Seventy-seven years ago today, in the Newton Hospital in Newton, Massachusetts, my twenty-six year-old father paced the floor awaiting my arrival.  As mid-day came and went, he worried that I wouldn’t make my appearance that day at all and would wait until the following day.  That would have made me a leap-year baby and, somehow, he thought that would be unfortunate.

He always said that he was much relieved when I arrived shortly after noon (at 12:25 p.m.) because he thought it would be hard on a child to only celebrate a birthday every four years.  I’ve always wondered about that reason.  Birthdays were never big in our family and I can only remember having one real party as a child.  I was ten and the party was held in our backyard in Alameda.

I don’t remember much about it except that we played all the ‘usual games – Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Drop the Clothespin in the Milk Bottle (now historic from several perspectives!) and Musical Chairs.  I don’t remember that we had a Victrola so I’m not sure how we played the latter game but I have a clear vision of all the chairs in a circle in the middle of the lawn.

There were probably birthday parties for me when I was a toddler but, with that tenth birthday exception, our usual ‘celebration’ was to go out to a restaurant for dinner and, if hot fudge sundaes were listed on the menu under Desserts, all three of us (my mom, dad, and I) indulged.  During the war years, going out to dinner was a Big Deal and I think I felt suitably honored.

And, of course, there were presents.  Usually, from my paternal grandparents in Boston, there was a card with two or three dollars tucked in and sometimes a piece of family jewelry that my grandmother thought me old enough to have.  From my Oysterville grandparents there was always a book.  And from my parents, a “new outfit” – sometimes a dress-up outfit, but usually school clothes.

The year I was up here in seventh grade, my mother took me and two school friends to Red’s in Ilwaco for dinner.  I think the girls were Sandy Stone and Barbara Crenshaw (though I’m not sure) and I had chicken-fried steak and green beans.  I remember the green beans because I overheard my mother speaking to my grandmother afterwards saying they were “canned” and she hoped they were “all right.”

During the past thirty years there have been parties for the years ending in 0 or 5.  Usually they are parties shared with friends Gordon Schoewe and Pat Thomas.  We are all ten years apart in age, me being in the middle, and our birthdays are one more reason to get together and have fun with our friends – not necessarily on anyone’s actual natal day, but sometime during the year.

Sometimes I wonder what my birthdays would have been like had I been born on the 29^th.  Maybe they would have been a Really Big Deal every four years.  Maybe that’s what my dad was worried about all those years ago…