We awoke to about an inch of snow on the ground. Big surprise at this time of year, and because we thought of heading out for an hour's trip to visit with our daughter and grandchild, thought if the snow continued falling and the north wind blowing, we'd think otherwise. Driving out there in the "back of beyond" as my husband calls it, with snow blowing off the open fields isn't very pleasant, nor is it safe, leading to white-outs that can be quite nasty on those narrow roads. But soon after breakfast the snow stopped and the trip was back on again.

We first had our usual daily walk in the ravine, delighted to see everything well covered with a nice clean layer of snow; branches and evergreen needles delineated beautifully with their fresh blanket. The monochromatic look of early spring so recently with us, temporarily delayed under this fresh onslaught of a reluctantly-departing winter. We'd seen a robin earlier on one of our Sargentii crabs, and in fact they've just about now eaten all of the tiny red berries. Beside it in the other crab was a song sparrow, first we'd seen thus far this spring.

And once we were in the ravine there were the crows again, pairing off, and the cardinal trilling high above, and surprise! a small flock, for such it was, comprised of no fewer than 8 robins, poor things, scrambling about in the underbrush of the forest, vainly looking for something live and edible. Although still well under freezing on the thermometer there was a gentle wind blowing and the day seemed, despite the heavy overcast and flurries to be a kinder day than that preceding it.

It was an enjoyable enough drive, not at all tedious, since we tend to use these situations for long discussions between us. Whatever we'd read or heard of interest to be finely diagnosed and interpreted, our respective opinions resulting, colliding for further discussion, or agreement leading us on to other matters of collaborative interest. Before long we pulled into the long, wide drive, parked, exited, hauled out the things we'd brought with us, and still the menagerie inside the house was oblivious to our presence.

Once they became aware, though, it was pandemonium, all of the dogs vying for best sighting position in the long glassed-in foyer, frantically barking. Inside the foyer it's worse, they're significantly more insistent, louder, all wanting to be acknowledged and petted at the same time, the tiny ones underfoot, the large ones bumping against us, throwing us off balance, until our daughter brings order to the chaos. There are so many dogs, our two included, that warm hairy bodies are everywhere - our Button at 13 by far the oldest, anxious to separate from the collective.

It's good to see everyone. Our daughter, our granddaughter, our daughter's partner. Everyone looks well, we hug and fall into conversation and up-dating, though we speak with one another almost daily. And we bring out the goodies; chewies for the dogs, chocolates and books and tee-shirts, also a duvet and cover for our granddaughter. Next week is our daughter's 46th birthday, we won't be there next week, so we've brought her birthday gifts with us. Also some other items, like cheese bars (on sale) a liquid laundry soap jug (on sale) and tinned tuna (her favourite type unavailable there).

My husband settles down to have conversations on everything from the Vimy Ridge memorial, to the situations in Iraq and Afghanistan, and medical leave and compensation, to some action films with his counterpart-of-the-home, while we three females congregate at the opposite end of the family room. Outside hung in front of the many windows are bird feeders of all types, and there is an endless stream of birds coming to them all: chickadees, nuthatches, finches, sparrows, woodpeckers, bluejays - it's quite amazing. Tibby the cat sits beside one of the windows, his tail switching back and forth, glued to the impossible spectacle of the unattainable.

We fit the duvet into its cover and discover the cover to be too large, but our granddaughter doesn't care; she keeps jumping onto her bed, into the soft enveloping folds of the duvet. She's already replaced the tee-shirt she was wearing on our arrival with one of the new ones we brought, and has done the same with a pair of the many socks we brought her. The minute we seat ourselves on sofas and chairs we're inundated with dogs, the little ones anticipating empty laps, the larger ones leaning against us to have their heads rubbed.

This is the first time in ages that we've arrived to find there are no other children around since our granddaughter usually has at least one, and more often two other children around, visiting for the day or sleeping over for the week-end. It's different, to have her all to ourselves as it were. She's usually a whirl of colour and energy, along with her girlfriends zipping through the house engaged on something suspiciously like trouble. Life has become a little different for her, living in the countryside from their formerly urban residence.

There have been many pluses, not the least of which, counter-intuitively, has been the proliferation of little girls living relatively close by with whom she plays, and who attend her school, all of them bused, but that in itself isn't different from urban living. The parents of the little girls, 9 and 10 and 11 years of age, seem to trust the safety of their children to some manner of belief that nothing untoward might threaten them. As when they cover miles of narrow country roads on their bicycles to visit with one another.

These are the same country roads, after all, that logging trucks are often seen driving on, although to be sure there isn't in total a great traffic on the roads until summer when the area becomes a tourist destination, located as it on the great and wonderful Canadian Shield, with the proximity of a large and beautiful lake, with a cottage-and-boat population swelling the year-round population base. Our daughter and her partner, an OPP constable, have to continually remind the little girls that dusk will soon fall and they need to be on the road to home before dark.

I wonder how it can be that their parents appear to be so unconcerned, trusting in some kind fate that nothing amiss will occur when their children are riding their bicycles to and from some fairly distant destinations. I wonder how long it will be until this formerly-urban child will begin to agitate about herself not having permission from her mother to ride her bicycle on the road, insisting it's safe, because after all, her friends do it...