I had nothing to do with my birth. It happened, as Brad Paisley sings, “All because two people fell in love.” And here I am… forever.

The hospital in which I was born burned to the ground, so now if I want to see where I was born, I have to stand in a parking lot next to the rebuilt hospital.

The house I first lived in as a baby was a video rental store the last time I visited my birthplace, but I’m sure it is something else now. It is in the corner of a grocery store parking lot. A lot of places concerned with my birth are now parking lots.

My mom and dad moved from this small house shortly after the plaster ceiling fell in the room in which I was sleeping. It’s a good thing it didn’t drop on me. I may not have survived my first year of life.

I recently watched Peter Jackson’s “Get Back” movie about The Beatles and discovered that the Liverpool lads were working on “Let It Be” and “The Long and Winding Road” on my sixteenth birthday. Also, “Get Back” was created out of thin air by Paul McCartney on the same day. I remember my sixteenth birthday because I was chided about having never been kissed, even though I had a girlfriend.

On my 21^st birthday, I was kidnapped by my friends, blindfolded, and taken to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. When I took off my blindfold, I found myself sitting at a table with a dozen absolute strangers. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and I enjoyed some ice cream. My friends were in the next room, but I had such a good time with the strangers that I stayed for a while before moving rooms. I never was a big drinker, so having alcohol on my twenty-first wasn’t a big deal. I still don’t know why people get drunk on their twenty-first (or get drunk at all.) Life is too fun to miss by getting drunk and missing it. Besides, I never had to worry about feeling awful the next morning and I could drive home each night after my birthday celebration.

More recently, Spaghetti Factory became a big deal on my birthday. It all started when Mary and I took Evan there to celebrate my birthday. I told him that the singing and clapping never really excited me (I was probably still traumatized by the Farrell’s experience.) However, two kids from the 6^th grade class that I taught were in the restaurant and ordered Mudd Pie for me to celebrate my birthday. (I guess I told them at school that it was my birthday. I probably told them the Farrell’s story.) So, after dinner, all the waiters brought me Mudd Pie with a candle in it and loudly clapped and sang. Evan’s eyes were huge; he was wondering what I was going to do. But I thanked them and waved to the kids from my class and ate the dessert. The next year on my birthday at Spaghetti Factory, Evan slipped a note to the waiter that stated that it was my birthday and to be sure to sing and clap for me – that I loved it! Each year since, one of my grandkids have written a note to the waiter to ensure that I get clapped to and sung to and celebrated. It is a fine tradition.

My 68^th birthday was spent in the hospital on a ventilator. No cake, no spaghetti, no family, no friends, no passed note and singing and clapping. I remember very little except that I felt like I was spiraling downward. As you know, my 69^th birthday was a celebration at Spaghetti Factory.

(Pictured: 14 days old with my dad.)