Corners have acquired a bad name. If one is "backed into" one or is otherwise "cornered", that has an unpleasant implication. Schoolchildren of another era had sometimes to stand in a corner, facing the wall. It was the sign of stern disapproval and was meant to make him or her feel isolated. The worst part of the punishment was not to be able to see what was going on behind one.

After all, the corner of a room is otherwise a preferred place from which to view all and sundry. Thus, when I taught in a secondary school I did so standing before the class but when students were working on their assignments I was at a desk positioned in a corner of the room behind them. The classroom bookshelves were there with reference material at hand. Too, from my own work place I had an unobstructed view of those who had chosen to sit as far away from the front of the class as possible.

In retirement I enjoy living at or is it 'on'? a corner. Edith Piaf sang about her "coin de rue" that was "aujourd'hui disparu". My corner house is my seventh domicile, not including the college residences in which a memorable seven years were spent. I take no stock in numerology but admit that I am partial to that number, 7. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month at 7 a.m. "Was that in 1907?", someone once asked me. The answer was "No. That century, but no".

Was it fate that brought me from Montral to live on Dufferin Road 7, alias the Hockley Road? And is it purely accidental that my present house is No.7 in the street where I live? It is a corner house and from my windows I command a 270 view of the goings-on around me. A framed message in the entrance hall reads "It's a small place but I'm only here every day and on weekends". With that kind of tenure one can do a lot of observing.

From my front windows one sees the sun rise on cloudless days, beyond a sliver of Island Lake and above the ridge of hills along which runs the Second Line of Mono. If I had a loonie for each time

I have travelled that road I would be considerably richer but would not exchange my town house for any of the luxury estates or prestige addresses on offer. "The paths of glory lead but to the grave". Meanwhile, I would not wish to be deprived of the cavalcade (using the word loosely) that passes before me at all hours of the day. And who are some of those passers-by?

Shall I give pride of place to the little lady who with some difficulty but with commendable loyalty to her wards walks past daily with several pooches of amusing disparity in size? We speak but have not introduced ourselves.

Modern townsfolk preserve their anonymity through occasional encounters whereas only a few years ago they would have met frequently in a dozen small town venues. Now we pass one another like ships in the night. A not dissimilar but more wonderfully human sight is that of a dozen wee children, barely more than toddlers, being shepherded by their daytime care givers. I reflect that those kids will be either the hope or the despair of their parents and of the community fifteen years from now. What are Mum and Dad doing, beyond providing day care, to determine that future?

One sees other youngsters trudging past with book packs on their backs. School bags and satchels have now taken on the look of camping gear. Others of them had ridden past earlier in yellow buses to distant places of learning. Later in the day some of them will walk home, a few boys and girls walking hand in hand, reminiscent of "As time goes by".

Still others, mostly young males, sail or totter by on skateboards, too many of them hurtling down the paved footpath from Forest Park to the Goldgate neighbourhood, towards the shabbily maintained median on the 'parkway' named for Gordon Bredin, a former mayor of Orangeville. There is a fatality waiting to happen there.

Other youths, most of them responsible citizens, walk past on the sidewalks and keep litter items in hand until they find a disposal bin. Too often, though, I and my neighbours have to pick up plastic bottles and straws, burger wrappers, paper coffee cups and other debris that the more careless ones have thrown down in passing. Who has failed to train those disorderly youngsters?

Those in leadership roles at ODSS should consider the school's community relations. They are deteriorating. Twice a day every day too many students litter the streets and walk across private lawns to save the few extra steps that would be required to round a corner on the sidewalk.

Panting joggers and the careful elderly walkers are interesting to watch. Chief among the latter is the relict of a local physician who must clock several kilometres a week on foot, summer and winter. She knows that regular walking affects the future mobility or disability of seniors.

Researchers tell us that the ability to walk 400 metres a day without discomfort is an indicator of those who will, other things being equal, still be ambulatory six years from now. Non-walkers, beware!

Beyond my corner lies a community of 105 homes with at least 225 motor vehicles. I seldom look from my windows without seeing one of them coming from either or both directions. It is a reminder that there are probably 400 people who are my "neighbours".

But shall I ever really know them or they me?

As the late Jane Adams would say, that is the urban problem. As our towns grow, estate agents remind us that centrally located property is much in demand. Goodness knows what my mid-town corner property will fetch when I vacate it.

Meanwhile, with a manageable small garden, strategically placed windows and covert outdoor spaces from which to observe the passing world unseen, I am content.