There’s a family joke about the day my mother was born. She wanted to get on everyone’s good side, so it goes, so she was born in her dad’s birth month (April), on her mom’s birth day (the 13th), *and it was payday.
The joke about my birthday, November 1st, is that if I’d been one day earlier, I would’ve been a witch.
We didn’t have any jokes, per se, about my dad’s birthday, but he and his four brothers were all born in December. The girls were born in April and September.
I don’t remember any big birthday celebrations growing up. There was one time when I was a bit older and got taken to a fancy restaurant. My memory is that it was called The Trawler and was in the shape of a ship. This would most likely have been the last time we lived in Charleston, South Carolina, so between 1977 and 1979. (If it sounds familiar to you and I have the name wrong, please let me know.) It was the first time I ever had leftovers wrapped in foil in the shape of a swan. I was so impressed.
My husband and I would usually go out to eat on (or near) my birthday. This year, of course, marked the second year of not doing anything special. I know lots of vaccinated people are dining at restaurants and going to theatres and not getting sick, but we’re not ready to take the chance.
I hate that we’re having to live through this time of plague, but I look back at what our ancestors endured through the years of World War II, the Great Depression, and other terrible global events, and in comparison, we really don’t have it that bad.
I do hope that next year, my immediate family will all still be healthy, and we’ll be able to go out and celebrate our birthdays in style.