Today is my wedding anniversary. My wife’s too.
We got married in the Year of Orwell, and have managed to hang on for all the years since.
Think of George Orwell, think of his most famous book, and then do the math. I have run out of fingers and toes.
We have been empty nesters now for a few years. Arthur the Airedale is dead, gone and irreplaceable. My wife, Karen, misses him dearly because he was with her 24/7 whereas I am not.
I spend half my time either in Toronto or Ottawa, and the other half at home. My wife misses me too when I am away, but she misses the dog more.
And I am only half kidding.
He was a great dog.
Our daughter Erin — our only child — works for the Harperites in Ottawa as a communications strategist, is engaged to be married next year, and only calls her dear old dad when the moon is blue.
When I was her age, I did the same.
You don’t tend to think of your parents until you become one and start feeling old. My mother is 88, and my father has been dead since 1980.
When he died he was the same age I am now.
What I then thought was old, now feels young.
Funny how things change.