A Child's Introspection

Another lovely and sunny day, with a few cloudy patches, and extremely comfortable temperatures. Directly after breakfast the fellow who has looked after our driveway for the past 4-5 years came along, having completed work on one of our neighbour's drives, up the street. This is an individual whose workmanship is completely immaculate. He charges four times what other, fly-by-night driveway patchers-and-sealers does, but there is no comparison to the workmanship. He takes his time, and he takes pride in the fruit of his efforts.

He doesn't need the work. He is retired, once owned a service station up near Val-des-Monts, Quebec, but when the highway bypass was put through, business lapsed, and he took an early retirement. He was an expert auto-body painter, and thought that this type of work, sealing driveways, was close enough to what he was accustomed to doing. His wife has worked for over 30 years at Dustbane Enterprises, and he liked to keep employed himself, during the summer months.

It takes him two hours to complete the project of a driveway. He carefully patches every seam and crack, after edging the lawn. And when he sprays the sealant on, he uses a foil to ensure that none of the sealant is sprayed on garage doors or even lawns and walkways. Then he carefully inserts stakes on either end of the drive, extends a long bright orange ribbon, and he's done. And we shake hands, wish him well, thank him yet again and say we'll see him year after next.

Free! To go off into the ravine for our morning walk. At one of the creek tributaries we saw two hairy (black-and-white striped) woodpeckers on the opposite bank, busy low down on the trunk of a tree, sounding their 'peeking' calls. Close by them was a brace of blackbirds, and a black squirrel running up the hillside. Over where the white honeysuckle was in flower we saw, first time this year, a damselfly.

And then we saw a rare treat, as I bent to examine the delicate, minute purple-blue stars on the end of a grass stalk; blue-eyed grass. If and when we see them on the rare occasion, we see one stalk, one flower. This time, on the edge of the underbrush beside the trail, there were four stalks, one plant, four brilliantly beautiful flowers. Pity we hadn't a camera with us; we had it out taking photographs yesterday, missed this opportunity.

Later, we went out to the local petfood supply shop. Where they had a lot of their inventory on sale at 50% off. I'd seen the harnesses they had on special. Far better than those we use for Button and Riley. These are saddle-shaped, and well cushioned, extremely comfortable for them, and secure. At half price they cost almost $50 for two, but they'll be valuable additions to our walks, particularly when we're elsewhere than at the ravine.

Back home, it was time to give both little dogs their haircuts. Riley's hair grows relatively slowly, but not Button's. She's part Pomeranian, perhaps that's an explanation. Since she's almost sixteen, having to submit to the indignity of having her hair trimmed represents a miserable offence against her sense of propriety, it's a degrading exercise for her, not respectful of her position as head of this house.

She squirms and protests, whines and trembles and I feel dreadful, but she needs to be trimmed, and I'm determined to see it through. It's a frustrating exercise. Trimming her little paws, her face, her shaggy body. When it's finally done she looks sleek and elegant. She then deigns to relax, and enjoy the warmth of the sun on her black hair, and I turn my attention to Riley.

Who knows he's next, and obediently makes himself available. In fact, while I'm in the process of trimming into his ears, around his top-knot, his lips, he falls asleep, completely relaxed, trusting and unmindful of the scissors' potential to prick and cut. It's a far more relaxing enterprise seeing to his toilette and I'm grateful beyond belief, particularly when I've completed the chore.

And then, we can sit on the glider on the newly-built deck, he and I, reading newspapers, and relaxing, until it's time for me to prepare meals. My husband bursts excitedly into the house, telling me that our resident chipmunk has morphed into two. In the late afternoon he usually makes his appearance, in search of peanuts, the morning offerings having long been disposed of by a host of visitors.

With him (her?) this time is another tiny chipmunk. Well, our original is tiny; this one much more so; minuscule. Mother and child? I tell this little story to our granddaughter, when she telephones, after school. She has written a few things she wants me to vet for her. Five epigrammatic pieces. And then a sixth, longer, more introspective. I ask her to send it to me in an email, and she's glad to oblige:

I've always wondered is there a powerful mighty guy, is there really some one high above us in the sky watching our every move. Is he why you and I are here. is he the one who takes your loved ones away from you or is that fate. Is he why you go to church,is he why you pray. If you do something bad is he the one who decides. Is he like a shadow, your shadow. some one imaginary, some one fake. Why do we pray. Aren't we the ones who control ourselves, our behavior our actions. Yes he might be the god of living but there's mother nature and many more are they even real, are they fake. There's no way of knowing is there, because if there is tell me please. people kill each other and fight over him if he's real why doesn't stop the fighting, the wars, the children dieing in poverty, the people starving, it's not there faults they can't live the way they want to. Healthy and rich. Does he not stop us because he knows we'll figure it out some day. Because he knows were better then that. Will he be waiting for you in our after life.