I hate my birthday.
Only only have two recollections of birthdays in my childhood. One was when we (meaning myself, my cousins, the Blondin kids and the hippie chick that lived on the other side of the block - Gabbie) had an egg-in-spoon race at my Grandma Mom's house. I didn't win. I did get to choose between angels food or devils food cake. I remember giving the choice a great deal of thought, but don't recall my final decision.
On my eighth birthday we went fishing on the Dona, same grandparent's 83-foot, three-story, WWII subchaser. I sat on my rubber mat on the front of the boat, after riding several hours to the lucky fishing grounds aboard my trusty white steed who was affectionately named the watertank. I would take my sturdy halibut pole and drop the heavy lew-john to the bottom of the deep blue ocean. Eight cranks. Fish on.
After filling up my metal garbage can to the brim with rock fish in less than an hour, I settled back to listen to the birds, watch the jelly fish float by, and sketch the landscape on the back of paper plates. Every plate was a masterpiece that my Grandmother would hold in great esteem before handing me a new one filled with her fried chicken, potato salad, and homemade rolls. It is one of my favorite memories.
My sixteenth birthday sticks out as mostly uneventful. Every girl in school was bragging up her Sweet 16 party, the one that was well attended and highlighted by a new car from her parents, diamond stud earrings, a trip to Hawaii or some other bragworthy gift. Sean Hess gave me the latest Human League LP, my cousin Kim followed suit with Fire Lake. Unfortunately, I didn't have a record player at the time. A handful of my classmates showed up at my mother's home in Eagle River and left within half-an-hour when they discovered the party that wasn't. I don't even recall having a cake.
Eighteen. Provo, Utah. Best summer with great roommates, and the best cake - pecan cake made from pecans from Joseph's family orchard in Florida. Lovely party surrounding my roommates and their friends eating this lovely cake, then ditching me for the symphony. My cool-as-hell natural woman from Oregon roomie, Leslie Cantwell, stayed behind and took me to see a showing of Disney's Jungle Book at a vintage theater. Bless her for that.
2001 no one even said the words "happy birthday" to me on my birthday, and I spent the entire day with my family in Seward.
I even asked my grandmother out to dinner, so I wouldn't have to eat by myself, and she spent the entire meal talking about how she couldn't decide what to buy my cousin Kim for her birthday - which was a month away.
The next day my father came down to go fishing. My mother coyly asked him if he remembered to wish me happy birthday, which he had earlier that afternoon. It became obvious fairly quickly that mom had forgotten exactly what day my birthday landed on. Pops got a good chuckle off of that one.
2002 was in Holton, Michigan. My elderly cousin was gracious to pull some frozen cake out to present me with a candle to blow. Pretty sharp considering she only knew me for a few hours. There is a certain cleverness that comes with age that wasn't wasted in that moment. My Irish beau showed up and hand-delivered the only card he ever gave me for any occasion in the half-a-dozen years we had known each other. It was a truly beautiful card, and a truly beautiful gesture.
2003 was in Seldovia and Anchorage, Alaska and the longest and largest birthday celebration - because it was scheduled at the same time as my high school reunion. I had a birthday dinner at Jens and a second dinner at Orso, both well attended by lifelong friends and family who didn't know each other.
Then some of us zipped over to Seldovia to brave Kachemak Bay sea kayaking. I grabbed hold of a line trailing from the kayak next to me just as they took a stroke - which sent me into the water. I don't swim and my access to the inflate valve on my lifevest was covered by my kayak bib. I survived, but it was a bit traumatizing.
2004 was another non-event, like most years have been. As my father sez, Just Another Damn Day.
This year I have a city council meeting on my birthday. That should be a party. Wa-hoo.
I keep having people ask me what I want for my birthday, and they always are disappointed with the answer. I want some top soil for my Hamptons House. I know this sounds like a difficult gift to wrap, but if I had some topsoil I could plant flowers that would last me the rest of my lifetime. Topsoil is a great gift. And you can get virgin, clean, screened, certified organic, seaweed-infused soil delivered from just down Nash Road a half-mile by calling Dave at 907.224.3097.
1 comment:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Dorene. Mine is at the end of the month, on the 27th.
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