An English In Kentucky


















 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.

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