Dick Wolfsie
I recently celebrated my 63rd birthday. In the past, I was lucky to get five cards in the mail, from my family and close friends. But we all have that one individual in our life who sends a birthday greeting every single year. You can go into the Witness Protection Program, and you still get that sappy reminder that this person, whose birthday you don’t even know, is once again making you feel guilty. So knock it off, Lorrie.
This year, due to some annoying Facebook feature, everybody knew it was my birthday.
All told, I received more than 300 posts on my homepage, which can make a guy feel really loved, except that I’ve never heard of most of these people. The majority of the well-wishers were friends of my friends—people I’ve never met.
It’s one thing when you forget someone’s birthday, because you don't recall the date. It’s another thing when you forget someone’s birthday because you can't remember the person.
One complimentary message mentioned that I still looked like a man in my early 50s: "Dick, you haven’t aged in 10 years. Great photo of you standing next to Market Square Arena."
Any discussion of aging brings back a favorite memory involving my mom, who passed away in 2007. Even she would have smiled at my retelling this story. It’s a classic example of how adept my mother was—except this one time—at eliciting compliments about her youthful look.
Unlike most women, Joan boasted about her age. She never told people outright exactly how old she was, but she hinted at it and gently prodded folks to take a stab at a number. When they missed the mark by 10 or 15 years, Mom gave the guesser a big smooch on the cheek. My mother did seem younger than her years, but I am sure an ounce of caution on the guesser’s part resulted in some of those south of reality approximations.
On Mom’s 85th birthday, I returned to New York accompanied by my wife and Brett, our son. That night, we headed out for dinner along with my brother and sister. As we were eating, my mother eyed a diner at the next table.
And so began the game that night…
"Hello, I’m Joan," she said, as she fiddled with a French fry on her plate. "This is my son and daughter-in-law visiting from Indiana."
"How nice to have all your family here together," said the woman.
"Yes, Dick moved away 25 years ago to go into television," she said proudly. "But I’ve lived right here in New Rochelle for 85 years," she further proclaimed.
The bait had been set. Soon would come acknowledgment from this stranger about how young my mother looked for her age.
"And where did you live before that?" came the reply.
I tried not to show the sheer joy I felt at this comeuppance, but I think sliding under the table, holding my sides, convulsed in tears may have given it away. My sister choked on her asparagus and my brother did a spit take with his beer.
The ride home was uncomfortable. None of us knew what to say. Joan seemed to be taking it well, having convinced herself that the woman’s remark was simply an attempt at sarcastic humor.
But Brett, about 10 years old at the time, didn’t fully appreciate the implications of what had just occurred.
"Grandma," he asked, "when can we visit where you used to live?"
