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Yesterday, at exactly 7:43 p.m., I turned fifty. A couple dozen friends helped me celebrate: Susan staged the party at her house: the requisite black plates and black napkins, a serious amount of alcohol, a cake with a Barbie in it holding a “50″ candle, and a critical mass of cheese. And people came bearing gifts, which they shouldn’t have but did anyway. A horsie, a poem about a horsie ride (don’t ask), Nora Ephron’s book I Hate My Neck (which I don’t, but cute title anyway), a journal, a purple candle, a reusable bag to use instead of non-reusable plastic bags, a regifted book about saving money after 50 which I will happily regift to the next 50-year-old, cards with jokes about turning fifty, and more. We drank, we ate, we laughed, we doused each other with silly string, and then at an hour when I’m usually thinking about turning in, we headed out. At a little bar, The Coney, a core group of us played way late, drank and danced and laughed and had way much fun until the bar began to close and we called it a night.

So now I’m fifty and a day, more or less. If anyone ever tells you that turning fifty is hard, or depressing, or lonely, or any other negative thing — don’t believe them. Fifty is just great and made all the much more fun when celebrated with good friends who don’t mind if you act ridiculous or goofy or overindulge in wine and cheese and cake and, well, more.

To those friends, all of them, I say thank you for a great birthday. Your friendship is the greatest present of all.

I like to pride myself on doing a lot of things, getting them done, and not getting stressed along the way. Ha! Pride goeth before a fall. I admit to being stressed, right now. Here’s why:

1 - I got approved to write a big NEA grant. It’s due in three weeks.
2 - The people in Bloomington who are supposed to help me with this are not answering their phone.
3 - I have to wait for the people in Bloomington to answer their phone before I can write the grant.
4 - Which is due in three weeks.
5 - I’m turning 50 Saturday.
6 - I covered my gray roots last night with icky stuff. It worked, but still. Gray roots?
7 - I have a zit.
8 - I have great frustrations about having gray roots AND a zit. Okay, two zits. This is wrong. Just plain wrong.
9 - My tenure dossier is 2/3 done. It is due — oh, hell, I don’t know when it’s due. Soon.
10 - I’m moving to a new house in two weeks.
11 - They are putting new carpet and painting the walls in my office in two weeks.
12 - Everything I own is in boxes.
13 - Including my horse books which I need right now.
14 - Because my horse is lame with a stone bruise.
15 - Did I mention I’m turning 50 Saturday?
16 - I am.
17 - Okay, so Bloomington called back. “Hi, are you the one who’s applying for the N.I.H. grant?”
18 - Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
19 - “Oh, NEA. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to put you on hold.”
20 - Noooooooooooooooo
21 - “I’m sorry. There’s no one here. Now I’m going to have to put you through to voicemail.”
22 - “Hello. You’ve reached the voicemail of sldfkjsldkjflskjeliru [indistinguishable] I’m out of the office. Leave your message and I’ll call you back.
23 - I leave a message for this anonymous person who may or may not be the right person and hope for the best.
24 - I googled “stone bruise” +horse
25 - Let him rest, that’s the advice.
26 - Well, at least Buddy is going to have a good day.
27 - Now, I’m going to find a paper bag and poke eyeholes in it. If you see me wandering the streets of Richmond mumbling to myself, just pretend you don’t know me.

If you are the least bit morose about the state of the world, watch this video LINK. If you are of a cynical bent, this may not ease your malaise, but then, probably nothing will. However, it eased mine.

I missed it — a potluck dinner using food grown within a hundred mile radius. The intrepid Chris Hardie produced a nifty video of the event with lingering shots of berries, a beautiful pie, bean dishes, some handsome lettuce and a number of contented eaters. What a great idea, and one I hope happens again this summer. One of the real joys of living in Indiana is the fact of a real plenty of good food, locally grown and available.

One of the questions Chris posed in his video was: why do you think locally grown produce is important? One answer on the video was that this effort supports the local economy. True, and that’s good. It also potentially cuts down on the buckets of gasoline used to truck things in from afar. I say “potentially” because even 100 miles can burn up a lot of gas, unless the search for local food is careful, intentional, shared. Another answer was the fellowship of coming together to share the food. A way to build community, connections between people, which is sorely needed. And, by the look of the cheerful crowd, welcome.

So here’s an idea, Progressive Wayne County folks: how about a Progressive Potluck? Locally grown food, served up at several local homes. You start at the first, eat the good stuff, then travel to the next, eat more good stuff. The trick is: getting from home to home by bicycle, foot, horseback, scooter (the kind the Amish kids use) … anything but a gasoline powered vehicle. The only exception would be if there are disabled folks who must make use of a particular kind of transportation (van, for instance). This event would be something the local newspaper, radio, WCTV, etc. would love to cover. Good PR for Progressive Wayne County, letting more people know what is possible in our part of the world. It would be fun, too, to include a diversity of cuisines and by way of that ethnicities in the event too. What do you say?

P.S.
I am happy to say that I will be moving to a new place in a few weeks, and will volunteer to be on the progressive potluck route. This home is a bit “greener” than the one I’m in now. In the new one I can have a garden, in a yard that has enough sun to actually grow some decent vegetables. Not this year, except for some late growing lettuce and some onion sets for next year. And next year? Beans, tomatoes, lettuce, snap peas, squash, and my beloved leeks. This house also has a wood burning stove, and it’s not hard to find local firewood. There are enough windows that face south and west, and there you go: a little passive solar energy too. Now if I can only get my hypermileage skills honed…

Dear Human Beings –

Me Owen, again. I am writing on Jean’s blog to say something to all the people who set off fireworks in July: DOGS DON’T LIKE FIREWORKS. We don’t. They scare us. A LOT. Fireworks make us hide our heads under furniture, and shake like … um … cats? This makes us feel stupid. Please, oh please, people who have fireworks: be nice to your neighborhood dogs. Go away somewhere far out in the country where there are no dogs (okay, no cats either ) and do your fireworks there. Not in the sidewalk in front of the house I live in, not in the alley behind the house I live in, not in the streets around me either. I’m a nice dog and I’m sad about being scared.

Thank you.

Love, Owen

PS Yes, I can too write. Jean taught me.

As I write this, the sky is overcast, and a cool breeze is winding through my house. It feels not like summer, but like a day in early fall. Last night, at D and M’s, we all sat around a fire in a pit, talking, toasting marshmallows, and each other. The night was cool, perfect to be outdoors. This morning, my corduroy shirt still smells of woodsmoke.

For reasons of my own, I am taking today off. Back to work tomorrow, the first of July. Today? Although I can’t really afford the gas, I’m taking a small road trip. There and back again. And since it’s cool, Owen gets to come with me. Off we go.

Owen, who loves to play fetch, plays fetch so hard that in the heat he collapses if I let him play too long. It’s scary to watch your little dog come inside, stagger around and then fall to the floor, panting frantically. We limit fetch to no more than twenty throws this time of year. Which means we play fetch more often.

I have a cold. I was sitting in the sun trying to dry up my cold. It did not work. Now I have a sunburnt nose. And a cold.

Across the alley a man is painting a house. For the past two days he has been scraping the old paint off. Now the new paint is going on. Yellow clapboards, white trim.

Somewhere, someone is playing a radio in their back yard. Oldies. Songs I grew up with. Oldies?

I am learning to knit socks. Knitting and summer days seem diametrically opposite. To knit in summer I have to sit in front of a fan. If I knit outside, I’ll be knitting sweat socks.

The air conditioning is off. I don’t particularly care for air conditioning. The air feels stale, the AC unit uses too much energy, the use of it feels as though you become as confined to the indoors as being stuck inside during the winter. I’d rather be hot. Except at night. Then, I turn the air conditioning back on.

My cold makes me want popsicles. Orange ones. Green ones. Blue ones. Flavors which don’t exist in the natural world.

Later today I am going to ride my horse. This is not as pleasurable when you have a cold. Or when there is a thunderstorm, as there is predicted to be later today. Or when it’s hot, which it is. Still, as Winston Churchill said, “No hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle.” Right he is.

Late note: I took allergy medicine and my “cold” disappeared.” I just have a sore throat. This is not a cold. I hate allergies.

This is me, Owen, writing this. My birthday was yesterday. Not today. YESTERDAY. And you know what? Jean FORGOT my birthday. She FORGOT it. I waited all day yesterday for my cake and my three candles and my extra dog treats and my new toy and my walk and my extra game of fetch. ALL DAY I waited.

Nothing. No cake. No candles. No extra treats. I did get a squeaky tennis ball from Tractor Supply but that DOESN’T COUNT because it wasn’t a REAL birthday present. And I did get a lot of games of fetch but they DON’T COUNT either because JEAN FORGOT my BIRTHDAY ALL DAY.

I went to bed sad. And then Jean woke up this morning and said what she always says to me in the mornings: “Hello my Pookie Moo.” It’s annoying, I agree, but I usually smile and put up with it because she feeds me, throws tennis balls, and sometimes gives me big treats like pig ears or lets me eat horse poop. But today? I didn’t smile. Not at all. I just looked at her with my best forlorn sad dog look and I beamed thoughts into her brain about how she FORGOT my birthday which was YESTERDAY.

And then Jean finally got it. She said, as if she had thought this thought all by herself, “Oh No, Owen! I FORGOT your birthday which was YESTERDAY!!”

Duuuuuuuuuh, Jean. I knew that. I knew it ALL DAY.

Now Jean is thinking uo ways to make it up to me. She has played fetch with me only once so far, but I bet there are more games of fetch coming. And I know I’m going to get treats. Lots of them. And a cake and candles — THREE CANDLES because I am THREE. And maybe even new toys! And a walk in the woods. And a swim in the pond. Oh I’m a HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY DOG! Happy birthday to me!

This summer, I am putting together my tenure dossier. This big tome is composed of a narrative, supporting materials, and something mysteriously referred to as “supplemental” materials. The whole thing is meant to be an extended argument for why my university should grant me tenure. “Extended” is not the word I would choose, however. Bloated? Weighty? Something like that. The narrative alone will end up being something like 100 to 150 pages. I mean, really. Who wants to read that much about my life as a college professor? I don’t. I certainly don’t want to write it. Then there’s all the stuff to prove that what I wrote about my life as college professor is actually true. That is the “supporting material” part. Then, if that doesn’t seem to be enough, there’s the opportunity to put more things forward in the “supplemental” carton. The film you made, the entire exhibit of writing that was on the wall, the art the little kids put on the wall, the pink fairy wings that you wore on Halloween to amuse your students. That kind of thing.

No one, I am finding out, enjoys this process. Tenure dossier production is a misery, tortuous and filled with drudgery, made even more miserable by the dire sense that if this doesn’t work out the only employment option left is — what? A greeter at WalMart? Checker at Big Lots? Still, this process is one we all go through. And I have this dark sense that after having gone through it, we then become determined that all who follow us shall also go through this suffocating hell. Did I say that? I did.

Which leads me, finally, to the point of this post: procrastinating. I’m doing that right now. Writing about how I don’t want to be writing my tenure dossier. The one I had nightmares about last night. The one that is sitting on this desk, half written. Not quite half written. I even started reading a book about procrastinating last night rather than write this thing. What, I’d like to know, is the evolutionary advantage of procrastination? I mean if we dork around all day and don’t do our work, are we the lesser ones, the ones that get eaten by the cheetah, the ones who not being fittest don’t survive and therefore don’t get to perpetuate the species? That doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it’s species specific, period. Dogs, for instance, don’t procrastinate. I have never seen Owen look at his tennis ball and say, “Hmm. Maybe later.”

Owen, however, loves his tennis ball. Loves the zen of fetch, the burst of speed as he follows the ball, the rewarding joy of bringing it back. If I’m diligent about it, I might learn to love my tenure dossier. A friend suggested I see this as an opportunity to contemplate where I have been and then imagine fully where I might like to go. Looking at this project that way, seeing the inner fetch of it, the zen of it, the opportunity of it? Okay. Maybe now — or, well, soon — I can stop procrastinating and really get to work on this.

In my creative writing classes, fall and spring semester, I often have students write about their favorite season. Choose a season, I tell them, write about one perfect day, conjure up the season in words and images, stories we can see, use all your senses to bring the day, whatever day it is, alive. I really like to do this exercise in late January, or early February, when everyone is stir crazy from the cold, the gray days of Indiana winter, the latest bout of flu or strep throat or whatever virus is cruising through schools and work. The students write in class for twenty minutes or so, then they all read their work aloud, one by one. Invariably, and I know this, most of the students will write about summer. The warmth, the sun, the play outdoors, the time with family, barbecues, softball, vacation, water, sunburns. All that.

It’s a magical moment when we do this. Winter slides away. Summer rises up in the classroom, created out of words. The students sigh (seriously, they do), responding to stories of bonfires and cookouts, fourths of July, the long gilded days of June. There is much joy, of a quiet almost reverent kind, in the classroom when we do this. Of course my job, as teacher, is to point out that language has taken us away from chill dark days into another season, given us a gift, transported us. Magic. Not magic. Both. We talk about that, because it’s what we’re there for in creative writing class, and we move forward with a surer knowledge of what words on the page can do.

Still. When the weather is like it has been today, and will be tomorrow, words are not enough. I just want to be outdoors. There is not enough sunscreen in the world. I’m burnt and brown, tired and happy. Even though I must, I do not want to sit at my desk at all when the weather is like this. Today I managed a few hours. But I spent the afternoon outdoors, and the evening too. And tomorrow, if it is at all like today, I will find it just as hard to stay rooted to my desk, writing. What is there to write about? Winter? Ah. There would be magic in that, wouldn’t there. Maybe so.