This has been the weekend of celebrations – three family birthdays in the span of two days, plus a Bar Mitzvah in New Jersey.Our youngest grandson wrapped up the Bar Mitzvah category for his family, while all the long-gone Episcopalians on my side, and the Irish Catholics on My Guy’s side are looking down, bemused at this turn in the family tradition. Actually, a welcome turn; this family could use a bit more tradition. In spite of forbears who were busy arriving on the Mayflower, signing the Declaration of Independence, and tilling New England soil over a hundred years ago, we’ve all shed pretty much any signs of what we came from.
“E”, as he’s known in the family, did his parents proud. He not only read his portion right from the Hebrew, he kept his composure in front of an audience of over 70 (including his friends from school) for well over an hour. The event was an outdoor one, less formal, but just as demanding.
He and I are only one day apart with our birthdays, so first I had a quick celebration of my own at home. Two things I asked for – and received – never would have happened 50 years ago.
First, a Pickelball bag, because it hadn’t yet been invented. I’m a little apprehensive about it, since right after two of my friends acquired their own bags, one broke her arm playing, and the other fractured her pelvis (although to be fair, she tripped over her dog).
And second, a delightful little manual carpet sweeper, exactly what I wanted and just like the one my grandfather used to push round the house in Tulsa. If My Guy had given me that as a birthday gift in the dawn of our marriage, the aftershocks might not have been pretty.