We were still reeling from a seemingly infinite chain of birthdays and holidays starting in late November: Thanksgiving; daughter Geni’s 21st birthday; pre-Christmas; Christmas proper; sis-in-law’s birthday; airport trips; New Year’s Eve and — just as I was coming up for air — my wife’s birthday arrived right on schedule Jan. 2.

According to the Mayan calendar, the second of January is just a few ticks past the New Year’s Hangover.

Unfortunately for those born close to Christmas, the individual attention and celebrating usually reserved for a likable person’s birthday is often blurred or outright overlooked in favor of our grandest holiday. I vowed to not let that happen to Jen. Again.

So, on the day of the New Year’s Eve with deliberate and thoughtful intent, Daddy and daughter Emerita, 10, enthusiastically set forth in search of gifts for Mrs. W.

The first leg took us 9 miles northwest to a 25,000-square-foot antiques store. This is for certain: When a 10-year-old girl has 25,000 square feet of gifts at her disposal, she will leave with something nice for Mom. Sure enough, Emerita spotted a ceramic wall plant holder positioned accurately enough on a wall.

A vase built into the rump of a uni-green peacock will hold flowers when said flowers eventually stagger up through the layers of dead stuff atop them. Jen’s green thumb should be responsible for wall flowers any day now, regardless of temps and snow.

We paid a fair price, regrouped back home and covertly maneuvered the gift into Emerita’s bedroom for wrapping. That left me just a few precious hours to find a suitable birthday gift that appeared to reflect sentimentality.

But of course — Boland’s!

You’re probably wondering … Boland’s Fine Jewelry … or Boland’s Lingerie Shack … or Boland’s Specialty Gifts. And you would be wrong.
Boland’s Hardware certainly would have anything a mom could want on the big day. I strolled through aisle after aisle of gadgets, awaiting their turn in one of my future disasters.

But this was about Jen and finding a birth… Whoa!

There in the center of the main aisle was the finest hardware store wind-chime display I’d ever seen. Fishing-line-caliber twine connected metal and glass tubes of various lengths and colors. If the wind — or an impatient shopper — should engage the tubes, colliding chimes would create enchanting music amplified as it bounced off the nearby paint cans and screw center.

I repeatedly sampled the different models for the ideal tone and volume.

“Can I help you?” asked the young clerk wincing by a column of Kilz.

“I’m good. Just test-driving the chimes to find the best sound.”

The clerk nodded sourly and returned to cupping his vibrating ear lobes as I clanged away. Then I spotted the grandaddy of the display — five black and orange-streaked flute-size metal tubes with a brown wooden disc above, a wooden striker disc midships and a wooden oar-shaped gizmo hanging below probably to catch more wind for additional chiming.

Even with a gentle swing, the chimes belted out China’s national anthem. Loudly. I had to have it.

A second clerk arrived and lowered the Big Ben of chimes into its thick cardboard packaging crate. The chimes, plus a hearty supermarket bouquet and the antique wall peacock and dinner out and a chunk of supermarket cake made for a memorable birthday.

Made more memorable when the chimes were removed from their crate.

Jen suspended them in the air over the dinner table while I jiggled the chimes enthusiastically.

“Holy cow!” hollered Jen. “They are beautiful — and LOUD. Mostly LOUD!”

“What?! I can’t hear you over the wind chimes! They’re really loud!”

With a bit of encouragement, our atomic-powered wind chimes would play two or three Asian symphonies at once. At a volume not usually experienced outside of NASCAR race tracks.

We couldn’t decide on suitable airspace in the back yard, so we headed to the front porch where we hung the chimes from a skinny, pitched nail in need of something to do.

An hour later, a slight breeze rippled the front yard but exhausted itself before it even reached the back yard. But that’s all it took for our Woodstock Chimes to strike up a ballad or two.

From the kitchen table 33 feet away as the crow hops, I heard the clear Asian jingling and jangling clear as day. The sounds had bullied their way right through vinyl siding, insulation, sheet rock and a dozen coats of paint.

A train runs through this town, its whistle screaming all the while. But I never hear it, what with the vinyl siding and bulletproof paint and all.

However, I certainly heard those wind chimes which amplified across our property like a sound check at a Who concert. According to my five minutes of research: As long as breezes don’t exceed 100 yards-per-hour, we should be able to carry on a conversation without the use of a P.A.

Beyond that, I see us wearing heart-shaped earphones this Valentine’s Day.