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.
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