A birthday happens only once a year. Unless you are a dog and then it happens 7 times a year. I can see why they don’t throw parties with each one. The cake alone would become quite a burden.
But today is Anita’s birthday. The one day of the year that we recognize her birth. The day she was born.
I’ve been told that it was very snowy and blustery on that day in 1965. It was so bad, as the story often goes, that her grandmother couldn’t even drive in to see her. Kind of like today’s weather.
And so, we ate cake. We sang her a song (albeit, not very pretty). We gave gifts and cards. She received notes and cards and calls from friends and family, alike.
