On Sunday, Hubby and I attended a cookout at his Uncle Blair’s house. (He’s really Hubby’s Mom’s uncle but everyone just calls him Uncle Blair.) His home is a converted boathouse situated along the edge of the Charles River. Do you know where Route 128 and Mass Pike converge and the Marriott Hotel oversees the whole highway madness? The house is not far from there. Standing on the river bank I saw ducks, geese, blue herrons and one water snake. Route 128 is bearly visible through the foliage. The dull roar of speeding automobiles sounds blessedly like wind. Being a holiday weekend, dozens of canoes, kayaks and party boats made their way up and down the serene waters.
Though the whole scene was bucolic, it paled in comparison to something else I witnessed. Uncle Blair is 92 and recently survived a stay in the hospital. I won’t go into the details but for a man who went through what he did, at his age, he looked great. His body may be slow, but Uncle Blair’s mind is as fast as ever. When asked how’s he feeling, he replies,
“With my hands.”
His siblings have passed except for his beloved spouse. Her health isn’t as robust as Uncle Blair’s and her mind wanders. Yet Uncle Blair is always at her side. I watched a man tenderly feed his wife and sit with her in the shade all the while surrounded by children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. When we were ready to leave, Hubby went inside the boathouse to say goodbye. He found Uncle Blair asleep on his recliner, a vintage Bruins game flickering on the t.v. Next to Uncle Blair was his wife, also sound asleep. Tim didn’t want to wake him, but noticed when he was leaving the living room Uncle Blair open his eyes, look at his wife, and fall back to sleep.