February to November = 9 months = birthdays!

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happy b'd to Nov. babies

happy b’d to Nov. babies

It’s probably no coincidence that when you count back 9 months from November you get to February and Valentine’s Day.

A shout out the friends and family that were November babies:
Nov. 2: my father’s father
Nov. 4: Annette
November 5: hubby
November 6: my mother’s father; me
November 12: David
November 22: Sarah

I share the date not only with my grandfather, but also with Maria Shriver, Sally Field, Glen Frey (Eagles), Ethan Hawke and Emma Stone (according to today’s newspaper). Then there’s John Philip Sousa, James Naismith, lots of musicians in bands I don’t know, some important events and deaths, national holidays (flag day) in Finland and Sweden.

Anybody you’d like to add to the list? Famous or unknown; past or present; family and/or friends; special events; and the list goes on!


PS: Seems like WordPress will be displaying ads in my blog posts. Be reassured that these advertisements WERE NOT my idea. I don’t necessarily support who is advertising, nor am I paid to have this displayed. I have to pay to have it NOT displayed. So, apologies in advance. And, if you’d like to let me know what is appearing, I’d appreciate it. Thanks!

helium balloons, birthday good-byes, and remembories

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A balloon race in Fetcham shortly after the ba...

A balloon race in Fetcham shortly after the balloons were launched (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Two years ago, we wished my mother happy birthday as she slipped in and out of consciousness. Next to her bed so she could see it should she awake, I put a large helium balloon tied onto a yellow ribbon. A transparent “window” gave a view into a springtime garden. With a backdrop of greens, pinks, yellows, and violets an April garden might hold, a banner displaying the words “happy birthday” in calligraphic script stretched across the blue of the sky, held at each end by a butterfly. For many years, she had worn a necklace of tiny gold links; at the center of the chain, a delicate lacy butterfly was suspended.

On a grey, blustered day last year, I put another balloon next to my mother in hono(u)r of her birthday; placed by her gravestone rather than at the head of a hospital bed.

Among the grey of granite and marble with clouds hanging low, with the air filled with chill and sorrow, the balloon, dancing with the wind, was a bright spot of colo(u)r.

Today she would have been 84; I wore her necklace and filigreed butterfly earrings as I had on the day we laid her to rest next to my father.

Tomorrow is the 2nd anniversary of her death; I will buy a brightly colo(u)red helium balloon tied to a yellow ribbon. In the park, I will let go of the string that binds the balloon to me, to the earth. I will watch it sail upwards, dancing on the wind, until it is a tiny speck of colo(u)r against the backdrop of the sky.

Happy birthday, Mom, two years on.