Most home owners in the area, including those who have succeeded the original home-buyers take pride in what they own, care given to the exterior of their homes, at the very least. He always carefully groomed the sparse gardens surrounding their home, and even once, many years back, had installed a small cobbled infrastructure area of the garden directly in front of the front entrance.

He was, back then -- when we first became acquainted as neighbours living a street apart -- tall and lean and appeared quite fit. He certainly had no lack of self-confidence. She was a small woman, spare in both height and frame, a mere wisp of a woman it seemed back then, yet sprightly and sparking enthusiasm. That was then; in the last several years we haven't seen him at all, only Margaret, wending her slow and careful way along the street, doing a walking loop from her street to ours.

In the winter she is cocooned in layers of cold-protective down padding her small frame. When we occasionally meet she no longer regales us as once they did, with details about their travels, accompanied with a genteel scorn for the natives indigenous to the countries they would visit. She is originally from Nova Scotia and it is only visits back 'home' that enthuse her now. But family members are dwindling gradually in number and although the incomparable environmental scenery and remembrances of times past still draw her, even those visits have declined. Her husband, born in southern Ontario, had no wish to re-locate when he retired.

They continue to live in a fairly spacious two-story house, which they continue to maintain nicely, now with the help of hired professionals.

Each time we see Margaret, no longer nearly as often as formerly, she has diminished in size and colouration, her perambulation more studied and careful. She has decided to opt for surgery to her spine. Her husband keeps putting off the surgery he needs to remove his teeth, both putting up with the debilitating pain they suffer while they wait and until they decide how and whether to proceed with something annoyingly intrusive but which might alleviate their pain and discomfort. Disruption of routine is meaningful, now.

It's hard for us to imagine how much more it is possible that she could physically vanish from life. When she approaches us with the ghost of a smile on her pale face to politely enquire how our health has been we cannot help an inward shudder. For that query, just as politely satisfied in the affirmative "well, thank you", represents an opening when the details of their misery can gush forth to bring us up to date on the rigours of age rapidly overcoming the life cycle.

And we wonder whether they ever resent that we're quite a bit older than they are, with as yet unimpaired health.

We've had previous pleasant experiences attending the annual Perth antique show so my husband decided for us (with my eager consent of course) that we would head out there on Saturday, as an excursion and an anticipated pleasant walk-about to peruse the offerings in the booths assembled in the interior of the old Legion Hall and around and about on its generous exterior greenspace, once again.

The thought of the drive on a perfect summer day was attractive enough; recalling our surprise at the quality of some of the objects that antique dealers from other parts of Ontario tend to bring along served as another spur, and so, soon after breakfast we set off. The drive was beyond pleasant, in the variety of scenes that took our attention and the pleasure they brought to us.

We saw farms, and fields of oats and corn, we saw the high flighted passage of a great blue heron, the first we've seen yet this summer, and also a vulture with its telltale dihedral winged form coasting on the vigorous wind that maintained a comfortable breeze for us further down in the landscape, throughout the day. We recalled that the year before it had been hot and muggy and there was light rain; not so this year. Nicely warm, the sun lovingly glancing at us and everything else it shone beneficently upon, from the crops to the cattle we saw grazing in fields.

And we saw yellow loosestrife in bloom, bugleweed, Mullein, Queen Anne's Lace Viper's bugloss, Black-eyed Susans (surely early in bloom this year!), daisies, trailing lotus, buttercups, cattails, and more in colourful array of drifts here and there alongside the highway.

And we looked admiringly at some of the stone-faced houses that people who prefer to live in rural isolation built, here and there between forests and farms, wondering what it was that drove people to that kind of lifestyle distant from their fellows. There were old stone homes lovingly given new life, carefully restored to their original condition and those who take that trouble to honour the architectural past must indeed be a special breed.

And speaking of the past, there, as we drove past, eyes agoggle, was the sight of a herd of Buffalo grazing and at rest, their raggedy coats still moulting winter's hair. But they aren't Buffalo although early settlers named them as such. They're American Bison, a breed of bovine animal species that once roamed the prairies of North America in untold numbers, more recently reduced to 'protected' status where once they stood the risk of extinction because they had been so mercilessly hunted out of their native habitat.

When we finally reached Perth, the day wasn't very long in the tooth. Parking at the Canadian Legion Hall lot represented a little problem; this year's attendance seemed heavier than last. It's such a lovely little Ontario town, is Perth, with its stately old stone heritage homes lovingly restored and proudly lived in, gardens hugging them tight with the passion of pride. Old stone churches, and old stone bridges over the Tay River that runs through the town. The shopping areas in the town are charming and the shops resemble a crossover between Old Tymes and boutique.

We wandered the building to scrutinize the various stalls, and quickly discovered that the show had turned into a mostly jewellery-hawking venue, but then that seems to happen with most of these antique shows; a preponderance of jewellery always on display; 'estate' jewellery has an especial appeal to many, both men and women.

But there were other booths, one in particular whose vendor had come from Stratford, Ontario, whose displays were rife with excellent objects from paintings to porcelains, Continental furniture to bronze sculptures and beyond. There is where my husband lingered and spoke at some length to the dealer, a man straight out of a Dickens novel.

Eventually, I was able to prevail upon his sense of curiosity to venture outdoors where the vast bulk of the dealers tend to congregate, setting up their booths in the fresh open air, and where magnificent old maple trees give their generous shade to the park-like atmosphere there. Nothing to write home about on offer there, though we did see a dealer from whom we'd purchased several prized objects the year before.

My husband eventually returned to the dealer within, to look more carefully at a large bronze sculpture. When we returned home it was yet early in the afternoon. Ample time for us to luxuriate in the out-of-doors further, with a long lingering walk in the ravine.

Gratitude, contentment, appreciation for what life has offered throughout the years from childhood to adulthood is the most overwhelming feeling of satisfaction for life that can ever overwhelm one.
Unless it comes into competition with the all-consuming love between a man and a woman that takes them together through life's journey.

How fortunate that person is who can claim having experienced and continuing to experience that, and more.

Not that tragedy and personal misfortune of one type or another hasn't claimed days of gloom and misery, months of emotional depression coming to acceptance of realities, for no one is immune to disorder in their lives.

But to feel deeply that because of a combination of circumstances and plain good fortune life has smiled kindly upon one enabling the very best that can possibly be offered in terms of happiness and fulfillment is beyond value, ennobling one's existence, providing balm for the soul and the calm of contentment.

Being loved is the culmination of all of humanity's desires and needs. Having that love demonstrated in so many ways throughout the course of existence provides the incentive to glory in life.

That sigh I hear is not the sound of a gentle breeze passing through my garden on a sunny day, pleasing all that grows within it, blazing with colour and fragrance. It is my own inner voice of thankfulness.

Two weeks ago, before the heat wave struck, my husband devoted several days of washing down and soap-scrubbing algae from the vinyl siding of the shade-side of the house. We had noticed what looked like dark mould on the siding of some houses in the neighbourhood, most particularly on one of the houses that adjoins the ravine and thought that if it was mould it could eventually end up insidiously invading the house interior. In any event, it appeared very unsightly.

Over the years our house siding retained the pristine ivory appearance of its original appearance, but in the last several years we have noticed the creeping presence of faintly light green on the siding. Hardly noticeable, but my husband felt that if it was ignored it would simply grow and soon enough resemble the dark mouldy look of other houses nearby. So he set about putting up those tall ladders of his, extending the backyard garden hose, preparing large pails of soapy water and a long-handled car brush and went to the task of removing it all.

And then, as soon as he had completed that task, the heat wave moved in. Little sense in planning any kind of labour-intensive work to be done in the outdoors. Although he did tackle the never-ending task of cutting back bushes and trees to manageable and attractive proportions, along with a more general clean-up of the gardens. The large pine tree at the front of the house continues to drop its needles on a continuous basis. It always has, but the process appeared to accelerate as it reached higher toward the sky.

And then, several days ago, a ferocious thunderstorm helped to bring in cooler temperatures. Cool enough to require a light sweater when we go out into the ravine where the forested atmosphere is always cooler than out on the street. With the cooler weather came the irresistible (to him) urge to finally complete an exterior paint job he had never quite completed. And so, he set about scraping down the paint on the woodwork surrounding the windows at the front of the house.

Today, he's applying the base coat of paint, since he's anxious, after all, to complete the job that has been nagging him for so long. There's warmer weather on the horizon, come Saturday and Sunday. But it will likely be the weekend when he paints the finishing coat. Which will mean he will have completed yet another task associated with the pride and responsibility of home ownership. Just incidentally, our younger son in Vancouver is busy doing the very same thing with his house.

For the first time yet this season there were big red juicy stalks of rhubarb for sale when I was doing the grocery shopping. Because blueberries were on sale, I ruled out baking a rhubarb-strawberry pie in favour of a blueberry pie and decided, since we were in the throes of a heatwave that ice-cold stewed rhubarb would really service us nicely for dessert a few days this week.

So I prepared the rhubarb and the first time I served it, my husband, though appreciating it well enough, said the taste was too 'strong' for him, though to me it seemed perfect. For a subsequent serving the following day I decided to make up a small amount of applesauce and cut the rhubarb with the applesauce, and it did the trick; he loved it. Apart from those very small seedless and extremely sweet watermelons, there's nothing that quite speaks of summer to me, as a complement for a summer night's dinner, as rhubarb.

Because of the heat and humidity it seems fairly appropriate to turn to cold salads for the occasional dinner, as well. And potato salad does as well as many other salads, so it has become a weekly staple. To enhance its taste I delight in raiding the garden to snip as much chives and parsley and as I can, to add to the potato salad. It's incorporated with chopped Vidalia onion and celery. I always place a tin of chive-and-mayonnaise-enhanced Sockeye salmon in a mound dipped into the middle of the salad, and such a meal would never be complete for my husband without the addition of several deviled eggs.

And that was what comprised our dinner last night. Just before seating ourselves for dinner we wandered out to the backyard to view the strangest cloud formations assembling over the house, wafting quickly overhead by the prevailing winds that had blown lustily all week throughout our days of plus-30-degrees and high humidity, relieved on occasion by rain events.

This time, when the rain arrived after the drumroll of thunder and explosive fireworks of lightning, the temperature began to drop fairly quickly, and we lost five degrees in a matter of minutes. Sleep last night was a much airier and lighter affair than it has been over the last week, with cool air wafting into the house for a much-appreciated change. And the forecast for today? Much, much cooler than previously, thank you very much.

Those tens of thousands of Canadians gathered on Parliament Hill and various compass points around the National Capital Region to celebrate Canada's 147th birthday on July 1, might not have been too thrilled in mid-afternoon and again in the evening hours when thunderstorms wreaked their sodden heaps on ongoing festivities, but we, viewing them from the dry comfort of our house interior, enjoyed the sight of the rain flushing down from the thunderheads that had gathered above.

Earlier in the day the sky resounded with the roar of jets deployed in celebration of Canada Day. As we sauntered in our hour-and-a-half jaunt through the ravine, it was difficult to determine just what we were hearing whether at some times it was really the roar of the jets or sound emanating from the slightly more distant rumble of thunder steadily approaching. But we did know that somewhere, not so distant, it was raining, and thus relieving the oppressive heat and humidity. And we were fervently hoping that throughout the course of the day we wouldn't be missed.

And we weren't. As soon as we heard the unmistakable patter of the first rain on the patio doors in mid-afternoon, we hustled over to watch as the first tentative drops speedily transformed to larger, assertive splashes soon entirely obliterating clear sightlines from the glass doors to the outside.

Later in the day when we had roused ourselves out of the heat-stupor we had succumbed to, to get the barbecue going for dinner, down it came again. And again we were protected from the torrential downfall by the canopy shielding the deck.

I find it irresistible during these powerful thunderstorm activities not to capture the rain pummelling the atmosphere, through taking photographs. While I'm invariably pleased with the photographs for their colour and sharpness, they still cannot accurately capture what the human eye beholds and the photographs, still attractive, hardly represent the reality that the eye discerns in breadth, depth, and detail.

Nor do the photographs display the reality of the rain pouring down even while the skies had opened up to the point where the sun shone down fully upon the landscape throughout most of the rain event; a contrast of sun and rain, each belying the presence of the other, as incompatible with reason, but present nonetheless.

1885 photo of Robert Harris' 1884 painting, Conference at Quebec in 1864, to settle the basics of a union of the British North American Provinces, also known as The Fathers of Confederation. The original painting was destroyed in the 1916 Parliament Buildings Centre Block fire. The scene is an amalgamation of the Charlottetown and Quebec City conference sites and attendees.

It's Canada Day. For the past few days newspapers have filled their pages with historical facts about the country, reminding us of the long journey to 2014 from 1867. In 1967, and the Centenary celebration of that July 1st day we were a young, very young family, my husband and me with our three young children. They are all now in their 50s, and we are approaching our 80s.

There is no element in our lives as swift as the passage of time. A truth we realize and understand only when we are no longer young.

We pass through life on such a brief time-scale. It is only when we are older that we realize time is the greatest gift aside from life itself, and both are celebrated by doing as much with these treasures as we possibly can. Celebrating life is not an issue of grand aspirations and entertaining times. We do and should aspire and work toward advancing our aspirations, none of which are more vital to our well-being as treasuring those most dear to us.

This is an ordinary day in our lives. Ordinary for us is a celebration in itself. After breakfast we lingered in our gardens, the heat and humidity of the day cloistering us as much as do the gardens themselves in their lush fragrance and intensity of beauty found in colour, texture and form.

Soon afterward we set out for our daily ramble in the wooded ravine nearby our home. It was difficult once within the confines of the forest  to discern the roar of jets as warplanes did their flyovers, from an oncoming rumble of thunderstorms.

In the ravine, a thicket of green understory cools the atmosphere and stimulates within us an inner peace and serenity. Few others are seen on these hot and sticky days complete with mosquitoes hungry for human flesh; many no doubt at family cottages, others fearing entry will expose them to the ravenous bloodsuckers and extreme heat, but such is not at all the case.

On the streets above the ravine, there are few signs of human habitation outside the shuttered homes with air conditioners rattling their cool air within. We are no longer a nation of pioneers, adventurers, hunters, farmers, loggers, but an aggregation of people from all corners of the world, bringing with them their cultural heritage, language, religion, values and hopes for the future.

Through all the years of transformation from an occupying colonial power to the present, where Canada sees itself and is seen by others as a civil haven of peace and security, we are still in the process of founding ourselves.