October is, without a doubt, my favorite month of the year. Not only is it the time of year when it starts to feel crisp and fallish and the leaves start to change, giving off that unmistakable autumn smell, but it’s also the season of hay rides and bonfires and camping and sweaters. Most importantly, it’s my birthday month. Yes, 29 years ago (har har) in October, I was born in Vicksburg, MS, in the breeched position. There was much last minute panicking about my imminent future, but both my mom and I survived the ordeal with a C-Section and life has been pretty good since then.
As a kid, I remember my birthdays being beyond exciting. Waking up in the morning and knowing it was MY SPECIAL DAY, the one day of the year that Idon’t have to share with anyone else (unlike my brother and sister, who both have the same birthday, three years apart), with that fluttering feeling in my stomach, the anticipation of the presents, the cake, the birthday party!!!! In our family, once you are old enough to understand how one can reap the benefits of this arrangement, it is customary to start celebrating your birthday as soon as your birthday month begins and to drag it out for as long as possible. As my birthday falls towards the later part of October, I get to really push the limits of birthday celebrating.
Even though I still like to make a big deal about my birthday, I actually remember very little about my childhood birthday parties. There was, as often as possible, a piñata involved. Once I had a roller skating party, during which one of my classmates broke his wrist. I remember an early birthday party with a cookie monster cake, but I’m not sure if it was my birthday or my sister’s that we were celebrating. I remember coveting purses and shoes that had my name painted on them in 80’s style dot letters and the excitement I felt when I got my first acid washed mini skirt jumper at about age 11. There was always carrot cake or ice cream cake and at some point Mom went through a ‘checker cake’ phase (the cake looked like a checker board). One year my Great Uncle Morris and Aunt Millie were visiting and we had delicious chocolate mousse (Uncle Morris and I had the same birthday, but I was young and he was old, so there was no threat of being upstaged).
As I got older, birthdays were significant for different reasons. When I turned 15, I could get my driver’s license. At 16, my sweet boyfriend (and now husband) came over and secretly decorated my car with happy birthday messages in white shoe polish. At 18, I could legally buy alcohol in Louisiana (and vote, of course, but I wasn’t that worried about that). I celebrated my newfound alcohol purchasing power by going Cajun dancing with friends and getting completely hammered on some horrible and toxic drinks called ‘hand grenades.’ The next morning, my mom drove down to New Orleans to take me out for lunch and celebrate the day with me, but I was too hung-over and sick to leave my dorm room. We spent my birthday with me feeling like I was dying in bed and her sitting next to me and making sure I knew how disappointed she was in my lack of maturity and judgment. By the end of her visit, though, I think she did feel a little sorry for me and my pathetic-ness.
The drinking age changed to 21 sometime between my 18th and 21st birthdays, so it was necessary to, again, celebrate my legality. By the time I turned 21, though, I was through with college, so things were a little more civilized. My grandparents came to New Orleans and treated my sister, several of our friends and me to a very fancy dinner at Commander’s Palace. I got my hair done and wore a suit. I was the belle of the ball. It was special and sophisticated and a day I won’t ever forget, because I got to spend it with my beloved grandparents. Still, after they went back to their hotel, the rest of us headed out in our finery to our usual bar, where we drank copious amounts of beer that we had purchased legally.
Recently, my most memorable birthday was my 30th birthday. As I approached 30, I had ideas of how it would be celebrated. Most of these ideas involved Jim planning some incredible themed party for me, which all of my friends attended. I think glitter was definitely part of my musings…and costumes. As it turned out, I had to work even though it was a Saturday and then I had to go home and help pack a U-Haul with what was left of our belongings as we prepared to move to England. Jim, contrary to my 30th birthday dreams, was already living in London, so no fabulous surprise party for me! But my whole family came down to spend my birthday with me and help me pack and we sat around on various stools and folding chairs in our barren living room while I opened my presents. After they headed home, with our two cats and the U-Haul, I dragged myself out for dinner with friends and then home, exhausted, to sleep on an air mattress which I was sharing with our dog Buster. It definitely wasn’t the celebration that I was planning for turning 30, but I haven’t forgotten it. I also was adamant that Jim not forget it and my efforts were rewarded with a trip to the Greek Island of Rhodes for my 31st birthday celebrations.
Sometimes my birthday coincides with another great October family tradition: Pigfest! The official Pigfest started 18 years ago and has gone from a small get together with close friends roasting a pig, to an invite only town party involving roasting several pigs for 24 hours straight on rotating spits. There are teams of men who baste the pigs in some special pig marinade that is applied with mops and turn the spits at specific intervals. Other teams of men grill goat meat and smoke oysters and supply various other delicious goods and sundries. The women man a huge potluck table, dishing out food to the masses for several meals a day and making sure that no one takes more than his or her fair share of desserts and that small children say please and thank you. On a small stage, live music is played and the Pigfesters sit and listen on hay bales or in portable chairs that they have brought with them. There are tents pitched all over the grounds and one man—a confederate army buff—brings a cannon, which he shoots off periodically. In previous years the cannon shooting was unannounced, but now, after almost giving several of the party attendees heart attacks, he shoots it at scheduled and announced times. There is a general feeling of good will and good times and good food and people gather around a big bonfire and play instruments and sing songs well into the night. For me Pigfest has always been a chance to be with my family and sit in what became known as “The Carpenter Compound, “ a well lit and well sheltered camping area that my Dad , who is known for his military style tarping skills (I’ll talk more about this when I get around to writing about our family trips to the beach), sets up each year. Within this compound are rugged tables, comfortable camping chairs and coolers stocked with beer, soft drinks and water. It is the perfect retreat when the live music gets too live or too bad or you just need a break from the Pigfest masses.
When I was in college, I rounded up a group of friends and we all caravanned from New Orleans to Tallulah for Pigfest and to celebrate my birthday. Obviously the plan was that we would camp out, but invariably we ended up camping all over my parents’ house, using up the hot water as we all showered and complicating things by insisting on riding the four wheeler all over the farm. My parents generously put up with this bunch of self-involved, unhelpful young people, feeding and sheltering us for an entire weekend, and we had a great time being irresponsible, drinking too much and trying to be cooler than we actually were. My favorite Pigfest was spent surrounded by these friends (because they were, and still are, some of my closest friends), full of pulled pork, dancing to the music that was being played, and delighted, in a drunken way, when an Elvis impersonator drove through the crowds and put on a show that was probably not as entertaining or funny as we thought it was. We played with a hacky sack and threw a Frisbee and hung out in our cars with music blaring. These were pre-Carpenter Compound days and we set up our tents in a big mass and proceeded to party the night away. It didn’t rain and it wasn’t hot and we didn’t care about getting sleep. It was just a fun and adolescent weekend.
Many years later I went home for Pigfest on my birthday. Jim was stuck at work in Houston and I decided it would be a good idea to go running on the farm with our Buster. I’m sure that if Jim had been there, he would have reminded me that this was, in fact, NOT a good idea for several reasons. First of all, Buster was a bow-legged, toothless, aging beagle who was not particularly interested in running. Mostly he wanted to sniff. Running with him was actually more like dragging him behind me as we each attempted to assert control over the situation. To compound the bad idea that was taking Buster running in the first place, I decided to let him off the leash. Again, if Jim had been there he would have reminded me that, based on history, I should have known better, but maybe because it was my birthday, I thought that if I let Buster off the leash, he would just run along beside me, sniffing to his heart’s content. Sadly, I was mistaken. Instead of running beside me, he took off across the fields at breakneck speed. I’ve never seen a dog move so fast. In fact, if I hadn’t been so distraught about it, I would have been really impressed. Instead, I bolted after him, fell into a hole, twisted my ankle, had to spend the majority of my birthday in the emergency room waiting for an x-ray, unable to reach Jim, who was having a hell day on his project in Houston, and feeling sorry for myself. Then I had to be transported into Pigfest on a giant golf cart because crutches and the mud weren’t really a good mix. And that was just embarrassing.
I have not been to Pigfest since we moved to England four years ago. Pigfest 2010 starts next Friday—on my birthday—and, again, we won’t be there. This year, preoccupied with my tantrum throwing toddler and heavily pregnant with the next baby, Pigfest and my birthday have been the last things on my mind. We are half way through October and I have yet to say something like, “It’s my birthday month, so I get to do ________!” or “I’m going to buy this for myself as a treat for my birthday!” I haven’t even dropped major hints about what fabulous things I’m expecting my fabulous husband to do for me in celebration of the most important day of the year. Instead, I can’t stop thinking about how in four short weeks we’ll have a new baby and suddenly be a family of four; that I maybe should pack my hospital bag; that maybe we should get something for the baby to sleep in; that Evie will have to learn to share the love and attention that she gets exclusively with a younger sibling. There is a lot to celebrate, but my birthday is kind of low on the list. This year, that’s actually ok with me. But, next year I’m to be expecting a big costume party to celebrate 35 years of fabulousness, two kids and my awesome mothering skills. There had better be things with my name painted all over them, a piñata, glitter, roller skating…and maybe we’ll even make it to Pigfest.
No comments:
Post a Comment