Another Day in the Country
Happy birthday, patwick!
© Another Day in the Country
This weekend in Ramona, Kansas, my hometown, I’ve been celebrating another monumental birthday.
To begin with, a good friend of ours, who was on a road trip to Lincoln, Nebraska, to visit her daughter, came and picked me up from the airport on the way to our house.
“You do know, Des,” I said when she offered, “that Wichita isn’t ‘on the way’ from Lincoln to Ramona?”
“Oh, yeah,” she laughed, “but what’s another hundred miles when you’ve already driven 4,000?”
So, I just acquiesced. Who’s going to argue mileage with such a good friend?
Sunday morning, I got up, fixed myself an egg McMuffin sandwich, and sat down at the table to drink my Korean coffee while I waited for Des to get up and my sister to come over for breakfast.
My phone vibrated on the table. I was about to do the Times’ games — which I subscribe to, thanks to my grandson’s telling me about “Connections,” which can be rather addictive. I clicked on the screen. It was my cousin Carol.
“Happy birthday, Pat,” I read on this picture of a sunflower with a butterfly trying to land, “I hope you have an amazing day!”
That started out my birthday celebration in great shape.
Right about then Des came out of the bedroom, and Jess came in the front door, and breakfast began.
My friend is allergic to a whole slew of things, so she’s pretty much on her own for breakfast. My sister is picky, so she does “her thing,” too.
The two of them are easy-peasy as far as being a hostess is concerned. I just point them to the hot water pot steaming away and keep on doing my morning puzzles.
My kitchen counter was overflowing with all kinds of produce.
Our friend Kathy came over Saturday to say, “happy birthday” and brought me a sample of everything for sale at the Jirak produce stand near Tampa, Kansas, including onions, watermelon, tomatoes, corn, and cantaloupe, which I’d promptly cut up into cubes and popped into the fridge to chill and was now serving on our breakfast table with little silver forks (matching my silverware) that I got at my wedding in 1957 — which gives you some idea of my vintage.
While we sat at the table eating breakfast, my phone vibrated again. It was from Jac in North Carolina, another text: “Happy birthday, Pat,” with a ton of emojis including praying hands, a kissy face, balloons, confetti, and green hearts, for whatever that’s worth.
I’ve known Jac since she was 6 years old. Her mother is my longtime friend, Renee, who died about 10 years ago when she was 90 and I was so much younger.
“Thanks for remembering,” I texted back.
She replied with a heart on my smiley face. What is this world coming to?
Another vibration came on the phone, and I grabbed for it excitedly. It was one of those automatic messaging things from a service provider saying “happy birthday” — this one was a voice message.
I about threw the phone across the room/ “What the heck?”
Just for the record, I hate those automatic calls at any time. They are disruptive, aggravating, and a huge disappointment on your birthday, for Pete’s sake.
A birthday is when you want to hear from people who love you — even if it’s just a card that is only signed. It is, at least, a pen they own. They put their real hand to writing your address on the envelope, and they bought their own stamp! Now that is a message.
Unfortunately, on my very own birthday, I received silly texts from my insurance agent, my doctor’s office, my banker, my chiropractor, my optician — well, you know the list. Thank goodness I didn’t get one from the county.
A pleasant, sweet, celebratory, honorable, loving message is never from an automatic, uncaring, unknowing, robotic machine without blood in its veins and a Social Security number. Just saying.
What those moronic auto messages really say is, “We’re too busy to pay attention and we don’t care two hoots about you.”
So please don’t send them to me! I don’t need to be reminded that I don’t matter. Excuse me if I’m fussy. I’m a woman. I’m old, luckily. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.
On my birthday, my friends took me to an art museum in Manhattan. On display was Picasso’s “Moving Art,” an absolutely amazing, wonderful, fantastical, mind-boggling, creatively disorienting, stimulating, celebratory event. And I don’t even particularly like Picasso because he was such a womanizer and fixated on breasts.
When I got home and plugged in my depleted phone, I had another text message from my cousin’s kids.
It was a video of my bonus grandchild, who just turned 9 this month. On the table was a chocolate sheet cake — my favorite — with one candle.
Miss M. smiled at me and began to sing in her clear soprano voice: “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Pat. Happy birthday to you.”
She blew out the candle for me. I get goosebumps just remembering.
Now that’s a great birthday message on another day in the country. Better by far than Marilyn singing to JFK.