Well, today is my birthday, and I am 56 years old.
It's a good time of year for a birthday. Autumn is painting trees and sky, yet the temperate air lingers, and the garden still clings to its treasures. The radio waves are filled with playoff baseball, and the neighborhood children shriek up and down the street, inventing their mysterious games ("At our house we're the Blueberries; at your house we're the Carrots").
This weekend Tom and I are going on a small outing--taking our bikes up to Swan Island in the Kennebec. But today the boys have to go to work, so I am making my own birthday dinner. I've decided on baked rigatoni, with a lamb and mushroom ragu. And I'll make some sort of cake, though I haven't picked out a recipe yet. Along with cooking, I plan to spend my day reading Byron and Alice Munro, working on some poem drafts, going for a long walk, listening to the Rays beat the Yankees . . .
For the moment I'm sitting peaceably on the grey couch, next to my white cat, who is pretending to be sweet, though he just spent an hour trying to murder some little beastie hiding under the outside recycling bin. There's a small wind gusting among the leaves. Rain is forecast for the evening, and I will light the wood stove and open a bottle of red wine.
Cheers to you all--