last night, the man accompanied the women into the store and threatened the clerk to just be cool about his companion lifting cigarette packs. He had no visible weapon but his threatening demeanor frighted the clerk into being 'cool', and not making an effort to stop her or to pursue them as they left.

Finally, the police were called in, and they interviewed the clerk, made observations, collected some evidence, and left. These jobs filled by people needing to work, placing them in vulnerable positions where sometimes innocent people trying to do their jobs become victims are frighteningly miserable. Miserable too is the dependence of people on substances that do harm to themselves.

As coincidence would have it, that edition of the newspaper that my husband set out to collect for us featured homeless people in Toronto dependent on alcohol and illegal drugs to feed a habit they have been unable to discard at cost to their very existence. The article focused on the societal problems inherent in this shadowy aspect of society; lethal dependence on health-inimical substances by people who are addicted, who may be mentally unstable, and who pose a risk to themselves and to others, and who often end up dying on the streets -- alone, isolated -- from overdosing.

The latest victim, one of hundreds of bleak lives over the years, was approaching middle-age, from a 'good' family. Adopted before he was a  year old, the child of a drug-addicted biological mother, he began to exhibit disturbing symptoms of mental disequilibrium before he became a teen, and his life after that represented one crisis after another, culminating in drug-and-alcohol-addiction, homelessness and hopelessness. A security guard discovered his life-expiring body in an alcove of a building in downtown Toronto.

After such a long time when I hadn't made paella for a different kind of meal, we've been enjoying it the last month on a near-weekly basis. There are so many different ways to make this dish, such a number of interpretations, most of them fairly intriguing. The first time I ever had paella myself was at a restaurant called Almond located on the second floor of a building in Roppongi, Tokyo, and I thought it was a most excellent meal. My husband was far more familiar with it as a special treat, since back then he did quite a bit of travelling, though he'd eaten it much closer to home, in Vancouver.

The classical presentation with chicken, fruits of the sea and tomato was what I had the first time around and it was that version that I made repeatedly as a sometimes-hostess and afterward at home. But recently  my husband found a recipe in one of our many cookbooks that featured green peas as the lone vegetable (excepting onion and garlic) that he preferred. And we both decided that we didn't need chicken in our paella; we would focus instead on just fish.

So, in with sole, shrimp, crab legs and clams, for our version. To the onion and garlic that starts off the 'soup' part of the dish, I did add some sliced yellow bell pepper and chopped mushrooms, along with the green peas, however in the paella I put together on Thursday. I really love long-grain parboiled rice, which paella calls for. And it's the only time I use saffron. Otherwise, whenever we have rice in our home it is Asian-type rice, shorter grain, using far less water to cook, and sticky, as my husband most enjoys it.

He had brought home fresh strawberries a few days back, although we didn't need any more fresh fruit at that time. I had decided to bake a cheesecake on Friday, and thought the strawberries could come in quite usefully to ornament and finish the cheesecake. It's such an easy dessert to produce. All it takes is a tub (340 grams) of cream cheese, three-quarters of a cup granulated sugar, half-cup sour cream, two eggs, a teaspoon each of vanilla and brandy essence, and there's the filling.

I had first prepared the crust; graham cracker crumbs, cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter. When it had pre-baked a short while, I dusted it lightly with white chocolate chips, then poured in the cheesecake batter.  Into the convection oven at a moderate-to-low temperature for an hour, then cooled it. The final touch was to place strawberries over top, melt a quarter-cup of strawberry jam to a running consistency and pour it as a glaze over the strawberries.

De--lic--ious!

We hardly knew what we expect when we set out for the ravine  yesterday afternoon, but having missed two days already, the day of the storm itself and the day following, we thought it time enough to discover for ourselves what conditions would be like.

And we soon found ourselves floundering. It was difficult to even enter the trail leading down into the ravine, since the snow plows in clearing the street itself had piled snow up high against our usual entry point. So we climbed and balanced ourselves and slid down the mound over to where the trail should be. Someone, or perhaps a number of someones had been there before us, so there were plodding bootmarks, but nothing resembling the trail we know so well. And we were challenged to keep upright in the depths of snow which our two little dogs, given the depressions we were leaving behind us found difficult but not so much so that it impeded their enthusiasm beyond their abilities to transcend.

So we proceeded along, carefully, slowly, eventually finding that there had been enough people previous to us to almost level the trails winding through the ravine, but not quite. Our boots slipped and we yawed from one side to the other, trying to keep ourselves upright. Jackie and Jillie did have a bit of an advantage, since they've four legs, are closer to the ground, and placed their booted paws in the depressions we left behind us.

We were soon out of breath, stopping frequently to gather our stamina back into working order before continuing. And we were surprised to see quite a few other people out and about, a few of them wearing snowshoes, which went a long way to correcting balance in the prevailing conditions. Everyone was happy, though, including us, at the fact that we could and we did get out to confront nature now that it had pacified the landscape with its brilliantly sparkling white comforter, evergreen boughs laden and weighted, the sky clear as a lark's song, and the sun shining its warmth over the minus-6-degree high for the day. That there was no wind was an added bonus.

We saw a short-legged little cairn terrier, unfazed by being greeted and surrounded by our two long-legged rascals, floundering in the snow, resorting to a swimming motion to move herself swiftly and excitedly through and along the snow, and a whippet, coated and gracefully moving along in the depths of the snow, happy to be out and moving along.

Of necessity, we had to curtail our walk since it was so physically exhausting to make any headway in the plush depths of a one-day fall of 51 centimetres. But we felt invigorated nonetheless, and content that we had gone out and met the challenge of at least a relatively short jaunt that would have been brisk and soon completed under different conditions, but which took us well over an hour of dedicated slogging to complete.

My boots were packed with snow, despite their height over my legs, and Jackie and Jillie were well frosted with ice and packed with snow, since their fluffy, silky hair tends to acquire both snow and ice on exposure to such conditions. It took some towelling to get us all free of the snow clinging to them and to us, but the toasty confines of the house presented a comfortable alternative to the ravine.

As usual, Jackie and Jillie had a good, energetic romp through the house, chasing after one another, boxing and wrestling, once we were all sorted out. As soon as that ritual was done with, however, they both plopped into a resting position and slept soundly while I began to pre-prepare the fixings for dinner which could then be put together to cook at the last minute.

"With the exception of Syria, African countries currently get the worst rep when it comes to violence and conflict. Virtually every story coming out of the continent seems to showcase one atrocity or another.
This narrative is both true and false. In 2014, Africa experienced more than half of worldwide conflict incidents, despite having only about 16 percent of the world population. This is a slightly larger share of the world’s conflicts than even during the chaotic years of the post-Cold War 1990s."

Peter Dörrie, The National Interest, January 22, 2016 

The author of the above is quick to point out, however, that context is vital in the interpretation of his statement, in that world conflicts have abated in the past several decades, difficult though that is to credit, given the scope and the brutality of current conflicts in places like Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria, Yemen, Sudan, and the threats to world stability emanating from the Middle East. But it is to Africa that we look in dismay and puzzlement; how long will those countries place the blame for their inability to become responsible, non-conflict states capable of full security for their populations, on their colonial pasts?

Yes, they did suffer unspeakable humiliation from the conquest and occupation of European nations eager to expand their influence and their capacity to exploit the vast natural resources of countries too weak to defend themselves against a foreign invader whose technology in producing military equipment was just too far superior to their own. But those same African countries have received a good measure of reparation and support to prepare them for full sovereignty and normalcy.


What hope is there for Africa? Despite billions poured into the Continent through investment and humanitarian aid, Africa languishes behind other continents and their nations in the indexes of conflict, privation and social cohesion. This is a reflection of primitive tribalism and its stark animosities toward others and the effect of clan loyalties, where compassion for others and a willingness to make peace with one another is simply not carried over from an ancient tradition of viewing the 'other' as a competitor for scarce resources.

It is to Nigeria that attention is given often now in the news. News that highlights that this most populous of all African countries, the one with the greatest wealth and energy resources, fully independent and on fairly good terms with its neighbours, is incapable of defending its population against the deadly depredations of Boko Haram, the jihadist Islamist terrorist group wreaking vengeance on those who aspire a Western-style education for their offspring.

Like most African countries the government and society in general is rife with corruption; money waylaid and sidelined to line the pockets of the grasping who have power over the ordinary people who see no hope for their futures. Nigeria is 50% Muslim, 40% Christian and the rest is comprised of a variety of likely nativist religions. The former Christian president was incapable of providing security to Nigerians, and the current Muslim president has somewhat targeted corruption in the military so that the country's armed forces are now provided with weaponry at least the equal of that of the jihadists.

But Muhammadu Buhari crowed too quickly that his forces had succeeded in putting Boko Haram on the run, as more recent atrocities against villages close to the area where the jihadists have their capital attest. One can only experience feelings of sadness and great compassion for the people of Nigeria when time and again they have been lethally targeted by a maniacal group of religious murderers, satisfied that the mass slaughter they commit is pleasing to their god.

On the other hand, when reading in one's local newspaper of the lack of common sense, compassion and humanity expressed by many of those same villagers against the most vulnerable among them, it is difficult not to believe that the people of Nigeria and by extension much of Africa as well, given its situation of many militias as well as regime militaries, abduct young children for training in the conflicts they engage in, experience any measure of concern for the trajectory of their own humanity.

"When we heard that the child was only 2 to 3 years old, we did not hesitate. A child that young cannot survive a long time alone on the streets. We immediately prepared a rescue mission."
“Thousands of children are being accused of being witches and we’ve both seen torture of children, dead children and frightened children. This footage shows why I fight."
"With all the money we can [collect] besides giving hope the very best treatment now also [is to] build a doctor clinic on the new land and save many more children out of torture! It's just so great!"
"Hope is getting so much better. Already gaining a lot of weight and looking so much more healthy. Now we only need him to talk. But that will come naturally when he is out of the hospital and starting his life among all our children."
Anja Ringgren Lovén, founder, African Children's Aid Education and Development Foundation

"Hope," on the day of his rescue. (Anja Ringgren Lovén)

"Hope" was the name given to a toddler whom villagers identified as a "witch" and who was abandoned by his family. He was found emaciated and starving, close to death, and was given immediate blood transfusions and loving care by the founder of the African Children's Aid Eduction and Development Foundation, Anja Ringgren Loven.  Whose group is attempting to rescue the estimated 15,000 -- in one Nigerian state alone -- children named as "witches" and abandoned to their lonely, morbid fates.

"[Boys who displayed a] solitary temperament, physical deformities or conditions such as autism [are most likely to be identified as 'witches'."
"Many social and economic pressures, including conflict, poverty, urbanization and the weakening of communities, or HIV/AIDS, seem to have contributed to the recent increase in witchcraft accusations against children. Child witchcraft accusations are part of a rising tide of child abuse, violence and neglect, and they are manifestations of deeper social problems affecting society."
UNICEF Regional Child Protection Adviser Joachim Theis  

So there is hope that "Hope" will survive his dreadful ordeal of rejection, isolation and privation which would have led inexorably to death had he not been rescued. He is reported to be able now to sit up and smile, and he is eating well. Will he remember how desolate he felt at such a young age, wandering the dusty streets of his village, trying to sustain life on his own? Will he be capable of trusting people in his future? While there is hope for this little fellow, what hope is there for Africa, where many of its countries have a tradition of rejecting children they name as "witches"?

Anja Ringgren Lovén and "Hope," a Nigerian toddler who was accused of being a witch. (Anja Ringgren Lovén)

An RCMP officer stands on guard on Parliament Hill during a winter storm Tuesday. Darren Brown / Postmedia

Ottawa is well accustomed to winter storms, the municipality has equipment to meet the needs of a fairly large city where winter brings constant snowstorms and other kinds of inclement weather such as freezing rain. There was a winter storm warning in effect. The forecast was for between 20 to 30 centimetres of snow to fall throughout the night from Monday into Tuesday. Although some snow did fall on Monday night, Tuesday was without further snowfall into the early morning hours.

And then, around eight in the morning, thick curtains of snow began descending. And didn't stop until over twelve hours later. Schools in the area had declared a 'snow day' and school buses weren't running. Public transit was running as usual, but unusually, buses were up to 40 minutes late in arrival, and those that did carry passengers by mid-afternoon ran as late as four hours to their final destinations. Municipal plows were out but concentrating, of course, on major streets.

A cyclist and pedestrian cross Elgin Street. Errol McGihon / Postmedia

We were snowed in, literally. By the time half-past ten in the evening rolled around the skies had cleared, the snow stopped. That's when my husband went out with the snow-thrower and cleared the driveway for the second time that day, and shovelled all the walkways. On our street, there were cars left stranded on the road, and abandoned, their drivers having tried everything to move their snow-stalled vehicles on the unplowed street.

By the time we were preparing to turn off our bedside lamps we could hear a tractor with a plow, a private operator, out behind us on the crescent that runs into our street. Our little dogs, normally overjoyed to romp in the snow, got fed up with getting snow-covered and having to be wiped of the snow each time they returned to the house after being out in the backyard through the day. They likely missed that we hadn't gone out for our usual ravine ramble. But the snow was thigh-high.

This morning our street still hadn't been plowed. Our curbside kitchen waste and paper-recycling pick-up hadn't taken place. Cars were still moored in the thick snow that had stalled them the night before. When the plow did come by it swooped the snow off the street into driveways. And since our house is located on a curve of the street, our driveway gets the lion's share during street sweeps, of the cleared snow. By then it's become icy, lumpy, hard and difficult to shovel.

The snowfall wasn't quite the 30 centimetres predicated, but turned out after all, to be a record snowfall, at 50 centimetres of the fluffy white stuff. This winter has been a relatively snow-sparse one up to now. Yesterday's snowfall has gone some way to bringing us back to where our usual annual snowpack generally is by this time of year. But we have, in winters past, had far more of a snowpack; on the other hand, winter is nowhere near concluded for 2016.

It was a perfectly respectable looking eggplant, smooth, perfect colour but when I cut into it preparatory to slicing it for an eggplant casserole I had planned, the interior was brown. Well, I had the spinach I was preparing to go with it, and a tomato sauce I'd made, so I thought I'd turn dinner around and make a Lasagne dish instead. And I also thought that since this would be a stay-home day why not bake cookies as well?

So I prepared a batch of plain cookie dough and stuck it in the refrigerator. And then I turned my attention to Jack and Jill, both of whom had become quite fuzzy, needful of a haircut, but postponed while the temperature outside was so icy-cold. That has taken a turn, however. Yesterday's high of minus 9 has turned into today's high of minus 3. But that minus 3 has come with snow, lots of it. There are reports on the news of regular bus routes now 40 minutes late and double buses jack-knifing in the new storm that nature has gifted us with.

Irving went out to shovel. First the walkways in the back, because our little dogs were floundering, the snow up to their chests. And he decided he'd just proceed with shovelling everything out, the driveway, the front walkways. This while snow was tumbling through the atmosphere at breakneck speed; as soon as he cleared an area it swiftly became plugged with snow again, but he persisted. It will be less to shovel the second time around when the storm finally abates.

In this storm with snow whipping about everywhere, the birds and squirrels seem less inclined to gather at the feeders, though a few doves have assembled as well as a few hardy squirrels. These are the frequent visitors that hardly make an effort to absent themselves when one of us is in their near proximity, and we're glad to see them.

I set about giving our two little black rascals haircuts, and it took quite a while. First Jillie, and then Jackie. Jackie thinks that order is fine; he's happy when Jillie is getting her hair cut, not so thrilled when it's his turn. But they needed those haircuts and look somewhat more groomed now. Each time I groom them I moan inwardly over Jackie's bony little frame. I'd be thrilled if some of Jillie's robust frame transmitted itself to Jackie. They eat the same amount, but he is more inclined to being restless and a roustabout than she is, and I suppose that's the result; a high-energy little fellow who just doesn't put on any weight.

After that I rolled out the cookie dough half into rounds, the other half into rounds with centres cut out, then spread a little raspberry jam on the bottom of the full rounds, topping that off with slices of unpeeled apple I had pre-poached with brown sugar and cinnamon in the microwave. The centre-out rounds placed on top and pressed down, they went into a moderate oven for 12 minutes.

No ravine walk for us today in this storm, unfortunately. As energetic as Jackie and Jillie are, and as long and strong as their legs are for their size, the amount of snow covering the forest floor now, and even gathering in greater depth, would be too difficult for them. We'll all find it easier to plod along the trails in the new snow, when the trail has been packed by the trail-breaking prowess of younger people than we are.

This icy weather pattern repeats itself and yet another extreme weather warning has been issued by Environment Canada. Yesterday morning when we came downstairs for breakfast the thermometer read minus 29 degrees; extreme by any measure. And that did not include the bitter iciness exacerbated by a stiff wind, although the morning sun did its best to alleviate the bone-chilling cold.

Our two puppies try to evade having sweaters pulled onto their little bodies as a shield against the extreme cold before we let them out, but even the sweaters don't help much in this type of conditions. They end up piteously lifting their tiny paws and sometimes they're frozen so rigidly they hardly make it under their own steam to rampage back into the warm house.

Despite which, we noted their restlessness yesterday The day before was even more cold, and we had decided to skip our daily ravine walk. But yesterday, once the temperature struggled up to minus 15 and the wind, we thought, had abated somewhat, we decided to forge ahead with a walk. We put on a heavier sweater for each of them with their winter jackets over those, and got their little boots on, and prepared ourselves to face the windy cold.

The wind's nasty effect doubles the cold, and we quickly made our way from the street down into the ravine where the forest fairly well shields us for the most part from rampaging winds. Jackie and Jillie were once again in their  element, happy to be free to frolic and stampede their way along the trails, vying with one another for the lead, leaping gracefully over one another when the mood took them. We were grateful that on this extremely icy day all of their boots stayed on and didn't need additional adjustment.

Taking gloves off even briefly results in digits painfully aching from the extreme cold. I had a layer under my jacket that I could hoist up around the lower part of my face, but Irving erred in not putting a scarf over the neck of his jacket, and felt the consequences of that oversight. The only solution is to forge briskly ahead to work up a head of steam. Even so through the many layers I was wearing I could feel the icy fingers of wind and cold penetrating from time to time.

Jackie and Jillie racing ahead to greet Max

We saw Max out, his face red with both exertion and cold, and we briefly stopped to talk. We saw also another man we'd got to know casually since last year, walking his yellow Lab and a neighbour's black Lab. We were glad to part company with him eventually because the big dogs were entirely too interested in our two little ones, making them very uncomfortable to the point that Jackie asked to be picked up to escape their intimidating attention.

But for those two, the ravine was empty of visitors, people exercising their options to remain indoors rather than expose themselves to this incredibly inclement weather.

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From the early 1950s onward we were inseparable. We recognized in one another our life's destiny, to be together forever. The early years were one of juvenile social cultivation focused on our early selection, he of me and me of him. Our lives became meaningful when we did things together, had shared experiences, explored ourselves and the world around us. Married in 1955, this is just what our future realized, from the time we were children to the present, a devoted and loving pair who value life with one another, our marriage now of over sixty years' duration.

When we were children and Valentine's Day came around it was marked with a heart-shaped box of chocolates, a piece of inexpensive jewellery; some trinket or another; usually one-way-directed, and it was a delightful, unpretentious event. Occasionally it would be marked by a social event that would take us out to see a film or to go dancing at a social hall. Sometimes with friends, sometimes not.

This was well before we balked at the bald commercialization of recognized social events and the price tags that invariably came with their recognition. And then, almost before we noticed the years passing, there were three small children for whom the event could be made over into a colourful and happy occasion with the cutting out of cartoon shapes, crayon colouring and eventually doling them out to school classmates.

When it became not only a commercial occasion but a popularity contest we drew back from the occasion with nothing less than fastidious distaste. Long since then there has been sporadic recognition on our part of this popular but unfortunately celebrity-facade event, translated into an occasion we could find more palatable, as a private little joke between ourselves. We seldom exchange anything in recognition of the day between us, though we haven't been entirely averse to doing so with others on the rare occasion.

But like all such popular events when people are enthused about being nice to one another and displaying rare attitudes of kindness and care for one another, we step back from involvement. What should be natural has become a popularity contest, a buy-in of social-commercial manipulation. It is a matter of of subjective taste, of course that we find it pitiful that people need to be reminded of our civil and charitable obligations to those closest to us.

We find it far more congenial to our personal values that we appreciate one another every minute of every day and demonstrate our love and gratitude in full measure through meaningful, constant small ackowledgements that include smiles, hugs and snuggles, kisses and genuine enquiries of one another equating with love and care.