The only downside to Jackson Barrow’s fun-filled 18th birthday was that it managed to grab my attention away from someone else with a birthday on the very same day. And I’m afraid it wasn’t someone inconsequential, like my next door neighbor’s former dentist. I’m talking about my own father, who turned 76 yesterday. Unfortunately, I was too busy celebrating Jackson’s 18th, dancing around with a lampshade on my head, to remember. In fact, it was Kathy who finally thought of it, but too late for us to call. So this morning I had to pick up the phone and contritely convey our tardy birthday wishes, and if my dad was perturbed, he sure managed to cover it up. Actually, no one would enjoy being a part of the Berg Family Tree if something like a forgotten birthday was enough to send you off the deep end. We love each other very much but most of us remember birthdays and anniversaries about as well as we play football. (I trust that you get the drift of what I’m saying.) Steve is up a level from his three siblings in this department- but the rest of us have a patchy record, to put it very charitably. I’m just glad to have a spouse who has become so very skilled at rescuing my forgetful butt from such mental mishaps, although we were both asleep at the switch for this one.
So I say again- happy birthday to my dear father, now 76 years old. A big part of who I am – including the part that forgets loved ones birthdays, ironically enough – is because of him.
I promise him a ticket tape parade for his 77th – – – and not for the day after, either!
pictured: Dad and Sonja back at Christmas time, watching as my nieces and nephews open gifts.