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him to take off his wet clothes and I go get him some clean ones. While I have been gone, he’s made no move to undress and has wet his jeans. I help him undress, the first time ever, and he makes no resistance till I try to help him get the clean ones on.
    “These aren’t mine,” he tells me. Scared that he’s lost his mind, I tell him that they are my husband’s, and that Lorne wanted to lend them to him. He lets me help him get dressed, telling me the shirt is mighty nice and it was mighty nice of Lorne to lend it to him.
    I’m shaken but ask him if he wants a cup of tea. Why do I always think a cup of tea will fix things?
    “Yeah, Granddaughter, I think I do,” he answers. Within an hour he remembers who he is and where he is, and everything is just as though it never happened. I ask if he remembers fainting, and he just looks puzzled. “I was piling the wood.” His voice trails off and he looks as though he can’t quite connect all the dots.
    Quickly I change the subject. I want to finish the wood and get the stuff from the greenhouse, but I don’t want to leave him, so I putter around in the kitchen and make supper early. He has a healthy enough appetite, and after the meal I feel a little better about leaving him to nap in his favourite easy chair.
    He’s gone to bed when I get back in the house, so I take the phone to my room and call my friend Rose, a registered nurse who has worked at the retirement home for a long time. Rose is what I call a real healer; she’s not just an RN, she’s skilled in healing touch, massage and reflexology and keeps learning new methods of healing. She is amazingly gentle and good. She is one of my soul sister friends.
    Rose tells me not to worry, it was probably just a mini-stroke, which the very elderly sometimes have. The brain quickly reroutes the memory, and minutes later they are fine. It may never happen again or it may happen lots. It’s the big strokes that kill, she says, and it seems to be as good a way to die as any. One day you’re fine and the next you’re gone. She is very matter-of-fact about this, and I feel comforted by the time we say goodnight.
    In the night I get up three times and stand at his door, listening to see if Grandpère is okay. Each time I am reassured by the gentle snoring that comes from his bed. In the morning he is his usual self, and I tell myself that he worked too hard yesterday. I vow to myself that I won’t let him do that again.
    The fall days get progressively shorter and colder, and we spend less and less time outside. Every day in the early afternoon we go outside to feed the chickens and get the eggs. I bring in a wheelbarrow load of wood for the stove, and if the weather’s nice, we go for walks. We don’t walk together; he goes too slowly for me. The old dog always goes with him, and the young one comes with me. Often I’m home before he is.
    The evenings are long, and after supper we play crib — usually four games — then settle down to our own pursuits. He whittles little chunks of wood into bird and animal shapes, and I braid rugs, knit, bead and quilt.
    Tonight I’m braiding a rug. This skill was passed down over generations from the European grannies; it calls for four strands of rag strips woven together into a circle or an oval. I reflect that the old grannies would be pretty happy today with the fabrics and colours in front of me.
    Grandpère says, “Get your book, and I will tell the story from Louisa’s father.”
    “Sure thing.” I go and get it. “Fire away.”
    He closes his eyes and begins, “Louisa’s dad came here from Manitoba. He could read and write and had more education than most people. He looked completely Indian, but he was half-white. He spoke mostly French. His wife had been English, but he blamed the English for the deaths of her and his other children. I don’t know that whole story, but sometimes when he was drunk, he would cry for her and them and curse the English. He came