Good morning!

At around 6:30 EST today, I’ll turn fifty years old.

I’ve been wondering what to write given some of my previous birthday posts (the Battle of Missionary Ridge, Ricardo Montalban’s centenary) but ran a little short of ideas, and as it may surprise few to learn, the past couple of weeks have really discombobulated me. There are obviously far bigger problems with the latter, but I could have used a much more congenial lead-up to my half-century. Not least as much of my way forward (the next quarter-century of life I could maybe reasonably expect) has now fallen into shadow, if it hasn’t been thrown into considerable doubt.

So I figured I’d write about something that gives me joy. Cedar waxwings (Bombycilla cedrorum). They’re my favorite small bird—slightly resembling cardinals with a much more appealing color scheme—and seeing them used to be one of my favorite things about riding my bike along our local riverfront. They’re overly fond of berries—and can apparently go for months eating only that—to the extent that they occasionally get drunk during the spring (I forget the details, but it has something to do with natural fermentation). Whether it’s the increasing (and arguably necessary) development along our riverfront or that I’ve pivoted away from wildlife photography during my forties (it was one of my main leisure activities during the early teens), I haven’t seen them as much in recent years, but they’re still apparently out there. Maybe I’ll make more of a point next summer to keep a lookout.

One thing I’ll say for my forties, though. Even given the personal, emotional, and wider-world assaults they suffered on an eerily regular basis, I’ve really lived them in a way I don’t think I ever did my thirties, and I’m hoping, however foolishly, that the next decade follows suit.

Stay safe and well, everyone, and have that same kind of holiday season.