Birthday week

Thirty-some years ago this week, I screamed and kicked my way into the world.

I like being alive, most of the time. Days of flu and dealing with consequences of my personal stupidity cause me to reconsider albeit briefly.

I like the taste of hot sauce, marshmallows, shrimp, pasta, pork, lemon, chocolate and pizza (not in the same mouthful). I like the sight of Woman from head to toe, or of a wide green valley or a desert vista; the smell of pines in the sun or rain on a hot, dusty day or of bread baking; the sound of Bach or Korn or children laughing or Women singing; the feel of soft cotton or warm skin or milkweed fluff in my hands.

I like Saturdays, creative but well-behaved children, old musty books and fresh, crisp books, the smell of coffee and pipe tobacco, cold mountain streams and warm tropical seas, old trees and little seedlings.

I like space and comets and the contemplation of DNA and atomic theory.

I like warm, spring soil and cold, fresh snow.

I like great old church hymns and simple, pretty melodies.

I like hard, sweaty work and I like the feeling when it is all done and I am tired and able to sink into a warm bath and clean up.

I like flowers and fish, hedgehogs and lemurs.

I like allspice, vanilla, anise and mint.

I like unspoiled wilderness and the magic of cities.

I like being alive.

Happy birthday to me. Thanks Dad and especially Mom, for making it so.

I will celebrate with dinner at a Turkish restaurant. Can't wait.