As you might know, I had a birthday recently. It was the anniversary of my Glorious Birth, as I assume the egotistical mantle that was previously worn by the now dead North Korean leader. For most of these, now, 59 years, my mother would call toward 5:30 AM to sing Happy Birthday. She called at that early hour to remind me of how early I awoke her that frosty morning back in January of 1953.
She hasn't made that call in years. Even if the darkness would permit her to remember the number and how to dial it, I'm not sure she could figure how to leave her message after the beep. Even when she had a firing neuron, the only way I knew she had called was that I could hear her arguing with the “hateful woman” about letting me on the phone. (She and Buck never agreed to release called ID, and they do not understand why people don't pick up the phone when it rings.)
I carried on that tradition for a long while, but I've let it go in the past several years. Lily and Josh, as young adults, are not so enamored of the tradition, and I'm not sure I'm close enough to many others for the singing to make sense. Well, except in that definitely creepy sense.
So I wake up the morning after, turn on my phone, and notice I have a message. It's the husband of a bud singing Happy Birthday to me. He has no idea of the background. He's getting a note, and some of you are getting sung to more.