Birthday Bliss

July 11 was my birthday—Cancer in western astrology, Gemini in my Vedic chart. I haven’t sensed any bad natal juju, and so far, 52 feels just fine. Some birthdays can be hell. There was my 10th, when I didn’t get the pony. Or my 15th, when I didn’t get the VW Bug. Or my 35th, when I sank into a depression caused by the strange “laying on of fat” in my new post-childbirth years (three kids cooked up and/or nursed between the ages of 21 and 31), horrifying new wrinkies around my eyes and mouth, and the fear that I would never accomplish anything substantial. At 52, though, I’ve smartened up. The tendency to “run to fat,” as my mom calls it, keeps us delicate northern-Europeanish flowers cozy in even the most brutal South Dakota winters. My wrinkies, I’ve decided, are a beautiful testament to the ease with which I smile. And I understand now that anything else I do in this lifetime will pale in comparison to the world-altering achievement of raising kids who are compassionate, funny, intelligent, generous human beings. Ah, the power of positive thinking.

But this was a good one, starting with a truly blissful day at Uncannery Row. All three peahens skulked about, Debbie just off the nest for her daily visit in the yard, the other two with chicks in tow—after all the commotion, Wanda has six chicks, Mimi has one left. The peacocks are molting now. Our three adult males will shed their trains, the long tail feathers, entirely in the space of a couple weeks, so each day we cruise the grounds for feathers. Then they’ll eat eat eat (they don’t eat much during breeding/display season) and over winter, they’ll grow bigger, better trains for next spring. This was Junior’s first year to grow train feathers (males mature at 2-3 years), and he had a pitiful excuse for a train, with an odd eye feather poking out here & there. But he’s scrappy, and I’ve witnessed some fantastic mid-air kickboxing between Junior and the other two males as they’ve jockeyed for position.

I spent the morning and early afternoon pulling weeds, watering, and making 13 dozen dog treats, potential holiday gifts for my dog-person friends & relatives. “Yogi’s Spoiled Dog Liver Snaps” are made with chicken liver, whole grain flours, eggs, green bean puree, chicken broth and nutritional yeast. They were taste-tested & approved by Yogi and Jada, and I’ve since learned that they induce impressively offensive flatulence in the dogs. Perhaps a disclaimer on the gift labels…

Visited at Mom’s for a bit in the late afternoon, then to Millie’s for a “prefunc” (celebration held prior to a celebration) glass of wine, then to Carey’s for “cocktail hour,” an early evening gig with music by Nick & Owen. In spite of the 90-degree heat on the bar’s back patio, Ray, Millie, and Mom surprised me with a gorgeous cake made by my daughter, cake-decorator extraordinaire, that we shared around the bar. The cake even had little frosting peacocks. I had yummy dark beers, and the boys led the crowd in a delightfully hideous, off-key “Happy Birthday to You,” a Carey’s tradition. Then it was home for knitting to Dracula 2000 (I’m working on a 2-pointed baby hat with curly-cue tassels now), and finally, off to bed with the pack.

Today, we had a family birthday dinner at Uncannery Row. Mom (and Oprah), Ray (and Yogi & Jada), our youngest son (and his Aussie Copper), our daughter & her beau (and her Cocker Cooper), and Ray’s sister and brother-in-law (cat people). Mom brought ribs and roasted veggies, my daughter brought a cheesecake, Ray’s sister brought garden flowers, and the pack ran happily until they were all exhausted. Amazing family, great friends, piles of cake, good beer, happy dogs & fine music—I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter, more perfect birthday.