It was half a week past my half birthday and we met halfway between Hilbert and Sherwood for half a day of celebrating. We were at the Mulberry Lane Petting Farm which has half-sized horses, goats, and sheep and other animals for half-pint children to mingle with.
They also have a full-sized cow and a humungous pig. I'm not qutie sure how big humungous is, but I wouldn't want him rolling over on me.
By we
I mean to say that my pretend
niece Tracie brought her two little ones
to meet me there, along with the picnic
which we shared sitting on a blanket in
the shade of a half-sized tree.
All of this was very nice way to take note
of 123 half years of living.
Since this is the Mulberry Lane Farm, it is highly appropriate that it includes one mulberry tree. I'd guess this tree must be 123 full years old; it certainly looks a lot older than I feel, although perhaps the little ones would consider us to be equally ancient beyond any reckoning. I once owned a house with a mulberry tree in the back yard and sharing mulberries with the little ones was as close as I got – since after all I never have been a farmer like my father's father was – sharing my history with another generation.
For all the geese and goats and ponies and pigs, the cats were the farm species which stands out the most in my memory. When I first arrived and was waiting for the others the first of the cats came over looking for attention. When the families present there had left to begin the tour, this orange haired feline condescended to accept my attentions – until the children came. At the end of our time together, as we were picnicing, another cat wandered over to participate, to be stroked, and to eat the crumbs.
In between those bookends to our adventure, there were young cats in the cat barn. (As a non-farmer, I'm not sure what that barn had been built for. It is the cat barn now.) Clearly, the cat barn is where the farm's felines learn tolerance for young humans and their intrusive ways. When we arrived, several boys were meeting all of the cats present. Once boy was particularly taken with one of the cats and considerately offered him to me as the nicest of the residents of the barn. I sat down to stroke the boy's favorite as Tracie's little ones child-handled several of the others. After the slightly older boys had left, we carefully returned all the cats to their beds and boxes where they dutifully curled up to nap until the next round of child visitants.
And so I celebrated 123 half years of life. Next winter I will be a mundane 62 years, but, for this summer, just a hint of the magic of childhood left behind.