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.
