How I Celebrated My Mother's Birthday

How I Celebrated My Mother’s Birthday

By Charles Kraus

I know an attorney who begins endless letters by telling his clients, "your file has once again come up for periodic review ..." Then he’d write a few lines about the case and bill for $500. Well, Florence’s birthday has once again come up for periodic review. Five hundred dollars was not involved, but the day turned out to be worth a fortune.

For about two weeks prior to mom’s birthday, serious health issues looked as if they would keep her from so much as an awareness that she was approaching her 88th year. Congestive heart failure combined with a virus caused her body to taken on an almost cationic pose. Eyes closed, head tilted, a general slump. Except for the fact that she would respond to questions, it was possible to think she was comatose. She was not. But her system needed every bit of energy to fight for recovery; it couldn’t waste itself on lively discourse.

Then, several days before her birthday, mom began to improve. By the day of her

birthday, she’d returned to the dining room and was capable of holding up her end of a

short conversation.

Kline Galland throws monthly birthday celebrations. Staff called to remind me that the February birthday bash would take place on Thursday, the 24th. Would I be attending to help my mother enjoy the party? OK, I told them, with low expectations and heightened feelings of obligation. I would do this for my mother, though I did not anticipate much of a party.

I arrived shortly before 1:30. The nursing home community was already assembled in the recreation room. Ten birthday celebrants occupied front and center. Behind them were a dozen loosely fashioned rows of residents, most in their wheel chairs, some in more sophisticated transporters. Almost everyone appeared to be resting. The only animation in the room came from the hostess, Jan, a middle-aged woman undaunted by her task. She was going to wake up this crowd and show them a good time.

But first, the Wallingford Wobblers.  Stationed behind the hostess, this neighborhood senior citizens glee club, opened with a medley consisting of every song Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney every sang to one another, plus Moon River, an after thought that seemed to be included because it was on the back of the page that contained the lyrics to You MustHave Been a Beautiful Baby.

The songs were not performed, not in the sense that words, lyrics, or musicality would have attracted a spotlight.  Credibility came from the earnest renditions, pleasantly enunciated, though not particularly heartfelt. The singers did not seemed to be aware that a pianist was trying to accompanying them.

I look around the room and notice a kind of a stirring, a subtle, quiet, gentle, plainly rhythmic, perhaps instinctual, response to the music.  Hands, or at last fingers, toes, arms, legs, bodies locked into the poses of old age and ill health, moving now a little, then a little more, responding to the tunes, to the memories, to melodies and words that had been sitting in minds and hearts, untapped for decades.  Certain words of certain songs emphasized on the beat.  

Eventually, modest applause. Then, the hostess retrieved the microphone. I assumed she would thank everyone and send us on our way. But, no, she’s making jokes about getting old. Laughter from the staff. She‘s encouraged. Minute chuckling from one or two residents.

"Now," she says, "we are going to give gifis to those celebrating birthdays  and I want to ask each of you a few questions." Mike in hand, with the poise and confidence of Steve Allen getting ready to do some shtick with the audience, she greets the first guest of honor.

"So, you like the singing?"

Doesn’t she know these people are, well, tired, maybe not interested, maybe not altogether cognizant of her expectations? Or the significance of the day?

"Pretty good," the woman responds.

"Where are you from? Where did you go to high school?  Were you a GOOD student?"

Jan has become Steve Allen.

"From Seattle. I went to Garfield High. Of course I was good."

A young staff member provides a comic Hip Hip. He gets a few laughs.

"May I ask how old you are?"

"91 

Hip Hip!

Applauds.

The hostess proceeds.  She is respectful.  She is not patronizing.

There is only one male seated among the birthday celebrants.  He tells us he’s from Chicago.

“They like baseball in Chicago,” Jan says.  “You got a favorite team?

He responds by informing us he is going to sing a song.  It turns out to be You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.  He sells it.

“How old are you?”

“95, he whispers.

Hip Hip!

I’m thinking about my mother, about what or if she’ll say when the microphone reaches her.  A week before, she could barely open her mouth so we could feed her the soup.  Now, she’s about to be interviewed.

I remind her of her age.  Will she remember?

Here it comes, “and how old are you?”

“Well,” I can see she’s trying to come up with a number.

“Well, I’ll tell you …” and in the best May West I’ve heard in a long time, “I ain’t getting any younger.”

She sells it, and is rewarded with a big laugh.

The cake isn’t bad.  But you know what’s better?  What’s better is realizing that everyone had a good time, especially my mother.

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