ah, the golden years at last

Today ends a week of celebration I gave to myself to mark my 65th birthday.

It started with the arrival of our six hens last Thursday.  They gifted us with

seven eggs Friday morning but have been on strike since.  It doesn’t help that

they’re still spending the night in the dog carrier until I can make their coop

secure and let them get to the multi-colored nesting boxes.

 

Saturday was the community garden party, which starts at our place and moves

down the road through the afternoon and evening.  Usually we put out appys

like chicken nuggets.  This time we started things with dessert.  Jude made me

three exquisite cakes.  That was plenty of room for 65 candles, but there’s an

island-wide burning ban, so we just pretended flames.

 

Tuesday was the actual birthday.  It kicked off with a trip to my dermatologist,

who found my skin acceptable for another year.  I don’t tan or burn, I cancer.

So a good check-up was a great start.

 

Then Jude and I went to a nearby thrift store.  I wanted to buy something friv-

olous.  I chose a forest firefighter’s jumpsuit, with official provincial emblem.

Now I can officially fight provincial forest fires.  From there we picked up Nathan

from his martial arts class and feasted at Boston Pizza.  Then we came home to

cheer the National League to a victory and home field advantage for the World

Series.  The Giants are going to need it.

 

Birthdays that end in zero or five seem to have more significance than the others.

I spent a lot of psychic time preparing for this one because it makes me officially

old.  Mind you, I don’t feel old.  With the world’s best mate, a loving family, great

friends, superb neighbours and an incredible home, I’ve never been happier. 

Plus now I get to ride the ferries for free Mondays through Thursdays.

 

I gave myself a priceless gift when I turned “old”: permission to stop worrying

about shit I can’t change.  And I do mean shit, like raving right-wing lunatics,

raving left-wing lunatics, impotent politicians, self-destructive celebrities,

and the tabloid journalism that keeps throwing them in our face.

 

My father died when he was 72.  I found out later that he had a fighting chance

to neutralize the leukemia that was stampeding through his body, but opted

not to.  It took me years to figure out why he made that choice.  My best guess

is that he’d simply had enough.  There’s just so much grief, global and personal,

a person can endure, I think.  He was buried a few days before the Oklahoma

City bombing.  So he ducked that one, at least.