“You realize your dad is turning 80, right?”
My wife said it in such a way that it wasn’t really a question. More of a statement. I sat on the sofa with a blank expression on my face. I mean, I was trying to watch TV. Probably YouTube. Videos with titles like, “10 times when people did really dumb things.” I did not see the irony. Or where she was going with this.
For starters, I barely know how old I am. How am I supposed to remember my father’s age?
Did I know his birthday was coming up? On this one I was proud to say I did. Because my computer calendar saw to it that I don’t forget. It was all set to remind me on when I should call him and say something thoughtful and profound, like: “Happy birthday, dad! OK, gotta’ go.”
But my computer had no idea how old he was – what good are they?!? And if my wife was right, this was certainly going to change things.
“… turning 80, right?”
No, it can’t be. He’s not that old … is he? Parents aren’t supposed to age. In my mind, he would forever be stuck somewhere in his mid-40s. Younger than I am now. His age during my middle-school years. Less gray hair. A bit trimmer. Don’t we do that? Put our parents in some kind of state of suspended animation. Planted for perpetuity at a particular age. Forever fixed in our memories that way.
He couldn’t be 80. That would mean … he’s OLD!!! And he’s not old. He’s just … wobblier. Like, maybe he drinks a lot.
Only … yes, 80! He was definitely turning 80. And that could only mean …
IT’S TIME TO PANIC!!!
My wife, who likes to make sure that obvious things are put into context, continued: “That’s a big deal, turning 80. Like a REALLY big deal. We have to do something for him. Something big. You know this, right? That we have to do something big? You have an idea, I hope?”
It is nice that my wife believes in me enough to think I might have an inkling of an idea. I think that’s really special. I mean, it’s completely wrong. Because, again, my birthday modus operandi is phone call and then go back to YouTube videos. This kind of thing was far out of my wheelhouse. And with less than a week to go, I was at a loss.
I did recall how we had discussed the need to do something to mark this milestone. That was months ago. Maybe even years. Who knows? COVID has our sense of time scrambled like eggs. I believe my exact reaction to the suggestion back then was: “He’s not that old … is he? How about we put a pin in this until my computer reminder goes off.”
DING! Way to go!
“We have to do something for him. Something big.”
I texted my brother. “You know dad’s turning 80, right? Nancy says we should do ‘something big!’ Any ideas?”
He wrote back: “We could ship him some fruit. People from Kentucky love that.”
He lives in tropical Tampa, Fla. He’s surrounded by fruit! And he probably hasn’t eaten so much as a banana since 1963.
It was beginning to feel like we were up-the-creek. The one thing I had going for me is that we’ve never been big on birthdays in my family. Let’s be honest: How important of a role did you play in your own birth? Your mother, the doctor and the nurses were doing all the work. You just threw a tantrum and made a big mess. Why should we celebrate you?
Luckily, my dad likes to keep things low-key. We settled on going down for a visit, grabbing some lunch and getting him a birthday cake. I notified him of this … in a text. “What kind of cake do you want?” I asked.
He wrote back, in this order (with the question marks included): “Carrot cake? Red velvet cake? German Chocolate cake? Back up: chocolate cake with buttercream icing?”
And in a followup text he added: “An alternative: I absolutely love pecan pies. Even Marie Callender’s frozen ones are great.”
I was aghast. Just about all of this violated long-held birthday planning principles. You don’t deviate from these. A birthday cake had to be round, plain on top — so there’s room for acknowledging the hard work your mother and doctor did – and definitely NO PIES! I told him this. “Pecan pie is for the holidays, not birthdays. You get cake!”
“Sorry,” he replied. “I thought it was MY birthday. Poor George! Never knew any of that. His family gets him an apple pie every year for his birthday.”
No pecan pie! You get a real, genuine birthday cake with a candle on top. We’ll probably sing to you, and you’ll hate it. Then you have to blow out your candle. Whether you like it or not! That’s the way it is.
We went down to Tampa. We had Korean takeout from a restaurant he wanted to try. We had a cake with blue icing and a single candle in it. (Eighty candles just posed too much of a fire hazard.) And against my better judgment, and all that the Code of Birthdays stands for, we got him a frozen Marie Callender’s Southern Pecan Pie. Partially thawed.
It wasn’t bad on short notice, I thought. And somehow (unless he was lying) he seemed to think this was a perfect way to celebrate turning 80. No frills. No fuss. Just family. Being together.
Still, I’m going to tell my computer to remind me a little sooner before he hits 90. Don’t want to mess that up again. (And I’m also adding a note to pick up the frozen pecan pie.)