Because I had bread dough sitting in the refrigerator, prepared two days earlier when I was busy in the kitchen baking, I thought I'd turn it into panzerotto for dinner. So, rolled it into rounds, spread it with tomato paste, sprinkled over sweet basil and garlic powder, and grated Parmesan and Mozzarello over. Then topped that with anchovies and pepperoni, chopped bell pepper, mushrooms and tomatoes. Twenty-five minutes later we were sitting down to enjoy them piping hot. A riff on pizza, everyone's favourite.

For a change it hadn't rained yesterday afternoon or evening. It waited for the night hours. And when we awoke the sky was threatening rain and soon made its threat a reality. Which is why, this morning we had no early walk, but set out in a lull in the weather, at half-past eleven. We never eat lunch, just breakfast and dinner, so the time is never a problem for us.

 

But because the dripping had just stopped and ragged grey clouds kept scudding across the sky, we wore rainjackets and so did Jackie and Jillie. When we got out on the street there was a tempestuous wind blowing in our faces, but it was surprisingly warm, unlike the past several days. We were uncommonly comfortable. Despite our rainjackets we weren't certain how long to commit to the forest trails, whether a shorter circuit was in order for today to avoid an inundation.

 

But when we reached that part of the circuit when we could have chosen to make a really truncated hike the mood of the weather seemed to lift and to our astonishment the sun teased us for a brief moment. Off came Jackie and Jillie's jackets, through they weren't complaining. And the decision to forge on and forgo the opportunity for a short circuit in fear of a downpour was set aside.

 

And we began to notice the presence of an awful lot of fungi. Shelf fungi on the trunks of ailing trees and old stumps. On one old stump the fungi grew in beautiful array looking just like creamy wafers set out by a thoughtful hostess for her guests to enjoy. We admired the offering but thanked our hostess and moved on.

 

The array of mushrooms popping up out of the rain-saturated soil seemed endless. Magical even. Like a bit of a fairyland, and the landscape put us in mind of what a mycologist might do exposed to seeing them as we did, not knowing quite where to look first, not wanting to miss anything. There were some mushrooms that were white, others mud-coloured, and others yet the softest most lovely yellow.

 

Some few had been nibbled and evidently not found entirely wanting, but the wildlife have ample seeds and nuts to select from this year. It's not beyond one's imagination, however, to think of squirrels enjoying variety in their diet. Some of the larger mushrooms had been upended, others pulled right out, little scenes of mayhem. 

 

Jackie and Jillie busied themselves sniffing and snuffling about, while we peered here and there, carefully creeping along the interior forest floor, conscious of the delicate vegetation we were passing over and choosing to tread with caution in our effort to get even closer to these marvels of nature. My husband spotted what he thought were tiny berries until he looked closer and realized that the tiny red round objects were in fact newly-emerged bright red mushrooms.

 

When we finally left the ravine we had experienced a short bit of light rain pattering through the foliage, and another brief appearance of the sun. And as well a suddenly-dark curtain falling in the forest interior, harder wind gusts and a warning of the possibility of a heavy shower. It failed to materialize while we were out. And when we walked back down the street to the house the sky appeared as though it was ready to open its faucets.

 

 

As we came close to completing our morning tramp through the woods yesterday morning with Jackie and Jillie towing us along, we heard the sound of saws buzzing ahead as we drew ourselves uphill to access street level. There, in the woods behind the backyard of one of our neighbours, was a municipal crew of arborists busy at work taking down a dead ash that threatened it might fall dangerously close to the trail or into their backyard and onto some poor unfortunate.

In the past few years the emerald ash borer has destroyed the forest inventory of ash trees, as they have throughout eastern Ontario and into the New England states and well beyond. Some of our neighbours who had ash trees growing on their lawns opted to try to save them with insecticidal treatment,but it turned out to be only a temporary fix; the trees continued their fairly swift march to join all those that hadn't been treated.

A few years ago municipal crews were dispatched to cut down dead ash trees that were in vulnerable places where people accessed green areas like our forest and their presence was recognized as dangerous, creating hazardous conditions for people strolling through forest trails or public parks. The crew yesterday took down the tree adjacent our neighbour, and another two alongside the trail leading into the ravine.

The felled trees, cut into sections, were quite aged and consequently large. They were hauled outside the ravine and left just at its cusp where we enter daily. In the hours to follow, people drove by with pick-up tricks and maneuvered some of the quite lengthy and hefty trunk parts onto their trucks and made off with them.Though they could be cut into firewood, it's also likely that people may have taken them to local mills to be cut into boards. It's something our younger son would do, and then proceed to painstakingly make furniture with the wood as a wood craftsman, among his many other interests.

What remains is much too heavy for anyone, even several working together, to lift. The trunks could have been left in the forest to decay and give shelter to insects and animals, but it's likely they'll be lifted mechanically eventually and hauled away. They represent a tremendous weight. Early Canadian 19th century furniture was often constructed of ash. There are commercial furniture makers crafting their wares by hand willing to make use of ash-borer trees for the production of quality furniture.

Today dawned really quite cool at 10C, though sunny. Wind countered the sun, however, and we decided to put light little sweaters on Jackie and Jillie. Small dogs, like people, are sensitive to temperature, and they don't mind wearing garments against the cold. It 's when we have to pull little rubber booties over their paws when we're into sub-zero temperatures and deep in snow that they'll evince an initial sense of bewilderment.

Our daily trips through the forest continue to entertain us with seasonal sights. In the spring and through the summer months it's a succession of wildflowers. Now that fall weather is intruding on our idyll, there are far fewer flowers and the wild berries are almost exhausted. What attracts our attention now is the various types of fungi that show up on decaying branches and tree trunks.

And even more so, a variety of mushrooms that have a tendency to suddenly pop up overnight on the forest floor. We've come across some that are stark white, and others that are light tan. Some are a considerable size, and some are minuscule, extending in a straight line as though someone had carefully poured them onto the ground. During the summer we'd often come across fungi with indistinguishable shapes, just splotches of bright orange in appearance, resembling cast-off orange peel.

Now, the most interesting we've come across have been the symmetrical-shaped traditional-in-appearance toadstools, some of which are of a considerable size, their colouration butter-yellow, with little 'bumps' scattered over their caps. Squirrels are curious little mischief-makers, attracted to anything in their habitat that might be fodder for their appetites. Some mushrooms are nibbled in one discreet area and left; clearly a reject. While others can be nibbled all the way around, and we conjecture those are the ones that meet the gustatory approval of the squirrels' taste buds.

Although while we're in the ravine on the forest trails there's never any need for sunglasses, since we're continually in the shade, courtesy of the forest canopy which allows sunlight to streak through the trees randomly but seldom covering much ground level areas, once we reach street level as we make our way back home again, the piercing sun floating through an azure sky in its new, fall trajectory becomes almost blinding in the ferocity of its glare.

Wandering briefly through the garden one can barely make out the discrete landscapes, everything is so dazzlingly bright. We might as well enjoy it in full measure. As it is it seems unbelievable that summer is coming to an end, for it seems to have zipped by so quickly we can barely credit that summer is on the cusp of exiting 2020.

The headlines on the front page above the fold in both daily newspapers we subscribe to, shout out in bold lettering THE GREAT UNKNOWN. Attention-getting at the very least. Dismaying to be sure. Since it refers to the uncertainty and bafflement of the medical-scientific community in attempting to suss out what it is about this SARS-CoV-2 virus that causes the disease of COVID-19 that is so different from other, previous respiratory viruses, and how and why it is that its symptoms can affect bodily function to such a deadly degree, along with its apparent ease of transmissibility.

Great mood-altering read first thing in the morning. Just as well that my mood was already set and it wasn't to the effect of more grim news about the novel coronavirus. Instead, our ramble through the woodland trails earlier in the morning, with its positive vibes and the embracing landscape of a late-summer forest lent its atmosphere to our mood; forward-looking and utterly and entirely appreciative of what life and nature offers us.

 A cooler, windier, albeit sunnier day than we've yet had greeted us this morning. But the newspaper held other news, that we're in for a week of steadily warmer and sunny weather, so today's cool and brisk atmosphere is as yet an anomaly. And despite the cold and the wind the sun was doing its best to moderate things and its effect cannot be overlooked, brightening the day's prospects.

Saturdays, of late, appear to have reversed position with Sundays. Which is to say, there was a time when we'd see far more people out on the trails on Sundays. Mostly, we assumed, because people were out busy with their shopping on Saturdays. Today, like last Saturday, an inordinate number of people and dogs were out tramping through the forest. And as always, Jackie and Jillie's reactive behaviour leaves much to be desired. Just as well most other dogs are patient with them, putting up with their excited barking.

Some dogs, mostly larger ones, have the great good sense to slip into the inner reaches of the forest off-trail to avoid direct contact with our two little annoyances. But we did from time to time come abreast with others, and the chorus of two reduced their volume appreciably with interaction. And then, the meetings subsided until there were no more as we ventured further into the trail system and the two little stewards of the forest concentrated on sniffing about -- keeping up with the neighbourhood canine news.

We twice passed Dennis, and each of us conveyed morning good wishes to one another. Shortly after he passed us we were enveloped in the odour of marijuana surmounting the fresh air of the forest. Although we've never asked him anything about it, we see him in the distance taking puffs as he approaches from the puffer he usually holds in his hand. We speculate that he's treating arthritis or some other condition in his mid-life, a stolid, friendly man who does a great service to the forest-hiking community by quietly putting out waste receptacles weekly for the collection of dog feces. He replaces the bags faithfully, placing the full ones out for waste collection throughout the community at the various ravine entrance points.

I've been looking for signs of bright red berries lately on the minuscule, low-to-the-ground partridgeberry colonies growing on the forest floor, and it was only this morning that I finally realized they're there. It was my husband who pointed them out, and on closer inspection I could see they were present. A sign my eyesight isn't improving as I age.

Back home again, as we dawdled briefly in the garden we noticed that the panicle hydrangea planted close to the brick wall of the garage was reaching its tallest branches to the roof of the garage. The shrub grows more ambitious every year that passes.

Last night because we're still in summer-light-meal mode, we had chicken Caesar salad. I par-steam cauliflower for this salad, we both think it's a perfect inclusion. And roast chicken breast to cut into squares to use with the salad as well. Earlier I make the croutons, using Challah sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and garlic powder, toasted together until the bread is crisp and fragrant then broken into squares. I tear lettuce into two large individual bowls, then layer it with snap beans, red bell pepper, sliced green onion, cocktail tomatoes, the cauliflower and the chicken squares. Toss it all together, top it with the croutons and we're ready to go.

The garden hasn't needed much help from us lately. Aside from a bit of tidying up here and there, it been doing a really good job of looking after itself. Taking advantage of daily downpours followed post-haste by the glowing appearance of the sun. And the day-time temperatures have stabilized nicely to be quite comfortable; neither too warm nor too cool. Ideal for vegetation, and for humans and dogs as well.

This morning we took a little baggie along with us carrying part of an apple. There are no longer any berries to be picked, although there are some not yet sufficiently ripe. And nor are there any ripe wild apples. So my husband doled out little bits of apple to Jackie and Jillie as we proceeded through the ravine this morning.

And as we did so, seeing few other people. We did come across a very fit and young-looking, athletic in appearance grandmother whom we've been seeing lately, with her lively little grandson in tow. Or perhaps it's the other way around; the little boy out in front and his grandmother following at a short distance. And with them their supremely well behaved part Boxer, who has become accustomed to our two puppies' rowdy ill manners. 

And we also came across another friend of long acquaintance, a former high school teacher with his elderly Rottweiler, who has a penchant for standing around and grabbing all manner of conversational topics out of thin air to explore, ventilate over and communicate. He's a cheerful man, truly good natured and empathetic, and our conversations are never boring.

Other than that, we had all the forest trails to ourselves. Overhead, the wind ripped noisily through the canopy of the forest, the sun streaked its rays piercingly through the leaf mass, and the ground under our hiking boots was well sodden, the result of overnight rain so frequent this year that we can just take it for granted that it will rain heavily over the dark hours of the night.

A few days back I had noted a new follower on Twitter. The name so unique that I knew there could be none other than a woman I had once worked with when we lived abroad. That's the thing about the Internet and the various social platforms; you never know who might next pop up. I was absolutely delighted to hear from her. She was an especial favourite of mine. She and her husband had decades ago once travelled to Ottawa and visited with us. And then we lost touch.

Now we're in touch again, and it feels so good. She and her husband are now both retired, and he's taken up gardening. How cool is that? I have hopes that this renewed friendship will bear a long-term future. 

After breakfast when we returned from our forest hike, I decided to bake a blueberry-peach pie. Our granddaughter had described to me a dessert she had made that her mother had been skeptical of, but changed her mind over it once she tasted the combination; a blueberry-peach crisp. So I thought I'd try the combination myself, and it looks and smells enticing, so that's what we're having for dessert tonight.

 

Months ago my cousin was emailing me about how excited he and his wife were to be moving. The house they currently owned wasn't that long in their possession, and they loved it, along with the garden that came with it when they bought it. But they had decided they'd move from Georgia to New Mexico. Quite a decision in your early 80s. To move from the city where you were well rooted, where family lives, and friends of a lifetime.

One of their daughters lives in New Mexico, with a well established gynecological practise. She owns a ranch with a good large house. They've visited countless times over the years. And she persuaded them that they would enjoy living there just as she does, and they were convinced. Email after email, each more excited than the last ensued. Until the final week arrived for the move, and they were off! The euphoria lifted itself off the last email and enveloped me.

Nothing since. Not one little note. Silence. It's been months. The original plan was to live with their daughter until they were able to buy a house of their own. They're either beside themselves with joy, busy setting up household, or they're devastated by a decision that when carried through, has turned out to be a mini-disaster. And then, of course, there's COVID-19. The U.S. has been hit dreadfully hard. We in Canada on the other hand, are more fortunate.

And we in particular feel ourselves to be doubly so. We hesitate to embark on any trips now, and haven't. It's been a stay-at-home summer for most people. There are no complaints from this quarter simply because there cannot be any. It's getting on to late afternoon. I've decided to make a seafood chowder for dinner and I can smell the broth simmering on the stove with its vegetables. The fish, sole and shrimp, will be added shortly before serving. 

My husband just came upstairs from his workshop. The latest of his stained glass windows is nearing completion. I've finished doing the laundry, no more loads to take out of the dryer and the ironing is all done; just linen mostly. Jackie and Jillie have had their afternoon treat of chopped fresh vegetables. Earlier in the day we were out in the back garden. 

The tomato plant that I first saw a month or so ago in the garden when it was several inches in height and I wondered where it had suddenly come from, is now five feet tall, and sprouting flowers everywhere. And finally, I'm able to identify it as a grape tomato vine, for there they are, the first of its fruit appearing. The mystery of how it arrived in the garden remains unsolved. Birds often drop seeds in their droppings ... and come to think of it, Jackie and Jillie have grape tomatoes in their salads daily.

When we went out to the ravine for our early morning tramp through the woods this morning it was cool, after last night's rain and wind, but extremely pleasant with full sun. Our house interior in the early morning hours looks like a lit-up ballroom, the light almost blinding on its east-facing side.

We saw lovely yellow toadstools that had erupted overnight on the forest floor and though Jackie and Jillie looked everywhere, there were no elves to be found. Unsurprising, they're shy creatures and don't like to make spectacles of themselves. 

After a prolonged traipse-about, returning home calls for a further pause in the garden before entering the house for breakfast. Jackie and Jillie are as patient as they can be, but we won't be rushed. They'd eaten some cheese before we left the house and we had taken a plum along to divide between them while we hiked the trails.

Any time we might feel put upon and slightly irritated by changes in our lifestyle occasioned by the entry of a threateningly malignant virus and the fear of contagion, we should just shift our thoughts over to the tragedy of human death on an unimaginable scale caused by the effect of this coronavirus and be properly grateful that we've been able, through the courtesy of merciful fortune to have avoided contracting it.

We can, after all, live with inconveniences in our lives. Some of which are painful for everyone; that in the present era of uncertainty generations in a family must take exceptional care not to transmit the virus to the most vulnerable among them; the health-impaired, the elderly, the young. It's an understatement to say that I feel hugely relieved and grateful that I'm long past the time of being mother to a young brood.

That our children weren't young at such a time in history nor grandchild, is a bonus beyond valuation, saving us from the aching concern over their welfare, both mental and physical, under prevailing conditions of ongoing virus transmission threat with school re-openings looming in a matter of days. Parents of children having to make painful decisions, whether to home school their children, one of the parents -- if an intact two-parent family-- having to remain at home, foregoing career or work thus diminishing the family's income and depriving one parent of normalcy. Much worse in one-parent families.

Or making the difficult decision to return their children to a school setting and hope for the best. It's a type of Solomonic decision that calls for a careful study of all sides of a problem, and this problem has many sides to it. This problem doesn't call for wisdom of choice, because there is no choice, simply a decision to go one way or the other and hope against hope that all will be well.

If matters fail to develop well, then all of society will suffer for it, since community transmission will increase and the chances for contracting the virus will increase with greater exposure in the general public. On the other hand, we're moving steadily toward a time when vaccine trials of candidates for a researched solution will pass their third trials, seek government approval and begin producing medications for inoculating the public. And that may result in a massive diminution of the threat.

No threats were on our minds early this morning when we set off under rain-threatening clouds, high atmospheric winds and cool temperatures, albeit with high humidity levels for our usual hike through the ravine before breakfast with Jackie and Jillie. It's always a relief to get out there. A feeling of freedom of movement, relaxation, fresh air and expectations for a good day ahead.

 Today was one of those days when we came across a number of peculiar fungi growing at the base of, or on decaying tree trunks that took our attention because of their oddities of appearance. From a large yellow 'splotch' that appeared at the base of an old dead Ash to a number of colonies of fungi marching up the trunk of other trees that had succumbed to age or disease, and other peculiar-shaped fungi here and there in the woods. 

The overcast light, though making the forest interior appear dusky-dim seems somehow to illuminate these strange growths so they stand out from the surrounding landscape. And notice them we do for their peculiarities in presentation, part of nature's complex scheme in the finality of discrete life forms and the continuation of life as it renews itself.

And then home, to dawdle briefly in the garden, admiring form and colour that overcast conditions never fail to highlight, flattering the garden in a way that a full sunlit day never seems to. 

Nights have been so cool lately, brisk winds entering our bedroom window persuading us to pull up a blanket and even then we're not warm enough. So I decided yesterday it was time to outfit the bed with a light-weight duvet. And surely it's much too early for that? Oh right, the last day of August. The month just flew by. My mind is left back in June, so I'm not certain where July and August spent their time. I'd ask Jackie but he's annoyed with me and isn't inclined to have a serious conversation at the moment.

And wouldn't you know it, the temperature descended only to 14C last night, so it wasn't all that cool and there we were, stuck with that too-early duvet. Well, it won't be long before we begin to feel yet again that for a sound night's sleep we need something a little more guaranteed of warmth. But today, the first day of September of the the truly astonishingly dysfunctional year of 2020, turned out to be reasonably warm and unreasonably humid.

When we left for the ravine in the early morning it was still cool enough for light jackets. By the time we exited an hour and a half later, the jackets felt a trifle confining. Still cool enough, however, to enjoy the warmth of the sun shining directly on  us whereas during the frequent hot and humid days of summer we did our best to avoid direct sun contact.

The creek is now running a low level. It's finished carrying all the rain dumped in the forest in the past several weeks down on its  journey to the Ottawa River. Companion dogs coming through the forest steer directly for the cool water of the creek to tramp about in it, and it's shallow enough that the bottom of the creek roughed up by happy paws of large dogs turns turbid with the particulate matter of clay and sand. There's always a wet trail from certain access points leading up from the creek to the banks sitting over it.

A few mushrooms have appeared on the forest floor, now assuming shades of a pleasing yellow. And odd looking fungi grow here and there on rotting tree stumps. Bright red haws have ripened on the area of one of the trails where groups of Hawthorns grow.

A few others were out this morning, unlike the morning before when we saw no one. People move about in a bit of a fog, as though they're not yet, and likely never will be, accustomed to the thought that a highly infectious virus lingers everywhere, that people passing by might be carriers shedding the virus and a social distance must be maintained. 

On return home we showered, had breakfast, cleaned up, and bade Jackie and Jillie sayonara for the brief period it would take to get our grocery shopping done. By some odd alchemy of emotions they know long before we think it should become evident that we're leaving the house in their custody. And they want no part of it. It's the only time we'll hear Jackie whine, while Jillie hangs back forlornly. Usually when we prepare to leave the house they're excited, leaping at us for inclusion, wearing their collars as a signal that they're coming with us.

That excitement is not just subdued it's entirely replaced by hopeless resignation that we're leaving them, poor tykes. When we pull up into the driveway and the garage door goes up we can hear them barking excitedly. They race out to greet us as we haul in the groceeries, relieved they haven't been entirely abandoned. 

A frenzy of leaps and appeals ensues until eventually they calm down and begin rooting about in the plastic boxes holding the items from our grocery shopping. I have already precipitated their curiosity removing the two cauliflower heads to the top of the kitchen counter out of their reach, before Jackie can begin tearing into them. Nothing else excites them as does cauliflower. And for a treat, they get a little bowl of cauliflower florets and feel mollified.