Getting Older

He awoke before me, but nothing unusual in that. Whispered to me "happy birthday", then got dressed, said he was going to shovel the overnight snow. More snow again, last night, laid upon the snow we'd received the day before. Which hadn't been shovelled. He would do the deck at the patio doors, the deck stairs and the interlocking trails we keep clear for our little dogs.

And, despite it was still dark out, not yet seven, he'd also do the porch, the walkway and finally the driveway.

At breakfast we luxuriated, as always, enjoying our meal alongside the morning newspapers.

Later, a walk in the ravine, truly snow-bedecked. The wind high, rushing imperiously through the trees, denuding them of their heretofore-generous layer of snow. There are nuthatches and chickadees flying about - entertaining us - and a murder of crows. It had been Bohemian waxwings we'd seen last week, larger than the cedar waxwings we'd thought them to be.

He's still uncomfortable about not having something in hand to give to me, as a gesture, for my birthday. But he hugs me every day, offers kisses, tells me, after all these years how he loves me. What more can he give me than this that would have any meaning to me? Because he had insisted, I had agreed to going with him to select a ring, another ring to add to my collection. Because it had to be sized to my narrow fingers, not available 'till a week hence.

He'd agitated, wanting to go out to look for a special book for me. Books! We love them, and we have them galore, lining shelves in our little library. We aspire eventually to read them all, and this forms part of our future plans because to do so represents an immense enjoyment, a treat for our brains and our souls. No thanks, I said.

There was an alternative, to go along to the Winners/HomeSense store and go wild. So we did. I bought socks and underwear for our son, coming to visit on Monday from Vancouver. Against his father's judgement, but this is my birthday, not his. And our son's underwear is a tragic affair. I bought a small frypan with the intention of tossing out the old one we'd used far too long.

And bath towels; the best are from Turkey. And hand towels, and washcloths. I'd looked for a hooded winter jacket for our granddaughter, but saw nothing enticing. We looked at other things and both locked eyes on a glass piggy bank. Heavily weighted by its own density. Dark green, inset with milleflore, a sure way to attract our attention.

Once home, he hauled out the snow thrower to clear the end of the driveway from the accumulation shoved in by the municipal plough. Then did the drive of our neighbour across the street; their hand-shovelling clears only a portion of their drive, and this wet snow is certain to turn to season-long ice when the temperature plummets, as it most surely will.

And I turned my attention to baking cookies. First thing our son does when he comes home is make a bee-line directly for the cookie jars. The first recipe I did was an intriguingly improbable one; four eggs, quarter cup butter in which was to be melted a pound of semi-sweet chocolate. Chop up four Skor bars, add a cup of chocolate chips. And to all this, a mere half-cup of flour.

Predictably, the outcome was a messy mass of spread-out chocolate cookie dough baked to a crisp. And to remove the mass from the baking sheets proved a task beyond my endurance. More suited to his talent and patience, but still a mess. Tastes good, but oh what a mess. The next batch, ordinary chocolate chip cookies a far more reasonable and rewarding addiction.

An adventure, nonetheless. One which, in the telling, I was able to entertain and amuse our granddaughter greatly. For she wanted to hear all the details, eliciting giggles and the advice that I would be well advised never to use that recipe again. But if I liked, I could bring along some samples when we next visit, to give her a better idea....

Oh, forgot: I'm 71.