Sixty-Six Summers

The end of summer is still my favorite time of year.

The nearby woods boast dozens of tree species—dwellings for the dog-day cicadas, katydids and crickets. They hand off their songs from one time of day to the next in their frantic work to mate before the season runs out. I stand on the deck in the changing light that slants warmer by the day to watch the first yellowing, rusting, and shedding.

Young geese, new aviators, practice for their upcoming high Vs, honking instructions to one another. Among the exquisite bird calls is the hilariously annoying gray catbird with its waa waa waa-ing all the day long. I’ve learned that the chittering and clicking at the edge of the woods isn’t birdsong at all, but a raccoon soothing its kit. I’ve also learned not to call the police late at night when I hear the terrifyingly human vixen screams.

What I cannot see or hear is the preparation already underway for what always comes next. Even now, the peepers that cheer us in early spring with their tiny bell sounds are preparing beneath the leaves. Soon, their hearts will stop completely. And they will wait for warmth to return.

Today is my birthday. Sixty-six summers behind, who knows how many ahead. I write at my desk, ritual coffee at my right hand, waiting for the day to wake up and for one son to arrive. Later, we will dine at an Italian restaurant appropriately named Antica. Many, many friends will stop their filled-up lives for a moment to send me a happy wish, and I will brim over with delight at the gestures.

I am encouraged these days. Sixty-six years have shown me how much wonder, love, heartbreak, and surprise are contained in an ordinary human life. Last week our planned kayak trip was rained out, so we plugged in the guitars, basses, amps, and created our own little musicfest. Our sons keep an extraordinary amount in their heads while I have to look up chord progressions and lyrics. Steve made things happen, as always—found a spare quarter-inch cord, added any harmony that was lacking, kissed the tops of heads just because, all while alternately cursing or cheering the Phillies on TV. Our sides ached from near-constant belly laughs. Did I mention love? Awe is what I feel for all of it.

So, happy birthday to me, gratefully.