Last night on the cusp of midnight when I 'officially' turned 84, my husband unveiled the latest birthday card he made for me. Not a typical birthday 'card' by any measure. He thought this year he'd make it with stained glass, since he had everything handy in his workshop anyway, working on a stained glass window. So he produced a small still-life of fruit in a bowl on a table (all fairly notional), and etched his message to me on the glass.

He actually wanted to give it to me days before. He just cannot keep things from me, but I persuaded him that I'd like him to wait, and so he did. It bothers him that he was unable to rush out at will and shop around for a gift for me, but I persuaded him yet again that it was more important to me that he not expose himself unnecessarily with the coronavirus running rampant, and stay at home. He's given me so may gifts of jewellery and other things over the years I hardly need, much less want anything more. It's not a new argument, but it is one he acceded to this year.

We rose early this morning, anxious to avoid the crush of shoppers we encountered last week. We arrived at the supermarket just a few minutes after eight. Even though the morning proceeds as it usually does; my husband takes Jackie and Jillie out to the backyard when we first come downstairs and I begin setting the table for breakfast and we take our time doing everything before leaving. Including doling out little pieces of cheese to the puppies to tide the pups over until breakfast on our return, they know that this morning is different.

And when we haul out our winter jackets and boots preparatory to leaving, they go into a state of deep mourning. Beginning with pleading whines, escalating to yowls. Heartbreaking, really. What a pair! But we're heartless and off we go leaving them to pine in our so-brief absence. And when we return a long leisurely breakfast ensues. This morning after their doggy breakfast enlivened with melon and chicken, they shared a hard-boiled egg between them.

It was an extremely cold morning, particularly after yesterday's high of 2C. But a sunny day, lighting up and warming the house interior through the windows. When we prepared to take the puppies out to the ravine for their afternoon ramble it was -8C, with a nasty, stiff wind, negating the effect of the sun. But off we trotted, all well geared for the cold.

Apart from the first hill we descend into the ravine, the next hill we encountered played host to a group of young children enjoying themselves sliding and slithering downhill. Accommodated by the fact that a thin layer of ice glazed what was left of the snow that fell early yesterday morning. As yesterday progressed however, it became warmer as afternoon arrived and the snow began melting. Overnight a snap freeze-up entered the atmosphere and froze whatever snow was left, leaving that ice layer, transforming the melting snow and the slick of meltwater into sheer ice.

Not much of a problem for us wearing cleats over our boots, but a dilemma for people coming in who were unfamiliar with the ravine, the forest trails and what to expect under such weather circumstances. People taking mincing steps, slowly and gingerly feeling their way along, grasping tree trunks and branches for equilibrium. As the parents of the three children we saw whooping it up on the hillside were doing, and others we saw as we made our way through the trails.

When we arrived back home it was time to relax again. Though he had worked downstairs in his workshop in the morning, my husband decided the rest of the day deserved to be treated like a holiday. Which means indulging in reading, and listening to lectures on his mini-laptop. While I indulged Jackie and Jillie with cut-up pieces of cauliflower they crave as afternoon treats.

And then starting to put together the constituentts of dinner. We're having a quiche tonight. With green beans on the side, and poached pears for dessert. I made the pastry dough, grated cheddar cheese into it, scattered chopped green onions over, covered it and refrigerated it at this point. Before dinner I'll add the green peas I'm defrosting and beat the eggs and milk that will comprise the filling, and all will be done.

I've fielded birthday calls and emails, and I'm ready for complete relaxation myself, back to reading the newspapers. Happy birthday, me!

We live in an incorporated jurisdiction formerly termed a suburb of Ottawa, called Orleans, now just part of the enlarged Ottawa capital city area. The street our house is located on is quite short, no more than say 40 houses, half on either side. The residents are now likely fifty percent or so retired. There aren't many young children in those family homes, but some.

If anyone ever doubted that Canada is a country of immigrants a glance at the residents of this street might convince them otherwise. Likely fifty percent, perhaps more, of the residents are first-generation Canadian. Which is to say they were born elsewhere, then came to Canada to become Canadian citizens. My husband and I are second-generation; it was our parents who were born outside Canada and then arrived here to make a life for themselves and their children born here. Our children are third-generation Canadians.

On this street live people originally from France, Hong Kong, Poland, Bangladesh, Russia, India, Egypt, Syria and Britain. There are also residents who were born in other provinces of Canada who moved to Ottawa from Nova Scotia and Quebec. And there may be others of whom we know little. Other than that they're our neighbours with whom we share a community, all part of the same nation. There are also those who out-migrate. When we first moved into our house thirty years ago, the couple who owned the house directly across from us were Black Canadians, but after a decade, they who were the first to welcome us to the street, moved to the United States with their two boys to take up an irresistible employment offer.

We know some of these people in a personal way, some with friendships that go back decades, others just slightly, in passing, as it were. Although quite a few of our neighbours are  retired, we're beyond doubt the oldest of the people who live on the street now. One neighbour older than us married to a younger woman, now lives in a personal care/retirement home in the greater community, while his wife continues to live in their house.

Newer residents who have moved into houses that the original owners have sold to move elsewhere, usually in 'down-sizing', tend to be more reserved as neighbours, less comfortable in being friendly with others, or perhaps just so busy in their private lives they cannot spare a smile or a greeting. People of immigrant stock, on the other hand, don't tend to be among those that prefer to withdraw from any vestige of neighbourliness.

When we've been in dire straits, some of our neighbours have felt moved to lend us their emotional support, their time and their energy to help us in a time of need. We're not in that position now, everything is fine with us. But we discovered today that someone has taken it upon themselves to shovel out our house walkways and our porch after snow has fallen. We hadn't noticed it before. Strange, that.

But whenever we've had snow fall, the weather has turned very mild, melting the snow, making it difficult for us to realize that before the snow melted it had been shovelled. I had put out some shelled walnuts on the porch this morning for a little red squirrel that often comes around. I had seen it earlier in the morning, looking about on the porch. Later I looked out to see whether the squirrel had claimed the nuts.

What I observed is that the nuts were covered with snow, snow that had been shovelled under the seating arrangement on the porch where I had left the nuts. I looked again and finally understood that some good soul had taken it upon themselves to do our shovelling. Who it might be eludes us, but surely in time we'll discover who it is and thank them for their generosity of spirit.

Fresh snow fell this morning, not a lot, about 4 cm. And before breakfast my husband shovelled out the back, but didn't bother with the front. The temperature quickly rose under heavily clouded skies that cast a dark atmosphere over the landscape. That deep dusk remained with us the entire day. When we cast ourselves off for a ravine hike in the afternoon it was still dark and soon to become darker, nearing four in the afternoon. Late, because it takes me many hours to clean the house, wash the floors, do the dusting.

 had put a half turkey breast into the oven under a very low heat before we left, potatoes arrayed around it in a large casserole dish. So we could take our time ambulating through the forest trails. And we did, though we decided on a shorter circuit than usual. When we returned home, it was to total darkness. Second-by-second, things are being reversed; we already passed the shortest day of the year and daylight hours are beginning to increase ... incrementally.

It's without doubt an age thing, casting your mind back subconsciously into your memory banks, dredging up thoughts that surprise you by their seeming inconsequentiality in your life. But if you remembered them, as slight of meaning as they seem to be, perhaps they're not as limited in meaning as you believe even if you have difficulty intellectually grasping how they could be in any way relevant enough to be recalled.

Memories of yourself as a child, feeling lonely and wishing for a friend, someone who would want to be with you, someone you could confide anything to, someone who would always be at your side. My parents moved their little family consisting of me, around age five and a baby sister four years younger to a flat on the second story of a family home on Manning Avenue in Toronto. Across the street was a school I would attend. And up the street lived a family that befriended my parents.

That family owned their own home and behind the house was a small brick, one-story purpose-built factory that produced seltzer water and soft drinks in large bottles. Which meant that family was well off compared to mine. There were five girls in the family ranging in age from their late 20s to five. I can still recall their names; Mary, Lily, Esther, Gertrude and Yetta. Even as a child I was aware of who 'Mary' was, the mother of Jesus.

And I belonged to a tribe of people who were "Christ killers", a lesson I learned at an early age on the street. So I felt it strange that a Jewish woman was named Mary. Eventually I discovered that my mother's sister whom I had always known as 'Munya' was also named Mary. I recall that both the younger sisters hated their names; Gertrude and Yetta. Yetta renamed herself Annette and was furious if she was ever called Yetta.

I wanted her to be my friend, but she was lukewarm about the proposal, though we did on occasion play together. I was left to yearn for that elusive 'best friend'. I had few toys, but I did have a few books and I immersed myself in reading, joining the public library. I was embarrassed at school and jealous of the nice clothes and shoes other girls wore; mine were mostly second-hand outgrown by the children of my parents' friends.

 Eventually my parents moved years later to Brunswick Avenue and a house of their own. I found a friend, more privileged than me, but a friend. Whose mother took her to ballet lessons. I was still lonely, and yet never felt quite comfortable in the company of others.

I discovered there was such a thing as social cliques, where some people were ostracized and others welcomed, where people spoke about you in your absence, where those you thought were your friends might not actually be your friends. And then, by the time I turned fourteen I found that friend. I never wanted to be around anyone else. And 70 years later we've remained friends.

He and I took our two little dogs out this afternoon for their usual hike through the forest trails in the ravine. Earlier in the day he proposed giving me my birthday card, though my birthday is still two days' off. He's like that; not only can he not keep anything from me, if he has something, he wants to immediately share it with me.

 We compromised; he'll give me this year's birthday card -- he's obviously pleased with it, and worked on it for the last few days downstairs in his workshop when I assumed he was working on the latest stained glass panel -- on Monday evening, when we go upstairs to bed, presumably around midnight when it will officially be my 84th birthday.

It's been another cold day, but not as windy as yesterday, so though the atmosphere was chilly at -4C, it was tolerable. We're still waiting for some serious snowfalls. The light layer of snow that followed two days of pouring rain on Friday and Saturday will fade fast despite the cold, if nothing is added to it, and then the landscape will look even darker.

 As it was, we didn't leave the house till shortly after three. I'd been busy all day, and wanted to put on a soup to start cooking before we left. One of my favourite soups; lentil-tomato. And instead of croissants I planned to use the same dough, rolled out as for croissant, but flat, at my husband's request, to accommodate the smoked salmon he'll be eating with it.

 

In the ravine dusk had already fallen, and we knew it wouldn't be long before it turned into the dark of impending night. We met some friends along the way and they regaled us with their super-terrific Christmas dinner shared with their daughter and their four very young grandchildren.

As for that memory of the five girls in the family that lived across from where my family did when I was quite young. It was without doubt spurred by my having come across a photograph of our wedding. There was I in a wedding gown. The gown was Gertrude's, lent out to me. I look busty in it and it's not me because I am much slighter than the person for whom the gown was meant.  

 

 Saturday's a day-off for us. Nothing much has to be done, everything's already been looked after; our day of rest. So we can do anything we like without a prompting of a little guilt-imp inside our heads. Or do nothing at all. Last night's meal preparations kind of sapped me of an interest in doing much in the kitchen today. Going to make a cream of asparagus soup and sandwiches for dinner tonight; that's it, with grapes for dessert.

The tortierre came out fine. I just didn't like it much, myself. I was happy, though, that my husband ate it and liked it and in fact ate more than he usually does for dinner. I was less enthusiastic. It was the thyme. For some odd reason the smell of thyme hasn't thrilled me one whit of late. I've always used it in cooking and liked it, but I no longer do. I had put a very small amount of thyme into the meat pie filling when I was cooking it, reasoning it would lend a bit of savoury appeal alongside the sage and onion and garlic, salt and pepper and the tiniest amount of cloves. All I could smell when I cut the pie was thyme; strangely sharp and sour.

As for the apple strudel, I was willing enough to make it when my husband suggested it, and it was in fact fun putting it together, but after I ate it for dessert last night, I recalled why it was that such a long time had passed since I'd last baked a strudel. Again, my husband ate his with gratifying enthusiasm, but I found it much less taste-intriguing than he did. Somehow, it lacked the baking virtuosity I recall in my aunt's version of the Vienna-inspired dessert treat. Well, that's life.

Truth is, I bake and I cook with my husband's taste in mind for the most part, and when he's pleased and given to eating and appreciating what's put before him at the dinner table, I feel fulfilled. There are certain things he dislikes that we also have in our diet and he usually makes an effort to eat them but without much enthusiasm; the list is long, but includes broccoli (he ate it in a stir-fry last week), avocado, green onion, cucumber, macaroni (yet he enjoys spaghetti), and so on. But he will eat cauliflower, asparagus, squash, and eggs in any form at all (with the odd exception of quiche, a favourite of mine}, so I have no (few) complaints.

Dawdling about this morning through the house I took a few photographs; sketches my husband produced 50 years ago of two of our children when they were young. Photographs of when we were young. Some of the artwork hanging on our walls. Jackie, following me about querying in his inimitable way when I would stop putzing about and get us all out for a stroll through the forest trails?

No point waiting for the day to warm up a bit. We've been plunged back into winter; -6C first thing this morning, after plus-4C yesterday, and teeming rain. Some light snow fell this morning, about two cm-worth which at least has covered the landscape with a bright, white coverlet on a windy, overcast day. I finished writing a long email to our granddaughter, my husband emerged from his workshop, and we hauled rubber boots over two little dogs' feet and set off.

The temperature was in fact, falling. When we set out it was -7C, and with the wind whipping about felt even colder. In the forest, sightlines now offer us light layers of snow over everything protruding from mother Earth. The creek at the bottom of the ravine is flush with two days of rain, running wide, muddy and noisily downstream heading for the Ottawa River. Jackie and Jillie are straining at the leash, serious about their employment as sled dogs with the mistaken idea that we're sleds.

It's Boxing Day. People are at home, released from two days of unrelenting rain, anxious to get out with their children, young ones still at home, and older ones visiting for the weekend. For quite a while we see no one else out on the trails and the outing is as usual, a super-pleasant perambulation through newly-snowed trails, the forest floor nicely bright with white despite the heavy overcast. And then our elevation changes as we clamber uphill and then uphill again to reach the forest plateau.

There, on a network of trails, people are out, released from home interiors into the wide open spaces of the out-of-doors, breathing the fresh air accentuated by frigid temperatures so everyone is well bundled against the cold, many walking their companion dogs, others walking their house companions. Everyone without exception seems happy and contented with life, among them perhaps some who have been personally touched by loss or illness due to COVID.

When we're on the home stretch of our circuit after an hour's striding through the trails, my fingers through my thick, double-walled mittens begin to freeze. Thre are areas on the trails that are ice-slick and require some careful manoeuvring around. Jackie and Jillie seem impervious to the cold, their little legs pumping purposefully like pistons, their tiny orange boots keeping rhythm with the cadence of their trot. Such tiny creatures, yet such strength, both of purpose and physical, in hauling us through the trails....

Just as well we had decided yesterday morning to get out early before the rain began. It hasn't since stopped, a day and a half later. At that time yesterday morning there was still snow left on the ground, on rooftops and throughout the ravine. Now there is nothing left. And a Christmas Day without snow is just simply unCanadian. So much for Ottawa's reputation as representing the third snowiest, coldest capital in the world.

Toronto, on the other hand, and much of southern Ontario, is uncharacteristically colder this day than eastern Ontario. And they've more snow than I would warrant they really want to have. When we came downstairs this morning for breakfast a glance out the front door informed us unequivocally that this would not be an outdoor day for Jackie and Jillie, much less for us. 

It was raining, heavily, but more than that, the atmosphere was in deep fog. Actually, fog is beautiful to look at, but at this time of year if fog is to appear it's usually an ice fog that leaves a coating of ice on trees as it withdraws which can be exquisitely lovely to behold. Instead, as it dissipated, more rain fell, more heavily.

Jackie and Jillie prefer indoor days when this kind of weather presents. They snooze and they play about, challenging one another to zip about from one end of the house to the other. Because there are two of them, small siblings, they have company in their misery, only they don't think they're miserable as long as they can anticipate meals on time. (Jackie just came over as I was writing this to remind me I had forgotten their afternoon cauliflower treat.)

 My husband helped me clean up the kitchen, drying the breakfast dishes, then he did the Friday morning quick vacuuming, and headed downstairs to his workshop. He's likely making a birthday card for me for my birthday next week, but ostensibly he's working on  his glass windows. We had yesterday or the day before discussed what he'd like to have for dinner today. Turkey was out since we had it on Monday.

First, he reminisced about strudel, that I haven't made one in quite awhile, and I haven't. So I decided that we'd have strudel for dessert for this evening. When I was a child I used to watch my mother's older sister in her kitchen when I had the opportunity. I was fascinated by her so very obvious efficient comfort in a kitchen with her voluminous pantry never short of ingredients, preparing all manner of exotic meals and scrumptious desserts. Viennese-style strudel was one of her many specialties.

 It also occurred to my husband that we haven't had a tortierre yet this winter. That's a traditional French-Canadian meat pie that is usually served on Christmas Eve in French homes. I wondered if that wouldn't be too much in the way of pastry, since it's a pie and requires a top and a bottom pastry crust, and the strudel too is a rolled pasty. My husband waved away my doubts and I decided to proceed.

First the dough for the strudel which has to rest for an hour after it's been kneaded into a soft ball. I cubed apples, cut up glace cherries, added raisins and pecans, cinnamon, brown sugar, butter and graham crumbs for the filling, then rolled out the strudel pastry. And rolled and rolled, though I could have rolled forever and made the resulting casing twice the size and consequently thinner. As it was it was semi-transparent, so I filled it, rolled it and baked it.

I've prepared the filling for the meat pie, which means I only have to make the pastry dough to assemble the pie and bake it just before dinner. We might as well please our gustatory aesthetic on such days, and forget the gloom outside. And hope that by tomorrow the rain will finally come to an end, freeing us up for a fresh-air round through the forest trails in the ravine. And maybe even hope for a snowy day.

 

We're sometimes given to wondering whether there is anywhere else on Earth where the weather is as frustratingly changeable and near-to-impossible to predict as it is in the Ottawa Valley. Our chief weatherman several days back went to pains to convince area residents that a snowy Christmas would after all, eventuate. And he was forced today to retract that reassurance, updating the weather prediction to amend the forecast to rain, rain, rain.

We thought, given the forecast, if we didn't set out early enough in the morning, we would have to forego our usual daily romp through the forest trails with Jackie and Jillie. They were confused, and thought we were preparing to set out without them to go somewhere and leave them languishing at home. A bit of a panic set in, even when they saw us laying out their winter gear.

At that point in the day it was still cold enough to convince ourselves we wouldn't be likely to be caught out by the rain, a reasonable enough presumption. At -2C, if rain descended it would be freezing rain at the very least, perhaps even snow. Although the overcast was clamped on so tightly it seemed as though we were in a time warp, that it was night, not day, so that too engendered a bit of confusion for our puppies.

Set out we did, glad to see that the snow that had last fallen, all 2 cm of it when it should have been ten times more, was still around, somewhat brightening the landscape and lifting the pall of early-morning gloom. In fact, we were more than comfortable with the morning, and felt like taking a long, leisurely hike, planning to make the most of the opportunity since if the forecast was right, we likely wouldn't be able to get out tomorrow.

 We were surprised, though we shouldn't really have been, to encounter quite a few other people and their dogs on the trails. Everyone seemed cheerful, the good cheer of the incoming Christmas and New Year holidays resonated with smiles and greetings and well-wishing. As long as no one mentioned that when Christmas Day arrived, it would be to a dark, rainy day which will have banished what was left of our bright, beautiful snow coverage.

Little wonder we're so fixated on the weather. It's so volatile. And we've now been officially alerted by Environment Canada to expect this teeter-totter weather from warm to teeth-achingly cold, rain and snow, freezing rain and sleet, all of which we receive in a normal winter, with the weight or seasonal precipitation in favour of snow. This winter is already shaping up to be one for the books.

This year of 2020 is one that many people will be delighted to see the last of. To characterize it as unusual in every way is to minimize its impact on our lives. The pandemic has had such a universal outreach there is nowhere on this planet that it hasn't impacted; now we learn that even Antarctica has registered COVID cases, and South Africa has a new, mutated virus rapidly spreading and so efficient it is far more contagious than the original versions.

All the more reason to be grateful we haven't been personally touched by the virus, even as we quail with inner fear as the case numbers keep ratcheting up day by day. So day by day we live our lives, depend upon routine to keep us grounded, engage in some introspection to enumerate the ways in which our lives remain significant, precious and rewarding. And look forward to better days returning now that effective and safe vaccines are beginning their circulation.

 

Jillie

The 'spa' we take our puppies to now that I no longer groom them myself (thank heavens that's off my hands now, it's difficult, time-consuming and never as rewarding in a job well done as I'd like it to have been) is located in the old converted single-story house located on a main thoroughfare that had been the location of the veterinarian hospital hospital we take them to. The group of veterinarians who operate the hospital had purpose-built a one-story sprawling building right next to the converted house several years back and decided it would henceforth become a grooming salon. 

Jackie

The old house when it was converted was divided into a multitude of very compact examining rooms. There is one in particular that Jackie and Jillie are always placed in after their grooming has been completed, to await our arrival to bring them back home. The chamber is tiny but it has a floor-length window facing out to the street, and as we walk the narrow path toward the spa in front of their parking lot, our puppies can see us and they leap repeatedly at the window, appealing for us to hurry.

The new protocol is that one person only (in our case two) is permitted entry at a time into the little building's small reception area. You must wear a mask (of course) and wait on the porch, to be admitted. You're there by prearranged appointment, both to deliver and to pick up your charges. So you ring the bell and very soon one of the groomers appears, opens the door to admit you. They wipe down all surfaces, meticulously. There are four of them, all young, sweet young women who handle the pets that are brought to them deftly and lovingly. We have every reason to trust and appreciate them.

They're cheerfully reassuring, and we suffer few pangs now leaving Jackie and Jillie in their care. Before the appointment takes place they now routinely send out a stock questionnaire by email relating to COVID as assurance to them and to us that, as much as possible, they can ensure safety precautions are being taken with respect to virus exposure avoidance. Once completed, your response is emailed back and the appointment is assured. Our appointment was for 1:00 p.m., and it takes an hour and a half before the grooming is completed and we return to retrieve our little rascals.

Jillie comes complete with two tiny pink bows on either side of her head. They don't last long, however; she makes quick work of them, shaking them off her silky hair. Our puppies come out of their ordeal very well; they smell lovely and look sleek. They're so excited it's hard to get them to be still long enough and stop leaping around us so they can be picked up for the short trip outside into a windy snow blizzard and taken to the car. Licks are never-ending, and play havoc with our masks. Eyeglasses mist opaquely because of the masks; outside one minute, indoors the next.

Earlier, in the morning, we had set out when the snow had been falling more thickly and heavily. Ambling up the street toward the ravine entrance it looked as though a trembling white curtain had been placed before us, and thick snowflakes quickly melted on our faces. All the  drab colour of the day before when it had been plus-two degrees and the meagre amount of snow that had fallen the day before that was melting, revealing the dark, decaying leaf mass on the forest floor and now it was all once again disappearing under a fresh blanket of white.

It put a smile on the faces of everyone we came across as we passed on the forest trails. There was, in fact, a surprising number of people out; we saw at least a dozen, mostly with their companion dogs. It was a mean wind that blew, but nowhere near as nasty as it had been up at street level. We saw two incidents where young women slipped with a thump and slid as they carefully made their descent st the top of a few hills. Not enough people are aware of the dangers of freeze-and-thaw and the resulting ice covered with new snow, making for dangerous conditions underfoot.

 Hiking in these woods can constitute quite a challenge, but we've been going through those trails for so many years in all seasons, it would be strange indeed if we weren't aware and accustomed to taking necessary safety precautions. During the winter months, cleats never leave the bottom of our boots. Even so, there are some conditions where even the cleats are hard put to provide traction when on occasion they will slide and not bite securely into the ice.

From time to time Jackie and Jillie will behave as though they're aware of the presence of something or someone we cannot see. And this is when Jillie will offer a sharp, loud challenge, howling for whatever it is to come out and make itself visible. Jackie rarely does that; it's clear he's alert, but hers is the voice we hear; his tendency is to look and sniff about, and then simply get on when nothing out of the ordinary presents itself.