My birthday was September 20th. I turned 65 years old. I never had parties as a kid. Part of that is having a September birthday, children are in school and back in my day, birthday parties happened ON your birthday. My birthday this year was on a Friday. There are no birthday parties on a school night and anyway, on Friday night everyone is at the local high school football game.
I don’t remember “presents” per se. I always had a cake and then as I got older, my favorite dessert in lieu of cake. My parents usually gifted me experiences, a ballgame, a movie, tickets to a show, swimming at an indoor pool etc. Most of those things didn’t actually occur on September 20th so I’ve never associated my birthday date with gifts or hoopla.
My children are in their 30’s now and want to remember their Old Man on his special day. The thing is, I’m at the stage of my life where I’m trying to get rid of things rather than accumulate more. So, what I want is time and experiences. Time with them, even if it is just over the phone or experiencing something with them.
My daughter Alexis has taken to giving me remembrances. What follows is a piece she wrote for me for my birthday this year. I hope you enjoy it. I certainly did.
“The Small Postman, for my Dad:
Dad hates dandelions. Can’t stand seeing them choke the green out of the lawn. None of the neighbors weed. Grew up watching him claw two-pronged at the serrated rosettes, unsatisfied until their taproot tails squiggle out. I remember family drives, pointing out yards full of their fuzzy blond heads. Laughing at my father’s reactionary rage. His certainty that their parasite parachutes would find their way to him.
I picked playground bouquets of the round smileys. Made wishes on their blow balls. A pet dolphin. A good grade. A friend. It wasn’t until I grew older that I learned of their more tangible uses. A purpose for each part of its persistent body. Leaves made into salads, milky fluid into rubber, flowers into wine. Dandelions protect against stress, provide vitamins, detoxify the liver and clear the kidneys.
Even with these benefits, many still see them as weeds. It makes me wonder if they ever get jealous of their cousins, the classic American sunflower. A golden girl gladly given. She who has never known scorn, only celebration. Thousands of cheering fans pocketing her in their mouths. Seeds I’ve seen my Dad eat whole. Shell after salted shell. Most don’t know the cousins share more than their color. Both yawn in unison at dawn, tilt their heads to the sun’s daily walk. A choreographed closing at dusk.
I wish Shakespeare had written about them. Perhaps if he had penned, A Dandelion By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet, they’d be the ones bought by the dozens. Common names for dandelions often evoke their sharp leaves, white sap, and historical use as a diuretic. Lion’s tooth, milk witch, dog pisses. My favorite name comes from Iran, where it’s said that windborne dandelion seeds carry messages of love and fortune, and so dandelions are called ‘gasedak’ or small postmen.
Each spring, boulevards, ditches and fields fill with yellow. Each flower is a little postman carrying a good memory. On this stem, I am almost one sitting in our neighborhood kiddie pool. I am submerged for only a second before my Dad scoops me from disaster. The moment, he says, my indifference turned tender. On another, I am four flying a rocket propelled by his arms, my small body perfectly sized for the laundry-basket cockpit. I man the control center shrieking ‘Higher! Go Faster!’ I am six listening to a cassette tape. My father is not here but his voice is in the room. He’s telling me bedtime stories sent from the state legislature in Pierre. In the recordings, I drive a boat, save Flipper and Baby Beluga from mean boys’ nets. I plan a birthday party for Barney. Watch fireworks and eat cake. I go to Africa. Talk to baboons and lions. They tell me about a lost elephant, so I find him, Dumbo. He had run away and was very sad. Bullied for his big ears. I tell him he’s special. Teach him to fly. And at first, he isn’t very good, because we’re never good without practice. I tell him, really hard things like writing letters or adding numbers takes a long time to learn. And he does. He is flying. High, high so high he sees his herd. The elephants are so happy to see him. They call me a hero. I am ten watching a black and white television series from his childhood. I ask questions about Perry, Della and Paul. What color hair they have. Who the killer really is. My Dad knows who did it but never tells. His only clue, Perry’s client is always innocent. I am twelve counting out change donated from my parents’ pockets. Dad spreads coins on the floor between me and my brother. Tells us both to take five dollars. We stack Washington on top of Washington in neat rows. A tradition he started to help me learn math. I do not realize this until I am older. I am fifteen and can hear my Dad singing King of the Road while ironing. A song I know only from his notes, completely unaware of Roger Miller’s existence. To me, the song is more my father’s than his. Years later, I add it to a playlist I share with a friend on a drive to Tennessee. At night, we play it in the kitchen and dance. We smoke pretend stogies, push imagined brooms. I am eighteen playing cribbage at the kitchen table. A game he taught me. Two points for every pair. One each for every card in a run. He learned in the mailroom, making small bets between delivering letters. Dad used to have to help me count. I’d miss a flush, fifteen 6, the jack for knobs. He saw what I couldn’t. Explained each card. I am twenty-one crying on the phone. My perfectionism has convinced me I’m losing my scholarship. B in Earth Science. A single slip. Dad texts pictures of his college grades. I am comforted by each descending letter. I am twenty-four at grad school. He sends me notes written on cards with maps of the world and Monet paintings. He tells me about our dog deer-leaping through snow, updates on my brother’s wedding planning, shares a poem by Robert Frost. I keep them all and stitch them together in books. I am thirty and he tells me, ‘You’ll always be my Punkin.’
Dad hates dandelions. He sees grass punctuated with pests. I love dandelions. I only see him.”
Of course, these reminiscences are personal – to and for me. However, perhaps they have sparked some curiosity in you as a parent about what your children will remember (if they are still small) or what they do remember (if your “kids” are adults, as mine are). I am tremendously proud of Alexis. Her birthday essay means more to me than any card or present possibly could. As a parent, one never knows what is going to stick with your child.
One thing is for sure, nothing you do for children is ever wasted.