Anything is Possible

{Prompt: How did you celebrate your birthday}

My birthday is May 19th, and as you know, the month of May is undeniably the finest month of the year.

Clover and buttercups cover lawns far and wide, including the lawns of elementary schools throughout the city. The clover attracts the bumbling bumblebees, with their loopy flightpaths. And the buttercups attract impressionable children, who look for the yellow reflection of the flowers on their chins, testing the folklore that the flowers will reveal whether or not they like butter.

In May, the end of the school year is near at hand. The smell of honeysuckle and magnolia fills the air. Hot, humid nights are filled for a while with the flicker of fireflies, following a circuitous course, before landing on plants and children alike.

It’s a magical time, before Summer begins, when everything seems possible.

(Redbuds in bloom at my childhood school - Sherwood Bates)

And it’s reinforced on May the 19th, by the magic of the birthday wish, earned by the tricky task of blowing out all of the birthday candles with a single breath — an unsteady stream of turbulent air, focused by pursed lips and a full-chested exhalation, onto the wavering flames dancing atop the thin waxy candles of the birthday cake.

I know it’s just a ritual, but every year on my birthday, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I am celebrated.

I’m gifted a party, a cake, and an opportunity to wish — to dream of the most impossible things.

Childhood

For some of those years, in childhood, my birthday party included games and presents. The presents always seemed unnecessary… redundant. What could be better than a party, a cake, and a wish?

I recall playing “Pin the tail on the donkey” one year.

Another time, there was a piñata — dangling precariously as we all swung wildly with a dangerously hard batting stick.

I think there was a party at a skating rink.

I’m told that on one birthday, when I was very young, I was taken to the WRAL studio to join the kids on set for the filming of “Uncle Paul” — a local children’s show. I remember marching to the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai — a whistling, marching tune. Maybe that’s why I began to whistle.

And there was always a cake. I have no idea what type of cake was favored. I think it was always a surprise. Perhaps this was one of only a few baking days each year for my mom—a chance to try her hand at baking and frosting a cake. I helped with the baking by “cleaning” the bowl — licking up the remaining streaks of batter. I “helped” with the icing in a similar fashion.

Carrot cake with cream cheese icing is my favorite. Moist chocolate cake with chocolate icing is fantastic, but making it moist and delectable is a high bar to achieve.

On one birthday, an ice cream cake was requested… and provided. But I realize now that my help was never required in the kitchen. I was included in the prep—no wonder it didn’t taste as good.

Though I have no memory of planning my own party, my mother says that I planned my own once, when she was very busy with teaching, and my father was back in college. One child arrived for the party. And no one else showed up.

My party planning was not as great as I must have assumed. So my mom called her friend, Ginny Tharrington, who happened to have three boys, including her own son, playing at her house for the afternoon. So they all came over to my house to play for a while instead. Mom saved the day.

Birthday Cards

As I grew older, the parties and presents became a little embarrassing, and they gradually ended. With the end of the parties came the end of the cake, the candles, and the wish — an unfortunate sacrifice.

Instead of wrapped-up presents, I began to receive birthday cards with presents of monetary support and encouragement. There was always an inscription — a yearly reminder of my mother’s pride — a moment of reflection on the ways my life had enlivened her own.

I get them even at age sixty-one. This year it is an American Greetings card. It says, “Celebrate! When it comes to life’s good things — you deserve them all! Happy Birthday. Happiness Always.”

And my mother writes, in her left-handed style, “Keep on traveling. Joy to you and to all you meet on the way. Love always, Mom.”

After I married, Dianne began buying presents for me, sometimes arranging a birthday dinner or even a birthday dinner party. And she would send me cards of her own, amplifying the love and appreciation of my family.

I thought that a card and a wish would be enough. A party felt like too much. I preferred giving money or gifts to others on my birthday. I felt better celebrating our connections.

But I appreciated the effort that Dianne made (even though I was hard to please), to celebrate, or at least commemorate my day, on the 19th of May.

Birthday Trips.

Eventually I discovered that my birthday was the perfect excuse to go anywhere I wanted, for one weekend of the year. If I left town, I generally didn’t need to concern myself with a social gathering… with a party. I found that, with perfect legitimacy, I could go off to the North Carolina mountains and ride my bike, as long as we did it on my birthday weekend.

So that’s what we did. When I turned fifty, we went west, where I rode the Bridge to Bridge ride, from the town of Lenoir to the Swinging Bridge at the top of Grandfather Mountain, —101 miles of difficult cycling— an epic ride… a difficult ride… an emotional ride.

Grandfather mountain was meaningful for me because our family had been there once or twice to vacation when I was young, when my father was still alive. I had many miles to think of the fullness of my life. And many miles to wonder why I would be fool enough to ride up a mountainside… and then down… and then up it again. Still, I was in tears when I crossed the finish line.

But it became a tradition. Although the “Bridge to Bridge” ride ended, other rides took it’s place. The Beech Mountain Metric was a charity ride that fell on the weekend of my birthday in May. It would start in Valle Crucis, circle around to Banner Elk, and then head up to the top of Beech Mountain — a very, very difficult ride. I did it four or five times.

The mountains and valleys are so scenic that it is easy to forget that you are getting older — easy to transition from one year to the next. And if there is any celebration, It has most certainly been earned.

At age sixty, I rode the Assault on Mount Mitchell and at sixty-one, the Storming of Thunder Ridge — two militantly themed treks to aptly accompany my battle against time.

So now, instead of fanfare and wishes, I commemorate my birth with solitude, strenuous effort, and a form of wish fulfillment.

Still… others seem to enjoy sending cards and affirmations, preparing dinners, and throwing small celebrations, and I can’t say that I mind.

It reminds me that it’s my birthday…

It’s May…

And anything is possible.