Column: Every birthday is worth a week-long celebration

(I'm not ready for the ol' rocking chair just yet. In fact, I'm giving it away (hopefully) to someone who really needs it.)

By Margi Washburn

It takes seven days to celebrate my birthday. Most everyone who knows me understands that, and I’m guessing the delight I have for the occasion has a lot to do with mom, sis and Grandma Daisy. We made a big deal out of birthdays, even during lean times, and I never want to lose that feeling toward turning another year older.

On Monday, I sent off a book proposal to a New York agent. It takes me far too long to send out things like that, and no doubt it’s because I’m afraid the whole package will come flying back to my mailbox at warp speed with a standard rejection letter in it. It’s not back yet, so I’m hoping for the best.

Tuesday was the United Way kickoff campaign. It started with a piping hot delicious breakfast that I thought about for a long time after it was over. What started off as a feature assignment turned into an eye-opening experience of how many folks are helped by the 19 agencies that make up this organization.

Wednesday was a day for tears. I belong to a group called Henry County Freecycle. We give away nice things we no longer need to those who could use them, and that keeps a lot of stuff out of our homes and out of the landfills. I had an easy chair that I hadn’t used in over a year. A man expressed interest in it, and he emailed a note saying that he would come over later that day to pick it up. Hubby lugged the chair downstairs and helped the man load it into his truck.

Less than an hour later, I opened my email to find a photo of a very happy young boy, shoes kicked off to the side, sitting in his new chair. He was giving the camera a thumbs-up, a grin spread from ear to ear. This was one happy little guy, and so I cried.

Before I got off the computer, I heard a knock at the door. It was the little boy who lives down the street, along with his dad. I saw a plastic sack. “Can I pick some peaches, please?” he asked. I knelt down, told him he sure could, then looked at his dad. “I try and have him ask every year,” he said, and of course I remembered the two of them from previous Septembers. I closed the door, went inside and cried – again.

On Thursday, Sarah the pup got sick. Once again, this being a morning newspaper, I’ll refrain from giving the details, but suffice it to say that I had to cook a bland diet for the dog for three days.

Friday morning I found myself at the tennis court with hubby and two friends. The two guys played against us girls, and even under those conditions, hubby plunked his partner in the head with a ball. That alone was worth the price of admission, as they say.

This was also the day that Sarah’s appetite came back with a vengeance. She was only allowed two bland meals per day, for three days. No treats, no table scraps, no exception. We tried to find things to do away from home to avoid being shadowed from room to room to room.

On Saturday, the dog was hungrier than ever. I started giving her little bites of carrot and some plain bread. We decided she could start on real food the following morning; she did and she was fine.

Sunday was my day to do whatever I wanted. We went out of town, and the first thing I did when we got to Moline was to walk into IHop and legitimately order off of the senior menu. That was such a blast for me, though everyone I tell seems to think I may be a little touched in the head.

I visited a few favorite stores, got a screaming good deal at a favorite grocery store and we headed home. That night we had delicious cake, ice cream, coffee and lots of laughs around the kitchen table.

We never know how many birthdays we’ll be blessed with, so I plan to celebrate every single one of them. I hope you will, too.