Personal Celebrations

Celebratory events of a personal nature should be just that, personal in nature. Not the business of commercialized societal reminders of what we owe to one another. Intimate relationships should not require reminders. And those within society who happily succumb to the lures laid for them by public relations and advertising firms representing corporations intent on fattening their bottom line have bought into the commercialization of their very personal relationships. Somehow, it seems the thing to do. Everybody does it.

Not quite everyone. There are those who view these events, nationally-recognized quasi-'holidays' for what they are. Although even among those who readily acknowledge the manufacture by commercial interests of these 'special days', the great majority simply submit to the general feel-good atmosphere and conduct themselves like sheep herded into the corral.

It is, after all, human nature, to want to be like everyone else, not to miss out on doing things that others are recognizing as somehow important to their well-being; yet another social contract but one of dubious quality. And then there are others who have no interest in denying others the pleasure, if there is indeed pleasure in being reminded by commercial interests to thank those close to you for being there, close to you.

While at the same time, having no interest whatever in conforming to the general and loudly acclaimed status of the day. When we celebrated our 55th wedding anniversary earlier in the month, there was just two of us, the two intimates involved. The celebration consisted of a simple acknowledgement and a pre-arranged trip always taken this time of year that would get us into the out-of-doors taking our pleasure on vigorous mountain hikes.

Mother's Day, Father's Day, they're all the same; representing people who obediently conform to societal expectations that this is something to be participated in. What of the balance of the year, then, no acknowledgement to those closest to you of their meaning to you, through actions that most certainly speak far louder than a once-yearly gift? This is a Sunday celebrated by us much like other Sundays.

A lovely early summer day merits a long and vigorous walk in the woods, and this we had, together. It behooves us, together, to admire the work that nature allowed us to perform together in creating a garden that gives us enormous pleasure. And this morning the lawns were mowed, and the weeping caragena in the backyard was re-staked and pulled back to an erect position, from its creeping slump that threatened to envelope completely the birdbath beside it.

The afternoon invited us to relax on the deck in the backyard, and listen to the song of the neighbourhood cardinals, and to watch as robins and goldfinches flew from tree to tree. It enabled us also to read the newspapers in singular peace. And to exchange little tidbits from within those newspaper pages. He comments and I respond. Glancing at what I was reading, he saw a headline in the food section: "How to serve a centenarian". Which elicited his remark: open a jar of baby food.

He was reading the book reviews and his eyes lit upon one for The Best Sex of Your Life, reading from it aloud to me - as is his wont - "women should concentrate on what they like about their partners instead of what drives them crazy - and that ginger and leeks can have an aphrodisiacal effect...". Prompting him to enquire what precisely it is about him that drives me crazy, and I tell him everything, but mostly his ironic sense of humour. He nods his head and claims to have learned from reading that brief review why it is that when, during the night he leaks, it is followed by an irresistible urge to fondle me.

I am taken with an irresistible urge, because the sun is now behind clouds and it is not quite so hot, to hie myself into the garden to do a little bit of gardening. It is a perfectly splendid garden we have, giving us much pleasure. It seems that almost every day there is yet another surprise to make us catch our breath in admiration. It is time to prune back the roses that have faded. To snip off the heavy peony heads that have lost their petals. Everything in bloom is busy with bees and butterflies.

Later, at dinnertime, which our little dogs remind us is slightly overdue, we enjoy corn on the cob and so do they; a little treat after their own meal. And we have a lovely fresh vegetable salad, and beef patties, done on the barbecue, followed by fresh raspberries over vanilla ice cream. An especial treat for a lovely Sunday. He proudly points out to me later that the relish and mustard with which he embellishes his hamburger haven't ended up too prominently on the fresh towels I've put out in the powder room, when he washed his moustache.

When all the washing-up is done in the kitchen, he does recall, sheepishly, that he has forgotten a few barbecue tools, bringing them in to extend wash-up. And then his idea of participaction goes into play as he scoops up our little toy poodle to share the lounge with him, out on the deck, as the evening cools off, and I trudge upstairs to write this little paean to Father's Day.