Any rationally responsible individual and all civilized traffic regulations respond to the reality that it is a privilege to drive, one earned through certification that the license-holding owner of a vehicle, or a driver of a vehicle has adequate experience and knowledge and capability/dexterity to operate a motor vehicle in urban or other traffic conditions. 

One might assume that those who have been impaired by age-related cognitive and physical problems should have enough common sense left to recognize their responsibility both to themselves and to the driving and ambulatory public to cease driving when health conditions are such as to seriously impact on their ability to safely negotiate roads and traffic.

Yesterday, we parked close to a bank that we frequent, while my husband ducked inside to withdraw money from our account.  The parking space beside us had been vacant, but soon a silver-coloured hatchback slid slowly into place.  My husband returned from his mission just in time to witness, alongside me, an elderly, overweight, badly stooped man slowly emerge from behind the driver's seat of that vehicle.

He emerged slowly and clumsily, found his footing on the ground, and stooped over notably to gain balance and strength from contact with the outer frame of the vehicle, managing to shut the car door.  Then, clinging fiercely to the side of the car he laboriously and cripplingly made his way alongside the car until he was able to reach the trunk.  Where he stopped, stooped over and continuing to use the car as a leverage against falling over, he withdrew himself sufficiently to stand beside the trunk, not hovering precariously over it, to reach into its interior and take possession of a folded-up walker.

The walker withdrawn, he managed to bang shut the car trunk, still balancing himself by a grip on the car and unfolding the walker in a painfully protracted process that seemed to take endless time.  With the walker before him, he shuffled slowly and in the most ungainly manner toward the sidewalk, off the parking lot, lifting himself the one-step height with immense difficulty.

We witnessed this pantomime of dessicated health- and age-related fragility with incredulity that anyone so obviously incapacitated would still be manoeuvring a potentially lethal weapon on public roads.

Well fortified (we thought, as rank amateurs, which we most certainly are) with information gleaned on what precisely to look for based on our use of a family desk-top computer, thanks to our subscription to Consumer Report, we did some preliminary searches close to home, visiting a number of electronic outlet stores to have an idea of the variety, type and prices that we could anticipate in replacing our groaning, prone-to-tantrums 6-year-old HP Compaq Presario.

It's been nursed along through its hysterics and refusals and adamant pouts for well over a year and its incapacity or unwillingness to render any further service has quite impacted its usefulness and our patience.  We thought we'd wait for an impressive sale.  When an advertisement would come our way that listed a 'sale' price for a computer in our hoped-for range of at least $100 in savings, not the measly $20-off come-ons we mostly see advertised.

Of course, the computer would have to have a certain storage capacity, speed, RAM, that kind of thing.  My downfall as far as burdening our computer has been the value I place on securing a place for photographs, all manner of photos, all of which I treasure.  Likely, I should keep them on thumb drives. I have become an inveterate photo-taker.  Digital cameras have made that possible, for me.  I am technologically clumsy to a degree, and these cameras make it possible for me to perform basic functions to produce a superior product.

We went along to the outlet where the computers had been advertised, knowing from what we've read and from previous experience that there would be few at that price, and if we were serious, we should take advantage of the sale while it was still possible.  The young computer salesman who looked after us, answering our (undoubtedly naive) questions was patient, accommodating and helpful.  Of course he did attempt to sell us items we had no interest in.

And when we realized that the price for setting up the computer by the store staff before our taking possession of it wasn't far in expense from the cost of the computer itself, I probed the young man about how difficult it might be for me to do that myself.  He was not encouraging, but nor did he discourage me.  Nor has our habit of taking out a 3-year-extended warranty ever benefited us previously, so we decided to dispense with that, as well.

Now, all that stands before me and my new desk-top is that I manage, with my extremely limited knowledge, to get it up and running.  I figure:  if our granddaughter was able to do it on her own a few years back when we bought her laptop for her, why cannot her grandmother?  Um, yes, I'm well aware of the response to that.

What might impetuous youth have in common with cranky old age?  Possibly consanguinity.  A grandfatherly, granddaughterly relationship sounds reasonable, given the differential in age say, between a 23-year-old woman and a 69-year old man.  Made all the more acute since the 23-year-old woman's actual grandmother is 68, and the 69-year-old man is not her grandfather but her husband.

(Canadian Senator, 69 years of age, celebrates one-year marriage to 23-year-old wife in court, as she is arraigned for threatening him on a flight from Ottawa to Saskatchewan, allegedly endangering the flight and behaving erratically, spouting a rant of violently rude epithets.)

In traditional societies where patriarchy prevails it was customary for marriages to be arranged through intra- and inter-family consultation.  A 'good' marriage was sought both for the male and the female.  In those same societies it wasn't entirely unusual for pre-pubescent children, sometimes infants, to be 'betrothed', through societal covenants, then joined in marriage when the girl became thirteen.

It was also not uncommon for very young girls to be given in marriage to considerably older men.  So that a thirteen-year-old girl would be transferred from her parents' care to the marriage bed of a man in his 60s.  The result would most often be a master-slave relationship, although it was considered to be a marriage of traditional values.

Very often arranged marriages worked out very well.  If and when the two partners turned out to be compatible and valued one another, the stranger might well turn out to be a valued life-long partner bringing happiness to both members.  When there was oppression and misery in the marriage it represented a human tragedy.

There is much to be said for 'love marriages', for two people of like background, age and values to come together in a combination of companionship and physical ardour.  When those marriages work out - and they do not always - the result can be a lifelong relationship of incomparable satisfaction.  And most often, a family of parents raising children in a supportive, loving environment.

Human nature is so complex and unexpected that what works for some does not for others. But the combination of an aged partner to a youthful one remains a formula for failure.  The generations are so disparate, the emphasis on high-value priorities unmatched, the experiences and expectations finding no meeting place.

We live in a privileged neighbourhood.  As soon as spring arrives, the sounds and the activities begin.  People having in-ground pools installed in their backyards, others having their driveways renewed, still others getting cobbled walks and patios put into place.  And the inevitable, expensive installation of new windows and new roofs.

Our neighbour, two houses down from ours, now lives alone in his large house.  When he moved in over twenty years ago he lived there with his younger-than-he wife and her two children.  The two children have long since moved on to lives of their own, and his wife decided she would no longer accept his serial infidelities.  Our neighbour is a charming, sweet-natured man and he often tells us how much he regrets his wife's decision.

Whether he equally regrets his own roving eye and ultra-sensitivity to the allure of young women is another story altogether.  He has tried on numerous occasions to replace his wife's absence in his life with other young, pretty, intelligent women and nothing has ever worked out.  He is attractive to women, himself in good physical shape, although he does have some health issues - and he wants to share his life with someone, but not with an "old, overweight" woman.

That said, he is a very particular personality; everything must be 'just so'.  Although he lives alone, his house interior and exterior bear no resemblance to those of other men who have parted with their long-time life-partners.  His is neat and tidy, everything has a place and remains there.  The roof of his house was replaced a decade ago after a destructive ice storm.  It was a 35-year-roof but it just didn't last.  He is now replacing it with a 50-year-roof that has a lifetime-warranty.

He's nudging 70 and will certainly not live to see that roof replaced when it lives out its warranty.  He laughs about that.  Last year he replaced all the windows of that house, though when he bought the house he had paid considerably additional costs to have the windows all plastic-encased, ruling out the necessity to paint wood frames on a continual basis.  There were problems, discovered much later, relating to the poor installation of the windows allowing rainwater to escape down into the separations of the windows to impact the drywall and the wooden uprights.

Whoever eventually buys that house from this proud home-owner will be getting a house well maintained and cared for - presumably at a premium price.

This was a new experience for us.  Usually, when we wander through the trails in the ravine, leaving peanuts in the usual cache places, squirrels anticipate us, awaiting the drop.  Lately, some black or grey squirrels have become so accustomed to our presence and have made the connection that Stumpy and Stumpette, the two tail-less squirrels did long ago, that the peanuts are connected to our personal presence, that they have taken to confronting us directly.

Upon spying our presence, they will run helter-skelter toward us, not stopping their determined rush until they're right at our feet, and then waiting the slender time it takes us to withdraw peanuts from our bagful for them.  Never the red squirrels.  They continue to be suspicious of our presence, although alert to the potential windfall in our wake. 

And usually the red squirrels claim ownership of any tree or stump or crook in a tree or bridge rail containing those peanuts, relentlessly chasing the much larger, but obviously more timid greys and blacks away from those caches.  The odd thing is the blacks and the greys are not timid in approaching us, while the reds certainly are.  They are aggressive, however, beyond anything the others will attempt to, about their privileged position as they see it.

Yesterday, during our ravine walk the episode we were confronted with was quite different.  A black squirrel patiently awaited his peanut, and just as I was about to give it to him, a grey squirrel appeared as though out of nowhere and actually pounced upon the black one which, startled, quickly ran away, and the grey recovered the thrown peanut.

Not very civilized behaviour, to be sure.

I knew well beforehand that they would arrive late, driving in from New Brunswick, a long road trip, particularly after having driven there the day before, from Nova Scotia.  I also knew that they would arrive famished, and I had informed them that dinner would be waiting for them, whatever the time of their arrival.

We left the front door wide open, and when we heard little Riley barking furiously we knew they had pulled into the driveway.  It was after nine o'clock.  Earlier I had decided, despite that it was such a hot day, not to give them the simple fare of something cold and slapped together.

Hours earlier I had began cooking a polenta, because I thought it would be a good foil for the chicken dish I would also prepare for them.  Once the coarse cornmeal had thickened sufficiently I added a half-cup shredded old cheddar cheese, a tablespoon of butter, and a cup of fresh corn niblets cut from the cob, and then smoothed it all into a small casserole to bake until the top, sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, was brown and crusty.

While it cooled, I put the chicken into that same little toaster-oven (too hot to put on the big kitchen oven).  I had sprinkled pepper and garlic over the chicken breasts, then plenty of fresh ginger.  Over top that went chopped red pepper, and finally slices of fresh garden tomatoes, and a sprinkling of olive oil.  That baked in the little oven, at a low temperature for almost an hour and a half until the tomato was reduced and the chicken very well done, but moist and perfect.

When they arrived, the house was suffused with the tangy-sweet smell of the chicken dish.  That, the polenta and a sideplate of grape tomatoes, baby carrots and snowpeas made up their evening repast.  And then we talked, talked, talked the rest of the evening away until a late bedtime.

We have been so busy lately, it seems, that we have temporarily given up our usual morning walk-about in the gardens, after breakfast.  This being Saturday, and no pressing business to attend to, the day stretching before us until our company arrives in the evening, we resumed our perambulations about our modest gardens.  Just to see what's happening on a broader scale than the usual glimpses we get, coming and going.

As usual, in late summer, many perennials are on the fading end of bloom and colour.  The two passion vines that I planted early in the summer, knowing their transitory life-span in this climate, but unable to resist the prospect of awaiting those wonderful blooms, turned out to be quite disappointing.  The vines themselves have grown vigorously enough, though not impressively, and their blossom output has been meager.

On the other hand, the appearance of echinacea, turtleheads, asters, phlox and Japanese anemones have gifted the garden with late colour.  And the begonia bulbs that I overwinter, along with the ipomea, have taken nicely as they unfailingly do, producing huge, gorgeous flower heads throughout the summer months that will continue well into fall.

Riley dogged us faithfully as we traipsed from the breakfast room out onto the deck, down the stairs to the back garden, through the garden fence alongside the house toward the front of the house and our front gardens.  Just as we're never bored looking through the gardens, so too is he never bored, following us, it seems.

There's work to be done in the gardens, there always is.  Weeding, thinning out, cutting back, splitting and re-planting.  It will all, over time, get done.  This quiet period of post-breakfast rambling is a time for the sweetness of appreciating what we've accomplished with nature's help.  The additional work can wait.