“Praise the spells and bless the charms, / I found April in my arms. / April golden, April cloudy, / gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy. / April soft in flowered languor. / April cold with sudden anger. / Ever changing, ever true – / I love April, I love you.”
Ogden Nash wrote that poem sometime before publication of one of his early books of poetry written after 1929, and other of his more popular short and witty poems from the 20th century.
As a birthday tribute to his wife, it joined the many verses he composed about his family, including his daughters and grandchildren. Possibly his best known poem, “Reflections on Ice Breaking” (Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker,) written in 1931, was used as recently as 1971, in the movie “Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.”
When I first discovered the birthday poem, I decided to adopt it as my personal birthday poem, even though it was probably written a few years before I was born, but has, nevertheless, become an element of my birthday memories. I see a lot of myself in its lines – both flattering and critical as well as a devastating honesty that is oddly comforting.
Not all my birthdays have been memorable; some amounted to little more than one of Mother’s traditional angel-food cakes with seven-minute icing and the requisite number of tiny candles. To the best of my memory, I managed to blow out all the candles in one hearty huff until I was somewhere in my late thirties. By then, I had ceased to believe that extinguishing all the candles was essential to insuring that I would see at least one more birthday. I don’t know the origin of that myth and few of my friends had ever heard of it, so I’ve often doubted its veracity. My older sister often created “treasure hunts” with hidden notes leading to stashes of candy or other treats to be shared by everybody who helped celebrate the birthday. I sometimes wonder if she created that legend, too.
There have been only a smattering of what might be called birthday parties over the years. The one I remember most fondly had to be the only actual planned party my mother organized for me. Since I hadn’t turned five by November 1st I wouldn’t start kindergarten until the next school year, so the guest list consisted of children in our neighborhood – children I played with regularly, their ages ranging from three-year-old Gladys who I entertained often with songs and stories and protected from the older kids during snowball and water fights, to her older brother Johnny, who gave me rides on the handlebars of his bicycle. There were twins Bobby and Beverly from down the block, Burl who was in fifth grade and his neighbor Jack who would share Fig Newton’s and a grape lollipop with me three years later and pass on a dandy case of mumps in the process. The neighborhood bully was even invited and, true to form, caused me to crash my brand new little sidewalk bike into one of the tall elm trees in our front yard – possibly in retribution for my refusing to let him ride it since he had a regulation-size bike of his own.
I was invited to several birthday parties during my school years, some lasted about an hour after school and consisted of inexpensive dime-store gifts, cake and ice cream – and if “fancy,” little nut cups filled with colored mints and mixed nuts. One unusual party was hosted by the girl’s divorced father and was intended to be a potluck supper which turned out to consist of green beans, scalloped potatoes and several gelatin salads – all red with canned fruit cocktail. There was, however, a gorgeous bakery-decorated cake with lots of pink frosting roses and big squares of Neapolitan ice cream.
The worst birthday party was one I planned myself when I was sixteen. Let’s just say I’d seen far too many movies with Margaret O’Brien, Mickey Rooney, Jane Withers, Judy Garland and Roddy McDowall, and let it go at that. The best birthday party was my 80th with plenty of beer, where I requested donations to Dollars for Scholars in lieu of gifts. My friends were very generous!