August 8
August 8 is my one of my favorite days of the year. It is the birthday of not one, but two of my favorite people, and I love birthdays!
Most people I talk with—most over the age of 12, anyway—do not share my enthusiasm. I’ve heard the usual arguments: Many folks point out that age doesn’t really tell much about a person’s maturity or wisdom, or even life expectancy. They say that counting years on an arbitrarily human-made calendar is just silly when you take a closer look—why is it such a big deal if I am “31” today, but I was “only 30” yesterday? And finally, many complain, ticking off each year of one’s life often feels more like a countdown to death than a cause for celebration.
They have valid points. I love birthdays still. For me, it is not the counting of years that makes birthdays special. It’s that each person’s birthday is an annual reminder of the amazing, extremely unlikely fact that this individual was born at all, and the even more impressive fact that he or she has continued to stay alive for so long. Every birthday is a reason to look at someone you love and realize how grateful you are that they are exactly who they are, and that you have the honor of knowing them. I tend to refer to my own birthday, January 27, as Anita Day, and on that day, I expect all of my friends to acknowledge the quirky uniqueness that is me. In fact, I get quite depressed if my birthday goes unheralded. This is it! This is the one great day when everyone is reminded to really look at me and stand in awe of the miracle of my particular life! Better yet, every one of us has a day just like this, every year! As Dr. Seuss wrote in The Birthday Book, it is the day to, “shout up at the sky, ‘Me! I am I! And I may not know why, but I know that I like it! Three cheers! I am I!’” Still, few people truly understand my love of birthdays. I generally work out the big packet of disappointment that grows in my heart every January 27 by spending the rest of the year making far too big a deal of everyone else’s birthdays.
My good friend Janette, born August 8, 1955, knows just how I feel. This August 8, she turned 50, and this year she decided to make sure that Janette Day was done up right. She ordered catered barbeque and three cases of wine, then wrote up an invitation asking everyone to bring their favorite side dish to share. She sent it out to all of her local friends here in Colorado, the entire company she works for, her mother and her brother and his whole family, friends from her days living in California, and her nationwide creative writing group, who meet over the internet. On the Saturday before August 8, she put on her sparkliest outfit and opened her doors. Sixty-two people from all over the country filled her house and spilled into the back yard, meeting and greeting, joking around, giving gifts, eating cake, playing glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, and most importantly, remarking upon all the glory that is Janette. I was particularly happy to be part of her fan club that Janette Day.
My dear friend Ron, born August 8, 1967, does not share our view of birthdays, but he knows and likes me well enough to be amused by my giddiness. For his birthday, I mailed a paper card and sent an email one, even though I knew he’d be out of town and unlikely to read them until days later. When I called him on his cell phone to remind him how happy I am to know him, he told me he was in the middle of shooting a video of Klaaske, his best friend’s mother, as she talked about her particular philosophy of life. He’d already told me why he was in California: His best friend, Françoise, who has been such since they met in college nearly 20 years ago, has also been his roommate for most of their adult lives. Together, they have lived in California, Germany, Holland, and Colorado, and visited six of the seven continents. Her family considers him a part of the clan; her nieces play with him as if her were an uncle. And Klaaske, his mother too in many ways, has just been diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic stomach cancer. Her doctors tell her that chemotherapy is an option, but probably won’t make enough of a difference to be worth the suffering and loss of quality time. Time is at a premium now: they have declared that she has a few weeks to live. Françoise’s sister, nieces, and stepfather, all of whom live near Klaaske, are staying close by to savor every last moment they have with her. Ron, Françoise, and friends and family from across the country have flown out to see her, to hear her, to admire her one last time. They are making videos and audio recordings, taking pictures, trying to save every hint of her that they can.
As I see it, Klaaske is having a birthday writ large. All of the people who know her have the blessing of knowing how little time they have left to enjoy her before it’s too late. I wonder how many of them have been building up to this by celebrating her a little bit when the reminder day comes around every year, and how many of them are trying to catch up by expressing all of their admiration in a few short weeks.
However large a label comes with each one—“32,” “40,” “60,” “83”—I will always be grateful when my birthday rolls around every year. I am even more grateful that every person I love has a birthday, so that I won’t forget to celebrate them all before my chance has past. Happy birthday to Ron and Janette, and Klaaske too, and to everyone who has the pleasure of knowing them!
Most people I talk with—most over the age of 12, anyway—do not share my enthusiasm. I’ve heard the usual arguments: Many folks point out that age doesn’t really tell much about a person’s maturity or wisdom, or even life expectancy. They say that counting years on an arbitrarily human-made calendar is just silly when you take a closer look—why is it such a big deal if I am “31” today, but I was “only 30” yesterday? And finally, many complain, ticking off each year of one’s life often feels more like a countdown to death than a cause for celebration.
They have valid points. I love birthdays still. For me, it is not the counting of years that makes birthdays special. It’s that each person’s birthday is an annual reminder of the amazing, extremely unlikely fact that this individual was born at all, and the even more impressive fact that he or she has continued to stay alive for so long. Every birthday is a reason to look at someone you love and realize how grateful you are that they are exactly who they are, and that you have the honor of knowing them. I tend to refer to my own birthday, January 27, as Anita Day, and on that day, I expect all of my friends to acknowledge the quirky uniqueness that is me. In fact, I get quite depressed if my birthday goes unheralded. This is it! This is the one great day when everyone is reminded to really look at me and stand in awe of the miracle of my particular life! Better yet, every one of us has a day just like this, every year! As Dr. Seuss wrote in The Birthday Book, it is the day to, “shout up at the sky, ‘Me! I am I! And I may not know why, but I know that I like it! Three cheers! I am I!’” Still, few people truly understand my love of birthdays. I generally work out the big packet of disappointment that grows in my heart every January 27 by spending the rest of the year making far too big a deal of everyone else’s birthdays.
My good friend Janette, born August 8, 1955, knows just how I feel. This August 8, she turned 50, and this year she decided to make sure that Janette Day was done up right. She ordered catered barbeque and three cases of wine, then wrote up an invitation asking everyone to bring their favorite side dish to share. She sent it out to all of her local friends here in Colorado, the entire company she works for, her mother and her brother and his whole family, friends from her days living in California, and her nationwide creative writing group, who meet over the internet. On the Saturday before August 8, she put on her sparkliest outfit and opened her doors. Sixty-two people from all over the country filled her house and spilled into the back yard, meeting and greeting, joking around, giving gifts, eating cake, playing glow-in-the-dark Frisbee, and most importantly, remarking upon all the glory that is Janette. I was particularly happy to be part of her fan club that Janette Day.
My dear friend Ron, born August 8, 1967, does not share our view of birthdays, but he knows and likes me well enough to be amused by my giddiness. For his birthday, I mailed a paper card and sent an email one, even though I knew he’d be out of town and unlikely to read them until days later. When I called him on his cell phone to remind him how happy I am to know him, he told me he was in the middle of shooting a video of Klaaske, his best friend’s mother, as she talked about her particular philosophy of life. He’d already told me why he was in California: His best friend, Françoise, who has been such since they met in college nearly 20 years ago, has also been his roommate for most of their adult lives. Together, they have lived in California, Germany, Holland, and Colorado, and visited six of the seven continents. Her family considers him a part of the clan; her nieces play with him as if her were an uncle. And Klaaske, his mother too in many ways, has just been diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic stomach cancer. Her doctors tell her that chemotherapy is an option, but probably won’t make enough of a difference to be worth the suffering and loss of quality time. Time is at a premium now: they have declared that she has a few weeks to live. Françoise’s sister, nieces, and stepfather, all of whom live near Klaaske, are staying close by to savor every last moment they have with her. Ron, Françoise, and friends and family from across the country have flown out to see her, to hear her, to admire her one last time. They are making videos and audio recordings, taking pictures, trying to save every hint of her that they can.
As I see it, Klaaske is having a birthday writ large. All of the people who know her have the blessing of knowing how little time they have left to enjoy her before it’s too late. I wonder how many of them have been building up to this by celebrating her a little bit when the reminder day comes around every year, and how many of them are trying to catch up by expressing all of their admiration in a few short weeks.
However large a label comes with each one—“32,” “40,” “60,” “83”—I will always be grateful when my birthday rolls around every year. I am even more grateful that every person I love has a birthday, so that I won’t forget to celebrate them all before my chance has past. Happy birthday to Ron and Janette, and Klaaske too, and to everyone who has the pleasure of knowing them!
posted by Anita @ 9:32 PM
1 Comments:
At 7:55 PM,
Anita said…
Aw, thanks, Safed Chuha! I hope this means that you don't mind reading about that Ron character. He won't show up again in today's post, but he figures prominently in the upcoming Men Are Like Rats, in which he is a bit accident prone, but holds the key to enlightenment. I'll probably post that one tomorrow.
Now I must go read about Libertarianism at the very prolific R.J. Zimmerman's blog, Traveling Hypothesis. I'll also figure out how to link to it.
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