Tuesday October 25th 2011 Tim Candler
Certain tension around The
Artist's Birthday Gift. But I do recall the pile of flattish rocks,
which once was my birthday gift from her. There they were, where the
outdoor stove is now. Patiently gathered from all around, hundreds of
them, and beautiful.
One year I offered a day of
labor. I like not to think it was a last minute thing, but
properly planned and thought about. We hunted down wild Maple saplings
to transplant, spent a great deal of time tromping up and down the hill,
and followed all that with a baked chicken smothered in bacon.
Now with the guilt and the wellness, something that sizzles from the
oven followed by something that melts with a candle on top, though
sometimes yearned for is not encouraged.
Then there is the snap
judgment. The inspired moment. Usually followed by the absolute
knowledge that 'it's the thought that counts.' Which I guess is why
remembering a birthday weeks before it happens ranks up there with death,
divorce and taxes.
The novelty gift, the pointless thing, is for
Christmas. A birthday belongs to just the one person. Nor is it an
occasion to give 'what you'd like to receive.' Which puts an end to things
like extension cords and mallet handles. And too, I have always said,
an occasional hint from the celebrant reduces stress. Either way, the die
is cast and the bow is ready.