I had a birthday earlier and it was a most unusual affair. I didn't enjoy the company of anyone else in person, and except for the morning stroll to the head of my driveway to pick up my morning Washington Post, I didn't leave my house the entire day.
After a desultory morning during which I enjoyed my usual two cups of coffee and watched the news about how dire our current situation and how endless were our dismal prospects for escaping our self-imposed and self-dealt quarantine (no tests), I had my "party" at noon by making myself and enjoying a special sandwich made of braunschweiger, a liverwurst pate, and mayonnaise seasoned liberally with coarse ground pepper and sea salt. It was a glorious party, like something out of the Mad Hatter's realm, although during the day I did have several phone calls from relatives and friends wishing me a happy birthday, with more than one refrain of Happy Birthday sung to me over the phone.
That was it, happy birthday to you, cha-cha-cha as the Beatles song goes.
You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you
I want to thank my sisters, my girlfriend, and my other friends who called for their well wishes and good cheer as I hurtle towards my seventies. And as I approach sooner rather than later my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil, I'm also so glad that I fostered three children (now adults) and wiped their bottoms and drove them to school and helped with their homework and coached them in soccer (bleh) all those years and provided for payment of full tuition and fees for college and during this deadly pandemic, they have expressed nary a word of concern or care about how I am, as always.
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