As I am writing this, it is a day of celebration . . . the anniversary of my daughter’s arrival on this planet. I will not divulge her age since 1) it isn’t pertinent to the story, and 2) if you saw her, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. As is customary, at 7:30 this morning (the time may vary from year to year), I tapped her number in my Favorites list and waited, listening as her cell phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times . . . (or as Ernestine the operator would say, “One ringy-dingy . . . two ringy-dingies . . .) after which I was informed she was not available.
*sigh* What is it they say about the best laid plans?
I waited a few minutes and tried again. Once . . . twice . . . and success. She answered, knowing full well what was coming. And in my worst intentionally off-key voice, I sang “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, little Kathryn-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-e. Happy Birthday to-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o Y-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-U!” (be sure to take that last word up an octave), holding notes far too long and ending with “and many mor-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-e!” She graciously thanked me for my rendition, we discussed going to the Farmer’s Market in the drizzle, and concluded the conversation with the always required, “Love you!”
It is an annual tradition for my children and now my grandchildren (although I did miss one this year because I didn’t catch him before school and the next time I thought about it, it was past his bedtime—or so I thought—his mother informed me the next day he had still been awake, so there had been time. As is my custom when I fail, I shall forever feel guilty for this oversight . . .). It was a tradition begun by my parents when I left home for college. As the world began to awaken on the appointed day, the voice from the wall of my dorm room would tell me I needed to make my way to one of the shared phones in the hallway. This was in the prehistoric ages when cell phones did not exist and having a landline in your room was an unheard of luxury. After graduation came marriage and a home of my own—and each year the phone still rang early on the morning of my birthday when my dad would put it on speaker so he and my mother could serenade me with their melodious birthday wishes. It didn’t matter that we lived in the same town, less than five minutes apart, and they would see me later that day since we worked in the same building. My phone still rang on my birthday morning.
As I disconnected from our call, my mind insisted I revisit a conversation I had with a friend after the death of my mother. I often think of it, and I believe I’ve mentioned it before, but her observation seems especially appropriate today. Speaking from experience, she told me there would be a few days when I would miss my parents far more than any others and surprisingly, one of those days would not be their birthday. It would be mine. And she was right. It felt so very lonely the first time that day came and went with no phone call from them. So very empty. Even though there were multiple other calls and text messages and Facebook wishes, it just wasn’t the same. And I know that one day, my children will understand that.
But for now (and hopefully for the foreseeable future), there’ll be one day a year when my children and my grandchildren will be afflicted with my intentionally off-key version of “Happy Birthday”—one filled with love and best wishes and memories in the making.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
