Today is my birthday. My dad was big on birthdays. Though he never had money for extravagant gifts or outings, he made sure that I knew he put thought into whatever birthday gifts I received from him. And, of course, my birthday had to be celebrated on the exact day. This wasn’t always practical or possible, but somehow he still managed to find a way to celebrate me on April 13th.
Of course, birthdays meant pictures. Long before social media had people documenting birthdays and even milestones of infants by weeks or months, my dad would identify the date with a sign . . . as in, a literal sign.
This is me just as I awoke on my sixth birthday. It would be the last birthday we spent all together, as my parents divorced later that year.
When I was a young, gifts were often small and symbolic or quirky. For my 10th birthday, he created a sort of scavenger hunt in our apartment. By “our apartment” I mean the one I shared with my mom, as my parents had been long divorced by this time. Each of the small gifts contained a clue to find the next one. I don’t remember what any of the trinkets were, but I do have fond memories of the process of hunting for them.
When I was a teenager, gave me a silver ankh pinky ring. He frequently drew ankhs and referenced the symbol in letters and conversation. I wore that ring for many, many years. I loved that ring and what it represented.
In my young adult years, he saved up money to buy me books. Or rather, saved money my mom gave him to have her buy the books for me, and then he would pay her back. He would request a particular book when they spoke on the phone. Then when I would pick up groceries and essentials from my mom to give to my dad when I visited on the weekends. She would enclose the books she purchased for him to give to me. He would then gift these to me and send her money (they money she had given him) to pay her for the books. These were mostly books of fiction and poetry that were considered “classics.” When I turned 28 I received The Poetry of Robert Frost. For my 29th, it was Don Quixote.
For my 17th birthday, he gave me his high school class ring. He often told stories about his high school years–how he went to an all-boys school and how that was a good thing because it allowed students to focus on their studies. He was president of the chess club and known for being serious about school and life. He frequently mentioned an Italian girl he was sweet on named Teresa. He graduated in 1945 from Lane Tech High School in Chicago. Seventeen-year-old me was probably not very impressed with this gift. But, over the years I grew to cherish it. 
With the ring, he typed a short note on a piece of blue cardstock. He talked about how he wore this ring when he was 17 and the world and his future, was uncertain. He joined the Navy at 17. So, when he was my age, he was preparing to go to war and he never saw Teresa again. My future was far less tenuous. I’m sure when I turned 17, he didn’t have means for a birthday gift. This was one of the only valuable possessions he owned and he gave it to me.
In his last few years, my dad had more difficulty obtaining creative gifts for me. On my 38th, he procured a dozen or so separate items . . . almost all of which were purchased at his local Walgreens. One of them was a thick pair of bright red slouchy socks. Walgreens was one of the only stores within a short bike ride of his place. After my mom died, he didn’t have anyone to shop for him, except for me, and that kind of eliminated any element of surprise. Still he would acknowledge my birthday with a traditional card, an e-card, a note, or more often, a photograph of me or of my mom or my husband and son that he printed and framed.
Eventually, he stopped planning for birthday celebrations in the same way. His world became smaller. He started to avoid going out, even for breakfast with me. He stopped reading the newspaper and didn’t email me anymore. He didn’t have much of an appetite. He became adept at covering his diminished appetite and forgetfulness. He referenced events from long ago and referred to people long-dead as if they were still with us. He watched a lot of TV–mostly reruns of Family Feud and Match Game at peak volume, not realizing that Richard Dawson had been dead for years.
In April of 2016 my dad forgot my birthday. I didn’t point this out to him as I didn’t want to address what that really meant. But, when I left him that day, I cried in the car before heading home. That was my last birthday with him.
At 51 my future, as all of ours, is uncertain.
Take Lots of Pictures 