Although I have a wide repertoire of recipes in my capacious memory resulting from a half-century and more of baking exploits, I always have a sense of curiosity looking at the food section that appears weekly in the local newspaper we subscribe to. Or any other I may come across as well. And occasionally I come across a recipe that looks promising, so I'll cut it out neatly and put it away in a file that I can extract from when I feel I'd like to try it out.

There was one such recipe this week, 'Berry Citrus Squares' that looked appealing. Yesterday morning I went about preparing and baking this recipe I'd taken out of the paper on Wednesday.  There was a shortbread-type base of butter, icing sugar and flour. And a filling of 4 eggs mixed with sugar, baking powder, a small amount of flour, 1/3 cup lemon juice, tsp of grated lemon peel, all poured over the baked crust which had been scattered with a cup and a half of blueberries. It took longer to bake than I'd anticipated, but finally it was done and set aside for Friday night dessert.

That done, I set about making an ordinary bread dough that we would use tonight, making our Saturday-night pizza. And then another dough with a milk and egg base and a tad of organic honey that I planned to use to make croissants. There was a time that I baked croissants at least weekly. And because my husband enjoys them so much I've decided to take up that tradition again and weekly, on Friday, bake croissants to accompany our Friday night meal. My husband crumbles some of his croissant into the chicken soup with rice that begins Friday night's dinner.

We had chicken breasts roasted with ginger, garlic, chopped onion, sliced yellow bell pepper and sliced tomatoes topped with soy sauce and olive oil. Accompanying it my husband's favourite potato and onion pudding, and apart from that roasted cauliflower. With the parsnips and carrots that are in the soup, the tomato-pepper sauce that results from being done with the chicken, the cauliflower, that meal presents quite an array of vegetables.

And then came the piece de resistance (or so I regard the follow-up dessert). And it was, plainly speaking, quite awful. Devoid of flavour and fragrance, dull and unappetizing, no appeal whatever to its texture, it was a miserable disappointment. Win some, lose some. I do far better with my own wide repertoire of recalled recipes often altered over time to reflect little twists and torques that I've added over the years. So much for seeking out other bakers' versions of fortuitous flavour and ingredient pairings. This one a dismal failure.

When my husband went out to do the grocery shopping yesterday he took a nominal list with him to remind him what I needed in the kitchen to prepare the week's meals. As for choices in produce, I leave that up to him, apart from the standbys that we cannot do without; tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, lettuce, perhaps snowpeas and daikon, sometimes fennel. And then of course, garlic heads, sweet and cooking onions, potatoes, parsnips. Yesterday he also chose asparagus, cauliflower and corn. Corn? Too early in the season for me.

But I suspect my husband was feeling a bit of premature nostalgia for carefree summer meal preparations depending heavily on the barbecue, and since the supermarket was advertising first-of-the-crop California corn -- yes, trucked in all the way from California -- he bought a few ears for us, and an 'extra' one for our resident raccoon. Yep, one for the raccoon. Which my husband dutifully stripped and put out for the raccoon's delectation.

As it happens, it appears that raccoons are no more intelligent at making nutritious choices for themselves than most people. Two bites were taken out of the corn before it was set aside, and the raccoon opted instead for the stale leftover bread products that were available to him recently deposited in the composter. This is a raccoon with a mind of its own, and it doesn't mind displaying its choices, even with an audience.

A few days back I was in the gardens at the front of the house, just after we'd returned from an early afternoon ravine walk. Having collected washed eggshells for the past two months I had decided to finally distribute them around the perimeter area of the countless hostas we have in our gardens, finally beginning to push their way out of the recently-thawed soil. I happened to be standing close to the feeding station my husband still stocks for area wildlife.

And I became aware of a movement a close distance from me, turned my head and there was the raccoon, arrested in motion, having spotted me just as I had him. I reassured him in a low, calm voice that everything was all right, he had no reason to be alarmed, and I suggested that he just proceed with what he had intended, and he obviously agreed with me.

He continued his approach to the feeding station, and I stood still for a moment as he did so, then I moved off to create a little more distance between us while continuing to scatter crushed eggshell on the soil to deter any slugs that might have plans to gnaw on the hosta foliage leaving an unsightly mess. I tended to my business and the raccoon to us.

I usually take my little camera along when we go off on a ravine walk. I was wearing the same jacket against the wind and cool temperatures, and realized I had the camera close to hand, so out it came with the raccoon obligingly the silent target of a few photographs.

It has been surprisingly cold lately, and windy. We've had little rain and plenty of sun but the cold and the wind haven't made for a pleasant April. Somehow, we always expect some magical and instant transformation to take place when March departs and April marches in to replace the winter uncertainties of March weather. And it's true we do have the occasional day that convinces us we will no longer need jackets and mittens to keep warm while outdoors.

We keep thinking that this April has been unusual in its relentless cold and windy conditions. In the ravine most of the snow and ice has receded, but there are remaining patches of ice and snow, and in one particular part of the trail the ice is so thick it seems it will never melt, although memory does serve correctly to remind us that this is a yearly ritual; our need to bypass that part of the trail until the ice finally does relent.

I've got a newly-acquired rose bush that I want to plant, and although I'm reasonably certain it will be fine planted right now, I've hesitated to take the gamble. Last night the temperature plunged to minus-three degrees, and by morning it notched up to the freezing mark. This is a floribunda, not a particularly cold-resistant rose, so I guess I'd better wait awhile yet.

What I did do right after our ravine walk was go about the garden to sprinkle crushed egg shells around the perimeter of as many of our hostas as I had shells for. I'd been collecting them for the past two months, and many of the hostas are beginning to show signs of new life. Little did I imagine that Jackie and Jillie would find those egg shells inviting. But they have. They will give anything a try, and without doubt the eggshells, though long dry, still retain the odour of eggs, and they're familiar with eggs, being given them as a treat often at breakfast time.

Last night when I wrote a few lines in my daily diary about the day just past, I riffled back through the pages to find last year's entry at this same time of year. Unsurprisingly, because I've done this before during different times of the year, I find that some lugubrious passages about recalcitrant spring were recorded. In fact, same dates, earlier year, but the notations are similar; cold, wind, rain and anxiety over whether spring will ever surprise us with continuous days of balmy, sunny weather.

I can recall earlier springs, when I've been lulled by a string of lovely days, readily convinced that summer is just around the corner, when I've taken possession of ready-to-plant annuals, feeling it's time to inject some form and colour in the garden, only to have to rush out night after night to try to cover them to shelter the tender annuals from a succession of frost-heavy nights. At least we no longer submit to that kind of foolishness, and content ourselves to wait until around the end of May before we commit to risking losing those beautiful flowers to an early expiration.

We've got a few patches of anemones up, and tulip foliage, but no flowers yet; the same with alliums. Patience certainly is a virtue, but it seems I'm short in its possession. I did find that the snakeshead fritillary is struggling to survive, having been crowded by the passionate presence of the red-leafed heuchera that proliferates so robustly in the rock garden.

Just before my husband left his position as a Dominion Customs Appraiser with Customs and Excise, a new recruit fresh out of university joined his department. They had but a short time to become acquainted before my husband left to join International Trade. Many years later when we moved to our current home when I was walking up our street from the bus stop after work a man stopped me. At that point we hadn't yet been introduced to all of our neighbours. He introduced himself as the owner of a house up the street, across from ours, and an old colleague of my husband's. Turned out he was the fresh young university recruit.

He and his wife had three very young children. Ours were then in their 30s and off on their own. Their youngest was a beautiful little boy of two, given to playing in his driveway with an assortment of little trucks, not often seen, as  he grew older, in the company of other young children on the street. Their two daughters, older, were beautiful girls, one short and neatly packaged with brunette hair, the other tall and blonde. In time all three children attended university though the boy dropped out while his sisters went on to achieve professional degrees.

They were over at our house yesterday afternoon for a bit of a chat. Usually our chats take place in the out-of-doors, come-by-chance as we pass on our way to the ravine's ingress just up the street for our usual daily walk in the forest with our little dogs. We had retired twenty years earlier, and they were relatively new retirees. He took up guitar playing and cooking classes, and she loved puttering around the garden, much as I do. She is handicapped, however, as I am not, with arthritis. And she recently underwent knee surgery. She moves slowly and awkwardly, and with obvious difficulty.

It is odd how life has this habit of throwing people together who at one time shared something in their lives. By chance, another man who was a young inductee into the federal civil service fresh out of university whose father was a colleague of my husband's also moved to this street with his wife. There is little physical resemblance to be recognized in this corpulent man to link him with the lanky, tall young man my husband recalls. But he is now another retiree, although he does consultancy work on contract.

This street which we moved to twenty-five years ago, is quiet, backing on an area forested ravine, seeing little traffic, a perfect place to raise children. And most people who had moved to the street several years before we did, into newly-built houses did have young children to raise. The very young children whom we became familiar with went through the usual childhood phases, and we knew them all. Friendships were made between them, and later broken, and eventually children attended post-secondary institutions and made their break with the street, moving on to live lives of their own.

This has become a street of retirees. Sprinkled with the presence of young families as people move out of their homes into more manageable spaces more congruent with their physical needs and abilities. And the process of life ongoing continues.

Our local raccoons are frequent visitors. At this time of year they come by nightly. We've seen, on occasion, a mother raccoon and three of her  youngsters. Last year, early winter before hibernation all of them crowded onto the feeding platform at the front of the house that my husband keeps filled with birdseed and peanuts. That was during the night, when it was dark, though in winter it gets dark fairly early in the late afternoon.

Last year at this season we began to see those same juveniles ambling about during daylight hours. My husband thinks it's because they're hungry that these normally nocturnal creatures come out when it's light, but I think it's simply because they're confident and familiar. And they know where they will find treats. Raccoons are supremely adaptable, and they have become urban dwellers, easily searching out food sources to satisfy their needs.

We've seen them at dusk in Gatineau Park when we've been canoeing, at the shoreline picking among the mollusks that can be found, leaving piles of shells where they've parked themselves and held their evening feasts. We watched them amble leisurely along, unfazed by the presence of humans, just as on occasion we'd seen deer stretch themselves to temporarily lift on their hind legs to reach ripening apples on wild apple trees.

And over the years we've seen successions of raccoon families come and go. Occasionally surprising ourselves and them when we've seen an adult along with a little tribe of five or six little ones arranged on a tree limb, peering down at the strange creatures that lope along on two legs, so disadvantaged by nature.

Yesterday we were treated to the sight of one of the juveniles ensconcing himself in the late morning's bright light, within one of the composters. The lids are always left slightly ajar so they can easily set them aside to gain entry. And we regularly deposit kitchen waste about three times weekly in the composters, which they find compellingly attractive. So this little fellow was sitting on the pile within the composter, alert to our presence, but confidently continuing to eat away.

My husband places obstacles in the path of our two little dogs to ensure they don't poke around the composters, both to keep them from eating what they should not, and to make certain they don't experience any run-ins with raccoons, better adapted than they are in tooth and claw to self-protection.

We thought that surely Jack and Jill could smell the presence of the raccoon just a few feet from where they stood, but they gave no indication that they had and we imagine that's because the odour of raccoon is always pregnant on the air due to their constant forays in the backyard.

We watched the enterprising fellow for awhile, took a few photographs, then resumed what we were doing indoors. An hour or so later, there was that same -- or another -- raccoon at the front of the house, availing himself industriously of the new oiled black sunflower seeds my husband continues to put out for the birds and the squirrels. And there he remained for another half hour or so, until he was sated, before ambling off again.

The face of evil gloated over east-end Toronto in the late 1980s with a string of unsolved rapes. Eventually it was discovered that the rapist was a young married man. And that he and his wife later abducted two schoolgirls, imprisoned, tortured and raped them before murdering them. They then turned their sights to the wife's younger sister and she too became a target for rape and murder.

That pair, Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka, exulted in the sexual gratification and joy they took in committing those atrocities that so shocked the Canadian public. Before full details were found implicating Paul Bernardo the Crown made a plea deal with Karla Homolka whereby she would reveal to police where documentation in the form of a video could be found in their house, and in exchange she would receive a lighter sentence.

And then it was disclosed through viewing the videos that she was his hideous match in the pleasure they took in torturing and raping young girls. She was an active participant, to enable her to gain the experience she craved alongside her depraved husband. He is serving a life sentence for his crimes and she served her sentence amounting to 11 years in prison, and on her release took on the persona of another person.

Within that other person lives an unrepentant monster. Who just incidentally has remarried and in the interim of her release gave birth to three children. The woman who enjoyed serving up agonizing pain to the children of others now nurtures children of her own. She returned from a sojourn abroad to live with her husband and children in a Montreal suburb.

Days ago it was revealed where she lived, where her children attend school, and how their neighbours discovering who she is, are reacting. Journalists tracked her presence, interviewed neighbours, school officials, psychologists and others to obtain reaction, then duly published in the newspapers. Reaction has ranged from horror and disgust that this affront to humanity is living a 'normal' life, to metaphorical shrugs and support for her as a free agent having served society's penalty against crime.

The nature of the crimes she took part in defies forgiveness, let alone comprehension. So when I read in the newspapers of this vicious woman's obvious self-entitlement expectations and that some segments of society are fully prepared to believe that she has 'paid' in full her obligation to society and justice for the unspeakable atrocities she was responsible for, I gag.

And then I wonder what the chances are that a violent and vicious sexual psychopath would find his soul mate in a woman whose own deviant desires and lack of compassion would echo his own. Enabling them together to launch an attack on society's belief that within their midst there is safety for their children from predators whose appetites are so disengaged from anything but the primordial muck of gratification only to discover that among us will be victims whose harm was too evil to believe.

But then there are precedents. Highly civilized, moral and conscious Germany whose culture was a beacon of literary and artistic and social highlights for humanity, became in a generation a sordid maelstrom of mass atrocities and the vector for near-success in its dedication to genocide.

From the truly ridiculous with little-to-no redeeming features, to the sublime, a choice we had last night in what we would view in a feature film. My husband had gone to the library and brought back with him a few video film selections. For some unknowable (to me) reason, my husband favours Michael Caine, a fourth-rate film personage, so he put on Kingsman, The Secret Service, and we watched briefly as the film plummeted to the extreme of absurdity, its humour pitiful as an ostensible send-up of spectacular failure.

Next up was the incomparable Anonymous. A film without peer. In fact, an incomparably distinguished and imaginative view of British peerage and their conspiracies in the Elizabethan age. We settled in to watch a spellbinding interpretation of the legacy of William Shakespeare steeped in the mystery that continues to surround the Immortal Bard whose superb understanding of human nature hold us spellbound even now, and whose dramas and comedies have fascinated the world for the past four hundred years.

Who this man actually was, other than the Bard of Avon he is presumed to be on the scant record has never quite reached agreement, with historical experts maintaining that his true identity was deliberately kept hidden from all who acclaimed him, past and present, as the brilliant playwright whose sublime mastery of language remains unsurpassed.

The film is riddled with mystery, drawing upon itself to bring its penetrating intrigue to its audience. Ben Johnson, a celebrated wordsmith on his own account who was a contemporary of William Shakespeare, is often cited as the authentic voice of Shakespeare. But though he is shown to be deeply involved in the Shakespeare conspiracy posited by the film, his role is as a frontman to the true author of those literary classics that have withstood the ravages of theatrical time, in service to the secrecy required by the aristocratic personage of the Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere.

The drama that unfolds is enrapturing. The acting is superb. The sets and costumes are sumptuous. And the storyline seems plausible enough. The political temper of the times is portrayed with dramatic flourish, as are the urban myths surrounding Elizabeth I whose political alliances and bedroom adventures are often alluded to but unproven in the historical account of her lengthy tenure as Monarch of the British Isles and its vast global holdings. How the film portrays her sexuality adds a sinister air of intrigue to this convoluted and gripping film.

Our attention was certainly riveted to the ongoing drama.

Yesterday the ravine resembled a swampy bog. And there are still stretches of trail that are thick with ice. The night before unrelenting rain had lashed our landscape. By morning it was still dark when it should have been light, and rain continued to fall. It wasn't quite a Biblical flood but at this time of year when rain events occur they do have the appearance of never stopping as though a raincloud of universal proportions has settled over the Earth and will never dissipate. At those times we gain the uncomfortable impression that we live in a gigantic fish tank.

But the rain did eventually relent, although the day remained dark, a bit cooler, and windy. A day when caution advised to go out for a ravine walk adequately geared. We shoved Jack and Jill's little raincoats in our own rainjacket pockets and set off.

Before the all-night rain had broken we'd had a sunny, warmish day and we wondered how long before we'd see the first indication that woodland wildflowers would be making their appearance? We'd already seen a clump of coltsfoot, and knew that it was likely the next showing would be the presence of trout lilies. So as we approached that portion of the forest floor off the trail where we knew that large colonies of trout lilies always appear in the spring, we had a keen lookout.

Trillium

Thinking for certain the mild overnight temperature linked with the rain would awaken seasonal realization that it was time for botanical specimens to raise themselves out of the ground, we made an especial effort to be vigilant, and we were rewarded. There, rising in triumphant little spurts of green were the pointed sprouts of trout lilies making themselves evident.

Foamflower

And so, on we went, remarking to each other how much rainwater had accumulated on the forest floor in small ponds because the drenching rain had proven to the thirsty soil that it was still in the throes of absorbing the spring melt-off of snow and ice, it could welcome no more, and so a waiting period would ensue. Again, we peered where we knew trilliums would soon appear, and were rewarded with the sighting of a few first-of-the-crop triple-foliage without their shy crimson flower buds.

Violets

As we passed a few honeysuckle bushes we saw they were flush with small new leaves. Cattails dripped from hazelnut bushes and alongside them tiny green leaves. One lonely little gingerroot plant had emerged. So had a small clump of foamflower, and further along another part of the ravine's interior woodland violets. The season of birth and renewal is well underway. There is a slight flush of yellow, seen from a distance over the poplars.

Ginger

It takes some effort of course, but I like being neat and tidy and clean. When everything -- well almost everything -- has a defined place and inhabits that space meant for it, it makes cleaning itself easier. And if there's something that connects us all, it's our occupation of endlessly cleaning up after ourselves. Not to do so invites chaos.

So I don't like clutter -- who does, if it can be avoided? And it usually can be avoided if we don't collect around ourselves more than we need, particularly keeping in mind our restricted spaces. We're not minimalists by any measure, my husband and I. If anything we err on the opposite side of having too many possessions. But they fit tidily into our living space, and as long as we avoid being too conspicuously packed up with stuff, we like what we have arranged for ourselves.

It wouldn't be too hard for either of us to acquire and accumulate what we don't really need, to excess. We're halfway there as it is. We don't need but a small proportion of all that we have. Human acquisitiveness is alive and well, and always has been. We could do without, but since we don't have to, we choose not to.

Back to the neat and tidy and clean. It's just easier to achieve a balance in life when you can also motivate yourself to continually ensure that you've taken those steps to make your home clutter-free. So that's what we do. There are certain areas of the house, however, where things accumulate. My husband has a penchant for not letting things go. Bits and pieces that can be used, sometime, somewhere for some purpose. And most often he eventually identifies the purpose and uses those bits and pieces.

As for me, I grow fond of things but apart from that I always think it would be wasteful to let things go that still can be used. Which is why I've kept items of clothing that have served me well over the years and deserve a rest, but I don't feel comfortable parting with them. It's obviously something I have to work on.

It's spring, and at this time of year we begin to see signs cropping up everywhere for garage sales or yard sales signifying that people have been rummaging through their belongings, and discarding outgrown or no-longer-useful durables and so they put them up for sale. We do the same thing, but prefer not to sell them; rather we take those things over to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop for them to sell to enable them to get on with their important social welfare programs.

There were a few interesting items in the news lately. About people who hoard. Hoarding is considered a mental pathology; that is, serious hoarding where people stuff so many things in their living spaces there is little room to actually live normally. Moreover, it's dangerous hygienically as well as being a fire hazard. For the most part it's been determined that people who compulsively hoard have other mental problems that perhaps lead to the unbridled collection of all manner of cast-offs.

The obvious benefits of cleansing oneself of the possession of unneeded and dispensable items is the satisfaction achieved when looking around and appreciating the sudden realization that your life has been improved an iota or so by removing things from your intimate surroundings that simply have no legitimate or reasonable place there.

We were glad to see them and glad to accommodate them on their migratory route back to northern Canada from their wintertime haven south of the border, but as much pleasure as it gave us to watch them congregate in our front garden, perching in the trees, swooping down in a mass flight of a hundred or so at a time, making the walkway, thick with their numbers appear as though it was a living, moving, hopping, shifting hallucination, we're equally glad to see them depart.

They were here for three weeks at the very least. Their very numbers intimidating to our local birds, who gave us wide berth for the period when the redpolls flocked to our feeding stations; they monopolized the stations in overwhelming numbers. We felt responsible to satisfy their needs and bought many more bags of blackoiled sunflower seeds than we normally would, to do so.

And so birds that normally arrive at the feeding stations failed to; no doubt they found other places to satisfy their hunger. We had, in any event, kept them going throughout the long, cold and snowy months of winter.

But now that the redpolls have finally departed, the doves and the juncos, the chickadees and the nuthatches, goldfinches and the cardinals and the song sparrows have returned. And they've been joined by other migrants like purple finches and the occasional woodpecker and crows. Of them all, it seems to us that the crows are the most alert and flighty.

But they're back and so are the squirrels in all their quarrelsome numbers, red, black, grey, and the delightful little chipmunks that we so admire. Not to mention a juvenile raccoon that also makes its way to the feeding platform during daylight hours, unwilling to confine itself to nighttime visits to our backyard composter.

Partially it's because they're still in their puppy-stage, at just a year and a half, and likely partly because there are two of them, and they're a breed that is frantically active, they seem incapable of being still, always on the move. And since there are two, they seem to feed off one another's energy, constantly challenging one another to races, to bouts of pugilistic tourneys that might be the envy of professional wrestlers and boxers, translated into human action.

Jillie (left) Jackie (right)

They do provide us with opportunities to enjoy life in a different way. Their antics and their curiosity leading them to do things that surely by now they understand we'd prefer them not to, brings laughter to us. Their presence has a balancing effect on our lives.

And of course their physical well-being is always of concern to us, that they be healthy and develop into a beneficial maturity to enhance their lives and our own.

Jillie

Their appearance is not, to me, 'cute'. They might have been if they were smaller, more cuddly in appearance. They're registered formally with the Canadian and American kennel clubs as toy poodles, but I doubt anyone has ever seen that breed grow to the size that ours has. Even when they were three months of age they looked like miniature poodles. But, we were taken by them, and decided, since there were but two in the litter, to take them both home with us.

Jackie

As for 'cute', try to convey that in photographs. They simply are not photogenic. And it's almost impossible to impress upon them the need to remain still for a moment in time so a photograph with a bare hint of verisimilitude can be taken. They look gangly and ill groomed. Partly, I suppose, because I'm their groomer; they've never been professionally groomed. 

They are playmates and enjoy one another, yet they are not that deeply devoted that they cannot be separated. They seem to take everything in stride. Separations have been brief, but surprising to us since we anticipated that they would pine for one another, but nothing of the kind happened when we once had Jackie, the little male, stay overnight in hospital. Nor did they greet one another with the kind of puzzled ecstasy they reserve for us when we're absent for a bit having left them home alone (admittedly a rare occasion).

Jillie (left) Jackie (right)

Their expressions, particularly the manner in which their eyes scrutinize and deliver messages, real or imagined on our part, seem to tell us much, but how can we really know? It's clear enough that they are entirely dependent on us, Jackie and his sister Jillie, even though we'd prefer them to be a little more independent and resilient, but it isn't going to happen.

In the meantime, we share our lives with them, and they theirs with us, and for the time being that satisfies all of us.

No surprise, less than one year south of 80 I'm somewhat old-fashioned in my habits. Like cleaning the house, using dusters and dry mops on floors. So yesterday when I was going through the weekly ritual of house-cleaning, with a little bit added to the usual chores tipping the hat to spring cleaning I had been shaking a handful of lambswool dusters free of whatever they had picked up skimming them over objects to be dusted in the house, bopping them out on the bricks at the front of the house, leaning out the front door, as someone unusual caught my eye.

Earlier in the morning my husband mentioned that he'd seen a juvenile raccoon starting to shimmy up the pole where we have two bird feeders hung. When the raccoon noticed that it was being noticed it changed its mind and hurriedly made off the scene. I mentioned to my husband that I couldn't understand why the little fellow didn't just approach the far more convenient feeding platform that we have out for the squirrels, which birds also go to.

And there, with half my body out the front door, shaking out the dusters, was the same little guy cautiously but not entirely improvidently continuing his search for food. Only this time as he rounded the garage and entered the garden he was heading for the platform. My presence seemed not to faze him the slightest. As I continued banging out the dusters, he just continued his sinuous way forward and installed himself under the roof of the platform and began daintily picking away at the offerings of nuts and seeds.

I watched him for awhile, fascinated by his heedless occupation, making not the slightest effort to be vigilant, aware of my presence just a few feet away, and happily munching on the goodies. The way he was behaving with the offerings was just the very same way we could observe our little dogs digging into their crunchy food. The little raccoon looked comfortable and he continued until he had satisfied his hunger.

Although our local raccoons visit our backyard composters nightly now that warmer weather has finally arrived, it doesn't take long before kitchen waste decomposes. So this little guy obviously hadn't been able to find anything suitable to his taste at the composters on this occasion. Glad we gave him the opportunity otherwise to achieve satiety.

Yesterday was so blissfully warm, we opened our windows, my husband washed the car, we lifted away, washed and stored winter mats set down at all entrances to the house, and decided in view of the fact that we didn't even need light jackets, to forego putting on our cleats over our hiking boots even though we knew that some of the trails are still covered with ice and snow. We figured they would be sufficiently denaturized to enable us to get along without any trouble. Wrong.

It isn't called a forest ravine for nothing. If all the trails were on flat ground, we would have managed fine without the cleats, but uphill and downhill trails require traction, and with the thick remaining layers of snow and ice, it became a struggle. My husband didn't encounter too many difficulties, but I kept sliding and slipping, and he helped me to gain the traction I needed, so I only suffered one fall, no harm done.

Today, on came the cleats. And since we'd gone out earlier than usual in the day to miss the predicted afternoon rain, we also had light jackets on. The sun came out sporadically. But clouds were steadily moving in. Jackie and Jillie were happy enough to be out earlier than usual, there's just so many intriguing fragrances for them to explore, and they saw plenty of other dogs out, including a very small Boston bull terrier they were able to run and frolic with.

We heard a cardinal and song sparrows also happy with the day. And we sighted the first evidence of spring flowers appearing in the ravine, an assembly of bright coltsfoot where we've never seen it before, at the topmost bank of the creek. The bright red of red osier dogwood is another flash of colour in an otherwise drab spring landscape.

Today, with our cleats restored, we negotiated all the ascents and descents with no slipping. The confidence to trod along without concern that you'll slip and perhaps fall enables one to fully appreciate the landscape, since attention can be directed there, not to balance and security.

Fifteen years ago when we had been living in this house that is our home for ten years, my husband decided it would be a good idea to make a number of alterations. He's been doing that ever since. Generally speaking, original finishes in most new houses that are not custom built, are not of a very high standard. And that fairly well describes most tract housing, even those in the middling-to-higher end. What builders do for the most part is to focus on finishes and accoutrements that look good, but their quality is of questionable durability and workmanship. This is veneer, to appeal to most people who like what they see at first glance and look no deeper.

The house we bought in 1991 had been built years after the other houses on the street. We were familiar with the builder, British in origin but well established in Canada. Our previous house to this one that we lived in for twenty years was built by the same builder, and this was a builder whose finished product was a decided cut above those of other area builders. The second house we bought from this builder was an experimental model, new in its open style construction, a house with a largish footprint, but a smaller living environment, as a result of two-story height rooms giving it a spacious, airy feel. To our knowledge that experiment was never repeated elsewhere in this city. We liked that spacious airy feel, but in the same token my husband immediately began changing all of it, closing some of the open concept to better suit our personal aesthetic.

Over the years he has made a wide number of changes to the house, of various dimensions. Of the more mundane changes was the work he did in the kitchen (the breakfast room, the powder room, the laundry room, etc.). The floor came first, to rip up the existing vinyl tiles and replace them with ceramic tiling. While he was at it, that ceramic tile crept up the walls as well. And since he was working in the kitchen he decided to rip out the existing counter tops, rebuild them more sturdily and tile them, as well. We were satisfied with the quality of the cupboards and they were retained.

So my husband rebuilt the counter tops (ditto for those in all the bathrooms)t, in the kitchen using the same tile that he had put on the floor, to top the central workplace island, and smaller white tile on the other kitchen counters, as well as the backsplashes. So of course he also replaced the kitchen faucet. We had used a counter-top water filter for years. New on the market was an American Standard faucet with sprinkler hose and built-in water filter capacity (the carbon filters themselves to be replaced from time to time). It wasn't cheap, but it came with a lifetime warranty. Five years or so after it was installed the sprinkler began leaking. A call to American Standard brought a replacement part, gratis under the warranty.

Now, ten years later again, another leak has developed in the replacement sprinkler hose, and yet another emailed request for replacement sent to American Standard has been honoured, and we're awaiting receipt of the replacement part so my husband can install it and restore the faucet to properly full functionality.

Today, finally, it feels as though spring is serious about its presence. We were able to keep the screen door to the deck open awhile, and Jackie and Jillie agitated continually to be out and about. And since it was so wonderfully warm, the sun's presence creeping onto the deck, I decided that I would groom our two little imps outside, on the deck. So assembling all the grooming scissors, brush and patience, we sat together on the deck, they and I, and the job was done.

My husband busied himself at the front of the house, shovelling the tons -- I kid you not -- of spent seeds from all of our bird feeders and feeding stations into compost bags to be hauled off for major composting by the municipality. While he was working, goldfinches and redpolls and squirrels still streamed out of the trees and onto the feeders when he briefly left the scene to bring in more compost bags.

We decided we'd go to the ravine for an early walk before bathing the newly groomed and oh so presentable little scamps, so off we went, light cotton jackets, no gloves for the first time in ages. Jackie and Jillie wore only their harnesses, the first time they've gone out into the ravine without even light coverings since late last fall. We don't think it really makes any difference to them, but they did seem to be particularly energized, full of vim and vinegar; piss too, if truth be told.

It was warmer even than yesterday, and tomorrow we've been informed by forecasters, will be warmer yet, with Monday topping it all with a 20-degree high. Most of the snow and ice has gone or is melting apace in the ravine, but there are still areas remaining where broad vistas of snow remain on the forest floor, and where the packed ice is six inches thick. Although we were dressed lightly, our feet were shod in boots and cleats.

Yesterday and today we saw our first Mourning Cloaks and small orange skippers, a sure sign of the season progressing firmly into spring, and about time.