It was, in retrospect, presumptuously naive of me to imagine that the right time had arrived, several weeks back -- when nothing out of the ordinary was occurring in this neighbourhood too close to home and nature had tired of encouraging the urban forest to send its seed and pollen everything -- that it was finally "safe" for me to clean the windows and window screens.

I was, I must admit, happy to get it all done, finally. A sense of closure, having put off that chore when the balance of the spring cleaning activities had taken place months earlier, overcame me, delightfully. A sigh of relief, another job done, no need to think any more about it, no nagging sense of guilt that I hadn't tackled it. Well, well, just as well we can't look into the future, even if that future was no more than several weeks in coming.

It's now the third week that landscaping construction has been carried out on the property next to ours. We've become accustomed to the early-morning wake-up of heavy equipment rumbling about from 7:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. daily. And sigh with frustration when the equipment being used tosses clouds of stone-dust and other soil particulates about the atmosphere. Our neat and tidy, colourful garden has taken the brunt of it all. It distresses me no end to see the brightness occluded with the dull overlay of dust that has settled over everything.

We cleaned the glass frontage of the porch door of the grime that had settled upon it, but the windows, newly gathering copious amounts of particulate matter and stonedust will just have to wait until the entire job has been completed. Despite all the mechanical equipment at their disposal the men working on the contract have plenty to do, since our neighbours decided to rip up everything that had been artistically installed in previous landscape renovations to even earlier work they'd had done. This must be the third incarnation of The Perfect Landscape Job.

From what we're able to see when we occasionally glance over, there isn't all that much creativity that has gone into the project; already it betrays the fairly standard 'new' looks that we have become familiar with, reflected in another, earlier renovation that our friend Serge, three doors down from our next-door neighbour had done, and our other neighbour Simon, up the street, had completed last summer. The difference primarily? a new type of stone to replace the pavers previously installed, still in fine condition but the  wrong size and colour, evidently.

Keeping up with the Smiths has never been so competitive.

For us, at this stage in our lives when we are no longer distracted and busy with the demands of a young family, the pleasure of sitting together at leisure during a prolonged breakfast is enhanced by reading through newspapers and bringing to one another's attention items of mutual interest ranging from local matters to international affairs.

So when, as happened this morning, there was no newspaper delivery of either of the two dailies we subscribe to, one local the other national, we're left at a bit of a loss. Reading is so integral to the needs of our minds, and in the morning, the newspapers are our material of reading-choice.

So, my husband did as he often does on such occasions, drove off for a brief foray in search of replacement newspapers to serve as our morning source of news. There is a newspaper box at the end of our street, at the junction where it meets a busy main street, but since this is also the day of a public holiday (explaining why no local paper has been published) the box hasn't been filled.

Off he went then, to a stand-alone nearby-located store serving the immediate area selling everything and anything people might want to pick up as last-minute or emergency requirements available close at hand rather than having to go further to often-crowded and busy shopping centres or supermarkets, all now given to the big-box appearance with all the frustrations those emporiums provide along with their service.

Waiting in line to be served with his two newspaper purchases, he watched somewhat incredulously as elderly patrons lined up to buy their morning share of lottery tickets. One woman in the line spent $100 on lottery and scratch-and-win tickets. The man standing behind my husband explained, as a constant patron of the store, that these are regular clients, people coming by repeatedly throughout the course of any given week, spending hope in funding to whatever amount it takes, to gamble that they may, at some time in their lives, come away winners.

You'll note, the stranger said sagely, to my husband, that these people are so fixated by their hope to win something that they'll return to their vehicles, sit there and frantically scratch through the cards, prepared to find one that will declare their hopes and searches and dollars spent will not have been in vain. And he was right, as my husband exited there were indeed people seated in cars immersed in the very activity that the man had predicted.

They are so fundamentally drawn to the belief that they will some day be compensated for their expenditures on these tickets that their habit represents a life-solace, a search for meaning in their lives. If, by chance, any of them ever did win the jackpot, it's likely life would no longer have any meaning for them, it seems.

I certainly wouldn't say we're lacking for fruit choices in this house. The refrigerator is stocked with cherries, mandarin oranges, Ontario peaches, pears, blueberries, melons and bananas sit ripening for our delectation, and we enjoy them all. But for breakfast we like to have our choice of honeydew or cantaloupe melons and alternately, oranges. Oranges are still available, but they're either end-of-the-season Florida crops no longer as sweet, fresh and juicy as we expect, or those from South Africa, and the SA-derived oranges are miserable things, unpleasing to our palates.

Usually at this time of year we can look forward to California citrus and they're spectacular. Instead, we've seen citrus coming in from South Africa (groan), Argentina and Brazil and while the latter are fine, they're not quite the equal of Florida- or California-sourced oranges, grapefruit and clementines. Although when they make their rare appearance on our supermarket shelves, Israeli citrus certainly ranks among the absolute best.

The mystery of the lack of appearance of American-grown crops has now been revealed. We're always aware, in the back of our minds that sometimes adverse weather conditions in Florida can have a dreadfully deleterious effect on citrus crops, but they always seem to rebound. This time, it's the three-year-long drought in California that is affecting U.S.-derived produce. And California is now undergoing one of its worst years yet on record for drought.

That state, with its population equalling that of Canada's in its entirety, produces an immense amount of produce serving the entire American population. It's the world's largest exporting producer of almonds (82%). So there's little spillover to export fruit to Canada when it's struggling to meet the needs of its American home-market.

California's central valley produces roughly 25% of table foods for the U.S. on 1% of the country's farmland. Its produce represents most of the fruits, vegetables and nuts familiar to the kitchen table. So its inability, as a result of drought, to grow these foodcrops impacts on everyone in North America, including us. Having to pay higher prices at the supermarket for fruits of lesser quality and abundance. Climate change anyone?

There, I've baked the gingersnaps our oldest son has expressed a wish to have awaiting his arrival late tomorrow. And tomorrow I'll bake large chocolate cupcakes, his wife's favourite, rather than a birthday cake for her 53rd birthday, since cupcakes are more portable and from here they're setting out after a short layover from Toronto with us, to Nova Scotia to spend time with our daughter-in-law's family, a regular summertime treat for a busy couple. On their return they'll spend more time with us before heading back for home, in Toronto.

My husband is out mowing the back lawn, the weather having turned abruptly hot and sunny again, though there are thundershowers predicted for the afternoon; kind of perfect, in my opinion. He amswered the telephone this morning to inform someone from the Arthritis Society that I would not be available to canvass for them this year; my canvassing days are over.

Yesterday we were informed by our neighbours living ten houses up the street from us that they too have now joined the ranks of the retired. Originally from Hong Kong, they've been living in their house on this street as long as we have. They and the single occupant of the house next to them are the only people on the street who have installed a video-camera and voice-contact system at the front of their house. And both are the sweetest-temperamented people imaginable.

Their neighbour is originally from eastern Europe, but his wife left him to ramble about in their large home on his own when she decided years ago to return to Europe taking their son with her, and he insisted it was his intention to remain in Canada. He's lived there, in that house, ever since, telling me that he keeps himself involved by participating in the events of his ethnic community, smiling his shy smile.

As for the other pair, their two daughters have married, but they too have no intention of downsizing, selling their house for a condominium unit or an apartment, as they become yet another pair of householders on this street who have retired. Living among younger families with young children who have purchased houses from original owners who have moved on. Our neighbours weighed those options and found them wanting, comfortable where they are, and here they intend to remain, as long as they can.

Their older daughter had taken a hospitality management course years ago and for several years had worked on cruise ships out of Florida. She married and has settled down to live in Florida, giving them reason to fly over for occasional visits. The younger daughter married a military man and they have been stationed in New Brunswick, where our neighbours' first grandchild was born in January and where they had undertaken a weather-frightful road trip soon afterward, to stay with their daughter, son-in-law and new baby for several weeks. Latterly, the trips aren't quite as long, since relocation to London, Ontario.

And a neighbour who lives directly across the street from them adjacent to the ravine entrance on our street joined our little group with her new little dog, a four-year-old Yorkie with a distinctly shy personality, an adorable little fellow whose previous owners were unable to cope for some reason. The little dog had never been taken for walks, and was one of a pack of three, the other two larger dogs and all were mostly confined to the house and backyard. They were loved, however, our neighbour tells us, having met the family of three teen-age girls who cuddled and smothered the little dog with love.

This little pet of a dog is taking the place of another household-beloved companion a small dog named Bentley, the same age as our Riley. Bentley had died suddenly one night, when his heart just gave out. He was some character, saucily bold. This little guy whose name is Newton is of another personality breed altogether.

And in today's heat Riley isn't quite certain he really wants to stay outside.

They're now concluding the second week of landscape work next door, and not yet finished, although they'll be closer to their goal by the end of the day. Another half-week, I imagine, should do it. There's quite a crew working on the project with no end of mechanical equipment at their disposal and since they're experts they move right along, despite occasional adverse weather conditions.

I was hopefully naive last week, thinking that the worst of the ambient thumps and bangs, cracks and roars had been done with when all the existing stone- and brick-work surrounding our neighbours' porch, deck and swimming pool had been pulled up and hauled away. There was yet to be excavated those areas, plus the driveway and the garage floor. A year ago Dan, our convivial neighbour, had explained to us their plan to have the floor in the garage dug up and replaced, when they planned to have the larger landscaping work done.

A year. That's how long it takes for the many landscaping companies operating out of the Ottawa area to finally address themselves to a contract. Truth is, they can also name their own price for anything they undertake, because there is such a long waiting list of people anxious to 'improve' and beautify their immediate, ownership-pride property. That, while the area unemployment rate remains high and food banks continue to rely heavily on the charitable impulse of those that have to spare.

All that heavy equipment, along with a succession of dump trucks make their presence known. Not only has the closer portion of the street been taken up with these parked heavy-equipment vehicles, along with the personal vehicles of the workers, but the trundling off of an amazing tonnage of clay soil, gavel and construction detritus keep this area a lively place.

Their workday begins at 7:00 a.m., so often when we prepare for bed we also close the upstairs interior doors and windows at the front of the house, thanking the heavens above that our bedroom is located at the back of our house where work of somewhat quieter dimensions proceeds.

Another week and our neighbours will be able to sigh with the comfort and satisfaction of having had completed yet another project they imagine will transform their humble abode to the status of grand mansion. In keeping with the adage that every man's home is his castle.

Once the heavy morning rain had stopped, the sky semi-cleared. There were plenty of puffy grey clouds to be sure, and some that bore a very strong resemblance to even darker thunderclouds, but there were also some blue shadings up there, so off we went for our ravine perambulation with little Riley in tow. Within the forest all was still, and water kept tumbling down off foliage. The creek was running quite vigorously and underfoot there was plenty of sodden clay, but for the most part the forest detritus that gathers from season to season kept the footing fairly good, and we completed the usual circuit.

We had decided, instead of going off to far-off (relatively speaking) rural feed and seed destinations as we had accustomed ourselves to, in securing large industrial-sized 50-lb. bags of peanuts, we'd do better to stay closer to home. There is, in fact, an urban-located feed and seed source, one that we had frequented over the past 40 years quite often, but had latterly fallen out of the habit of visiting. This would be our third time to pick up peanuts from Richie's Feed and Seed, available, to be sure, only in 25-lb. pound bags or less, but good enough for our purposes.

So off we went to pop into their store, vastly expanded from when we originally used to go there for bedding plants back in an earlier time of home ownership, when the first house we owned in Ottawa was closer to that source. It took us no time at all to load the bag of peanuts onto the shopping cart that Riley also rode in, in the front infant seat, secured in his bag. And after that it took an enormous amount of time as we wandered about the store, looking at publications, at seed packets, at gardening tools, and above all, at their outdoor offerings of perennials. Last time we were there we came away with a bright pink-flowering hydrangea a, white-flowering echinacea, and yet another hosta, my very most favourite plant.

We've definitely no more room in our garden beds and borders for any more plants, none at all. Nonetheless, temptation beckoned when we saw a hosta cultivar that we don't already have plunked down all over our garden space, and we bought one, hauling it home, wondering where we could possibly put it, but pleased in any event, that yet another hosta will be joining our garden community.

As we were still moseying about through the aisles holding robust specimens of flowering perennials and shrubs, one particularly dark thundercloud positioned itself directly above us, and speaking in ominous tones warned us that rain was imminent. Not yet prepared to leave, since we hadn't exhausted the entertainment value of enjoying the sight of so many appealing growing things, we yet lingered and then came the first fat drops alongside lightning and thunder. Still, we lingered, until we felt it was no longer wise to do so, grabbed the chosen hosta, and entered the store to ring up our bill.

The rain came pelting down furiously, a lovely sight to behold, when you're able to watch it in dry comfort. My husband, wearing his hat for rainproofing his head, ran the short distance to his truck, then drove it under the store eaves, and we loaded ourselves into it, then drove off home, happy it was raining once again, hoping it hadn't been a microburst that missed our street. It hadn't.

The Western Parkway is never busy and it's always our preferred route when we're driving downtown. The scenery is surpassingly beautiful, with the sight of cornfields, forested areas where deer on occasion and foxes make themselves seen briefly, and people run and bicycle, walk their dogs, alongside the unwinding Ottawa River in its vast breadth on the landscape.

On the greensward there are always people picnicking; none this day sunbathing, however, with the low cloud ceiling of a skyward landscape of cream-and-grey clouds.

We passed the Aeronautical Museum grounds, in the distance small aircraft parked on the vast scope of surrounding airfields -- on the sideroads bicyclists increased in numbers, whizzing by at dizzying speed. We passed the dazzling-white structures of Middle East embassies, the Mint, the Peacekeepers monument, and turned down to Byward Market. Since it was a weekday we experienced little difficulty finding a parking spot handy to the market centre.

There, we ambled about alongside crowds of tourists and Ottawans all out for a few pleasant afternoon hours spent browsing among the various stalls of street vendors selling everything from African and Central American handicrafts, locally-handmade jewellery and casual clothing, and imported basketware, along with any other number of consumer-popular items. There are stalls selling straight-from-the-farm milk and butter, cuts of meat and eggs.

Others selling garden plants and still others bursting with a colourful array of cut flowers. And then, best of all, fresh fruits and vegetables arrayed in bright and inviting display, almost irresistible in their appeal, until one recalls a refrigerator-full of like products and succumbs only to those not already in hand.

Once my husband has found the latest issues of his art and antique publications at a magazine shop he has frequented for decades and which boasts with good reason to have just about every magazine, journal and newspaper anyone might possibly want to acquire covering a vast array of topics, we went on to his favourite cheese shop to browse briefly and bring back home with us Saint Paulin, Saint Honore, Provolone and Parmesan cheeses.

A break from routine and a fairly entertainingly restful perambulation in a part of Ottawa that attracts those who appreciate the opportunity to do as we did. Though we did not do as so many others do, and seat ourselves in the Alfresco areas of the proliferation of Market cafes. Unlike places in Europe that welcome dogs accompanying their humans, in this city such aberrations are frowned upon.