Growing up

Worst birthday ever

I’ve had two really terrible birthdays in my life. The last of these was 36 years ago.

I was depressed because I had convinced myself everyone else had their life figured out by age 30.

Because I was only two years out of college (it’s a long story), had no money and wasn’t married, I felt like I was failing at life. Despite a nice party, I went into a major sulk and started my 30th year with one of the all-time great hangovers.

In time I saw I was doing fine. Eventually I realized life was pretty good. And it only continued to improve.

That was the last time my birthday made me depressed.

But, that was not the saddest birthday of my life. That was the day I turned ten.

November 25, 1963.

I had been excited about this birthday. It had a number with two digits! Big stuff.

There would be presents!

CAKE!

Singing!

Lots of attention FOR ME!

CAKE!

It didn’t exactly work out that way. Three days before my birthday, in Dallas Texas, the President of the United States was murdered.

Suddenly, everyone I knew was sad. I was puzzled at first. After all, my parents were Nixon Republicans and I’d never heard a good word about President Kennedy spoken by either of them. So, I was surprised by my mother’s crying.

The assassination occurred on a Friday. Instead of preparations for my party, the weekend was spent in front of the television, where there was only one thing on; coverage of and reaction to, the assassination.

To a ten year old, there was a sameness to all I saw on the small black and white screen in our living room. I couldn’t understand why the news people kept repeating  information and showing the same pictures.

Things took a turn for the unexpected on Sunday, when alleged gunman Lee Harvey Oswald was, for reasons never adequately explained, marched through a crowded hallway at the police station, where he was shot by (choose one):

A) a distraught local resident,
B) a patriotic American,
C) a strip club owner who wanted to ensure Oswald didn’t implicate the Mafia.

There were presents and cake on my birthday (they’d already been purchased) but no joy. Rather than the attention I had anticipated, the focus was on President Kennedy’s funeral. The ceremony was overwhelmingly sad and, at times, sent chills down my spine, like when the riderless horse, with backward boots in the stirrups, was led down Pennsylvania Avenue as part of the funeral procession.

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That weekend, I experienced crushing sadness for the first time. There would be more to come, of course. It was the first of those things that happen that make you think, “I will never get over this.”

And you don’t. Tragedy is indelible.

Yet, life goes on.

– – –

On the eve of my 66th birthday it was pointed out to me, “You’re just one “6” away from Satan.”

Is that any way for a child to talk to her father?

This will be a pretty good birthday. So will each of those to come.

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