She was smitten with the urbane, handsome man twice her age. He was, after all, from Montreal, a salesman on his regular route working for a food distribution company, his refined presence and impeccable French music to her countrified ears, making her ashamed of her colloquial patois. That he paid attention to her, flirting with her, made her blush, but also gave her confidence, and she flirted right back. She was 16, he was 31, a married man with two young boys.

He told us many years ago that his sons, now grown with families of their own were only interested in a possible inheritance, so he saw no reason to bother maintaining contact with them. As for his former wife, she was a shrew, and he was more than happy to be rid of her. Life with a woman fifteen years his junior, a lively and intelligently attractive spouse suited him very well. As long as he was hale, that is. His personality made us wonder at times how she put up with him, his constant nit-picking, his superiority complex, his tendency to speak disparagingly of others under the pretext of honesty, and after all, he was just kidding, right?

Over the decades that we've known them his health slowly deteriorated. He is now 85, and she 70 and the age disparity hasn't closed, since she is in excellent health. That being the case, while he is almost house-bound she has for years gone off on trips abroad without him. He has taken to feigning illness to elicit sympathy from her, but she sees right through him. She warned him after her last trip that if she returned again only to find him languishing in illness that had no basis in reality she would lengthen her trip by a week each time this happened.

She doesn't much care that people think of her as unfeeling. She feels she's been manipulated by him more than enough over the years. And she is fed up and won't accept it any longer. She has a mind of her own, a finite number of years left to her to enjoy whatever is left of opportunities to see the world and give additional meaning to her life and she isn't prepared to surrender those opportunities on the whims of a man who had always dominated her.

When she was young and impressed with his surface sophistication, dependent on him for her views of the world, it was one thing. Now, with whatever is left of her life she intends to continue living it in a manner she believes is consonant with her rights as an individual. And that it's past time that he accommodated himself to her imperatives, not his alone.

When one of our neighbours whom we've had warm relations with for the past twenty-four years insisted that we take a guided tour through his recently-renovated home, to admire the choices he had made in completely transforming his kitchen, along with all the other work he had contracted out in entirely refitting his house, it felt as though we were being guided through an entirely new, customized house. And that impression was a fairly accurate portrayal of what we saw. Serge lives alone in his large, well-appointed house, and has spared no amount of investment in gifting himself with an impressive and beautiful place in which to live. He tells us he will die there, has no intention of ever selling the place, and his longer-term intention was to lack for nothing in convenience and attractiveness. His house is immaculate, shared only with one small cat.

He's a kind man, a convivial character, and we've enjoyed him as a neighbour, forever telling us about the latest of his trips abroad in his determination to see the world as a tourist for whom no expense is too great to achieve his ends. What else should he devote his life to, he shrugs; might as well make the most of what he has. And, he informed me, since I'm no longer going out as a volunteer canvasser for the myriad charities I've canvassed for over the years, he decided to respond to the Heart and Stroke's appeal for canvassers, himself.

He also informed us that he thinks highly of a new family that moved in two houses over from his own. The young man of the couple with a very  young child, he said, became friendly with another neighbour, directly across the street from him. This is a family with two children, boy and girl, who had moved in after the original owners decided to relocate to a rural property near Kingston, Ontario, a friendly pair whom we were quite familiar with. The new owner of the property was in the building trades, and he immediately set about making all manner of improvements to the interior and exterior of his recently-purchased house. That was ten years ago. The couple kept themselves distant from their neighbours.

Now, we were informed that he had become very chummy with the new house-owner on Serge's (and our) side of the street. That's nice, we said. And Serge corrected us, saying not at all, since the two had experienced a severe falling out. The man who is a home contractor specializes in painting, and the new neighbour had given him a key to the house so he could enter as a professional painter and refresh the interior in the absence of the owners. They had returned from a trip to discover the house repainted, sure enough, but it was an unprofessional mess, and what's more they received an invoice for the work that was inflated by thousands they had never anticipated.

Yesterday while my husband was out taking the weekly garbage pick-up to the curb, the young man and his toddler son happened by and engaged my husband for the first time in conversation. He proceeded to tell my husband the details of what had happened between himself and the painter, describing a man who cursed and threatened, spat at him, and shouted across the street repeatedly that he should be forewarned the man was prepared to do him physical harm. Police were called. The harassment continued, despite the younger man attempting to speak rationally with his challenger, only to be rebuffed and treated repeatedly to ongoing threats. We had known nothing of all of this, not being familiar with either family, but my husband quite liked the young man and felt more than a little compassion for what he was experiencing. Stories of the 'neighbours from hell' abound, and this young man was living his own very particular story.

We tend to know many of our neighbours, some fairly well, others slightly and others yet who have taken the place of the original owners, not at all, but to nod to in acknowledgement. People do have disagreements with neighbours and that is always unfortunate. In this young man's case it is somewhat more than unfortunate; it can colour someone's entire satisfaction in life, living at fairly close quarters with someone who is unreasonable and hostile and threatening. From our front garden we can look down the street to the houses involved; too close for comfort, yet distant enough that we had no idea what our neighbours were suffering through.

Saturday was such a pleasant, sunny, albeit cold and windy day that it was my intention to begin in earnest deconstructing the garden in preparation for winter. Thank heavens my husband had a far better idea; to make the most of the weather, dress against the cold and the wind and make off for a hike in Gatineau Park. Our previous attempted foray had ended in frustrated inability to access the trail we wanted, since access had been cut off for roadwork.

This time, we consulted the NCC website and our maps and worked out an alternate route that took us to where we wanted to go. An access available evidently only on the weekend, since those routes too were blocked off for roadwork, and the main artery would be closed down before long for the winter months.

The amount of traffic in bicyclists, and cars headed for the nearby trails or just to coast along the major road quite surprised us by its volume. People were parking on the side of the parkway and just walking alongside inside the park, leading us to the conclusion they had no idea of the many trails available that would take them away from traffic and into the park interior. as difficult to believe as that was.

When we passed Pink Lake we saw that the parking lots had been closed because they were jammed full. We weren't headed for Pink Lake, in any event, too piddling a hike for our tastes. And when we arrived finally at the parking lot for the Larriault Trail, we found to our relief that the place had a mere handful of vehicles parked there; ours was only the fourth, so off we set with Jack and Jill. The parking lot across from the one we use, however, had far more vehicles parked there, and we soon assumed that the far larger parking lot right at the MacKenzie King Estate was full, given the number of trekkers we came across throughout the hour-or-so length of our hike. Fact is, we had never in all our years of experience there had come across as many hikers as we did on Saturday.

But it's a large area, the trail is wide and accommodating, and one simply makes the most of such situations. True to form, French Quebecers rarely acknowledge a greeting on passing, while Anglophones always respond with courtesy. My husband attributes that to 'national' insecurity, while I attribute it to gross ethnic-language hostility.

The landscape surrounding us was uniformly green. It seems that fall colours are late this year. Instead a green vibrancy under a mostly sunny sky made for a pleasant appearance as we hiked along, Jack and Jill eager to make the acquaintance of most of the many dogs we passed on our perambulation. Likely because of the appearance of so many people we came across no wildlife, and heard few birds, but the atmosphere was pleasant and so was the scenery.

The final scene, at Mulvihill lake before departing was of a slightly choppy lake with clouds gathering overhead. The lake's interior was too dark to make out the sights we usually enjoy of small turtles, of frogs and schools of tiny fish. And, by the time we were on the parkway driving back home heavy dark clouds had netted the sun and embraced the sky; a picture in and of itself dramatic and quite beautiful.

The RCMP horses of the famed Musical Ride were out in their paddocks yesterday as we drove by.

It was cold, and the wind was a brisk and icy one, still the sun was shining but for dark cloudy interludes, leading people to get out and enjoy the seasonal landscape, although most deciduous trees have not yet turned their autumn colours. People were out riding bicycles, we even saw a phalanx of at least a dozen three-wheeled motorcycles at one point. People were strolling about, running, just not picnicking as so often nature invites them to do in large grassy areas where specimen trees arouse admiration.

Since it was a Saturday we knew the Byward Market would be crowded, and it most certainly was. In the press of people the atmosphere seemed less raw and there were plenty of people sitting out at cafe outdoor facilities, chatting and enjoying the environment with their coffee and whatever else struck them.

We were interested in visiting one of the speciality cheese shops, and picking up the latest editions of the art and antique magazines my husband is interested in. We walked Jack and Jill through the relative quiet of the Tin House parkette close to where we had parked, and the activity and din of the market quite confused them.

We picked them up where the crowds were really dense, and when we entered the shops. Other people walked well-behaved dogs of all sizes who evidently were accustomed to crowded conditions and loud sounds; not so ours, more familiar and comfortable with natural surroundings.

Our purpose was to stop briefly at the market, pick up what we wanted, and drive over to the Quebec side and enjoy a traipse in Gatineau Park, knowing that the usual routes we take have been closed, requiring us to take alternate, unfamiliar routes. Meanwhile, the colour, activity, beauty of the day and sheer spectacle of what the market has to offer provided its own type of entertainment, however briefly, for us. The bounteous sight of fresh fruits and vegetables, plants and flowers represent visual treats and the opportunity to pick up delightful edibles for home.

Since my husband offered to do the weekly grocery shopping on his own, it has left me with the luxury of taking my time doing the baking and cooking and cleaning on Friday morning, leaving us with ample time to take long, extended walk in the woods after he returns with the fruit of his shopping expeditions.

He enjoys food shopping, and in fact does very well at it. On his return when all that he has brought home has been tucked away in the refrigerator, it is stuffed amazingly, for the immediate consumption of only two mature people and two little dogs. But we do go through the fresh fruits, the vegetables, the dairy products, and all else that find their way into our refrigerator.

It can be a bit of a head-teaser, not to be the one who makes the weekly selections, since I'm the one who prepares the meals. There is a bit of a problem since my husband has a tendency to go overboard and commit us to more than I would bring home, so immediately my head buzzes with appropriate use of the cornucopia that crowds our refrigerator, dredging up from my mental filing cabinet recipes that match what I've got, to work with.

I had suggested also that we try out the organic milk sold by a supermarket other than our usual shopping venue, this one noted for the superlative quality and range of the products teeming on its shelves. It's a full-fat milk product, organic and rated highly by someone who recommended it to us. We both use quite a bit of milk on a weekly basis, albeit not daily. The milk comes at a hefty $4.95 per litre, with an additional charge of $1 for the glass bottle, refundable when returned. But we found the taste of the organic milk no more agreeable than what we usually use; commercial lactic-reduced 2%.

And while shopping there my husband was seduced by a very nice-looking bread. Made with organic flour and distilled water, containing organic seeds. It was, needless to say, twice the price of conventional commercial bread, but if its looks were supported by superior taste, obviously worth the outlay. Alas, not so. The bread was utterly tasteless, the only taste sensation that of an abundance of salt, obviously used in excess to mask the lack of taste. Scratch that one, too.

Last week we were still enjoying and appreciating the last of the summer weather. And because it was so warm our meals reflected that. So last Friday we had the last Caesar salad for dinner; we've had to put the furnace on finally in the reality of autumn finally having arrived. Night-time lows flirt with frost, and if we have a day absent full sun our large windows aren't able to usher in the warmth to the interior of the house that the sun brings us.

To counter the Caesar salad last week I acceded to my husband's request for Chelsea buns, one of his favourite desserts, instead of focusing on fruit as usual. And, since the weather was in the process of turning colder throughout the week, we thought we'd return to having stir-fries, always a favourite. My husband had brought home a large bag of bock choy (though we often prefer bean sprouts or broccoli), after his last shopping expedition so that was useful.

Yesterday, a casual search on the Internet for a recipe that would incorporate ricotta cheese, corn niblets and tomato gained me a nice, quick recipe for dinner that my husband really enjoyed. It never would have occurred to me without that found recipe to make pancakes for dinner, but that's what I ended up doing.

I had three ears of corn I wanted to do something with and an excess of ricotta cheese, along with plentiful tomatoes and I thought all three go together well, but didn't want to use pasta. The recipe for corn/ricotta pancakes was just the thing. It called for:

2 ears of corn, niblets sliced off  the cob        3/4 cup buttermilk
2 eggs                                                              1/2 cup ricotta cheese
1 cup flour                                                       1 tsp. baking powder
2 tbsp. snipped chives

Accompanying the pancakes were tomatoes grilled for six to eight minutes sprinkled with olive oil and basil leaves, and pesto added after the grilling process.

I had substituted sour milk for buttermilk and increased the corn niblet content, as well as the amount of chives that I'd gathered from the garden. I also added a tiny bit of salt and pepper. The finished product, after the pancakes were done was a little bland for my taste, though my husband raved about the pancakes. We both liked the tomatoes accompanying the pancakes. I might consider doing them again, but perhaps using grated old cheddar for a bit of taste zing. I might also, in future, use whole-wheat flour instead of the unbleached white I'd used.

We had a small fresh garden salad with avocado, cucumber, tomato and lettuce to preface the main course, and strawberries freshly picked (!) and trucked in from Isle d'Orleans; amazing really, fresh Canadian strawberries in October...!

We've veered suddenly from lovely early fall weather replete with sun, breezes and mild temperatures to days of unrelenting rain, and now a steep fall in temperature, but the return of the sun. The garden loved the warmth and sun followed by the rain. Everything seemed to perk up, beautifully.

And when the cold arrived, the preceding rain happened to protect tender growing things from feeling too abandoned by departed summer. The giant Dahlias have outdone themselves in size, and that  translates mostly to sturdy stalks that have grown to an absurd height, and plenty of foliage, but a sparsity of blooms. One of the Dahlias has given us plenty of delightful yellow flowers, another two round-petalled pink ones of lesser numbers, while a fourth has finally begun blooming fabulous spear-petalled layers of white-pink blossoms.

The Morning Glories are in their element, and so are the Nasturtiums, both robustly twining over everything else in their close vicinity. The blue of the Morning Glories almost vibrate with translucent colour in the early morning sun. And the variations in gold and orange of the Nasturtiums with their streaks of opposing colour are decoratively appreciated, even while garden standards of fall like Coneflower, Tickseed, Asters, Black-Eyes Susans, Clematis, Hydrangea, Ligularia, Swamp Sunflower and Roses are beginning to fade.

With this cold weather and the threat of overnight frost, however, it's time to think of cleaning up the gardens. And yesterday was as good a day as any to indulge. Both of us got out into the backyard to begin the process, trimming and cutting back perennials, beginning with the peonies and on to the Japanese anemones, the geraniums, the lilies and the iris foliage. While we snipped away and loaded up two large compost bags for an hour while Jackie and Jillie played around us, themselves happily pulling out violets to eat the roots as they're wont to do, we've made barely a start.

It will take many more such days to make any kind of tidying impression for fall on the gardens. And when we've completed that seasonal chore in anticipation of being greeted by a neat and tidy (relatively speaking) garden come spring, attention will be turned to emptying the garden pots of their annuals before too many frosts turn them to mush.   I will collect the potato vine roots, and the begonia bulbs to overwinter in the basement as usual.

And when it's all done, there will be a feeling of relief and accomplishment in readying the gardens for the long winter 'night' of sleep, likely with a comforter of well-seasoned compost over all.