The Chill of Winter

As another birthday looms, I feel the chill of winter against my skin, and I determinedly focus on the words of Gloria Steinem, “80 is about mortality, not just aging.”  Still the ghosts of birthdays past cling to my memories.

The early ones in the springtime of my life, were spent with a still young vibrant Father, who insisted on an annual party for his firstborn.   He purchased the decorations, filled an iron tub with apples for bobbing, and had a litany of ghost stories to share with the young guests.  My Mother, a reluctant party giver in those Depression years, however, was the one who insisted all the children on the block be included on the guest list.  That was a lesson I have never forgotten.   When the party was over, the young visitors had departed and the remnants of the white iced German pound cake remained on the table, I didn’t think about the next day, I only remembered what fun we had at my party.

My 21st  birthday was celebrated with the Prince I had only dared to dream about in a Midwestern city a week after our marriage.  His gift came snuggled in a leather pouch - a string of pearls that still nestle in my jewelry box.  The gift of his love, however, was one that never dimmed despite the years that followed.  At the end of that memorable day we spent together, I never thought about the next day, I only gave thanks for the miracle of sharing our lives and love.

During the years that followed, the birthdays of my summer were filled with chaotic laughter, paper plates with chocolate icing dripping down the sides, four loveable youngsters bringing homemade gifts, and handwritten notes that have never faded throughout the years.  Those moments were the ones when the days never seemed to accumulate quickly, but in retrospect sped by with the rapidity of a jet flight.  In the evening as I cleaned up the kitchen, and carefully put the homemade cards into my desk, I only remembered the joy of the day, gave thanks for the blessing of my family, and never contemplated my tomorrows. Such good years, but not unencumbered with more responsibility than I ever anticipated.  Today I still wonder how they disappeared so quickly into the twilight of life, and wish I could have kept them the way I did the handwritten notes, the pearls and the memories.

The birthdays of autumn were more tranquil; memorable when the family would gather from the four corners of the country.  It didn’t happen every year, but when it did, it was akin to another miracle.  The house would virtually burst at the seams with laughter, confusion and just a bit, a mite perhaps, of controversy.  When the time came to say adieu once more, I would attempt to remember only the laughter and the joy throughout the night, and forget to worry about any tomorrows or more goodbyes.

And now as I think about the upcoming birthday of my winter, I find myself without the comfort of my lover, but enveloped in the joy of the many blessings we shared in the years God gave us.  I take out the handwritten notes of my yesterdays, and rejoice in the independence and strength of four adult children.  I remember all those who shared so many birthday cakes and so much of my life, and once again, I can only be grateful.   The voices that chimed in the Happy Birthdays of time gone by are quiet, but still resound loud and clear in my heart and now blend with young ones I never dared to imagine.  So I refuse to worry about tomorrow.  My yesterdays were too beautiful and so very blessed.