It was nice to be remembered
with a cake at the office on my
61st birthday.

A 59-year-old friend done in by a brain tumor was buried last week on my 61^st birthday.

That, in a nutshell, is why I am trying like heck not to complain about getting older and not to harp on my failing hearing, worsening eyesight, slowing metabolism and the evils of gravity.

It’s why I restocked the bird feeder and took a few moments this morning to enjoy the cardinal that stopped by. It’s why, tired as I was the other night, rather than make a bee-line from work to car, I paused to notice the sliver of a moon flanked by a bright Venus. It’s why I called my father, just to hear his voice, and my sons, to hear their voice messages.   

Watching birds at the
feeder is a simple pleasure.

I won’t lie, it’s a shock to be in my 60s. Where do the years go?

Last weekend I was telling 93-year-old Aunt Madelyn that I never thought I’d someday say, “Oh, to be 50!”  “Really?” she replied without missing a beat. “How about ‘Oh, to be 80!’”

My father says, when it’s your time, it’s you’re time. Yet we of a certain age, and those much younger, have lost beloved relatives and friends “before their time” – stolen from us much too soon. I am so sad for my friend's wife and children, his mother and his siblings.  

Weird as it feels to say I'm 61, I know I am lucky to have celebrated another birthday, and I hope to recognize each day for what it is: a gift.