Spaced Out

Women, at any event, are often claimed to be divine creatures by those who are besotted with the fair sex. Out of this world, some of them, matter of fact. Graceful, lissome, gracious to a fault. Highly intelligent creatures, some of them. And so lovely to look at, that cannot be denied. Whoever designed them used extraordinary creative talent.

To think: these creatures yet to evolve, initiated as single-celled amoebas, may have inhabited the interstices of great balls of fire. Actually, gases and fiery ice, along with rock and metal. For within a special, very rare class of meteorites - CI1 carbonaceous meteorite to be precise - some astute and clever NASA scientist has found ancient primitive "indigenous fossils".

True, those fossils were of bacterial life within the masses of the found objects, but they indicate existence of some forms of life in their obvious initial stages, out there in the vast cold darkness of the Universe. Growing within the meteorites, those very special space rocks that hurtle themselves through infinite space.

And which, on occasion, deposit themselves at great speed burning through Earth's atmosphere, to create great concussions occasionally resulting in hollows in the earth. "I interpret it as indicating that life is more broadly distributed than restricted strictly to the planet Earth", said Richard Hoover.

The microfossils upon which he has staked his professional and very considerable opinion through their scrutiny within "freshly fractured" meteorite pieces were analysed and the conclusion reached that they are akin to those found on Earth. Read about it in the Journal of Cosmology.

The conclusion of the paper published in the journal makes note that "the implications are that life is everywhere, and that life on Earth may have come from other planets". We're extraterrestrials? No wonder we're so spaced out.

Pink, Frilly Echinacea!

How perfectly ... well, perfect. What more could we conceivably ask for? Two telephone calls in less than a week, one from Barcelona, the other from Lourdes. Just to keep in touch. To let us know. How wonderfully thoughtful. He told us about his week in Genoa, the mountains he climbed, what he saw there, and his impressions. And after a month away in Spain, Italy and France, he will be returning home. And our granddaughter, her class valedictorian, was hugely praised at the commencement ceremonies - grade eight to high school. We can hardly believe so much time has elapsed.

Our daily walk in the ravine, always itself its own reward, gave us further reward when we were accosted several times during our daily jaunt by our favourite little squirrel, Stumpy. Thus named for the simple reason that instead of owning a long, sweeping furry tail he has but a stump of one. There is another little black squirrel in the ravine also tailless like Stumpy, but not as bold as he. There are some grey and some red squirrels whose bravery and recognition of our regular route as we drop off peanuts in various places, is noted, but not extraordinary.

For Stumpy tracks us, and approaches us, coming as close as he dares. He knows our voices. When we call, he often appears, although he could be just about anywhere in the ravined woods. He will occasionally accost us two or three times during the course of our hike, each time quite far from the place previous. He is a delightful little creature, brave and clever. He does not entirely surrender his need to ensure his safety but he cannot ever be certain he is not in imminent danger.

There are owls and hawks in the woods and he could be seen as prey. Let alone the many dogs who walk through with their humans, most of them willing and eager to chase squirrels. Our two little dogs are little different, other than for the fact that they know Stumpy and accept his calm presence. While he cannot let down his guard he will come to within five feet of us and stand alert before us, awaiting his peanut. Always a three-chamber peanut for Stumpy.

And then, in the afternoon, my husband suggested it would be interesting to go along to a local family-operated plant nursery, one we have been frequenting for many years. I was initially reluctant, even though he's heard me say frequently enough lately that I would like to have a few new perennials to fill in some garden spots. In that nursery, one of the area's largest, and certainly one of the best-stocked and best-cared for, I felt as though I was running amok with desire and greed.

Everything looked compellingly attractive, and we rummaged about here and there, expressing admiration for the varied and colourful perennials and annuals. Who even knew there were now annual galliardia? We now have annual blanket flower in our garden beds. And more asters and dahlias. And a new type of Hibiscus, hardy to our 5a growing zone. And a huge Astilbe, a new cultivar, with graceful foliage and a wonderful floral crop. And a new type of Echinacea, one with bright pink, frilly flower heads.

I managed to happily plant the annuals, didn't even bother changing out of my long skirt. Our garden soil is incredibly rich as a result of all the compost we've spread over the years, from our kitchen and garden waste. And the addition of a combination of bone- and blood-meal helped in the planting. Later, I snipped some sweet basil and oregano out of the herb garden, and we began to assemble a pizza, for our evening meal. A fragrant conclusion to a fantastic day.

Greetings, All!

A quiet day, this Christmas Day of 2009. We had our usual ravine walk with our two little dogs, and because it was so relatively mild - anything under -6 degrees C. requires that they wear boots to protect their tiny tender paws from the effects of long exposure to snow and ice - it was nice for them to be able to ramble along in the woods, on the trails, bootless. Not that it does much to enliven things for the smaller of the two, he just takes his time toddling along.

The two bird feeders that people had latterly hung along one section of the trail nearest where we enter the ravine had obviously been filled, earlier in the morning. As we walked under them, we treaded countless bits of seed casings, but saw no birds this day, as opposed to yesterday, when it was just as mild and the sun shone, and chickadees and nuthatches flew constantly from boughs to bird feeders.

There were a few others walking in the ravine today, which came as a bit of a surprise. We hardly expected to see others out walking on this day. Our encounters were pleasant enough, but precluded the usual "Merry Christmas" that most people automatically extend; these two couples did not utter that seasonal greeting of goodwill, and so as Jews ourselves, we felt it was hardly needful for us to appropriate the occasion.

Our ravine-walk "Merry Christmas" confined itself to a generous sprinkling of peanuts for all the woodland squirrels, red, black and grey, whose presence has been relatively rare these extremely cold days. But today, there were groups of the little guys gathered on the largest of the grand pines just at the bottom of the descent where the trial initially dips into the ravine.

Among them our very favourite Stumpy. For Stumpy, the little black squirrel without a graceful plume of a tail, we set aside the largest, longest, thickest of the peanuts. Although since it's become so cold and the snow has packed into the ravine he no longer approaches us as boldly as heretofore, he does wait for us while up on a tree trunk, to pay our daily dues.

When the big, fat peanut has been placed close to the tree, and we've stepped sufficiently back with Button and Riley, Stumpy ventures down to retrieve the offering, and takes himself off with it. Occasionally he will return for another, once he's eaten the first one. But his behaviour is quite a bit different, and we're glad to observe that.

For one thing, it's obvious his former insouciance before the snow came down might now pose as a deterrent to long life. Our dogs' presence may not pose a hazard to his longevity, but others very well might, and he needs to be more cautious now. Lightning speed over snow-fluffed ground is no longer assured. And, given the presence of a great barred owl, he and the other small denizens need to be alert and ready to flee.

Yesterday we came across others whom we know, walking in the ravine, and at that time their heartfelt "Merry Christmas" greetings to us were returned just as heartily. We've become accustomed to readily responding, echoing that greeting. Today, neither walking along our street to reach the trailhead, nor on the trail itself, did we see any whom we know.

It's another world, today, far from the world that we grew up in as little kids when we were more likely to hear accusations of "Christ killer!" from kids at school, or "dirty Jew!" than the kindly "Merry Christmas" now so generously sprinkled through social discourse at this bright holiday season. Progress aplenty has been made.

The earlier, reciprocal "Happy Hannukah!", speaks volumes.

Snowfall Perambulation

At minus-3 degrees centigrade and falling, we figured we could hazard a walk in the ravine without having to put protective booties on our little dogs. Though we did take the cautionary step of putting their harnesses on over their coats in case we were unable to access the ravine as a result of yesterday's snowfall. While we could manage, it would be too difficult for the two little dogs to struggle through that deep snow if it had been undisturbed.

And if that were to occur, we would take to the street instead, walking where we normally do not, to ensure that we and they received some exercise, since we'd missed the previous day thanks to the snowstorm. Our exercises, throughout the day yesterday in repeatedly clearing the snow from our walkways and driveway could, on the other hand, count for some physical exercise.

Fortunately, we found that others had preceded us; in all likelihood area children who have been taking the ravine trails as short-cuts to their various schools. So the going wasn't utterly impossible, though there were a few instances where we had to pick them up to get across short pieces of previously unused trail. Not so bad for Button with her long legs and energy to spare despite her venerability, but for short-legged Riley, well-neigh impossible.

Almost that bad for us, in fact, plodding along in the snow, uphill and down. Beautiful it was, beyond our year-to-year memory of how transforming the results of a heavy snowstorm can appear down there in the ravine. With trees heavily laden with their burden of snow; the evergreen boughs so weighed down that they swoop close to the ground, necessitating that we make our way around them. If, on the other hand, we choose to shake the snow off those boughs, up they come, raising themselves almost to their normal level.

Yesterday's roistering wind, creating white-outs everywhere was still in evidence, only slightly muted. And since no snow was falling, it was just the effects of the wind to contend with, moaning and groaning through the trees, clacking tops together in a symphony of winter conditions bringing us tidings of far more to come. The sky above was a pale grey, a slight covering through which the orb of a pale yellow sun kept attempting to assert itself. Occasionally successfully, with a brief bright beam of light crossing the area.

No birds to be seen anywhere today, but the occasional squirrel, not yet completely prepared to bed down for their semi-hibernating state to take them through the long, icily-inclement months of winter. It was kind of amazing, in fact, the slow but steady progress of our two little dogs, plodding along through the depths of the snow that completely covered their little legs with knots of snow firming up into balls resistant to removal, once we had returned home, even after dipping them into warm water.

Vignettes of This Day

Decided to bake date squares for a change, haven't had them in ages. Made an oatmeal-walnut crumble bottom and top, and it was quick work to get it all into the oven. Used the portable oven which has a tendency to bake things too quickly, and forgot to pay attention, so the topping got slightly burnt, but not enough to really notice when dessert-time rolled around. A telephone call from our granddaughter had caught me off guard; yet another PD day.

When we went out for our daily hour-long ravine walk, the sun couldn't make up its mind, kept peeking out from behind clouds dark enough to bring snow, but which didn't. In fact, yesterday's rain had washed away the slight accumulation of snow from previous days' events. And little Stumpy accosted us no fewer than three times on our ramble through the ravine, on each occasion boldly coming closer and closer, to fetch his peanuts from us.

Button and Riley, our two little dogs, have become accustomed to his appearances, no longer bother themselves about his brief presence, and just get on with other things, further emboldening Stumpy. We keep all the really big peanuts, those with three chambers rather than merely two, especially for him. We're curious about whether squirrels recall where they've hidden peanuts.

Looked that up on the Internet yesterday and the message is a double one; sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. What they do engage in evidently is pretending to bury something in a number of places when they feel they're being watched, before finally burying the edible object, to put off potential hijackers. We're most pleased when Stumpy sits there, eating the peanuts we offer him rather than burying them.

When we were out doing the grocery shopping today, a harried, exasperated young man trying to stock the dairy coolers informed someone's grandma that "lady, they all have the same date", when I was trying to find a more distant-dated lactose-reduced 2% milk carton. "No, they are not!" I responded, to his chagrin, inviting him to use his height to obtain one for me. Poor kid. I thanked him effusively.

We'd left Button and Riley at home on their own when we hied ourselves off for shopping. Little Button, usually so aloof, even with us, whimpered piteously on our return and I scooped her up for a big hug. Littler Riley, generally phlegmatic, indulged in a chorus of howling renting the air with his frustration at the outrage, so he too got scooped up.

When I prepared dinner I decided instead of drizzling olive oil over the cauliflower florets I was baking along with the chicken, that I'd use the newly-prepared salad dressing I put together yesterday for which I'd used lemon juice instead of vinegar with the olive oil and seasonings. After dinner my husband remarked on how odd the cauliflower had tasted; off-putting, he said.

I responded by informing him of what I'd done, for a change. He laughed, hugged me, and recommended that I consider that to have been an unsuccessful initiative. Back to the old way. He had gone out briefly before I served dinner, to snip parsley from the herb garden back of the house. Despite the snow we've had, and the current slightly below-freezing temperature, the parsley is still perkily fresh. Great with our chicken soup.

After dinner, Button, who appears to have forgotten how to ask to be let out, scratched at the sliding glass doors, so I went over and let her out. A few minutes later I heard her bark outside (there, she remembered!) to be let back in. As she so often does when she's been out to do her business, she rushed through the door like a spitfire, racing about with such verve you mightn't believe she's 17.

Two minutes later, as he was clearing away the dishes from the dining room table, my husband exclaimed. She had decided to evacuate right there. Her memory has these dips and lows; she has forgotten occasionally how unhygienic and downright unfriendly it is to do such things in the house. And quite evidently she had forgotten, after she was let out, why she wanted to go outside to begin with.

And then was puzzled by my angry shout at her, informing her that I thought her to be a "bad girl!". I was upset, but not he. He's the one who cleans up such messes, and he laughed uproariously. Thinking about it in that way, it is ridiculous, and chastising her serves no real purpose other than to confuse her.

She looks so adorable, after the much-needed haircut I gave her and Riley two days earlier. That adorability will fast fade and she and he will once again resemble tousled mops.

H1N1! And Other Stuff

A gorgeous day of full sunshine and reasonable temperature of 6-degrees centigrade. Our leisurely breakfast followed by a visit to our very local Canadian Tire for our ten-year-old Honda to have an oil change, and an emissions-control test preparatory to license renewal. The return home awaiting completion of those tasks was a mere fifteen minute walk. After which we walked in a more convivial way, up the street to the entrance of the ravine.

Where we loosed our two little dogs so they could sniffle and snuffle their way wherever it took their fancy, leaving their own messages for other dogs to interpret in their turn. The clay upon which the ravine is mostly based, along with sand, has succumbed to its late-fall mire, not only the result of rainfall, but of the freeze-and-thaw cycle of low overnight temperatures and a rise in temperature during the day.

Calling for extreme caution when treading downhill and uphill, both. We know the terrain so intimately from our quotidian ventures over the past 20 years that we have little problem negotiating our way without slipping beyond control. We had witnessed, two days earlier, a young woman with two leashed and vastly overweight chows struggling to make her way uphill, teetering and sliding, finally slipping back to the bottom of a hill.

None of that today, since we're the only ones in there. As usual, slipping peanuts into the crotches of trees, in holes in the barks of others, along the rails of the bridges gapping the stream, watching as squirrels raid those deposits in gleeful possession. Yesterday, Stumpy approached us no fewer than four times for his peanuts, today we've not seen him even once. He knows where to find them, clever little fellow.

Later, we take ourselves off to the town centre for the H1N1 vaccination clinic. Earlier in the day, my husband had dropped by to pick up our numbered/coloured wrist bands and copies of the questionnaire to be filled out, and was given instruction that we should return at three for our inoculations. Which we did, arriving to find hordes of other people doing the same. We were ushered into a small theatre, advised to wait until called.

After a few moments of waiting, we were informed that those with purple wristbands and final 3 numbers under 300 should hie themselves off to the third floor. There, a long line had formed, but moved along at a good pace. We soon found ourselves in front of a long line of desks where people manning computers inputted our information and sent us along to another line from which we were eventually dispatched to other desks.

Nurses and health technicians viewed the completed questionnaires we held, pleasantly posed a few questions, then proceeded to deliver our inoculations, directing us afterward to a waiting area where we were advised to await the print-out of our inoculation information, and after fifteen minutes of 'recovery', we were free to leave. The entire process having taken 25 minutes, despite the throngs of people.

On arrival home, I assembled my haircutting equipment and set about giving Button and Riley their long-overdue hair trimming. I filled a plastic bag with black- and with apricot-coloured poodle hair. Button, approaching 17, feels this to be a vast indignity and resists mightily, making the procedure difficult, but in the end rewarding, as we regard a nicely groomed little dog.

Riley simply submits, resigning himself with a huge heave of a sigh, to the inevitable. And he too, comes out of the process looking neat and tidy, and utterly adorable. We've decided to overlook a bath this time. In this weather bathing them always presents with a situation where they require a long rub-down with soft towels to remove as much moisture from their skin as possible. They're sensitive to the cold, and shiver for hours afterward, even though they look and feel dry, and we've put little warm coats on them.

There's satisfaction in having enjoyed a pleasant and fruitful day. Onward and upward!

This 'N That

A month ago, my husband, reminiscing about the wonderful baked goods he'd eaten as a child living in Toronto, suggested why didn't I bake some blueberry buns? I had fresh blueberries, and decided to make the buns. We really liked them, and when visiting with our daughter and granddaughter the day afterward, brought them along in honour of our granddaughter's famous love of pastries. As things turned out, she wasn't, after all, able to eat them. She'd left them on the kitchen island counter, forgetting about their dogs' propensities. The dogs loved them.

I'd bought blueberries again, always have them on hand, and thought I would go ahead and bake the same buns again this morning, for dessert at dinnertime. So while putting breakfast together, I also prepared the bun filling: fresh berries, sugar, cornstarch and cranberry juice. When that had cooked, I set it aside. After breakfast I made the sweet yeast dough, using milk, butter, egg, yeast and flour. Realized, when I was rolling out the buns preparatory to filling them, that I had too much dough.

So I proceeded to also make cheese croissants. Everyone loves cheese croissants in this family. Haven't made them in ages. I also put on a chicken soup to cook away at the back burner, since it's Friday. And while I was at it, thought I'd just go ahead and make another yeast dough, this time for a pizza, for tomorrow evening; another one of our little rituals.

My husband telephoned from WalMart where he'd gone out to get a tube of doggy toothpaste. Did I want a crate of Moroccan tangerines? No. We still have three-quarters of one left. How about bagels, think he should get some? Not likely, we have a tray of croissants baking in the oven. I hate to disappoint him. Melons? Cheese? I reminded him we were going food shopping later that afternoon. I like to see what I'm getting, don't like sending him off on food-shopping errands.

I know the real reason he's gone out there, to see if the gold bangle they'd advertised was decent. My 73rd birthday is coming up and he wants to get a birthday gift for me. I've pre-warned him, I need nothing, want nothing. And if he buys me another watch, I'll hardly know what to do with it. Nor would I like any more rings, thanks a whole bunch. He looks at me with great consternation; he's got to get me something. Doubtless he will. That bracelet, he confided to me later, wasn't very good at all.

He loves shopping, he really does. He bought some exotic, expensive cheese for himself. And a tray of chicken breasts, which I appreciate, since I can use them this evening for dinner. And, look! he said, surprising me, although not really surprising me, since this is the kind of thing he so often does. He succumbs before sales, before bargains, before opportunities to purchase things that are attractive, aesthetically pleasing, and above all, a good price. A comforter set for a Queen-sized bed. Quite lovely it is, too. What can I say? Thanks.

When he did finally arrive home, we thought we'd try for a ravine walk with our little dogs. (This after the surprise comforter presentation, hauled into our upstairs bathroom while I was tidying up.) It was, by then, only drizzling, after all-night rain, and rain well into the morning hours. Off we set, in a light drizzle, congratulating ourselves on our good fortune that the rain had been considerate enough and cordial to our aspirations, to lift, enabling us to jaunt off for a ravine walk.

Squirrels follow us as though we're the Pied Piper. Which, I imagine, we are, in the ravine. Depositing daily caches of peanuts, shelled and unshelled for the little critturs. Their amusing antics entertain and charm us. Not particularly the ones who manage to swing from the seed-and-suet balls we hang from our deck, nor burrow deeply into the suet cakes we hang also from the deck. But then, hairy woodpeckers and chickadees also get to enjoy those treats on occasion, squirrels permitting.

We're halfway through our usual hour ramble, when the gloom seems to lift and it appears lighter. We rejoice, we'll complete the entire circuit, aren't we fortunate? And then, even while the ambiance is lighter, suddenly the clouds appear to have jangled against one another, loosing a torrent of rain. We're fine, in our hooded rain gear, and Button and Riley aren't getting too terribly wet; the outer layered garment they wear is absorbing most of it, even though their topknots and ears have begun to look fairly bedraggled.

Still, it's great to be out there, even slithering along on the trails beyond mere muck. Even without the rain they've been slimy and muddy; it's the freeze-thaw-cycle we're currently locked into, compliments of the season. No complaints, actually.

Being Here, There, Everywhere

We are exceedingly grateful, we two, that we have recovered so nicely from our recent physical afflictions. Leaving us able to get on with our lives. Resume living normally. Able to undertake anything that we wish to do. Feeling normal; our energy levels restored to their previous state. And our desire to complete tasks that we had initiated before both falling ill, reasonably achievable, now. We do take so much for granted, but that's human nature.

We're fortunate, at our age, not to have any really dis-empowering illness, either of us. We are so accustomed to enjoying good health that it takes us somewhat by surprise when reality steps in to remind us that we're getting older - inexorably - with our recuperative capabilities a tad affected. Despite which, we have recuperated very well, both of us. Illness has the capacity, however, of rudely reminding us of our finite years.

It also jolts us awake to the beauty that surrounds us. The profound satisfaction we feel in living our lives. We seem more aware of everything in nature that surrounds us, delighting in all that we see, hear, smell and touch. For everything seems to touch us at a deeper level. As though we needed some kind of reminder of our good fortune, our good health and the deep pleasure we take in the lives we live.

Now, my husband is back to his work completing the large garden shed he began building in late summer. All the difficult work has been done, the shed itself erected, the roof shingles done, the soffit, and now the installation of the siding can re-commence. As for me, I have almost completed putting our gardens away for the winter. They barely resemble, but for the hardscape, the gardens we admire during the summer months.

The ravine too, has been steadily transformed. There, we take pleasure in viewing the landscape in an entirely different way. The bare bones of the tree trunks, and the full colour of the conifers remain intact, but the undergrowth of the forest floor has gradually disappeared, shrinking back into the earth, but for some hardy ferns, and everything is covered in a shifting blanket of colourful deciduous leafage.

So well covered that that we swish through the drying leaves, redolent of tannin, and blazing with yellows, reds, orange and burnt sienna. We see bright orange fungi clustered like something tantalizingly candy-like, on an old birch limb, lying on the ground as we pass through toward the end of our trail walk this most fortunate of days.

But Not Without Pleasure

Not a very good start to the day, getting up late, even if it's a Saturday morning. We've gotten lazy. The weather helps, there. No early morning light to bring our bedroom alive, just a dim overcast, and the knowledge that it's pouring out there. Has been, since the evening before. Went on all night, relentlessly, and continued well on into the morning. It's lazy-making weather, that's what it is. Aside from the fact that both of us are still clambering out of assaults on our health and physical well-being.

My husband is on medication to quell the riot in his gastrointestinal tract, and although my bout with Shingles is well behind me now, the medication protocol long ceased and my gradual return to normalcy well on its way, there manifests, still, extremely uncomfortable reminders. My husband's medication has had certain side-effects, one of which was a relatively brief bout with diarrhoea, the other extreme drowsiness. His lack of energy, for a man who has always had a superabundance of same, is another thing altogether.

We have heard nothing yet from our family doctor with respect to the results of the tests he took a week earlier. But he does feel infinitely better than he had. His ultra sound appointment is still three weeks' distant, and who knows when his appointment with a heart specialist will take place, since there doesn't appear to be any reason to believe there is a problem there. Just that our doctor said that at three-score-years-and-ten that kind of check-up would represent sound medical practise.

After breakfast we decided to venture out into the ravine with our little companions. All of us clad for the weather, since it was still raining, but more of a slight drizzle, by then. One of our neighbours was hauling out upholstered furniture to the end of his driveway; he thought, he said, that this was 'free give-away' week-end. It was not. We suggested, in passing, that he might want to call the Salvation Army, since they'll pick up furniture that can be re-used. By the time we returned from our walk the upholstered chairs had been returned to his garage.

As we descended into the ravine, we still had a modicum of shelter from the rain, because of the leaves still remaining on the trees, offering a frail but still appreciated, canopy. Of course, that was counter-acted by the effect of thoroughly-drenched leafage shedding their excess of moisture at each bit of encouragement by the prevailing, but light winds. Since we weren't planning to do our usual lengthy passage through the ravine in the rain, I left double the peanuts I usually do at the usual places, and we had the pleasure of witnessing squirrels making straightway for them.

Even with the dull overcast, there is a riot of colour in the ravine. Overhead, the maples - mostly bright yellow, with some trees bearing scarlet leaves - are still mostly full of their leaves. As are the beech, with their orange-brown-yellow leaves. Nor have the oak even begun to turn colour yet; their leaves are bright, bright green. The birch trees, white and yellow, have long since lost their leaves, and the poplars are steadily losing theirs. The poplar leaves yellow, with a peculiar slight green stripe down them, maintain their colour for a day on the ground, then swiftly turn grey-black and ugly.

Later, we dressed ourselves differently and drove to the other end of the city, to Carleton University's capacious Fieldhouse, for the semi-annual antique show and sale which this year had been advertised as a fun appeal for fashion-adventurous young women, with vintage jewellery and vintage clothing in the offing. We might have missed the show, in the belief that this wasn't the usual attraction that would bring us out, but rather another, entirely different show. The advertising, it would appear, even confused the vendors who themselves had to make enquiries to ascertain that yes, this was their show.

We bundled Button and Riley into their respective carry-bags, slung them over our shoulders, and trudged from the parking lot, in light rain, into the Fieldhouse, and began to browse about among the various stalls. Looking for those items that would have special appeal to us. Congratulating ourselves for having first toughed the rain and gotten our little dogs out to exercise prior to this exercise. They don't mind being hauled about; they settle down comfortably into their bags and begin to snooze, hardly seeming aware of where we happen to be.

For our part, we enjoyed perusing the wares, though we strode fairly briskly through the aisles until reaching those stalls where paintings were highlighted, and porcelains, and clocks, and other period objets d'art, which tend to attract our curiosity. We admire the furniture, the Canadian pine furniture and the Continental furniture, and above all, the furniture that speaks of age and hand-crafting, superior design and workmanship. But we're not in the market for furniture; we've acquired more than enough over the decades of collecting.

Paintings, though, that's another genre of aesthetic appreciation altogether, for us. In a way our first mutual attraction. When our three children were still infants we blew a monthly child-supplement cheque from the government on acquiring a century-old British interior scene of the courtship of a young woman by an elderly suitor, her family seated around a farmhouse table, the tableau redolent of days gone by and the sadness of material poverty, the difficulties inherent in the-then social contract.

Today, we found a middling-size landscape, a Marmaduke Matthews watercolour of a waterfall in the mountains of British Columbia during the days of railroad building out West. And although he was a coeval of some very pricey artists of the period, his paintings are not priced beyond our ability to pay. There were also two other watercolours; 19th Century British paintings; one off the coast of Italy, the other of Old Cairo, the Kasbah. Each of them an exquisite masterwork of detail beautifully etched for posterity of a time long gone by in the world's rush to modernity.

Then home, to rest and relax, read the newspapers. First, I made a bread dough for the pizza we will together make for our evening meal, indulging ourselves right handsomely to make the most of this overcast, dull, fall day.

Getting On With It

Quite wonderful it is, to feel as well as I do, now. My second week of Shingles is not quite over, but I am much improved. My husband, looking at me approvingly, congratulates me that I no longer pose a risk to peoples' credulity, having to square their familiarity with my face, with the one most latterly presented. There should, indeed, be a law against presenting such a face in public. Despite which, I soldiered on, as best I could, despite the aching pain, and hid as much of my temporarily-demented facial features as I was able to.

No longer necessary! The itch and the aching hurt are still there, but much diminished. The crashing, stabbing pains and the pounding headaches have departed. One supposes had I not been prescribed medication the process would have been far worse in the sense of lingering on indefinitely before ultimately subsiding. That is, also, if the condition did not deteriorate to such a stage where some actual long-lasting damage was done to me neurologically, including my optic nerves.

On to better things...! The ravine, for example, tempting us with its fall colours. We even enjoyed some sun today, along with the wind and the cool temperatures. Last night's deeper frost loosed many leaves, both in our gardens and in our urban forest. Our mulberry trees suddenly dumped a load of leaves; where yesterday they were pliable and green, well fastened still, to the branches that held them. And in the backyard, those garden pots that still awaited winter-readiness suddenly hosted wet, limp flower stalks, with the formerly-vibrant colours completely drained, dank.

In the ravine, however, the rustle of the brightly-coloured leaves under our feet, and the acrid fragrance of the tannin, wafted around us. A fragrance well-remembered, yet easily forgotten. We saw a cluster of three small downy woodpeckers, busily working their way around three trees, spaced fairly close together, and ventured the opinion that we had come across a little family out for a little casual nourishment.

There were chickadees, and their constant companions, nuthatches chattering away in the trees around us. The squirrels, as usual, awaited our arrival with something less than bated breath. And although we so enjoy seeing them all, only one, our little stumpy-tailed black squirrel that has endeared itself to us, causes us to feel excited at his approach. Nothing tentative about this little fellow. He knows what we're about and is intent on having his share. Confronting us directly, waiting, positioning himself, until the special peanuts - the largest, fattest, those containing three to four nuts, are scattered before him.

If we give him shelled peanuts, he will eat them before us. Once the unshelled ones come his way, he locates them, claims them and is off. On more than one occasion he will have confronted us for his due near the bottom of the first hill in the ravine, and then again, far along the course, when we're away off on an entirely other part of the loop, for seconds. He really does make our day, that bold little fellow.

Coming To A Head

Although when I wake up in the morning I feel pretty awful, and my face feels like nothing I can remember before the onset of Shingles, once breakfast is under way I begin to feel a bit better. Last night I found it difficult to fall asleep because of the pounding, drilling headache on the right side of my head. But when sleep finally tiptoed in and took my head by surprise, I slept soundly. Apart from the itchy-soreness, I am visibly improving, too. I don't look quite as hideously pustular. So that's encouraging, at the very least. I even feel slightly human again.

Despite which, when we ventured out into the ravine for our daily ramble, I did wear a hat to protect my scalp against the cold, and sun glasses as well for the same purpose, although there was no sun. It was just a tad above freezing, unusually cold for this time of year. And the colours are glorious, each day more so than the day before. Button has taken to rushing ahead, really trotting far ahead of us on the second half of our perambulation through the ravine, returning to old habits, just as cold weather has returned. So she has to be leashed at that juncture.

Trust Riley, stolid little fellow, who takes his time, and absolutely nothing we do will entice him to pick up his pace. He has to be able to look back from time to time, to ensure that no one else is around, who he must vet before moving on. Just occasionally, when Button stops and indicates to me that she would appreciate a shelled peanut, thank you very much, Riley will hurry, and begin his little trot to catch up with us, so he too can avail himself of the peanut cache. There are hordes of squirrels about everywhere, searching out edibles to be buried here and there, to satisfy their instinct to prepare for winter.

We watch as black, red or grey squirrels mount the places where we usually leave unshelled peanuts. Somewhat precipitate, since we're only just arriving. They go methodically, throughout the length of the trails, from one area to another where peanuts are usually left by us. When they see us coming by, watch from a distance as we deposit the peanuts, they move with great alacrity to claim what they discover so magically. On occasion, a tiny red squirrel will indignantly and purposefully chase the much-larger black or greys, then return to the cache, where there have been left sufficient for all to take.

On our return home, my husband, who has had to temporarily abandon his completion of the garden shed installation, went out back to resume the work. Like me, he has been under the weather; his ailment quite different than mine, a kind of intestinal flu-like malady that is only just now receding sufficiently to make him feel able to exert himself physically once again. Yesterday he completed installing the soffits and fascia, and today he began installing the siding on the shed. Looks as though that will be efficiently done; at least the two long sides; the other three, shorter ones, will take more effort in measuring and cutting.

As for me, it was past time to begin seriously working on the dismantling of our beloved gardens. Taking up the annuals, and saving the corms of the tuberous begonias. Cutting back the perennials, and just generally getting everything neat and tidy for the coming season of icy slumber. It's amazing how convolutedly wound-up the morning glory vines became, and how tricky it always is to disentangle and cut them away from the fences, tucking all that green mass into compost bags to be hauled away by the municipality. There is just far too much of everything to be tossed into our two composters, since we reserve them mostly for kitchen waste.

When I was done, everything looked a whole lot more subdued. There was still texture, still some colour, but the bright effervescence of the living blooms had disappeared. I did leave two of the smaller garden pots for now, because they're still so utterly beautiful, and I wanted to preserve them for another day; one, a huge pink geranium-ivy, the other a robustly colourful bleeding heart, set off by bright blue lobelia. The bacopa and the million bells were still fresh, but the ipomoea looked the worst for frost, as did the begonias and the impatiens. Gone, all of them, for another year. The petunias had long since seen better days. The dahlias had gone to curled-up sleep.

Not much point taking proud photos of the garden any longer. I've got now to get to work on the back, as well, building on what I've already accomplished in taking it apart for winter. And then the garden pots will have to be emptied of their soil, into the gardens, so the pots can be safely stored for winter. The hydrangeas, ligularia, the peonies and the tree peonies need trimming, along with all of our dozens of plantain lilies. I should really dig up and separate the lilies, but I'll give that a pass, this year. Soon as the garden beds are tidied up, I'll be able to plant next year's spring bulbs.

And the job will be done. Just in time for Hallowe'en. When I place the rose cones over top of all the roses, so that, at night, the white cones eerily resemble, a tidy graveyard. Rather appropriate, in a way.

Thanksgiving

Today marks a week of living with Shingles. Our younger son arrived back home in Vancouver from his week-end canoe-camping trip along the Skagit River, said the temperature dropped to minus-4 at night, but it was beautiful out there, the ivy maples (whoever heard of ivy maples?) were bright red, and he picked up some fascinating 'rocks' on the beach, one of which, about two inches, and round, had a hole drilled right in the centre. He plans to take it along to the museum of anthropology, will send along a few others, included with his latest pottery.

Wanted to know how I felt. I told him that when last we spoke I felt like hell warmed over. At the present time I look like hell warmed over, and for a special bonus still feel like it, albeit slightly reduced. I have an idea now what it's like to live with a Frankenstein-face. Hard to look directly at myself in the mirror, and it's irritating beyond belief to have my husband peer closely at me to try to ascertain whether I seem to be improving. I have a kind of Mongolian look about me now; eyes slit, deep pouches beneath, forehead extraordinarily pronounced.

I give thanks that I am surviving. Acetaminophen has been of great assistance. I have one more day of medication, and then I'm on my own. Instead of cleaning the house, today, I only played at it, did the vacuuming, counted on the kitchen and bathroom cleaning I'd indulged in yesterday to count for today. Baked a pumpkin pie and got the spices just right. Cooked giblets for a gravy. Baked a really beautiful-looking squash, and prepared a mixture of garlic cloves, yam and yellow potatoes to go along with the turkey. We also had tiny fresh cucumbers, grape tomatoes and snow peas.

After our ravine walk in the early afternoon, I even managed to get out into the backyard to do two huge bags worth of compost collection, cutting back perennials, digging up annuals. Stuffing them into the bags, and sticking the bags under the deck, until collection day. The perennials are spent, the annuals defeated by the minus-four-degrees of frost we experienced last night. I hardly made a dent in the amount of work that has to be done, preparing the gardens for winter; just in the backyard, never mind the front gardens. Hoping that the following few days will be kind, weather wise, and feeling-wise, so I can get out there and do my stuff.

Hoping too that no one gets to see me up close and too personal for the time being. Because it's been cold and windy I've had to clap a cloche over the top of my head, and put on sunglasses - to protect my irritated, red and miserable scalp, the forehead area, and my eyes from the elements. The sunglasses and the cloche do a fairly respectable cover-up job as well. People have to really peer kind of close to get the shock of their lives; the visage of some disgusting troll run amok in the ravine. My energy level has been somewhat impaired, so that trudging up those hills takes their toll, and I've got to rest.

Because it's Thanksgiving week-end (yesterday we had a really terrific fish chowder, I put a real melange of shellfish and whitefish into the chowder; it was comforting and hot on a windy, cold autumn day) we've seen an inordinate number of people tromping through the ravine. Yesterday it was so cold and windy, despite sunny intervals that we had wool sweaters on Button and Riley, and we experienced freezing rain and some snow, whoopee! The rain and wind of the last few days has brought down an amazing burden of leaves, leaving trees looking kind of bare. The trails have been completely blanketed over with bright confetti-leaf-offerings; an autumn patch-work quilt.

All of which brings home to us the reality that life is good, and it goes on, and the seasons repeat themselves unendingly, and for all of this and much, much more we are extraordinarily fortunate.

Emerging Fall

There is no escaping this reality. Night-time temperatures dip to freezing. The days are noticeably - oh so noticeably - shortened. We enthuse over every day we have that is clear and bright, breezy and inexpressibly lovely. And we mourn the passing of the carefree summer months. Nature always seems to be in a hurry in this northern clime, leaving us a scant few months in which to revel in warmth and full sunshine, in anticipation for the progress of the flora around us.

We anxiously inspect the trees growing around us for signs of fatigue, and some of them do amply demonstrate their willingness to give up their leaves. In some areas of the trails along which we walk in the ravine, already the ground is littered with crisp fallen leaves. A smattering of bright-red maple leaves, but a wholesale release of elm and of ash, in some areas.

Those large oval ash leaves have taken on a light yellow hue and are readying themselves to detach, to fall and meld themselves into the melee of fall-ready surrender. On the forest floor there are now large areas free of the undergrowth that had so latterly crowded one another in contention for space and light. Ferns, those sensitive to colder temperatures, have fallen in on themselves, preparing to be absorbed into the ground.

All the wild apple trees have given up their fruit; small mean, and sometimes small juicy, red apples stipple the underground. Occasionally an apple will land in such a way as to become impaled on the thorn of a hawthorn, sitting there, bright red and ornamental, as in thoughtful preparation for Christmas decoration. The season has encouraged another spurt of fungi in fanciful shapes and colours. Staghorn sumac have submitted to the inevitable in scarlet surrender.

Squirrels busy themselves, selecting delicacies to hoard over winter while they pretend to hibernate. Dragonflies flit about, brilliant in their sun-brightened delicate forms, unconcerned as yet by the coolness of the temperature, the wind rustling the leaves above, persuading them to take leave of their summer-time perch.

We amble along, in quiet commune with all that surrounds us, savouring every moment of the time yet left before the full onslaught of winter; the connective balance of moderation between fall and the icy, snow-laden time to come.

Antics and Agony

Turned out another lovely pre-fall day. Close to freezing last night, and tardy in warming up, but once it did, pleasant beyond complaint. We set off for the ravine a tad earlier than usual, and wore light jackets against the chill, but soon left it behind as we chugged along. Some of the underbrush had already turned colour, ready to shrivel and dive into winter mode. We had our little stump-tail squirrel meet us at the foot of the first hill, and tossed him the first of what turned out to be three peanuts.

The first he took down to the creek and buried it just above the waterline, something we've seen him do before. The second he deigned to eat, then and there. We stood, watching him, Button and Riley paying no mind, their attention turned elsewhere, and then we tossed him a third peanut. Upon which a tiny red squirrel appeared out of nowhere and, ignoring the presence of peanuts we'd left in all manner of other regular places, undertook to chase Stumpy. Which it did, relentlessly, but Stumpy had no intention of relinquishing his peanut.

Along the way throughout our hour's ramble, there were other little regulars who met us at the usual peanut caches, and they're a delight to see, to witness their eagerly brave approach, knowing peanuts have been left behind for them. When we left a handful of shelled and unshelled peanuts in the broad crotch of the old willow tree, roughly two-thirds of the way through our daily circuit, there were two squirrels, a black and a grey one awaiting our arrival. After leaving the offerings and heaving ourselves up the hill alongside, we stopped to watch two other black squirrels intervene to take their share.

The passage through the trails, the changing landscape, with birds flitting through the trees - too swiftly for us to identify them - and the myriad numbers of newly-hatched iridescent-red dragonflies presents us with unparalleled satisfaction and entertainment. We feel privileged, as indeed we most certainly are, and prepare ourselves for a good day. Striding along the trails, we're refreshed, re-invigorated, happy to be alive to experience nature's generosity and utter control of our environment.

Fall will come as it must, and all the growing things that we now see in the ravine will be further transformed as the undergrowth continues to shrivel, as the sap begins to descend to the roots in preparation for winter's rest period, and the leaves turn colour and drop, sometimes seeming, in a fall wind, like confetti blessing the ground around us.

The Peoples' Nature Preserve

Almost forty years ago,when our children were young, we discovered Gatineau Park. That wonderful natural preserve, so unique in its sublime presence as an unspoiled green space, close to the capital city of this country. Back then, when we explored the inner confines of the park, we did so in supreme isolation. We seldom came across anyone else on our forays, And we discovered all manner of trails that must have been old, but little-used, and as a result, barely marked. We did our share of getting lost, but after awhile we became familiar with those trails, and we loved them.

When our youngest child became interested in butterflies he was able, with the help of a net, to capture some lovely specimens which he later mounted, amassing quite a collection. Later on, when it was fish he was primarily interested in, he would net dace and tiny bottom-feeders, and small perch, sunfish, and even bass. He would take some home, and place them in one of the several aquariums he kept, and study them. He later took a doctorate in biology, and is now a senior biologist with a provincial government department.

We had family picnics, featuring all manner of edible goodies. Mostly we would have picnic lunches, but occasionally dinners, as well. After lunch we would embark on a brisk trail ramble. After dinner, we would launch our canoe in one of the lakes. We might eat on the trail, halfway up the side of one of the hills; for example at Luskville, or at any other spot that looked enticing and inviting, even on occasion at picnic tables set out at certain places. We discovered interesting toads and frogs and snakes, saw exotic birds and waterbirds, deer and porcupines, foxes and raccoons.

We would pick wild berries in season, each of us with a pail, then haul them home and make jam from strawberries, raspberries, blueberries and blackberries. Once too, from rose hips. It was there that we taught ourselves to canoe for the first time, and we became addicted to canoeing on all the lakes in the park. We snowshoed Gatineau Park in the winter, and loved every minute of our time there; up in the hills, swooshing down on layers of newly-fallen snow, or over the frozen lakes, listening to the ice 'crack' under us.

When our children became adults, and we spent a number of years out of the country and then returned the Gatineau Park we once knew was no more. A huge advertising campaign had been launched, enticing people to come and visit the park, spend their leisure time there, appreciate the beauty of the place. And more; the advent of the bicycle had arrived, when mountain bikes with their heavy-duty frames and tires were invented. The park was no longer our private preserve. Nor should it have been.

In the years that followed we began to notice how stealthily large private homes would begin appearing in various parts of the park. And we were quite simply amazed that this national treasure was allowed to be invaded like this, surreptitiously, as though the cottages that were present on various lakes weren't surprisingly invasive enough. Now there's a group that has approached an National Capital Commission consultation committee on recreation with the idea of limiting the numbers of vehicles permitted in the park.

The Conseil regional de l'environment et du developpement durable de l'Outaouais is concerned about the degradation of the park environments with too many visitors, and too much recreational usage in particularly sensitive areas. For starters, enforcement of current park by-laws might be a good thing, insisting that bicyclists whose thrill is not nature, but speed under arduous physical geological conditions, remain on those trails where it is clearly marked they are permitted to venture.

Thrill-seekers resent that any of the trails arebforbidden for their use; they have no sympathy with the need to protect environmentally-sensitive areas. Meaningful fines that convince people they need to respect the rules laid down by those who care about the park, should be the reward for those who flaunt responsibility. Further, the NCC should practise what they mealy-mouth-preach, and ensure that the 361-square kilometres of forests and lakes with its rich flora and fauna, be off limits to private ownership, and the building of monster homes for the well-connected and the wealthy be prohibited.

The NCC should strenuously resist the temptation to charge motorists on entering the park. The park and its upkeep has already been paid for, and continues to be, through general taxation. This precious natural resource should be available for all who respect its presence and wish to take advantage of viewing and experiencing its beauty and diversity. For the most part, thanks to heavy NCC advertising, most of the people who visit do so to see the fall colours and their excursions are limited.

For those who appreciate the Gatineau Hills for the opportunities it allows us - to view wildlife, identify the flora, exercise our city-weary limbs on its many trails and well-forested interior, enjoy quiet paddles on the lakes - the freedom to pursue those options should remain unobstructed, other than the fees already extracted.

Waxing and Waning

As summer wanes inexorably into fall, progress on our garden shed waxes toward completion. Summer has completed its mission for this year of 2009, giving us great pleasure in the process. Leaving us as compassionately and gradually as it can, itself unwilling to entirely relinquish its all-too-brief hold on the summer equinox in this Western Hemisphere. That's the thing about the inevitable, there is no holding it back.

Our entry into the ravine this early afternoon was nothing out of the ordinary. Last night's several rain events - one of which was a substantial downpour of a thunderstorm - is hardly to be noticed. The trails are just as dry as formerly, the earth ready to crack from several weeks of dry weather. The creek hardly appears as though it received a fresh infusion last night; it runs now at a very low ebb - lackadaisically.

Squirrels are everywhere; red, black and grey, in fall hunting mode to acquire food-storage materials for the long cold months ahead. They await our passage, eager to avail themselves of the daily peanut hand-outs. This is a true precursor to fall, brisk and windy to the point of jacket-weather, although we're only wearing long-sleeved tee-shirts - admittedly with short-sleeved tee-shirts underneath for that additional comfort zone.

Fall is suggested in the prematurely-turning leaves of trees and shrubs that have obviously been health-compromised. Their bright red, rust-curled leaves have begun to fall to the ground, leaving bare, black limbs, ready for whatever is to come. As it is always so for this time of year, fungi have begun to appear; pure white mushrooms, and those ghastly flat-headed pale blue mushrooms, as well, in the underbrush.

Fall asters are now reigning supreme, among the languishing Queen Anne's lace and the still-blooming clovers. There are the undistinguished asters in abundance, and here and there, delighting us, those delicately-toned pink and mauve ones, those with the luxuriant heads. We see minuscule colonies of bright orange fungi on tree stumps, and odd-appearing shelf fungi on an old yellow birch.

The cardinals we see and hear are beginning to moult; they sound somehow less enthusiastic, their songs less scintillatingly brilliant. But perhaps we're attributing our late-summer apprehensions to them, that famous anthropomorphizing that humans are wont to engage in when considering the other creatures with whom we share this Earth.

On our return home, I desultorily begin cleaning up the gardens of long-bloomed perennials, but simply do not feel like continuing. I gather a half-dozen ripe tomato orbs, and in the kitchen, slice them, drizzle them with olive oil, and sprinkle sweet basil from our herb garden over, to let them sit and absorb the flavours to enrich our dinnertime experience.

Then I dawdle, on the glider with little Riley beside me. Both of us completely relaxed on the deck, while my husband continues his work on the new garden shed. He has almost completed the roof shingling. We see this project, like all the others he has undertaken over the years, coming to completion.

Lichen, Shelf Fungi, Mushrooms

We toddled along to the ravine for our daily amble a little earlier than usual. Lately, we have tended to go out for our woodland ramble when my husband feels he's had just about enough for the morning, working on his new project, our second, and quite large, garden shed. I'd done the laundry, cleaned up the kitchen and the powder room and our bathroom, put new linen on our bed, and was ready to go, but I like to wait until he decides he's had it, for the morning.

Our backyard bakes in the sun. It's always been a hot-spot. Fine for me, sitting comfortably on the glider, under the awning on the deck, relaxing, reading, because I'm sheltered from the sun and nice, stray breezes accommodatingly make their way through the deck rails to cool me off. But he really does need a break. Who might ever have imagined, after the cool and wet summer we've had that September would turn out so dry and hot?

Camera slung over my shoulder, bag of peanuts in hand, off we went, to liberally sprinkle largess for our squirrely admirers, and take the occasional photograph of anything that tickles our fancy. There weren't as many squirrels awaiting our passage along the trails today, and we attributed that to the time differential from our usual trek through the ravine. We missed our little black stub-tail; obviously he was elsewhere seeing to other business.

Although we'd seen white-clustered pussy toes yesterday, a nice patch of them among the asters, we weren't able to find them today, and that seemed odd. We did however, find an admirable patch of those luscious large purple asters with more regular petals radiating out from the central yellow core, among the nondescript white and mauve types. That was certainly worth a photograph.

As was the bitter root vine that had taken possession of an immature, slender, and sadly very dead tree trunk, twirling its greenery around the trunk, and reaching to its modest heights, berries dangling pale orange, preparatory to a more vibrant bright orange presence in early winter. The berries have a tendency to fade as winter progresses, and then finally crack, with the icy temperatures. We always wonder why birds haven't feasted on them.

As we progressed on our walk, fungi we hadn't noted on earlier rambles presented themselves. Some of the large shelf fungi are a rich cinnamon colour ranging to a muted mahogany, and they're quite beautiful. A colony of tiny mushrooms appears to have sprung up overnight as well, in places where one would least expect them, directly on the trail, obviously growing on dead, buried tree roots.