Happy Birthday!

It has been a busy last few days but it's time to get back to writing. Today was an interesting variety of events book-ended by music. We had a lot of music this morning in church; it was packed and people sang! The middle of the day included getting blown across the county, selling Lars' trashed Benz, fighting with a stupid music transcription program (how is it that computer programs can be the most patience trying events around?), and taking a walk at the highland meadow section of the state park. This evening we had our first rehearsal for the choral portions of Bach's 77th Cantata. Man, it's fun to sing good music ...

Last night we had a small, day-late birthday party with sweet-and-sour meatballs on Basmati rice, a garbage salad with one of everything and a glazed pecan dressing. And left over grilled shrimp from the night before and some of the good chips and some cheese curds and some good Cabernet and two kinds of carrot cake of which Pam's was better.

The night before Jen and I had our own birthday party for me with grilled shrimp and not a whole lot else. It was interesting to have my first birthday ever with only one other person celebrating. It was a quiet, lovely, cold, rainy evening, a delightful end to a day that started with the serenade of Sandhill Cranes bubbling landing instructions as they glided down to the neighbors field.

One of the most poignant things about my birthday, however, were two moments of pure nostalgia. Both, coincidentally, are about my Dad. The first was earlier in the day when I was working on getting the boat ready to drop in. I needed to replace the brass drain plugs removed last fall to drain the manifolds and winterize the boat. Because of the space constraints at the back side of the engine, no socket wrench would fit and I need a regular box wrench instead. I ran into the house, flipped open the top part of the toolbox where I keep my wrenches and grabbed the first 7/8" wrench I found. While I now have a couple of sets, I once had only one. The wrench I grabbed was from that original set. And my Dad bought me that set at Fleet Farm about 30 years ago. I remember being there with him getting some other stuff and seeing the set on sale. It was my birthday and he asked me if I'd like it. I did and I still do.

Later in the evening, Jen gave me a present of a small mixer-blender appliance designed for smoothies or whatever in a one-serving, easily cleaned size. She washed it and I made a quick protein shake. After I hit the pulse button, though, I was transported back about a million years.

Somewhere in my ancient history, my Dad would cut our hair. That stage didn't last long, so I must have been pretty young, maybe 3 or 4. I'd sit on a high stool and he would use an old-school electric clippers to trim. Beside the nervous buzzing of the tool, I remember best the smell of the heated oil that protected and lubricated the blades. For whatever reason, the new motor of the gifted blender, heated through use and starting it's burn in stage, had the identical smell to that old electric trimmer and, for a couple of moments, I was sitting in some kitchen or basement or hallway, shivering in my underwear, feeling my Dad's arm holding me from tipping off, and smelling burned, light-weight oil while the soft, shivery fluff of cut hair tickled down my back.