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.

Guilt-Free Knitting

Yogi (on the right) had a play date today with his sister, Oprah, my mom’s new puppy (the puppy mom is a schnauzer, the dad's a poodle--you can see which parent the pups take after). They’re only eight weeks old, but their roughhousing would put my three brothers’ glory days to shame. Yogi and Jada had a sniffathon when we got home then had to play even more, so now the're both conked out dog-skin rugs.

That gave me time to pick cukes, dill, and basil and make a cucumber salad to go with a chicken stewing in the crockpot. Since the dogs are still counting sheep (Jada, anyway), I may even get some knitting in. I’ve been making kitty-eared kids’ hats lately—they’re quick & easy, and I can watch a movie without worrying too much about dropped stitches or reading complicated patterns.

That’s the thing about knitting: it’s really an excuse to relax, unperturbed by the voice in my head that screams “idle hands are the devil’s workshop” if some part of me isn’t moving. Ray was raised Lutheran, and I went to a Catholic girls’ school for a while (both traditions think they’ve got a strangle-hold on guilt), so that would have been plenty to keep me from the sin of sloth. But the nuns’ warnings were just frilly lace added to the sturdy guilt-woven fabric of my being by my grandma, the Presbyterian Pragmatist. She was the Master. “Why honey, if I had to wait for you to get up and help, the mopboard would never get washed.” Wash mopboard? Are you kidding? What IS mopboard?!? Another favorite was, “Won’t the other girls make fun of you dressed like that?” Wow…way to tackle that tricky fifteen-year-old self-esteem building, Gram.

Don’t get me wrong. I adored my Grandma, and while my mom worked two or sometimes three thankless jobs to raise four kids on her own, my Grandma, widowed by then, taught me how to keep a house, cook, garden, and be a strong-willed, outspoken, independent woman. She’s the reason I’m having roast chicken and cucumber salad for dinner. But I gotta tell you, when I sit down to knit in a minute here, you can bet your “Old Rugged Cross” my hands will be a blur.