No doubt about it, summer is a magical time of year. It's sheer exhilaration to just step outside the house any time without having to bother with extra clothing against the weather. There's nothing quite like surrendering to whims and behaving extemporaneously any time the mood strikes. Our lives are scripted enough, as it is. Routine helps us to maintain ourselves without too much inner conversation as we go through motions by rote and dispense with the necessary to actually think and just react autonomically as it were, performing dutiful trivia that make up part of each day.

For us, the outdoors is an extension of the comfort we feel at home. And walking into the backyard or the gardens at the front of the house is sheer relaxed pleasure. Of course part of that drop-everything-and-out-you-go freedom is also associated with habit since the frequency has much to do with requests on the part of Jackie and Jillie to be taken outdoors.

Hold the door open to their anxious little faces and encouragingly say, 'out-you-go!' doesn't cut it with them. They're not fond of emerging from the house unescorted. Whether they have to use the premises as their bathroom, or they have an urge to race after a chipmunk, harass a squirrel, inform birds that they're on the property by sufferance, they must have us present.

On occasion they may be impetuous enough to forge ahead outdoors on their own, forgetting their reliance/dependence on our presence, but that doesn't happen often. And when we're out without them that's another story altogether; it's punishment for some misdeed though they can't imagine what they might have done to have elicited from us such cruelty as to sequester them indoors on their pitiful own recognizance.

Today turned out yet another perfect day for a hike through the forest trails in the ravine. Usually, when they sense that we're preparing to embark on a forest foray, they trot after us excitedly as we pull out harnesses and collars, and any paraphernalia we mean to take with. Great enthusiasm ensues when we replenish our take-with store of doggy treats. There's no spontaneity involved in our preparations for a hike. 

Off we set this afternoon on a quite cool, quite windy, occasionally-sunny afternoon. We walk up the street with Jackie and Jillie on leash, and the minute we turn into the entrance trail toward the forest, off come the leashes and off go our two little guardians. The bright green atmosphere of the forest envelopes us and we descend from street level into the ravined forest. The creek is running high from recent rain events, and it's muddy from even more recent dog romps through the water to cool overheated paws.

Jackie and Jillie have no interest whatever in cooling their paws in the creek; they mount each of the bridges in turn in a businesslike manner to traverse the stream in its winding meandering along the forest floor. It's summer and there is so much to see there now. Baneberry shrubs now boast brightening-red berry clusters that no one should ever eat, since they're poisonous.

Daisies have been in bloom for quite some time now, flourishing wherever the sun penetrates, and now, amazingly to my way of thinking, Black-eyed Susans are also beginning their bloom time; much earlier than usual, in my opinion. And joining them along the banks of the creek and forest pathways are ragweed  plants. Everything this year seems to be earlier than normal, and in the same token, far greater in numbers, their presence not only more abundant but healthier and more attractive  in appearance.

Never before have we seen fleabane in such broad colonies standing tall and bright with flowering heads. Most years we see random bits of the pretty little flowers here and there along the trails in the forest; this year they've proliferated, grown much taller and numerous. We're also seeing vegetation that is completely  unknown to us, some quite beautiful. Apart from which we can see that alien invasive species like the balsam Himalayan orchids are aggressively claiming new territory. That this is turning out to be a bumper year for wildflowers and other vegetation is an understatement.

Our local wildlife visitors got the shock of their lives yesterday afternoon. The delectable treats Irving sets out for them multiple times daily suddenly disappeared; no more Cheerios, cubed buttered toast and biscuits. A trip to our local feed and seed saw Irving bring home a 50-pound bag of fat, shelled peanuts. The initial reaction to the peanuts piled on the porch led us to think they would be rejected. Squirrels, chipmunks rejecting peanuts? In previous years they were prized. Has a less nutritious diet spoiled them?

Since then, they've adjusted. And the peanuts are going just as fast as the biscuits and Cheerios did. And they're not an edible that either Jackie nor Jillie will be likely to be interested in. So that's all to the good. It's also likely that some of the peanuts will be taken off to be stored; instinct to preserve for lean times is heavily instilled in all creatures, but one might expect it to be resorted to with the approach of leaner times; say Autumn, but evidently not necessarily so.

Today's a leisure day. After the grocery shopping and breakfast, time's our own, so to speak. So I spent awhile out in the backyard with the puppies, picking weeds. And pleased to see that the nasturtiums I had planted from seed here and there have a good start on their summer stay. The cosmos are doing just as well. And the later-planted sunflowers and asters are just beginning to peek through the soil. I moved a few zinnias that were being crowded out in one of the backyard garden beds into the front garden. Roses and clematis shrubs continue to bloom spectacularly. And I noticed, under one of the yew trees that a wild geranium had established itself and was sending out its tiny pink flowers.

Today's weather is nothing like yesterday's. Yesterday's suffocating heat and humidity was energy-draining. Today, after a cool night which gave us a great sleep, we were met with wind, and a dry cool high for the afternoon of 16C. It was cooler in the forest, where shelter from the afternoon sun is often a bonus on hot summer days. We needed light cotton jackets for comfort. The cooler weather clearly had a positive influence on the puppies; they dashed about into the forest interior after squirrels and following scents of intriguing allure.

We noticed that the elderberry trees growing alongside the creek banks are now beginning to go into bloom. Their fruit is highly popular with birds, although they could also be harvested for human consumption to make into jams and jellies. Red baneberry has progressed to the state where the berry clusters are becoming mature and beginning to take on their bright red colour.

When we returned home, as Irving and I drifted briefly around the garden, Jackie and Jillie made a beeline for the porch to check out the offerings, but more to the point, who might be there taking advantage of the offerings. We no longer have to be concerned they'll chase off whoever is there and start munching themselves, on what's there; peanuts don't appeal to them.

We can't quite recall back in March how affected we were by our first dose of the COVID vaccine we received. We do remember that our arms were sore afterward, but that cleared up in a few days' time. We assumed the second time around with the same vaccine would impact less on us than the original one did. It may have, but our feeble memories fail to collaborate that.

After having completed the two-dose regimen yesterday, we settled into the follow-up discomfort. Every time we raised the arm that received the vaccine it hurt like the devil. The injection is an intermuscular one, and that would guarantee there would be soreness afterward. And then there's also the effect of the virus itself, commanding our immune system to straighten up and fly right. This time upset stomachs accompanied the pulsating arm and we slept slightly fitfully during the night.

In the morning it was difficult to arise out of bed. For me, anyway. And I soon discovered that my left foot hurt when it bore my weight, and my right knee was sore when I was washing the floors on this house-cleaning day. For which execution there was no enthusiasm whatever. I felt lethargic, defused of my usual energy. Irving, it seems, has weathered the storm better than me. He did the vacuuming. We decided to do a little less this time, forget about the 'spare' bedrooms, the basement and the living room. They could wait until next week.

It turned out a rainy evening last night and  rain continued into the day, lots of it under dark skies and wind. It took longer for the floors to dry because of the high humidity. But eventually we freed ourselves up for a turn in the ravine with Jackie and Jillie. The rain stopped by midafternoon and we were hoping we could avoid a threatened thunderstorm.

The forest was completely soggy, the atmosphere oppressively hot and humid, with some relief from a constantly blowing wind, itself steeped in heat. We could hear it soughing through the forest canopy as we trudged along the trails. Twice we came across people who wanted to stand around and talk, one a young man we've got to know several years ago, and the conversation was all COVID and vaccines.

The second time it was a trio of people we'd never before seen who told us they live on one of the streets not far from our own. They were taken with Jackie and Jillie, fussing over the little ingrates who kept barking at them. They pumped us for information about the ravine and Irving obliged. Eventually we made our way out of the forest and onto the street, the street quiet and void of anyone's presence.

Our puppies were not the least bit pleased with us this morning. All went well for them, just like a perfectly normal routine morning. We all enjoyed breakfast and nothing caused them to believe they were on the verge of being abandoned to themselves until the very moment of our departure. If that old platitude of seeing someone's face fall in astonishment could be used to describe the realization that dawned on Jackie and Jillie, then indeed their little faces fell in apprehension and disbelief. 

You'd think separation anxiety wouldn't be an issue when there are two of them; companions, brother and sister, and you'd be wrong. It was time for us to drive to the west end of the city where we were assigned a date and a time for our second anti-COVID vaccination. Evidently, nothing could be found in our own area, everything all booked  up, so the west end it would be. A long drive, as it happens, on a day moving toward sweltering.

In the large parking lot where we were instructed to wait in the car adjacent to the entrance we had been assigned to, for the two-day clinic taking place at a sports arena, a young Muslim couple was parked beside us. With them, four small children for whom they had no one to take their care, so they took them with, the parents awaiting their first shots. The children were a bit of a distraction, excited to be out and eager to have an adventure. Evidently when they called for an appointment they were offered spaces in the east end of the city, where we live.

Once a loudspeaker announced our assigned time, inviting us to enter at the assigned gate, we were escorted to a large functional and unbeautiful chamber. The noise in that chamber was deafening; people speaking normally, the sound amplified by acoustics owing much to a large windowless space with a metal ceiling,  and countless people both servicing and being served exchanging information.

Small spaces about six-feet-square apart set up as notional 'rooms' with the aid of plastic curtains and there people waited on chairs for a nurse with her vaccination cart to come along. In our earlier experience tables were set up spaced appropriately distanced from each other, where people were directed to, and at each table was a nurse to administer the dose. The entire process was done and completed in a snap. We were there no longer than ten minutes. This time it was over an hour as we waited our turn. Insufficient numbers of nurses were in attendance and each one assigned to a row of plastic cubicles wherein sat vaccinees.

What a joyful reunion on our return home! We were obviously mourned in our absence, as having gone forever from the lives of Jackie and Jillie. Yips of joy and forever-kisses of undying love lavished upon us. And then we set out for a ravine hike with the two little broken-hearted and miraculously-healed little puppies. By this time it was steaming hot but clouds had rolled in, and we're expecting thunderstorms through the night time hours.

The forest, cool and green, presented us with the shade of its dense, green canopy. We had light burning sensations at the site of the vaccination, that will likely turn into a dull muscular ache by evening, perhaps last a few days and then be gone. There is some stress involved in deviations from our normal routine, and relief that we felt that the second, final shot should spell the end of the pandemic for us personally. Being surrounded by trees in the forest dissipates any residual feelings of unease and discomfort. A leisure pleasure for all of us.

Toward the last one-third of our circuit, we decided to take a freshman-trail, one that didn't exist before last winter when people suffering from lockdown and stay-at-home restraints ordered by the province sought new adventure and relief, forged a new trial. Jackie and Jillie were delighted at this deviation from the norm, and ran ahead exuberantly, the footing just fine for them as we descended, and a little more dicey for ourselves. 

The little tramps refused water offered to them, despite their exertions, but they were pleased to honour us by gobbling up doggy cookies. By the time we arrived back home, however, they looked as though they felt slightly bedraggled, wandering about the garden pathways in the relative cool of the gathering cloud formations overhead.

 

We seem to go from near-drought to near-drowning. Somehow nature doesn't seem fond of moderation. When we awoke this morning to the welcome sight of sun, everything in the garden looked fairly intact. This, despite an all-day, all-night rain. So much that somehow it seems reasonable to suspect that everything might just drown and float away. Such was happily not the case.

There is, of course, the too-much-irrigation syndrome, when thirsty soil that gulped down hours of heavy rain, rebels and refuses to absorb any more. Usually that's not much of a problem when a wet day is followed by a dry day. But in container gardening it can be a problem. That's when garden urns and garden pots become too infused with liquid and plant roots can suffer from rot.

When the roots are disturbed the rest of the plant follows suit. Everything looks bedraggled and spent. New buds are loathe to emerge. And so you and the plants wait for a drying-out period and hope for the best. In actual fact, matters looked fairly normal in the gardens today. Other than that given the rain and ample sun exposure vegetation has gone on a rampage overgrowing itself everywhere.

That means, of course, the never-ending task of tidying up and exerting an element of control is expanded. That's the thing about gardening, it calls for a certain amount of dedication; time, energy and enthusiasm. I'm still in possession of more than a modest quantity of all of that. I've got a way to go yet, I believe, before I begin to consider it a burden. Say, as the season moves on to its conclusion.

For a Saturday there weren't many out on the forest trails in the ravine today. Surprisingly as well, the forest floor while damp in some areas, certainly didn't appear as though it had undergone 24 hours of non-stop rain. Mind, the creek water was at a notably higher level than how it appeared a few days previously. And the forest trees look again as though they've put on a new spurt of growth. In some areas of the trails a bower-look has resulted when the trees on either side of the trail are so heavily leafed and putting out new branches they form an arch.

The forest floor, which looked so pathetically bare a month ago is now teeming with bracken of all kinds. We noted that the hazelnut shrubs are well on their way to maturing their nut casings. This forest has dogwood, sumac, hazelnut and honeysuckle shrubs in abundance in its lower story

The big news in Canada right nos is the success story in administering anti-COVID vaccines. From a shortage at the turn of 2021 to an embarrassment of riches by July. The concern by health authorities over the entrance of the Delta variance has seen vaccination opportunities increase. The latest figures available: 75% of people deemed eligible for the vaccines have had one dose, and 20% have now had a full two doses. At age 84 we're not included in that 20 percent group.

That is due to be amended tomorrow.

 

How strange it feels to spend an entire day in the house, not once going outside other than for brief little potty runs with Jackie and Jillie into the backyard. It's a cool day at 19C, and it's continually raining. The rain too heavy and constant to make for any opportunity to take our little dogs out for their regular hike through the nearby forest trails. They don't seem to mind. As they would on a sunny, warm day. They detest rainy days and prefer 'holding back' to going out in even a light patter of rain to do their business.

We'd had a quite long ravine circuit yesterday afternoon, on a perfectly clear, sunny, warmish and breezy afternoon. One of those lovely days and hikes along forest trails that couldn't be matched for perfection. Until we ran into an old acquaintance with sad, bad news of her husband's sudden demise, and then our mood turned sombre and reflective.  

I had read earlier in the day that the west and midwest of the United States is broiling in incredibly overheated temperatures, up to 50C and it's unimaginable. We groan when the summer temperature gets stuck for a spate of days in the 30s. That kind of heat being experienced in the U.S. is really intolerable. So how can I complain with this cool, wet weather?

In fact, it's a comfort to be in our snug house, all four of us. While Jackie and Jillie snooze comfortably, Irving and I had things to be done. A bit of cleaning, a bit of baking and cooking. Telephone appointments, hanging some pictures, routine things. Done at our leisure. There's no hurry about anything. A general state of contentment and coziness as we relax and read the papers.

In the past week we've been quite busy in the garden, and now it looks quite to our satisfaction. That it's raining so steadily today is a bonus for the garden and all growing things. Most particularly so since Irving yesterday spread garden soil and grass seed anew on the front lawn. I had put in a few late seeds, sunflowers and asters, so it will be interesting to see how useful the rain will have been in persuading them to take life. The cosmos that I had much earlier planted and the nasturtiums are doing nicely.

Tomorrow we'll take a drive over to the far west end of the city to make certain that we know the route for our Sunday appointment to get our second vaccine inoculations. Unfamiliarity with that part of the city might lead us to go astray and we'd hate to miss those appointments. They're a full month earlier than our original second-dose appointment dates. The province has acquired more vaccines from Pfizer and Moderna, and is accelerating second doses in the threatening shadow of the burgeoning Delta variant of COVID-19.

I baked a blueberry-cherry crisp this morning, topped with chopped pecans. Two cups of blueberries, one cup of halved-pitted cherries. And instead of a warm-weather Caesar salad with cauliflower and chicken breasts along with other vegetables, I've resorted to a winter favourite; deboned, skinned chicken thighs in a mushroom gravy to serve over rice, with cauliflower on the side. That should warm us up nicely.

Sometimes you come abreast of a situation that informs you starkly that although all is well in your world it isn't necessarily so in the world that others inhabit. Of course, all you have to do is read the morning papers and story after story sketches out scenarios of conflict, deprivation, starvation, mass atrocities. We become accustomed to reading about countries -- usually geographically far off from our own -- that either have fallen into dysfunction or never were wholly functional. Those stories appall you and you feel a twinge of regret for the poor people directly exposed to the effects of civil strife, government incapacity, discrimination, and misery.

This morning while I did the laundry Irving went out to empty some of those garden soil bags into the wheelbarrow for distribution around the front lawn with the intention of re-seeding the grass. It seemed the perfect time, the atmosphere cool with a good stiff breeze to cool it down even further and he carried on while I did  household chores. Eventually I joined him out-of-doors and carried on with my self-imposed task of trimming cedars and old junipers, and tidied up a bit more around the gardens.

Jackie and Jillie did some restrained exploring, wandering off to the neighbours' lawns until we were ready to go off to the ravine for their afternoon hike through the forest trails. There's the thing about taking a circuit through woodland trails at a leisurely pace; it has a psychologically calming effect, relaxing both mind and body while entertaining the mind and exercising the body.

We came across several friends; one a young man who always likes to hike alongside us and discuss matters of interest to him. I leave those discussions primarily to Irving. What did come out of their discussion was that on our return home, in response to the  young man's own experience in re-scheduling a second dose of vaccine, Irving made the requisite call in view of the province just equipping the city with an additional number of doses, to reschedule our own second shot. And this time it's for Sunday at a site more congenial to us geographically.

After we parted from our friend, we suddenly came across another old acquaintance whom we haven't seen in a while, walking her dog Millie. She smiled as we approached one another, then said she had bad news for us. Her husband had died the week before. That's the kind of news that is similar to being slapped hard across the face; you can't believe it's happened. He was 62, and though he had a family history of strokes at a young age, he was examined regularly for the condition of his heart and all appeared normal.

They'd had their second dose of vaccine. She felt extraordinarily lethargic, her husband experienced a different kind of discomfort which grew over the next few days. He felt tired and began to feel breathless, but wouldn't hear of seeing their doctor; he was fine, just fine, the discomfort would fade and he'd be back to normal. Two days later he took his car in for an oil change, and when he returned home he rushed up the stairs and collapsed on their bed, his heart beating wildly. She checked his blood pressure and it seemed reasonable, but his pulse was wild. Go to the hospital? Forget it.

She spoke to her sister-in-law, an emergency room nurse who advised her to get her husband to emergency as soon as possible. She called an ambulance and was told en route in the ambulance by the paramedics that they were heading directly to the Heart Institute; doctors were awaiting their arrival. An echogram revealed he'd had a heart attack and it had blown a hole in his heart. Surgery was scheduled urgently; two matters to be addressed, a severe blockage and the hole. 

They have three sons, the youngest, 24, lives with them still. They were all at the hospital with her, and they were devastated. Each was permitted, one after the other, to go in to the hospital room where their father was hooked up to life support and where he spoke to them quietly and calmly. When she went in her husband reminded her of everything that had to be done, then he said it was too difficult for him to talk, much less breathe.

A week ago the decision was made on the advice of doctors that the now-comatose man should be pulled off life support. As she told us everything in great detail, she was calm and collected. Her face expressive but impassive, her voice steady and determined to describe everything. Ventilating is often a comfort. We stood there, listening, quietly commenting briefly, but it was her show and she was determined to eke out a description of every bit of detail, and we listened, shocked. 

She spoke in that hollow detached way that inclines the listener to think that emotion has been repressed, tamped down of necessity to carry on. She was carrying on.