Here WE go again.
1/9/13
I didn’t have a twin.
But I always shared my birthday.
As far back as I can recall. And
I was always happy to share it.
Truly. Maybe it is because I
share it with my Grandpa, or Papa as I call him. I am Jan. 10th, and he is Jan. 11th. It
was fun to see how many candles we could get on the cake. I suppose it was sometime in my teenage
years I realized I wouldn’t always be sharing my birthday. I put that thought away. It
became a little more special every year after that.
This Friday we celebrate my Papa’s 90th
Birthday. He is the Papa who built me a
doll house when I was 5 yrs old. We are
not talking just any old dollhouse. It
has a wrap around porch with a swing. It
has hard wood floors and wall paper.
Real drapes, and little framed pictures on the walls. The front door has a stain glass window. Every detail down to the toilet paper on the
toilet paper roll. . It is my dream
house. It will always be my dream
house. All done by hand. His hands.
With love, for me. I watch my
daughter play with it, and even my son.
They are transformed as I was.
As soon as I could ride a bike we would go for rides. Papa rode his red bike with a big horn that
he would gladly blow at anyone in our way.
We rode down what now is a huge four lane highway, and I wonder how in
the world he was brave enough to take a wild child like me with him. We would ride 4 miles. That was a lot. And now I get it. He was trying to tire me out! We would arrive home to a home cooked meal
and table set by my nanny. It was always
good.
It was the teenage years I recall receiving the beginnings of his many newspaper
clippings. I will never forget the one
he sent me on teenage driving and speeding.
I still think about that article.
It was the first time I actually thought- “maybe I don’t know
everything, maybe my brain is impulsive”
These were pretty deep thoughts in a time when all I could think about
was driving my parents car, and that included driving fast. And being stupid. For a
longtime- I thought about that article
everytime I put on my seatbelt. He made
me think. When I wasn’t doing much
thinking.
He wrote me letters while I was in college. Real letters.
Through the mail. He wrote them
in cursive. Catholic School cursive, and I keep every last
one. He wrote me one when I graduated
that I still can’t read without tears about how proud he was of me. He isn’t a sap my Papa. But he loves me a lot.
He loves me enough to say a Hail Mary every night while I
was going through chemotherapy. I am not
sure if I said a word when he would call me to see how I was doing during those
months. I would listen. He was
wise. Calming. He told me he hasn’t said that many Hail
Marys since The War. Now he was thinking
‘who would he share his birthday with.’
No, he never said it. But I
knew.
This Friday WE will celebrate our birthdays. Again.
It never does get old, even if we do.
Happy 90th Birthday Papa. I love you.
RIP-Papa.
