Well, I knew the closing of the store and the too many hours of retail boredom would mean more living and less time writing for this blog. I can't believe that summer has come and more or less faded into a magnificent autumn. The fire wood stacking is all but done. The gardens have yet to be put to bed. Indeed, remarkably, to date, we have yet to have a killer frost - or a frost of any significance really. That is quite unusual.

John and I spent much of the summer at the lake. Indeed, because we were building a bunkie, we were there much of June. It felt like we actually lived at the cottage for the first time, and only occasionally visited the homestead to tend the house and gardens or to work for a few days here and there.

Although we have been at the lake now for 24 summers, this year exploded into a round of socializing like never before. And of course, I had my new sailboat/rowboat, christened "Whisky". Sailing on our small lake is quite a task. Sometimes the wind will come at you from three directions at once, or just when you think you have a steady wind, it will trick you and come from an entirely different direction.

I capsized on the maiden voyage trying to dock on our point; and another time I was thrown out of the boat while I was rigging it. What I really enjoyed, and what I had initially intended to buy it for, was rowing. And that I did abundantly, tracing the perimetre of the lake and all its bays. Of course, we had our usual canoe outtings and kayakiing. At time it seemed like we were the only ones enjoying this pristine beauty: sunrises, sunsets, rainbows and magnificent cloud formations.

Since I wrote last, I have had my sixtieth birthday in May. And in the same month, we had a wonderful trip to the east coast, touring Cape Breton for the first, but definitely not the last time. The boat was my present to myself, built by a local boat builder. It is not grand, but it is a joy.

At forty I bought a motorcyle and at fifty I bought a Jeep TJ. In the intervening years I decided on a PT Cruiser convertible. What next?

Trying to get into the Olympic spirit, John and I headed off to Ottawa this past weekend to, among other things, skate on the historic Rideau Canal.
First we had to rummage around one of our upstairs closets to find the skates we had not worn in 20 years – the last time being to skate on the canal in Ottawa after attending a Peace demonstration with younger friends. Finding the skates among the clutter, were tossed them into the back of the car, to be later dusted off once we had arrived in the nation's capital.
The canal was a beehive of activity. The weather was relatively mild for February. Skaters were both young and old. It was apparent that many of them had never been on skates before. That was reassuring. For never let anyone tell you that skating is like riding a bicycle. It is not. You do forget… or at least your equilibrium does. But before one gets there, I have to back track.
The skates were two decades dusty. But in dusting them off, it became apparent that mine at least had been home to one or more of those little creatures that cats love to bate. Not only did mouse droppings have to be shaken and brushed from the interior, but in doing so abundant bird seeds fluttered to the ground from the tips of the toes. Apart from this indignity, my skates appeared in relatively good condition. The blades were even relatively sharp.
John's skates evidenced little mouse activity. However, the faux leather trimming was cracked and split… literally crumbling to the touch.
Arriving at the canal from our hotel perched on the edge of the canal, we found a bench and proceeded to remove our shoes. It became readily apparent to me that my skates had diminished in size. There was no way my feet were going to be impressed into that small space.
John suggested that, like much of the rest of me, my feet had spread. How rude!
After some effort and considerable disappointment, my skates were clandestinely disposed of in a nearby garbage bin.
As John apprehensively wobbled off, I followed disgruntled in street shoes. Like a new born calf, John gradually gained his stride, his emotions passing from heightened diffidence to unabashed elation. But the distance to be travelled had shrunk in proportion to the increase in years. John was nevertheless proud and pleased as punch with his effort.
Not to be outdone, -I had told far too many incredulous people that we were going skating on the canal-, as John removed his skates, I placed them swimmingly on my feet. Yes, I would skate on the canal, briefly, uncertainly, but joyfully. John watched proudly from the sidelines.
Mission accomplished. Now, after discreetly tossing John's skates into a bin as well, a pint of beer was in order. We had skated on the canal!

Buster died this morning at 1:00 a.m. after a brief illness. For the past 11 years he has been an integral part of our family. We miss him at every turn. It is the First Times that are the most difficult: the first time I dropped food on the floor - as I am wont to do - and he was not there in an instant to clean it up; the first time I woke up and he was not there to nuzzle me; the first time a squirrel ran by the window and he did not become Buster the Indignant; the first time we took one of his favourite walks and his paw prints were still encrusted on the snow covered meadow...

He has shadowed our every step; enjoyed our friends and social gatherings, loved the walks, the boat rides and country drives. He loved our home and our cottage. We are glad for the magnificent memories; but already over the past 2 weeks had come to miss his wagging tail and high energy and playfulness. Thank you Buster for being so loving.