Today would have been my dad’s 93rd birthday. I’m bothered that I can’t remember how we celebrated his 89th birthday–his last. I think I brought him some favorite food for dinner and some favorite dessert, but I can’t be sure. That last year he didn’t leave the house . . . at all. Not even to get the mail. He didn’t eat much anymore, but still seemed to like McDonald’s and lemon meringue pie . . . and a martini. Was that what I brought? Did I make him a martini?
Birthdays were a big deal to my dad. He believed that they absolutely had to be celebrated on the actual day. There would be no early celebration or waiting until the weekend for a birthday dinner . . . no matter how busy life got.
His birthday “celebration” involved only the two of us. There were no family gatherings, visits or calls from friends. He hadn’t spoken to nieces and nephews for decades and his brothers and sisters-in-law were all dead. I had never, ever known my dad to have friends. There would be some food a gift from me and one from my mom.
When my mom was alive, she would give him the thing he needed most–money. While he was gracious and appreciative, I always sensed that he really wanted something more . . . meaningful. But my mom was practical and they had divorced in the 70s. What more could he expect? I usually gave him something I thought he would like. Sometimes it was something practical, sometimes not. A few times I bought him tickets to see the symphony. It was expensive and difficult. I had to find a date that worked with my schedule. I had to pick him up, take him to the concert, take him home, and then drive back to my home. I would be annoyed about the cost–financially and in my time. But . . . he would talk about the music and the venue for weeks.
I also tried to find interesting places to eat. He often wanted to go for polyneisian food or to a tiki bar. But, those are a little scarce these days. One year I asked him what he wanted to eat and he said steak and lobster. I was super irritated by this response. Again, this would be really expensive for me. And, he didn’t have teeth. How did he think he was going to eat steak without teeth? One time I took him to his all-time favorite restaurant–El Coyote in LA. He had fond memories of going there with my mom. Another year I took him to a neat Spanish restaurant closer to home. We had good tapas
and martinis. There was live Flamenco music and a dancer. One of the performers pulled me on stage to teach me some Flamenco dance steps. Normally I would have been mortified by this, but for some reason, that night I just went with it. My dad loved it. He talked about me being on stage and the food for weeks.
It was great until he spilled his fresh $16 martini. Upon finishing the replacement cocktail, he became visibly drunk. I couldn’t figure it out because this was only his second drink and yet he was slurring-his-words drunk. The next day he claimed there must have been an interaction with his medication. Much later I figured out that he had a little pre-party session before I picked him up.
I spent many, many February 27ths being irritated that I “had” to create a memorable birthday celebration for my dad. 
The last few years my attitude softened as I realized that no one else acknowledged his birthday. It was just the two of us recognizing another year on the planet. In going through his letters I found one in which he talked about a raucous celebration with friends. It sounded celebratory and fun. It is a glimpse into a life of his that I don’t recognize. One with friends and social life. One where my dad was the center of a celebration. One where he was funny, and clever, and admired. But, was it true? How could this man have had so many friends then and none in the last decades of his life?
Take Lots of Pictures 