Birthdays

About the same time that the number associated with a particular birthday becomes worrisome, you start to reminisce about earlier, more comfortable numbers, like the one five years ago today.  We had just finished Clare’s last summer of travel ball.

That she played at all was a surprise, but one of her new coaches at Elmhurst asked, and it was the kind of offer you don’t refuse.  In her first tournament, Clare hit a grand slam; the ball went so far Coach Mike had to wish it was spring already so he could watch the freshman face college pitching.  At nationals in Chattanooga, she whetted his appetite a little more by winning the homerun-hitting contest.  Once March arrived, the freshman would go about setting the school single-season record for home runs. 

Other birthdays come with other memories, one in particular when I turned nine; my sister Betty bought me a friction toy, an x-15 that sparked through openings in the middle.  A toy like that only comes around once in a life, as you can well imagine.  I’ve been looking for it on eBay since Betty died 5-1/2 years.

The cousins’ picnic on my father’s side of the family used to take place after my birthday, on the first weekend in August.  I hated having to make nice with people my dad grew up with; somehow, each one of them knew more about me than I did them.  The cousins are gone now, and I would give anything to have to endure another picnic.  At least Clare went often enough to grow fond of Bingo.

One time, a third cousin of mine showed up with her husband, a hotshot Chicago politician; his clout eventually went to jail, but he stayed free.  Anyhow, Mr. Alderman thought it would be fun to pitch to all the little kiddies, but he didn’t know about my 4-1/2 year old until she lined a ball into his stomach, twice.  Like they say in the commercial, How you like me now?

Some things you just can’t forget.