May 26, 2020 — I wear my hair short, in the same Pixie cut I wore as a toddler. My hair is unreasonably thick and unruly, and five cowlicks means it goes where it wants to go. My hair doesn’t grow longer, just wider. My mother — God rest her soul — tried taming it by […]
I celebrate another trip around the sun today. Either I’m 36 (what my head says), or I’m 163 (what my body says). Since my mother died, the week before my special day is always filled with weeping and grief. Though this mini depression happens every year, it still surprises me. This year was no exception, and mixed in the salad was a sadness about not being able to see my father, who will be 90 in December. Stir in his deteriorating short-term memory, and I felt like crying.
Today I woke up grateful, happy to be alive, thankful we’ve had my Dad for so long. I’m ready to start a new year. God willing, Herman and I will celebrate another anniversary this fall, and our son is happy in his life out east. We have shelter and plenty of food and exciting hobbies. I’ve already been showered with Facebook messages, texts, cards I will open this afternoon, and profoundly touching email messages from the Mazda dealership and the Ball State University Foundation. Oh, and I must not forget the email from Pat and Vanna and the Wheel Watchers Club.
I will grill sirloins, followed by several Zooms with dear ones, culminating in one with our son.
We miss our son every day, but are thankful he has a wonderful life, even so far away from us. Losing our annual June baseball trip was hard. While I didn’t attend the games, I enjoyed our meals together and late-night bull sessions about everything under the sun. A never-to-be-spoken-of-again unfortunate incident with a Tall Boy and the Hot Sun ended my baseball career 23 years ago today at Riverfront Stadium.
One of the many losses of this pandemic has been the Great American Pastime, Major League Baseball. I could not have predicted how much I would miss baseball, how it is the rhythm of my life, and the background noise of every summer. It’s the thread that weaves my father to my husband and our son. When I became engaged to a Reds fan, my Cubs-fan-to-the-death Dad said, “Well, at least it isn’t the American League.” I used to say that the perfect moment of death would be sitting about halfway up between home and third base at Wrigley, below Harry throwing out his mic to lead the singing crowd, and drinking a cold beer. In marriage, I had to accept the horror that was Riverfront Stadium.
Today, on my birthday, is the official start of the 2020 baseball season. The Cubs played last night, and the Reds don’t play until tomorrow, but the World Champion Nationals (my third team after the Reds and Cubs) play today.
A summer birthday offers both disadvantages and advantages. As a child, I couldn’t have a party at school. Back then, before the Peloponnesian War, children brought homemade cupcakes to school to share with the entire class. My mother, who was the queen of birthdays, gave the best parties, the iconic little girl party with pink party dresses. She wasn’t the most excellent cook, so she had a friend, Blanche Hathaway, make an angel food cake with boiled icing. Never heard of boiled icing. It’s the best, sort of colorless and turns hard like fondant, but not as sweet. We played games with Life Savers and string, and whatever my mother, who was a teacher, could make from home.
Even as we age, we like for the world to stop and give us recognition for our special day. Of course, that doesn’t always happen. My 21st birthday was spent at Lutheran Hospital, where my grandfather was being treated for a heart attack. On my 45th birthday, we had to short-circuit a vacation because our water heater broke and flooded our basement. Several years ago, on my birthday, my father gave my husband and I our 164th tour of Purdue University. We were glad to be with him, though neither of us attended Purdue.
The good ones have been outstanding. On my 35th birthday, I saw an all-Gershwin musical “Crazy for You” at the Schubert Theatre in New York City. On my 52nd birthday, I saw a revival of “West Side Story” again in New York. This was the Tony-winning production, using Spanish for the first time. Back at the Schubert for my 60th birthday, we saw Bette Midler in a stunning revival of “Hello, Dolly.”
On my 18th birthday, shortly before we all left for college, my friend Gail and her mom surprised me with a birthday luncheon at their home. On my 50th birthday, I hosted a fundraiser/celebration for friends, and we raised more than 4K for playground equipment at the Easter Seals Rehabilitation Center, where our son attended pre-school. I have a beautiful picture from that day, hanging on my office wall. That day was filled with much love.
While I hope to live many more years, one never knows. If a bus hits me tomorrow (highly unlikely since I rarely leave home.) Let’s start over; if a meteor smashes through my office window, I have lived the best life because I’ve never doubted that I’m loved. Everything else is a bonus. And, honestly, I would accept another tour of Purdue, if only if we could be with Dad today, (“That’s where the Dairy Barn was 70 years ago!”) Thank you, my dear ones, for all the wishes today, and especially, for love.