Now that the weather is finally moderating, and we had a brilliant all-day-sun treat yesterday, it was surprising to us to see so many people out walking along the ravine trails. People we hadn't seen in months on end were out strolling in the winter-white woods, most with their dogs. Jackie and Jillie were beside themselves with joyful enthusiasm, running before us to greet old friends and new
acquaintances.

The trails were nicely packed down, albeit narrow in some places, but those are the places that relatively few people use for the most part, side trails leading to various streets up above, the trails deep in the ravine, whereas most people simply walk trails closest to the ravine entrances on a wide network of urban streets.

Our own circuit took us quite a long time longer than it usually does to circumnavigate, having to stop repeatedly, not only to exercise the courtesy of allowing people to pass on the narrowed trails, momentarily and briefly stepping off into the deep snow sinking well up to knee-height in the process, but due to the interminable episodes of greeting acquaintances and stopping to talk.

Those talks on occasion took quite a bite (no spelling error) of time, since everyone has so much to say about the winter and how they'd tolerated it, many by leaving Canada for warmer climes. One couple of decades-long acquaintance described how ill he had been with an exotic stomach virus while they were off in heat-soaked India, impairing his ability to enjoy what his wife enthusiastically described for us in minute detail of time well and memorably spent.

The quality of yesterday's atmosphere and the balmy expectations of the week to come will make inroads into the snowpack. Everyone was trying their memory at how long it would take to all melt, and the immediate aftermath of muddy clay dry up to congenially greet spring.

A week ago when we had a few days of sporadic milder weather the creek had melted in the ravine and we saw a small flock of about eight over-wintering robins flying about close to the water, dipping now and again toward it, some perching on fallen logs nearby before moving on to other places at the creek. The cold has returned and with it the ice firmly covering the creek, even where the rapids are, and yesterday we saw one lone robin flitting about there, a forlorn spectacle.

The relatively new phenomenon of birds that traditionally migrated south for the winter months, like robins, deciding to wait out the winter here instead, must have transitioned through winters becoming relatively milder, but even if the temperatures average out less frigid than we have normally experienced in the past, we still have days on end of extremely icy weather, accompanied by fierce winds and snowstorms, none of which can be congenial to the life expectancy of over-wintering species.

Our area newspaper's weekly bird column reports that some people's bird feeders have hosted a few exotic travellers who would not normally be in this extremely cold winter place. A Summer Tanager, seen at a feeder was taken to the Wild Bird Care Centre but severe frostbite shortened its life. A Gyrfalcon was spotted and so were Horned Larks. It's a cruel time for birds to navigate their way here anticipating spring. March came in like the proverbial lion and it seems stuck in lion mode.

Our feeder has seen the occasional visit by woodpeckers, not at the feeder but at the nearby suetball. We've seen the frequent visits of bluejays, crows, juncos, goldfinches, house finches, doves, nuthatches, chickadees and cardinals, and a few others we've spotted fleetingly and had problems identifying, and they're all welcome. We hate to think of their plight in really miserable weather, most somehow managing to survive and others just not managing to.

Of all our visitors of the avian persuasion, it's the doves that manifest their presence most trustingly and appealingly. They will roost for hours on the lower roof of the house over the garage, or on the porch, seeking comfort in serenity and basking in the sun when it shines. They don't mind the presence of the squirrels who share space with them.

Squirrels for their part, seem oblivious to the presence of birds, but not to one another's competititve presence, and if there are any disagreements manifesting, they are between the squirrels themselves, chasing one another away from preferred feeding spots, leaving some to wait patiently until the more aggressive among them are sated to have their own opportunity.

Jackie watching a squirrel out a dining room window

One of my husband's favourite observations is how much we humans are creatures of habit. We find comfort in the familiar and the routine, and this is what habit is. Actions and reactions that become automatic, we don't plan or think about them, just think of them and perform them because they have become so ingrained in our minds through constant repetition.

A fairly good example, is the recurring satisfaction of thought that floods my own mind on Fridays contemplating the week-ends. A quiet celebration of anticipation. Of rest and recreation, of 'catching up' on things that were impossible or difficult to do during the working week. The problem here is that it's been twenty years since I retired from the workforce. Every day is the 'week-end' for me. There are few constraints on my time relatively speaking, in comparison to when I worked full-time out of the house, and part-time in the house.

That's when the week-ends signified leisure, although in truth they were anything but that, since it's when household tasks and maintenance had to take place, difficult to achieve during the working day. But somehow we managed to cram into those week-end hours lots of leisure activity, from hiking in the woods, to canoeing, and camping, or snowshoeing and just having a good time to relieve the pressures of the working week.

I managed to do a lot of baking, preserving, cooking and cleaning while I worked full-time, and now that I have the entire week to do what I used to cram into a much more narrow field of time, I do less of all of that, and still feel pressed for time. I haven't enough time to do all the reading I crave, since with finite time frames I want to concentrate on other things that I'm motivated to do, like creative writing, gardening and occasionally searching out new and novel hiking venues.

As for my husband, who while he was working full time out of the house somehow managed to do all manner of things, from creating his own paintings on canvas to stained glass work, flooring, installing brickwork on the house exterior, and generally transforming this house as he did our previous homes into a reflection of his aesthetic taste. He still does all of that in his retirement space, but it likely takes a bit longer to perform these things.

So, it's the weekend. And we view its arrival with a kind of relief that has its genesis in the past and which no longer applies. We make an effort not to go to places which normally attract working people on their days off. It makes no practical sense to view the arrival of the weekend with such anticipation, yet habits die hard, and it's difficult to wean ourselves off this one.

Naivelt: This Land Was Our Land

It made for an interesting read and it certainly brought back childhood memories when I came across the article Canada's Favourite "Traveller" featuring Jerry Grey, in latest issue of Fifty-Five Plus magazine that my husband happened to pick up a few days ago. The Travellers were a feature of Canada's folk song groups, and by all accounts, the first to import and popularize socialist, union- and folk-type songs into Canada, inspired by the movement that took shape in the  United States.

The group of young people who made up The Travellers accompanied their parents to Camp Naivelt just as I did as a slightly younger child. They were hugely admired, their singing prowess evoked the spirit of working-class, cultural-rich Jews that called themselves socialists with a bent toward communism in the 1940s. Social and political life revolved around a society called the United Jewish Peoples' Order [UJPO] which had a building in central Toronto, across from a nice little park. Within that building a parochial school was operated, the Morris Winchevsky School, and while my parents attended meetings at the centre regularly as well as cultural events, I made a daily trek to the school across from Bellwoods Park, after normal school hours and on weekends, to take classes in Jewish history, culture and language.

I made that trek for years, beginning when I must have been around six or seven until I was in my mid-teens, by which time before I 'graduated', my husband, then my boyfriend, waited for me until class was over on weekends, so we could spend time together. His parents moved in a different social circle than mine did, and he attended a conventional 'chaider' for boys, in preparation for bar-mitzvah.
My parents were social 'progressives' and secular, my husband's parents were nominally orthodox, completely disinterested and oblivious of politics and neither saw much in common with the other.

Camp Naivelt, the summer recreation property close to Brampton, owned and operated by the UJPO was a place of natural wonder to me, a large 'park' in a fabulous natural setting that gripped me with pleasure in its environs where familiar people congregated, some owning their own cottages, set apart from smaller rudimentary cabins that people could rent for the weekend. There was a large centrally located building where a large dining hall offered meals to camp-goers, and there were large extended out-houses nearby the cabins which anyone with common sense would walk a wide berth around until nature desperately called.

Deb O'Rourke, Orion Magazine

Best of all, there was an in-ground swimming pool, a lovely large swimming pool that was the pride of the camp, and there, after stepping into and out of a small footpool to be properly skin-sanitized, one entered the confines of the swimming pool itself to submerge oneself into lovely, cooling water during hot summer days.

There were volleyball courts and other competitive recreational sport activities were in full sway that attracted the athletic-minded of which I certainly was not one. It was the close proximity to nature, the green and the trees that sent me into a state of perpetual bliss.

And in the evenings often there was entertainment, along with the giant campfires where people were invited to sit about and join in singing popular folk songs. And there was The Travellers, whose performances were almost venerated, their gutsy, lusty singing of a world of fairness and justice opposed a world of injustice and longing sent listeners into spasms of acclaim. And there we are, sixty years later, and Jerry Grey beams from the pages of the magazine 'promoting a positive, active lifestyle', banjo-playing singing voice still intact and still performing, now 82 years of age.

Oh, and Pete Singer, too. And that's the year, 1955, when my husband and I were married.

Barbara Blaser / Winchevsky Centre

Pete Seeger sings with his five-string banjo at Brampton's Camp Naivelt in the summer of 1955, the same year he famously refused to speak about any communist sympathies before the U.S. House Un-American Activities Committee in Washington.

It's early, anticipatory season-wise. It most definitely is still winter. When we came downstairs this morning the outdoor thermometer read minus 21 C, which the weather news confirmed, and it was windy, albeit sunny. So it's miserably cold. And again last night, after our latest snowfall of 20 cm on Tuesday the municipal plow came by to clear the roadway and left a deep dump of snow at the end of our driveway, which over the succeeding hours turned to hard-packed ice, necessitating that my husband go out after breakfast with his own snowplow to clear it away.

But though it isn't yet spring, I decided earlier in the week to begin spring cleaning. Most years it more or less creeps up and surprises me with the realization that there's a lot to do in the house, and I'd better get on with it. Last spring it was difficult because we had two new puppies to care for, mischievous, rambunctious little fellows who kept us busy. They weren't averse to chewing happily at everything in sight, from furniture legs to slippers and shoes, and nor were they very quick to learn that their bodily deposits were to be done outside. Constant treks outdoors with them during the cold winter months wasn't much fun but they needed to be praised when they understood what was wanted of them.

I surprised myself last spring at the amount of spring cleaning I was able to accomplish, given these complications, while being aware at the same time that I was leaving a substantial amount of it undone, focusing primarily on what was really pressing and just shrugging the rest away. This year I've some catching-up, as it were, to do. I don't think that an annual deep cleaning of cupboards, the washing of window coverings and the windows is too much to do.

So I began with emptying the large glazed dining room armoire of all it holds to dust everything; objects and interior, clean the glass, and wash out any stray specks of whatever might have accumulated in the past several years, since I missed it last year. From there I cleaned out the powder room vanity, a four-door affair, and the vanity upstairs adjacent our bedroom. There's lots to do, the kitchen pantry, baking cupboard, the breakfast room glazed buffet, and clothing cupboards and drawers, but now that I've got a head start I imagine myself performing it all in relative leisure.

And when late spring turns the corner I'll be finished and prepared to get on with welcoming the garden back to life. Hurrah!

Our two little dogs represent what in their human counterparts might be considered 'fraternal twins'. Although they were the only two pups in the litter, and both are black, and most people are unable to distinguish between them, for us it is simple enough. Jillie, the female has a white blaze on her chest, and white hair on her chin, she is slightly shorter than her brother and she is fully packed unlike her brother who is skinny, stringy, sinewy, and muscular. Jackie's face is larger, his snout longer than Jillie's. And their facial expressions and their eyes are differently expessive.

Jackie left, Jillie right

In a physical duel like a wrestling match they are fairly well matched; his superior agility compensation for her gain in weight. He is distressingly thin, and that concerns us. In their as-yet short lives Jillie has never been ill, whereas Jackie often has been, necessitating that we urgently convey him to a 24-hour-operation animal hospital in off hours. Often the emergency results from something he has ingested, in various incidents; typically once from what we believe to have been a sharp piece of ice that cut the lining of this throat last winter, to a fungal growth that affected his central nervous system this past fall that he had ingested when eating a fallen, rotting apple from a wild apple tree.

He moves with a grace his sister simply does not have. His agility, speed and casual elegance in leaping, pirouetting, racing about and challenging his sister to duels mark him apart from her almost-but-not-quite athletic prowess that fail to match his effortless motion. He is so light on his feet that it seems at times that his back end almost races ahead of him.

Wrestling competition: Jackie on top

And his eating patterns were of concern to us until a short while ago. He would be given the amount of kibble recommended for his size and weight, and he would eat well, yet every four or five days would then distinctly avert himself to the presentation of his meals, refusing to eat, simply walking away showing no interest whatever in anything offered to him. This, from a little dog who has habituated himself to grazing on plant matter when we're outside, despite all our efforts to break him and his sister of this acquired habit.

Because he is so thin, his polite refusals to eat really worried us, imagining that he might waste away. The kibble our two little dogs are given is produced from local, quality food products transformed into digestible kibble by an Alberta-based manufacturer and contains all manner of fruits, vegetables, chicken (no by-products) and some select grains. This is supplemented by additions we make to their diet, representing egg, cheese, home-cooked chicken and chicken soup.

Jackie on the left, Jillie right

Each morning before breakfast they are given very small bits of cheddar cheese. Their breakfast which follows includes a spoonful each of ricotta and yogurt. At dinnertime they eat their kibble moistened with chicken broth, and chopped chicken derived from cooking the chicken soup. And into their food once daily goes wild-salmon-derived oil. After the main portion of their dinner they are offered a salad of chopped cooked cauliflower, broccoli, carrots and fresh chopped bell peppers.

When I prepare food at the kitchen sink, and they hear me chopping vegetables or cutting up fruit, they troop into the kitchen to sit patiently beside me, hoping that they will benefit from my activities by being offered a tidbit; a piece of celery, tomato, banana, melon, strawberry.

And lately, Jackie no longer refuses to even consider nibbling away at his food offerings, presenting himself eager and willing to eat all his meals. And we are much relieved. Despite which, he remains his lean self, not a spare ounce of fat to cover his bones.

Jackie, all hair and bones

Rachel was one of Riley's ravine friends. They enjoyed seeing one another and romping on occasion in the ravine together. Rachel, as a middling-sized terrier was much larger than our little Riley, a toy poodle, but their size differential made no difference to them. Button was fairly indifferent to the presence of other dogs, unlike her puppy phase when she enjoyed racing all comers and usually beat them by a mile.

Rachel was the unfortunate product of a mixture of breeds, likely enough of a mix that her genes got somewhat confused, as testified to by the final product. Unlike dogs with identifiable heritage, say a mix of two breeds, whose outcome leaned heavily in favour, physically and temperamentally toward one or the other, Rachel really was different. She resembled a werewolf in her physical presentation but her character was sweet and lovable. And she certainly was loved by those who lived with her.

She, like Button and Riley, have gone on to another world we know nothing of. We despair at their deaths but this is nature writ large: life and death. We hadn't seen her owner in quite awhile, but yesterday on our ravine round, we came across her. And with her was a dog we'd never before seen. A combination of beagle and basset hound, a very friendly dog. Five years old, we were told, and being temporarily fostered.

Her family had lost their home, and were living in a shelter. A dog rescue group that specializes in temporarily housing family pets when the family is unable to keep them where they have been assigned to live while in dire financial straits operates a foster group, and our ravine friend had responded.

I asked if she mightn't find it difficult to eventually surrender Dexter, after having lived with him for quite a few months, but she laughed, and she said it would be no problem. She hadn't decided whether to bring another companion dog into her home, and this, as a stop-gap fulfilled a need, while at the same time performing a personal duty of compassionate aid to those in distress.

There are the unseen people in this city who fall upon personal misfortune and need a helping hand to help them survive that misfortune and move on with hope toward a better future. This city, living in an unforgivingly miserable winter climate for the homeless, for those dispossessed of their health, their homes, their livelihood, their belongings, need help desperately. Society has an obligation to respond to their needs.

That there are those within society who offer their help in ways other than tax-supported organized civil social welfare can provide, speaks to the quality of those who live in that society, able and willing and happy to extend that aid to the truly helpless animals who also suffer when extenuating circumstances arise to complicate the trajectory of peoples' lives.

On top of and added to the social welfare agencies tasked to give assistance to those in our community who fall on hard times there is the added need to welcome, settle and comfort refugees from parts of Africa who have suffered through great social upheavals caused by war and poverty, and those that have arisen as a result of incessant conflict in the Middle East.

Rising to the occasion is complex and burdensome, but a human necessity.