Happy New Year Nineteen

Shout loud, “I am lucky to be what I am!
Thank goodness I’m not just a clam or a ham
Or a dusty old jar of sour gooseberry jam!
I am what I am! That’s a great thing to be!
If I say so myself, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!"~Dr. Seuss

 

Trixie’s birthday is the first of May. No one forgets it. Not ever.

Mart’s birthday is the first of June. No one forgets it. Not ever. Not that Mart would let anyone forget his birthday, but that’s another story.

My birthday is the first of January. Everyone forgets it. Every year.

Naturally this year was no exception. Everyone wished me a happy new year, but once again, not one single happy birthday. Not a freaking one. You’d think having a birthday on New Year’s Day would help people remember, it’s a good day to celebrate and it would give people an extra reason to celebrate the first day of the year.

Nope, not a chance. Everyone is too busy wishing everyone else a happy new year.

I’m pretty sure my Dad has never forgiven me for not being born five minutes earlier. He wanted me to be the last baby born that year, instead of being the first baby born at a scant five minutes past midnight. Not even the basket of baby gifts from Crimper’s Department Store and the savings bond the bank gave my parents seemed to make it up to Dad for missing the tax deduction of an extra dependent when he filed his taxes that year.

Don’t get me wrong, Dad’s not mercenary, not really, but he does watch the pennies. I’ve heard the stories of how he made my mother walk and walk and walk, to get her to go into labor before the New Year started. The walking worked, she did go into labor, and since I was her fourth kid you think it would’ve been quick. But it wasn’t, at least not quick enough for Dad. Come to think of it, probably wasn’t quick enough for Moms either.

Oh, well, I’m not sure if being born on New Year’s Eve would’ve been any better in terms of people remembering your birthday, but there would more than likely always be a party to attend.

So here it is, my 19^th birthday and not one person has thought to say those two little words, Happy Birthday.

At least there are waffles for breakfast today. Moms always makes waffles on New Year’s Day morning. Later we’ll all head up to the Manor House for their annual open house. The food is nothing like the spread Moms does for Thanksgiving. Mrs. Wheeler does a hot and cold buffet of heavy appetizers that covers the world in traditional New Year’s foods. Everything from Texas Caviar made with black-eyed-peas to fried dough to grapes and pomegranates. It sounds odd, but trust me—like any event the Wheelers host, it’s done right. Even for a buffet of appetizers, not one person will leave there hungry. Their cook can put all those professionals on the various food shows to shame.

Trust me, anyone who hangs around Mart knows all those food shows, every chef and what their specialty is. He’s constantly mumbling about another Bobby that’s some foodie hot shot, but it’s not me.

Of course, everyone just assumes that all of us will attend the Wheelers' party. Moms probably automatically sent an RSVP for the family weeks ago. But don’t you think, with it being my birthday that they could’ve at least asked?

So yeah—we’ll attend the open house. To actually plan a birthday party on a holiday is apparently too much for my family. I don’t think anyone has done much about my birthday since the year I turned six. That was the year Moms bought one of those candles for my cake that was the figure six. There was just the one candle to blow out. Don’t get me wrong, those candles are great for old people, but not for a six year old – I wanted six candles. It’s a heroic feat to get them all blown out in one breath. That was the last time I can remember actually having a birthday cake on my actual birthday. After that, every birthday celebration was sometime after New Year’s Day.

The real irony of my sixth birthday was the next year when I turned seven. Moms forgot to buy the figure seven candle, so she used six and placed a regular birthday candle next to it! We used that damn figure six candle for my birthday cake, or cupcake, or once it was even a cookie, until you couldn’t tell it was a six anymore. Dad even did something to it with a knife and on my ninth birthday and they turned it upside down. On my sixteenth birthday, Moms actually found it and used it again with a single candle to make the number sixteen. I didn’t say anything but I had to wonder if I was seven all over again, or not.

Thinking back on that stupid candle, it makes me wonder if it won’t reappear tonight as the number nineteen, but then they would actually have to plan something on my actual birthday, not three or four days later when they remembered I should probably have a birthday cake. Maybe I’ll see it again in a few days, if not tonight. But let’s get real, it won’t be tonight.

A birthday party on a holiday never seems to work. The few kids I’ve known who were born on Christmas or around Christmas, their parents throw them a birthday party in June and celebrate their half birthday. That won’t work for me since my half-birthday is Mart’s birthday.

As I said earlier, Mart won’t let anyone forget his birthday. He begins his birthday campaign on May 2^nd, the day after Trixie’s birthday. He sends text messages or emails with links to gift suggestions, and then initiates lengthy discussions on the pros and cons of chocolate cake over red velvet cake. Have an excuse ready to leave the room when he starts on the ice cream flavors. Mart is rather vehemently opposed to ice cream cake. A few years ago something happened with a girl he was dating and an ice cream cake. It must’ve been bad, because Mart doesn’t ban foods. In fact, I’m pretty sure that ice cream cake is the only food on his “will not eat” list.

What’s it like to turn 19? It’s a big fat nothing. You don’t get to vote, that was 18. I’ve already registered for the draft. I’m told it’s the drinking age in Canada, but I don’t live in Canada. In several states, it’s the legal age to buy tobacco, but I don’t smoke, dip, or chew. Nasty habits, if you ask me. Turning nineteen is a big nothing.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I don’t think that’s true either. I had some of the most fun in my life when I was six, and it seemed like I was six forever. Then my oldest brother went to college, along with his best friend, also known as our neighbor, and also known as the guy my sister crushed all over for years, and it suddenly seemed like time started passing.

Once my sister left for college, I was an only child. That was when I appreciated how much work my older siblings did around Crabapple Farm. They mowed the grass, fed and watered chickens, did the clean-up after all the meals, took out the trash, brought the mail in, and the beat goes on. That first fall, long before I was nineteen, when they were all away at school, I wondered more than once exactly what it was my parents did to keep the house running.

Yeah, yeah … Dad worked at the bank. Or maybe he actually ran the bank, I’ve never been quite sure what he did there, but it sure seemed he came home for lunch quite often and now that I’m nineteen, I’m quite certain it wasn’t for Mom’s Crabapple Farm Special Sandwich. I could be crude here, but let’s just say, when I started school, Dad came home for lunch a lot more frequently than when I was home with Moms.

Speaking of Moms, she runs the house. That first autumn, when it was just the three of us – Moms, Dad, and me – she gave me chores every day. Thankfully, she didn’t give me all of Trixie’s chores – Moms still did the dusting, the bed making, and everything associated with running the house – except the dishes after supper. Looking back, there are times I wonder if my mother ever washed a dish after a meal in my lifetime, but since I’m home from college now and they aren’t piled in the sink, I figure someone is washing them – although I strongly suspect that person is Dad and not my Moms.

Moms is a great cook. And she does clean up as she cooks, so doing those dishes after didn’t involve the cleaning of numerous pots and pans. It was simply what was left when the meal was ready, and everything involved in the meal. Moms never placed a cooking pot on her table, at least not that I can remember. Moms transferred all the food to serving bowls and plates. More than once I remember her placing a platter of pork chops on the table and Dad would look at her and smile and say – “That looks great, Helen. Now that you’ve put Mart’s plate on the table what are the rest of us going to eat?” Everyone would laugh except for Trixie who would just roll her eyes.

Now I wish I hadn’t started about Moms and her cooking, it’s making me hungry. The food at school is good, but does any food ever compare to what your Moms makes? Of course, I did have waffles earlier, but that open house won’t start for another hour. I’ll bet you Mart’s not waiting until then to eat again. Larry and Terry told me that when Mart’s at their house, he eats all the time. Harrison, who’s their butler, he always brings Mart a tray of snacks. It must be nice to be treated like that! I go see Larry and Terry and Anna and Alice all the time, but I don’t get my own personal grub tub.

The good thing about the open house is that my friends will be there too, and I know that they’ll remember it’s my birthday. Their parents don’t forget their birthdays, but being a twin they’ve always had to share their day with their sibling. That seems better to me than being forgotten. It’s tough when you’re seven and your parents and siblings still tell everyone you’re six. It makes you want to act like a four year old. Gleeps, yeah, I’d rather share the day than be forgotten until the next day.

I used to hear Trixie talking about how spoiled I was, but that it was all their fault because they would do everything for me. Everything except remember how old I was and when it was my birthday. Still, they were good to me, Trixie and all those Bob-whites. They did their best to include me in things. Once I even won this huge bear at an ice-skating carnival as part of the six and under group. The thing was, I was already seven, not six, but no one seemed to care.

Moms just stuck her head in here to tell me it’s time to go to the Wheelers’ house. Not a peep about it being my birthday. Anna texted me to meet them at the Clubhouse. We all sort of took that place over when the Bob-whites were all at college. Jim said we could and Regan thought it was better for us to use it than for it to stay empty. Hopefully, it’s just something quick, because I really want to get some of those voodoo shrimp that Cook always makes.

I can’t believe Moms and Dad didn’t even notice I didn’t follow them into the Manor House. I tried to slip away quickly, but Regan stopped me. He had a question about when I’d be back at school and if I had time to help him with a stable project before I went back. There just isn’t any way to blow off Regan. He’s one of the best friends I ever had and he’s helped me plenty over the years.

After I finally get away after promising to come help with the project, I hurried to the clubhouse. Mostly because it was cold enough to make walking fast a necessity.

The light is on and when I push the door open, I blink and stop in shock at the wave of sound.

Happy Birthday!

Surprise!

It’s the big nineteen.

They were all there. Larry, Terry, Anna, and Alice of course, but also the Bob-Whites. Every single one of them. Even Regan came in a few minutes later, and apologized for making up the story about his stable project!

There was a birthday cake, a table of presents, streamers, balloons, everything. Not a single decoration that looked like New Year’s. And on that cake – a chocolate cake decorated in Syracuse that would make a Syracuse Orangeman proud – were nineteen individual candles. Lit and ready to be blown out.

But the best part, the very best part was after the presents and cake. Anna came up and asked me if I’d like to go with her to movies the next day, just the two of us.

“But … but we can’t date yet, not by ourselves. We promised your Dad we’d wait until you graduated high school.”

She smiled. “He said it was okay. I just have to be home by ten.”

“You’re kidding! What changed his mind?”

“Mart did, with Mummy and Di’s help.”

“Mart? My brother, Mart?”

Anna nodded, a bit shyly it seemed to me. “Yeah, he told Daddy he was insulting the Belden family name by making us wait, that you were completely honorable and would always treat me respectfully. Anyways it was something like that. I wasn’t there, but Di told me all about it. She said Daddy respected Mart’s straightforwardness about the matter.”

“Mart said I was honorable?” I couldn’t help it, the disbelief was obvious. After all we were talking about a brother that would eat that last piece of my birthday cake if he had the chance.

“Well your brother is going to be my brother-in-law,” she pointed out. “It’s kind of hard for my Dad to welcome Mart into the family and then tell him his brother isn’t welcome to date his youngest daughter. And it’s not like you’ve been thrown in jail or anything.”

I couldn’t help it. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t matter if Mart has used his word prowess, his honor, whatever. I was going to go on a date with Anna Alyn Lynch. Just the two of us.

It was the best birthday ever.