A baby was born to very young parents who couldn’t afford to bring her home. The hospital required ten dollars. Although there wasn’t ten dollars in the account, the clerk suggested the father write a check – he did and they bundled the baby home.
There wasn’t a crib yet, but the baby was very tiny (as newborns tend to be) so a dresser drawer was just snug enough.
Probably about 46 years ago.
Let’s go back several years, no need to count how many, to the August of my 18th birthday. I had graduated that Spring, moved “away from home”, was legally (almost) an adult (19 is adulthood in the state of Nebraska) and excited to embrace two civic duties now available to me: 1) Vote* 2) Give blood.The first was easily registered, the second wasn’t. Turns out to give blood I had to be 18 and have certain healthy weight and blood pressure qualifications, which I did not. I even tried to negotiate with the nurse, to no avail. I'm asking for two things for my birthday this year, read on to give one.
It’s my birthday week and I’m contemplative. Having an August birthday comes with the “end of summer” and always feels a little like Lana’s, that “Summertime Sadness.” You know, melancholy with a touch of let’s-live-while-we-can feeling. (Plus it has the line, “You’re the best, baby” which, of course, makes me think Marcus wrote bits of it.)
Last year my birthday gift to me was a day cleared for The Innocent Prince, a day of writing in my favorite writing places. I wish
