First it was my daughter some years back, to my disbelief, telling me she was suffering from chilblains. I couldn't believe it. I remember in the dim and distant past reading books about poverty stricken people in Britain in the 19th century and chilblains was a common affliction during the winter months. It was true, she was diagnosed with them, and I felt so badly for her. A year ago I first had my own encounter with the malaise. Not pleasant. And this year discrete areas of my hands/fingers erupt in small red, angry patches that become painful cuts. I imagine my exposure to cold through our ravine hikes and my constant hand-immersion in water doing household chores in the winter has gifted me with them. There are worse things.

 

 

Yesterday Irving got a little sentimental. I had gone downstairs to the basement, with Jackie and Jillie traipsing after me, and he was there, at one of the bookshelves, looking through old poetry journals and chapbooks, re-reading some of my old published poetry. He found them, he said, extremely well expressed, very personal, and thought I was a great writer. Occasionally he says things like that. And bemoans the fact that I no longer send out any of my poetry for publication consideration. I just don't.

 

 

Partly because I can't bother, partly because I publish them myself, on line. Every day. Because I tend for the most part to feel inclined through a sudden burst of inspiration to write a poem. Every day. I derive great satisfaction from it, and it seems like an indulgence to my feverish muse. Writing, it must be said, has always been a passion for me. Just as reading has been. They go well together.

 

 

I should know, I've been flirting with both for long enough. Considering that when I was a child my parents, too poor to buy me toys, did procure the occasional book for me and eventually introduced me to the children's section of a local public library. That was a long, long time ago. Today I've passed a milestone of some kind. For another day, I'm 84 years and 11 months, 364 days of age. I've had ample practise.

 

 

Today also, we hied ourselves and our two officious little overseers out to the ravine for a long hike through forest trails. The day began with light snow that briefly turned heavy, then petered out. And the sun came out to cast its brilliance across the newfallen coverlet. But by the time we felt like leaving the house for the ravine, banks of silvery clouds had obscured the sun, though no more snow fell. 

 

No wind, -3C, but damp, so it felt cold. But we were all well dressed for the cold and trundled ourselves down into the ravine, Jackie and Jillie racing well before us, as usual. The water in the creek was low, and it was dark. We could see where several dogs had gone in for a dip in the frigid water, leaving a trail of dense, dark drops when they emerged. The water in fact looked pretty dense with floating detritus and long-haired dogs carry it out with them, shaking off the excess, and carrying the rest along with them as it gradually dissipates, leaving an easily-read trail behind.

 

Jackie and Jillie have never expressed any curiosity about the creek or any wish to enter it for which we're grateful. The creek is essentially treated as a storm run-off for the municipality and there's little doubt it also contains run-off from nearby farm fields, best avoided for optimum health. There are days when it seems a little physically arduous to clamber uphill to reach the forest's main trails on the spine of the ravine, but today wasn't one of them. So we agreed to continue on for a longer hike, since we had decided yesterday to forego our usual daily outing.

 

There were plenty of people from the wider community with the same thought in mind. We must have come across at least twenty, twenty-five other hikers. Some so grim-faced one has the impression they believe the forest floor would crack into a wide crevasse and swallow them as punishment for smiling. Or even acknowledging a friendly greeting.

Meeting up with someone we know, and our puppies given the opportunity to run about a bit with someone else's dog they're familiar with, is compensation, however. When we returned home I told Irving I felt like staying out a bit longer, and I'd shovel the porch and walkway. He knows how much I enjoy doing that; it's actually exhilarating for me. While I was at it, I decided to shovel the walks in the backyard, and when I finished that, I did the driveway. Not much snow, likely no more than 4cm, but it was amenable to being shovelled away.