Now, even the holdout beech trees have joined the bulk of the deciduous trees in losing the richness of their leaf mass. The advent of almost a week of warm, sunny days culminated in yesterday's still-balmy temperatures leavened with copious rain. When the rain was over, in came the winds, with really emphatic bursts blowing what was left on the trees everywhere.

Just as well that the dangerously shattered and overhanging pine on one of the hills overlooking a trail had been taken down the morning before. One shudders at the possibility of a hazard such as it presented not being removed and coming down in the harsh winds just when someone might have been passing beneath the threat.

Now, the forest is truly bare of foliage; no longer will we be able to rely on the protective canopy to shield us from rain on drizzly days. Still, the colourful display is evident; if not on the trees then on the forest floor. Its yellow-predominating confetti appearance almost swallows the presence of tiny Taz, whose natural colouration, just like Riley's seems to disappear into the surrounding sea of shade-muted foliage on its way to becoming forest compost.

In the week following the first hard overnight frosts, just before the onset of Indian Summer, the apples remaining on the wild apple trees that proliferate in the wooded ravine, were icy-moist, sweet and tangy, the best apples we'd ever tasted. And Jackie and Jillie most certainly agree. They know when we're passing under the tree with the best of the apples, which my husband reaches to help detach their treats from.

Latterly, apples still clinging to the trees have become sparser, and it required a well-flung bit of detritus to dislodge one, not to disappoint our little devilish duo. But it's clear that the succeeding days' warmth have made the remaining apples mealy and unappealing. Yesterday marked the last of their ravine-walk treats of apple bits for our two little companions.

"I am appealing to you once again on behalf of residents who would like to believe they walk through Bilberry Creek ravine in safety. The matter of the perilously cracked old pine leaning over a major trail has still not yet been resolved.

Whoever it is at the municipality who assigns priorities in public safety has fallen asleep at the job. Several weeks back it was clear that the location of the tree in question was assured, since a large red “X” appeared on it. Since then, no action has been taken to remove its potential threat. And its threat becomes more ‘potential’ as time goes on. When the winds are high and we are in the vicinity of that tree we can hear it creaking, and that sound gives warning that it will give way before long. If it does so while someone is proceeding up and down the hill on which it stands, hanging over the trail, the result will be catastrophic.

It’s hard to imagine why it hasn’t been recognized as a dire threat by those assigned to remove such impediments to public safety. A short few weeks ago a birch much reduced in girth to this one, which had fallen well off the path and was resting at a level that could be of no threat to any creature save a squirrel, was cut neatly into pieces. But not this overhanging pine.

Please find attached the latest photographs I have taken of the tree in question. Once again, I ask your assistance in ensuring that the matter will be taken care of, expeditiously."

 

This, the fourth and last of the emails that I had sent both to our city councillor (who happens also to be deputy mayor), finally achieved results. The morning of the day following my having contacted them (yesterday) I received an assurance from the individual heading the Forestry Section that in several days' time the matter would be resolved. My councillor responded mere moments after having received my email.

Yesterday just happened to be the height of Indian Summer this year, the temperature soared to 20 degrees, there was a lovely breeze and the sun hung beneficently in a clear blue sky. When we neared the area which led us to the hill we would ascend where that poor old pine had met its end, I could see from a near distance that the area looked different. And sure enough, as we approached it was evident that the tree and the threat it posed had been removed. Parts of the trunk lay strewn alongside the trail, its girth making it evident that it was an elderly specimen. It was, in fact, a tree that for years I had noted for its almost-perpendicular lean. That frailty, no doubt due to prevailing winds over the years of its maturity, led to its cracking in a high wind-and-rain storm that occurred several months ago.

It's a relief to us and to many area trail-walkers to have the threat removed. After I sent final emails both to our city councilman and the public works department, thanking them for applying themselves so helpfully to removing this public threat, our representative on city council, responded, thanking me for thanking them.

 

The hazard that I had brought to the attention of the municipality's works department, and just incidentally also contacted our member of municipal council about, remains a hazard. My original contact, complete with photographs to demonstrate just how much of a potential risk to the public a large old cracked pine presented was originally sent about a month and a half ago, after a strong rain-and-wind storm had impacted a pine that had been growing in a leaned-over position for many years.

The pine now had partially fallen over because of the extent of the crack, with its crown resting on top of two not-very-mature poplar trees, left to hold up the entire breadth and length of the injured tree. A good portion of the tree, if and when it falls, would come down directly on the trail. And since this is located on a major trail, it is obvious enough that the situation creates a dangerous site that should be given high priority in ameliorating.

It took a month before a crew was dispatched to evaluate the site, and the tree was marked with a large red "X", at which point we felt some relief, that it wouldn't be long before the tree was removed. Yesterday, as we made our way up the hill where the tree still leaned precariously, the prevailing wind had sufficient influence on it so that we heard prolonged creaking, and picked up our speed to pass the area.

And so, on return home, after having taken new photographs as evidence of our concern, I once again related the situation to our municipal councillor who always responds immediately, and who in turn conveyed the matter again to the forestry services. An email was then sent to me with the message that the tree would be removed within the next few days. Other ravine walkers have told us that trees marked for removal closer to where they gain access to the ravine sometimes languish in a threatening condition for periods up to years, before they are finally taken down.

We hope, in this situation, where the tree can no longer sustain itself as a result of the damage it sustained, this this won't be repeated. Given the circumstances and the gravity of what might occur if the tree fell on someone, the municipality is certainly leaving itself open to a costly and embarrassing lawsuit.

After years coming across us in the ravine Coco and Ruby, two rescue dogs, have finally agreed to a truce. They now withhold their visceral reaction as once-abused dogs, to bark furiously when they see us, willing to share the ravine with us, and setting aside suspicion. They live with a young couple who bought a house on a street backing on the ravine, about a fifteen minute walk from our street.

Yesterday was an absolutely glorious fall day. A day in early November presaging an entire week of above-normal temperatures in the mid-teens: Indian Summer! The sun was fully ablaze in a sea of blue, and the wind, albeit emphatic, nicely moved the warm air around, nudging holdouts on deciduous trees to float to the forest floor. Speaking of holdouts, the beeches in the ravine clutch their autumnal dried-and-wonderfully-hued foliage closely, and they will continue to do so for the most part through the winter months, blessing the coming monochromatic scenery of winter-white with startling punctuations of orange.

When we emerged from our circuit, there was Mike, walking Coco and Ruby down our street, the first time we've ever come across them outside of the ravine. Street-walking isn't their favourite activity. Ruby loves the ravine, paddling her overweight little frame down into the creek, and waddling about in there for as long as Mike patiently allows her to before they move on. When the area receives violent thunderstorms, Coco is put out of commission for weeks, shuddering in fear over the violence of the thunderclaps, until their memory has been shoved sufficiently deep in her damaged psyche to allow her to venture out of doors once again.

So, since they were in our direct neighbourhood, they came along to visit with us for a few minutes, on Jack and Jill's turf. When we're in the ravine, Jillie will quietly settle herself down for as long as it takes when we come across friends and stop for brief chats. Jackie is fine at first, then he becomes restless, and he looks for mischief. His favourite trick is to begin pulling Jillie's leash and tugging her along the trail, as though signalling us that it's time to go, you laggards.

Yesterday, with visiting Coco and Ruby, Jackie took to doing the very same thing; pulling them both along by their leashes whenever Mike dropped them to allow them to wander about wherever fancy took them as long as they remained on our property. Neither Coco nor Ruby seemed to mind Jackie's assertiveness, and it was pretty amusing to witness the little spectacle of Jackie busying himself and Coco and Ruby lending themselves without complaint to his conceit.

Not since we were teens together and joined a book club that would mail title selections to us at an inexpensive price, did we practise the habit of reading the same books. Now, a lifetime later, we possess hundreds of our own books in a library whose shelves are on the verge of bursting with a plenitude of choices we have yet to read, our interests in reading materials have diverged.

We seldom read the same books, although we do tend to discuss what we've read with one another, often. This time, in the decision of what each of us independently decided to read, there is a bit of a connection. My husband was reading Jan Dalley's Diane Mosley, a Life, while I was reading Martin Gilbert's The Boys: Triumph over adversity.

My husband has had an abiding interest in all things British, as long as I can recall. And I was introduced to the horrors of the Second World War focus on annihilation of Europe's Jews at my most impressionable age, as a child. It's strange; my father felt that from the age of eight forward it would be suitable to introduce me to the reality of the Holocaust through what was being said in the Jewish community in horrified, hushed tones, and whatever was being written at the time.

I, on the other hand, raising three children with their father, sought to protect and shield them from details of that dreadful period in history when the monstrosity of human dysfunction led to a hugely destructive war, responsible for the deaths of millions of people, along with the haunting understanding that the world was and remains prepared to do little in defense of Jewish lives wherever the threat emanates from.


I had long ago been told by my husband of the Mitford sisters, a story of British society and moneyed elite's fascination with and support for German fascism. Who isn't aware of Winston Churchill's steadfast determination to defeat the Nazi juggernaut? And who is aware that during the war years, Churchill's friendship with Diana Mosley -- one of the Mitford sisters who married the staunch fascist and Hitler associate Sir Oswald Mosley -- led him to compassionately arrange for her to share living arrangements in prison with her husband rather than keep them apart.

Members of the British aristocracy many of whom were fascist sympathizers and who gave great moral and emotional support to baronet Mosley when he was imprisoned during the war years, and his wife as well in recognition of their support for and friendship with Adolf Hitler, had influence with Winston Churchill at whose ancestral home Diana Mitford and her brother Tom stayed and played in their childhood years. They were all successfully instrumental in reuniting husband-and-wife-Mosley during their incarceration, and freeing them from prison to resume their place in British high society, post-conflict.

As for "The Boys", they were what remained of young Jewish concentration camp survivors who agreed to convey to historian Martin Gilbert their memories of their lives as children in Poland, living in mostly or partially Polish-Yiddish 'shtetles', and the pervasiveness of anti-Semitism that distinguished their lives as Jewish children. From those reminiscences, came their personal documentation of the onset of war when Germany invaded Poland, and how the Jews fared, both initially and eventually in death camps.

My husband settled down in the foyer from six in the evening until just past eight as he usually does on Halloween night, to respond to the door bell as neighbourhood children came around trick-or-treating. He had the patience which I lack, to do this; his reaction to the children is spontaneous and appreciative; mine is strained; figure that one out. He settles down, reading his latest book choice (Diana Mosley: a Life), awaiting each fresh arrival.  This year he estimates that about fifty children rang the doorbell for their chocolate treats. One bumper year we had twice that number, but the presence of  young children has been steadily diminishing as home owners grow older and their children leave childhood behind.

Jack and Jill barked their fool little heads off with each ringing of the doorbells, so we had to keep them confined outside the foyer to make certain that no small  children coming to the door would be frightened. The night passed uneventfully. I could hear, from where I was busy blogging at my computer station in the family room, the bright and cheery repartee that passed between my husband and our evening callers.

The next morning we found other callers; the doves have returned to spend their winter around our neighbourhood, drawn by the bird feeder that my husband keeps well stocked. The feeding station for furry wildlife will be maintained throughout the winter months, but it will be a more modest, ruder station, utilitarian but approachable; this time without a roof.

The bluejays are continuing to come around to the feeder, as are the cardinals, redpolls and various types of sparrows. Nuthatches and chickadees are frequent visitors. They all reward us through their entertainment quotient, where we watch their comings and goings. Even Jackie and Jillie have become accustomed to seeing them gather; no longer barking furiously at the appearance of other animals on what they consider to be their inalienable turf.

The antics of the squirrels remain a never-ending source of amusement, as they pursue their serious take on territorial imperative; the tiny reds chasing the much larger greys and blacks, themselves not averse to taking exception at seeing their own kind taking advantage of the seeds-and-nuts spread available for all of them.

My mother was emotionally close to her older sister, Rose. Rose lived with her husband Nathan in Hamilton, Ontario, where he was a furrier. Older than my mother, Rose had two boys long before I was born, my mother's first child. I was, in fact, born in Hamilton; my mother was visiting with her sister around the time of my expected delivery, looking to her sister for comfort, undergoing a natural process which seemed to instill fear in her. At every opportunity my mother would want to visit with her sister; those opportunities and the need inspired by them becoming less available to her as my siblings followed, three others over a succeeding period of thirteen years.

When my uncle Nathan and his wife Rose decided to move to the United States, my parents decided to do the same. Surprising, in retrospect, since my father was as devoted to his landsmen, forming the Mezricher Society, as my mother was to her sister. He was orphaned at age twelve, in Mezrich, Poland, ran away from the town's poorhouse where he was placed for care by the Jewish welfare society at the time, to Warsaw, to look for his brother who had gone there years earlier. He never succeeded in finding his brother, and lived on the streets as a homeless boy, among other homeless boys until a Jewish philanthropic society gathered them up and shipped them to Canada as indentured farm workers until they paid off their passage. I can recall my mother paying off her own passage from the Pale of Settlement, Russia, to wealthy relatives living in Atlanta, when I was in my early teens. And it was the presence of those relatives, all that were left of an expanded family, and the prospect of reuniting, that I believe drew my Aunt Rose to Atlanta.

My parents, who belonged to the United Jewish Peoples' Order in Toronto, had sent me to a parochial school (after regular school hours) when I was old enough to find my way through Toronto's inner city blocks to the school operated as part of the UJPO; the Morris Winchevsky School. I remember an impressive wood-panelled library with various types of books in the building; my father was a library volunteer, as a self-educated 'intellectual'. Cultural events with musical recitals and academic-style lectures were featured as evening presentations there. In the basement there was a small cafe in a large room with tables and chairs where members could gather to engage in social conversations.

The orientation of the UJPO was ideologically to the left; a socialist movement of broad proportions; broad enough to be sympathetic to Communist Russia. And it was without doubt this association that led the U.S. government to deny immigration to my parents. I never could understand to begin with, apart from nostalgia for family ties, why my parents would want to leave Canada for the United States, since it was instilled in me from an early age how racist America was, citing in large part the dreadful historical plight of Black Americans that continued unabated to my teen years and beyond.

Yesterday, an email landed in my inbox, no subject line, but the sender well known to me. One of my Aunt Rose's children, her youngest son, younger than me by a year (she always said my birth inspired her to have another child, ten years after her second-born) had sent a somewhat terse note that his oldest brother, my cousin Maurice, had died of a brain tumour he had been struggling with over the past several months. He was 86. We hadn't heard anything from those 'distant' cousins for decades. Isn't that always the way?