There are fall chores in home maintenance and then again there are fall chores -- beyond cleaning up the gardens and tidying up extraneous things in the house that need to be recycled or reused and taken to the Salvation Army thrift shop. There are those heavy-duty things that don't escape the notice of my very aware husband, and that make me cringe with anticipation. That being the ascent of ladders long enough to reach the roof of this two-story house.

When we first moved to this house my husband bought a set of industrial-use scaffolding. He's used the scaffolding on countless occasions over the past twenty-five years, inside and outside to reach heights the thought of which drive me to distraction. Latterly the scaffolding has been kept in the larger of our two garden sheds, the one my husband built about ten years ago with a much more commodious capacity than the smaller, octagonal one stuffed with gardening tools and such.

So out came the bottom tier of the scaffold, to be assembled on the deck two days ago. To access our bedroom windows. A ladder wouldn't do, since the installation of a somewhat permanent awning on the deck by my husband several years ago interferes, but the scaffolding whose top comes just below the metal awning allows for access to the windows. Whose frames were scraped down, sanded and prepared for painting. On a succession of hot, sunny late-summer days. He is now in the painting stage.

In the afternoons, as usual, once our respective 'work' was done for the day, we set out for the ravine. Itself a bit of a physical test of fitness with its hills and valleys, ascents and descents. Fitness at our age is important, but more important in a sense is our enjoyment of the natural environment around us in the forested ravine and particularly in the company of our two little dogs eager to explore and happy to be out and about and given the opportunity to make social contact with other dogs.

We're seeing the presence more frequently now of interesting and colourful fungi. Also noting that some of the bracken on the forest floor is beginning to react to the shorter days and cooler nights. A nice counterpart in relaxation and the piquing of interest to the earlier portion of the day given over to 'chores'.

Poodles were originally bred as water dogs and hunters. Which is why most poodles love the water and are so outstandingly good at fetching. Our miniature poodle Button, loved nothing more than being near water so she could leap in and swim to her heart's content. If we threw a pebble into the water, she would retrieve the very pebble we tossed in without fail. When we went canoeing her mind was focused on the opportunity to leap into the water; she did that once when we were mid-lake and I almost panicked.

She loved water so much that she would often take an inspired running leap to end up in the birdbath in the backyard, so she could happily dabble about in the water there. And we thought that was quite enterprising of her. Until our daughter's German Shepherd-Malamute mix who was Button's friend was  inspired watching her and then emulated her and we wondered that the birdbath could take the weight. Button got slightly crowded out, but they made room for one another.

Riley, in contrast, our little toy poodle who joined our menagerie when Button was seven years old, did all he could to leave space between himself and water. When he was a puppy I once experimented with him by walking out into a lake at thigh-level and just dropping him into the water. He swam effortlessly and with great grace to shore in record time. There was no repeat performance.

But Jackie and Jillie? Forget it. No interest whatever in water. We've tried to introduce them to dabbling in water, but they are completely disinterested, particularly Jillie, who finds it extremely distasteful to even get her feet when with morning dew.  We wouldn't, in any event, allow them even if they enjoyed being in water, to go down into the creek in our forested ravine. When Button was very young she was permitted to wade in the ravine just like all the big dogs that come through do, but because neighbourhood kids take to tossing garbage in the creek, inclusive of beer bottles that break when they smash against rocks which some juvenile delinquents appear to think is fun, she once sustained a very serious cut on one of her legs.

During yesterday's afternoon ravine walk just as we were closing up the loop of the circuit that takes us uphill to the street we live on  and where the last bridge is located over the creek, we came across Charlie. And her companion, a very voluble man who talks non-stop, completely disinterested in anything anyone else might like to add to his one-way conversation. Charlie is a lovable dog, but she is a large and hairy, a very sloppy dog. We do like her quite a lot for her sweet personality. But she, like all the large breeds that come through the ravine, is completely devoted to making her way through the creek whenever the occasion presents itself.

The creek isn't quite as muddy as it was when the construction alongside it was in full sway, but on the other hand, it isn't crystal-clear once any dog gets into it; clouds of detritus and clay rise and occlude it completely particularly when the water is at low level. And Charlie had just been in the creek when we greeted her and she wagged her tail enthusiastically, seeing us. She had no intention of smearing me completely with what she'd picked up in the water, but that was the result when her long, hairy tail, swept over my bare legs.

Bare legs because I was, for a change, wearing shorts. The weather this week has been glorious; warm and sunny and too hot for long pants.  So when we returned home we not only were pressed into action to remove all the nasty little burrs we could find from Jackie and Jillie's haircoats and wash their little footpads, but I did most certainly require some remedial work to remove a bit of a mess on my legs. 

Ah, but it's still summer, and absolutely wonderful!

The plane heading from Ottawa to Orlando last week wasn't very crowded, we were informed by our ravine-walking friend. The return trip a week later was packed. And nor, when she was in Orlando, did she ever venture outdoors. Though Hurricane Irma struck the coast with its full fury, it vented merely gusts over 100 mph in Orlando, enough to sweep someone in the outdoors off their feet, but since they stayed indoors, presenting no problem for her and her daughter's mother-in-law.

They did see a lot of disruption; signs down, trees torn up, that kind of thing, and felt just a little trepidatious, but it was just one of those things you get over. Since we're given to being polite, we stifled the urge to gently prod: why, in heaven's name, did you go there at that very time? Perhaps it's just as well not to know. And if she felt like sharing that information revealing her level of awareness, she might have. It certainly wasn't a sense of adventure, since they hadn't ventured out while the storm was raging....

Her three dogs, however, devoted as highly intelligent and exercise-hungry working dogs to getting out and about on the forest trails two to three times daily -- translating to at least two to three hours of trekking the ravined woodland -- were ecstatic on her return. And there was little doubt she too was more than happy to be back to her normal routine. Who wouldn't be, considering the potential alternatives?

As for us, routine is a vital part of our lives and for obvious reasons, and our two little mutts are always eager to go about their anticipated jaunts in the ravine. Jackie, far more than Jillie, is curious about the small creatures we come across. Not the tiny corpse of a shrew my husband carefully bundled into a large leaf and set aside off the trail yesterday. But the squirrels disporting themselves, searching out fall bounty before the really cold weather sets in.

Over the years we've had a quite personal relationship with the squirrels in the ravine. For years, we distributed peanuts at various cache points, where squirrels would await our presence to triumphantly make off with their winnings. When Jackie and Jillie came into our lives they required so much close attention, we had to forego the peanuts routine. And the squirrels to whom we had become particularly attached, two little black fellows without tails, Stumpy and Stumpette, are long gone, after an acquaintanceship of at least five or six years with each. Stumpette took Stumpy's place when he was gone; boldly accosting us directly for their daily due, unperturbed by their close proximity to Button and Riley, our current twins' predecessors.

We know that occasionally while still in the nest, baby squirrels' tails sometimes become knotted together. The outcome of which, though rare, is that the most unfortunate among the nestlings lose their tails as they struggle to go their separate ways.

At one of the bridges crossing the creek tributaries in the ravine, we've noticed a very young and impudent little tiny red squirrel, unafraid of our presence, tail twitching, watching us intently from the safety of a tree. On the top rail of the bridge, one can see that the little fellow uses it as a serving board, with its steadily growing pile of pine-cone leavings where it had extracted the edible seeds.

Jackie is extremely aware of its presence, Jillie less interested, and the red squirrel seems to reciprocate, teasing them. It appears that it has made its home in the hollow of an old pine snag. We can recall not all that long ago when that was a large and thriving old pine. About a decade earlier we'd had an episode of quite violent rain and wind, and it seems a micro-tornado had whipped through a portion of the ravine, taking down that healthy old tree and a swath of others along its path. In the year preceding the storm a pileated woodpecker had diligently created a large hole just about where the tree was snapped.

We viewed the destruction with amazed incredulity a day later on our usual ravine ramble, post-storm.

Thirty years ago when we were still living in Blackburn Hamlet we had grown accustomed to suddenly hearing a sound of deep breathing, in-and-out, as though a giant was just passing through the Hamlet, striding impossibly long steps, his head well above the roofs of the houses, breathing heavily as he proceeded. Only, of course, it wasn't a giant. This sound informed us of the aerial passage of a hot-air balloon. We would rush to a window, then scramble to get out-of-doors to watch as the balloon with its hissing flares and its basket carrying waving people within, majestically made its way over the houses and onto nearby fields.

It was a delightful bit of excitement, to witness these events; colourful objects that looked so very exotic, making their passage across the sky, so close to the roofs of houses, it seemed we could almost leap up and touch them. They were indeed close, if on occasion we could make out such details as smiles on the faces of those gliding along with the balloons, themselves obviously delighted to be able to do so.

To be able to finance their operations, hot-air balloon fanciers took to selling their passions as novel new billboards floating above curious and enthusiastic potential purchasers or subscribers, and the balloons changed from merely colourful to full advertising displays. Even their shapes might sometimes resemble a product they were advertising, but in this instance it was likely a manufacturer itself that had such a balloon designed and produced for its advertising campaigning. They certainly were novelties. Which didn't quite serve to destroy their capacity to enchant.

Over in Gatineau, just across the Ottawa River in Quebec, an annual balloon festival was established, popular and well-attended in the fall, when a proliferation of balloons began to crowd the skies. It attracted international balloonists, so little wonder it created non-stop traffic in the sky. It's likely still in operation, but as a muted affair, their popularity having waned, particularly in the track of a lethal accident one year when the festival organizer's teen-age daughter died when she was engulfed in flames as the balloon and basket she was in caught fire.

We've been enjoying a real spate of later-summer hot temperatures and uninterrupted clear skies. Yesterday was one of those lovely days. Last evening, just as dusk began to fall, my husband, who had been upstairs, had heard that giveaway sound, went to a window looking out the front of the house and saw a balloon hovering close overhead, making its way across the street, and called down to me to grab my camera and rush outside. He's a far quicker study than me.

Earlier in the afternoon I'd been in the dining room, busy with setting up a new computer temporarily placed on the dining room table. I thought I'd heard heavy breathing, and wondered whether some sound mechanism within the computer was capturing my breathing, amplifying it and playing it back to me. It hadn't even occurred to me that a hot air balloon might be overhead, we hadn't seen them in years....

For reasons known only to nature herself, she has decided to suspend our slow but inevitable transition from summer to fall, temporarily. Not that we had much of a summer. We didn't ourselves mind all that much that we ended up without a succession of really hot, humid days this summer, but there are many who feel they've been cheated by a significant lack of hot days, though we've enjoyed more than ample sunny skies, not discounting the record-breaking rain events that have dampened peoples' enthusiasm for out-of-door summer recreation.

Our garden continues to thrive, as colourful and full of delightful presentations as always and we hugely appreciate that. The rain hasn't kept us from somehow finding periods of opportunity when we could slip out for daily walks along the forest trails in the ravined woods beyond our street. And we have also enjoyed being able to sleep comfortably in night-time temperatures that have been cooler than most summers. Where we were able to keep our bedroom windows open, the air conditioner on low, using floor fans when nights on the rare occasion got a little humid and sticky.

When I was out this morning watering the garden pots in the backyard it was awfully hot, but then the micro-climate in our backyard always tends toward the mild side. That same chore yesterday in the front was very warm, but breezy. Watering the many pots in the garden gives me the opportunity to take inventory, to note what needs to be done, and to enjoy the spectacle of the garden still in full flush, with fall asters yet to fully open and turtleheads, late bloomers, preparing to grow their flower heads and penstemon in bloom, finally.

This weather which is due to last to the end of the week and perhaps beyond, has everyone joking that finally, summer has decided to arrive. In the ravine, we're seeing ample signs of summer departing, making way for fall. In the slowly changing foliage, some of it withering before turning colour and spiralling to the ground, and in some of the bracken on the forest floor beginning to dry up, turn yellow, shrink in volume.

As Queen Anne's Lace has shrivelled, fall asters have come into their own, so many different types of them, alongside Goldenrod. And now too, a proliferation of fungi and carious types of mushrooms, growing as shelf fungi or softer varieties on tree stumps, and on the floor of the forest itself; an never-ending source of interest in their various manifestations, colouration, shape, size, quite fascinating to come across.

He could be typecast as the perfect villain in those old silent movies that portrayed sinister figures of evil intent on dastardly plotting to destroy the lives of total innocents. He had that perfect appearance. Of a dark, brooding visage, hooded eyes, pinched features and a cruel mouth that looked as though it had never cracked a friendly smile. We see him very occasionally walking two small overweight pugs in the ravine. And it's true we've never seen him smile; it turns into a grimace, a rictus of a smile, as though it's painful to execute.

He was originally from Montreal, a long-distance semi-trailer driver for many years And then in the late '70s he moved to Ottawa and bought a farm and became, of all things a pig farmer. Not quite certain what drove him to it, he just thought he'd give it a try. And he tried for 30 years, was moderately successful and loved it, he said. Until he sold the farm and retired. Now he takes his days as they come, one at a time. A very nice man, in fact. Looks can indeed be deceiving.

That was yesterday, during our trail walk, a lovely day of clear skies and light breezes, warmer than it's been for weeks, perhaps the entire month of August.

We also came across a woman walking with a friend, whom we've also seen only on the rarest of occasions. Her husband is off to the Grand Canyon, for a walking/climbing tour. We used to see him infrequently over the years, but on a regular basis. He's retired too. They used to have two Shih Tzu dogs, one larger than the other. The larger one terrorized the smaller one, made its life utterly miserable and there didn't seem to be anything they could do about it. They were fond of both dogs, even the ill-tempered one, but when the dogs reached old age and the larger one became ill, they decided not to have it treated, and had it put down. To give the smaller one the opportunity to enjoy life without its tormentor, for however long it had to live.

The small one is gone now, too. So her husband felt free to travel. He told us how much he had 'trained' in the ravine for the arduous treks before him, but he was determined to see the Grand Canyon and explore it as much as he could. Yesterday his wife said she was expecting him back home imminently. Earlier, he had confided in us, once he got a bit of travelling in, they might consider adopting another dog, an older one, from a shelter, he said, to give it a chance at a pleasant life before it too moved on.

There are unmistakable signs everywhere of impending fall, despite the glorious weather we've been enjoying. Small trees are turning the colours of autumn. In yesterday's breeze, foliage that had dried up on deciduous branches were tumbling down in the wind, not in great numbers but descending anyway. Finally, fungi are beginning to pop up everywhere on the forest floor.

And certain of the underbrush are beginning to turn from green to yellow. There's always something new to discover.

We see where squirrels have been disassembling pine cones searching for the seeds; litters of discarded cones appear here and there; the forest is the pantry of its wildlife.

When we come down to breakfast every morning, looking straight ahead from the staircase we can glance out our front door, which is surrounded by window space on two levels. Many years ago my husband decided he would make windows of his own to place over these large windows, and he designed stained glass landscapes, worked on them and eventually put them in place.

No birds can look straight through, to entice them to think there is nothing there and fly directly at the windows. What they will see is the coloured glass. Still, this morning when we came down for breakfast and glanced out the front door, there was a bird, still, all fluffed up, sitting quietly on the porch. It seemed clear that the little thing, sparrow-sized, had suffered a physical trauma and we felt it had, despite those stained glass inserts, flown into the window.

My husband thought he would place it in a box and put it directly in the sun which hadn't yet hit the porch, but then we recalled reading that it's best to allow a bird to recover its resources, and it would eventually fly off. After we'd gone back upstairs to shower before breakfast and had come down again the bird was no longer there. And so we hope that it had indeed recovered and flown off to resume its normal life.

Unhappy things happen. Yesterday after I'd initially gone on line and then allowed my computer to 'go to sleep', it went into such a deep sleep that nothing I could do served to reawaken it, not shutting it down, not checking that everything was as it should be; plugged in, etc., nothing. The mouse wasn't able to awaken the monitor, though the computer itself was on and presumably working. Years ago this computer decided it didn't like collaborating with mice. A succession of mice later, it still persists in making mice go wobbly and all over the place; sometimes more so, sometimes less, requiring patience to even use the mouse for its assigned purposes. And occasionally it decides to go off line entirely, and I've got to troubleshoot. Sometimes the troubleshooting function puts me back on line, sometimes to achieve that we've got to go through a routine of temporarily shutting off the modem. It's a nuisance. But yesterday, it seemed impossible to persuade the computer to pay attention to the mouse and wake up.

We went out for our usual ravine walk along the forest trails. I was so calm about it all I surprised even myself. And we discussed the issue, deciding perhaps it's time to look at new computers. When we got back from our ramble in the woods, my husband gave the CPU a few hard knocks. Suddenly it decided that the mouse had its best interests in mind after all. So I was back in business. Wobbly mouse commands and all. Of course I also went off line and had to resort to the usual usual.

During today's ramble in the woods we decided we'd drop by one of the Best Buy shops a few minutes' drive from the house. And there we looked and discussed and listened as a computer tech gave us the rundown on what's available. Something utilitarian, and affordable. Ugh! I'm not looking forward to setting up a new computer. And I'll have to transfer all of my precious photographs....