Two months from today is my birthday. I’m quirky about that. I notice every month how far it is in days to the next birthday or how far it was from the last. Maybe it’s because birthdays are special in my life.
This doesn’t mean that every one has to be celebrated high on the hog. Rather it means that I celebrate each one in a given way, regardless of what others do. In fact, I don’t expect a lot from family and friends beyond either calling me or emailing me and saying they remember the day. It’s not about money spent, but about thoughts offered up.
What do I do to make my day special? I do anything I want and I don’t do anything I don’t want. Most years I’ve refused to work at gainful employment. Most years I make sure I spend some part of the day on a beach, soaking in the sun and absorbing the joy of early summer. Most years I take time to remember past celebrations.
I credit my mother for this. When I was growing up, she had little money; but she always fussed over my birthday. “What do you want for your birthday?” she would ask, a couple months out. I’d think about it and give her a list of ideas, always including a special dinner either at home or in a restaurant. She always obliged me too, even when funds were short.
I remember one year when we went to the Bevo Mill for lobster; I remember another year when we had lobster at home. Both were exquisite, made so by her effort to grant my every wish. And part of every birthday dinner was a recalling of the chronology of other birthday years. Mother usually began.
“This time last year, we went to the beach,” she would say. “This time two years ago we went to the Bevo Mill.” And she would continue backwards as far as she could remember, which was impressively far.
Now she’s gone eleven years, so I’m left to do the counting myself. I don’t know what I’ll be doing on my next birthday yet, but I do know the countdown has begun because it’s two months from today.
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