On Thanksgiving Monday, the Bilberry Creek ravine -- a large protected forested ravine area in the midst of a large urban area, with entry adjacent the street we live on, but also connecting to a wide range of other entry points -- was rife with visitors. Visitors in the sense of people living nearby who enter the forested ravine on annual occasions like Thanksgiving Day, coinciding with full autumnal colour display.

We encountered so many people, they passed singly, in couples, in family units, in extended family and friends visiting for the holiday, that Jack and Jill were lulled out of their complacent fantasy of innocence that the ravine was their particular precinct which others may enter only with their consent. Jillie in particular kept barking at the continual meetings, confused and a trifle upset, while Jackie was more concerned about the prospect of meeting people who might possibly want to admire and pet him. In all our decades of hiking those ravine trails we have never seen so many people.

At one juncture, a sea of human legs so confused Jillie that she stopped, uncertain how to proceed until I swooped her up and continued onward with her. People were understandably in a good, seasonal mood and many conversations ensued briefly and convivially. It wasn't an outing, however, in which communing with nature could be undertaken as a silent appreciation of our surroundings.

A day later, all the difference in the world, when the only person we came across was a familiar young woman, a dedicated runner with her two miniature Shelties. The Shelties tend to be standoffish but since we're familiar to them they tolerated our puppies making a fuss over them. And from there on in, we had the woodland setting to ourselves.

The morning's heavy rain had swollen the creek to a muddy run-off. The colours of the changing deciduous trees were intensified by a low, watery cloud cover resembling nothing so much as the interior of an aquarium, with its pewter-look colouration. It turned out to be a benign weather afternoon, surprising us by the moderation of the temperature, yet with an insistent wind. The wind ensured that as we perambulated along, there was a continual confetti of falling leaves.

There is peace and restfulness in such settings. Stirring quiet emotions of gratefulness for our proximity to such natural beauty, and the health that good fortune gives us to enable us to explore it daily and appreciate our need to surround ourselves with all the symbols of a natural setting. At such times we remind ourselves of how fortunate we are to live in a free country with all its opportunities extended to enable us and everyone else to live as well as our industry gives us liberty, to enjoy all the pleasures and good things of life.

Yesterday afternoon three hours of our time was consumed with the presence of an affable young technician courtesy of Bell Canada. The young man, with a 1000-watt smile, the kindly attention of a Victorian nursemaid and the enthusiasm of a high-wire circus performer really knew what he was about. He was spending so much time with us for several reasons.

Reason number one, my husband decided after four years without television, to look into getting a package deal from Bell. And the reason for that is we were informed by another Bell technician who had much earlier done work on our connection that the speed of our Internet service was compromised by being routed indirectly for the simple reason that we didn't have a complete package, including television reception.

Reason number two was that we finally broke to the realization that though we have wi-fi, the speed leaves much to be desired and so does the connectivity; we were at the second-to-lowest rung, and we were being offered the second-top speed with a package put together for us that included our land line, upgraded long-distance and a few other add-ons. At a cost that closely rivalled what we were already paying for much less.

So this lovely young man who would make any woman proud to be able to introduce as her son, set us up. Technically he did all the work that was required that he crowed was a "breeze", since he was a qualified technician, had attended technical college to attain that degree. He was a farmboy from the Gaspe region of Quebec, from one of a handful of United Empire Loyalist families who happened to settle there a century-and-a-half ago.

Reason he stuck around so long was that he needed to rack up the time, to begin with. And he was also tasked to 'teach' us how to use the hand-held controls to make full use of all the various channels and tricks and treats now at our disposal. The cherry on this particular sundae (and it was a Sunday, part of his regular week's operating hours) treat was that we would be paying a total of $5 more than we were without super hi-fi sped up, and without television reception.

Because, he explained, it was costlier for Bell to maintain the old dial-up service including the enhanced low-grade  hi-fi, which they kept going, even to buying new equipment for the service, because people didn't want to commit to upgrades, mostly among the older contingent, famously resistant to change; and cheaper for them to provide the kind of upgraded service we had just switched to. That was on Sunday.

On Monday we enjoyed our new speeded-up Internet service. And then on Tuesday, I decided I'd give Windows 10 update I kept being nagged about, another try. I've attempted in the past to authorize its download and it was never completed. So I began again this morning, authorizing the change, because that lovely technician said the browser that comes with it is the best ever. Result? My computer was locked up for hours while the processing went on. Hours later, still processing. And then in mid-process, the electricity went off. So the process was aborted.

Why did we have a failure of power? Heaven knows. My husband happened to be out at a building supply centre nearby when the power failed. Good thing he always has cash on him when he went in to get kibble at a pet supply shop for Jack and Jill, since their computers were down. As for me, when the electricity went off, I went out with the puppies and began working on the gardens, which rain earlier in the day kept me from. I kept hearing sirens.

When my husband returned finally, he was late because all the traffic lights were out and proceeding was delayed. And fire engines kept flying by on the highway.                      

We will no doubt tomorrow discover what, once again, interfered with our electrical power.

He'd gone out in the early evening, not far, just to a local destination to run an errand that would take him a few minutes. On his way back home, just as he was about to turn from the intersection where the street we live on leads off from a main thoroughfare he noted the presence of a little drama. Where a middle-aged man was trying to push a vehicle closer to the curb, a woman standing nearby looking fairly miserable. Not yet dusk, it was cold and it was briskly windy.

So he stopped, parked behind the presumably stalled vehicle and walked over to the pair, asking if he could be of help. Seemingly reluctantly and in French-accented English, the man explained, urged on by his wife, that his vehicle refused to budge. When he turned the ignition it roared briefly to life, then turned back off. He had tried repeatedly to get it going, but to no avail. So, said my husband, what's your game plan? He offered his cellphone, but they had one with them and decided to call the Canadian Automobile Association and make use of their membership.

They might be awhile in arriving, my husband said. Live nearby? I could drive you home while waiting the arrival of the CAA. In fact they didn't live far, no more than a brisk half-hour walk, but they declined the offer, wanted to be closer to their vehicle when the CAA arrived. My husband said to them that whoever was driving the CAA vehicle in response to their call would likely not mind picking them up at home.

An alternative, my husband suggested, was just to come home with him, since he lives just up the street. That would leave them closer to the SUV, and eliminate the discomfort of having to sit in their vehicle, awaiting the arrival of assistance, since they couldn't turn on the heater. The woman brightened considerably at the offer, but the man gruffly declined. They would wait in their vehicle.

My husband signed off at that point, and returned home.

My husband was driving at twelve years of age. His father, who was a chicken peddler, often wanted his young son to go out and move his half-ton pickup, because he was too tired or lazy, or just didn't feel like rousing himself to make the effort himself. By the time he was fifteen and working at a factory that produced chrome-and-arborite tables and chairs, he would unload trucks and move the beasts around himself at the request of his supervisor.

When we were young my husband thought it would be a good idea for me to learn to drive. He was prepared to teach me, and gave me a few lessons, but I wasn't enthusiastic about it, and always ended up saying I'd rather not. At various times throughout my life I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to drive, but disinterest and lethargy aligned to convince me in the final analysis that it just wasn't my thing. At 65 I changed my mind, took a driver's ed course in a class full of bumptious teens, followed through with practise-driving, then allowed inertia to get the better of me, and my temporary driver's permit lapsed. After which I was happy not bothering with driving again, even though my husband urged me to persevere.

All of which to say that I have never wanted to drive, and as a result simply haven't pursued a permanent driver's license. Which, in today's world seems to be the guarantor at presentation that you are who you purport to be. Your photograph and all the other information contained on the driver's license is what those in position of authority ask for as proof of you-yourself's existence.

Which brings me to the polling stations open now for a four-day advance poll for those eager to cast their vote in the upcoming federal election. We have always chosen to vote in advance polls. This year, for some reason Elections Canada decided to change voting venues, which has caused some consternation for a lot of people. What's more the new rules being pursued which aren't really new, only been more enforced have caused a bit of a bureaucratic bottleneck. Reports from various sources are that in this hotly contested election, more people are coming out to vote, finally, as evidenced by the turnout thus far at the early polls.

Which translates into long waits for the opportunity to cast one's ballot, largely, it seems, due to bureaucratic inefficiencies. If our experience is anything to go by, this is certainly the case. We know, from having read through the list, which type of identification is acceptable to do the trick. Utility bills, bank statements, with name and address, residential tax invoices, birth certificates, voter registration card, passports, all manner of testimonials to the truth of one's being who one claims to be.

Except that, voter registration card in hand, along with a utility bill and my passport didn't seem to suffice when we went out to vote yesterday. My passport was rejected: why? no address on it. I insisted it was a legitimate ID, and the person, at the fourth station in the rigmarole we went through, required more ID so my hospital card, having name and address on it, was proffered and accepted. In very fact, a long list of accepted ID was listed on the wall behind this personage, and it included passports.

Yes, fourth station. Enter the chamber and there is someone stationed to briefly peruse your ID and direct you to the first lineup. There, your ID, as I've described, is contested and finally accepted and you are directed to the second lineup. Where, eventually, someone asks to see your voter registration card, finds your name and address on a list, crosses it off, extracts a numeral, passes the numeral on to another person who on another list, writes your name, your address on it and asks you to sign it. From there you return to the original person who smiles, gives you a ballot and indicates she will be prepared to accept it when it has been filled out by you.

Thank you very much.

Morning rituals. Pleasurable trysts with the garden. Each morning after breakfast (even yesterday's morning rain didn't keep us from what has become over the years, a spring/summer/fall habit of walking about front and back of the house to survey the gardens.

Of course doing this also enables us to get closer glimpses of the wildlife that come along for their daily morning treats as well. We sight chipmunks and squirrels, neighbourhood birds and birds in transit, coming along to the bird feeder. There is a pair of tiny red baby squirrels, the smallest we can ever recall seeing before. But it's a mature grey squirrel that manages to get above the baffle keeping (supposedly) squirrels from accessing the top of the bird feeder, though I did see a black squirrel shimmy up the pole without any trouble at all, only to be stopped when he got to the baffle.

A succession of birds visit daily, from the cardinals, to various types of sparrows; song sparrows, chipping sparrows, chickadees and nuthatches, doves and now that the goldfinches have gone missing in their trip down south, juncos have returned.

We've made a start taking the gardens apart, cutting back perennials and lifting the roots and bulbs of potato vines, giant dahlias and begonias for winter storage in the basement until we can return them to the soil on the arrival of spring.

But we've hesitated to do the same at the front, in the gardens that are still flourishing, and where we enjoy the sight of freshly blooming, gorgeous begonias, petunias, geraniums, impatiens, dahlias and others that are so colourful and give us so much pleasure. We did touch frost last night, but after 24 straight hours of rain, all the annuals were protected and show no signs of damage.

So we've decided to hold off, even while knowing that when extremely cold weather does arrive and the more delicate of the plants succumb we'll be working out there in less than ideal conditions to prepare everything for winter onset. Meanwhile, rose shrubs in the backyard are happily blooming. The tomato vines are still productive, the nasturtiums and the Morning glories are working overtime to produce blooms while they yet may.

Summer leaves the scene with the greatest reluctance -- on our part and on the season's.

Given the opportunity, if inter-species communication was effortless and clearly communicable, Lily would no doubt wax poetically enthusiastic about her summer holidays. We know, though she herself hasn't informed us, that she spent six ecstatic weeks on a nearby farm, with people who enjoy her company, and who themselves have a companion dog similar to Lily. In size, that is, not necessarily in appearance, for Lily is a pure-white thoroughbred Shepherd. There on the farm she was free to roam at will, to play endlessly with her canine companion, with not a moment left in the day to pine in the absence of her own human companions.

But she was equally enthusiastic, if somewhat puzzled, though she has been through this routine before, when her humans came along finally to pick her up and take her back home again with them. And she was delighted to be reunited with a routine familiar to her, which in no way diminishes her appetite for alternate experiences, like living temporarily on a farm with its vast acreage, among strange creatures familiar to her only vaguely from her previous stays.

She is a patient dog, one who tolerates the impertinences of smaller dogs with their yappy presence, and in particular small puppies even more impudent and clamorous than most nuisance dogs. So she stands around and waits, allowing two black puppies with the absurd names of Jackie and Jilly to romp about her, trying to draw her into competition over who could conceivably be most obnoxious. A classification that doesn't include Lily.

She stood around waiting until her human companion had his fill of describing his own summer vacation, a river cruise in the rivers close to the North Atlantic, a trip that was delightfully full of treats and surprises as they stopped in various eastern European cities renowned for their medieval architecture. A trip that necessitated that Lily too be accommodated, just not on the river cruise, although without a doubt the other 160 passengers on the ship would have been delighted to make her acquaintance.

We're in the transition stage between fall and winter, still enjoying wonderful mid-autumn weather, plenty of sunshine and breezy days warming up to the mid-teens. In the forest, signs of fall are everywhere, from the absorption into the forest floor of low-growing plant life, to the carmine blaze of staghorn sumac foliage. For the most part, the deciduous trees have just begun to succumb to yearly colour change, late this year.

We always speculate how much of that change is attributable to shorter daylight hours and how much to temperature flirtations with overnight frost; likely a combination of both, since it's the cold that convinces trees that survival is in their favour when they allow their life-affirming sap to descend, causing foliage to turn colour, detach and fall.

Now, when we're in the ravine, we can see the gradual accumulation of desiccated leaves on the trails, and when there's a stiff wind that gusts, a flurry of leaves lazily descend to the ground, a ritual as old as time and nature itself.

It had seemed to us this year that there have been fewer squirrels about noticeably than we've been accustomed to throughout the summer months. I've certainly far less frequently been placing out peanuts for them. But now that colder weather is approaching they're making themselves far more up front in their browsing search for edibles to put away for winter.

Now, we see small groups of robins in the ravine, preparatory to their migratory flight, although for the past several years more robins are beginning to eschew flight south. It's a conundrum what they find to eat throughout the winter months to sustain them until spring; certainly not worms.

We stop to look heavenward through the still-leafy canopy whenever we hear a racket of geese calling as they form their precise arrows southward, from time to time. It's evocative of so many falls, bringing back memories that are both welcome and melancholy.