AUGUST 7, 2020 – That applies to me but also to my bro-in-law “GK.” In further coincidence, he was born in the same hospital as was his wife, my younger sister, years later—a converted Victorian house on Ferry Street in Anoka, Minnesota. You could tell it was a hospital: a modestly sized, bluish neon “HOSPITAL” sign hung on a (slightly tilted) black pole out front.
Technically, today is neither GK’s “birthday” nor my own. As I learned early from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, from which the rector recited each Sunday a prayer for people celebrating their “birthdays” in the coming week, each person’s Big Day is the “anniversary of one’s birth.” A person has only one “birthday”—“Born Again” people, I suppose, being exceptions that prove the rule.
When I was a kid, one’s “Golden Birthday” (the birthday when you turn an age that coincides with the date) was a particularly big deal. When I turned seven on this date eons ago, I thought it was the optimal Golden Birthday. I was thankful that I hadn’t been born on August 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, or 6, which would’ve been a case of “youth being wasted on youth.” Really, how could a little kid appreciate an early Golden Birthday? At the other extreme, I was grateful that I wouldn’t have to wait forever for my Golden Birthday—in my more charitable moments, I felt sorry for my younger sister, whose Golden Birthday wouldn’t arrive until she was ancient (26). I also felt sorry for my best friend, who’d turned seven on July 8—he’d have to wait almost forever before his Golden Birthday.
As I draw closer to my “golden years,” my Golden Birthday becomes a more distant memory. The highlight of that old occasion was my mother’s arranging for the “Cloverleaf Creamery” birthday stagecoach to give rides around the neighborhood.
Just when the din of a dozen kids wearing party hats had reached the max, a flatbed “Cloverleaf” truck—bearing the brightly painted promotional stagecoach and hauling a horse trailer—pulled up in front of our house. The coach accommodated six kids at a time, and Mom made me wait for the second ride. “I know it’s your birthday,” she said to the impatient birthday boy, “but the polite thing to do is let your guests go first.” My “politeness” was rewarded by the happy coincidence that I got to sit next to Debbie M., on whom I’d developed somewhat of a crush, mainly because she lived next door to and was close friends with Barbie J., who was not only cute and smart but by all appearances, fabulously rich.
May such memories (as well those of shorter term!) remain intact as I continue to add candles to my annual “anniversary of my birth” cake . . . until at 100 I’m down to a single candle in the middle of . . . a “birthday” . . . cupcake . . . presented after dinner “at the home” by a cute, smart, fabulously rich staff member whose Golden Birthday is in her future.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
