Today two people who are very important to me celebrate their respective birthdays; and, for the past four years, it’s saddened me that they will always have to share their holiday with one of our nation’s tragedies.
If you’ve read the date, you understand.
Carol was my first best friend. In 1955, we met halfway through sixth grade at St. Louis Cathedral School in St. Louis, Missouri. She got there first, but I came shortly thereafter. Even then, we had more in common than merely being in the same grade.
Both our parents were divorced, and it’s possible we were the only children of divorced parents in the very traditional, uniform-oriented (in more ways than one), Catholic school we attended. In addition, we actually were biologically only children, females, and relatively intelligent. Which meant we really didn’t fit in. We just didn’t know it then.
Fast forward to 1968, long after Carol and I had finished grade school, conquered university life, met our mates, and started our journeys into adulthood. I had been married about three years when my son, Kevin, came along and chose to enter this world on September 11, even though he started his journey a full 36 hours earlier.
But who knew then that his birthday and one of our nation’s most significant catastrophes would coincide?
Now that the date lives in infamy, I make a special effort to touch base with Kevin and Carol on their joint birthday. I don’t want their birthdays to be diminished, because they still deserve the acknowledgments and the moment of silence while the birthday person makes a wish on the burning candles. We can’t return to pre-September 11, so I only hope that others who share the day as a birthday are honored too.
I shout “Happy Birthday” to all of you.
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