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Moments of complete contentment catch me off guard. Like unanticipated packages in the mailbox, they arrive unannounced and make me smile.

Experiencing these moments is lovely. The ability to recognize them is even better. Age has its advantages. One of them, for me, is an increased ability to know these little gifts of happiness as they occur. It's the difference between looking back at an experience and thinking, "Wow! That was great," and knowing, "Right here, right now - I feel absolutely content." And then having the where-with-all to stop and appreciate it.

Two years ago I celebrated my 50th birthday. My husband was, unavoidably, out of town for the occasion so my childhood best friend flew in from Seattle to celebrate the half-century mark with me. Since my birthday fell during the Jazz and Classics Festival, I got tickets for the afternoon Classics Cruise. The day was sunny and our spirits were high as we boarded the catamaran. During a break in the music, the two of us climbed the stairs to the deck to revel in the dual pleasures of the wind whipping our hair and the sun warming our 50-year-old skins.

Sharon and I have been friends for 40 years. We shared the drama that is middle school, the angst that is high school and the eventual settling that is adulthood. She coached me through a long night of exhausting labor and witnessed the birth of our daughter. I am godmother to her son. That's a lot of history.

As we stood on the deck that day, faces lifted to the sun and, no doubt, laughing, a man with a camera approached us and asked if he could take our picture. We giggled like the schoolgirls we once were.

"You two just look so happy to be together."

Another such moment occurred on Christmas Day of 2006. My dear Aunt Jenet, surrogate mom to me since my mother passed away, was visiting from out of state. It was her first trip to Alaska so my husband and I drove her out the road to show off a bit of Juneau's beauty, stopping at the Shrine of St. Therese. Arms linked, we helped her walk out the spit to that particularly lovely look out point beyond the chapel.

The day was dark and drizzly, but absolutely still. Within five minutes, two pair of humpbacks appeared in the channel, not more than 100 yards offshore. Tail flukes raised dramatically as they dove out of sight. Then, no fewer than 50 sea lions swam up and congregated on the rocks below our lookout ledge. I considered trying to explain to my aunt her good luck. But, what really mattered is that she got to experience it. I think of this moment fairly often, actually - the fortune of being in just that spot, at just that time, with just those people.

These moments don't always involve other people. Recently, I was in the San Jacinto Mountains of Southern California to collect our son after his first year away at school.

During the day, while he was taking his final exams, I had time to stroll around the small town of Idyllwild nestled amongst cedars and oaks at 6,000 feet elevation. It was Memorial Day and the mood of this mile-high village was festive. The smell of barbecue caught my attention, along with the sound of a live band. Following my senses, I found my way to the source.

Jo'An's Family Restaurant was offering a Memorial Day picnic for ten bucks a plate in the center of town. It wasn't yet noon and they were working to fill the outdoor seating.

"Come on!" the hostess called out to me, "I know you want that barbecue."

I circled a few times deciding if I really wanted to join the public picnic. I had food back at the cabin I was renting. I'm self-conscious about eating in restaurants by myself. But the sun was shining after a weekend of unseasonable snow, rain and fog and I succumbed to the temptation of a half-rack of ribs.

"Okay. Sure. I'll have the ribs."

The waitress set before me a plate stacked with ribs, corn on the cob and coleslaw. These are foods to be enjoyed without the benefit of conversation. Finger food at its best, with butter and sauce dripping down the chin and food caught in the teeth. I took my time. I had nowhere to be. No one needed me. No one was waiting for me.

The waitress saw me enjoying my private feast of food and sun and smiled, "You eat those ribs, girl."

I gave her a closed-mouth smile, signaled a "thumbs up", and knew it was one of those moments to be savored.

• Carol Prentice is caught in the middle of work, life and family in Juneau.