Disordered by Seasonal Affect

Day after day delivered the all too familiar blend of drizzle and steel-grey skies that seems de rigueur in June of 2011. Then euphoria: Saturday morning brought barely remembered sunlight. In no time at all I caught myself rapt in the sun-dappled Great Bras d’Or and said to Jan, Wow, it’s beautiful here. Remember the old Allan Sherman song, Camp Granada? Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, the kid writes. He complains about everything in sight, begs to be extricated from the hellhole Camp Granada, pleads for mercy. The sun comes out, the kid instantly changes his tune. I am that boy. Give me a sunny day with a small list of worthy projects and I am instantly the grinning village idiot.

Both Saturday and Sunday were blithe. I accomplished much. Big Bras d’Or charmed me all over again. HJ claimed that a long list of evidence proved I was no son of his. One marker of my halfwittedness was that I care about the weather. Only softheaded people care about weather. I might have pointed out that it was easy for him to say so since my father spent most of his time indoors -– the weather wasn’t relevant to poker-playing, rum-swilling, reading, watching The Price Is Right. Still, his point was valid: perhaps I do care a tad too much.

I needn’t look far to see a different model for playing the hand one is dealt. Lynn and Louise never grumble about anything. They really don’t. A rainy day -– or week or month –- is just another opportunity. The cousins love life regardless of sunlight or season. In all these years I have never heard them grumble about anything. They never experience a sour hour let alone a mirthless month. In my acquaintance only pal Mary –- currently swinging Scotland by the tail for all she’s worth –- rivals L & L for making the best of every minute nature affords.

Now a new week is underway, the sunny interlude is over, a steady tattoo of rain beats into the rain barrels, the long-range forecast is for more of the same: drizzle, showers and my personal favourite -- ‘rain, sometimes heavy’. Camp Granada darkens. I am to be tested yet again. Next weekend the mooted plan is for us to head to Isle Madame with Lynn and Louise, tramp the headlands for hours, find a suitable eatery after the day’s exertions, look for a charming-looking B & B with an unleaky roof. And above all to emulate my darling cousins: have a whale of a time come hell or high water. But here’s the rub: my 100-pound cousins are stalwart souls, the sort we’d call real men if they’d been born with alternate anatomy. By contrast I am a wimp, a wuss, a weather-worn wanker. It’s a wonder they give me the time of day.