If you’ve ever spent much time in a hospital or other care facility, you no doubt remember being asked your birthday at annoyingly regular intervals. After the first several dozen replies of “four-eighteen-thirty-four” I start amusing myself by replying with some version of “Paul Revere Day.” That April morning when the Revolutionary War began was a lot of years before I made my appearance, but remembering the date has never been a problem for me, even though history details such as dates and battles have always been difficult. My older sister was born on the anniversary of Armistice Day and I’ve never been sure which of those two events helped me remember the other, though she tried to convince me that the holiday originated in her honor.
Significant days on the calendar seem to coincide with an unusual number of birthdays of people in my life. A high school boy-friend’s birthday falls on Columbus Day. One classmate was born on April 15th – not a holiday, but a significant date, nevertheless, and easy to remember. Another classmate celebrates her birthday on Halloween and so did a young girl who boarded with us for a couple of years to attend high school in town. While it isn’t an official holiday, my mother shared her birthday with one of my closest girlfriends. And two of my onetime closest buddies were actually born on the same day in the same year. Two other special people in my life were born on New Years Day; also one on Christmas Eve and another on Christmas Day.
With my birthday on April 18 and my husband’s on August 9, it seems an unusual coincidence that three of our grandchildren were born on either the 9th or the 18th, and the other just a day late on the 19th (different months, of course, but still a little remarkable.) I guess there’s no real significance to all these coincidences, but I can’t help noticing them, and they do make it easier to remember most of those birthdays. My mother’s oldest brother and my dad’s sister Agnes had birthdays the day after mine; probably the only relatives outside my immediate family whose birthdays I ever remembered. Aunt Agnes sent me cards and birthday gifts every year right up until she died. I remember one particular birthday when she sent me a “singing telegram”. The poor delivery man paced back and forth on our front porch for several minutes before he summoned the courage and rang the doorbell; he seemed greatly relieved to discover that the telegram was for a seven-year-old.
Families often have birthday traditions that involve cakes. My mother-in-law baked a cake for family members’ birthdays whether or not they were there that day. Aside from being an excuse for a special dessert, it reminded the rest of us to think about the person it honored. My mother believed the only proper birthday cake was angel food with seven-minute icing. I abandoned that tradition when my kids wanted their favorite dessert instead. One preferred lemon meringue pie, another chocolate cake with chocolate icing, another wanted cheesecake with cherry pie filling on top. My daughter suffered a wheat allergy for most of her childhood and we all learned to accept pumpkin bread made with rice flour, though it masqueraded as a cake beneath a thick layer of cream cheese frosting. My husband would have preferred a third helping of mashed potatoes and gravy over cake but settled for unfrosted ginger-spice cake made from his mother’s recipe and served warm with butter. Acceding to the favorite desserts instead of actual cakes led naturally to providing the celebrant’s favorite meal as part of the birthday celebration. These ranged from mac and cheese to roasted Cornish hens.
I was aware, from a fairly early age, that I shared my birthday with an historical date, but didn’t really know much about Paul Revere. I remember being surprised to learn, in my college art history class, that he was a sliver-smith and made teapots and candlesticks. Up until that time, I’d always been told he was “a patriot” as if that were a profession. I doubt I was the only student who assumed he did that for a living. I think my high school American history class was a bit lacking.