THE BACK FORTY

Backfortyg

FOR BETTER, OR FOR

WORSE… Story by Lee McLean Photo by Tara McKenzie Fotos

Anniversaries. They have a habit of creeping up, adding up and as you get older, of getting right by you.

Mike and I are stubbornly set out on the verandah early this morning, shivering in the wet and cold, watching a thick bank of fog roll in from the south. We are both, I notice, looking old and crotchety. Two sets of gnarly hands are gripping their steaming coffee cups as though all life depends on it. I also notice that the dog makes something of a big show, as usual, of wanting to sit right by Mike.

“Happy anniversary!” says my husband of 38 years. I can only blink at him in total astonishment.

“Huh?” How can he possibly keep track of these things? We both sit there, lost in memories of times past.

The big day, itself. Hotter than a blast oven, I am late to the ceremony because in buttoning the 50 silk-covered buttons down the back of my dress, my mother has ended up with one left over. During this, nobody notices that she has cut her finger and is bleeding all over the heavy satin. Funny, now. Not so much, then.

We begin to recall other years: babies, seven years of drought, a scarcity of rainy days and ready cash. Celebrations put on hold for the family business of chores, cows, haying, harvest, horses, sickness and off-farm jobs…

Kids leave home. Conversations begin, more and more, to centre around the dog. It takes longer and longer to stand straight upon waking. There is not so much a throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed, now, as there is a gingerly testing the waters. Health becomes a hot topic. Yes, we are somehow changed.

Mike is reading cookbooks of late. Where does this come from? I’ve long joked that the man doesn’t know how to make his own coffee. I’m now ready for bed by the time the supper dishes are cleared. What has happened to the girl who can dance the night away? Where has she gone?

Our eyes meet over the old wicker table. Mike’s crinkle up in the corners and I give an embarrassed little laugh.

“Happy anniversary,” I say. “So, what are we going to do today?” My husband takes a pull from his cup before answering.

“We’re going to hope the electric fence keeps Buster’s cows out of the oats,” he says. And that, my friends, is the secret to living a long and happy ever after. WHR