Celebrating My Birthday Quotes

I don’t like to celebrate my birthday, because I don’t like taking credit for others’ work—in this case, my mom and dad. Or possibly my mom and the mailman.


Death should be a celebration. Like a birthday. I want to go up like a rocket when my time comes, and fall down in a cloud of stars, and hear everyone go: ahh!

[Said during a debate when his opponent asserted that atheism and belief in evolution lead to Nazism:] Atheism by itself is, of course, not a moral position or a political one of any kind; it simply is the refusal to believe in a supernatural dimension. For you to say of Nazism that it was the implementation of the work of Charles Darwin is a filthy slander, undeserving of you and an insult to this audience. Darwin’s thought was not taught in Germany; Darwinism was so derided in Germany along with every other form of unbelief that all the great modern atheists, Darwin, Einstein and Freud were alike despised by the National Socialist regime. Now, just to take the most notorious of the 20th century totalitarianisms – the most finished example, the most perfected one, the most ruthless and refined one: that of National Socialism, the one that fortunately allowed the escape of all these great atheists, thinkers and many others, to the United States, a country of separation of church and state, that gave them welcome – if it’s an atheistic regime, then how come that in the first chapter of Mein Kampf, that Hitler says that he’s doing God’s work and executing God’s will in destroying the Jewish people? How come the fuhrer oath that every officer of the Party and the Army had to take, making Hitler into a minor god, begins, “I swear in the name of almighty God, my loyalty to the Fuhrer?” How come that on the belt buckle of every Nazi soldier it says Gott mit uns, God on our side? How come that the first treaty made by the Nationalist Socialist dictatorship, the very first is with the Vatican? It’s exchanging political control of Germany for Catholic control of German education. How come that the church has celebrated the birthday of the Fuhrer every year, on that day until democracy put an end to this filthy, quasi-religious, superstitious, barbarous, reactionary system? Again, this is not a difference of emphasis between us. To suggest that there’s something fascistic about me and about my beliefs is something I won't hear said and you shouldn't believe.

Why this candle? Why this cake? The day of my birth is not today. I was born when you said, 'Hey.

Jarod Kintz Day—it’s not just my birthday, but it should be a holiday that’s mandatory to celebrate, punishable by death if you don’t. It’ll be a holiday that honors freedom.


I wouldn’t want the guests at my birthday party confusing my celebration with the Oscars. That’s why I’m having the awards ceremony after we eat cake and I open my presents.


I invited a few people to help celebrate your birthday," Cameron said sheepishly. She threw up her hands. "Surprise." "We sort of come with the package," Collin explained. "Think of it as a collective gift from all of us to you: five bona fide annoying and overly intrusive new best friends." "It's the gift that keeps on giving," Wilkins said. Jack grinned. "I'm touched. Really. And since it appears I'm going to be moving in, let me be the first to say that all of you are always welcome at my and Cameron's house. Subject to a minimum of forty-eight hours prior notification.

Principal Brill, those costumes were made by my mother. My mother, who has stage four small-cell lung cancer. My mother, who will never watch her little boy celebrate another Halloween again. My mother, who will more than likely experience a year of 'lasts'. Last Christmas. Last birthday. Last Easter. And if God is willing, her last Mother's Day. My mother, who when asked by her nine-year-old son if he could be her cancer for Halloween, had no choice but to make him the best cancerous tumor-riden lung costume she could. So if you think it's so offensive, I suggest you drive them home yourself and tell my mother to her face. Do you need my address?

Do something special on your birthday. Whatever you do, celebrate the fact that you’re here, and that people love you and you love them. We only do this once.

On March 5th, I'm having my birthday celebration. The party starts at midnight, and ends at 12:01 AM. Don't be late!

Please don’t hate you??!! I hate that I love you. Loving you made me waste a year of my life. Loving you made me be passionate about nothing but you. Loving you made me take risks I never would have otherwise. Loving you made me give it up to you. Loving you made me neglect my parents and Amy. Loving you made me not care that my grandma just died. Loving you made me turn out bitter and hopeless like her. Loving you made me hate myself for being dumped by you. Loving you made me deluded, irrational, inconsiderate, and a liar. And because I love you, you’re always going to haunt me. I’ll never be able to have another birthday without wondering how you’re celebrating yours. I’ll never be able to think another guy is more handsome, talented, intelligent, or worth loving than you, despite all your faults (and there are many). I’ll never be able to check my e-mail without praying I’ll find a message from you with the subject line I love you, Dom—please come back to me. Meanwhile, every corner of this city is laced with memories of us together, and I’ll never be able to leave the house without hoping and dreading that I’ll run into you. You stole Fort Myers from me, and I lived here first, you fucking thief. You actually may be one of my last thoughts when I die.

What more shall I say: born under light bulbs, deliberately stopped growing at age of three, given drum, sang glass to pieces, smelled vanilla, coughed in churches, observed ants, decided to grow, buried drum, emigrated to the West, lost the East, learned stonecutter's trade, worked as model, started drumming again, visited concrete, made money, kept finger, gave finger away, fled laughing, rode up escalator, arrested, convicted, sent to mental hospital, soon to be acquitted, celebrating this day my thirtieth birthday and still afraid of the Black Witch.

But I recently celebrated my thirtieth birthday and became acutely aware of my age, and the passing of time.

Today, I celebrate my Mother. Strong, passionate, stubborn and proud. An educator, and wife. She was both fearless and vulnerable, unashamed of either. She demanded the best, especially of me. I dedicate my life to exceeding her highest expectations. This is how I honor my Mother, my friend, my inspiration. In spirit she forever guides me. Thank you momma, for I am never lost.

If I could dam up the flow of Duck River channel its waters into my inkstone pool I'd use it up expressing my congratulations and I could celebrate your birthday forever.

Ollie Girl, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, lived my life a little too carelessly, in ways that people didn’t approve of. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I was waiting for you. Waiting for a love that would walk into my life and blow my whole world up. I want to celebrate every Valentine’s Day & birthday with you. Love, Carter

I told her if she really cared about me, then she’d let me do whatever I wanted for my birthday, just like Mom did when I was twelve.” “What happened when you were twelve?” “Oh, Mom offered to take us all out for dinner—us girls, Dad was out of town—to celebrate, but I didn’t want to. This book I’d been waiting for had just come out, and the only thing I wanted to do was read it all night.” “My God,” I said, touching the top of her nose. “You’re adorable.” She swatted me away. “Anyway, Carly and Zoe really wanted to go out so that they could score a meal, but Mom just said, ‘It’s her birthday. Let her do whatever she wants.’” “Your mom is cool.

I spared you my birthdays. Which is why I'm asking you all to celebrate my death.

I never wish to celebrate The year of my birth, For fear lest I wake, By the clinking of glasses and noisy mirth, All those who sleep in memory's vaults.

Celebrate your day of birthday as special day.Make a specific birthday wishes and write it down.You will be amazed about the power of pen and inner strength to accomplish the wishes. This will be a special gift for yourself on each birthday.

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was. But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating on my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case- somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Rachel, my beautiful wife, the mother of my chidren and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with Darcy as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information. "You know, Rachel, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old." I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So Darcy was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty. The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Darcy and I started watching ths show Thirty Something together. It wasn't our favorite- we preferred cheerful sit-coms like Who's the Boss? and Growing Pains- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirty Something was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surealy last forever. Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time..

My birthday was coming up and we hadn't talked about it. I dreaded it. I was in no mood to celebrate the one day that always reminded me of my unfortunate birth. Celebrations were supposed to be happy things and there was nothing happy about this year or that day.

I celebrate my birthday in ways not seen this side of the Old Testament. I celebrate my life like the Dead Sea, and my party is a BYOP (bring your own plague) event.

When the book was published, I had just turned sixty-one. I am writing this at a moment when, according to my doctors, I cannot be certain of celebrating another birthday.

When I think about my clone, random songs pop into my head. Songs like, “Happy Birthday.” Will he celebrate the same birthday as me? He’d better, because without me, there’d be nothing for him to celebrate.

It’s Thursday, March twenty-ninth!” she basically screamed, a demented smile plastered to her face. “You are really excited about knowing the date!” I yelled back. “HAZEL! IT’S YOUR THIRTY-THIRD HALF BIRTHDAY!” “Ohhhhhh,” I said. My mom was really super into celebration maximization. IT’S ARBOR DAY! LET’S HUG TREES AND EAT CAKE! COLUMBUS BROUGHT SMALLPOX TO THE NATIVES; WE SHALL RECALL THE OCCASION WITH A PICNIC!, etc.

Attempts to locate oneself within history are as natural, and as absurd, as attempts to locate oneself within astronomy. On the day that I was born, 13 April 1949, nineteen senior Nazi officials were convicted at Nuremberg, including Hitler's former envoy to the Vatican, Baron Ernst von Weizsacker, who was found guilty of planning aggression against Czechoslovakia and committing atrocities against the Jewish people. On the same day, the State of Israel celebrated its first Passover seder and the United Nations, still meeting in those days at Flushing Meadow in Queens, voted to consider the Jewish state's application for membership. In Damascus, eleven newspapers were closed by the regime of General Hosni Zayim. In America, the National Committee on Alcoholism announced an upcoming 'A-Day' under the non-uplifting slogan: 'You can drink—help the alcoholic who can't.' ('Can't'?) The International Court of Justice at The Hague ruled in favor of Britain in the Corfu Channel dispute with Albania. At the UN, Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko denounced the newly formed NATO alliance as a tool for aggression against the USSR. The rising Chinese Communists, under a man then known to Western readership as Mao Tze-Tung, announced a limited willingness to bargain with the still-existing Chinese government in a city then known to the outside world as 'Peiping.' All this was unknown to me as I nuzzled my mother's breast for the first time, and would certainly have happened in just the same way if I had not been born at all, or even conceived. One of the newspaper astrologists for that day addressed those whose birthday it was: There are powerful rays from the planet Mars, the war god, in your horoscope for your coming year, and this always means a chance to battle if you want to take it up. Try to avoid such disturbances where women relatives or friends are concerned, because the outlook for victory upon your part in such circumstances is rather dark. If you must fight, pick a man! Sage counsel no doubt, which I wish I had imbibed with that same maternal lactation, but impartially offered also to the many people born on that day who were also destined to die on it.

I've always hated my birthday...It's just one more reminder of how little progress I've made. I'm in exactly the same spot I was this time last year...' 'And it's nota day to celebrate progress anyway... It's a day to celebrate existence.

Some people celebrate birthdays and expect to be told, Happy Birthday to mark another year of getting older while others celebrate achievements and receive congratulations to mark another milestone. We are different, but happy birthday to you.

Once I was old enough to understand it, the Swedish birthday song always made me sad. I didn't know anybody who had lived to one hundred, and I didn't think I would live to one hundred either. So, every year when my parents and friends sang to me, I felt this sadness that they were celebrating something that wouldn't actually happen. They were hoping for the impossible. I would let them down. In the video, having just blown out my first birthday candle and been fed some icing on a spoon by my father, I have no idea what the song means and I look so happy.

Freeze or reheat. Thinking of you. I still don’t know who it’s from. Many of the condolence cards that arrived after my parents’ deaths came with stories of the cars they’d sold over the years. Keys handed to over-confident teens and over-anxious parents. Two-seater sports cars traded for family-friendly estates. Cars to celebrate promotions, big birthdays, retirements. My parents played a part in many different stories.

We were in a state of suspended animation: Oblivious to the world around us, time seemingly standing still, and our perceptions focused only on a couple specific parts of our anatomy. In fact, only one part. My tongue seemed numb, but the feeling in my core was building in an incredible crescendo. Finally, my orgasm exploded. I heard myself scream, as if from another dimension. My head became light, and I thought I would pass out.

The last few strokes filled me with searing heat, electric pulses surging through my body and my soul, as our orgasms burst forth together, a million nerve endings suddenly flashing like twin rockets exploding fireworks, the multitude of sparks joining with a billion stars in the heavens above.

I think we should kill her…What? She’s ruined my entire day. Made me fight with my wife and now you tell me she’s a spy sent to put us all under the jail. What part of ‘kill your enemies before they kill you’ did you sleep through? Your dad was an assassin, same as my mom. Don’t puss on me now, boy. You know what they’d do if they were here. Hell, your own mother would tear her up, spit her out in pieces, and not blink. (Sway) He’s right. None of you have any reason to help me. Why should you care? (She clicked the vid wall and a picture of a teenage girl was there.) That’s my baby sister, Tempest Elanari Gerran. Her birthday was day before yesterday. She turned sixteen in jail with my mother. I may be out of line, but I’ll bet when you guys turned sixteen, you had a celebration for it with presents and friends wishing you well. You won’t just be killing me. You’ll be killing them, too. Tempest is a prime sexual age and a virgin. Any idea what’s the first thing her new owner will do to her when she’s sold? I don’t want her to ever know the horror that was my sixteenth birthday. (Alix)

Conversely, there are places I bid farewell to long before knowing I must leave, places and people whose disappearance I rehearse not just to learn how to live without them when the time comes but to put off their loss by foreseeing ita bit at a time beforehand. I live in the dark so as not to be blinded when darkness comes. I do the same with life, making it more conditional and provisional than it already is, so as to forget that one day my birthday will come around and I won't be there to celebrate it. It is still unthinkable that those who cause us the greatest pain and turned us inside out could at some point in time have been totally unknown, unborn to us.

But I say to all of you, as my Mom said to me: Do something special on your birthday. Whatever you do, celebrate the fact that you're here, and that people love you and you love them.

I breathed deeply of Sam’s manly scent – his pheromones – as his tongue burned in my mouth, his lips joined mine with violent softness, and his hands pulled my head even closer to him.

It’s my birthday. If I want to dress up like an idiot and make you all eat prawn cocktail in celebration of the decades that spawned me, that’s my choice, and you will damn well support it.

All of the people in the room seemed to take so much for granted: that they would be invited to social events, that they would have friends and family to talk to, that they would fall in love, be loved in return, perhaps create a family of their own. How would I celebrate my own fortieth birthday? I wondered. I hoped I would have people in my life to mark the occasion when the time came.

I review her back on the ward in the evening and on leafing through her notes I see that her birthday is in two days’ time and she’ll most likely still be in hospital. I commiserate, despite the fact that I, too, will very likely be in a hospital for every single one of my birthdays until I’m too weak to blow out the candles, but she tells me that Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t celebrate birthdays or even receive presents.

We found out yesterday that Robert has won the Drama Desk Award for Possessed, a huge Broadway honor. Jeff—who is over the moon about it—is planning a fiftieth birthday party/award celebration. Of course I have to be there . . . and of course Calvin will be, too. No way am I going solo. I need major reinforcements, and nobody makes me laugh harder than Davis. “I know where this is going,” he says once I’ve explained the situation. He lets out a long sigh. “Does this mean I need to get a plane ticket and rent a tux?” “Well yeah, because I want my date to look hot.” “That is some Flowers in the Attic stuff, Holls. Don’t be weird.

..I began speaking.. First, I took issue with the media's characterization of the post-Katrina New Orleans as resembling the third world as its poor citizens clamored for a way out. I suggested that my experience in New Orleans working with the city's poorest people in the years before the storm had reflected the reality of third-world conditions in New Orleans, and that Katrina had not turned New Orleans into a third-world city but had only revealed it to the world as such. I explained that my work, running Reprieve, a charity that brought lawyers and volunteers to the Deep South from abroad to work on death penalty issues, had made it clear to me that much of the world had perceived this third-world reality, even if it was unnoticed by our own citizens. To try answer Ryan's question, I attempted to use my own experience to explain that for many people in New Orleans, and in poor communities across the country, the government was merely an antagonist, a terrible landlord, a jailer, and a prosecutor. As a lawyer assigned to indigent people under sentence of death and paid with tax dollars, I explained the difficulty of working with clients who stand to be executed and who are provided my services by the state, not because they deserve them, but because the Constitution requires that certain appeals to be filed before these people can be killed. The state is providing my clients with my assistance, maybe the first real assistance they have ever received from the state, so that the state can kill them. I explained my view that the country had grown complacent before Hurricane Katrina, believing that the civil rights struggle had been fought and won, as though having a national holiday for Martin Luther King, or an annual march by politicians over the bridge in Selma, Alabama, or a prosecution - forty years too late - of Edgar Ray Killen for the murder of civil rights workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi, were any more than gestures. Even though President Bush celebrates his birthday, wouldn't Dr. King cry if he could see how little things have changed since his death? If politicians or journalists went to Selma any other day of the year, they would see that it is a crumbling city suffering from all of the woes of the era before civil rights were won as well as new woes that have come about since. And does anyone really think that the Mississippi criminal justice system could possibly be a vessel of social change when it incarcerates a greater percentage of its population than almost any place in the world, other than Louisiana and Texas, and then compels these prisoners, most of whom are black, to work prison farms that their ancestors worked as chattel of other men? ... I hoped, out loud, that the post-Katrina experience could be a similar moment [to the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fiasco], in which the American people could act like the children in the story and declare that the emperor has no clothes, and hasn't for a long time. That, in light of Katrina, we could be visionary and bold about what people deserve. We could say straight out that there are people in this country who are racist, that minorities are still not getting a fair shake, and that Republican policies heartlessly disregard the needs of individual citizens and betray the common good. As I stood there, exhausted, in front of the thinning audience of New Yorkers, it seemed possible that New Orleans's destruction and the suffering of its citizens hadn't been in vain.

I only had time for twenty-four people(tops) in my life, and I already had six siblings. Twenty-four people was an average of two birthdays a month. Ain't nobody got time for more than two birthday celebrations a month.

I think relationships are a lot like a champagne. This bottle here" - I lift it and por us each a little more - " it's crazy expensive. My dad got all of us Vooper kids a vintage from the year we were born for our twenty-first birthdays and told us to save it for the right time. We always interpreted that as save it for a special occasion. Engagements. Weddings. Celebrations. Baseball, if you're my brother." I hold the neck of the bottle, study the label. "But my dad didn't say save it for a special occasion. He said save it for the right time. It's a crucial differenc? Here? With me? he asks, his voice rough. "Apparently. And that's sort of my point." I set the bottle down and look at him. " I don't think you can plan for the right time. Or the right woman. As far as timing's concerned, maybe sometimes you've got to make it the right time and simply trust it's the right woman.

My mother who died young In an outlandish rhythm Would have been seventy now And perhaps dead in funeral time. So I may start to mourn As I would celebrate The first or second birthday Of a still-born baby. - Out of Season

I fucking love LA (dog birthday parties! spiritual healers on every corner! unironic oxygen bars!). You might not think so because I’m a misanthropic depressed person with menopause acne whose hips are too wide for every single restaurant chair in Silverlake, but you would be wrong. I’m a Fat Bitch from the Middle West and I love accidentally running into minor celebrities with my cart in the wheatgrass aisle at the Rock ’N Roll Ralph’s on Sunset.

High school basically continued with bouts of her getting drunk and then stopping for a day. There was not one major moment or birthday celebration during which she could remain sober. I learned how to plan my joy. I would front-load my birthdays with breakfast activities or plan to be with her for only the beginning of an event. Then I would go off to be with friends and know that that would be the last I would see of my mother’s real facial expressions.

You once asked me what it means to be a writer. So here goes. Seven of my friends are dead. Four from overdoses. Five, if you count Xavier who flipped his Nissan doing ninety on a bad batch of fentanyl. I don’t celebrate my birthday anymore.

When I woke the next morning, gray light suffused the bedroom curtains. Tom was still asleep, so I moved through my yoga routine, then tiptoed to the kitchen. A mountain breeze moved languidly through the pines and aspens surrounding our house. I opened the back door for Scout the cat and Jake the bloodhound, and reminded myself that today we were celebrating my only son’s seventeenth birthday. Okay, we were two months late. But, so what? I smiled and reflected that it was probably a good thing that I’d stayed up past midnight to frost the cake.

The last few strokes filled me with searing heat, and electric pulses traveled through my body and my soul, as our orgasms burst forth together, a million nerve endings suddenly flashing like twin rockets exploding fireworks, the multitude of sparks joining with a billion stars in the heavens above.

After many years of knowing her, she died. Instead of leaving me with a heartbreak, she left behind wonderful memories. Memories of teasing me and pretending to fall asleep when I walk into her room. There are no tears to be shed. Instead, I celebrated our friendship. Twenty-two years of smiles and laughter. Unhurried narration of her life stories and hugs. Rewarding me with birthday cards and Christmas greetings. Scolding me with a smile before each departure, and winks by the door before she left my office. Each time, I stood and watched her struggle to get into her car. Even with all her physical struggles, she never missed the chance to visit me every three months until she was taken away from me permanently. Her death. Her departure from earth. As much as I struggle with the event, I would not call it untimely. I said my farewell, but I still cherish what we had. A sempiternal friendship

It’s my self-assigned role. Host. Event coordinator. The one who always makes a huge deal of birthdays and promotions. The friend who wants to celebrate every exciting moment of my people’s lives, to give them a moment of recognition so they know how special they are. The one who ensures those around her feel good about themselves.

My mind drifted to my last birthday. I had concealed the day away, hoping no one would find out. I realized as the sun flashed across the room that I had done that to escape disappointment. What if someone had known but still found it unworthy of celebration? What if, in fact, I really didn't matter outside of my cooking? Each day I justified my life through purpose.

As a first-generation Ethiopian immigrant, Sheba had lived in Charleston since she turned five years of age. She was Ethiopian by birth, but American by preference. She had worked hard, studied and sacrificed plenty to get where she was today, no easy feat for someone who had just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday. According to her friends, Sheba was a beauty, though when she looked in the mirror, she saw inevitable flaws; her cheekbones were too pronounced, her mouth a little too wide, her nose with that perturbing slant to it. Still, she accepted compliments gratefully, especially from her roommate, Janelle. Janelle was the true beauty, Sheba thought, with dark ebony skin so smooth that she could be a walking ad for Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate.

Each year, Flore and I celebrate our wedding anniversary on 20 April - Hitler's birthday. We are still here; Hitler is down there. Sometimes, when we are sitting in the evening in front of the television with a cup of tea and a biscuit, I think, aren't we lucky? In my mind, this is really the best revenge, and it is the only revenge I'm interested in - to be the happiest man on earth.

Each year, Flore entice celebrate our wedding anniversary on 20 April - Hitler's birthday. We are still here; Hitler is down there. Sometimes, when we are sitting in the evening in front of the television with a cup of tea and a biscuit, I think, aren't we lucky? In my mind, this is really the best revenge, and it is the only revenge I'm interested in - to be the happiest man on earth.

To my special grandson HAPPY BIRTHDAY Celebrate your 13th birthday with joy and appreciation for your interesting stage of life. May God hide you under His wings. May He go before you. May He stand beside you. May He walk behind you. May He give you wisdom to excel and innovate in life forever and ever amen. Enjoy your teenage life and enjoy the blessing of grace. Grandma loves you so much.

I wrote on the birthday itself, ‘and as for being twenty-one, I’ll leave it at that. I can’t see that years make any difference, or days, or hours, it’s things that happen to one that matter. I shan’t look back. No guttering candles and dripping wicks for me. When I go let me go quickly, still a bright flame, no flickering! Meanwhile Adams and I celebrated my majority by taking Annabelle Lee out to sea and catching 13 pollock, which was a good start for the boat.

Here’s the thing about birthdays. Your dad didn’t pull out. You didn’t do shit. You didn’t earn anything. I’ll tell you who else has or had birthday celebrations each year: Charles Manson, Jim Jones, Osama bin Laden, Pol Pot, Jeremy Piven, and Ted Bundy. All the people you hate in life, all the pedophiles, all the murderers, all the IRS auditors have birthdays. I don’t think we should celebrate Idi Amin’s birthday and I don’t think we should celebrate yours either.

Conversely, there are places I bid farewell to long before knowing I must leave, places and people whose disappearance I rehearse not just to learn how to live without them when the time comes but to put off their loss by foreseeing it a bit at a time beforehand. I live in the dark so as not to be blinded when darkness comes. I do the same with life, making it more conditional and provisional than it already is, so as to forget that one day my birthday will come around and I won’t be there to celebrate it.

Once I was old enough to understand it, the Swedish birthday song always made me sad. I didn't know anybody who had lived to one hundred, and I didn't think I would live to one hundred either. So, every year when my parents and friends sang to me, I felt this sadness that they were celebrating something that wouldn't actually happen. They were hoping for the impossible. I would let them down. In the video, having just blown out my first birthday candle and been fed some icing on a spoon by my father, I have no idea what the song means and I look so happy.

I am over fifty years old and have attended my fair share of sixtieth, seventieth and eightieth birthday parties. In case you are younger than me and have not yet celebrated so many birthdays of high, round figures, I can tell you that the most common remark heard at these parties is: ‘All of those days that came and went – I didn’t realize those were life.’ It is cunningly formulated. The guests nod knowingly, smacking their lips. Yes, we fear death to varying degrees, but the fear of not having lived is even stronger. That fear increases towards the end of life, when you understand that it will soon be too late.

1. _______ I prefer one-on-one conversations to group activities.   2. _______ I often prefer to express myself in writing.   3. _______ I enjoy solitude.   4. _______ I seem to care less than my peers about wealth, fame, and status.   5. _______ I dislike small talk, but I enjoy talking in depth about topics that matter to me.   6. _______ People tell me that I’m a good listener.   7. _______ I’m not a big risk-taker.   8. _______ I enjoy work that allows me to “dive in” with few interruptions.   9. _______ I like to celebrate birthdays on a small scale, with only one or two close friends or family members. 10. _______ People describe me as “soft-spoken” or “mellow.” 11. _______ I prefer not to show or discuss my work with others until it’s finished. 12. _______ I dislike conflict. 13. _______ I do my best work on my own. 14. _______ I tend to think before I speak. 15. _______ I feel drained after being out and about, even if I’ve enjoyed myself. 16. _______ I often let calls go through to voice mail. 17. _______ If I had to choose, I’d prefer a weekend with absolutely nothing to do to one with too many things scheduled. 18. _______ I don’t enjoy multitasking. 19. _______ I can concentrate easily. 20. _______ In classroom situations, I prefer lectures to seminars.

To Their Most Royal Majesties, the King and Queen of Ravka: It is with a sad heart that I must proffer my regrets and inform you that I will be unable to attend the festivities celebrating the birth of Prince Nikolai Lantsov, Grand Duke of Udova. Unfortunate circumstances have arisen, namely that my best friend can’t seem to stand the sight of me, and your son didn’t kiss me, and I wish he had. Or I wish he hadn’t. Or I’m still not sure what I wish, but there’s a very good chance that if I’m forced to sit through his stupid birthday dinner, I’ll end up sobbing into my cake. With best wishes on this most happy of occasions, Alina Starkov, Idiot

Kristen and I always have a lot to celebrate at the end of June. First there’s Father’s Day, followed by our wedding anniversary and my birthday. But prior to the Best Practices this two-week season of parties didn’t inspire much of a celebratory mood. It always felt strange celebrating Father’s Day, given that my parenting skills had been something of a disappointment for the first three years, and the tears that Kristen had shed on our third wedding anniversary spoke rather poignantly to the fact that our marriage hadn’t been much to celebrate, either. That left my birthday, a day that was all about toasting the birth of the very person who had made Kristen’s life miserable.

When my firstborn turned six months old, I decided that this milestone was definitely worth celebrating. And what started as a one-off event quickly became a family tradition: For my kids' half birthdays I make half a cake (it looks like someone just cut a cake down the middle and made the other half disappear), and we sing every other syllable of the "Happy Birthday" song (I'm really good at complicating things, and singing only the first half of the song seemed unfair to the second half). We don't do gifts or a big bash, and we don't blow out candles and make wishes, because wishes should be made only full throttle. We just end the day with a little celebration after dinner, something kind of silly and fun. And cake. Because everything in life should end with sugar.

The smell of flowers was overwhelming, and it reminded me of walking into a flower shop to pick the perfect bouquet when my gran died. It wasn’t a good memory, and the smell was intoxicating. My heart broke while looking at the beautiful variations of flowers and smelling the sweet nectar. It was a terrible mix. The beauty, the nature, the colors, and the smell—all laced with grief. And what I could never comprehend was that flowers were for every occasion. You get them when you’re in love and when it’s your birthday; you can get them with a new job or a raise. And how is it supposed to make you feel when all you can remember is the smell of heartbreak, and it takes you back to that space in time? It doesn’t feel like a celebration of anything, but more like torture. Torture of the mind and soul.

Raymond sent me an electronic mail message at work the next week—it was very odd, seeing his name in my in-box. As I’d expected, he was semiliterate. Hi E, hope all good with u. Got a wee favor to ask. Sammy’s son Keith has invited me to his 40th this Saturday (ended up staying late at that party BTW, it was a rite laugh). Fancy being my plus one? It’s at the golf club, there’s a buffet? No worries if not—let me no. R A buffet. In a golf club. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. And two parties in a month! More parties than I had been to in two decades. I hit reply: Dear Raymond, I should be delighted to accompany you to the birthday celebration. Kind regards, Eleanor Oliphant (Ms.) Moments later, I received a response: Twenty-first-century communication. I fear for our nation’s standards of literacy.

My dearest Violet, A belated birthday gift along with my regrets for not celebrating as we should have. All my love, C Tears filled her eyes as she touched her chest where the locket rested beneath her clothing. She wore it still because she couldn't forget the morning he had given it to her, nor how she had felt, dumbstruck and silly with her love for him. A terrible but true way to describe the sheer bliss that had surrounded them. Blinking away the tears, she unwrapped the package revealing four books: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Agnes Gray, and The Tenant of Windfell Hall. A quick examination revealed them to be all first editions. Dropping into the chair, she read his note again two more times. Her finger traced the C. As much as she despised what he had done, she couldn't stop herself from missing him.

My whole sorry existence has been building towards this one night. The night of the Reynolds’ Fortuna Ball. A celebration that invites the entire town to eat, drink, and dance the night away. It’s become tradition in these parts for the Reynolds family to hand over all the properties, businesses, offshore accounts, cars, and whatever else rich people own, to the heir on his twenty-fifth birthday. Nice, right? And the ball is their public way of celebrating the handover, or so everyone thinks. The truth is way weirder. Try an ancient curse; a deal signed in blood and a pair of families joined in perpetuity. The whole thing gives me the itches and I sound certifiable to boot, but for the last four hundred years the women in my family have been ripping off the Reynolds family, and those a**eholes throw us a party so we can do it in style.

July I watch eagerly a certain country graveyard that I pass in driving to and from my farm. It is time for a prairie birthday, and in one corner of this graveyard lives a surviving celebrant of that once important event. It is an ordinary graveyard, bordered by the usual spruces, and studded with the usual pink granite or white marble headstones, each with the usual Sunday bouquet of red or pink geraniums. It is extraordinary only in being triangular instead of square, and in harboring, within the sharp angle of its fence, a pin-point remnant of the native prairie on which the graveyard was established in the 1840’s. Heretofore unreachable by scythe or mower, this yard-square relic of original Wisconsin gives birth, each July, to a man-high stalk of compass plant or cutleaf Silphium, spangled with saucer-sized yellow blooms resembling sunflowers. It is the sole remnant of this plant along this highway, and perhaps the sole remnant in the western half of our county. What a thousand acres of Silphiums looked like when they tickled the bellies of the buffalo is a question never again to be answered, and perhaps not even asked. This year I found the Silphium in first bloom on 24 July, a week later than usual; during the last six years the average date was 15 July. When I passed the graveyard again on 3 August, the fence had been removed by a road crew, and the Silphium cut. It is easy now to predict the future; for a few years my Silphium will try in vain to rise above the mowing machine, and then it will die. With it will die the prairie epoch. The Highway Department says that 100,000 cars pass yearly over this route during the three summer months when the Silphium is in bloom. In them must ride at least 100,000 people who have ‘taken’ what is called history, and perhaps 25,000 who have ‘taken’ what is called botany. Yet I doubt whether a dozen have seen the Silphium, and of these hardly one will notice its demise. If I were to tell a preacher of the adjoining church that the road crew has been burning history books in his cemetery, under the guise of mowing weeds, he would be amazed and uncomprehending. How could a weed be a book? This is one little episode in the funeral of the native flora, which in turn is one episode in the funeral of the floras of the world. Mechanized man, oblivious of floras, is proud of his progress in cleaning up the landscape on which, willy-nilly, he must live out his days. It might be wise to prohibit at once all teaching of real botany and real history, lest some future citizen suffer qualms about the floristic price of his good life. * * *

I didn’t get the time to tell you, or to hold you, or get there to holding you without any awkwardness. It breaks my heart, not a little but a lot, to see how things have turned out and once upon a time i would try to set them right, but now i know there is no point, in trying or in hoping, because it is how it is, and not much can be done, or should be done, but i still wanted to tell you, maybe one of these days I will, maybe I won’t but I wanted to tell you that I wanted those things with you. Meeting you for coffee on a rainy day, in a cafe somewhere between our homes. Spending the evening sitting by the sea, looking at the waves, listening to the noise and chaos of the city around us. Talking a walk with you in that park where we met the second time. Watching a movie with you. Having you over, coming over to yours. Going out to bars, birthday celebrations. Fighting sometimes, crazy loving the next. I wanted these things, and a few more. Oh god, i really wanted them with you.

I’m all for these moments of impossible joy – whether they come in the course of an ordinary day or in an extraordinary ecstatic experience. There are some who would have us believe that we have to choose - warning us away from the ecstatic rush of feeling that comes in moments of real magic, admonishing us to focus only on the joy found in ordinary moments. Their warning is understandable. Moments of mystical union can tempt us to spend our life searching for those peak experiences and leave us unable or unwilling to receive the same joy where it is offered in simpler experiences, and the taste of a ripe mango eaten slowly or a moment of quiet stillness. But I am a greedy woman. I want it all. I want a small daily joy. I want to celebrate the birthdays, the graduations, and the days well lived, and I want to experience the ecstasy, the vision of wholeness that dissolves my boundaries and let me taste the God that lives within and around me. I am a blessed woman, for I have had both.

I wondered if we would have to choose music for his funeral or would we get to celebrate his high school graduation, his wedding, or even his next birthday." "I needed to focus on the daily victories without peering too far ahead to a potential dismal future for my beautiful boy." "God didn’t do this to us, but I do know He was using it for His glory." "Yes, there has been loss, but right behind it come gifts we would never have expected amid such trials: peace in the midst of chaos, joy within sorrow, and even a path of light surrounded by darkness." "I was not happy, but still, I had a great deal of joy." "When I focus on all He has given me, it’s difficult to see what I don’t have." "As uncomfortable as I often am through this journey, I welcome the chance to honor God through it." "I am so thankful God meets us where we are, then walks us the rest of the way." "While I wholeheartedly believed God would put the pieces back together, I also knew He might not put them together the same way they were before.

I found Chinatown both impossibly sophisticated and unbearably out of vogue. Chinese restaurants were a guilty pleasure of mine. I loved how they evoked the living world- either the Walden-like sense of individualism of the Ocean or Happy Garden, or something more candid ("Yummies!"). Back home they had been a preserve of birthdays and special celebrations: a lazy Susan packed with ribs and Peking duck, rhapsodically spun to the sound of Fleetwood Mac or the Police, with banana fritters drenched in syrup and a round of flowering tea to finish. It felt as cosmopolitan a dining experience as I would ever encounter. Contextualized amid the big-city landscape of politicized microbreweries and sushi, a hearty table of MSG and marinated pork felt at best crass, at worst obscurely racist. But there was something about the gloop and the sugar that I couldn't resist. And Chinatown was peculiarly untouched by my contemporaries, so I could happily nibble at plates of salt and chili squid or crispy Szechuan beef while leafing through pages of a magazine in peace.

That Sunday night of Elena's third birthday, I wept beside her in bed. For her, but more, I believe, for myself: for a resilience I never knew I had, and that I believe all mothers possess, however they choose to express it. We are not soft, docile icons, mute and passive virgins: we are fucking fierce. Motherhood requires a tremendous bravery that I never recognized or celebrated before I was forced to come into it, shaking and stunned. It leads women to march, to protest, to fight, to enact change, to persevere at great risk to themselves, to challenge the very foundation of society. After the placenta had been buried, we set the rock atop it, and we all walked back to the house. Elena jumped on a mini trampoline, my niece went to recover from all the overqrought midlife emotion on the couch, my parents made lunch. I washed the blood from my hands, thinking about the oak, the rock, the placenta. Buried there is the truth of what it feels like to be so susceptible and broken-open, and also to say: I can do this. I will do this. I contain this, thirty-two miles of capillaries, a new tree of life. Mutter, madre, mater, material, moeder, modder: the mud, the material, the making at the heart of everything.

DAY 137 Laser Tag “What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?” ROMANS 8:31 A few years ago my daughter was invited to a laser tag birthday party. She was little, and the laser tag vest and gun were huge, which made it hard for her to play. The first time through, she didn’t do well at all. She was an easy target for the more experienced players, and she got shot—a lot! She was pretty discouraged, but before the next round started, one of the dads handed me a vest and said, “Go get ’em, Dad.” I got the message. I followed close behind my daughter and picked off any kids foolish enough to come near her. By the end of the round, the kids knew that she was no longer an easy target. Her daddy was there, and he was not to be messed with. It was awesome. Her score that round vastly improved, bringing a big smile to her face. When we go into the arena alone, it’s easy to get picked on, singled out, and told that we are destined to fail. But when we go into battle with our heavenly Father’s protection and covering, everything changes. Not only do we have a chance to stay alive, we have a guaranteed win. PRAYER Thank you, Father, for fighting for me, keeping me safe, and helping me come through as a victor. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

As Christians, we celebrate many holidays and memorials throughout the year. Some we decide to celebrate by referencing events in the Bible. Others are related to events in our personal lives. Still more are pushed upon by this World. There's nothing necessarily wrong with celebrating events that bring us joy or keep important parts of our lives in focus. As a Christian, it is important for me to follow Christ's words and teachings. I do not obey man's intepretations of God's word. I read it and follow it. Its that simple. I dont need an interpreter. Christ is my intermediary. Ive been blessed to have been given the gift of language and... in the Bible, when you read it in Aramaic, there is only ONE event, one memorial that Jesus asks us to remember and thus honor our Savior. And its not His birthday. We are upon that annual event this weekend. For Jesus "blessed and he broke and he said, “Take eat; this is my body, which is broken for your persons; thus you shall do for my Memorial." [1 Cor 11:24] Holidays can be fun times for families to get together and to celebrate life. This weekend lets not lose focus. For this is the one and ONLY holiday that our Christ commands us to memorialize. Its in his words. Its in the Bible. It was important enough for Him to spell it out. It should be important enough for us to listen. Above all other events in our lives, isn't Christ Jesus's sacrifice truly the most magnificent one? Lets remember our Savior and not allow the World to mislead us into over prioritizing any other day than when -He gave His life for us. Truly His act was a gift to mankind that remains matchless.

O that today you would hearken to his voice! —Psalm 95:7 (RSV) MARIA, INSPIRATION BEHIND HOLY ANGELS HOME Maria was nine in 1965 when I first wrote about her, a bright, little girl with an impish smile. Born hydrocephalic, without legs, a “vegetable” who could not survive, she’d dumbfounded experts and become the inspiration behind a home for infants with multiple handicaps. Now I was back at Holy Angels in North Carolina to celebrate Maria’s fiftieth birthday. I had to trot to keep up with Maria’s motorized wheelchair through a maze of new buildings, home now for adults as well as infants. At each stop, Maria introduced me to staff and volunteers who simply exuded joy. And yet the people they were caring for had such cruel limitations! How could everyone seem so happy, I asked, working day after day with people who’ll never speak, never hold a spoon, never sit up alone? “None of us would be happy,” Maria said, “if we looked way off into the future like that.” Here, she explained, they looked for what God was doing in each life, just that one day. “That’s where God is for all of us, you know. Just in what’s happening right now.” How intently one would learn to look, I thought, to spot the little victories. In my life too…. What if I memorized just the first stanza of Millay’s “Renascence”? What if I understood just one more function on my iPhone? What if just one morning I didn’t comment about my husband’s snoring? “Thank you, Maria,” I said as we hugged good-bye, “for showing me the God of the little victories.” Through what small victory, Father, will You show me Yourself today? —Elizabeth Sherrill Digging Deeper: Ps 118:24; Mt 6:34

... in sunshine both space and time expand where was I? coming alive on my birthday breaking to pieces on the rainbow islands and who is she? a girl today staying and straying on the rainbow islands from a sunlit sea see mountaintop to mountaintop arising hear the crackle of rocks in the bright light that falls everywhere into place forget your knees to the breathlessness of peaks and find them again by some pebbles … seize me, release me, leave me everywhere in space to be dispersing and the colors of the wind parade on the windswept way of the senses… crunching over the rough-country cliffs a cold drizzle begins— inhale huge drafts of water in the air sizzle to the sprinkling feeling of drizzle on skin watch the surf pour to crevices it has worn, hold— and back out the black rock pushing … whisk her, brisker, drop her swifter over the crags like swift rains and the rainclouds and the fierce winds howl after the raging of the waves… and to know every foot of the land that holds you— and, with soiled-brown hands, set against the green of the land and blue of the sky sign the earth in gentle, rolling lines loose with your tines the living, pulsing root of a carrot plant bury the plants in their beds to live and bury me insensibly over the earth from your open, rolling cart lying on rock, drifting with the clouds — the only constant is constant change— ripples of flame, patterns in the waves — paradise and creation are only sensations— spearing reef-fish, inflating with the stars — and heaven and earth forever simultaneous! and the wheeling colors celebrate on their way without a destination wandering islands roam until they die— with footsteps wrapt and dwelling in whatever kind of weather we live our lives with the space to be free find in our eyes horizons on horizons

He and Powell would be celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary a few days later, and he admitted that at times he had not been as appreciative of her as she deserved. “I’m very lucky, because you just don’t know what you’re getting into when you get married,” he said. “You have an intuitive feeling about things. I couldn’t have done better, because not only is Laurene smart and beautiful, she’s turned out to be a really good person.” For a moment he teared up. He talked about his other girlfriends, particularly Tina Redse, but said he ended up in the right place. He also reflected on how selfish and demanding he could be. “Laurene had to deal with that, and also with me being sick,” he said. “I know that living with me is not a bowl of cherries.” Among his selfish traits was that he tended not to remember anniversaries or birthdays. But in this case, he decided to plan a surprise. They had gotten married at the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite, and he decided to take Powell back there on their anniversary. But when Jobs called, the place was fully booked. So he had the hotel approach the people who had reserved the suite where he and Powell had stayed and ask if they would relinquish it. “I offered to pay for another weekend,” Jobs recalled, “and the man was very nice and said, ‘Twenty years, please take it, it’s yours.’” He found the photographs of the wedding, taken by a friend, and had large prints made on thick paper boards and placed in an elegant box. Scrolling through his iPhone, he found the note that he had composed to be included in the box and read it aloud: "We didn’t know much about each other twenty years ago. We were guided by our intuition; you swept me off my feet. It was snowing when we got married at the Ahwahnee. Years passed, kids came, good times, hard times, but never bad times. Our love and respect has endured and grown. We’ve been through so much together and here we are right back where we started 20 years ago—older, wiser—with wrinkles on our faces and hearts. We now know many of life’s joys, sufferings, secrets and wonders and we’re still here together. My feet have never returned to the ground."  By the end of the recitation he was crying uncontrollably. When he composed himself, he noted that he had also made a set of the pictures for each of his kids. “I thought they might like to see that I was young once.

If you’re still not sure where you fall on the introvert-extrovert spectrum, you can assess yourself here. Answer each question “true” or “false,” choosing the answer that applies to you more often than not.* ______ I prefer one-on-one conversations to group activities. ______ I often prefer to express myself in writing. ______ I enjoy solitude. ______ I seem to care less than my peers about wealth, fame, and status. ______ I dislike small talk, but I enjoy talking in depth about topics that matter to me. ______ People tell me that I’m a good listener. ______ I’m not a big risk-taker. ______ I enjoy work that allows me to “dive in” with few interruptions. ______ I like to celebrate birthdays on a small scale, with only one or two close friends or family members. ______ People describe me as “soft-spoken” or “mellow.” ______ I prefer not to show or discuss my work with others until it’s finished. ______ I dislike conflict. ______ I do my best work on my own. ______ I tend to think before I speak. ______ I feel drained after being out and about, even if I’ve enjoyed myself. ______ I often let calls go through to voice mail. ______ If I had to choose, I’d prefer a weekend with absolutely nothing to do to one with too many things scheduled. ______ I don’t enjoy multitasking. ______ I can concentrate easily. ______ In classroom situations, I prefer lectures to seminars. The more often you answered “true,” the more introverted you probably are. If you found yourself with a roughly equal number of “true” and “false” answers, then you may be an ambivert—yes, there really is such a word. But even if you answered every single question as an introvert or extrovert, that doesn’t mean that your behavior is predictable across all circumstances. We can’t say that every introvert is a bookworm or every extrovert wears lampshades at parties any more than we can say that every woman is a natural consensus-builder and every man loves contact sports. As Jung felicitously put it, “There is no such thing as a pure extrovert or a pure introvert. Such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.” This is partly because we are all gloriously complex individuals, but also because there are so many different kinds of introverts and extroverts. Introversion and extroversion interact with our other personality traits and personal histories, producing wildly different kinds of people. So

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

A few years ago, a couple of young men from my church came to our home for dinner. During the course of the dinner, the conversation turned from religion to various world mythologies and we began to play the game of ‘Name That Character.” To play this game, you pick a category such as famous actors, superheroes or historical characters. In turn, each person describes events in a famous character’s life while everyone else tries to guess who the character is. Strategically you try to describe the deeds of a character in such a way that it might fit any number of characters in that category. After three guesses, if no one knows who your character is, then you win. Choosing the category of Bible Characters, we played a couple of fairly easy rounds with the typical figures, then it was my turn. Now, knowing these well meaning young men had very little religious experience or understanding outside of their own religion, I posed a trick question. I said, “Now my character may seem obvious, but please wait until the end of my description to answer.” I took a long breath for dramatic effect, and began, “My character was the son of the King of Heaven and a mortal woman.” Immediately both young men smiled knowingly, but I raised a finger asking them to wait to give their responses. I continued, “While he was just a baby, a jealous rival attempted to kill him and he was forced into hiding for several years. As he grew older, he developed amazing powers. Among these were the ability to turn water into wine and to control the mental health of other people. He became a great leader and inspired an entire religious movement. Eventually he ascended into heaven and sat with his father as a ruler in heaven.” Certain they knew who I was describing, my two guests were eager to give the winning answer. However, I held them off and continued, “Now I know adding these last parts will seem like overkill, but I simply cannot describe this character without mentioning them. This person’s birthday is celebrated on December 25th and he is worshipped in a spring festival. He defied death, journeyed to the underworld to raise his loved ones from the dead and was resurrected. He was granted immortality by his Father, the king of the gods, and was worshipped as a savior god by entire cultures.” The two young men were practically climbing out of their seats, their faces beaming with the kind of smile only supreme confidence can produce. Deciding to end the charade I said, “I think we all know the answer, but to make it fair, on the count of three just yell out the answer. One. Two. Three.” “Jesus Christ” they both exclaimed in unison – was that your answer as well? Both young men sat back completely satisfied with their answer, confident it was the right one…, but I remained silent. Five seconds ticked away without a response, then ten. The confidence of my two young friends clearly began to drain away. It was about this time that my wife began to shake her head and smile to herself. Finally, one of them asked, “It is Jesus Christ, right? It has to be!” Shaking my head, I said, “Actually, I was describing the Greek god Dionysus.

I never asked for you guys to celebrate my birthday. I never mentioned it because I never wanted anyone to celebrate it. You guys took it upon yourselves to celebrate it and you expect me to go and celebrate something that isn't a good memory for me. I have never had a good birthday and there is-" "And that's the folly of others, not you," Sans cut in just a viciously. "I'm not leaving till you come and celebrate with us, damn it." Sans's body deflated. "You're family and we want to celebrate your fricken existence.

Suppose you could speak nothing but money And acrimony. Suppose all the sunflowers Van Gogh destroyed, all the stones in Virginia’s Pockets & all the stones Georgia painted as vaginas Were simply a matter of making something greater Than money. Prince taught us a real man has A beautiful woman in him. Suppose we cannot Forget what happened in Money. Suppose You’re someone who celebrates Thomas Jefferson’s Birthday. Suppose he was someone whose love For a black woman was blinded by blackness, Hers & his, yours & mine. I ain’t mad at you, Assassin. It’s not the bad people who are brave I fear, it’s the good people who are afraid.

message. Include information about a sale, or a new product. You just came across an article that says, “People who have hot tubs are so relaxed that they outlive poor slobs who do not have hot tubs.” Include that along with a friendly message about how you’re offering free delivery this week only! I follow all my clients on social media. I also save all of their birthdays in my calendar. The other day I noticed that Greta Lambert’s son James had just celebrated his tenth birthday. It was an opportunity for an easy, friendly follow-up message. I shot her an email, “Wow. James is growing up so quickly, your apartment must be feeling small.” Greta responded, “Ryan, good to hear from you, it does feel small!” Now she’s a warm lead and I’ll follow up next week with some listings in her area.

THE 'LAST MONDAY' OF MARGAZHI MONTH WILL BE CELEBRATED AS MY BIRTHDAY GLOBALLY SINCE 1978, LORD TIRUMAAL SRI MURUGA PERUMAL

So, don’t kill me, but I decided to plan something for your birthday.” Maya throws herself onto my bed. “I regret telling you I’m a Taurus.” I groan. “Don’t be dramatic. You not celebrating today should be a crime, seeing as even Taylor Swift wrote a song about feeling twenty-two.

On the twenty-sixth of January in 1988, Australia was celebrating two hundred years since colonization. I was eight years old at the time and could not begin to comprehend the complexity of the day and what it meant to the long-suffering indigenous people of our country. Back then, it was a day viewed as celebratory; the one narrative pushed by the government and media of the time, parroted by our teachers gushing: What a special day it was! A birthday, they said. That, my eight-year-old self could understand.

This day seemed to determine everything in my future. To this day, whenever I ask myself what would happen if I did not get the job, I often tremble all over. Because I know what I got from that job, and what will happen to me without it. Therefore, I have celebrated September 26th as a “rebirth birthday” all my life, and I have more emotions for this day than my birthday.

My friend (and ex-lover) Nicole says I’m just a restless soul. My barhopping friend Mark thinks it’s just a premature middle-age crisis; I just celebrated my 33rd birthday last week, after all. I have another theory. It’s not original, so I can’t call it the James Garraty Theory of Life. Want to hear it? Here goes. No matter how old you get, how affluent or successful you become, you’ll never outrun the ghosts of your past. Particularly the ghosts of your adolescence. Put simply, you can graduate from high school, but your soul will never leave that place.

I love birthdays because they are about celebrating the fact that God made someone, not what they’ve accomplished or will get done, but that they simply are.

Your husband is doing this for your own good, they both concur. ‘Your own good’ was the mantra of my mother when I was growing up – it justified being force-fed laxatives once every three months, not celebrating my birthdays at school, curfews against travelling alone, refusal of permission to go to picnics. ‘Your own good’ was the reason my English teacher offered when she pulled me by the ear and led me out of the classroom, shouting rowdy girl rowdy girl rowdy girl this is for your own good and struck me with a wooden ruler. ‘Your own good’ was what justified my teenage neighbour putting his fingers inside my eight-year-old vagina to check for forest insects and bed bugs and evil imps. When I hear ‘your own good’ I am reduced to being a child again. I do not argue any more. I go silent.

Your husband is doing this for your own good, they both concur. ‘Your own good’ was the mantra of my mother when I was growing up – it justified being force-fed laxatives once every three months, not celebrating my birthdays at school, curfews against travelling alone, refusal of permission to go to picnics. ‘Your own good’ was the reason my English teacher offered when she pulled me by the ear and led me out of the classroom, shouting rowdy girl rowdy girl rowdy girl this is for your own good and struck me with a wooden ruler. ‘Your own good’ was what justified my teenage neighbour putting his fingers inside my eight-year-old vagina to check for forest insects and bed bugs and evil imps. When I hear ‘your own good’ I am reduced to being a child again. I do not argue any more. I go silent.

I certainly admit that there’s some longing inside me to be remembered or thought of long after I am gone. I believe it probably comes from the same place that yearns to live forever and lose nothing. But nothing lives forever, and everyone loses everything. To live for or caring about being remembered is like planning your own birthday party on a day that you can’t go. If I want to celebrate my life, I can only do it now, while I am still here. I believe everyone should still dedicate themselves to something or some things that they want to be remembered for, be it a cause, a passion, a good heart, or all of the above. But not because it’s something that they will be remembered for. But because it’s what they want to imagine their life is for. And what you imagine your life is for, is what your life is for, isn’t it? Whether one is remembered for 500,000 year or just 5 minutes after they’re gone, makes no difference to the person who lived for it. Ultimately I have no illusions that I will last beyond the minds of a couple generations after me, at best. And so, what I do now, what I dedicate myself to, what I experience behind the eyes of my own self, must be enough. If it isn’t, nothing is.

They’re not exactly the most physically imposing people in the world (that’s what happens when you live on nothing but soy lattes and veggie burgers), but the sheer force of their numbers is shocking. They have allowed hate to spread at a rate we haven’t seen since the era of civil rights, when Democrats—the party that founded the KKK, in case you’ve forgotten—would organize lynch mobs and counterprotests all across the South, most of which ended in horrific violence. These people are irrational, hysterical, upset, and out looking for enemies. I should know. As of November 16, 2016, I became one of their top targets. Before the election, I was just a guy who appeared on television every once in a while, went to work, and went home at the end of the day and played with my kids. There were probably a few people who thought I was an asshole because I was blessed to have been born into a wealthy family. But no one was mailing suspicious powder to my home or screaming at me in a restaurant where I was celebrating my brother’s birthday. No one was threatening my life. After the election, I became the guy who receives the second highest number of death threats in the country (according to the Secret Service, second only to my father). And that’s a list that includes senators, former presidents, and ambassadors to several war-torn countries. Here’s what the exploding letter filled with powder that sent my then wife and a member of my Secret Service detail to the hospital said: “You are an awful person. This is why people hate you. You are getting what you deserve. So shut the f—k up.

This, for the purpose of this celebration, is the 4th of July. It is the birthday of your National Independence, and of your political freedom. What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? Fellow-citizens; above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, to-day, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see, this day, and its popular characteristics, from the slave’s point of view. Standing there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this 4th of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future.

On 2 October 1947, Gandhi turned seventy-eight. From the morning a stream of visitors came to wish him. They included his close lieutenants Nehru and Patel, now prime minister and home minister respectively in the Government of India. Gandhi was not displeased to see his old friends and comrades. But his overall frame of mind was bleak. ‘What sin have I committed,’ he told Patel in Gujarati, 'that He should have kept me alive to witness all these horrors?’ As he told the audience at that evening’s prayer meeting: ‘I am surprised and also ashamed that I am still alive. I am the same person whose word was honoured by the millions of the country. But today nobody listens to me. You want only the Hindus to remain in India and say that none else should be left behind. You may kill the Muslims today; but what will you do tomorrow? What will happen to the Parsis and the Christians and then to the British? After all, they are also Christians.’ Ever since his release from jail in 1944, Gandhi had spoken often of wanting to live for 125 years. Now, in the face of the barbarism around him, he had givenup that ambition. ‘In such a situation,’ he asked, ‘what place do I have in India and what is the point of my being alive?’ Gandhi told the crowd who had gathered to wish him at Birla House that ‘if you really want to celebrate my birthday, it is your duty not to let anyone be possessed by madness and if there is any anger in your hearts you must remove it’.

Thank you for celebrating my baby girl’s birthday with us.” Thank God the man doesn’t know about the filthy things I want to do to his baby girl. He’d probably kill me with his bare hands.

HAYES: No, no, and no. I don’t like celebrating my birthday.  CASEN: It’s 5-1, buddy. You’ve been outvoted. HAYES: Yeah, but since I’m the birthday boy, my vote counts for more. So it’s actually like 5-15.  KIT: How? HAYES: For every one of your votes, my vote counts for three times that.  KIT: In what fucked-up universe?  HAYES: This one, bitch.

I’ve got my wife, Judy, in the car,” John said. “I’ve heard of her,“ a young man shouted from the crowd. “What you heard about her is not true,” John replied. “They never went to bed.” Smokey was astonished. John was crazy drunk, making no sense. “This guy is a killer,” John said, pointing at Smokey and throwing the problem of the stranger his way. Smokey backed away and guided John outside. “What the hell was that about Judy?” Smokey asked. “It’s between us,” John replied. In the limousine, the others were drinking champagne. “ I’m tired of you fooling around ,” John said to Judy. She threw her glass of champagne in his face. John leapt out of the car and ran toward the club. Smokey followed and grabbed John in a full body embrace, locking his arms at his side. “Let me celebrate my birthday!” John yelled. He broke loose, turned and clutched Smokey’s jacket. “You piss me off,” he said. “Don’t ever grab me again—never, never!” Smokey nodded. They walked to the car. Before they had driven the four blocks to Morton Street, John had passed out. Smokey carried him inside, undressed him and put him into bed.

My mother celebrated every Hindu festival with the appropriate rituals, but no one acknowledged birthdays. My parents never hugged us, kissed us, or said, "I love you.". Love was assumed. We never shared fears or hopes and dreams with our elders. They just were not the kind to have those conversations.

birthday celebration made up of the Jewish child we are hiding, my husband’s aunt who is sheltering us, and the Nazi she is protecting us from, who happens to be my lover. The irony is really too much.

I wondered if we would have to choose music for his funeral or would we get to celebrate his high school graduation, his wedding, or even his next birthday I needed to focus on the daily victories without peering too far ahead to a potential dismal future for my beautiful boy. God didn’t do this to us, but I do know He was using it for His glory. Yes, there has been loss, but right behind it come gifts we would never have expected amid such trials: peace in the midst of chaos, joy within sorrow, and even a path of light surrounded by darkness. I was not happy, but still, I had a great deal of joy. When I focus on all He has given me, it’s difficult to see what I don’t have. As uncomfortable as I often am through this journey, I welcome the chance to honor God through it. I am so thankful God meets us where we are, then walks us the rest of the way. While I wholeheartedly believed God would put the pieces back together, I also knew He might not put them together the same way they were before.

That June, in the summer before my senior year in high school, I reported to Scripps as a junior trainee for a series of three excursions. I celebrated my 17th birthday at sea. Our initial work was part of a study looking at why sardines—immortalized in John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row—had disappeared off the California coast.

No one had celebrated his birthday? All these years? It seemed like a relatively simple thing and yet, for some reason, it made my heart squeeze painfully.

On my tenth birthday, abandoned by one set of children, I learned that five hundred and eighty-one others were celebrating their birthdays, too; which was how I understood the secret of my original hour of birth; and, having been expelled from one gang, I decided to form my own, a gang which was spread over the length and breadth of the country, and whose headquarters were behind my eyebrows.

Celebrating a birthday is like saying I’m happy you’re alive and in my life.

You may not be Chosen, but you were born into this realm, shrouded in the veil of the Primals. A Maiden as the Fates promised. And you shall leave this realm touched by life and death,” my old nursemaid Odetta had once said. But, once again, I looked like the Chosen—those third sons and daughters born in a shroud, destined to serve the Primal of Life in his Court. I spent my entire life hidden behind this veil, and even though I had been born in a shroud and treated like most Chosen in many ways, I was also the Maiden. What they were destined to become after Ascension was the highest honor that could be bestowed upon a mortal in any kingdom. Celebrations would be held throughout the lands in preparation for the night of their Rite, where they would Ascend and enter the realm of Iliseeum to serve the Primals and the gods. What I was destined for was the most closely guarded secret in all of Lasania. There were no celebrations and feasts. Tonight, on my seventeenth birthday, I would become the Primal of Death’s Consort. My

Pancit of some kind is ever present in one's birthday menu for it symbolizes long life, and we continue to celebrate birthdays including Stacy's and Vanessa's (my two caring and loving daughters-in-law) with their choice of pancit and cake. It is also always served in Filipino parties whether it is a town fiesta, an anniversary or any holiday. The

Birthdays, I shudder just thinking about them. I stopped having celebrated birthdays when I reached twenty-one. Think about it, by that age you’ve achieved all the golden rings they dangled in front of you. You can drive, vote, and get into bars legally, after that it’s a fast tumble down a large hill. The thought of celebrating that fall is not my idea of fun. ~Keely Fey

I’m not a complete birthday Scrooge . . . except when it comes to my own birthday. I’m just not a big-celebration, look-at-me kind of woman. Having all that attention directed my way for something no more notable than aging seems silly. It’s like getting the green participation ribbon for field day. I hadn’t worked to earn this. I was being rewarded simply for showing up.

Toward the end of the birthday celebration, there was a distinctive pop! from the rec room. We all twisted around. I prayed the rune worked on the house, because there was definitely a god here. Apollo strolled into the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was that his eyes were blue and not that creepy white. “How is my birthday girl?” For some reason, I blushed to the roots of my hair. “Doing good, grandpa.” He smirked as he slid into the seat beside me, easily prying the knife from Deacon’s fingers. “I do not look nearly old enough to be what I am to you.” That was true. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties, which made it all the freakier. “So when were you going to tell me that you spawned me?” “I did not spawn you. I spawned a demigod centuries ago who eventually spawned your mother.” “Can you guys stop saying ‘spawn’?” asked Luke. Apollo shrugged as he carved off an edge of the cake. He handed the knife back to an oddly subdued Deacon. “I did not find it necessary to tell you. It is not like I am going to be bouncing little Alex babies on my knee.” The soda caught in my throat, and I almost spit it back up. Someone chuckled, and it sounded like Luke. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.

One day I saw him going into one of the lecture halls, I followed. I thought it was you when I first noticed him. I sat some distance away from the boy at the lecture hall. He was a freshman law student from a well to do family in the Philippines. I stalked him for a day before I introduced myself. Toby was new at campus and was finding his way around. We started hanging out after classes. He was attractive, charming and pleasant but lacked a certain je ne se quoi which you possess. As much as I like him I had a hunch that he wasn’t altogether the kind of man I would be totally happy in a long term relationship. My loneliness and heartaches got the better of me and I pursued this relationship half-heartedly; thinking our emotional affinity would improve with time. One evening, a week after we met we were at a pub celebrating a friend’s birthday. I was intoxicated trying to drown my sorrows from missing you. He had a wee bit too much to drink at the celebration. We ended up in my flat with our clothes scattered around us. He had a beautiful physique like yours. I began seeing you in him when we became intimate. I longed for your sweet lips and wanted to believe I was making love to you instead of Toby. Ignoring my premonitions, I plunged full steam ahead. I kissed him passionately like I did you when we were a couple. With my eyes clammed shut, I imagine holding you in my arms, caressing you and submerging fully in you. I desired no other only you.

I firmly believed that summer birthdays needed to be celebrated in a big way, taking advantage of the long days and warm nights.

The only kids that attended my birthday parties any more were Goth ones, wondering if the celebration of my spawning would kill again.

I wondered what it was like, to gradually lose little pieces of your mind. Maybe it wasn’t so bad if you didn’t know it was happening, if you just kind of slowly sank into oblivion. Papa had celebrated his eighty-fifth birthday in April. He’d had a long, happy turn at life and yet it was still sad to watch it slowly ebb away. Papa continued to regard me with quiet scrutiny while my uncle rocked back on his heels and waited for someone to say something. I didn’t want to stay in this house alone tonight. I really didn’t want to stay here alone with Easton. I opened my mouth to plead with my senile great-grandfather to stay and keep me company. He spoke before I did though. “You’re no fun,” he said in a plaintive, childish voice. “Hear that, Claud?” Rocco teased. “You’re no fun.” “Shut up.” He sighed and turned serious. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I don’t think you should hide forever.” “I was only planning on hiding until Saturday.” That was the day after Jack and Anya were scheduled to return from Atlantic City. It was the date stamped on my return plane ticket. And then I would return to Arizona and go back to hiding out on that side of the country. Rocco wasn’t done prodding me. “Why don’t you go out tonight?” “I can’t find Jack’s car keys.” Rocco crossed the room in three long strides, rattled around in the kitchen for a minute, and returned with Jack’s key ring. “Excuses, excuses,

Born on March 20, 1971, she celebrated her 100th birthday this past March. During the war she toured the battle zones, where British forces were fighting by giving concerts for the troops. The songs most remembered from that era are We'll Meet Again, The White Cliffs of Dover, A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square and There'll Always Be an England. During the Second World War she earned the title of “the Allied Forces Sweetheart.” And in 1945 she was awarded the British War Medal and the Burma Star for her untiring devotion to the Crown and the men in uniform. As a songwriter and actress, her recordings and performances were enormously popular. This popularity remained solid after the war with recording of Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart, My Son, My Son and I Love This Land, which was released to mark the end of the Falklands War. In 2009, at age 92, she became the oldest living artist to top the UK Albums Chart, with We'll Meet Again, The Very Best of Vera Lynn. Commemorating her 100th birthday she released the album Vera Lynn 100, in 2017, which number 3 on the charts, making her the oldest recording artist in the world and the first centenarian performer to have an album in the charts. Vera Lynn devoted much time working with wounded ex-servicemen, disabled children, and breast cancer. She is held in great affection by veterans of the Second World War and in 2000 was named the Briton who best exemplified the spirit of the 20th century.

Among other jobs that we did, my brother Bill and I were shoe shine boys in Jersey City and Hoboken during the World War II years. We went from tavern to tavern shining shoes for ten cents and hopefully a generous tip. The Hoboken waterfront bristled with starkly looming, grey hulled Liberty ships. Secured to the piers facing River Street, they brandished their ominous cannons towards what I thought was City Hall. An unappreciated highlight was when I shined Frank Sinatra’s shoes at a restaurant on Washington Street, just west from the Clam Broth House. There was no doubt but that Hoboken was an exciting place during those years. Years later I met Frank at Jilly's saloon, a lounge on West 52d Street in Manhattan, for a few drinks and a little fun around town. Even though I was an adult by then, he still called me “kid!” It was obvious that Frank Sinatra enjoyed friendly relations with Mafia notables such as Carlo Gambino, “Joe Fish” Fischetti and Sam Giancana. Meyer Lansky was said to have been a friend of Sinatra’s parents in Hoboken. During this time Sinatra spoke in awe about Bugsy Siegel and was in an AP syndicated photograph, seen in many newspapers, with Tommy “Fatso” Marson, Don Carlo Gambino 'The Godfather', and Jimmy 'The Weasel, Fratianno. Little wonder that the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept their eye on Sinatra for almost 50 years. A memo in FBI files revealed that Sinatra felt that he could be of use to them. However, it is difficult to believe that Sinatra would have become an FBI informer, better known as a “rat.” It was in May of 1998 when Sinatra, being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles told his wife Barbara, “I’m losing.” Frank Sinatra died on May 14th at 82 years of age. It is alleged that he was buried with the wedding ring from his ex-wife, Mia Farrow, which she slid unnoticed into his suit pocket during his “viewing.” Aside from his perceived personal and public image, Frank Sinatra’s music will shape his enduring legacy for decades to come. His 100th birthday was celebrated at the Hollywood Bowl on Wednesday, July 22, 2015. Somehow Frank will never age and his music will never fade….

And that’s pretty much when you start lying there, wondering how this is going to play out. (I felt sort of bad about this date, because it had been Dan’s birthday the day before. My parents brought in cupcakes and we pretended like there was a celebration and it was nice and I wasn’t awaiting surgery.) It was a weird Thursday. I took a few walks around the

Oh, your birthday! What a day that would be. I would make you a cake and decorate the house with banners, before creeping into your room with a fistful of balloons and confetti and a cupcake with a single candle in it. This would become one of our traditions, so no matter how old you got, you’d always wake to a cupcake, with pink frosting of course, and a single candle. If for any reason I couldn’t be with you on that day, you’d make one for yourself or someone you loved would buy you one, and holding that cupcake would make you feel close to me wherever you were in the world. Your birthday would be a day for great, great celebration, the day my life changed. The day I got you, the day I gave my heart away . . .

I know that many people including our President insist that it be called the Christmas Season. I’ll be the first in line to say that it works for me however that’s not what it is. We hint at its coming on Halloween when the little tykes take over wandering the neighborhood begging for candy and coins. In this day and age the idea of children wandering the streets threatening people with “Trick or Treat!” just isn’t a good idea. In most cases parents go with them encouraging their offspring’s to politely ask “Anything for Halloween.” An added layer of security occurs when the children are herded into one room to party with friends. It’s all good, safe fun and usually there is enough candy for all of their teeth to rot before they have a chance to grow new ones. Forgotten is the concept that it is a three day observance of those that have passed before us and are considered saints or martyrs. Next we celebrate Thanksgiving, a national holiday (holly day) formally observed in Canada, Liberia, Germany Japan, some countries in the Caribbean and the United States. Most of these countries observe days other than the fourth Thursday of November and think of it as a secular way of celebrating the harvest and abundance of food. Without a hiccup we slide into Black Friday raiding stores for the loot being sold at discounted prices. The same holds true for Cyber Monday when we burn up the internet looking for bargains that will arrive at our doorsteps, brought by the jolly delivery men and women, of FedEx, UPS and USPS. Of course the big days are Chanukah when the Maccabean Revolt against the Seleucid Empire, regained control of Jerusalem. It is a time to gather the family and talk of history and tell stories. Christmas Eve is a time when my family goes to church, mostly to sing carols and distribute gifts, although this usually continued on Christmas day. This is when the term “Merry Christmas” is justified and correct although it is thought that the actual birthday of Christ is in October. The English squeezed another day out of the season, called Boxing Day, which is when the servants got some scraps from the dinner the day before and received a small gift or a dash of money. I do agree that “Xmas” is inappropriate but that’s just me and I don’t go crazy over it. After all, Christmas is for everyone. On the evening of the last day of the year we celebrate New Year’s Evening followed by New Year’s Day which many people sleep through after New Year’s Eve. The last and final day of the Holiday Season is January 6th which Is Epiphany or Three Kings Day. In Tarpon Springs, the Greek Orthodox Priest starts the celebration with the sanctification of the waters followed by the immersion of the cross. It becomes a scramble when local teenage boys dive for the cross thrown into the Spring Bayou as a remembrance of the baptism of Jesus Christ in the Jordan River. This tradition is now over a century old and was first celebrated by the Episcopal Church by early settlers in 1903.

April 15, 1964, was Kim Il-sung’s birthday, therefore one of the year’s biggest holidays. That particular year, it was a total catastrophe for my family. Everyone in North Korea celebrated that wretched day. Every family received two and a half pounds of pork and some sweets and fruit—unheard-of luxuries at any other time of year. Amazingly, people were duped by these “gifts”; they really thought Kim Il-sung cared for them. I never fell for the ploy, but my sisters and I nonetheless still looked forward to the occasion as much as everyone else. Pork and sweets and fruit all in one day? It was the only day of the year when I wasn’t hungry. What was not to like?

his…demands?” And then she had held her breath as if seriously expecting Isabel to answer. And last night as Isabel passed a half-open bedroom door, she had overheard a fellow guest speaking to her maid. “I do so admire Lady Isabel for not feeling the need to bow to the demands of fashion,” the woman had said. “She dresses instead in what is comfortable even if it is not in the first stare. Though I find it no wonder her husband has strayed.” Isabel had gritted her teeth and gone on down to dinner, where she smiled and flirted and silently dared anyone to comment to her face that her dress was at least two years old. If only her early departure wouldn’t cause so much comment, she would call for her carriage and go home right now. But that was impossible. For one thing, she didn’t have a carriage, for she had come up from London with a fellow guest. Too short of funds to afford a post-chaise, she was equally dependent on her friend for transport back to the city when the hunting party broke up. And secondly, of course, there were only two places she could go—Maxton Abbey, or the London house—and her husband might be at either one. Unless, with her safely stashed at the Beckhams’, he had accepted yet another of the many invitations he received. But she couldn’t take the chance. After little more than a year of marriage, the pattern was ingrained—wherever one of the Maxwells went, the other took pains not to go. She could not burst in on her husband; what if he were entertaining his mistress? Better not to know. She might go to the village of Barton Bristow, descending on her sister. But Emily’s tiny cottage was scarcely large enough for her and her companion, with no room for a guest—and Mrs. Dalrymple’s constant chatter and menial deference was enough to set Isabel’s teeth on edge. In fact, the only nice thing Isabel could say about being married was that at least she wasn’t required to drag a spinster companion around the countryside with her to preserve her reputation, as Emily had to do. Isabel turned her borrowed mount over to the stable boys and strode across to the house, where the butler intercepted her in the front hall. “A letter has just been delivered for you, Lady Isabel, by a special messenger. He said a post-chaise will call for you tomorrow.” She took the folded sheet with trepidation. Who could be summoning her? Not her husband, that was certain. Her father, possibly, for yet another lecture on the duties of a young wife? She broke the seal and unfolded the page. My dearest Isabel, You will remember from happier days that I will soon celebrate my seventieth birthday… Uncle Josiah. But her moment of relief soon

She didn't say happy birthday to me or anything.  She never acknowledged my birthday nor did she ever celebrate it.  She said the day I was born was the day her life was ruined.

My Top Ten Reasons for Homeschooling: (10) Birthdays become school holidays. I love celebrations! (9) I always get to be the chaperone on field trips. Lucky me. (8) I can sleep in on rainy mornings. (Okay, I wrote that before my last two babies were born- no more sleeping in for Mom now.) (7) My pajamas are sometimes my work uniform until noon. Shhh! (6) The teacher-student ratio can’t be beat! (5) I can kiss the school principal in the faculty lounge. ♥ (4) Integrating God in our school lessons is always encouraged. (3) I do not have to stay up late at night helping my children study for tests and complete homework assignments. (2) I have the opportunity to instill the love of learning. (1) I am the recipient of hugs and kisses all day long.

If you must know, yesterday was my birthday.” “You neglected to tell me yesterday was your birthday.” “There was much that was neglected to be said, given Mr. Birmingham’s untimely appearance.” “Good point, but we have time to discuss matters now. May I inquire as to what birthday you celebrated?” “It’s hardly proper to ask a lady her age.” “Normally I would agree with you, but since you’re going to be seen on my arm, it’s most likely a question others are going to ask. It might bring up unwelcome speculation if I can’t answer properly.” “I’m twenty-two.” “Are you really? I thought you were closer to my age, and I’m thirty-one, which just goes . . .” The next thing Oliver knew, he was standing by himself, Harriet having shaken out of his hold and taken off down the sidewalk again.

enthusiasm to the day ahead. After a couple of days of heavy rain, the sun was shining and it promised to be a beautiful day. Jackie, one of the girls in our class had invited a group of friends to her house to celebrate her birthday. She lived on

Aunt Laura had called my dad and asked if I could come over to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays. Kiley and Josh were born the same month and often had a combined “family” party. It was clear to both Dad and me that my aunt had pretty much invited just me. Not my dad. But I didn’t want to go in there alone. And Dad knew that.

Wait a minute, look at them. Smiling and laughing. Just having a wonderful time, enjoying themselves to the fullest. Why shouldn't they? They deserve it. It's Christmas. Their Christmas. The best day I ever had was the day Karla found me and brought me here, to my home. Ryan, Kaley, Matt and yes, even Derek, are my family too. I'm treated so well I've lost perspective. Well, what do you expect, I am a dog after all. They always find the time to take me for walks, play with me in the yard, bring me to the vet, get me in out of the heat and cold, cuddle up with me before bedtime and even celebrate my birthday. Today is for them and not for me. The least I can do is to let them enjoy it without me getting in the way. But if this continues tomorrow there'll be hell to pay! Who am I kidding, it'll never happen.

Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp was somewhat grotesque. I would say that the real impression made by anything connected with art arose only from the ghostlike contrast between the performance and the background of desolate camp life. I shall never forget how I awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second night in Auschwitz—roused by music. The senior warden of the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which was near the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawled some hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the night a violin sang a desperately sad tango, an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing. The violin wept and a part of me wept with it, for on that same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday. That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of reach. That someone was my wife.

That trip was epic. Every day was an adventure. Bindi sat down for her formal schooling at a little table under the big trees by the river, with the kookaburras singing and the occasional lizard or snake cruising through camp. She had the best scientists from the University of Queensland around to answer her questions. I could tell Steve didn’t want it to end. We had been in bush camp for five weeks. Bindi, Robert, and I were now scheduled for a trip to Tasmania. Along with us would be their teacher, Emma (the kids called her “Miss Emma”), and Kate, her sister, who also worked at the zoo. It was a trip I had planned for a long time. Emma would celebrate her thirtieth birthday, and Kate would see her first snow. Steve and I would go our separate ways. He would leave Lakefield on Croc One and go directly to rendezvous with Philippe Cousteau for the filming of Ocean’s Deadliest. We tried to figure out how we could all be together for the shoot, but there just wasn’t enough room on the boat. Still, Steve came to me one morning while I was dressing Robert. “Why don’t you stay for two more days?” he said. “We could change your flight out. It would be worth it.” When I first met Steve, I made a deal with myself. Whenever Steve suggested a trip, activity, or project, I would go for it. I found it all too easy to come up with an excuse not to do something. “Oh, gee, Steve, I don’t feel like climbing that mountain, or fording that river,” I could have said. “I’m a bit tired, and it’s a bit cold, or it’s a bit hot and I’m a bit warm.” There always could be some reason. Instead I decided to be game for whatever Steve proposed. Inevitably, I found myself on the best adventures of my life. For some reason, this time I didn’t say yes. I fell silent. I thought about how it would work and the logistics of it all. A thousand concerns flitted through my mind. While I was mulling it over, I realized Steve had already walked off. It was the first time I hadn’t said, “Yeah, great, let’s go for it.” And I didn’t really know why.

I'm not saying our daughter shouldn't have a birthday party. I'm just saying I could organize one in an hour. I'd order some pizzas, get a cake at the supermarket, organize some fun party games for little girls - 'Run Around Shrieking,' 'Run Around Shrieking Some More,' etc. - and boom, there's your party. I'm not saying it would be the greatest birthday celebration ever. For one thing, it would be roughly a month after my daughter's actual birthday, because I am not good with dates. But it would get the job done. My wife, on the other hand, believes the party should be along the lines of the Super Bowl halftime show, only more elaborate.

Futuring,” says Bunyan, is based upon Hope. Hope is the force that propels us through life, giving us nourishment, purpose, and energy for our actions. Futuring causes us to question assumptions we make about life. Through the techniques of writing and sharing stories, creating images and participating in role-plays, we can simulate events as though we are already in the future. Our objective in such visualizations is not to predict the future, but to perceive potential futures in the here-and-now and to conceptualize what it will take to get from here to there.… There is no monopoly on futurism. Every person has the childlike ability to spontaneously create.6 At the 1992 futuring conference I created a vision of Detroit Youth in the year 2032. A record-breaking snow storm had occurred on the eve of the celebration of Martin Luther King’s 103rd birthday, I wrote, but people had no trouble getting to the celebration because young people, organized in Youth Block Clubs, had assumed the right and responsibility to keep the streets clean and safe for the community, especially elders. The vision goes on to describe how community work had been incorporated into the school curriculum, so that elementary schoolchildren working with elders were growing most of the food for the city while middle and high school students were doing most of the work of preparing and serving food in the community, and so on.7 Having that vision in my head and heart since the futuring conference has helped me time and again to project youth activities that transform young people at the same time that they improve the community.

Celebrate to Celebrate Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever. —PSALM 107:1     I’ve often been accused of celebrating just to celebrate. I guess that’s correct, because I’ve built a ministry on telling women how to develop a close-knit family. My experience has shown that healthy families love to celebrate—you name it; they celebrate. Make celebrations a tradition in your family! Why not? Life is for living, and in the living there’s always something to celebrate. Celebrate everything—good days, bad days that are finally over, birthdays, and even half birthdays. Get your children involved preparing for a dinner celebration. Make it special. Let them make place cards, set the table, help you cook, create a centerpiece. Our children were always assigned to greet our guests at the door—a wonderful opportunity for teaching hospitality and manners. Let your sharing extend beyond your family. Several times a year, create a “love basket” filled with food for a family in need. Try spending part of your holidays helping out at a shelter or a mission. This has been one of our most rewarding celebrations. Present your own version of a You Are Special plate to a special guest, and have her use it for her meal. Let the recipient know that she is special and is loved by all. Go around the table and tell that special person why she is so special. Have a box of Kleenex ready—the tears will flow. In some cases it will be the first time she has been told that she is special and loved at the same time. Don’t be limited. Look for ways to celebrate life and those you love! Prayer: Father God, there are a lot of reasons to celebrate today. Let me be a helper for those who want to celebrate but don’t know how. Amen.   Action: Plan a celebration for someone you love.  

Kristen and I always have a lot to celebrate at the end of June. First there’s Father’s Day, followed by our wedding anniversary and my birthday. But prior to the Best Practices this two-week season of parties didn’t inspire much of a celebratory mood. It always felt strange celebrating Father’s Day, given that my parenting skills had been something of a disappointment for the first three years, and the tears that Kristen had shed on our third wedding anniversary spoke rather poignantly to the fact that our marriage hadn’t been much to celebrate, either. That left my birthday, a day that was all about toasting the birth of the very person who had made Kristen’s life miserable. But after fifteen months of hard work and soul-searching, Kristen and I were finally able to look forward to this season with real anticipation. We were communicating again, and I was beginning to hit my stride as a father and as a husband. I was folding laundry, Kristen was taking her first uninterrupted showers in years, and when America’s Next Top Model wasn’t on during its regularly scheduled hour, I stayed cool as a cucumber. And that gave us plenty of reason to break out the streamers and party hats. Heck, we could have made a layer cake. In light of all this, I decided that June would be the best time to embark on my most ambitious Best Practice yet: being fun.

I’m happy to blame you, as long as that means I wasn’t the cause of any delay in Aunt Mary’s birthday celebration,” Celeste said with a smile as she headed for her great-aunt. She kissed the woman’s lined cheek as the familiar scent of Mary’s favorite White Shoulders perfume washed over her. “Happy birthday, my dear. You are still just as stunning as ever.

My grand baby is growing so fast, I can't believe she's already celebrating her first birthday in this month of October 2016. Happy Birthday Norah Grace, grandma loves you.

December 24, 2002 come home form work and I felled very sick. I felt a very sick a sharped pain on my bones, very high fever, and sweating, I could not stayed on my own feet. I changed and went to bed. My husband said "Honey pleas stay in Livingroom with me and the children because its Christmas eve" I told him I am in pain and cant stay i need to go to bed and fail to sleep. I see Jesus on my dream. He was standing at the end of my bed and telling me "What you doing on the bed while every one is preparing to celebrate my birthday?" I said "I'm not feeling good were I was very sick" He asked me "Where it hurts" I respond my joined to my feet, He reached down and touched my both feet, and I can feel the pain leaving, He walk on the side of the bed and asked again me "Are you hurting anywhere else" I said yes the joined of me knee" and I can see him reached down and touching both my knees" he asked me again where you hurting I told him "My elbows joined" and He reached again and I can feel the pain leaving. He "asked again are you hurting anywhere else?" I said " Yes my head is killing me" I see Him reaching out to touch my forehead. My husband come to the room, and touch my head and wake me up and asked me "How are you doing hun?" I open my eyes, and rook around the room, and told my husband "Where is He?" He said "I heard you talking to some one, who were you talking to? that's why I come to check on you" My husband asked me "How are you feeling now?" I realized I was not in pain anymore but my head still hurting, I got up took Advil, and started prepared for the Christmas eve party! This is my 2nd time seeing Jesus in my dream!

Even If It Is My Last Day, The World Should Never Fail To Celebrate My Birthday.

Your own good’ was the mantra of my mother when I was growing up – it justified being force-fed laxatives once every three months, not celebrating my birthdays at school, curfews against travelling alone, refusal of permission to go to picnics.

Both of us are on the dock, drinking cholados Colombianos to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Lana stares into the camera lens, eyes bright and face beaming, while my focus is solely on her.

She was a master cake baker and her creations were not just oohed and ahhed over by other kids at my birthday parties, but requested by those kid's mothers for their own celebrations... She not only accepted any request I made, but far exceeded my own ideas as to how it might look. She was an artist who sculpted in cake and painted in frosting.

I only had time for twenty-four people (tops) in my life, and I already had six siblings. Twenty-four people was an average of two birthdays a month. Ain’t nobody got time for more than two birthday celebrations a month. That’s a lot of cake, and I’m particular about my cake.

My passion for cooking meals for loved ones originated when I was growing up. Because our family didn't have much materially, my siblings and I didn't get excited about gifts and Christmas and birthdays--but we were exuberant in anticipation of the food! I remember my mother preparing and cooking food for days before Christmas. You could smell the aromas wafting throughout the house, and if you were lucky, she would allow you to lick the spoon and taste a little bit beforehand. As a result, my wife and I now delight in showing the same love my mother put into the preparation of special meals into the celebrations we enjoy. From all those years of watching my mother prepare food for the family, and from my own limited experience in the kitchen, I've realized an important lesson: quality takes time. While most people tend to agree with me, no one particularly enjoys waiting patiently for the turkey to come out of the oven or for the pie crust to be made from scratch. We want the quality, but we don't want to wait for it. As I look around, it doesn't take much to see that this current generation is accustomed to fast foods, instant information, and new friendships at the click of a button. Because of such immediate results, we've ignored the diminishing quality of those things we recieve instantly and our subsequent lack of appreciation for them. Our desire for instant gratification has ushered us to the point that we sacrifice excellent quality because of the difficulty and time it takes to produce it.

Because I was waiting for you. Waiting for a love that would walk into my life and blow my whole world up. I want to celebrate every Valentine’s Day & birthday with you. Love, Carter I’d

There’s an amphora of old wine in the house of nine years’ vintage. There is in the garden, Phyllis, laurel for braiding crowns and much ivy . . . I invite you to celebrate this day in mid-April— a festive one for me, dearer than my own birthday. (IV,

And then it occurred to me the other day . . . almost like a light bulb going off above my head as I sat and pondered my singleness, and the answer became crystal clear. Why does singleness have this overwhelmingly negative connotation? Because we don’t celebrate our singles. Like, at all. We just don’t. I mean, yeah . . . we have birthdays, of course . . . but who over the age of about twenty-five really makes a big deal out of their birthday? And besides, everybody has a birthday, so that doesn’t count. We simply don’t celebrate our singles. We celebrate our couples for making the decision to get married. We celebrate them again once they actually get married. We celebrate their choice to start a family (and then celebrate them again and again and sometimes again and again and again when they decide to expand that family). We celebrate the anniversaries of their marriages and the christenings and baptisms of their babies and their kids’ birthdays and their buying of a new home or choosing to adopt. Sometimes we even celebrate when they decide to end their marriage. But we simply don’t celebrate our singles.

I didn’t know you were so into surprises.” His eyes softened. “I never have been. Never cared about Valentine’s Day. Never thought birthdays were that big of a deal. But celebrating the day that you came into the world—” He paused and looked away for a moment before his eyes returned to mine. “It’s my new favorite day of the year, Tink.

In order for me to get those moments that leave me filled with gratitude I have to be willing to first show up, and then show up again. Next step is making sure I’m the kind of friend I’m hoping for in the first place. It’s the reason I keep a pile of birthday, condolence and get-well cards sitting next to me. Lowers the excuses for sending out a note to celebrate or just let someone know they’re not alone. Meant a lot to me lately when people sent me cards after my sister, Diana died. Or the times I’ve carried a casserole to someone’s door, or had dinner delivered – on me. Or the times I’ve bought candles, or tea from a friend’s new company, or I’ve gone to see plays or cabaret performances, or bought CD’s or books, or countless other moments just like those. I wanted to encourage and celebrate, as well as sit alongside a friend who’s struggling with a loss or a challenge. It all starts with heading out my door and being open to whatever greets me along the way.

Food is a big part of my culture, especially sweet foods. When you're Bangladeshi, you're taught that any good news or celebration has to be accompanied with some sweet food. Every time you visit someone's house its polite to bring a box of sweets . But in Ireland, there arent really a lot of places where you can buy Bengali sweets, so when I was younger my mom started making them herself. She was really good at it and I used to watch her. sometimes I helped her out. As I got older, it just felt like second nature to start baking. For school bake sales, I would make my own cookies. for friends birthdays, I would always bring along a cake I baked myself. I became the girl who bakes. and I loved being that girl. I guess baking is kinda in my blood".

Why celebrate my birthday? My birthday is the product of two people’s—my parents’—hard work. I can’t celebrate what I didn’t earn. However, anything I achieved after the day I was born, I’m free to celebrate.

I have climbed up Everest Mountain to put up your flag. Do you see my voice? I practiced four hours daily for three years to win you. Do you see my voice? I worked less and studied more to receive you. Do you see my voice? I put a smile on my face every time I come to you. Do you see my voice? I come early every day to you and I was never late because I like you. Do you see my voice? I feel worried when you are away because you are the source of protection. Do you see my voice? I curse you not because of you but because no one asked me to stop. Do you see my voice? I hate you because I feel I do not belong to you. Do you see my voice? My face never greets you because of your actions. Do you see my voice? I took a day off work to celebrate your birthday. Do you see my voice? I do not know everything about you but I trust you. Do you see my voice?

Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. Cheers again. I should say: OUR birthday. For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today.

Once I got my deal I exhaled, and my life began... I live Christmas to Christmas, celebration to celebration, festive moment to festive moment, not counting my birthday or ages.” pxiii

By the way, did you know that you were my confirmation present (there's also a kind of Jewish confirmation)? I was born in '83, so when you were born I was 13 years old; the 13th birthday is a special celebration. In the temple I had to recite a prayer---up by the altar---I had learned with difficulty, then give a small speech (also memorized) at home as well. I also received many presents. But I imagine I wasn't completely satisfied, since one present was still missing; I demanded it from heaven, but heaven waited until the 10th of August.

Celebrate my “Rainbow Birthday” not as the day I died but as the day I was born again. It is cause for celebration for on our rebirth in Heaven we do not come in crying like we do on earth; we come in laughing.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes, lived my life a little too carelessly, in ways that people didn’t approve of. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I was waiting for you. Waiting for a love that would walk into my life and blow my whole world up. I want to celebrate every Valentine’s Day & birthday with you.

But I was no longer celebrating my birthdays, a change I had grown accustomed to over the past few years.

I went to the East Coast to speak at an event, celebrate my 30th birthday,

Entertainment. Second, when it’s my birthday. The man loves to celebrate shit. He’d probably

ay cheese!" If you're like most women I know, you have at least one family and friends photo area in your home. My entire home is practically a photo gallery! Walls, tabletops, and my refrigerator door are all crowded with the faces of people I love. My husband, Bob, my children, grandchildren, new friends, old friends you name 'em and I've displayed 'em. How precious are these gatherings of faces to us. And it's so fitting, isn't it? Because our family and friends' pictures tell the story of their lives.. .and ours! Cherish your family and friends and those priceless moments. Hold them close. Seek out your friends and enjoy their company more often. Treasure their faces, their characteristics, their uniqueness. But also make room for new people.. .and add them to the gallery in your heart. ant to hold a spring garden party? It can be a birthday, a graduation, or just a celebration. For invitations, glue inexpensive packets of seeds to index cards and write in your party information. Pass them out or stick them in envelopes and mail them. Decorate a picnic table with an umbrella and bright floral sheets or vinyl cloths. Why not decorate the awnings and porch posts to make it even more festive? Flowers, flowers, and flowers everywhere create a bright, aromatic space. If you're limber and energetic or you're inviting kids, spread sheets on the ground for an authentic, old-fashioned picnic. A little red wagon or painted tub with a potted plant makes a fun off-to-the-side "centerpiece." Use a clean watering can for your lemonade pitcher. Engage your imagination and have fun entertaining.

THERE IS ONE mirror in my house. It is behind a sliding panel in the hallway upstairs. Our faction allows me to stand in front of it on the second day of every third month, the day my mother cuts my hair. I sit on the stool and my mother stands behind me with the scissors, trimming. The strands fall on the floor in a dull, blond ring. When she finishes, she pulls my hair away from my face and twists it into a knot. I note how calm she looks and how focused she is. She is well-practiced in the art of losing herself. I can’t say the same of myself. I sneak a look at my reflection when she isn’t paying attention—not for the sake of vanity, but out of curiosity. A lot can happen to a person’s appearance in three months. In my reflection, I see a narrow face, wide, round eyes, and a long, thin nose—I still look like a little girl, though sometime in the last few months I turned sixteen. The other factions celebrate birthdays, but we don’t. It would be self-indulgent. “There,” she says when she pins the knot in place. Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. It is too late to look away, but instead of scolding me, she smiles at our reflection. I frown a little. Why doesn’t she reprimand me for staring at myself? “So today is the day,” she says. “Yes,” I reply. “Are you nervous?” I stare into my own eyes for a moment. Today is the day of the aptitude test that will show me which of the five factions I belong in. And tomorrow, at the Choosing Ceremony, I will decide on a faction; I will decide the rest of my life; I will decide to stay with my family or abandon them. “No,” I say. “The tests don’t have to change our choices.” “Right.” She smiles. “Let’s go eat breakfast.” “Thank you. For cutting my hair.” She kisses my cheek and slides the panel over the mirror. I think my mother could be beautiful, in a different world.

Like any good lawyer, Hoy is proficient at continuing to ask whatever question he wanted to ask before an objection gets sustained. He asks whether Aaron had a third celebration that year—the first being the one at the Spitfire and the second being the cake at home with Marie and the children—and Aaron says that yes, he did, the following weekend. “I share a birthday—a March birthday with Marie, my wife, and two of my cousins also have March birthdays.

It was over 50 years ago that I had the privilege of being the Class Advisor to the class of 1969 at what was then called Henry Abbott Regional Vocational Technical School. It was another era and a time when we as a nation stood tall. It was the year when Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins lifted off from Cape Kennedy, for the first manned landing on the Moon. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” It was a time when we felt proud to be Americans! Fifty years ago the 4 Beatles got together in a recording studio for the last time, where they cut “Abbey Road.” In 1969 alone they published 13 songs including “Yellow Submarine.” John Lennon claimed that the best song he ever did was “Come Together” and that was in 1969. Although it wasn’t possible for me to attend the class reunion I did however connect with them by telephone and a speaker system. I had the opportunity to wish them well and share some thoughts with my former students who are now looking forward to their senior years that I always thought of as “The Youth of Old Age.” Having just celebrated my 85th birthday, 69 years old does seem quite youthful in comparison. Earlier in the week Dave Coelho, the class Vice President read to me the list of graduates that are no longer with us. I was stunned by the number, but at the time the United States was at war, regardless of what it was called. In 1968, the year before the class graduated, our country had a peak of 549,000 of our young people serving in Viet Nam. During the year of the Tet Offensive alone, 543 were killed and 2547 were wounded, and that is what the class of 1969 faced upon their graduation! It was a war in which 57,939 of our young people were killed or went missing! It was nice to talk to the class president LaBarbera and I enjoyed the feeling of guilt when one former student told me that he still has a problem with addition. To this I gladly accepted the blame but reminded him that this would not be of much help, if he had to face the IRS when his taxes didn’t compute. Look for part 2, the conclusion

Dear old friend, “After many years of knowing him, he died... Instead of leaving me with a heartbreak, he left behind wonderful memories. There are no tears to be shed. Instead, I celebrated our friendship. Years of smiles and laughter. Unhurried narration of his life stories and dreams… Each time, I stood and watched him struggle to get up. Even with all his physical struggles, he never missed the chance to call me until he was taken away permanently… His death… His departure from earth... As much as I struggle with the event, I would not call it untimely... I said my farewell, but I still cherish what we had. An eternal friendship” … It’s been 14 years since you have gone. If you were alive, you would’ve been 30 by now... Happy Birthday to you… Know that the lines in the quote are adapted, because I lost my touch after a dear friend betrayed me… FRIENDSHIP died after you… You know…The world has changed a lot since you’ve passed away… Friends no longer respect each other, the way you respected me… or the way I respected that you enjoyed eating porcupine meat… Thanks for all the good memories… We’ll always keep our promise to you to remain the innocent angels you’d known us to be…May you rest in peace…

After many years of knowing him, he died... Instead of leaving me with a heartbreak, he left behind wonderful memories. There are no tears to be shed. Instead, I celebrated our friendship. Years of smiles and laughter. Unhurried narration of his life stories and dreams… Each time, I stood and watched him struggle to get up. Even with all his physical struggles, he never missed the chance to call me until he was taken away permanently… His death… His departure from earth... As much as I struggle with the event, I would not call it untimely... I said my farewell, but I still cherish what we had. An eternal friendship” … “Dear old friend, It’s been 14 years since you have gone. If you were alive, you would’ve been 30 by now... Happy Birthday to you… You know…The world has changed a lot since you’ve passed away… Friendship died after you…Friends no longer respect each other, the way I respected that you enjoyed eating porcupine meat :p… or the way you respected me :’( … Thanks for all the good memories… We’ll always keep our promise to you to remain the innocent angels you’d known us to be…May you rest in peace…

After many years of knowing him, he died... Instead of leaving me with a heartbreak, he left behind wonderful memories. There are no tears to be shed. Instead, I celebrated our friendship. Years of smiles and laughter. Unhurried narration of his life stories and dreams… Each time, I stood and watched him struggle to get up. Even with all his physical struggles, he never missed the chance to call me until he was taken away permanently… His death… His departure from earth... As much as I struggle with the event, I would not call it untimely... I said my farewell, but I still cherish what we had. An eternal friendship” … “Dear old friend, It’s been 14 years since you have gone. If you were alive, you would’ve been 29 by now... Happy Birthday to you… You know…The world has changed a lot since you’ve passed away… Friendship died after you…Friends no longer respect each other, the way I respected that you enjoyed eating porcupine meat :p… or the way you respected me :’( … Thanks for all the good memories… We’ll always keep our promise to you to remain the innocent angels you’d known us to be…May you rest in peace…

I sneak a look at my reflection when she isn’t paying attention—not for the sake of vanity, but out of curiosity. A lot can happen to a person’s appearance in three months. In my reflection, I see a narrow face, wide, round eyes, and a long, thin nose—I still look like a little girl, though sometime in the last few months I turned sixteen. The other factions celebrate birthdays, but we don’t. It would be self-indulgent.

My family looked very much different than my family today. As the years passed my family and friends warped into what I see before me today. Originally we were tight. Perhaps the reason was the Great depression or the war. It could have been that we all depended on each other to succeed. In time however I got married and with two sons formed my own nucleus. Although not always perfect, and what is? Ursula and I have been together for over 60 years. Our two sons are both now older than I was when I retired. Life now has become difficult in a different way and perhaps because of this reason I find that everyone is too busy to carry on the ties that I had in the past. Everyone has grown apart and has to struggle with the results of divorce or burdens placed on their shoulders by others, although some of these burdens are self-inflicted wounds. Fortunately we do still see each other for events such as my 85th birthday. Sometimes we celebrate birthdays with tons of gifts and cookie cakes and other times we celebrate a birthday with a simple card. There are also times that our successes are recognized and other times that they are forgotten. Yes things have changed but no one is to blame, since this is the world we live in. Like all families we have gone our own ways politically. Some of us are open in our political or religious beliefs and others disguise them, but for the greatest part of my life we were all for American first. Unfortunately and perhaps for extra-national reasons we no longer have the country we had during my earlier years, nor do we have a president I and others, can be proud of. Our values have dissipated as I never envisioned, separating small children from their parents and locking them into cages, or fearing that children would be shot to death in their classrooms as it has happened all too frequently. I still can’t believe that it happened in Newton, CT, a feeder community to the school where I taught for 25 years. I never would have believed that not one of the 8 victims of a recent shooting, recovering in a hospital, would see the president of the United States.

Five months later, I received a text from Pointel. It was September 23. I remember it distinctly because it was my birthday. I was in the middle of celebrating the event as was appropriate, by drinking a six-pack of beer in bed watching Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, when the message appeared on my phone.

An anniversary for a couple celebrates a year together, a birthday marks a year of growth. The anniversary of the assault marked a year of treading water.

I asked my daughter how many kids would come to her birthday party if all we offered was cake. No games, no entertainment. They could come to the house to spend time with her and bring gifts to celebrate her, but we wouldn’t have anything else for them. She thought for a minute and said, “Maybe just a couple.” Then I asked her how many would come if I rented out Dave & Buster’s and let them have unlimited tokens, food, and prizes. She laughed and said confidently that the whole school would show up. So let’s say that for her birthday party I rent out the arcade and her whole school comes. They’re all going nuts, having the time of their lives. Imagine if I pulled her aside during the party, put my arm around her, and said, “Look at all the people who came to be with you!” Would she actually believe those people were there because they love her and want to spend time with her? Or would my comment actually be insulting? Isn’t this basically what we do with God? We have learned that we can fill church buildings if we bring in the right speaker or band. Make things exciting enough and people will come. We say, “God, look how many people are coming because they love being with You!” But do we really think God is fooled by this? Do we think God is pleased? He knows how many would show up if it was just Him. He knows there might be only a few if all we offered was Communion or prayer.

I just never really enjoy celebrating on my actual birthday. It’s like…a thing with me. There’s always so much expectation for the day

And then our life unfolds. Picture by picture. Frame by frame. It tells a story. Me and him. Every year since I was nine. Every holiday. Every birthday. Every celebration. The good days and the bad ones. It tells our story and it’s sequential, starting from the beginning, from that very day when he told me our friendship was inevitable, to just a few weeks ago, when I fell asleep and he carried me up the stairs to my bed before going home. It’s there. All of it is there. It’s a love letter, though I didn’t know it when I made it. Anyone can see it’s a love letter. It’s so obvious. It’s so trite. It’s so awkward. It’s nothing. It can’t be anything. He can’t know. I don’t want him to know. I can’t let him know.

I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter.

Gemma didn’t tell me about the special basketball practice Quentin had the night of Bellany’s party, which made him late. She didn’t tell me about the special birthday celebration Quentin had with Bellany the night before her party, either. I guess there’s no reason I should feel guilty about keeping my encounter with Bellany’s bloody body a secret from her. We obviously aren’t as close as I thought we were.

Caramel Celebration Cake Yield: 10–12 servings My mother always made birthdays a big to-do in our family, with balloons hanging from the chandelier and the most gorgeous birthday cakes on crystal cake stands. This caramel cake is certainly celebration worthy! 4 cups cake flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 2-1/4 cups sugar 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1 cup butter 1-1/2 tablespoons vanilla extract 3 whole eggs plus 2 egg yolks 2-1/4 cups buttermilk Caramel Icing 1/2 cup butter 1 cup brown sugar 1/4 cup milk 2 cups sifted powdered sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 pinch salt Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Prepare 3 (8-inch) round cake pans by spraying with nonstick baking spray and lining with parchment paper cut rounds to fit bottom of cake pan. Sift cake flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a mixing bowl; set aside. With a stand mixer, cream together sugar, vegetable oil, butter, and vanilla. Beat well at medium-high speed until light and fluffy. Beat the 3 whole eggs in, 1 at a time, then add in the 2 egg yolks. Fold in the dry ingredients alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with dry ingredients. Do not overmix the batter. Batter will be thick. Evenly divide batter between prepared pans and bake for 30–35 minutes or until toothpick inserted comes out clean. Allow cake to cool 10 minutes before turning onto wire racks to cool completely. Caramel Icing Melt butter and brown sugar together in a saucepan over medium-low heat. Add milk and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and whisk in powdered sugar, 1 cup at a time. Using a hand-held mixer helps to smooth the icing. Add vanilla and salt. Add more powdered sugar for a thicker icing, if desired. As icing cools, it will set, so work quickly to pour and then spread icing over cake. This icing also works well for a sheet cake. If icing begins to set up, warm slightly in the microwave to make icing more spreadable. Note: This will be a thin layer of icing on the cake. If you want a thick layer, double the icing recipe. For layer cakes, lay sheets of wax paper around the cake as you spread on the icing to catch any overflow. TIP: Caramel icing is long known to be difficult, even for the most accomplished bakers. The key is to work quickly and spread the icing before it sets up.

We celebrated birthdays and death days, and they were the first people I called when the worst day of my life happened. It was only natural that we were together for the best days, too.

And Happy Birthday to me. Twenty-six opportunities to celebrate my cursed birth, and this is about to be the only time I do.

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I've always hated my birthday," Ashleigh explains. "It's just one more reminder of how little progress I've made. I'm in exactly the same spot I was this time last year. Looking at the same four walls in the same house in the same town, only minus a husband." "Oh, sweetie, that's not true at all!" Barb pipes in. "You left a stagnant marriage. You started therapy. You got Mulder through a tough year, and now you've brought Daphne into our little circle!" "And it's not a day to celebrate progress, anyway," I insist. "It's a day to celebrate existence. We have to do something.

Around this time, I moved out of my ancestral home in Chagrin and rented a studio apartment in Cleveland. Thus, I was able to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday in my very own place. I decided to make it a surprise party. I sent out invitations informing the guests that someone was going to take me bowling and that I wouldn’t be home until 8:00. Then I gave instructions: The guests were to come to my apartment around 7:00 and set up the food and drinks, which they were assigned to bring. The key would be left on the sill over the door so people could let themselves in. I also suggested that everyone bring a small gift that didn’t exceed ten dollars. The fifteenth of December came and everything went smoothly. Nobody had trouble finding the place because I included a map in the invitation. So everyone was there waiting for the birthday boy to make his appearance. Eight o’clock came and went, as did nine o’clock, but the birthday boy never showed up. Finally, at around 10 P.M., the guests left, convinced that I’d given the wrong date. I hadn’t, and when they called the next day to see what had happened, I told them quite simply, “I never got an invitation.

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The birdhouse, the same one. Mendel and I had cobbled it together one midnight out of bits of spare timber. Mendel, under my slightly drunken guidance, had embellished it with a pokerwork plaque declaring No bird turned away. And there it stood, as proud and upright as on the birthday it had celebrated.

From the city of Priene in Western Turkey we have from 9 BCE (I have to tell my students that the inscription does not actually read “9 BCE”) an inscription that celebrates the birth of Augustus Caesar as “good news” (euangelion), calls Augustus a “savior both for us and for our descendants,” and as if in anticipation of the Christmas story, speaks of how “the birthday of the god Augustus was the beginning of good news for the world.

In October, Yoko and John celebrated John's thirty-first birthday with friends, including Ringo, in a hotel room in Syracuse, New York, where Yoko had an exhibition. There is a tape of a rowdy singalong, led by John on an out-of-tune guitar. It includes a slightly drunk and maudlin rendition of 'Yesterday'. John gets the words wrong (‘now it looks as though I've lost my way'), and replaces ‘she’ with ‘he’: why he had to go, I don't know, he wouldn't say...

I’m not your average pussy-eating muthafucka,” he continued. “I’m a connoisseur. I experience the pussy, becoming well-versed and fluent in its texture, aroma, sensitivity, and saturation. Not all pussy is the same, and since we agreed to keep it a hundred, your pussy deserves a spot in the Hall of Fame. It may be my birthday, but this shit should be celebrated, the Most Valuable Pussy.

Why did you get a divorce? Well, my wife did not greet me on my birthday, my ungrateful brats took after their mother and did not greet me. To make things worse, even my parents forgot my birthday! When I went to work, my colleagues did not greet me (and there is a freaking bulletin board with the birthday celebrant on it) but alas, my kind and sexy secretary greeted me with a smile and invited me for a lunch in her apartment nearby! Of course I felt flattered! At the apartment, she said, I’ll just go to the bedroom for a minute, I got excited and said Okkkaayyy! 3 minutes after, there she was with a huugge cake with my wife, the kids, my proud parents and yes, even my colleagues yelling “SURRRRPRRISSSEEE!” And me? I was waiting on the sofa…. Butt naked….