My former anniversary no longer holds the happy significance it once did; at the same time it refuses to blend in with the rest of the days of the month, returning to its former status of another ordinary day.
As the third of August rolls around each summer, I cannot help but notice what day it is. Though I am quite happy with my life as it is, I find myself wondering, on That Day, if my former husband (now remarried with a new anniversary to call his own) or his family notice what day it is. I am pretty sure that my parents do, though they seem more than eager for me to find another fellow and establish a new anniversary of my own.
So when my third un-anniversary appeared last summer, it was a happy coincidence that I had plans to leave work early and tour a friend’s dairy farm.[6] Visiting a pretty place and learning something new in the company of an outgoing and successful fellow (on whom I must admit a slight crush) seemed like just the way to say “I do” to the life I am living now,[7] one of new experiences, new questions, and learning how to better follow my heart.
“What do you do with all of that stuff?” I ask the farmer, as we sit in the cab[8] of his truck and watch the big pile of manure. When he says “Manure Day,” I think it’s a joke for the city girl. But it’s true: In springtime a sign goes up announcing the event, and neighbors are invited to the big pile to take home some of this rich, nourishing fertilizer for their gardens.[9]
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