2010: My Thirtieth Birthday

Thirty is a monumental year. More so than twenty. I have yet to see what forty, or fifty, or even sixty may be like. Very different from thirty, no doubt. When I turned thirty, I was still single and free to do what I liked. I definitely will not have that liberty in five years when forty rolls around…

Which is why I spent my thirtieth birthday in New Hampshire. I had moved to Texas six months before it and I was not about to spent that monumental occasion in 70 degree temps without a hope for snow or even a spring thaw. I packed my bags and flew north where it was snowing when I arrived…and snowed a couple of times again before I left. Exactly what I wanted for my thirtieth.

There was the usual spring thaw. Katey and I drove down to Newport, Rhode Island on my actual birthday. We called it a pilgrimage – visiting the place where I was born thirty years later. Of course, the house I lived in isn’t there anymore (an old rumor says it was moved somewhere else, not torn down). Neither is the hospital (well, the building is there and is apparently even haunted but it’s no longer in use). So, we visited a few mansions, and had clam chowder at the Black Pearl, and walked around town, and enjoyed an Awful Awful at the Newport Creamery. All without the need of a jacket, but that made for a rather pleasant day in Newport.

I celebrated with the Wilkins and Walker clans as well. Allyson’s little boy Seth’s birthday is three days before mine, so I was invited to join in the festivities. He certainly got the better toys! But I had a walk down memory lane when I celebrated later with Katey, Scott and Daniel. Katey got me thirty things from the 1980s. Remember Care Bears? Puff paint? Jellies? We had some good laughs.

Truly, my thirtieth birthday is probably one of my favorite birthdays. I enjoyed turning thirty – anything to get out of the decade of the twenties which had not been fun. And I spent it in places I love with people I love. You can’t ask for more than that.

Katey and I at the Breakers in Newport.

1996: My Sweet Sixteen Birthday

One of the hardest moves I ever made was from Connecticut to Massachusetts in 1994. Perhaps because we had lived in Connecticut for a record-breaking three years and one month. Within that period of time, we had found a church we loved and friends we were close to. And we moved to the middle of nowhere where our church was a distance away and we lived there for less than two years, hardly time to make friends. I can look back and say it was a stepping stone to the move we would make the spring after my 16^th birthday to Texas. Because going from Connecticut to Texas would have been worse.

For my 15^th birthday, six months after our move to Massachusetts, Katey and I went to stay with friends in Connecticut for several days. And they threw me a surprise bowling party. The next year, however, I wouldn’t have a birthday party. Or so I thought.

Yes, I had a pity party that Friday of my birthday. My only excuse is that I’m a selfish human being. Because, honestly, I had had my share of birthday parties and lots of people had sent me cards for my Sweet Sixteen. In comparison to my siblings as they each reached sixteen later on, I was quite blessed. But I’m human. And having to clean the house on your birthday instead of celebrate isn’t fun. Not to mention having to put on a coat (it was just cold enough for one – there was a thaw that day as usual) and walk to the post office. For someone who would run miles for fun a decade later, I made a big fuss over walking a mile to get the mail.

Knowing me, I probably did one of two things on that walk with Katey: 1) gave her the cold shoulder or 2) complained loudly of my lot in life. I don’t remember. I just remember coming back a half later and finding a house decorated for my birthday and Kerri-Lynn, Katrina and Leah from Connecticut yelling, “Surprise!”

My 16^th birthday would be my last “party”. Subsequent moves and growing older changed things as one would expect. And thanks to my parents and especially Katey, it was a memorable one. Thanks!

Me being surprised!

Today I’m 35…

No, really? I can’t be!

1991: My Eleventh Birthday

There is something terribly cruel about loving winter, having a winter birthday and yet a spring thaw arrives every time your birthday rolls around. Such is my life. There is nothing I would love more than a foot of snow tumbling down on February 21^st, giving me a day to stay indoors with a good book while I watch the winter wonderland outside. In most places I’ve lived, that shouldn’t be an impossibility. After all, it is still a whole month until the spring equinox. And yet you can bet that on February 21^st, no matter where I am in the world, there will be spring thaw. No snow. No need for a coat. In fact, you can probably go swimming.

My mom has always known this little fact, but that has never caused her to discourage the girl who would like to go sledding, or ice skating, or have hot chocolate for her birthday. In 1991, it was no different. I wanted an ice skating party. We lived in front of a golf course, so it was simple to take your skates and go enjoy the iced over ponds throughout the New Hampshire winters. My mom said that was fine. I invited four friends: Bridget, Laura, Betsy and Lauren. It was all set. Until spring arrived.

I’m sure we had more freezing days of ice and snow after the Friday and Saturday of my party that year, but for that weekend we saw weather inviting the robins back early. A spring weekend like you would see in April – temperatures that didn’t required a coat at all. Which equals no ice. Anywhere. For ice skating.

Disappointment would probably be an understatement, although my wonderful mother took it as she always did. You can’t change this problem, so you square your shoulders, don’t complain and make the best of it. We called my friends and asked them to bring their roller skates. After all, we had a driveway to die for when it came to bikes and skates. And, in the end, it was a wonderful 11^th birthday.

Me, Lauren, Laura, Betsy and Bridget

1983: My Third Birthday

Perhaps it would be fun to tell of my first birthday when I got my own Mickey Mouse cake. But I honestly don’t remember anything about it, only things from it. (Like my Big Bird stocking cap.) I don’t imagine most people remember their first birthday, though. Or their second. My memories begin after that, about the time my sister Katey was born when I was two-and-a-half. So, the first birthday I remember is my third one.

We lived in The Colony, Texas. At that time, The Colony was just neighborhoods built on the flat land of Texas that had probably been owned by some rancher (or two or three) at one time. Nothing like the enveloped part of the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex it is today. My parents tell me you could tell what sort of social class each person in The Colony belonged to by which of the three typical home styles they owned. I don’t remember our house, but we certainly weren’t at the top of those classes.

Truth be told, I don’t know remember my third birthday that clearly. I don’t recall what kind of cake I had (pictures show a clown cake that read “Sis” – my nickname then). My neighborhood friend Desi came over. (I do remember her – red hair, owned more Strawberry Shortcake things than I did and I later named my first cat after her.) And we hung balloons. That is what I remember: the balloons.

No, there was nothing special about them. No helium. Nothing fancy. My dad blew them up. I helped hang them. And learned from my dad a very interesting fact of science: if you rub a balloon on your head for a while the friction will not only make your hair stand on end but it will stick the balloon to the wall. And when you’re three, that is WAY cool!

Me and Desi.

Happy 27^th Birthday, Sally!