Birthdays

 Today would have been Dad's 81st birthday. Happy Birthday, Dad! Last year I wrote a Facebook post that I still feel is extremely accurate with how I feel today, so I will include that at the end of this blog entry. But today... actually, this week... I have been thinking about birthdays in general. That's where I'll start this blog.

 Birthdays in my family were always about making that person feel important or special. They were not about spending money on gifts nor were they about some big celebration at an expensive venue. I can recall my own birthdays centered on a dinner entrée made at home that I got to select and one signature gift. It usually was something Mom and Dad knew I wanted. Mom would have made a cake for me and it was usually a yellow cake with chocolate icing. She'd stick the right number of candles down in the cake, light them all, and a chorus of two would sing to me, and once the candles were blown out, Mom would tell me I had to make the first cut of the cake for good luck. As I got older, the weekend of my birthday when I was home from college were an excuse to celebrate, or more often than not, we would have a birthday tailgate celebration on a Saturday at LSU. During those times, I got to pick an item Dad would pack for the tailgate, and from age 18 and beyond, he always made sure there was Amberbock or Captain Morgan available.

 I remember my birthdays like that. I can't say I vividly remember Dad's as much. It kind of makes me sad. I am sure he asked Mom to make him a chocolate pie. He might have grilled ribs if it suited his fancy. Maybe a NY Strip was calling his name, so he prepared that. I know there were many times, he would try to get a comped room on the Gulf Coast and he and mom would punch buttons at the Beau Rivage, Island View, or Golden Nugget as they made their way up and down Beach Highway between Gulfport and Biloxi. Chances are if they were on the coast, he would have wanted to dine at Half Shell or Lil'Rays.... maybe both if the mood struck him. There were times when they were on the coast that I would make the drive over and join them for a meal. After dinner, I always enjoyed wandering the casino floor and watching Dad punch buttons on the slot machines. I don't really know why I found it so entertaining, but I did. He'd talk to the machine or make flamboyant gestures that made me giggle. I always assumed that's how he played even if he was sitting by himself, but perhaps he did it to make me smile.

 I can hear some of his expressions in my head now... "C'mon baby. Gimme those 7s!" followed by, "OooooK, be that way." Maybe a few spins more and he'd say, "Alright! I can take that. One more time!" We'd watch the reels together, listening to the jingle, jangle, tingling, and ringing of the machine, a sound that can draw you in and fool you in thinking you're having more fun than you are at losing a few bucks on each whirl, and then, it would happen: "Oooooohh!! We got the bonus, Lizzie!" And he'd then explain to me how a certain bonus round worked. Some of the machines he played offered free spins; some required you to choose icons at random to see what prize would be revealed; some took you to a new screen and new story line where you picked items or waited for the machine to spin a reel. Inevitably, he always won something relatively decent. He'd talk to the machine a bit more, look at me and giggle a bit, knowing how silly he sounded, but happy he just got a little more money to satisfy his thrill.

 Later, we'd find Mom... sitting on a cushioned chair, her right leg crossed over on her left, her left arm clutching her purse in her lap crossed over her stomach, her right hand either cradling her chin or holding a coffee cup. She would study the machine, but she didn't talk to it. Sometimes I was convinced her eyes might be burning a hole through the glass of the machine as she willed the reels to create magic for her. Dad and I would watch her briefly, and he would say, "Now, we aren't going to bother her if she's winning." So we'd stand at the right angle to see how much money she had, and I would wait for him to either walk toward her or walk away, and I would follow suit.

 In the moments we approached her, she'd turn and say, "Oh, how long have you guys been there?"

Dad would say, "not long." She'd turn her attention back to her machine and Dad would then say, "How'd you do?"

Most of the time, Mom would sigh, roll her eyes, shrug a shoulder, and purse her lips to little, thin line.

Dad would get a little twinkle in his eye, and Mom would turn back to him, and say, "Well, how did you do?"

And he would say, "Not too bad."

She'd finish her remaining coin as best she could, get her cash out ticket, and off we would move through the casino floor to the next stop. On the way, I hung behind a bit and let them walk side by side.

 And then I would hear Dad tell her, "Don't worry, Meemsie. I got you covered." He'd show her some cash out ticket in which he won a little jackpot, and he'd chuckle as he watched her face grow a little jealous of his winnings, and he'd say something cute and playful like, "Well, I guess I'll give you a little more allowance so you can play." Sometimes, she would playfully reply by snatching the money from his hand and say that she had more than earned it because of all she did for him. Dad would throw a sarcastic comment out and laugh a little more, and off they would walk. He might throw an arm briefly around her shoulders or she might reach over and clutch two of her fingers around his, but they walked on with me giggling and smiling behind them.

 I still giggle and smile at the memories. Sometimes my eyes fill with tears, but lately, I get muddled on whether or not my tears are happy or sad. I will say that even if I can't tell if there's sadness in the tears in the moment, there is most definitely sadness in my heart after the memories have flashed in my mind. I miss him.  I miss the hell out of him.

 I don't think my grief or my sense of loss has gotten any smaller. Sometimes I think it has grown. On occasion it grows in my heart so much so that it swells as a lump in my throat, and the tears may come in gasps of grief as I drive home from work. Sometimes the hurt hits me when I wake up early in the morning and sit on the couch with the dogs, imagining what my text to Dad would say first thing in the morning with those pups right next to me. And yet, sometimes in those moments on the couch in the morning, I can picture him still kicked back in his broken recliner, wearing his robe over his white v-neck and lounge pants, and I picture him smiling at the latest picture of the dogs doing something funny.

 And there are other times, I imagine him sitting at my little white kitchen table across from me, sipping his coffee while I eat some breakfast as we chat about the day ahead. I tell him what I'm stressed about, what worries me, what made me proud, and how I struggle talking to Mom. He listens in the silence, and then he tells me, "This too shall pass, Lizzie. It will all be okay." Those conversations sustain me. But I won't lie - to actually hear him say that to me once more would make all the difference some days. I know that feeling won't ever change. I know I will always want to hear him.

 But today, on his birthday, I wish I could throw my arms around him and tell him how much I love him, and I wish I could be rejoicing for one more year with him. But I can't do that; he's been gone now for 2 and a half years. So I will cling to the time I have with him in my heart, and I will continue to cherish every single memory.

 So I leave you with my Facebook post from last year...And tell you that the photo on this entry is the one I mention below as the "first photo."

(From Facebook, April 15, 2022) So many memories…. So many GOOD memories. So much laughter (and sometimes frustration- with me - sometimes a little anger, a lot of real talk; so / much / love) …. Today I’d love to hear his laugh …. He’s laughing so hard in that first photo because as we sat in the union one August morning to eat McDonald’s for our season-opener-game-day breakfast, he was scrolling through FB, set his phone down on the table and said “I’ll be shit,” and I said “what?” He said “nothing” and then proceeded to search his pockets with growing frustration at every touch that found nothing…. I finally said “Dad, what are you looking for?” He sighed and said “my damn phone” and I said “oh, the one on the table?” And I snapped that photo. (I’m smiling now as I think of this memory because I still hear his laugh preserved in all my memories. That’s how all my memories have been - sounds preserved and if I focus on a scene, I can hear everything; see everything; and I am grateful my mind holds on to things like that.)  I have a solid memory of every photo I’ve left here today.  The last thing on this post is a video (that I hope plays for those who try). It’s a video I was attempting to sneak taking as he reminisced one evening, retelling a story I requested - about the time he worked as a bank teller in Baton Rouge and was robbed at his teller window - thankfully it’s a story we *can* laugh about. But I’m so glad I have the video so I can hear his laugh on my ears any time I want to instead of just hearing it in my head and heart.   He would have been 80 years old today.  He would have been.  He would have eaten oysters and drank a bud light after sprinkling a little salt in it, and we would have laughed a whole lot. And I will always, ALWAYS miss him. But cheers to you, Dad, for a life well-lived (albeit not perfectly), but for making a perfect life for me.  And I will cling to every single memory.  And every moment of laughter.

I love you, Dad.  Your life was beautiful and I will celebrate that life ALWAYS. Happy Birthday… love, your Lizzie Pooh