Counting Blessings

Yesterday Doris commenced her third week in the Community Health Unit of the Halifax Infirmary. She marked the occasion with a success: managing to sit in a chair for twenty minutes. The effort was painful and exhausting in the extreme; the dear old thing wins my commendation. Doris is not able at the moment to convey thanks; on her behalf I extend heartfelt kudos to those of her friends who have called and sent cards or flowers. Believe me, there never was a patient who appreciates such considerations more.

Next Friday Jan departs for a week or so to commune with darling granddaughter Lexi in Coquitlam. During her absence I will head to Halifax to do the same with Doris.

One of my mother’s enduring influences is the invocation to count my blessings. Even now, leveled by a sacral fracture, Doris manages to remember that she is lucky by comparison to many others. Sourness isn’t in her.

Meanwhile, here in Big Bras d’Or nature shows its best face. The swimming hole is at its balmy best, black flies and mosquitoes in retreat, blueberries abundantly at their peak. We have had a succession of visitors and enjoyed a couple of riotously happy gatherings at the cabin.

On Saturday we reveled in our latest nature ramble with Lynn and Louise. Along the coast south of Louisbourg we were foiled in a search for prized cloudberries but consolation came by way of a bumper crop of chanterelle mushrooms. The twins take good cheer to a whole new level: there isn’t a trace of sourness in any of their 206 bones.

Would that we could all be so blithe.