If there's one thing bluenosers adore, it's the kind of weather that justifies commemorative coffee table books.

TIDAL SURGE! TREES DOWN! CECIL ZINCK'S BOAT GOT ALL SMASHED UP ON THE ROCKS IN THE FRONT HARBOUR! All aflutter, lining up for batteries, water, propane. Granted, it was only the tail end of a hurricane. But enough to park in front of the fire and scramble eggs on the barbeque.

Not that a power outage is so unexpected — in this province, belch too close to a pole and you'll bring down the lights from Herring Cove to Prospect.

I can't help but feel at home here. Even when I'd rather be at home somewhere else.

Perched at the edge of a meat-grinder sea. Craggy and stunted, churned up. Weathered churches and dead houses and antique barns, not froofy antiques but bashed-up old stuff from ships and garrisons permeated, to this day, with the scents of tar and gunpowder. All facing the growing swell, the angry sky. Fishing boats clinging to the leeside of wharves, battened down.

Rarely the drama that is forecast, but still — candles illuminate as wind buffets the house, and tucked in, in love, we are most fortunate.

++++++++

Happy six month / three month birthday, my smiley boy.

Ben's adjusted age is now half of his actual age and from here on out, his prematurity will be rendered less and less significant.

He pulls himself upright to sitting, with help, weeble-wobbling. Squeals with delight at his father and grocery store clerks and book clubbers and passerby, a social boy just like his brother. Giggles when tickled in the folds of his neck. Tells the most fantastic stories.