My Dad’s birthday was last week. It would have slipped away unnoticed, but only because I forget birthdays just like my Dad did when he was here.
While that sounds odd, and might indicate there is some sadness or bitterness, there is none; none at all. That’s why my Dad had my Mom.
In my case, my sisters all remembered, mentioning it to me in our group text.
After being advised it was one of his kids’ or his grandkids’ birthdays, he’d make a point to call. When you answered, he’d say, “H B, Son!” addressing the birthday recipient by their specific name, using the initials of the phrase ‘Happy Birthday,’ then giving you a synopsis of what he remembered about your actual day of birth.
In my case, he came off the police beat in the City of Auburn, Maine, his Sgt. cutting him loose early so he could come see his wife and meet his son.
He always told me that story on my birthday, and that’s what I waited for, but only after my Mom would remind him that this was the day.
I think he would appreciate that I forgot his birthday, giving him some hope that I was still displaying genetic traits, just like him, and in turn, remembering more details about a personal event rather than just the rote memorization of a month and date.
When I was a kid, and my mother was away, Dad often would make us grilled cheese sandwiches. He wasn’t a cook, not beyond really great breakfasts and the occasional steak, or steaming a couple of lobsters that my Brother-in-Law would bring up from the island when he came for an overnight.
All those memories coursed through my mind last night when I reviewed the contents of the refrigerator.
The grilled cheese (always called “toasted cheese” at our house) went down well. Oddly, he switched from regular Coke to Diet about twenty years ago, and he always referred to that as “DC.”
Strange, the things you remember after you forget.
Have a wonderful Saturday.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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