There was Margaret, on her daily toddle around the block, waiting for me to reach the end of our driveway, spade in one hand, a dug-up begonia in the other. I was heading toward the garden adjacent the street curb, planning to replant the begonia from its original, overgrown site. So we stood there awhile, she and I, discussing family, events and happenings. She wanted to know how our trip to New Hampshire had gone. It wasn't nearly the length of time it took for her and Chris to drive several months back to Nova Scotia.

 Like me, Margaret doesn't drive, so it was left to Chris to manage that two days' drive. They usually make that trip several times a year to visit with family. She told me she had started a little flower garden at their place. Neighbours had offered cuttings and corms from their own gardens, and she was pleased with the results. Unlike Margaret, frail as a dandelion head who appears that any light gust of wind might tumble her over, I detest walking on the street and rarely do. So I would never make my way over as a pedestrian to her street. She, on the other hand, like most of the people in the community, has never been through the forest trails.

It hardly matters, we agree, how one takes physical exercise of any kind; whatever the preference, it all adds to one's health. She told me her osteoporosis condition is improving; medication, exercise and diet all helping her enormously. When she left I returned to my original intent, and transplanted a few more wax begonias to the back garden, then watered everything. Everything as in the gardens and the garden pots. Despite all our rain on an almost daily basis, everything seemed parched.

Earlier we had taken Jackie and Jillie out for an afternoon tramp through the ravine. Irving had gone out in the morning to search out a new set of handle/lock for the backyard fence. The one in place these past 30 years has begun behaving erratically. On his return, off we went. We had anticipated a sunny day, overcast in the morning; that's what the forecast was. Instead, we had the reverse.

But we did have the ravine to ourselves today. Absolutely no one out other than ourselves and our doughty leaders, Jackie and Jillie. After we had concluded our hour's circuit of the forest trails, we approached the creek to see if any goldfish could be spotted. Instead, what we saw was an early blooming stand of Queen Anne's Lace. Already! Not to be believed. I made my way down the bank to make certain my eyes weren't deceiving me, and sure enough, that's what it was.

We could also see across the creek and up on the bank oposite, the appearance of several more Black-eyed Susans, joining the original that Irving had spotted several weeks ago. Far too early for those beautiful stalwarts of the summer garden to bloom, as well. They had originally been seeded for a pollinating meadow in one stretch of the ravine and had gradually made their way, re-seeding themselves over the course of several years, alongside the bank of the creek, opposite us.

 

Suzanne was the last person we saw before leaving the ravine this morning. She was doing her usual morning Tai Chi routine. It's usually relatively private and that's what she seeks out. I can remember when we were living in Atlanta, walking in a public park and seeing an elderly Chinese woman whose grace and finesse was beyond admirable, not caring who saw her as she went through a graceful, intricate set of movements. Suzanne's are not of the same exquisite calibre, but she's concerned for good health and at her age, we can use all the help we can get. She told me once she aspires as she meanders into her elder years, to look and move as easefully as I do. Perhaps that's because I've never been loathe to do physical work and have always craved being within nature.

 

And so do a lot of other people. As could be evidenced from our decision early this morning to await other things and head straight out into the forest with Jackie and Jillie. A cool morning, but under clear blue skies the sun was warming the atmosphere nicely. When they realized we were getting set for an outdoor excursion, Jackie and Jillie burst into the kind of applause that tells us they're happy; racing madly about. And this time both headed straight for the laundry/mud room to be fitted with their halters and collars, a highly unusual display of docility and expectation not often seen by us.

 

The street was deserted as we made our way up to the ravine entrance, but it didn't take long before we began coming across others out with their dogs. In all our years making the most of the ravined forest we've never before seen the number of people who now recognize its presence and take advantage of it. If they're with companion dogs they usually greet others they pass. But not necessarily younger people, sometimes accompanied by truculently reluctant children, and frequently carrying take-out containers of Tim Horton's coffee.

 

Even so, there are long stretches of forest trail where we see no one else, and though we don't mind encountering other people, we're grateful there are still areas where others are loathe to enter. So we do in fact, enjoy times of serene peacefulness, away from the madding crowd, as it were. Without distractions we see the daily changes in the ravine, the wild apples beginning to appear as tiny green peas, the burgeoning of ferns, the size of the ostrich ferns taking our notice, the ripening of the hazelnuts and other features that draw our eyes.

 

By the time we returned home, blue sky had been obscured by swiftly oncoming cloud formations. So we were able to view the garden's little hidden landscapes without the early morning sun's glare. Lilies are now beginning to intrude on the roses' time of glory. And though some of the roses are beginning to fade, others are just coming into their stride. The ritual of the garden tour following the forest tramp has become familiar to Jackie and Jillie; they join us in our brief journey of admiration for the garden denizens.

It was nippy this morning when we left the house to do our grocery shopping; not surprising since the  temperature was quite low last night. As we left the house a chorus of high-pitched, piteous howls followed us into the garage, Jackie and Jillie voicing their misery at being left bereft of our presence for a few hours. On our return they leap about in ecstasy, must be endlessly petted in reassurance, with kisses all around.

It was surprising to see the products that appear in short supply prowling the aisles of the supermarket. I usually buy among other things, tuna tins for the Food Bank, and there have always been some priced at a modest $1.29, often cans of meat on sale, along with beans and cheese-and-noodle boxes. And when I buy tins of soup I look for the house brand, less expansive than the usual brands. For the last while the house brands have been overwhelmed by the presence of officially-branded soups (Heinz), everything has gone up in price and the shelves of canned fish were almost empty. I used to spend $15 weekly for non-perishables for the Food Bank, now it's $20 to $25 at a shopping.

At one time, I'd be depositing my bag of food donations into a large, mostly empty cage for the Food Bank collection. Now that large cage is always full, and shopping carts are added so people can deposit their offerings as overflow. That part of the community that isn't struggling to put food on the table, spending a little more to ensure that others in the community who need help with access to food doing what they can.

By the time we left the supermarket the atmosphere under a now-clear sky had warmed considerably. We decided to drop by a fruits-and-vegetables-specialty shop to augment what we'd bought at Food Basics. Breakfast melons have suddenly gone into short supply, and we were able to pick some up at Farm Boy. Along with strawberries locally grown (Il d'Orleans), green grapes, 'brown' tomatoes, fresh green beans, beautiful looking corn, and Kettleman's Bagels.

We took an early afternoon stroll through the ravine with Jackie and Jillie after our late breakfast. They did their usual madcap runabout in the house in their excitement; from bedroom to bathroom (where I was changing) onto the loveseat, and sproing! from it to the bed and back again. But they play coy, especially Jillie, when we prepare them for our outing. Neither particularly like being harnessed, but once it's on them, they forget about it. It's just that we won't attach their leashes to their collars; not a good idea for small dogs.

 We had some rain overnight again and the constant rain events interspersed with more than adequate sun, has spurred everything to tremendous growth. It was so pleasant ambling along the trails on a warm, not hot day with a cooling breeze and the sun streaming through the forest canopy that we took our time and went off a little further on an elongated circuit. 

At home again, once J&J had their obligatory (for me) salad, I chopped some broccoli and zapped it briefly with butter in the microwave. Then I went back out to begin doing some garden work. Cutting back spent vegetation and filling a few compost bags with the results. Work that, despite the relatively cool temperature, warmed me up considerably. So, hot and kind of tired I finished up, satisfied with tidying up the garden and its containing brickwork that Irving had worked part of a spring and summer to accomplish twenty years ago, from excavation to cutting and laying stonework, then brickwork; infrastructure that has stood the test of time.

Back in the house again, I put together a vegetable casserole of broccoli, green onion, celery, bell pepper, tomato, ground pepper, sweet basil leaves from the garden, and grated Grana Pandano and aged cheddar for dinner. That will go into the oven for about a half-hour or so before serving, and prefacing it will be corn on the cob. And for dessert -- what else? -- fresh strawberries! 

As compensation for tolerating an all-vegetable meal, Irving gets to partially cook tomorrow's planned dinner. Steaks on the barbecue, and his specialty barbecue-fried potatoes. He'll tolerate the green beans that will accompany the steaks. He might decide to switch the potatoes for garlic bread...

After the immoderate heat of the last half-week we've turned to relief-mode, with more moderate temperatures and no sign of rain on the near horizon in our already-drenched landscape. The garden is thriving, it cannot possibly ask for anything more than the copious amounts of rainfall, the beaming sun and the warmth. All the plants are jostling with one another for space and some of them are downright rude about it, encroaching on each other's allotted share of the garden. 

We decided despite that it's house-cleaning day and the front lawn needs to be mowed, we'd slip out of the house before breakfast again for a hike through the forest. Jackie and Jillie, sensing our intent went a little berserk, racing at quite the excited clip after one another, slipping and sliding with the scatter rugs, stopping briefly to wrestle, then at it again.

On our way to the ravine entrance, there was Imeran out bright and early preparing to cut his family lawn. We've known him since he was two years old, and that's 30 years ago. He still lives at home, a tight little family unit, loving and co-dependent. He's the most pleasantly engaging, sweet young man imaginable. If he gets any demerits from me, it's his penchant for brands. Which led him to sign a three-year contract for a MercedesBenz. 

He's had it for ten months and obviously hadn't bothered checking with Consumer Reports on the wisdom of driving that particular brand. One of the computer chips in the over-reliant-on-electronics vehicle went a few months back and it took three months for a replacement to arrive. Now the battery is dead. And with that car the wheels won't move. The company he leased the car from sent along three different tow trucks to get the car out of the garage. Only the last one was able to; it had a lift. The dealership wanted him to sign a contract that he would be responsible for damages if anything went wrong with its extraction.

It's really a seller's market now. He hasn't been offered a courtesy car and there's been no word on what's gone wrong with this top-of-the-line brand yet. Evidently the battery comes in at $4000. When Irving takes his vehicles in to a garage to have it oiled against salt-induced rust for winter driving, he's always given a courtesy car, but these car dealers know how much in demand their luxury vehicles are, despite their abysmal performance.

On we went finally, to the forest. At 22C and a brisk wind it was beyond pleasant. The trails are still mired in muck, but the vegetation is thriving. We're already seeing the presence of tiny apples on the wild apple trees. We came across another baneberry shrub in full brilliant red colour. Blackberries are already forming their berries, and the thimbleberries are blooming to rival the gardens at home. 

Ah, the gardens at home, after an hour of hiking the trails and seeing old hiking friends, exchanging news and moving on, we tarried awhile in the garden, assessing the flowering there. Some of the roses are exhausting themselves, they've bloomed prodigiously this year. Nothing yet needs watering, so we decided to leave things for another day. With the exception of mowing the lawn. We have so many mature trees, the spruces keep dropping cones, the hawthorns needles,and the weeping pea, powdery-mildewed foliage. It all accumulates.

Jackie and Jillie wandered about the garden as well. Keen to avoid the presence of anything black in flight. They hate flies, likely had some encounters that displeased them mightily. If, on occasion a fly gets into the house they're instantly alarmed and do their best to capture it, though rarely can. 

We subscribe to two daily print newspapers that get delivered to our door each morning. While breakfast feeds our bodies the newspapers feeds our minds. One is a local newspaper, the other a national one. And as a bonus a free community newspaper is also delivered along with these, weekly. Yesterday when Irving brought in the newspaper, he noticed a tabloid-sized paper stuffed into our mailbox, not on the hanger meant for newspapers, and he brought it into the house along with the others.

A quick glance at the name didn't ring any bells, but it did tickle one's fancy: 'Druthers'. Obviously a paper whose content is meant to satisfy the reader's often-frustrated irritation at the all-too-obvious ideological bias of the printed news by columnists who make no secret of their political orientation. Our first impression was that this might turn out to be an alternative voice we might want to subscribe to.

An impression that quickly dissipated even with a cursory glance through the sections addressing issues as disparate, yet linked, as government ineptitude, pharmaceutical companies' collaboration with big-business-loving government, the criminality of the vaccine mandates and pandemic shut-downs, how they affect our vulnerable children, and others all of like ilk. Somehow, the writers manage to slip in, here and there, references to Israel as a global predator against the poor suffering Palestinians whose time has surely come...?!

Just what any psychiatrist concerned over the mental/intellectual well-being of a population among whom an astonishing percentage of citizenry believe in conspiracy theories. As in one cannot escape the talons of Bill Gates, slavering to control our pathetic lives. Blood pressure tends to gauge the extent of outrageous statements-of-fact, to the point where the tabloid is put down with disgust. This is a publication dependent on 'volunteers' who think alike, to lend a hand in distributing the sheet to households. So then the logical train of thought turns to who among one's neighbours relies on this trash for truth and takes it upon themselves to spread its incomprehensible falsehoods....?

Spirit=cleansing remedies are always available, however. As in seeking serenity in walking through the garden, on the way out to the ravine this morning. A choice made between an early morning hike through forest trails before the extreme heat of the day sets in, or proceeding as usual, and waiting for afternoon when so many other things have been done, before setting out.

We chose a morning hike, and didn't regret it, even for a late breakfast, fully compensated by a fresh-air atmosphere, not yet over-heated and making for a pleasant several hours of wandering through the trails. A young man of considerable girth we've seen on occasion year after year with his choice of dog breed happened to be out this morning. He told us he's now the proud father of  little boy. But his interest in and affection for bull mastiffs has never waned. 

We've had some experience with these dogs in the past. They're quite gentle creatures, like to be noticed like all dogs, and appreciate being acknowledged. But they're also monstrously strong reflecting their size and musculature. In the summer their sense of curiosity and tendency to get too close, not noticing that their sheer bulk can move mountains, it's fine. In the winter when the trails are icy and slippery, it's another thing. He had a new puppy with him this time and a much larger dog that was likely a puppy when we saw him last, years ago. Dogs of this size are not very long-lived.

We encountered a number of other people long known to us, making for occasions when everyone stands in a little circle, discussing 'old times' in the ravine and people who used to come out regularly but no longer have been seen in ages. In many instances it's because people lose their dogs to illness or old age and simply don't, thereafter, feel the same urge to get out into the forest; the ghosts of their missing pets roam about on their own now.

 

The garden these past few days in 30C temperature and clear skies is virtually baking in the sun. A week ago while I was tidying up the garden at the front of the house close to the road, a woman stopped to ask me what the emerging flowers right at the very front surrounding a large blue spruce were. She and a friend, she told me, stopped often to look at the garden in their neighbourhood walks. She took out her i-phone and showed me photographs she had taken last summer of the plants. They were just now setting their buds. Our daughter had planted them about 30 years ago, and I couldn't recall their names. Only afterward, did it remember; Foxglove, perennial Digitalis of a kind that keeps repeating itself and spreading recklessly out of its assigned plot.

 

Robust enough to return year after year and to continue cloning itself without interruption. Unlike the Foxglove biennials I'd had from time to time in the garden that would bloom for a year, return another and then forget to come back a following year. In my daughter's garden, they drop their seeds and renew themselves freely. I've nothing to complain about, delighted that wild geraniums have found a home for themselves in another of the garden beds, comfortable and spreading their tiny pink blossoms under yet another spruce, so I assume it's the acidic soil they respond to. The vagaries of the conceit of gardening.

The garden pots and urns, cooking in the heat of the sun, need watering despite our having had days of relentless rain, but everything is thriving, maturing nicely and pleasing us with vibrant colours. We had decided, once again given the forecast for another day of 30C heat and clear skies that the best course of action would be to set aside breakfast and showers after rising, and just to head out to the ravine before the day's heat set in seriously.

 

As usual, Jackie and Jillie were happy with the decision. Irving has accustomed them to expect a treat as soon as we enter the trails, and another a short while distant from the ravine ingress, and they know precisely where those points are, fully expectant, stopping to make certain he remembers. The light that falls through the forest canopy from the overhead sun is eye-dazzling. The green of the forest interior almost palpates with heat and light, in its luminous reflection of the sun's rays.

 

Halfway through our circuit this morning, we encountered two women we'd never before seen. With them was a very large, complacent Afghan whose paws alone seemed almost as large as the head of one our pups. And that large dog's companions were two little black poodles. Both were miniature poodles, with one notably larger than the other, a little shrimp even smaller than ours. The five dogs milled about together, amicable in one another's presence. And the four poodles so much resembled one another even we were confused identifying Jackie and Jillie, all the more so since none of them stood still for a moment.

 

The smallest of the four had mannerisms so much akin to Jackie's I could see him in her. She was ultra-high-strung, continually looking up toward one of the women for reassurance and emotional support. In that vein somewhat like Jackie with me, but far more emphatically dependent. As result of which, the woman told me, she kept the little creature medicated to assuage the level of its anxieties.

 

On we went our separate, opposite directions. Only to come across one another yet again a half-hour later as our paths crossed again, and the four poodles greeted one another like long-lost relatives. Which, perhaps they were in a sense. The heat of the day hadn't yet set in, though the sun's glare promised it soon would, and we decided to lengthen our usual circuit. 

This was an exceptionally beautiful morning, the sky a light azure, no clouds interrupting the sun's royal arc across the sky and a bare whisper of a breeze. All of which led an extraordinary number of people with their companion dogs to jog themselves out of routine mode and head for the forest trails. We saw people out we hadn't seen in ages, and others we had never seen before. The large, extended community taking advantage of a forest landscape that meanders through these outer reaches of the country's capital city.

 

 

We did, after all as things turned out yesterday, manage to get ourselves and our two puppies out into the soggy fresh air for a much-needed hike through the ravine. The rain that had haunted us the entire day began at last to fizzle out around five. And by 5:20 the all-clear sounded loud and compulsively in our heads and off we went. Into a world just emerging from its immersion in an undersea experience, dripping and flirting with a glimpse of sun that managed to smirk at us for an odd moment, then relent and disappear back behind the still-present cloud cover.

 

It was cool, we wore light rainjackets, even Jackie and Jillie, without complaint, against the chance that nature might change her mind. There were still warnings of thunderstorms in the offing, and being caught out unprepared in one is not the most pleasant of experiences. We made it back home again without another rainfall, and felt the day hadn't been wasted.

 

When we awoke this morning, the temperature had gone from cool overnight to humid and hot, so we reached the perfect decision. Out again, without delay and we'd escape the heat and humidity on a day promising to give us fulsome sunlight. We were expecting the fencing contractor to drop by in several  hours' time to discuss our contract with them and hand over the deposit required along with our signature on the agreement. But we had plenty of time. We thought.

 

We surmised there must also have been overnight rain, since everywhere we looked big fat droplets of water remained on trees, shrubs and bracken thick on the forest floor. Everything that grows had benefited from all that rain. It's almost as though you can detect the vigorous level of response to the generous outpouring of the clouds. Although it was early when we were out, a day's worth of sun would dry things up nicely and deliver another growth spurt even in the absence of wind.

 

We saw that alfalfa was beginning to flower, and we saw the first of the pilotweed to flower. We also came across the first of the baneberry to ripen its red berries. But what really surprised us was to see off in the distance in an unapproachable area on the opposite side of the creek bank, something yellow that dimly resembled a very large, extraordinarily early-to-bloom black-eyed Susan, amongst the happily blooming daisies. Too far even for the zoom effect of my camera to pick it up with clarity.

 

And nor was I able to snap a photograph of the little bright orange goldfish that was lolling about in the creek down from where we stood on the bank of said creek. Eventually we headed for home. No sight of any of the owls today; controversy over whether there are three or four. The owlets have left the nest. Adieu.

 

 

We indulged in our usual languid stroll around the garden, noting what had changed, admiring the flowering hostas, the still-bright roses and the bountiful blossoms in the garden urns and pots, colourful and beautiful to behold. Patiently, Jackie and Jillie paced along with us though they'd prefer going directly into the house for breakfast. 

We had no sooner sponged the forest off the tender little paws of our puppies, than the doorbell rang. The fence contractor was early for his appointment. While Irving sat with him in the living room, making small talk, discussing the contract, waiting for his portable printer to ooze out the signed contract, I got busy pitting cherries which I planned to use in baking a pie later, after breakfast.