AUGUST 7, 2026 – I know that sounds strange—wishing oneself a “Happy Birthday!”—but for me, another annual notch in the belt of life marks more than a crowd of family and friends gathered round, singing the familiar song (ideally all in the same key and in tune), then watching with delight as I inhale, then exhale all over the soon-to-be-shared cake. With each year past 70, a birthday reflects not only survival, but a chance to reach for the stars; another golden opportunity to make a wish come true. Today, the smart money bet I’d blow out all the candles, especially given that usually the number of candles reflects a ratio of 10 to 1 (years per candle) for the decades of one’s age and a 1 to 1 correspondence only for years into the current decade. What the smart money didn’t know, however, was that the occasion for making a wish, then blowing out candles stuck into a cake-top will be deferred until next week, when a crowd of sorts will descend upon the Red Cabin.
Meanwhile, I’m off to an encouraging start to the year ahead, bolstered by a good omen. Just before today’s first light of dawn, I awoke briefly to the sound of a nearby loon. Before retiring last night, I’d opened wide the bedroom windows: temperatures were mild and a warm breeze carried the sound of waves lapping the shore, (Beth is at the diagonally opposite end of the state, spending the night with cousins, with whom she’ll travel on to Illinois on Saturday for Mid Bridgeland’s funeral (See 7/16/2026 post)). Hearing a loon at that hour is unusual, and having barely gained consciousness, I wanted to confirm that a Gavia immer hadn’t strayed from a dream. The loon repeated its call, providing sufficient aural evidence that it emanated from the “real” world outside my brain, not from the dream world inside. Fully conscious, I pondered the odd timing of the loon’s voice, especially against the backdrop of knowing that I was now a full year older than I’d been just yesterday. Was the loon call nature’s way of wishing me a happy birthday? I was skeptical, but the thought, anyway, led quickly to another: seeing an eagle on my birthday would be a special greeting, an unmistakably good omen. For a beat or two, I hoped that at some point in the day ahead I would see an eagle.
Soon I was back in my dream world—but without loons or eagles.
When I next stirred, the earth had turned far enough for Apollo’s chariot to be well above the eastern horizon. I rolled over and peered out the front windows of our bedroom. At the very instant I first blinked, what should appear, flying straight toward the shore—coming in fast at a rakish angle, was . . . Yes! A mature bald eagle!
In these parts eagles are common. Three eagle nests are on the shoreline of Grindstone Lake, and as I’ve reported before, these raptors like to hang out on our property, eyeing, then eating their kill from the lake. But to see one less than three seconds after I woke up and was still in bed?! Unprecedented—and undeniably a good omen.
Soon wide awake, I experienced the deluge of birthday greetings. . . well, not exactly a “deluge,” since I don’t “befriend” on FB or connect via LinkedIn with every person I encounter. Upon the accumulation of six birthday greetings, I considered myself a wealthy man. By day’s end the number would grow to 30. Twenty minutes later I discovered I’d missed a call from the brother-in-law who shares my birthday. I was miffed that he’d beaten me to the punch, and that by having mishandled my phone earlier, I’d inadvertently “silenced” the ringer. I immediately returned his call.
We chatted for a bit. He was in an ebullient mood, as was I, in response. He informed me that he was headed to Beverly, Massachusetts for his latest show. I wished him well and was silently amazed that at 84, he can still walk out on stage and sing and talk for as long as it takes a baseball game to reach the seventh inning—or, in a pitching duel, all the way to the ninth. GK isn’t the “Energizer Rabbit”: his energy source is the sun, not a battery.
The weather here today was moody and mysterious. As noon approached, the skies grew dark, and I expected a squall to unleash torrents of rain. Nothing came of it, however, and I returned to my work—drawing stripe boundaries on my sails and applying gesso to my splashboards. For this close-up work, I needed my cheaters—a badge of age, if not of honor.
One by one, my sons and sisters called to wish me a happy birthday. Beth sent a greeting by text—along with a photo of Andreas Krug’s oil painting, The Old Violin Maker in his Workshop, on display at the Grohmann Museum in Milwaukee. “The Old Violin Maker,” bore an unmistakable resemblance to me—in a dream state or former life, I couldn’t be sure.
After an afternoon of attending to the details of (wooden) sail-making, The Old Sail Maker in his [Outdoor] Workshop, took leave of his work and hiked over to the old cabin of Björnholm for a perfectly staged birthday party hosted by my sister Elsa and brother-in-law Chuck. In complete alignment with the traditions of our grandmother, whose innate refinement remains so well preserved inside the cabin, Elsa served a house specialty—banana/walnut bread—along with a modest sample of ice cream with a chocolate swirl, plus mini-muffins and cookies. I was offered coffee, but chose instead, the best-tasting water in the world; cabin tap water pumped from a deep well and unadulterated by ice.
We talked for nearly two hours before I left to return to my special project back at the Red Cabin.
A quiet birthday, it was, observed in a very happy and beautiful place and marked by an especially good omen. Who could ask for more?
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
